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handspunyarns · 1 year ago

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You Were Marked: Day Fifteen (Marathel & Cobb)

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 8.3K

chapter summary: Marathel has a lovely day, until she doesn’t.

warnings:  fluff, angst, mention of stomach illness, mention of blood and injury, allusion to sexual/physical abuse and rape of adults and children, English and Mando’a cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***   

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Marathel was not quite fully asleep when the bedside lamp was turned on. She could see the glow behind her eyelids, and someone was gently shaking her shoulder. “Marathel?” asked a sleepy and disgruntled voice. “Marathel, wake up. Din wants to talk to you.”

The words Din wants to talk to you somehow made it through her dozing, and she opened her eyes to see Fennec leaning up a holopad against the bed’s other pillow. “Fennec? What’s going on?” Marathel asked with a yawn. “Is Din back already?”

Fennec turned on the display on the holopad, and tapped the screen while the display changed to different sets of squiggles. “No, he’s still on Nevarro, but he messaged in the middle of the night, so I guess it’s important. Or he thinks it is. Or he’s an ass who forgot the time difference,” muttered Fennec.

“I don’t know how to use those things, remember? I can’t read.”

Fennec yawned and scrubbed her eyes with her fist. “You don’t have to. I’m setting up a projection,” she said, and pressed a final button, and there on the screen before Marathel’s eyes, was Din’s helmet, looking back at her, apparently just as surprised to see her.

The sight of the Bounty Hunter, seemingly so close, took her breath away. He had been gone for one day — and he had left in the middle of the night, stealing away while she was sleeping — and Marathel hadn’t quite realized how much she would miss him. She knew now that if he had simply left her living on her planet, she would have been bereft beyond belief. And yet, somehow, seeing him this way and knowing that he was not here before her was almost too much for her to conceive. “Well, would you look at that. It’s … like I’m looking through a window!” She tentatively reached out with a finger towards the screen — knowing he wasn’t there to touch, but desperately needing to make sure in her confused mind — and then Din disappeared as her fingertip touched the screen. Marathel gasped, tears in her eyes, as she was certain that she had somehow broken something.

Fennec grunted in irritation. “Don’t fret, Marathel, we’ll get him back.” She took the holopad back and reset the connection. “You don’t have to do anything, just look into the screen.” The image reappeared, but this time Din seemed almost posed: he was leaning back in his chair, holding Grogu … as if he were pretending to be Cobb Vanth or someone.

Marathel looked over the top of the pad at Fennec, grumpy from having her sleep interrupted for something so frivolous. “So don’t touch until …”

“… Until you’re done talking. If you drop the connection again, Din should have captured your signal by then so he can contact you. I’m going back to bed. Goodnight, Din, this better be good.”

“Thank you, Fennec,” said Marathel with a smile while Fennec grumbled and left the room. Marathel looked back at Din, resplendent in his armor, holding her little Grogu, who appeared to be wearing nothing but a towel around his bottom. “This is … I am …” The tears threatened again, and she had to take a moment before she could continue. Oh, my Bounty Hunter, how did I think I could live without you and your little boy? “You’re right there. Both of you. As close as if you’re here in my room.”

“You look wonderful,” said Din. Marathel felt her cheeks flush, and her stomach fluttered. He misses me as well? “I mean, you look better. So much better. The treatment is working?” he asked, Marathel hearing strain in his voice.

“It seems to be.” Marathel was suddenly self-conscious about the fact that she probably looked rumpled and disheveled and tried to tuck some hair behind her ear. “You needed to speak to me?”

There was a pause as Din continued to look at her, and then he looked down at Grogu, who looked incredibly irritable. “Grogu, it’s Grogu. He still has … stomach trouble after eating all those berries.”

“Oh, my little Godynferth! How many did he eat?” Why did you let him eat so many, you great numpty?

“I’m not sure. He was outside my care while my helmet was being repaired.”

He’s trying, Marathel, you know well how hard it is to raise a child; you should be more kind. “It is now repaired?” Din nodded. “Your voice sounds … usual again. Does Grogu have a fever?”

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t feel warm, but then he might show fever differently than we do.”

Grogu yawned hugely and grumbled against Din’s chest armor. “Just then, when he yawned, did he shiver or tremble?” asked Marathel.

“No.”

“Show me his gums and tongue.” Din complied as best as possible, and Grogu gnawed a good hole in the thumb of his glove in protest, which Marathel found quite amusing. “Well, I’m not sure what good I thought that would do, considering his tongue and gums are usually grey. Please, take off your gloves, and hold one of his ears against your inner wrist.” Din did so, and Marathel felt her stomach flutter again at the sight of his bare hands and wrists. What in Frith is wrong with me? “Do his ears feel hot?”

“Not any hotter than usual, but then I don’t normally touch his ears like this.”

Marathel smiled. “I suggest you remember how his ear feels now for the future.”

“Or I could just tell you that my visor does not show an elevated temperature on Grogu’s heat signature.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marathel.

“My helmet also lets me see temperatures of things around me. If it’s warmer, it glows brighter.”

Why, you… Marathel rolled her eyes; Din was making fun of her again. “You knew Grogu wasn’t feverish? You great twmffod! Is he even feeling poorly?”

She heard Din scoff quietly before he said, “I’m sorry.” No, you’re not, you mean thing! “No, Grogu is still not feeling well. I thought if he could see you, he might feel better.”

“What is happening, baby? Does it hurt?” she crooned to Grogu, who reached out as if to touch her. Marathel wished she could reach through the screen to hold Grogu’s little hand.

“His, ah … bowels are still quite loose.”

Well, that explains the towel around his little bottom, poor little thing. “Without a fever, or vomiting, I’d say it’s your usual too-much-fruit. Also, he may not be able to eat those berries, much like you cannot eat clams.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Do you know where the berries came from?” Din nodded. “You know the leaves of the berry plant?”

“I do.”

“Try making a weak tea from the leaves. It may stop the rhyddolur. Often, the leaves fix what the berries have done. Otherwise, it’ll stop when it stops.” Marathel yawned, and she felt sleep sneaking up on her, but she wanted to talk to Din and Grogu as long as possible. “And keep both him and your hands as clean as possible, so you don’t catch it too, if it is a catching sickness. I suspect rhyddolur and armor do not go well together.”

“They do not.”

She could almost hear Din’s smile behind his helmet, which thrilled her. “If he feels hungry, feed him bone broth, toast, bland white grains. No peppers. No frogs.”

“Eggs?”

“Cooked eggs, yes,” said Marathel, rolling her eyes again.

“What happens if the tea doesn’t work?”

“Brace yourself for immediate vomit.”

Din sighed dramatically. “Fantastic,” he said in the grimmest tone Marathel had ever heard, which made her laugh. Vomit was difficult for Din, she knew. Oh, bless your heart! Little ones are fun, aren’t they?

“Don’t worry, it’s usually just one bout, to get rid of the tea. The problem is, ah … little ones push in all ways?” To emphasize her point, Marathel pointed in two directions, crossing her eyes with a smile. Din groaned in mock disgruntlement, forehead in hand, looking for all of Frith like the epitome of misery. My cwriad, it’s like talking to you back in my hut, Bounty Hunter, our days when life was simple, just the three of us. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, my little Godynferth. I wish I were there to help. I would sing and rub your tummy.”

“We’re heading back tonight; only a couple errands left here,” said Din, shifting in his chair. Marathel heard that odd strain in his voice again that she had heard earlier.

Oh, I’m so sleepy; stay with me until I fall asleep, Bounty Hunter. “Then you’ll be back very soon. This will be my last sleep before I see you.” Marathel felt herself losing her fight against drowsiness. “Feel better, my sweet, my love, we will cwtch when you get back.” The three of us together, we will cwtch against everything that is bad — we will find strength in our scars and create our own home and family. With these thoughts, Marathel fell asleep, forgetting to turn off the holopad, unaware that Din watched her sleep for quite a long time.

Several hours later, Marathel woke up; someone had opened her shutters, and the bright light of both suns filled her room. Her eyes opened to the holopad propped up against the other pillow. It had turned itself off and the screen was dark. She reached out and touched the screen, thinking that perhaps she’d see Din again if she did. The screen lit up with the incomprehensible shapes she now knew as letters and words, but not the image of the Bounty Hunter.

Disappointed, Marathel rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Someone tapped on her door, and she heard Cobb calling, “Knock knock?”

Was he just waiting out there for me to wake up? “Come in, Cobb.”

Cobb entered with a steaming mug, and oddly, a pair of boots. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit achy, but mostly all right.”

Cobb held out the steaming mug. “Well, good. Here, this is for you.”

Marathel carefully took the mug, expecting tea, but the cup was filled with a dark brown liquid that smelled burnt. “What is this?”

“That, honey, is the glue that keeps the galaxy together. Caf.”

“It smells dreadful.”

“It tastes worse. Go on, drink up.”

Marathel took a tentative sip, and it took all her self-control to not spit it back into the cup. “That is horrible. And people drink this willingly?”

Cobb shrugged. “Eh, there are ways to doctor it. Trade you,” he said, holding out the boots.

“Why are you trying to give me boots?” asked Marathel, handing back the cup.

“I was hoping you might feel well enough to visit the market in Mos Espa today, but you need proper shoes to do that.” Cobb took a large swallow of the bitter caf.

He must be used to that awful stuff, thought Marathel, as she took the boots uncertainly. “What makes you think these boots will fit me?”

Cobb grimaced, and said, “Well, at the risk of making you think I’m an utter creep, I came in and measured your foot while you were sleeping. Then I searched out someone who wore the same size.”

“You’re right, that was a creepy thing to do,” Marathel said with mock disgust.

“But necessary! You need shoes. Now get dressed so we can head out,” commanded Cobb as he left her room.

Marathel didn’t know what a market or a Mos Espa was, nor did she know what was appropriate to wear to either. Fortunately, she didn’t have much choice. She put on the dark pants and burgundy tunic, brushed her hair, and wrapped a veil over her forehead, tying it around her hair into a secure tail. The boots were a little more troublesome. Cobb had also provided thick socks, but Marathel had a terrible time tying the laces on the boots. She’d tied more laces on little boys’ shoes than she could ever count in her lifetime but tying them from the angle of wearing the boots was more difficult than she could have realized. No wonder it always took those boys so long to learn how to tie their shoes!

Marathel finally got the boots tied. She stood up, took two steps, and, unaccustomed as she was to having heavy footwear with a thick sole, nearly fell on her face. She’d spent her entire life barefoot, only wearing socks or knitted slippers occasionally. The one pair of “shoes” she’d ever worn were little more than canvas wrapped around her feet, and even those had only been worn for a few minutes. Marathel took another step forward, and the chunky heel dragged on the stone floor throwing her off-balance. To exit her room, Marathel had to purposely lift each foot much higher than normal, and then place each foot flat in a most abnormal gait, so that she would not twist her ankles.

Cobb was just coming back from the kitchen to see if Marathel was ready, and he was treated to a most hilarious sight: Marathel, her arms out for balance, her head down, plodding along with each step as if she were some ungainly water bird searching for fish in a pond. How he managed to keep from laughing out loud he didn’t know, but he surreptitiously caught a quick holo of her clumsy walking, and then stumbling as the soles dragged and tripped her up. He did laugh at that, and Marathel lifted her head to glare at him.

“Very funny,” snapped Marathel.

“Yes, it is,” said Cobb, chuckling as he put his small holopad in his breast pocket. “You are such a delightful creature, Marathel. Watching you maneuver all these things that are completely unknown to you is more entertaining than you can imagine.”

