#tiingilar

[kad-dala]

Mando'skraan

Gi pripaak @synthwwavve

Tiingilar @misha-farfaraway

Cassius uj'ika @fox-trot

Ne'tra gal @archeo-starwars

Aliit'skraan @hypersped

Pog pirpaak @lothcatskilledthesith

[ranahan]

Alternatively, -la could be simply the adjectival suffix, as in gila, “fishy” or “having fish.” -r/-ar seems to be a pretty common nominal suffix.

Fuck Canon Tiingilar

i hate the canon tiingilar recipe with my whole heart. Look at this (original source Galaxy's Edge cookbook). This is supposed to be "blisteringly spicy Mandalorian stew or casserole"? This is a mild chicken curry.

It sounds good, but it's not the rich, spicy, flavor-packed mandalorian stew of my dreams.

Let's start by breaking down the etymology of tiingilar.

Tiingilar is broken into 3 parts: Tiin, gi, and lar.

Tiin is an underived form of tiin'la, or coarse.

Gi is the word for fish.

Lar is a bit up in the air; it could be related to laar, for sing (which anyone who's seen someone bite into something spicier than they can handle can understand), or galar, for spill/pour (makes sense for stew), or even olar for "here", which I suppouse could be extrapolated to mean "whatever is here" for a stew which has flexible ingredients.

But the really important bits are the "tiin" and the "gi"! The first chunk of tiingilar means "coarse/rough fish(y)".

The other food word we have with "gi" in it from canon mando'a is "gihaal", (which, hilariously, breaks down into fish-breath), a pungent fishmeal. It's long lasting and stable which means its probably a staple ration food. It sounds like it'd put most people off at first, but given mandalorian tastes prioritize strong flavors (draluram), possibly including pungent flavors, and "richly nourishing" foods (yaiyai) it's probably a pretty common ingredient.

Guess what fishmeal is! A very high protein (typically 50-60%, but up to 70% for some varieties!), nutritionally dense, and coarsely textured! It's used in any cuisines; some is processed for human consumption but I cannot find any sources that use it in food except in research aiming to combat malnutrition (shout out to researchers at the Abeokuta University of Agriculture for being the best resource about fishmeal in food!). Although we can't know that gihaal would be the same as our version of fishmeal (which is normally processed from whole fish), I think that we can assume that mando'ade woudn't be skimping on the inclusion of bone, which include a lot of valuable nutrients, and would make it coarse.

So, gihaal is a pungent, likely coarse fishmeal that is a staple nutritional supplement in, at minimum, field cookery. It would make nutritionally-dense, protein packed, and strongly flavored base for tiingilar. Makes sense linguistically and practically for mandalorians to build their cooking around nutritionally valuable and shelf-stable rations.

Which brings me to the mandalorian values in food! Draluram (bright mouth: intense, bold flavors), heturam (spicy as in heat burning in the mouth), hetikleyc (spicy as in sinus burn), and yai'yai (richly nourishing, which I personally take to mean both nutritionally dense and satiating) are the 4 canon words that express the priorities in mandalorian cuisine.

These values fit in with the inclusion of gihaal as a base for tiingilar, adding yai'yai if not draluram, but where's my spice? Where's my layers of spice, the sharp sinus burn that makes your eyes water and the creeping warmth that leaves you panting and the bright heat and the numbing and tingling sensation at your lips?

Definitely not in that yellow curry recipe.

The inclusion of ginger and cinnamon (from garam masala) are both nice, but think bigger and broader! Obviously, we don't have mandalorian herbs, but add spice with chilies, cayenne, ginger, horseradish, mustard seeds, sichuan pepper! Bring out warming spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, star anise! Highlight the different elements of spice and warmth and flavor with enthusiasm and delight!

As for draluram, I think the pungent flavor of fish is a nice, bold addition to something for a unique flavor, but let's not forget other players. Aliums like garlic and onions are always lovely, but what about citrus? If mandalorians have behot, what's stopping you from adding in citrus juice or peel or some kaffir lime leaves? What about strong bitter flavors from vegetables you choose, like mustard greens or kale, or the rich savory taste of browned meats if you want more protein in your dish?

Yai'yai, we have a good base of protein and fat and nutritional content from the fishmeal, but why not build it out? Add sugar, both to balance flavors and because energy is energy and mandalorians certainly like their sweets. Fats and oils, other meats and proteins, vegetables and carbs. Add nuts, peanut butter, sesame for added bulk and another element of flavour. I want to see an end product that sticks to your ribs, that makes me skip seconds on not because I don't want more, but because I'm full on one serving.

