Private What You Mustn’t Know

[Iothen Dolvesya]

"We can buy it, if you want."

The voice of his companion wrenched Iothen back into reality. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings: they stood on the far edge of an art exhibition within a ballroom, windows on all sides overlooking a city skyline over which a red sun was starting to retreat behind the skyscrapers. The pieces arranged were handpicked to accentuate the setting sun, pieces with glass and precious stones that would refract the waning sunlight and decorate the ballroom ceiling with ethereal, multicolored fractals. This wasn’t the main attraction—far from it.
A small hand gingerly came up to feel the back of his arm as a pink-faced Mirialan leaned over to the glass casing, her green eyes scanning the piece: a traditional Stanimirian dress sporting the classic arrangement of crystals, silks, ribbons and bells. The warm light of the ballroom made the crystals shine and twinkle with a delightful vigor, a snapshot of the joyous Stanimirian ballets his childhood had been blessed with.
The Pythi, or "Kyber crystals," were all meticulously arranged in delicate patterns, twinkling alongside colorful silk sewn into shapes of leaves and flowers. Braided ribbons with bells hung off the ends of the skirt, hanging limply where they should have been swinging around to drumbeats and hymns.
He was surprised that the thing hadn't been scrapped for the Pythi. His planet certainly hadn't been shown a similar courtesy. It could've been that the crystals themselves weren't as potent as they might've been on a real ballerina—the dance itself was an exchange of energy that enriched the Pythi. On an unmoving individual, they simply dulled and waned.

"Did you know this was going to be here?" he asked under his breath, almost secretively. His sponsor didn't answer immediately, instead pursing her lips and giving an innocent shrug. "Circe…"
"I thought it would help your mood."
"My mood? My mood is fine."
"You've been so quiet lately."
"Is that why you dragged me all the way out to Coruscant?"
"Not just that—there's a lot of important people here tonight. We're mingling."
"Mingling…" he echoed halfheartedly.

A comfortable silence settled over the two as they fixed their gaze on the dress. Iothen did want it, he supposed. He wanted it to be out of these nobles' hands. Maybe he'd put it in a glass pane so he'd see it every time he woke up… maybe he would even forget that he was on Mirial instead of his home planet. Maybe his dreams would be infiltrated by laughing, spinning women with bright smiles. But, even if he had it all to himself, it still wouldn't dance. He could give it to Badger, even though it was a woman's attire. But Badger didn't dance anymore—the flickers of his ballet training often shone through when he fought, but such violence was a far cry from his first and most beloved discipline.

"Duchess!" Again, Iothen's attention was unpleasantly commandeered by an Ithorian gentleman forcing himself between the two. "I simply can't believe it. Who knew you were an art buff, eh, Darr? You know, the Keigan deal went so well after that diner party you hosted back in…" Iothen lost track of what he was saying as he steered Circe away and to another group of loudmouthed nobles, all itching to talk about social minutiae and other annoyances. As she stumbled away Circe shot Iothen an apologetic smile that he returned politely.
He was disappointed to see Circe go—her presence was essentially a social safety net. She was a master at deflecting difficult questions, rebounding with witty remarks, pinpointing and appealing to the sensibilities of everyone she spoke to. Without her, the art exhibition they were attending was just a hazy sea of networking, handshakes, and insincere smiles. That wasn't to say he couldn't deal with it—he'd been schmoozing his whole life. He could navigate a conversation just as smoothly as the duchess or any stuck-up noble at this event… he just didn't relish in it like the others seemed to.

He turned his gaze back to the dress. Perhaps it was time to move on. There was no point in recounting every shard of crystal sewn into the fabric for the third time, and the mannequin's blank face certainly wasn't getting any less creepy. Truthfully, he was afraid that he'd never see something like it again. Maybe just a few more minutes, he decided. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.

Sandro

 

[Sandro]

"It's a beautiful piece."

Sandro paused, just long enough for the statement to process and the quiet bubble of reverence to seal back up. He stood a polite distance away, arms folded and eyes ghosting over the dress before he made an effort to catch Iothen's gaze. The man came dressed simply, no loud wealth or clipped accent to mark him as someone expecting deference. Just eased posture and an open collared shirt.