Marathel looked down at her feet, her face red. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“Aw, honey,” said Cobb, coming over to her and gently placing his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not poking fun. It’s just … it’s like you’re a full-grown child that dropped out of the sky. Seeing you learn things that are so commonplace to me … it just warms my cold curmudgeon heart.” He kissed her on the cheek, unnerving her even more. “Now, if you’re finally ready, we’ll be on our way.” Cobb placed her hand back in the crook of his metal arm, just like the day before, and then pointed down the corridor. “Now eyes up, back straight, and don’t think about it so much … just walk, woman!”

After a few missteps, Marathel got used to the extra weight and height on her feet and got all the way down the corridor without falling. She stumbled a couple of times, but Cobb always caught her before she went down completely. They came out into a large tunnel, open to the outside at one end. “Where are we?” asked Marathel.

“Landing tunnel. This is where Din brought you in. He flew in here like a maniac, nearly crashed in the process. I wasn’t here, but Boba told me that when Din carried you out, he thought there was no way you had survived the trip. But Din insisted, begged them to help you, raving like a lunatic, covered in blood, helmet off …”

“His helmet was off?” Marathel couldn’t believe it.

Cobb shrugged. “He had a terrible concussion and was not in his right mind. He also felt incredibly guilty — still does — that he did not do more to save you from your ordeal.” Cobb saw Marathel wipe away some tears. “I didn’t tell you that to upset you, honey.” Cobb stepped down into the sand, using both hands to assist Marathel down off the step, and then held one of her hands as they walked carefully towards the line of speeder bikes. “I told you that to point out that you both are very alike … strangers in a strange land. You both have lived in isolation for a long time, you alone on that planet of yours, him in a religious cult that trains faceless warriors.”

“… Cult?” Another new word I don’t understand.

Cobb sighed. “Enough of that for now. Time to ride.” He put his hand on the back of a speeder. At least she knew about these, now, having seen them from her window. She had been looking out her window more ever since meeting the droids and the excessively large green guards in the palace — she didn’t throw a mug at the Gamorrean guards, instead she stood stock still and staring, completely speechless — trying to make sense of everything that was so new and strange. The speederbikes reminded her of Grogu’s pram, but for larger people — that is, until she saw creatures smaller than Grogu operating one of the machines. She had seen passersby of all different colors, shapes, numbers of heads and arms and feet by now, and she hoped that during their outing she would neither embarrass herself nor anyone else.

Marathel was glad that Cobb was taking her, instead of venturing out on her own. But she wished it were Din with her, not Cobb. It only seemed right that he get to see her experience things like markets and Mos Espa — whatever they were — for the first time. The thought of Din made her heart skip a beat. With an inward smile, she vowed to not enjoy herself too much today.

Cobb explained he was getting on the speeder first, then she was to get on behind him. “Please at least try to trust me, honey, I will not go fast.”

“I trust you, Cobb, but I’ve only been observing these contraptions a couple of days, and even I wonder if that thing … works.”

“Then it will go even slower. Hop on.” Marathel climbed carefully behind Cobb, put her feet up on the pegs Cobb pointed out, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Nope, Mar’, around my waist, I gotta drive this thing.” For her to do that, she had to scoot up so that their thighs were touching, her pelvis against his backside. She put her arms around Cobb’s middle and clasped her hands over his flat belly. Just as she became comfortable with this concept of being so close to him, Cobb fired up the engine, and Marathel yelped and clutched his middle tightly, burying her face in his back as the speeder belched out smoke and shook wildly. He set the machine in a forward motion out of tunnel and said, “Relax honey, don’t break me in half,” keeping the bike at a just-faster-than-walking speed as they exited the tunnel.

Marathel loosened her grip, and she sat up straighter. Looking around her, she said, “It could … go faster, yes?” Cobb laughed and accelerated up to a reasonable speed. Marathel watched all the scenery flying by, thinking that this was much preferable to walking. “When are you going to tell me what a market and a Mos Espa are?”she shouted over the engine noise.

“Well, a Mos Espa is that bunch of buildings in front of us. The market is inside there,” Cobb shouted back to Marathel.

“And the honey?”

“With luck, inside the market!” Marathel watched as more speedbikes joined them heading into the tiny city, with more varieties of people walking the streets. She did her best to not stare, which was easier than she anticipated as there were a myriad of things to grab her attention. Cobb pulled the bike to a stop and patted Marathel’s knee. “We’re here, hop off. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Marathel managed to get off the speeder bike without falling and looked around her. “So, this is a Mos Espa?”

Cobb dismounted, clapping his hands on his thighs and sending dust flying. “Just Mos Espa, it’s the name of the town.”

“Town?”

Cobb furrowed his brow. “Town. Uh … big Hold with all sorts of people. Like my Freetown.”

“Oh,” said Marathel with a nod, and then her eyes went wide as she looked past Cobb. She stepped quickly towards him, grabbing his hand and pulling herself against him tightly. Terrified, she whispered, “There is a giant walking lizard coming towards me!”

Cobb looked back over his shoulder; a bit startled at Marathel’s quick movement but pleased at her sudden proximity. “Just a Trandoshan.” He turned back to her and whispered in her ear, “They’re not dangerous. Just assholes.” He stepped back but kept holding her hand. “C’mon, market’s this way,” he said, nodding his head towards the coming lizard-man. Marathel remained tightly against Cobb’s side until the Trandoshan passed by. “Folks look different here, don’t they?” They set to walking towards the market at a slow pace for Marathel to maneuver the soft sand.

“So many kinds of people. We only had the four houses.”

“Houses?”

“Families. Ap Bishop, ap Captain, ap Duke, ap Hunter,” said Marathel with a shrug.

“So, each family is all related to each other? Siblings? Cousins?” asked Cobb.

“Oh yes, brothers, sisters, mothers, yes.”

Cobb blinked off into the middle distance, frowning, wondering if he understood Marathel’s words. “Are the families related to each other, too?”

“Oh, Frith, no. That’s not acceptable. Only Bishops are Bishops, Captains are Captains.” Cobb remained silent, digesting her answer. Marathel then asked, “Does the town have Elders?”

“Not Elders as I understand yours to be, Mar’. Boba Fett is the daimyo here, so I suppose he is in charge, in the absence of a mayor or a marshal.”

“So, Boba is in charge of law and order?”

Cobb laughed with a snort. “Yeah, law and order from a different point of view. A bit more crime and order, really. Boba runs a tight ship, though. Makes my job easier.”

Marathel looked at Cobb. “I thought Boba was a good man.”

“He is a good man. He keeps the town safe. He recently had a war with a drug-running syndicate, and Din fought right alongside him. That was when I lost my arm; part of the fight was going on right through my town.” Cobb gently squeezed Marathel’s hand, held in his left hand, still flesh and bone. “That was the oddest thing … when Din came to Freetown, Grogu was not with him. Din had left him with the Jedi. But somehow, he returned during the skirmish. I never asked about that. I suppose I had something else holding my attention at the time,” mused Cobb, holding up his cybernetic hand before his face.

“Din … gave up Grogu? Willingly?”

“Din thought it be best, the safest, if the kid went to his people. He knows nothing about the Jedi, being a Mandalorian.”

“How that must have hurt Din. When I said goodbye to Grogu, I told him that Din needs him more than Grogu needs Din.”

“I think you’re right. Din was … bereft without that boy. But the boy made the choice to come back to Din. Made the choice to be a Mandalorian himself, possibly.”

“Oh, that’s another thing … Boba is a Mandalorian, yes? But he does not wear the helmet.”

“No, Boba just wears the armor. Says it was his father’s. I had a set myself until Din took it back.” Marathel looked at him in surprise. “Something I got in trade, and it was very useful. I was not happy to give it up. Now that is a much longer story for another day. But Din was … quite convincing that he had to take it back.”

“Yes, he must take back the beskar. That’s part of his Creed. You said … cult.”

Cobb grimaced and said, “So here’s the market!” He waved his hand toward a long line of tables and booths, with people of all types mingling about.

Too many, thought Marathel. There are more people in front of me than there are at the Hold, and I haven’t lived in the Hold since I was young. She clutched at Cobb’s hand and stopped walking.

Cobb looked back at her. “You’re okay, honey. I’ve got you.” He slowly put his left arm around her waist. “They’re just people. Besides, I’m hungry as a Hutt, and something smells good in there”.

Marathel swallowed and forced her feet in a forward direction. To cover her discomfort, she asked, “How does a market work?”

“We see stuff we want; we trade it for money.”

“Oh, money. I have none,” she said with downcast eyes.

“Not to worry, it’s on me today.” Marathel opened her mouth to protest but Cobb put his finger on her lips. “Nope, not taking no for an answer.”

They got caught up in the general throng going through the market. Marathel thought she must sound like a toddler who had just found her voice; she said, “What is that?” so many times. Cobb patiently answered her every time, from the produce bins to the jewelry tables. He bought one of each candy at the sweets stall so she could sample everything, to find out what she liked. People kept trying to give her things: flowers, samples of meat, a ribbon for her hair. Cobb found a food vendor and purchased skewers of roasted meat and vegetables, and they sat on a bench to eat.

Watching Marathel carefully take a bite, avoiding her broken and missing teeth, Cobb remarked, “You can get those fixed, you know. Your teeth.”

“I can? But I don’t want teeth of metal.”

Cobb chuckled. “They have regular-looking teeth, too. You should consider it, with your beautiful face.” Marathel went pink. “What? I’m only repeating what Din calls you. He calls you mesh’la. As well as ner kar’ta and cyar’e. And something like ma-moosh hah-lah?”

“Ma’mwsh ha’laa. But what does ner kar’ta mean?”

Cobb chewed a piece of meat. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what ma’mwsh ha’laa means.”

Marathel picked a piece of gristle out of her mouth and flicked it into the street. “It means wounded acorn. I thought that was what Din said when he was saying my mesh’la. Now he calls me that all the time.”

“That’s so endearing,” said Cobb with a grin. He took Marathel’s empty skewer and put it and his own skewer in his breast pocket. “I think I like that better than ner kar’ta. I think I won’t tell you what that means.”

Marathel’s mouth fell open. “Why, you … tymffod!”

Cobb laughed and threw his arms around her, pulling her close to him. “What did you just call me?” Marathel immediately stiffened and put her hands up to protect her face. Cobb jumped back, releasing her. “I’m so sorry, Mar’, I wasn’t thinking.” After a moment, he said, “I suppose I really am … whatever you said.”

Marathel calmed herself and scooted a few inches away from Cobb. “I called you a funnel,” — Cobb laughed — “but what it really means is … what you said about the Trandoshan lizard.”

“An asshole? Wait, then what’s a pudyn? You told the kitchen worker not to try to resurrect a dead man’s pudyn.”

Marathel went pink yet again. “Ah … male part.”

“Well, aren’t you just the lady?” said Cobb, giving her his hand to help her stand.

“What about ner kar’ta?”

Cobb looked her in the eye and said, “It means ‘my heart.’ He’s telling you he loves you.” Marathel put a hand to her mouth and looked away, trembling. If only I’d known, thought Marathel, I might have left with him when he asked me to. Cobb gently took her hand and pulled it away from her mouth. “Again, I didn’t tell you that to upset you. Now we should find you a pair of shoes. The boots aren’t yours to keep.”

They found the cobbler, who had a more lightweight pair of shoes that suited Marathel better. The next stall had cut cold sweet melon, and Cobb bought them each a slice. Marathel liked it, but thought it was messy to eat. “So, is this all you do in a market?” asked Marathel as she licked an errant drop of melon juice that had run up her arm, Cobb thinking he might damn well drop his rocks if she did that again. “Buy shoes and eat?”

“And listen to music and drink and sometimes fight.”