Back to the etymology. Mild chicken curry is not tiin, nor does it have gi. It's fairly yai'yai, got decent draluram, negligible heturam, and no hetikleyc.

Tiingilar with a gihaal base (in irl cooking, any kind of fish base) and heavier seasoning to add multiple kinds of heat would fit all of those categories so much better.

So I guess in the end, I'm saying I don't have an idea of tiingilar as any one recipe, but tiingilar as a general dish that leans into mandalorian food culture and the literal meaning of the word. Maybe it's little gritty and somewhat fishy, but it's a rich and spicy and flavorful meal you can make with whatever on hand as long as you have a handful of staples.

Sources:

Adegoke, Bakare & Adeola, Abiodun & Otesile, Ibijoke & Adewale, Obadina & Afolabi, Wasiu & Adegunwa, Mojisola & Akerele, Rachael & Bamgbose, Olaoluwa & Alamu, Emmanuel. (2020). Nutritional, Texture, and Sensory Properties of composite biscuits produced from breadfruit and wheat flours enriched with edible fish meal. Food Science & Nutrition. 8. 1-21. 10.1002/fsn3.1919.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fish_meal

https://mandocreator.com/tools/dictionary/index.html# for mando'a translations and definitions

https://www.reddit.com/r/Mandalorian/comments/mp1x7o/recipe_for_tiingilar_medium_heat_add_garlic/ for the recipe

[bolithesenate]

BOLIBOLIBOLIBOLI *skidds to a stop*

Opinions on Jaster discovering Serennian cuisine???

!!!!

I was about to go to sleep but now this has priority.

As much as it pains me to admit, I haven't put a lot of thought into serennian cuisine yet. Which is a grace oversight on my part.

But I think based on what i decided on for serennian biology, I'd say the cuisine is usually very meat-heavy, especially red meat. That's substituted by fish and large sea mammals around the coastal regions.

Going one step further, I think it would be fun if a lot of the meat was eaten raw. So think tartar and shashimi style dishes.

Moreover, you know how radish-spicyness isn't the same as pepper-spicyness and can still take ppl with high tolerance completely by surprise?

That's what happens to Jaster.

His cocky mandalorian-ness was all 'You say spicy? Ha! give it to me!' and then suffered the most agressive sinus cleaning in the younger history of the galaxy. Tears and all.

Apart from that I think he wouldn't be the biggest fan of all the raw meat and fish. Mandalorian cuisine seems to rely a lot on well-cooked and stewed things, so while he'd certainly try it (for science) he just wouldn't be able to get used to the textures.

Luckily there's a sort of fatty meat sausage that's a popular street food (traditionally served with mustard as well) so he can just take that. Also a lot of carbs. Breads, buns and tubers en masse.

[hinderr]

My OC Leela was raised in a Mandalorian enclave from age 8 to 12. The sect she was raised in is called the Vod’tsad be Kad Ha’rangir and they worship the old Mandalorian gods. She stays connected to the culture by cooking Mandalorian dishes at every possible opportunity. Her bantha tiingilar is a hit at the soup kitchen. She’s also a big fan of Mandalorian theater. Her favorite play is Dralgemas bal Keldabad, a story about two lovers from warring aliite.

I LOVE HER OMG!!! Biiiiiiggg big fan of the cooks and the chefs and the kitchens and the MEALS urgh you can put so much symbolism in a kitchen its insane. Also LITERALLY OBSESSED w cooking meals to stay connected to culture thats what it's all about babey!!! I could kill for bantha tiingilar rn

[peskyimmortals]

It works burc’yase

New Mandalorian HC

Mandalorians use chopsticks and their own combat knives when in the field rather than more western style cutlery.

Think about it, thin sticks of plastic, wood or metal are easy to store or clip to your armor and you´re carrying around a knife anyways, so why bother with three different types of cutlery?

Also, you can stab someone with a sharpend chopstick. Forks only reach so deep.

[bojangos]

coming down with a cold today, the day i go to my parents house and make a shitload of tiingilar

i am going to burn the sickness out of me

[fis-paprikas]

coding mandos as slavic bc nobody can stop me

[ominouspuff]

Kote’s House

Kote’s first house is a pathetic thing, and he is incurably proud of it. The twi’lek he purchased it from very evidently could not make up his mind what to do with a man that grinned while he haggled, but it was the first time Kote had haggled over a purchase of his very own. He had thoroughly enjoyed it.

The house is built for one being, and a compact being at that, but Kote doesn’t have much. Moving in is quick, and most of his efforts during the next few days after go into attempting ambitious repairs for things he doesn’t know the first thing about. 

His plumbing is an issue, he knows. Something is getting blocked up. Somehow while trying to fix the kitchen tumbler, his fresher spout explodes.

