#orson krennic

They didn’t put Krennic in Rebels because Thrawn would have torn him apart

politicalmamaduck:

Partially inspired by this photo, thanks to @lariren-shadow.

For@luminousthings, with all my heart.

You can read it on ao3 here.

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Krennic hadn’t been to a church service since his youth. He never had much use, much regard, for gods and the Force and rituals. He was a man of science, of quantifiable power and numbers. After he bid his family goodbye for the Futures program on Coruscant, he couldn’t say the last time he had actually seen the inside of a chapel or temple. With the rise of the Empire, the most devout were driven underground, seeking solace in their gods, the Force, whatever deities they held above Palpatine. Krennic thought them foolish. The only master he served was his own ambition.

He could not say what drew him to the small chapel that evening. He had spent a long Saturday at his desk, catching up on the many reports of the technical readouts of his weapon. He was expending every effort to make sure it would be completed on schedule.

He took a long walk home, to clear his mind, and found a small congregation amassed outside the chapel, holding and lighting candles. They were quietly processing inward, and by some curious gravitational pull, he found himself joining them. He had never seen the chapel before, never noticed it, small and stone hewn, incongruous to Coruscant’s durasteel and transparisteel skyscrapers towering above.

The light inside was dim, and solely came from candles. Candles. A quaint, distinctly ancient light so different to hololamps and modern power, lit the sanctuary and filled the walls with shadows. Each person held one. Krennic could not say where they could have found so many relics, but there was a black market for everything, he supposed. He looked around in wonder and amazement at the variety of beings who had come to worship that night. The small chapel seemed to be filled.

From a loft above, some sort of organ began to play, and the monk–or priest, Krennic never could tell them apart–processed in with his attendants, censers filled with incense swaying.

It was soothing, in a way, listening to the congregation chant their prayers and the preacher talk of resurrection and the Force. He talked of an all-powerful God who had sent his son to the people, and was brought back to life, saving the people from their sins. It was a lovely story, Krennic decided. Something that perhaps the Empire could use to recruit some of these believers.

He was startled out of his reverie when Galen Erso’s daughter sat down next to him, candle in hand.

He could not say how he recognized her; he had not seen her since she was a child, doting on her beloved Papa. She was beautiful now; the candlelight suited the stardust in her eyes.

She placed her hand in his when the priest asked them to join hands and recite the traditional prayer. Her hand was soft, more delicate than he expected. He found himself reluctant to let it go when the congregation was expected to greet and bless one another.

After the service had ended, he turned to her.

“Who do you pray for?” He asked, softly.

“My father,” she replied, looking at him unflinchingly. “And now, perhaps you.”