Marathel wiped her hands on a wet towel the vendor gave her. “I wouldn’t like to do that. Fight, that is.”

Cobb took the towel from her hand and wiped off a bit of juice from her chin. “What about music and drinking?”

“I seem to recall I drank a bit last night.” Marathel snatched the towel back from Cobb and gave it back to the vendor. “It’s music I don’t know.”

“Well, honey, I think I hate damn well everything about that planet you came from if you don’t have music.” He was leading her again, holding her hand, certain that she was feeling much more confident about being among so many people.

“We had the only song. It was very long. We sang parts for the birth of children, other parts when we’d garden.”

“Din told me about your lullaby. It sounded … quite grim.”

Marathel looked at Cobb, startled. “He … told you? Did he … tell you other things? About me?”

Cobb stopped walking. He turned to Marathel, and took her other hand. “He, uh … he told me everything.” Marathel turned as red as the Dune Sea at sunset. “He needed to tell someone, Mar’. He only has Grogu, and he wasn’t going to tell the kid all that … went on between you two.” Marathel kept her face down, refusing to look at Cobb, embarrassed that the Bounty Hunter could speak so blithely of what she considered quite intimate moments. But on the other hand, she’d confided in Fennec; why shouldn’t Din be allowed to speak of what they’d experienced together, if he considered Cobb a friend? She’d never had a friend. Not until Din came along. Cobb continued, “This is what I mean by the two of you being alike. Both of you have lived alone for so long. You probably felt alone your whole life, haven’t you, Marathel?”

“Except for Olba, yes,” said Marathel in a low voice. “But he has his people. His covert, he called it. His family. The people that raised him when his parents died.”

“The Mandalorians did take him in when his parents were killed by battle droids, but as a foundling. Din is not a Mandalorian by birth, which sets him apart from the rest of his covert. Like he’s … less than, somehow.” Less than? Din Djarin, Bounty Hunter, less than? Marathel wondered how anyone would find Din to be lacking when Cobb continued, “Some there don’t consider him a true Mandalorian, which is why he sticks so diligently to his Creed. His covert is very … well, strict, I guess is a good word as any. They follow the hard-line tradition, what they consider the true Mandalorian way.”

“This is the way,” Marathel said, almost automatically.

“You got that right.” Cobb had gotten them walking again, and they came up to a little stall with many jars on the shelf. “And now my dear, I can finally tell you what I mean by honey.” He dipped a bit of bread in an open jar and put it in Marathel’s mouth.

She chewed expectantly, and then recognition came across her face. “My’el!” she cried. “Oh, but it tastes so different. My’el is very dark and almost has a bitter-sweet flavor. Your my’el is pale, and so sweet, like the syrup I pour over cake. Too sweet, almost.”

Cobb ate a piece of honeyed bread himself. “And that’s why I call you honey. Pale and sweet.”

Marathel blushed yet again and tucked some hair behind her ear. “You need to stop making up silly things about me.”

“Wasn’t making them up.”

“Hmm. Din said the exact same thing to me once,” said Marathel with a scowl.

“Well, my’el, seems to me if two men tell you the exact same thing, you oughta consider believing them.” The stall had several different varieties of honey, and Cobb found the jar with the darkest colored honey. “Does your my’el look more like this?” Marathel nodded, and Cobb gave them each a sample of it. The honey was dark, thick, almost half-crystallized, and tasted more like smoky wood than sweet sugar.

Marathel hummed with delight. “This is almost right! Oh, it was good to eat, but the Diwhyns used it more for medicine. It helped keep infection away from wounds, and we used it in tea for bad coughs.” The vendor backed up Marathel’s statement espousing the health benefits of her products, and Cobb bought two jars.

“Well, with that kind of review, who could resist?” Cobb said, accepting the gift of two hard honey sticks from the vendor, giving one to Marathel. They sucked on their candy sticks as they continued to meander through the market. “See? You know more than you think you do. So, I don’t want to hear you saying you’re not smart enough. I might know how to read, but I can’t bake bread, that’s for damn sure.”

Marathel bit off the end of her honey stick and crunched it in her teeth. “Anyone can learn to make bread.”

Not the way you do, sweetheart. “Anyone can learn to read,” countered Cobb, holding his honey stick in his mouth like a deathstick. “Not anyone can make a Mandalorian put down his weapons, though. Now how in the name of that Frith of yours did you make him do that?”

Marathel chewed her honey candy for a while before she answered. “I told him that if he cared for me at all, he would do as I say. Then, I told him to be still.”

“I don’t buy that, Marathel … weapons are his religion. And Din is not one for standing still; he’s a man of action, especially in a dangerous situation like both you were in in that Hold.”

“No, it’s … I know it’s hard to understand.” Marathel stopped walking, and turned her head away, staring off and looking at nothing. “The girls all learn be still. It isn’t just sitting there; you stop moving altogether. You won’t fight, you won’t struggle, your breathing slows, and your thoughts slow too. It’s like being in a waking dream, where what they do won’t hurt you as much, and the time passes faster so it’s all over quicker.” So what is over quicker, thought Cobb, wanting to ask so much, but then Marathel continued, “The Dahls know be still too; I can shout it in my head at the young kits so they leave a rabid gochgoch alone, or it they are about to step into a snake’s den, keeping them safe until their dam can come for them.” Marathel started trembling and she dropped her honey stick in the sand. “As I stood in that Hold, before the Bishop, half-naked and bleeding, I kept screaming BE STILL! in my head, over and over. I meant it mostly for me, but I meant it for the Bounty Hunter too, even though he couldn’t hear me: don’t start a fight, don’t start a struggle, it will be over quicker for me if you do what I say. And it … worked. As if he could hear me.” Marathel stayed lost in her thoughts while Cobb tried to work out quite what she meant, and then she looked down at her feet. “Oh, I dropped my honey stick!” She bent down to pick it up, trying to brush the sand off it.

Cobb held out his stick to her. “Here, you can have the rest of mine.”

“No, I won’t, that one’s yours.” She stuck it in her pocket, and then she tilted her head at something ahead of them. “Is that …?” Her voice trailed off, and she nearly trotted ahead of Cobb to another booth, filled with … “Yarn,” she breathed, with near reverence. Yarn, yarn! She had never seen so much in one place. Thin yarn, like the kind she was used to, the kind she would spin from her plant fibers, but also hanks and hanks of yarn thick as her little finger, squishy and colorful. She squeezed the hanks within her hands. “Gwalffwr? From Gwalffaids?” she asked of the vendor, who was looking at her with an amused look on his face.

Cobb came up beside Marathel, saying to the vendor, “She’s not from around here,” as he gently placed his hand on her lower back.

The vendor smiled at Marathel. “If you mean wool from sheep, then yes, miss. This wool is from my own herd of chiyou sheep. They’re small and do well here on Tatooine. Would you like to pet one?”

Marathel’s face lit up like the Razor Crest’s console. “Could I?” The vendor motioned her back behind his booth; he had a pen containing two small fluffy creatures with six horns, smaller than half-grown Dahls. Their fleeces were mottled black, white, and tan, bleating contentedly while chewing on hay. The vendor gave her some feed pellets, and she laughed as the creatures ate greedily from her hands. One chiyou backed away from her once the feed was gone, but the other allowed her to scratch the knob on its fuzzy head. Cobb watched her with a smile, thinking that she was about to wipe him out of his spare cash right here in this booth, as well as wondering how the hell he was going to strap a small sheep to the back of the speeder.

Marathel asked if the chiyou would mind a slightly sandy honey stick, and the vendor allowed her to give it to the animal. The sheep bleated, and then let go with some droppings. “Well, you’re welcome, I suppose,” Marathel said, laughing. Cobb watched with amusement as she went over and over all the yarn, touching, squeezing, plying it over her fingers, even smelling the hanks before finally choosing two hanks of a mottled grey-brown yarn, not the thickest, but certainly thicker than what she was accustomed to. Cobb and the vendor briefly dickered over the price, but Cobb felt the vendor was giving her a screaming deal — because who wouldn’t give such a delightful woman a good price — so Cobb added a third hank and asked her what else she wanted. Marathel shyly asked for an appropriately sized set of knitting needles, as well as some clean but unspun fleece to felt into cloths. The vendor found her needles, talking her into both straight and double-pointed needles, and sold her a ball of near-white fleece roving the size of her head. Cobb handed over the credits, less than he expected, but he would have paid triple to see the pure joy on Marathel’s face.

Leading Marathel away, Cobb asked, “Well, what do you think of your first market?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful! Thank you so much!” Marathel clutched the bag holding all their purchases, and squeezed Cobb’s hand, smiling wide, forgetting she was missing teeth, had a terrible gash down the center of her face, and had not meant to enjoy herself so much.

If Cobb had been mildly jealous of Din before, he was wildly jealous now. Those men on her planet treating her so deplorably, when she could be someone’s greatest asset. If Din ever decides to go back there to issue a serious beat-down, he can count me the fuck in. Happy himself, they continued through the market. After passing a couple of stalls, he turned to Marathel, intending to ask her if she’d like to look at some new clothes, when he noticed blood dripping from her nose. “Dank ferrik, Marathel, your nose…” He found his handkerchief and pressed it under her nose, gently pushing her head back.

“What? My nose?” asked Marathel, confused. She looked at the handkerchief, already half-soaked with blood. “Oh, Frith,” she said, starting to panic.

Cobb quickly led her to a bench, helping her sit, leaning her head back over his arm around her shoulders. “This is bad, honey, it’s practically gushing.” Two vendors brought over small clean towels, which Cobb gratefully accepted, carefully sliding his arm from behind Marathel. He looked at his arm, and gasped: his shirtsleeve was now also soaked in blood, and poppies of blood were blooming on her veil over her forehead. “Kriffing hell, honey, it’s like your wounds all opened up again.” He jumped to his feet. “Can you stand? We need to get you back to the palace now.”

Marathel stood and wobbled. “Oh, I’m so … I feel sick,” she cried, clutching at Cobb’s arm. She bent at the waist and then vomited a frightening amount of blood on the sand.

Cobb immediately lifted her in his arms and took off at a run, heading back to the speederbike, a couple of townsfolk at his side, wanting to assist. Two of the cybermod kids pulled alongside on their shiny speeders, asking how they could help, and Cobb yelled at one, “You’re faster! Go to the palace now, and tell the daimyo, Marathel’s treatment failed! He’ll understand the message! Now go!” The two young people took off at top speed. Cobb climbed on the bike, still holding Marathel in his arms, refusing to let her go. The townsfolk understood and tore a towel into strips, tying Marathel’s arms together so that she was strapped against Cobb’s front, leaving his arms free to drive the speeder, and not able to fall off. Shouting his thanks to the two helpful folks, Cobb took off, speeding as fast as he could back to the palace. Marathel whimpered against his chest. “We’re gonna get you help, darlin’, don’t fade out on me now, or Din will have my guts for garters,” he shouted down at her.

Even though it was only minutes, the trip back seemed to Cobb to take forever, and Marathel’s hold on him seemed to get weaker as he went. As he sped into the landing tunnel, he could see the two kids standing alongside Boba and Fennec and the floating gurney. Coming to a stop, the kids and Boba came forward and cut the fabric strapping Marathel to Cobb’s front, lifting her off him and on to the gurney. “My thanks,” said Cobb to the two young people.

“I hope she gets better,” said the young girl, as the two remounted their cycles and sped out of the tunnel and away from the daimyo, who had exploded in a fearsome manner when they had delivered the message.

“What happened?” cried Fennec, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from Marathel’s nose.