He hadn’t kept his new house a secret from anyone by any means, but it is still surprising when Fox barges in through his jamming front door. He finds Kote on the floor in his cramped kitchen while the fresher rains water in the adjacent room, laughing so hard and so crippled with delight that he can’t get up.

He tries to explain how wonderful it is —

“I-I have to fix my plumbing on my own, vod—”

—but judging by Fox’s single raised eyebrow he knows it doesn’t translate.

Fox, it turns out, is moving into the neighborhood. Kote doesn’t ask about the house Fox already has — the house he has visited, which is very nice and fancy — or point out that Fox’s contract there cannot possibly be up, which begs the question of why he’s here in Kote’s neighborhood — except that Kote already knows the answer to that question. So he doesn’t ask.

Fox doesn’t show him any grace or forbearance, though.

“Don’t even know how to fix a damn pipe, front lining show-off—” His brother snarls, but it is muffled; his top half had to go down beneath the floor they’d pried up to get at the plumbing issue.

“So that’s what they had you doing all these years.” Kote says, because he really is in a criminally good mood. He barely ducks the foot-long pipe Fox throws at his head, feeling giddy.

He makes dinner that night in thanks. Fox stays, ostensibly because now that he’s fixed the fresher he intends to use it, because his new house isn’t hooked up properly yet to all the supply lines and power grids. 

They choke on homemade tiingilar (vode-style; Kote can’t pretend at the real thing yet) so heavily spiced it’s got grit to it that sticks between the teeth. It’s disgusting, but Cody had bought fifteen different spices and while usually he likes to keep his approach to the unknown more cautious, more methodical, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more than use them all at once for the first time. 

Wolffe joins them not long after; brings a few others along by recommending the apartment he picks out, so that soon most of the complex is taken up by vode, Kote hears, but he doesn’t visit yet. Everyone’s too busy coming over to his house, it seems; filling up his kitchen and asking why he hasn’t fixed the trash disposal yet, why he doesn’t have a couch, doesn’t he know they’re all the rage among civilized folk?

Kote fixes the trash disposal with Rex, who is better at it than he is but says it’s only due to Skywalker’s influence on managing all things mechanical. 

“How is Skywalker?” Kote asks, and gets more than he bargained for over the next hour. At first he’s a bit off-put, because he’s trying to get dinner sorted again and he’s not been very fond of Skywalker at the best of times, but Rex is snorting out a story and laughing and it’s contagious, so Kote just resigns himself and settles in to enjoy.

Skywalker has little ones, now. Obi-Wan is the only one that can get them to sleep. Ahsoka is distressed; she knows better, but every instinct in her is apparently in agony over the little ones’ inability to eat meat yet. She obsesses over nutrients in their diet — which, given what tiny natborn humans primarily ingest in the early stages, makes for some slightly awkward conversations.

Rex helps with dinner afterward, and they take turns being incredulous over natborn baby facts, shoving around one another in the tiny, uncomfortable kitchen.

“What’s your next project?” Rex asks at one point, glancing sidelong with a cheeky look, and Kote levels his vegetable knife at him (he’s got a vegetable knife. Specifically for vegetables. It’s a very new concept). 

“I make everyone’s dinner on Tuangsdays.” He says. “I’m productive.”

Rex’s sharp-toothed grin turns thoughtful. “Yeah” He says. “Everyone loves coming here, you know. You could be the new 79’s.”

Kote knows. He plans and plots, and puts more work into researching recipes than he’s put into any research whatsoever in months. It feels a bit like coming out of a shore leave; his thoughts quicken and his excitement grows. He hunts down a market. He brings a bag. He shops, bargains, and returns victorious.

He sends out a few comms., and can’t help but shake his head and grin at how different the responses are. 

What a marvelous idea, Cody. His general — ex-general — says.

Yus pls, Ahsoka sends back, with some sort of strange tooka vidclip that dances with wiggly gyrations Kote can only assume indicate excitement.

Where is your house, Anakin says, blunt and to the point, and Kote can appreciate that. 

He sends the address. He cooks all day. The sun sets, and Fox and Wolffe arrive, already bickering, Rex trailing behind with a long-suffering look sent to Kote, begging commiseration.

“Ugh, don’t you ever stop smiling, now?” He gripes when Kote just grins at him. 

“Nope,” Kote says, unrepentantly.