Which, as always, he hoped would be disarming to the right crowd.

"And not just for ornament either. That belt line?" His hand unfolded to casually gesture, "That kyber is set for use." His eyes flickered to Iothen, a read more than a lecture. "What I wouldn't give to see it on a real performer."

It was unusual for him to pounce like this. Positioning himself between thick-necked noblemen as they preened feathers and sniffed out whatever piece earned the most social credit was one thing. Something Sandro easily anticipated and directed. But this man (one of the few he hadn't painstakingly memorized from the guestlist) proved harder to build a narrative around. He was tall, still, and uniquely detached from the usual cock-tail hour rhythm of the other patrons. There was a touch of sadness, if he was placing it right. Not a hardline, just the implication of some simmering old wound. Or memory. Often one in the same.

"Not that you need me to tell you that. You've been standing here much longer than the duchess and she actually has the money." There was a good-natured humor in his eyes, which complimented the smile to follow. "Which leads me to assume you understand what you're looking at?" Eyes went to Iothen then back to the display case, "Probably more than I do."

He loved when that happened.

"No one's put up a serious offer yet. Not the kind that'd stop us anyway." The man shrugged, "If you have any interest I'd be happy to help. If you just want to take it in a bit longer? Also more than happy. Art like this doesn't always go fully appreciated."

He tipped his head a degree, "I'm Sandro by the way, I don't believe we've met."

Iothen Dolvesya

 

[Iothen Dolvesya]

Iothen pulled his gaze from the dress to the man who had just spoke. His approach didn't feel jarring—he just seemed to float into view, offering conversation instead of intruding with it. Iothen felt his shoulders relax as he scanned the stranger up and down, then nodded in agreement. He didn't detect any foul play from him, no underlying jabs or condescensions like he did from most of the others in the room.

"Yes, very."

"Which leads me to assume you understand what you're looking at?" Eyes went to Iothen then back to the display case, "Probably more than I do."

Iothen shrugged, maybe more sheepish then he'd intended.

"You may like to know—the ballets, they were completely improvised through…" he struggled to find the word. "You'd call it the 'Force.' The crystals help to tune every dancer into the right frequency, and suddenly—" he waved his hand as if to say 'voilà'— "everyone knows their part." Pride bubbled out through a smile. "I wish it were so easy."

As if he had spoken too loud, or betrayed too much emotion, he shrunk inwardly just the slightest bit. He wasn't sure why he felt at such a loss talking to Sandro. Normally he was quicker to speak, had something cleverer to say. Maybe the dress being there felt like a piece of himself was up for display, blatant and sparkling and ready to be sold. Maybe it was that he didn't want to say the wrong thing. The last thing he wanted was to leave a sour impression, a sentiment he didn't usually worry about with some other members of high society.

Maybe just to give himself something to do, he flicked his eyes down to his wrist where a small comms device flashed red, indicating an ally was nearing his area. Somehow, he knew who it was. There always some beacon of familiarity when his friend was within distance, but tonight Iothen didn't clock it until now. Mostly because he was definitely not supposed to be in this area. There always seemed to be some sort of force field where large numbers of people were that his friend did not go.

When the man brought up details of the dress's purchase, he shrunk again. He seemed nice enough—laid back, one of those magnetic personalities that instantly puts one at ease. But Iothen had a natural aversion to people trying to sell him things. His smile wavered.

He tipped his head a degree, "I'm Sandro by the way, I don't believe we've met."

"Iothen," he said uncertainly. Though he suspected Sandro had an idea of him, since the man seemed to know about his financial position. He decided not to bring this up as he couldn't find a polite way to say it.

The twinge of that same familiar presence suddenly grew more prominent, and Iothen knew it was time to go.

"I'm sorry—someone's trying to get my attention. It was good to meet you, Sandro."

Sandro

 

[Sandro]

Rippling unease--Sandro sensed it in the way the other man bent and wavered, receding into his words even as he spoke them. Not exactly the reaction the brunet hoped to inspire, but certainly interesting.

His eyes shifted to the object of discussion then. He knew everything there was to know about it, or at least his degrees had deluded him into thinking as much. He could name the kyber mines the crystals were pulled from, the thread count, down to every seamstress who'd ever so much as breathed on one of the ribbons. But that was nothing, just empty data to whatever was churning away in Iothen's mind.