“I don’t know!” shouted Cobb as he shoved the speeder towards the row of other parked vehicles. “We were enjoying the market, had something to eat, and then the next thing I know …” Marathel rolled herself to the edge of the gurney, vomiting blood again. “She’s doing that!”

Fennec carefully wiped Marathel’s mouth. “Cobb, message Din, make sure he’s on his way back. Boba, the Modifier’s on his way with the ship, right?” Cobb sent a message to Din:

CV:  Are you on your way back  

“Why is the Modifier bringing a ship?” asked Cobb. “Can’t you just take her on Boba’s ship?”

“We don’t know where the Modifier’s planning to take her,” said Fennec.

“We have our suspicions, though,” muttered Boba, as he gave Marathel another bacta injection, not that he thought it would do any good.

“What the hell does that mean?” Cobb shot out another message to Din, not waiting for a reply.

CV:  You need to get back here as quickly as possible   

Fennec held Marathel on her side as she cut away the back of Marathel’s tunic. Boba spread a thick absorbent pad on the gurney under Marathel as Fennec rolled her to her back. “We think the Modifier’s contacts are either Imps or associated with them … considering genetic modification is the basis of Marathel’s treatment.”

Cobb shook his head. “No way. No way is Din going to allow Imps to touch her. You know that. After what they did to Grogu?” Grunting with disgust, Cobb sent another message.

CV:  GET BACK NOW  

“I don’t think he has much of a choice, if he wants her to live,” hissed Fennec.

“Stop it!” shrieked Marathel. “Just stop! Please.” She put her shaking hands over her eyes as everyone went quiet around her. After taking a shaky breath, she announced, “I’m not going anywhere until Din and Grogu get back and I can speak with them. Then I will go off to whatever or wherever these Imps may be.”

Cobb, Fennec, and Boba exchanged glances. Cobb punched out yet another message, silently willing Din to message back.

CV:  I will be sending a message every ten minutes until you respond 

“I’m sorry, Mar’, I’m sorry,” crooned Cobb, taking Marathel’s hands away from her face. She hissed in pain, then squinted up at Cobb. “We’ll wait as long as we can. I’ve messaged Din. He hasn’t responded yet, but I’m sure he’s on his way. Just rest. Try not to be upset.” Cobb smiled at her for her benefit, and Marathel closed her eyes.

Cobb stepped away, returning his attention to his holopad. A message pinged back:

DD: What has happened? 

Finally, thought Cobb. As much as he hated to tell Din, he had to.

CV:  Her treatment has failed 

Cobb felt terrible. Din didn’t even get an opportunity to witness how well Marathel was doing, and then it occurred to Cobb that he had usurped the opportunity to show Marathel the market, buying her things, enjoying her first experiences of food and people and yarn. Well, aren’t I a shitty friend, Cobb thought. Almost immediately, Din messaged back:

DD: What happens now? 

Just like him, thought Cobb. He’s working on plans A through X.

CV: She needs to go to the Modifier’s contact, but she won’t leave until she sees you and Grogu in person.  How far out are you?  DD: About four hours, how bad is she? 

Cobb looked back over to Marathel. She looked paler than white, her only color the tracks of blood that coursed down her cheek as she lay on her side. Fennec had put an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose but Boba had to keep removing it to drain the blood that continued to trickle from her nose. Fennec was behind her, trying to adhere bacta patches to her back to staunch the blood. They hadn’t worked before, there was no reason to think they would work now, but better to do something than nothing, thought Cobb. Fennec caught Cobb’s eye; she looked about to give up.

CV: She might have about three hours 

If we’re lucky, thought Cobb.

DD: Just go now.  Shoot me the coordinates of where you’re taking her, I’ll catch up  CV: Can’t do that, just get back here 

Where is the Modifier with that damn ship? wondered Cobb.

DD: Why the fuck not? 

Fair enough question, thought Cobb. The last thing he wanted to do was lie. Subterfuge, that was acceptable.

CV: Not on holo 

Cobb hoped Din would accept that answer for now.

DD: Tell her we’re flying as fast as we can  CV: Will do 

Cobb stared at the little screen for a long time, waiting for what he thought would be the inevitable tell her I love her. But Cobb knew better; Din would not say such a thing over a holopad. Din would warp time and space first … and Cobb was wishing such a thing were possible.

A ship entered the tunnel, a small private cargo craft that looked incredibly nondescript, a mongrel of a ship that would disappear in a landing yard or in any number of caravans traveling across the galaxy. Boba and Fennec went to meet the Modifier as he came down the loading ramp. They began an argument about how Marathel refused to leave until Din returned.

Marathel opened her eyes and looked at Cobb. She tried to pull off the oxygen mask, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Cobb reached over and did it for her. “You probably think I’m stupid, for wanting to wait for Din, don’t you, Cobb?” she said, her voice already weak.

“Never, honey. If you want to wait for Din, we’ll wait for him,” he said with his lazy grin, and Marathel closed her eyes again. Cobb dropped his smile. He moved behind her, pulled out his knife, and carefully cut off a long lock of her hair.

“What are you doing?” asked Marathel.

“Just checking your bacta patches,” said Cobb. He wrapped her hair around his hand and carefully tucked it into his pocket. Cobb came back around the gurney, placing his hand on Marathel’s cheek. She looked up at him with a small smile, and he looked down at her with a similar smile, cupping her cheek with his hand … while keeping his thumb on her weak pulse under her jaw.

They waited.

Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian angst #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #din djarin angst #din x fem oc #din x plus size fem oc #mando x fem oc #cobb x fem oc #cobb vanth #din x afab oc #mando x afab oc #mando angst #the Mandalorian angst

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lovelessdagger · 1 year ago

Text

Starlight - Chapter 37: Where it Began

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

WARNINGS: Explicit Language. Explicit Sexual Content. Talk of Mental Illness.

Words: 10.7k

Summary: If Din couldn’t run away then, he sure as hell can’t now. His dignity is already lost, and he’s proven to be too weak to escape fate.

Masterlist | Starlight Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next

Tatooine is hotter than Din remembers, the automatic cooling system of his suit on overdrive. Twin suns beam down at high noon, the public of Mos Espa flocking to shade. His footsteps mark in the sand and Grogu grows restless off the transit in a satchel across his body. Together they make way in the city center, towards a building of scandal and bustling populous. The option had been displayed to meet at a more reasonable and less horrific time of heat. He could never be so kind to himself as to accept.

His company sits at a back table, soiled boots on polished wood, nursing a cup of Maker knows what. “You’re late,” she says. “I was beginning think you bailed.”

“Fennec,” he greets. “You don’t sound too upset by the prospect.”

“I would have chalked it up to divine intervention.”

He glances behind to the entrance. “The Force?”

A pair of Twi’leks approach, offering to clean his helmet. Fennec waves them away and orders another drink. Her stomach, she says, makes alcohol more like a juice. She lives to indulge.

“Why did you agree to come?” She asks.

He chooses not to answer, taking internal inventory of the room. Once deciding it safe, he allows the Child to roam free. He runs to the band, cheering for the attention of the Ortolan. “What is this place?”

“The Sanctuary. I thought it fitting.” She tosses a bag of credits. “I’m hiring you on for a job.”

“A job?”

“Call it a favor if it makes you feel better.”

“Since when do I owe you a favor?”

“Since you left me shot for dead a year ago.”

“It’s been that long?”

She shrugs. “And some change. Say yes, it’s easy money.”

“I thought Fett called the shots. He know you’re here?”

“He does.” Feeling Din’s surprise she adds, “Mostly. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

He responds, “Not always.”

“In this case it is. Do you remember the Marshal who used Boba’s armor?”

“Course. Cobb Vanth.”

“Are you friendly?”

“I killed a krayt dragon for his people. Planned on leaving the kid in his care if something were to happen so—” his head bobs “—you could say that.”

“How’d you like to pay him a visit?”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing tragic, don’t worry.” She takes a swig, briefly offering the drink to Din. “All I need is for you to talk to him, do some of that convincing you’re so good at.”

“For?”

“There’s a treaty we need signed with Mos Pelgo—Freetown. Unification is important to Fett. All we ask is they recognize Boba as Daimyo and agree to follow a new constitution of laws.”

“Marshal Vanth’s a smart man,” Din says. “He’s fought hard to keep his people free. Won’t give into city say-so’s.”

“Believe me there are far more benefits than cons. Fett is shockingly well versed in politics. The treaty is brilliant.”

“If it’s so great why do you need me?”

“Because we need this signed, you’re our best shot at getting a yes. This is more than giving Boba more power or tribute. He wants to ensure underworld business stays in the underworld.”

“You’re cleaning up Tatooine?”

“Trying to.”

“How’s that worked out?”

“Well, we killed the Mos Espa mayor a couple months ago. Drove out some Pykes. Stopped a spice trade line. Established land agreements between some Tusken clans. And given the people a fair water tax and management system that is beyond me. We’re getting there.”

“I hate to say I’m impressed.”

“Then say you agree to speak to the Marshal. If he’s as decent of a man as you say, there should be no problem.” Din lends no response, crossing his arms. Fennec leans on her elbows. “What?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

A smile plays on Fennec’s lips, disguised by another drink. “Here I am thinking you aren’t smart,” she says. “If you agree, you would have to be accompanied by a member of the Fett Gotra.”

Foolishly, Din asks, “Who?” An answer given by Fennec’s wryly smile. “No,” he says. “No, forget it.”

“I wouldn’t have come to you if I had another choice.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me?”

“Yes. I’m asking you to do a job. Take it as just that.”

He grasps for a new excuse. “She’d never agree.”

“She already has,” Fennec says. “Granted I haven’t asked her yet, but she’s on board.” He gives a look. “If you agree, she will be. I know you want to so let’s skip the back and forth.” He swallows thickness, leg bouncing. Fennec stands, shoving the flask in the calf of her boot. She takes her helmet, unnoticed by Din on the ground, pulling it on. “You’re saying yes,” she tells him. “Come to the palace before nightfall. We’ll officialize details and get you briefed.”

‘Fennec…” His words are lost when she looks, though meaning still perpetrates.

“She’s fine. But don’t make me regret this.”

---

Contrary to popular belief, the Mandalorian known as Din Djarin is also fine. He isn’t doing particularly great, but he is fine. He’s okay, and that’s enough. Frankly, okay is the best he’s ever been in these past months. Okay is what lets him sleep at night for a full six hours and okay is what reminds him to eat. Okay means he doesn’t need a sip of alcohol at least twice a day, and maybe he should watch his temper.

So yes, he’s okay.

Frankly he thinks okay is the best he’ll be.

At least for a long while.

Nevarro isn’t shitty anymore, he’s as surprised as anyone else. Din isn’t exactly sure how the money came in or from where, but Karga—now deeming himself High Magistrate—saw to Nevarro’s settlement as a trade anchor and hyper lane port of the Hydian Way. The schools were proper, roads paved, water clean. The town bustles, new homes and land being established every day.

Din is the only one to still find it all insufferable.

He stays off world as much as possible. He never planned on returning at all until word came through about Cara. Greef said he reached out to someone, who reached out to someone, who reached out to someone, who eventually got to Din.

Neither she, Moff Gideon, or the New Republic vessel arrived to Coruscant for deliverance. Three and half months after what Din has only referred to as The Incident, they were found. Stagnant in space, exterior hull destroyed, bodies… A vigil was held with candlelight and Din left when Karga asked if he wanted to say any words.

He didn’t.

Cara was his friend. Now she is dead.

Gideon was his enemy. Now he is dead.

That’s all there is.