He leaves the soup on the stove, simmering, and takes his cup of caf to the window. He leans on it, breathing in cool air, and just listens — listens to the squabbling as Wolffe gets on Fox’s case for not washing Kote’s dishes correctly the last time they visited. Hears the soft thumps of Rex sneaking into the cramped room Kote has set aside for plants and the sole pet he has; a pastel goullian, fins swaying ever so gently, permanent scowl in place. Thinks he catches, distantly, the sound of his remaining three guests (Padme couldn’t attend, and had made him feel very awkward by how thoughtfully she apologized for it) plodding up the hill. 

“Cody!” Ahsoka cries, coming into view and waving. 

Kote’s cheeks have stopped aching from all the smiling he’s gotten used to, so it’s easy to let another through.

[ddeck]

cody should've quit the army and started a space cooking channel. i know he has it in him. i know his personal tiingilar recipe would slap

[muyru-iru]

Fox: what are you doing?

Stone: cooking

Fox: and what?

Stone: Tiingilar

Fox: what's the burner phone for?

Stone: cooking.

[thefrogdalorian]

Dincember Day 20: Celebration

Word Count: 2789 Rating: General Summary: To show Din how much he means to you, you decide to make a special gesture in celebration of him by cooking him a traditional Mandalorian feast. Despite having your heart set on a perfect evening, a certain green child has other ideas... Content Warnings: None! Author's Note: I was so excited to write this one! I love me some emotional hurt/comfort almost as much as I love writing Grogu as a little chaos gremlin. Cooking important meals can be stressful at any time of year but especially around the holiday season, shoutout to anyone who has cooking duties this year!

Link to read on AO3 | My Dincember Masterlist

The level of care that Din showed towards you never failed to make you feel like the luckiest person in the entire galaxy, that you were the person he had chosen to spend his life with. You were very fortunate that his formidable array of skills meant that he had accumulated enough credits to spoil you in so many different ways; from vacations in cabins to the most beautiful snowy spots to celebrate Life Day, to the small gifts and food he sometimes he brought home for you and even the fire pit that he had constructed outside of your cabin… you never wanted for anything. 

While it was nice to want for nothing and know that Din would always be able to take care of you in that sense, it was far from the main reason that you loved him and were so grateful to be his life partner. Your gratitude ran deeper than simply materialism. You loved Din because he was so attentive to your every need, as well as Grogu's. You almost couldn’t believe his generosity and kindness, that the warmth of the man underneath the armour was such a stark contrast to the hard, Beskar-clad warrior that he was known to so much of the galaxy as. 

You did your best to make sure that he never doubted your gratitude by thanking him over and over, to which he would always respond that it was no less than what should be done for a loved one and by reminding you constantly how much he loved you. You knew that Din did not conduct himself in such a caring way because he sought praise or thanks because for him it was just the right thing to do. Din Djarin was a man who cared passionately about the well-being of his loved ones; you knew he would go to the ends of the galaxy, if needed, to ensure your happiness.

In your mind, that was all the more reason to do something special for Din, to let him know how grateful you were and how much you loved him. There were so many options to celebrate your favourite Mandalorian, but finding something you knew he would enjoy required careful thought. You could obviously buy him something, but he really was not a materialistic person. His most precious items were his armour and weapons, you did not know enough about them to shop for something that would be to his taste. While your knowledge of beskar’gam and weapons remained limited, you had done your own research into Mandalorian culture and had your own understanding of things that were important to them. That research, combined with tidbits Din told you about Mandalorian culture, meant that you knew how important food was in their way of life. Food was a pivotal part of Mandalorian culture because it fuelled the warriors and gave them strength in battle.

With that in mind, you eventually settled on the idea of cooking Din a meal to show him how appreciative you were of everything he did for your little Clan. A plan formed in your head, involving the High Magistrate of Nevarro, Greef Karga, to distract Din for a few hours while you prepared the feast. You had thoroughly researched the dishes you would serve: a spicy Mandalorian casserole called Tiingilar followed by something sweet afterwards, you would bake a batch of Uj’alayi. Both dishes were staples of Mandalorian cuisine; you had no doubt that Din would be thrilled with your efforts to treat him to something special.

You knew that for much of his life, Din had not had the privilege of sharing a meal with his loved ones, given his upbringing and the Creed he had sworn. There were many lonely mealtimes where his tribe would scatter and eat their food in private, secluded from each other to uphold their vow to never reveal their face in front of another living being. Since he had met you, though, and begun taking his helmet off in your presence, Din had come to know the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with his family, with the people he loved. He had also learned to savour food, rather than merely inhaling it before he moved onto the next job.

A meal would be the perfect way to not only celebrate how much Din meant to you but also how far he had come as a person since you had met him. You were sure it would be an incredible evening, full of laughter and good food. 

“Grogu!” You barked at the child who was levitating a knife, “Put that down!” 