"You may like to know—the ballets, they were completely improvised through…" he struggled to find the word. "You'd call it the 'Force.' The crystals help to tune every dancer into the right frequency, and suddenly—" he waved his hand as if to say 'voilà'— "everyone knows their part." Pride bubbled out through a smile. "I wish it were so easy."

"You're not alone in that sentiment." Sandro affirmed, quiet on his part. "I suppose that's why we even bother with art in the first place. So we at least get a glimpse of that certainty."

Maybe he'd misplaced the emotion. Maybe unease wasn't the right word, but rather the weird, stinging vulnerability that came with loving something so openly. A color no politician wanted to be caught dead in.

It was then Sandro took notice of how the sales persona wasn't doing him any favors. Finally someone interesting to talk to and he was already scaring him away with premature talk of numbers. "Sorry." The apology was delivered with a cleared throat, the sparkly expression he'd worn all night catching a dull edge for less than a second, "Habit of mine to jump to business. That's usually how the conversation goes with a crowd like this."Perhaps it was risk taking shots at the socialites mulling about and sipping on wine when the man before him was apart of said crowd, but Sandro had moved past the point of caring disturbingly quick. Expecting some level of empathy or exasperated agreement in the form of a nod or look or smile seemed like a safe enough gamble.

At the very least he'd earned a name out of this interaction. Iothen. Sandro committed it to memory with all the loaded subtext it came with.

"I'm sorry—someone's trying to get my attention. It was good to meet you, Sandro."

"I wish that wasn't the case." Sandro smiled. A flourish-less, honest statement. "It was a pleasure to meet you as well, Iothen."

Iothen Dolvesya

 

[Iothen Dolvesya]

"You're not alone in that sentiment." Sandro affirmed, quiet on his part. "I suppose that's why we even bother with art in the first place. So we at least get a glimpse of that certainty."

“What a wonderful job it must be for you, then,” Iothen said. “To be surrounded by it—that certainty you speak of. You must take a lot of time to ponder the art. For me, it always seems like I end up less certain than before.” He was trying to be as honest as he could. The fact that it didn’t come to him so easily ashamed him slightly. But it helped that the other man was a stranger. Iothen always found it easier to talk to people who didn’t know him well.

"Sorry." The apology was delivered with a cleared throat, the sparkly expression he'd worn all night catching a dull edge for less than a second, "Habit of mine to jump to business. That's usually how the conversation goes with a crowd like this."

Iothen nodded with understanding. “It’s all about what they can own,” he mused. Maybe a bit saltier than he wanted to come off. He didn’t want to seem like he was above it all. “Or that they won’t have to worry about never seeing it again. T-Truthfully, I was thinking about it, but I’m afraid I don’t have the means. My own means, I mean.” He tittered nervously at his own clumsy words, then cleared his throat. “Nor do I know anyone who could really do it justice.”

"I wish that wasn't the case." Sandro smiled. A flourish-less, honest statement. "It was a pleasure to meet you as well, Iothen."

Iothen smiled. “We can talk later,” he said. “If you see me around.” He waved vaguely to the crowd. “My friend can just be a little impatient.” He nodded his head at Sandro one more time before slipping into the crowd.

• • •

If his hunch was correct, Badger would have arrived on his ship to the balcony overlooking the city that Iothen had seen from outside on the way in. His friend wasn’t usually one for the front door. He glanced at the device on his wrist and it seemed to blink slightly faster the closer he approached the other far end of the room. He stopped at the first door. “STAFF ONLY” was written very clearly in bold red Aurebesh. He looked around to the other attendees nearest to him. They all seemed too wrapped up in the artwork and their own conversation, so he waited until the next server carrying a tray of fizzing drinks strode out. He stuck his foot into the frame so that the sensors would stop the door from closing, then slinked through.

Something Iothen had learned from his years of dishonesty was that no matter how blatantly dishonest one was, one could remedy their shadiness by being totally confident in it. He nodded to another server and muttered something about it being a nice night before walking past and down a long hall to where the balcony door was. There was no other reason to go down the corridor as it was a dead end–it was a fine spot to rendezvous, or as fine as it could be.

Sandro