Din thought himself changed, arguably for the better. Emotion became too difficult to ignore, compassion bit at his ankles, all he wanted to do was give. Now caring is the least of his worries. Nothing matters. In an objective sense, nothing matters. Din is determined to go about his every day knowing this. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the Empire, the New Republic, the Jedi, or whateverelse there is. He doesn’t care about Nevarro, or Coruscant, or Mandalore. He doesn’t care about his lost ship, he doesn’t care about the stupid sword stuck to his hip. The only thing he can be bothered to give a damn about is the Child.

Din does his best for Grogu. He gets up everyday, he works, he travels, he lives for Grogu. No one else.

He does an okay job at this too.

The parenting thing is… a learning process on his own. The Child, what with his immense powers and inability of speech, makes for an interesting dynamic. Din still isn’t a talker, less now, but he read an article about the importance of enrichment so he tries. He likes to think Grogu appreciates the effort.

They make the best of their nomad life. The kid learns to behave on public transit, Din learns the quickest way to check his weaponry to not hold up a line. Grogu stops fussing when it’s nap time, Din uses the opportunity to have time alone. Grogu uses his magic to eat a frog for lunch, Din builds a fire to camp for the night.

They’re content.

They’re okay.

Sometimes, and only sometimes in the rarest moments of bliss, Din can pretend everything is good and believe it. When he has enough credits to rent a ship for particularly long or dangerous excursion, he can close himself inside the bedchamber and do nothing. He can take off his helmet without paranoia, he can escape to a galaxy where the Razor Crest still exists. Where he doesn’t have a Darksaber or have to worry about an Empire. Where he doesn’t know of the existence of Jedi, or Inquisitors or—

He can pretend nothing changed. He is still who he was at the beginning of the cycle. He’s made no promises, no oaths, he’s not tied to anything or anyone. He’s totally and utterly free.

Din likes the dark. He doesn’t like much at all these days, but he likes the peace of nonexistence. He likes being able to forget, to live without a dragging burden or guilt or shame. He likes not being able to see two inches in front of his face. He likes being able to feel his face. He likes sleeping with his head on a pillow. He likes waking up without a direct stare of himself from the reflection of his helmet. He likes forgetting the helmet exists.

He likes forgetting that he likes forgetting the helmet exists.

The idea complicates things, so he forgets that too.

He is still a Mandalorian. That’s what he tells himself anyways. The helmet is… a technicality, and he convinces himself he never broke Creed to begin with. The Child saw him yes, but Din had also seen the face of his caretaker as a child. Neither of them burst into flames then, they won’t now. Boba Fett is also a Mandalorian whether he admits to such or not. He is born Mandalorian or… created. That alone gives greater credibility than Din has to the people.

He supposes the exposure to Migs Mayfeld was unwarranted. Although, according to New Republic record, Mayfeld is dead. There’s no reason he can’t have died in Din’s recollection either.

All who’s left is…

Din does a remarkable job of moving on. Truth be told, he never thinks of Lumina once. He forgets all about her, every little aspect. The way he should have after the first time. He doesn’t spend nights caught on what ifs or maybes or would’ve could’ve should’ves. He just, forgets. He’s far happier this way, he is. Life is less dramatic, uneventful overall and… a little boring. He blames the unfamiliarity of calm on peace, a stranger to his life for so long.

He isn’t complaining, all it is is a learning curve.

He hadn’t begun to feel anything close to normal until the third month. The first caught him hollow, irritable, angry. He slept and drank and slept and wandered and got into one too many needless fights.

In the second the headaches stopped. He wasn’t angry, he was tired. He felt guilt about everything, about nothing. But all the nothings he shouldn’t feel guilty about and all the everythings he should. He lived in a hole.

On the dawn of the third he decided to live again.

And living is hard.

Living is the most dreadful part of his day.

But it gets easier, somehow.

Easier when he’s occupied, when he’s with the kid, easier as he stops thinking about her.

Forgetting isn’t easy, until it is.

Though, he isn’t sure he likes it.

Within the Sanctuary on Tatooine, the lights of the fresher refuse to work. But every now and then one will flicker and reflect off a piece of armor.

He thinks it is symbolic after all.

---

Peli Motto’s 3-5 hangar is virtually unchanged. A few spare parts have disappeared, a few more having spawned. A small ship of some client taken where the Razor Crest should be. Pit droids scurry like rats, astromechs follow along with aimless direction. Din prefers the sight in the day, illusions remain uncommon.

He’s selfish to expect what he does and too proud to admit it. Everything has been a cyclical repetition so far, how dare it stop now after so much has happened.

He should be greeted with what he expects. It should all play out exactly the same. It has happened once it should happen again.

It does not.

For a moment, Din considers the possibility that he has finally learned.

But moments pass and he is the same.

Maybe he will always be.

“Thank you,” Peli says, leaned against some wall. For the past five hours they’ve worked in relative silence on what Din would classify as a piece of junk. A halfway skeleton of some starfighter from Naboo.

Of course it’s from Naboo.

Din peeks over the defunct astromech port, wrench in hand. “What?”

“Thank you,” she repeats. “She wanted to tell you that.”

“Who?”

“Do you remember that girl that was here way back? The one you kept asking about?”

Yes.

“Not really.”

“She lives here now.” Grogu is the one to react, his play built of nuts and bolts toppling. “Not here, but Mos Espa.”

“Can you hand over a circulator? Uh… three inch circumference.”

“You know, I like her. Comes in to help every now and then, works hard, doesn’t take payment. Used to ask about you.”

“That’s… kind of her. I think the parts are over there if you could just—”

“Lumina Fett. That’s her name. Remember that refugee story? No family, no nothing? Turns out she found em. Her old man came back here and took over Jabba’s place, runs the joint now. Guy with your reputation I’m sure could just… walk right in. Introduce yourself.”

“Why would I do that?”

Peli snorts. “Because you’re as obvious as a rancor. You need an excuse to see her.” She holds out a set of shiny shock absorbers. “And I need this delivered to the palace, they’re for her. Two porgs one stone. C’mon, take it.”

Reluctantly, he does.

“I’m always right,” Peli says, smug.

“What are you talking about?”

“Her. I told you you’d like her, didn’t I?” She bumps his side. “And you do. I can tell. If you didn’t you wouldn’t keep lookin at my door like you’re expecting someone to walk through.”

If only the sand could swallow him whole.

“It’s okay, she likes you too.”

---

Boba Fett is not a man of faith, on the contrary he is far from it. He submits to no man, no god. He has not once fallen to his knees in prayer and has never cursed a deity or power greater than he. The matter is all trivial. Faith did not spare his father and there is no god to thank for his test tube creation. Kaminoans deserve no such honor.

He is without.

Life is simpler this way.

There is no fate, no prophecy, no one way life is meant to be. Life only is. Destiny is but an excuse to alleviate misery. All that happens is of natural effect, not a greater plan. No ineffable strategy.

The Force exists, sure. Boba is in no position to deny the fact. What he is in position to deny however, is its power. It’s ironclad grip on the galaxy, on the living. Power lays in the hands of the creations not the creator.

Every problem has a solution. A perfectly logical, reasonable, and achievable solution. All that is required is patience.

A patience running rather thin.

“My methods are unorthodox but proven in many studies of my people.” A Rodian speaks to him the floor of his throne room within Jabba’s defunct palace. Changes made in the past months have been both minimal and monumental.

“How unorthodox are we talking?” Fennec asks. She sits on the arm of his seat, wiping the tip of her rifle, a performative action.

“There is a creature I possess which I have named Cxhenc, after the philosopher. It is not unlike a leech. You see, the Cxhenc will attach itself to the base of the patient’s skull and in doing so release a chemical—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Boba says. “You may go.”

“Buzz kill,” Fennec mutters at his exit.

“You’re serious? Absolutely not.”

“Don’t you want to know what it does? Could be useful in other cases.”

He thinks it over, she does have a point. She usually does. “We’ll call him,” he decides. “Who’s next?”

“Doctor Shuez Bhilba,” the 8D8 droid introduces, arm out. From the palace steps walks a human female. “Doctor Bhilba holds many degrees from the esteemed Academy of Medicine located in Coruscant. Including human neurological operations and advanced psychologics.”

“Coruscant?” Boba whispers.

“You said to cast a wider net,” Fennec responds.

“Cast wide, not tell the whole galaxy.”

“She knows as much as the rest. Daimyo Fett of Tatooine requires a royal physician. It can’t get worse than a parasitic lobotomy.”

Doctor Bhilba bows, reaching the pair. She wears glasses which slide down the bridge of her nose and a lab coat with a foreign emblem. “Lord Fett,” she says. “It is an honor to meet you. I’ve heard many stories since your come to power.”

“Flattery will get you no where with his lordship,” Fennec scoffs. “Whores are for confidence, jesters for stories. Not doctors.”

“My apologies, I mean no offense. I understand your hesitancy what with my tutelage, however I want to assure I hold no connection to the New Republic or any form of galactic government. My application comes in no way to betray, I promise you. I believe my skills will be of tremendous use.”

“How do you mean?” Boba asks.

“You are Boba Fett,” Bhilba says. “You are a clone, a man who has survived the unlivable, beaten the unbeatable. A man who despite all odds and in mere months establishes himself as a force matched only by Jabba the Hutt with one drastic difference. I’ve seen articles, met with locals. You are in the midst of accomplishing something truly good, truly great. Forgive my saying, but I am shocked you haven’t sought professional psychological aide sooner. It shows your resilience and your keen awareness to be unafraid to ask for help.”

“Hold on,” Fennec says. “Lord Fett does not seek psychological aide. He seeks a physician.”

“Which I too am qualified for, however it does not take even a single doctorate to deduce the true reason for your request of applicants. Great physicians can be found on Tatooine or any world. The reason there has been no hire is a lack of trust in psychology. Bacta heals the body not the brain.”

“She’s good,” Boba mumbles.

“Too good,” Fennec responds. “Doctor Bhilba, do you question Lord Fett’s sanity?”

“Certainly not,” she says. “In fact… I would need clearer consultation, but I classify Lord Fett as being entirely sane. Stressed, anxious slightly, and exhausted, but sane. Am I wrong then in thinking there is perhaps another in need?”

“She is good,” Fennec admits. “Your observations impress the Daimyo.”

“Thank you.”

“This is not to say the imaginary patient does indeed exist.”

“Of course not.”

“Should you however come across a patient with… deep psychological distress, how would you treat them?”

“Deep psychological distress?” She repeats.

“Anxiety, attacks of panic, insomnia, general detachment, paranoia, hallucinations, and being a risk of harm to oneself and others.”

“My,” Doctor Bhilba says. ”And, there is no way for me to meet this… Imaginary patient?”

“Of course not,” Fennec says. “They do not exist.”

“Of course. In any case I would treat them as I would any client. The first few sessions would be spent in simply building trust. Then after assessment I would start medications and general therapy. My goal would be to ensure the patient feel safe above all else. Psychosis can be terrifying, but I’ve treated it many times. There may not always be a cure, but there is always a better.”

“I like you,” Boba says. “I do not like many people.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Should we take you on as the royal physician you will need to relocate permanently,” Fennec says. “And you will be bound to never speak of your work to any being under any circumstance.”

“I understand. I established a very successful practice on my homeworld of Naboo. Leaving would be difficult, but I have an excellent team whom I know will continue to do great things.”

“Naboo?” Boba repeats.

“Yes. I’ve been aide to our queens, common folk, and members of aristocracy since completing my studies.”

“No.”

Doctor Bhilba blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. You’re dismissed.”

“Sir I—I’m sorry I don’t understand.”

“Lord Fett has dismissed you,” Fennec says. “Quite kindly might I add. I will not be. Leave.”

Boba slumps against the throne when the doctor is out of sight. “From now on we stick to calls in the Outer Rim.”