You had been running around the kitchen like a headless tip-yip for the entire day to prepare the celebratory feast for Din. But unfortunately, there was a little green child who was determined to thwart your plans. Every time your back was turned momentarily, Grogu was wreaking havoc in the kitchen. Whether it was levitating utensils with the Force to get your attention because he was bored that you were neglecting him or stealing ingredients that rested on the counters, the child was behaving like an absolute menace. 

Usually you loved Grogu’s personality; his cheekiness and abilities with the Force always brightened your day. But not today. You were stressed out, fearing that you had taken on too much. Hiding your plan for the surprise meal and the ingredients you had purchased the previous day from Din had been incredibly difficult. You hated lying to him; you believed you were terrible at it, as though he knew you so well that he would undoubtedly sense your dishonesty. 

But Din had left for the appointment that Greef Karga had scheduled with him. Unbeknownst to Din, the appointment was made at your request as part of a wider plot. Ostensibly, Greef wanted to update Din on the latest news on Nevarro but in actuality, it was a ruse to get Din away from the cabin so you could prepare the feast. You thought that keeping Grogu here would give Din some time away from looking after his son and the chance to catch up with the man who was probably his closest friend on this planet. Grogu could be quite demanding, as you were discovering for yourself. Perhaps deciding to have him around while you attempted to prepare this feast had been overly optimistic on your part, you had underestimated just how little Grogu could be trusted around food.

Things had started off well, the Uj cakes had been baked and left in the conservator to cool. You had allowed Grogu to clean the bowls and spoons you had used and the child had wasted no time licking every last remnant of the sweet, sticky mixture. That had kept him satisfied for a while. Until you had come to prepare the main dish: a spicy casserole called Tiingilar that you were sure Din would love. You had just finished chopping the vegetables when Grogu had decided that levitating a knife was a sharp idea. You were growing increasingly exasperated with him but trying not to show it. After all, you suspected that he just missed his father. The two never liked to be parted for any prolonged period, their bond was so strong. After everything they had been through together, you completely understood the anxiety that came whenever they were parted.

Grogu seemed to listen after you admonished him about the knife though; he was surprisingly well-behaved while you finished preparing the Tiingilar. You gave a deep sigh of relief as you completed the final step, pouring the mixture of meat and vegetables into the dish, ready for baking.

“Almost there, buddy,” You said aloud to yourself as much as to Grogu once the Tiingilar was finally cooking.

With the Tiingilar finally in the nano-wave cooker, your next step was to change out of the clothes you had been wearing, now sweaty and stained thanks to the exertion of cooking. You knew that Din would be back soon. you wanted to look presentable for him, despite the frazzled mess that you currently felt like. 

You picked out one of your favourite outfits that Din had complimented you on before and appreciated your appearance in the mirror. Now slightly more presentable, you turned your attention to setting the table for you and Din, complete with flowers and candles to really make it feel like a special evening. 

You were just putting the finishing touches to the table, when you heard the unmistakable sound of Din’s speedbike approaching the cabin. At almost the exact same moment, the nano-cooker chimed to indicate that the Tiingilar was finished and you practically skipped to the kitchen to retrieve it, feeling incredibly proud that you had timed everything to perfection. Din was going to walk through the door to a steaming hot portion of one of his favourite foods from childhood.

You removed the Tiingilar from the nano-cooker, placing it on the side as you rushed back to greet Din.

“Cyare?” Din called, after entering the cabin. “What’s all this?” He questioned, gesturing towards the table laid specially for your feast. His helmet was tucked under his arm and his eyebrows were raised, clearly stunned at the scene before him. 

“It’s for you, Din. I wanted to do something to celebrate you and show you how thankful I am for all you do for me and Grogu,” You smiled, loving how genuinely surprised he seemed at the sight. “I made you a couple of dishes that I think you’ll like. You can change into something more comfortable while I dish them up, if you’d like,” You offered with a smile.

“That’s…that’s so kind of you,” Din smiled, appearing genuinely moved at the effort you had gone to for him. Din closed the distance between you, bringing his arms around your waist as he leaned in to kiss your forehead softly. “Thank you, cyare,” He whispered.

Then Din disappeared off to your room to change from his beskar’gam into something less appropriate for battle to enjoy the meal in, while you walked back into the kitchen to dish the Tiingilar up. Or, at least, that’s what you intended to do. It seemed that a little green menace had other ideas, though.

“GROGU!” You bellowed at the mischievous child, sitting on the counter next to what had been, just moments before, a delicious portion of Tiingilar. “THAT WASN’T ALL FOR YOU!”

“Muh?” Grogu replied questioningly, his ears drooping downwards. He looked up at you with innocent brown eyes, his face and hands completely covered in the meal you had spent all day preparing. 

