Ravaszhi tips his head back over the couch’s armrest, reaching the holopad he’s been mooning over for the better part of a week now towards Theron. “HK gave it to me.”
Theron shoos at Ravaszhi with the holopad, and his friend sits up just enough to let Theron sit down before settling back with his shoulders across Theron’s lap. He hands Theron an earpiece.
“Sound recording, huh?” Theron fiddles the earpiece into place and hits play.
Someone, a woman, starts singing. Harsh sounding language, and
Theron’s never been much for music, but there’s a rich sort of undertone that he can almost appreciate.
It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to place it as Old Sith.
Ravaszhi has leaned his head back against the armrest and closed his eyes, his expression one part pain, one part peaceful.
They’re listening to Ravazhi’s mom. Singing. In Old Sith.
The spy part of Theron’s brain catalogues the information that Sith mothers, unlike their Jedi counterparts, sing lullabies to their babies, while the rest tries to picture what she would have been like.
Or what Ravaszhi would have been like, if Darth Viriddiux had gotten the chance to raise her son.