“Perhaps we should take a break, just for a short while. She said so herself, the call has been out for some time now, it’s suspicious you’ve found no one.”

“I don’t care if they think I’m mad.”

“You should. Mad kings rarely go down in splendor. Should the people get even an inkling that you are unfit to rule they will revolt. We’ll stop now and revisit later.”

“After last night I don’t know how much longer we can wait.” He sighs. “Gods help us.”

“Lord Fett,” the 8D8 speaks. “There is still one visitor awaiting your audience. Shall I dismiss them?”

“Yes,” he answers. “I’ll see no one else today. Preparations must be made for Freetown.”

“What are the chances I get an exception?” Down the winding steps comes the Mandalorian Din Djarin, beskar shining as bright as a knights. His head bows, fist to his chest.

To note Boba Fett as being a particular fan of Din Djarin may be a gross exaggeration. He does not like the Mandalorian. He does not like his unpainted beskar and how it shifts in the light. Boba does not like his stubbornness or arrogance. For the past few months Boba has been bound to specifically not like Din. It is his duty as caretaker to not like Din, and he does not.

He does however, like the Mandalorian’s dedication. His oath for a Creed Boba could not care for. His gall in ever showing his beskar helm to any of them again. And how absolutely pitiful he looks right now.

That Boba enjoys very much.

“You’re here,” Fennec says. Boba knows her too well now, and so he knows her attempt to mask surprise.

“Not without reason.”

“And…” Boba says. “What would that be?”

The Mandalorian presents open palms, a shock absorber in each. “I have a delivery.”

---

The palace hangar is a large and desolate thing. Fuel canisters litter half empty and half full, the flooring untiled, windows unheard of. What lighting the room has is limited and dimmed, more so casted in shadow than life.

Really it looks more like Peli’s than Peli’s ever did.

A rather unfortunate guarantee in this exact situation.

“You’re just in time. Thanks for coming so last minute.” Comes as he enters, the owner bent over a speeder bike. A girl crouches at the bike, running her hands over the exposed power cell. She whispers, “Let’s see…” The speeder struggles, wheezing for life. It rumbles on the ground, repulser lifters desperately wanting to ignite. Instead, the light above Din flashes.

“Fuck.” She stands, back muscles stretching under a black shirt. “Whatever. Listen, I did everything you said and I’m telling you the shock absorbers the speeder came with can’t handle the new engine. If I don’t have that double padded K2-R, the second I hit top speeds I’m gonna fly right off this thing.”

For the second time in his life, and the first with discontent, the Mandalorian’s heart flutters.

What. The. Fuck.

“I’m not Peli,” he says, an echo of the past.

The other turns quick, nearly breaking their neck in the process. Suspicions confirmed. They’re more than a girl. They’re the reason Din’s brain malfunctions and now the both of them are staring like they’d just seen a ghost.

Ironic.

She has speeder oil smeared across her cheek, her clothing is worn and stained. Her hair loosely tied back, but too short to stay. Curled bangs escape to the front. Her eyes are wide and bright grey under the light. They sit with overwhelming grief and unending exhaustion.

If Din couldn’t run away then, he sure as hell can’t now. His dignity is already lost, and he’s proven to be too weak to escape fate.

That’s the problem with only being okay. Din lies to himself more than anyone else. Because while he can say he’s moved on, life catches up and shows him a mirror. It can bring back every memory he locks away, every feeling he convinced himself didn’t matter and it will only mock his reaction.

Because while Din has forgotten everything and never thinks of Lumina once, he’s also builds exceptions. He’s perfectly fine and okay without her until it rains. He’s okay until he walks through trees. He doesn’t care until he reaches for his knife. Until he gets in bed with all his anger and frustrations. He’s doesn’t think of Lumina once unless he sees a flower. He forgets she exists until he looks at the moon and watches the sunrise and is faced with stars.

Those stupid fucking stars.

Din would give anything to never see one again.

And now there’s one right in front of him. Her. Lumina. His flower. His sun. His star. Looking… utterly terrified.

No one moves. No one speaks.

So Din does the only reasonable thing he can think of.

He says, “Hi.”

And Lumina responds with the only reasonable thing she can think of.

“Hi.”

And so they both find that neither of them are very reasonable people and the mutual action does very little to suppress any panic at all. They continue to stare thinking one may simply disappear or the galaxy will self correct and vanish the other itself.

The galaxy does no such thing.

By this point they should have each learned that the galaxy is as kind as a god. That is to say, not at all.

As it turns out Din is still moronic when it comes to planning. The space between their words are longer than he would prefer but he can’t necessarily blame her.

Not this time.

The light above flickers, and neither flinches.

“What brings you?” She asks.

Nothing. Everything.

“I was in the area… Thought I’d pop by. You’re a mechanic now?” His feet feel heavier than normal, trudging. He places the absorbers on the nearest table, their fall sounding like wrenches.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I help Peli in Mos Eisley where I can, take more off days than I do on.” She slides off thick padded gloves. A bandage wraps her right wrist, ending at her knuckles. Her hands shove deep into the pockets of her pants. “Gives me something to do.”

“Do you like it?”

She shrugs. “Beats calculating water tax.” Her weight shifts, sinking an inch deeper. “Where’s your kid?”

“With Peli,” Din answers, ignoring the pang of it all. “I didn’t know if it’d be good for him. Coming down here. He’s good, really good actually, but—”

“I get it. I wouldn’t bring him either.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did. It’s okay.” A fluttered chime sounds, echoing against the walls. “That’s dinner.” Lumina wipes oil off her face with a red rag, staining the fabric. “Will you be there?”

“Yes,” he says, sudden and eager. “Dinner.”

“Yes,” she repeats laughing, though the smile is never full. “Dinner.”

---

Din can’t help but wonder whether the circumstances of dinner is a direct dictation of Boba, or rather a natural fall of events. The dining hall is large and undecorated, a long table in the center. One chair sits at the head, another to its right, two to its left. Servant droids deliver the banquet from the kitchen, but Lumina—now cleaned from earlier—sets the table. Glassware, plates, spoons, forks. Fennec places the knives when she enters. Passing Lumina she says, “I’ll take care of clean up tonight,” and doesn’t accept argument.

Boba enters last, helmet removed and held against his hip. His skin is cleared from last they’ve seen of another. Scaring relatively gone, tan returned. He pays Din no mind, which isn’t entirely unexpected. Instead, the newest Daimyo hugs Lumina by the side and kisses the top of her head. Their hushed conversation is one Din can’t make out. The bulk comes from Boba, Lumina nodding along. She speaks thrice, the second after she looks at Din, the third a simple confirmation of whatever it is Boba says.

Lumina sits first then Boba. Him at the head, her the single chair. Fennec takes the left closest to. Din is stiff taking place next to her, the empty seat given with no setting.

Food is passed between the three, Lumina taking the smallest of servings, Boba the largest, Fennec in the middle. The scene feels too intimate for Din’s intrusion. Too nuclear.

“Adi,” Boba says. “Have you finished your bike?”

“Not yet.” She cuts the same piece of meat over and over, pushing it around. “I will tonight.”

“Don’t stay up too late.”

“I know.”

“You go to Freetown in the morning.”

“I know, Boba. I’ll be there. Are the documents ready?”

“The majordomo approved them this afternoon,” Fennec says. “He compliments your skill.”

“Does he still oppose my proposal for an election?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t care for his compliments.” Fennec snorts, Boba shoots her a behave look only a father could master. “I don’t,” she reiterates. “The people need representation and fair council.”

“I agree,” Boba says.

“A new mayor must be selected by those they will run, not us.”

“Adi, I said I agree.”

She slows. “You do?”

“Yes. I do. Fennec has read through your proposal, it’s excellent. The initiative will take time to implement, but your strategy is good.”

Fennec nods, mid bite of a fried porg. “Good job,” she says, mouth full.

Lumina says, “Thank you.”

The table falls into silence again, forks and knives scraping plates, wine pouring into Boba and Fennec’s glasses.

Boba clears his throat. “Din Djarin,” he says. No one misses Lumina’s fork dropping, a loud clink clink clink. “Tell me, how goes the life of the Mand’alor? Fulfilling I hope.”

“I am not Mand’alor,” Din says in his chest. “And I do not plan on becoming.”

“Yet you still carry the Darksaber? Seems counter productive.” He pushes his plate aside, dabbing the corner of his mouth. “Have you given the position any thought before dismissal?”

Din does not answer. He thinks it a growing habit, comfort in the unknown.

“Ad,” Boba says. “I should like the Mand’alor accompany you to Freetown in the morning. It will serve as his first taste of diplomacy. What say you to that?”

She sounds like a child, a quiet, “What?”

“I think it an excellent idea,” Boba continues. “Don’t you agree Mand’alor? Your first taste of politics coming from an expert?”

He wishes he could hesitate. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I would like that.”

“Ad?” She gives no answer, he tries again. “Lumina?”

Her body startles first, then her mind. She sits up impossibly straight. “Yes, yes of course,” she says at once. In her momentary silence, she looks in a daze.

“Lumina,” Fennec says.

She jumps again, standing her chair knocks over. Watching the floor her hands turn to fists. She mumbles, “Excuse me,” and hurries out.

Din’s motion to stand is waved down by Fennec.

“I do hate when you’re right,” Boba says, sipping wine.

“I always am,” she says.

“You may take a plate to the kitchen to eat in privacy,” Boba says to him. “I will have a room prepared for you when you are finished.”

“You said she was fine,” Din tells Fennec.

“You said you were done with her,” she counters. “I guess we both lied.”

“I should talk to her.”

“You will not,” she snorts. “You’ll go to the kitchen and eat your food like a good little Mandalorian. Then you’ll go to bed, get up, go to Freetown, get that treaty signed, and leave. I will talk to Lumina, and you,” she says to Boba, “will reconsider Doctor Bhilba.”

“The answer is no.”

Fennec stands, grabbing a leg of nuna. She takes a bite, juices drip. “Then find your sister.”

---

Lumina resides in the second largest room of the palace. Her walls are circular, the floor a white marble tile. Her door is atypical, a thick curtain on a steel rod, a carried theme to both her closet and fresher. Her bed is larger than necessary and softer than she knows what to do with. The sheets are perfectly steamed to conform to the shape. She thinks it was meant to be Boba’s but bacta does little to heal bones sore with age.

She can’t open her windows, though there are plenty. A desk is littered with paperwork and ink, a small computer terminal, books on books, open, torn, written in. A potted plant, yet to bloom. A map of the known galaxy, pinned to the wall.

She sits in the center of her room on the floor, legs crossed, one bedside lamp dimmed. She stretches out, breathes, and retracts. The motion repeats several times over until the pain of the pull subsides.

Three knocks come at the limestone outside, one right after another. She’s slow to rise, slower to approach. The curtain retreats to the image of the Mandalorian, tall and not so proud.

He says, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep.” Groggy, like he’d just woken up.

She moves aside, an open invitation to which he accepts.

He ends standing where she sat, turning. “It’s nice.” Pointing to a seven-stringed hallikset in the corner. “I didn’t know you played.”

“I didn’t. Boba gave it to me. He says it’s important I have hobbies. I get too caught in my work here, it worries him.” Unsure how to move, Din begins to pace. Looking anywhere feels like an invasion of privacy. “Listen,” Lumina says, sensing the unease. “I want to apologize for earlier. I got overwhelmed, I didn’t mean to cause a scene. Fennec talked it over with me, you coming along… and I agree, I—it would be very beneficial for you to come. I can—” she stops short, a deep exhale passing her lips.

Stepping forward is a guttural response from him.

So is her step back.