“What’s wrong?” Din asked softly from the doorway. You turned to him in slow motion, waiting to gauge his reaction once he realised the extent of his son’s treachery. It did not take him long to piece together the situation, though. 

You expected Din to bellow and perhaps wag a finger at the little green menace in the distinctively fatherlike manner that you had witnessed so many times. But instead of that, you watched as Din’s face crumpled up and he began to laugh. With his eyes shut and hand flying up to his stomach to attempt to contain his belly laughs, it was a heartwarming sight to see him so joyful. 

“Din, I’m so sorry,” You offered, despite his apparently positive reaction to this development, you still felt terrible. 

“Sorry? It’s not your fault!” Din smirked, “Grogu is the one who ate it, not you.”

“I should’ve been watching him…” You sighed frustratedly. 

“Look, don’t beat yourself up. It isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” Din reminded you and your mind instantly went back to the hot chocolate fiasco a few days prior. 

“I guess,” You nodded in agreement. “I’m just so frustrated because I spent all day making this kriffing Tiingilar!” You exclaimed.

“Wait… Tiingilar?” Din asked, a peculiar look suddenly sweeping across his features. 

“Yes, Din,” You affirmed. “I researched Mandalorian culture and tried to pick something you’d like,” You added quickly, panicking that you had somehow offended him.

But his response indicated that you had done nothing as the sort, as he dissolved into fits of laughter once again. 

“What is it?” You asked, fearing that you had missed some sort of joke along the way.

“Well, if you prepared it according to traditional recipes, I think Grogu eating our evening meal is the least of our worries,” Din said breathlessly. “It’s famously an incredibly spicy dish. It causes something we call hetikles in Mando’a, which means noseburn, to you.”

You frowned slightly, but then as you began to piece together the misery that the dish was surely about to bring to Grogu’s little body, your eyes widened in horror at first. But then, you started to smile too. “That’ll teach him,” You smirked.

As if on cue, a little sneeze sounded behind you. You twisted your head around and noticed the way Grogu's eyes seemed to have widened in horror. You gathered that he understood the extent of his predicament.

“There we go,” Din nodded, rushing over to scoop Grogu up, before the full extent of the Tiingilar’s power could make itself known.

“How is he?” You asked as Din returned from Grogu’s room where the errant child had eventually been taken to rest after several flagons of ice cold water and blue milk to aid his digestion of the spicy meal. 

“He’s alright now,” Din smiled. “The worst of it is over.”

“I’m sorry, Din. I really wanted this to be a nice, relaxing evening to celebrate how incredible you are. I didn’t expect it to turn into you having to help Grogu through that,” You sighed.

“Would you please stop apologising?” Din asked as he came to sit next to you on the couch. “Look, with a kid like Grogu, it happens. I appreciate the gesture and how much thought you put into preparing food that is culturally significant for me. Grogu eating the meal doesn’t diminish all the effort you put into it. I really appreciate it.”

“You deserve it, Din,” You smiled, as Din wrapped his arm around your shoulders tightly. “You deserve everything.”

“Thank you, cyare,” Din hummed, bringing you to him and kissing your temple softly.

But your mind was still turning over events, upset at how this evening had turned out. You felt awful about the whole thing. “At least he didn’t find the Uj’alayi,” You sighed, still utterly despondent despite Din’s words that this perfect evening you had planned had descended into such a catastrophe. 

“Cyare, it’s fine. I’ll hop on the speedbike and head back into town, pick something up from that stall we both like in the town centre,” Din offered. “Really, I’m not mad at all. And I’m looking forward to the Uj cakes! We can make Tiingilar together, another time. Plus I don’t think Grogu will ever want to eat another portion of it…” Din added, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” You asked, “I mean, you don’t mind going to town and you really aren’t disappointed?”

“You could never disappoint me,” Din said earnestly, with so much conviction in those brown eyes that it took your breath away. “I really don’t mind, I’m sure it will cheer both of us up. I don’t want all the effort you put into laying this table and making Uj’alayi to go to waste.”

“Okay, thank you Din,” You said appreciatively. “I’ll make you Tiingilar another time, I promise.”

“I can’t wait,” Din beamed at you. “Plus, if it’s any consolation, it smelled amazing,” Din shrugged and then winked at you.

As Din headed out of the door, dressed once again in his beskar’gam, to return to town and pick up a meal for the two of you to share, you were once again struck by an almost-overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Instead of turning the disappointment Din surely felt at not being able to enjoy a treasured dish into anger at you, he had made you laugh and feel better about the entire situation. It was just another reason that exemplified why you loved him so much and proved how much he deserved to be celebrated.

Although the reality had not gone entirely to plan and the lingering guilt that he deserved a perfect evening, you were thrilled that Din was still appreciative of the effort you had put into the evening, into honouring his culture. And really, the imperfections were pretty characteristic of the two of you and the way you spent your lives together. It may have been a clumsy way to celebrate your favourite Mandalorian, but nonetheless, it was still a celebration.

[sp4ceboo]

The Hunter and the Culinarian: Darth Maul x Reader

A/N: don't mind the millions of metaphors i put in the end i didn't know how to finish it ok

Warnings: swearings, violence, blasters,

Word count: <1600

Unbeknownst to many Sith and many more Jedi, you're in possession of a rather remarkable little secret. You, and only you, have seen the sight that graces your eyes nearly every morning, heard the gleeful notes of a soft baritone voice as he works, tasted the wonders of his phenomenal creation. Your husband, Maul Oppress himself, weilder of the cruel, crimson double bladed lightsaber, master of thousands of deadly, efficient fighting techniques, user of the mysterious, miraculous Force, is quite the chef.

To put it shortly, he makes great Gi dumpling soup. And Tiingilar. His Mustafarian Lava Bun is absolutely delectable, not to mention the Franikhad he cooks up, or that Corellian Ryshcate he made for you after you got some disease from a snotty Mon Calamari child... Oh, and the Quor'sav Fried Steak he made for you after that one hunt, or the one time where he made his own, slightly healthier version of the Raxus Slider from Dex's Diner.

There's nothing you love more than coming back from a long, arduous hunt to the smell of hot, just-out-of-the-oven food, apart from maybe the hug that follows - usually involving you dropping the bounty on the floor, chucking your rifle in the opposite direction (once you check the safety's on, of course) and hurling yourself at his back, trusting his connection with the Force to inform him that a heavily armoured Mandalorian is flying in a collision course for his ass. The expression on his face is always priceless, the soft melody dying an untimely death in the back of his throat as he drops the wooden spoon in his hand and catches you with the strength and precision of  a Sith lord. You can almost the strong grip of his powerful arms now, can almost hear the deep chuckle he'll let out as you kick your feet, toes brushing the ground from where he's lifted you into his embrace.

Your feet drag in the desert dust. How you wish for the insufferable, hot headed Zabrak now, with an unconscious bounty that feels like it's made of the solid beskar slung over your shoulder, the sun beating down on you as you trudge towards the ship - a mere speck on the horizon. Yes, you may tease him all the time that you're the bread winner, but sometimes you wish you were the one at home, pottering around in a 'please do nothing to the cook' apron and humming contentedly to yourself. You reckon you might even be able to avoid burning the whole ship down, although the food you produce may or may not be inedible. It's safe to say that the roles you both carry are fitting - you can't prepare food for your life, and if you put Maul on a hunt he'll either lose patience or find some trace of Kenobi that he can pursue eternally until you remind him that you'll all starve if he leaves you alone to do the cooking.

With every step, the arches of your feet radiate pain all the way up your legs, and the tiny silver glimmer on the horizon seems to slip further and further away, taking with it your promise of food and a pretty, tattooed, Zabrak man wife. The bounty over your shoulder groans, and you don't even think twice, you just sling the Iktochi onto the ground, watching passively until he stumbles, tripping over a rock, and you shoot out a hand to grab his arm in a vice like grip, steadying him. Digging the barrel of your blaster into his back, you urge him forward.

'Don't even fucking think about trying anything,' you huff grumpily.

Without the heavy, insistent weight of the bounty on your back, you relax a little, picking up the pace and forgetting your plans to just leave it all to hell and kill him, even if it meant you had to take half the pay. You roll your eyes when the Iktochi trips again, this time dropping to his knees on the ground. It doesn't escape your notice that he scoops a rock off the ground, probably a last resort weapon, but you ignore it for now - he'll be in carbonite soon, and if he tries anything, he'll have to deal with a grumpy, half starved Mandalorian and a Sith Lord with anger issues.

You're almost to the ship, happily trundling along, so close that the sun reflects off the hull and right into your eyes, when the bounty makes a break for it. It's rather pitiful, if you're being honest. All he does is launch himself in the opposite direction, the rock that had been previously hiding in his sleeve reappearing and rebounding with a clear, laughably bell like noise off your helmet. Maybe he'd been banking on the fact that you'd rather have him alive so wouldn't shoot immediately, but you're smarter than that - the blaster setting flicks to stun in a millisecond, and in the next, he's falling, eating the dust.