Lumina takes the moment to recompose, blinking away the oncoming panic. “You’re welcomed to come along if you wish,” she says. A true diplomat in ways, she passes Din in favor of her desk. “I thought it best if you read over the treaty yourself and then posed questions afterwards rather than my explaining it to you. I write better than I speak.” Instead of handing the datapad to Din directly, she places the tablet on the trunk at the edge of her bed between them. “I’ve met with Marshal Vanth twice before, he is kind, mostly agreeable. With luck the deal will be simple. Now, I know taxes and tributes will be an issue but I’ve commodified some numbers and with the elimination of spice our annual capital growth is already going to shrink horribly and we need to make up losses… What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Din asks. “You’re standing here talking about economics like any of this is normal and all I can think about is why didn’t you tell me? I deserve an answer.”

She whispers, “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I said I—”

“I know what you said, I’m asking why. What did I do to make you think you couldn’t tell me? That I would see you any less? I already knew so much about you, or I thought I did. I knew how you grew up, I knew your connections, I knew you could get sick and act differently. I knew you weren’t normal. I knew that and I never held any of it against you. Everyone else called you something, everyone else hated you. I didn’t. So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I couldn’t,” she replies. “I tried. I tried so many times. Do you think I wanted to betray you? Do you think it was easy for me to lie to you every single day? It was hell. You were so wonderful, even when you were a dick you were a million times better than me. I know that you’re hurt, you have every right to be. But all this anger you’ve had for me for what… four, five months?” She points to herself, jabbing her own chest. “I have had to sit with every day of my life. You always give me shit for leaving but you left! You left! You get to leave, you get to run away and forget. I don’t. So I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I used to kill Jedi when I was teenager. Okay? I’m sorry I didn’t want to ruin the one good thing I’ve had in years.”

“You wouldn’t have ruined anything—”

She laughs, palms pressed to her eyes groaning. “Gods just shut up! Are you kidding? Grogu scared the shit out of you and he’s a baby. You called him dangerous. You wanted to send him away because you couldn’t handle it. Where does that leave me?”

He hesitates. “We would’ve figured it out.”

“Din, I didn’t think you were actually here until Boba said something. Do you know how many doctors they’ve brought for me? There is no figuring this out, this is just who I am.”

Din is too quiet for either of their comforts. He takes the tablet from the bunk, gives it a once over glance. “You wrote this?”

“I did.”

“I think you need to give yourself more credit. Cause you’re a lot more than you think.”

“Maybe.”

“You used to freak out when you thought someone wasn’t real,” Din says. “Why talk to me?”

She shrugs.

“I missed you. A lot has happened. I wanted someone to talk to. Take your pick. Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

He repeats. “Take your pick.”

---

Tatooine is significantly colder at night, moons high in the sky. Lumina and Din exit the palace with relative ease, Gamorrean guards asleep at their post. She wears a cape with a large hood drooped at her neck. They keep a simple distance, sabers on their hips swinging in tandem.

“You once asked if I knew of the Force,” she says. “Do you remember this?”

He does, so he nods. “I do.”

“What do you know of it?”

Within the helmet he frowns. “It’s…” He searches for the words because in truth he does not know. Not really. The definition given to him by Ahsoka feels too textbook and manufactured. Like it were to be given to hundreds so that no further questions may be asked. “It’s… energy, of life.”

She nods once. “Do you know what that means?”

He does not, and admits such. “No.”

“For as long as sentients have existed,” Lumina says. “The Force has been studied. No one knows what it is, not really. It’s everything, and nothing, and it’s everywhere, but also no where. All at once, all of the time.”

“Right,” Din responds curt. “How does that work?”

“Think of it like the air. You can’t see it, but you know its there and sometimes you can feel it. The Force is like that, except it never ceases to exist. Not in space or water or dirt… really it is all of that, except it’s never tangible either. It just is. Does that make sense?”

“I guess.”

“There are two sides, like a moon. Light and dark. The dark is cold, lonely. It’s an infection that feels like it can never be cured. It’s being trapped in a frozen lake wishing for anything to pull yourself out with but nothing is ever within reach. So you get angry, and you hurt. My father—” she says with far greater ease than ever before. “He held so much hurt for all I knew him. He passed his hurt to me, encouraged I grow my own. I am in the dark, I always have been. A Jedi would call me a Sith. I’m not given a choice to disagree.”

“And the light?”

“I wouldn’t know, but I imagine it’s beautiful.”

“So… Moonlight is good?”

“Yeah,” Lumina whispers. “Moonlight is good.”

Lumina takes her lightsaber in her hands, twisting at parts. “This weapon belonged to Ahsoka Tano when she was young. My father trained her before he got sick, and gifted it to me when I came of age. There is a crystal inside which…” She struggles, pulling said crystal out. It’s presented to Din between her thumb and forefinger, a dull red. “Gives the sword its power. We call it kyber. The crystal connects to the Force, we connect to the crystal.”

“Why red?”

“They were blue once, when I got it. My people we… conduct a process called bleeding. This crystal is bled.”

“Ahsoka’s were white.”

“They were,” Lumina confirms. “I don’t know why. I’ve never seen anything like it. Or yours.”

“That’s reassuring,” Din mutters.

“Could mean nothing. The Darksaber is older than the Republic, maybe there were different methods of building back then. Have you tried using it at all?”

“Very little, nothing to count. It’s heavy.”

Lumina reassembles her saber. “Let me see?”

Vertical, the Darksaber ignites, black blade shining. His elbows drop.

“Are you trying to hold it up?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. You focus on its weight, it will only be heavier. Close your eyes… are they closed?”

Truthfully he answers, “Yes.”

“I want you to breathe, slowly like you’re learning. Pay attention to everything else. The temperature, the smell, the sand, the sky. Relax into all of it.”

Din can’t all together describe the sensation. Not with any hint of accuracy anyways. He worries he does it wrong at first, focused too closely on the ‘other’. His feet, his hands, the weight of his helmet. Her. Gradually the oddness settles and all becomes natural. A wind or a flame, a particle of sand in a greater world. Light.

“What do you call this?”

“Meditation. Technically a Jedi practice but… well I find it helpful. How’s the sword feel?”

“Better.”

Sounds crackle again, he sees a red hue flashing from behind his eyelids and visor. Pressure comes from the sword. He pushes back.

“I want you to remember that when you use this sword, you are using energy. It’s your job to direct with intention. Understand that the currents are a part of you. The kyber wants to connect and you should want to allow it. Think of it as liberation, not a hinderance.”

The pressure vanishes, as does the weight.

Din asks about her wrist, Lumina too caught up in rubbing the wrapped bone to pursue conversation. She blames the sprain on an accidental fall the day prior.

He isn’t sure why he still lets her lie, but it becomes a comfort to them both.

“You’ll like Krrasantan,” Lumina tells him. “Even for a Wookie he’s huge. Scary too, but secretly sensitive. When he found out I used to live with Trandoshans he wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”

“Have you heard from any of them since?” Din asks. “The Trandoshans.”

“I’m not allowed to use the comms,” she says, head shaking. “Fennec monitors my calls. I’m can only call her or Boba when they’re not home. She says it’s a security issue, but I know better. I do miss Sully though… Don’t tell BK. His dad and Boba were friends. Went bounty hunting together a lot actually. ”

“Speaking of, I hear you’re officially a Fett.”

Her head ducks. “Who told?”

“Peli.”

“Of course.”

“So it’s true?”

“It is.” She kicks sand, watching the clump blow into the air. “Fennec introduced me as it once before to the old mayor. I had a meeting with him to discuss the spice trade, he said he’d only talk to Fett. Fennec told him I was his kid and since then it stuck. People talk a lot around here, word spreads. I still can’t tell how Boba feels about it.”

“I’d think he’d be welcoming to you claiming his name.”

“Oh he is. You should see how he lights up when he hears Lady Fett get thrown around the palace.” A smile grows on her the same, the first real one he’s seen since arriving. “I think it suits me well. Lumina Fett. It’s my favorite name I’ve ever had.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“He never claims me as his.” Her brightness dims, pace slowing. “He explicitly says he isn’t my father whenever someone says otherwise. Doesn’t explain why either. Fennec says it makes him feel guilty, whatever that means.”

“So… you guys are what exactly?”

“Family,” Lumina says. “We’re family.”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Lumina says, their walk to the palace gate cautious in step. “Marshal Dune.”

“How’d you hear?”

To Din’s knowledge word had only been sent to Nevarro by way of Adelphi Ranger, Capitan Carson Teva. The coming and going of Moff Gideon still unknown to the Core, a ‘nonissue’ so to say.

“Boba has access to New Republic channels, not that they know. Remnants from Jabba’s rule, the tech is old but it works. I like to listen when he’s not looking. It’s harder to stay in the loop now that I don’t live in the Core. Boba offered to send something to her family when I told him but…”

“Alderaanian.”

“Yeah. Alderaanaian. I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

They come down the steps into the throne room, empty, unlit. “It is, actually,” Lumina says. “It’s entirely my fault. I failed in killing Ghost, in turn she killed Gideon. She killed your friend. That is my fault, and I am sorry.”

“You’re certain it was her?”

“Who else would have done it? If Gideon were to successfully arrive to the New Republic, who knows what he would have said. What they would have made him say. I’ve already ruined the secret of Inquisitors. The New Republic is a beast in disguise. They wouldn’t rest until he said more. He failed his duty to the Empire, proving himself no longer useful. Killing him was a security measure. I would’ve authorized it myself honestly.”

Din continues to follow Lumina back to her room. He realizes he shouldn’t. Their farewells and goodnights should end now. The night has been long, the morning will be longer.

He does not think himself a man of sound mind.

Lumina pulls back her curtain, leaning in the entryway. “She loved him,” she says, suddenly. “She loved Gideon and she killed him. We grew up together, she spent years looking for me and the moment I turn out to be different, I’m no one.” She takes a breath, leaning her head back. “Gideon was the first person to show her any kind of love, empathy, desire. Whatever you want to call it, that is what he provided her. And she wanted him just the same, and now he is dead, she is missing, I am here. I worry I may have underestimated her.”

“You think she’ll come back?”

“Oh I know she will,” Lumina chuckles, soulless. “The question is when. How. That I’m still working out.”

“I would argue it’s not your problem anymore.”

She walks inside, casually imploring a use of the Force to hang her cloak. “I was the first to come back from the dead. I am still the rightful heir, and I’ve yet to abdicate. I should like to dissolve my inheritance before others are reborn as well. When rooms are crowded, navigation becomes trickier. If the downfall of my father’s empire is not my problem, it is no one’s.”

---

Lumina sits at the top of her bed, Din across on the edge of the mattress. With the Force, she closes her curtain door, hooking it’s fabric latch. “They took out my door a couple days ago.” She calls it a ‘safety issue’, and doesn’t elaborate.

She falls onto her back, he looks up. Unnoticed until now, her painted ceiling. A dark galactic blue, hand drawn thin white lines connecting various dots. Nothing is labeled or really makes logical sense. The image isn’t one Din would recognize.

“Finding a hobby meant I had to try everything at least once,” Lumina says.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“Descriptive.”

“Shut up. It’s a map.”

“To?”

“No clue. I would see it in my dreams a lot, visions I guess. Could be nothing.”

It’s too obvious he struggles with the words. “Do your visions… usually mean nothing?”

She snorts. “My visions usually don’t happen. Not on their own anyways. I’m more of a historian than a psychic.” She sits up, preemptive to his declaration of confusion. “Psychics see the future, I see the past. I touch an object, I see it’s history. Some things more vivid than others. Sight, touch, smell, sound, everything. It’s why hotel beds make me uncomfortable. I’m good at controlling it, but some things just set me off.”

“Your gloves…” he says, a sudden realization.

“Like you said, dirt talks to me,” she chuckles. “And everything else.”

“The clones, on Nevarro. They’re what made you sick.”

“The last time something that bad happened was when I grabbed my dad’s lightsaber as a kid. I was out for a week straight. When memories are sourced from the dark side I go into shock. On Nevarro it was the clones, in Arkanis it was the school. I can’t handle it, so I drop.”

“Shit,” Din swears. “Fuck I’m sorry.”

She ignores this. “I can access memory too,” she says, like the notion has only just to come to her. “In sentients. I can go inside anyones mind and do whatever I want to their consciousness. With Doctor Pershing I… I let him relive memories of his mother. I used to do it with Grogu all the time, let him remember his life before.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not when the other agrees.” He can tell she isn’t totally there, mind wandering. “ It’s totally painless, I’ve been told euphoric.”

“And when they don’t agree?”

“Unbearable. It’s how I would information out of Rebels, Senators. I just—go in. It’s what I did to Gideon…”

“What?”

“It’s what I did to Gideon,” she says again, growing confidence. “I went inside his mind. I took out every memory he had of me. Everything just—I made it all disappear so he couldn’t turn me in. Din, I—I have an idea. And you can say no but… I think I can help you.”

“Help me?” He repeats.

“I can feel your emotions. I know you’re not totally comfortable right now, with me. I understand. You’d rather not be here, you’d rather not see me. I’ve done… irreparable damage to you, your friends, your kid. You never wanted to see me again and now you’re here because Boba and Fennec made you think that’s what you want, right? What if… What if I—What if I made you forget me?”

“I don’t follow.”

“I can access your memories,” Lumina says. “I can alter your memories. The topic is specific enough, I can go in and make it so you’re totally free from me. You’ll never have to think about me again because I won’t exist. Every single thing, as far back as you want to go, can be gone. Everything. You won’t even remember you showed me your face.”

That gets his attention.

“You’d still remember,” he says.

She rubs her wrist. “That can be remedied.”

“What about everything else? I wouldn’t know any of it?”

“If it didn’t involve me, you would. If it did… you have two options. Total erasure, or your memory just gets spotted. You go to Trask, not Arkanis. You lose your ship, the kid, but I’m not there. I’m not saved. You might feel like you’re forgetting something but you’ll never know what. You can leave all of this behind you. Forever.”

Before his conscious can command otherwise, the Mandalorian removes his helmet, dropping the beskar onto the marble floor. Were it a simpler material, it would shatter.

In some ways he’d be better off if it did.

Her shock is the same as the first time, if not greater.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says. “I need you to look at me when I say this. I am never letting you do anything to control my mind again. Never. Because out of every single thing you’ve done to me, that is the worst. I thought I was going insane. You made me hate you. You made me say a million things I don’t believe, things I still don’t believe.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought—”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t think. You don’t think. If you did you would know better. Why the hell would I be here? Why do you think I’m still here? I know you’re not familiar with free will, but I am capable of making my own choices. This is my choice. You are my choice. You have been for a very long time and you’re the only one who can’t see it.”

“I don’t understand. You said—you said we were done before I did anything to you. You said that. You acted on that. I’ve respected that, I always have. I’m trying to help you and—and you’re mad at me.”

“How can I not be mad?”

“How can you? Every good thing I’ve done has been for you. This is a good thing. This is good. I’m letting you let me go. I need you to let me go so I can let you go. I waited for so long for you to change your mind. All I wanted was for you to change your mind and come back. You didn’t. You stayed away and I never blamed you. I’m never going to have a good life. I’m never going to escape this. You can. You have. I want to. If you let me go, if you say you’re finished, I can be too. I want to let you go. I want to know you’re doing good. I can if I know that I’m not hurting you anymore. So stop telling me I’m wrong. I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m asking.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Why?”

“Because it is impossible, Lumina,” Din snaps, whispered. “You would have to erase every memory I’ve ever had. You would have to kill me. There is not a point of this galaxy that I can go to be free of you. I see you everywhere I am. Every dream. Every sun. Every star. I see you. I want you. I have spent months trying to do nothing but forget you and I cannot. You have put a hunger in me that I cannot feed in your absence. I starve without you. I’ve broken my Creed for you. I’ve yet to face my people due to my own fear. You have made my life a hell worse than any sin I could commit on my own. But that is a hell I would walk a million times over if it meant having you for just a moment. You have never insulted me more than to say I would want otherwise when I want you. I have always wanted you.”

Lumina says nothing at first, until she says everything.

“Do you still love me?”

He does not respond, bringing their lips together.

---

“You’re so handsome,” Lumina whispers. She cradles the side of his face, he keeps her steady on his lap. It’s all hands and mouth, attempts at closeness. His armor is off, placed delicately on the ground. Her shirt hrown somewhere unknown, so is his. He unbuttons her pants but they’ve yet to be removed. “I wanted to tell you then. I couldn’t believe it. I always had an idea, hard not to. But… Stars you’re beautiful Din.”

He tells her to shut up, mumbled into her neck and in-between kisses. He buries himself there, nose pressed to her shoulder at the start of her scar.

“You are,” she says. “I was right. The galaxy wouldn’t know what to do with itself if it got to see you like this all the time.”

He bites her. “Quit.” His chest is too tight, too full. He’d be better off if she killed him now, save the embarrassment.

“How do you say that? Gar mesh’la?”

Din shoves his hand down the front of Lumina’s pants, two fingers going directly inside. Her gasp is silenced, his mouth swallowing the sound, his tongue pushing inside. His fingers hook in a practiced way, pumping in and out.

“I said shut up,” he whispers. “Boba walks in I’m dead.”

“Don’t—Do not talk about Boba right—now.”

There’s pride in Din, knowing she’s just as responsive as she was. Knowing he’s the cause.

He pulls out, the sound making his head spin. Selfishly, he takes time to inspect the mess, a long quiet groan. “Go turn off the lights.”

Her left hand raises above their heads, with a twirl of her wrist the power cuts.

“Gods,” Din mutters. He takes a hold of Lumina’s waist, turning to lay her down. He yanks her pants over the swell of her ass. “This whole fucking time…”

“Lights are new,” she tells him, moving up to assist in the removal. “Can’t control it. Better at turning off. Not good at turning anything on worth shit.”

He grabs her hand, placing it over the warm swell between his legs. He squeezes rough over the fabric saying, “You are.”

She squeaks, “Oh.”

“There she is,” Din whispers. He guides her palm, rubbing slow strokes. “There’s my shy girl.” His other hand unbuttons his pants, shoving them down, pulling himself out. “Used to think it was the other way. Only pretended to be all sweet. ’S the other way isn’t it? You just act scary. Don’t know better.”

“Fuck,” she whispers. “I am scary.”

“Mm yeah…. terrifying.”

“Fuck you.”

He cups her jaw. “I’m trying.” He guides her mouth to his cock, which she accepts graciously. “My pretty girl,” he says, breathless. “Oh my Sarad.”

That gets her, a high whine around Din. Her hand snakes between her legs, rubbing at her clit. Din pulls her off as soon as he notices, which isn’t for some time in his current state.

“No,” he says. “I take care of you. Me.”

She lets him.

Like there was ever an argument not to.

Din lays her down again, mouth following to kiss. He’s never been one to like the taste of himself, but from her mouth it’s all so sweet. His fingers find their way inside again.

“Have you…” he tries to ask, brushing their noses together.

“No,” she answers. “No one. Tried once. Got drunk. Sad. Punched him. Threw up.”

“How far—”

“He kissed me. That’s it. Hated it. Called me a bitch.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Please,” she moans. Though it could just be so he’d hurry along.

“Hold on baby. Hold on almost.”

“You?” She asks. “Did you?”

“Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Tried.”

“Tried?”

“Went to Canto. Moon. She looked like you, wanted… needed someone like you.”

She pulls away, holding his jaw. “What happened?”

“A lot. Accent was wrong,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Called me Mando. Wasn’t you. She got naked, I got pissed, left.”

“You left her naked?” Lumina asks.

“Yeah.”

“Did you pay?”

Now he moves back. “What?”

“Did you pay her? You know… for her services? She got naked, she deserves to be paid.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m very funny.”

“You’re not—” He does laugh though, quiet. “Fuck me.”

“I’m trying,” she mimics. “Hurry up.”

Din kisses her once. “Brat.”

She laughs. “Can’t change everything.”

They don’t take long, after Din enters. She’s sweet as ever, taking without issue. Things slow to a crawl, pressed to the hilt, they become acutely aware of what exactly it is they’re doing.

“Are you okay?” Din asks, whispered. He moves at a snail’s pace, gentle. Focused more on grinding and getting her comfortable than any real fucking.

If this can be called something as simple as fucking.

He thinks not.

“Yeah… Yeah just, thinking.”

“I know. Me too.” Lumina rubs at his stubble, thumb circling the one spot hair never seems to grow. He turns, kissing her palm. “I missed you,” he whispers. “Feels like I shouldn’t.”

“We’re fucked up,” she tells him. “’S why we work.”

Din thrusts after that, slow and cautious movements soon turning fast, needy. He fucks into her like its his dying day. She takes it all and begs for more.

Lumina releases first, without warning. He feels her tightening, her squirms, hears his name pass from her lips.

“Din.”

He comes after, her sound the key to nirvana. His mind fogs, muscles weaken, filling her. Pulling out, he collapses besides her, panting.

She looks over.

“I still love you,” she says, catching her breath. “That part was never a lie.”

Fuck.

---

The air is sweet, comforting when Lumina wakes. She faces the Mandalorian’s bare back, running her fingers over every scar. She could stare at him for the rest of eternity and at last know peace.

The suns have yet to rise, the room is dark. She is the most herself she has felt in ages.

This is halcyon remembered.

Gods she could die now and find no bitterness in what awaits.

Lumina smiles, she can’t believe she remembers how to do that, leaning her head on him. Whatever this is, it is real. He is real. It is good. It is just, it is right.

Daybreak cannot come soon enough. The stars have been fun but she aches for the suns warmth.

Lumina kisses his shoulder, settling into her pillow. She’ll try to sleep again, fluttering nerves aside. The sooner to sleep the sooner she’ll wake again. He will be here, they will go to the Marshal together and he will see how she’s grown. He will see her maturity, her politics, her good will.

He’ll be so impressed he’ll retrieve the Child from Peli Motto. They’ll all be together again.

She runs her hands through her hair, the shortened length still not familiar. She should clean it up before departure, Fennec would do it for her.

Lumina decides she is being silly, those are plans for later, this is now. She should enjoy right now. And she does.

Until that is, Din begins to stir.

She doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to wait for him. She’s been too forward in every regard, the calls will be his for now. She assumes that is the correct choice to make.

So Lumina continues to lay, just as she has been. She does not move, she does not speak. She only watches.

She watches Din’s shoulders move, she watches him sigh. He does not sound particularly pleased, but he never has enjoyed waking in the middle of the night.

He sits up, moving his feet off the bed. Then, he stands. He dresses. Undergarments, pants, top. Piece by piece his armor reattaches, each a subtle click.

He hasn’t looked at her once.

Lumina isn’t smiling, she doesn’t know what to do.

So she does nothing.

Din sits again, the bed caving in. He pulls out his boots from under the bed, shoving them on. He picks up his helmet and rubs at a scuff.

He puts it on.

Hiss. Click.

He leaves.

Lumina sits up, pulling the sheets to cover her exposure.

Maybe he’s gone to the kitchen, thirsty. He’ll come back, she’s sure of it.

He will.

She’ll wait until he does.

An hour passes, then half the next.