Staring at the unconscious body before you, you wrinkle your nose. Are you really going to drag that dead weight all the way up to the ramp, prop it up while you prepare the carbonite chamber, then struggle to not get your arm frozen in the process? It takes less time for you to decide than it took for you to stun the quarry. No. No way.

'Maul!' You yell, banging on the side of the ship. 'I'm home!'

A few seconds later, the ramp slowly lowers, and he pokes his head out, a smile brightening his face. He's a sight for sore eyes, shirtless and clad in nothing but some boxers and the iconic 'please do nothing to the cook' apron that he bought for himself after you... attacked him while he was cooking too many times: a common morning occurrence, which he claims is a bother, but secretly, or not so secretly, enjoys. His tattoos form constellations up his arms and across his muscle sheathed chest, and you watch, starry eyed for a few seconds before you shake some sense into yourself. Maker, you don't even have the strength to run into his arms today, instead waving helplessly at the body on the floor with a sheepish smile.

'Some help?' You ask. 'I'm in a bit of a Sith-uation here.' He groans. 'My love; that was awful.' 'I beg to differ, Maul. It was hilarious.'

The crimson Zabrak rolls his eyes, strolling down the ramp and over to you. He pauses before you, and you think he's going to bend down and hoist the bounty into his arms, but instead he lunges forwards and grabs you, throwing you easily over his shoulder. You yelp in protest, beating your fists against his back, but don't do much else in terms of struggling - you can finally relax, and although you'd envisioned actually sitting down while Maul supplied you with a glass of water and a kiss on the head, this will do just fine. Swinging your legs, you watch from your upside down position as Maul stoops to grab the Iktochi's tunic, slinging him onto the opposite shoulder like a sack of those fried Protatos they sell in Coruscant.

'Alright,' you sigh. 'I can see you're trying to make a point here.' 'Was it with success?' 'Yes, unfortunately,' you growl. 'Put me down, Oppress.' 'No need to get feisty,' he croons. 'I made Tiingilar.'

It's actually almost embarassing how fast you perk up. Food will do that to a hungry Mandalorian like you, you guess. No one makes Tiingilar like Maul does - you haven't tried something as authentic tasting since you left Mandalore, but then, it would make sense, as he was ruler of Mandalore for a while. Knowing Maul, he probably figured out how to make the dish in private, testing out and measuring the exact mass of the spices to add.

Maul sets you down gently at the table as he hauls the bounty over to the carbonite freezer, and you dig into the steaming stew, setting your helmet on the table beside you. Smiling, your Sith sits down beside you, pausing your hurried eating when he cups your jaw, tilting your face to his so he can kiss you, his lips pulling up into a grin against yours as you snake a hand around the back of his head to pull him closer, leaning into his touch. Once he releases you, it doesn't take you long to eat the food he's prepared for you, and you groan, cradling your food baby as you set the clean bowl onto the table.

'That was so good, Maul,' you sigh. 'You spoil me.' 'Anything to see that pretty face of yours,' he replies with a disarming grin. 'Oh, so that's why you cook so much,' you tease. 'And because I love you,' he whispers, voice dropping a few octaves. You smile - so hard your cheeks begin to ache. 'I love you too, Maul.'

It doesn't take you another second - you fall into his arms, the way a comet streaks towards a planet, trapped in its gravity. You are his star, yet you find yourself orbitting him, the shine of glittering galaxies glimmering in your wonder struck eyes; he cradles you in his arms, anchoring you, grounding you, and you wish to stay there forever, sheltered in the arms of the most dangerous man in the universe. He snares you in his grip, yet in doing so, he secures you. The two of you dance together within your own self made solar system, twirling among planets and spinning past asteroid fields, destined, as two star systems are, to collide. And when you do, you explode in a shower of glittering lights, again and again and again, clasped tightly in each others arms.

[ranahan]

I’ve thought a lot about amber-root, a root vegetable grown on Mandalorian worlds, and what it should be named. I eventually arrived at

mara or maru

(Or maybe both—I love the idea Mando’a is a pluricentric language. And sometimes I just can’t choose, so I keep both and call it dialectal variation.)

One, it comes from Te reo Māori kūmara (or in English sweet potato), which I think amber-root rather obviously is. Unless it’s supposed to be a space!carrot instead. But I prefer to think of it as a staple food crop, since it’s one of the few established things we have.

Two, it makes for a suitable in-universe etymology: since the root *mar- means ‘find’, mara/maru would be something found, like roots are dug up from the earth.

And then I decided that calquing a Māori idiom (Tuakana Kūmara) would also make sense: ba’buir mara (or babu’mara for short), “granny potato”, meaning “older none the wiser”. And colloquially, calling someone mara means “simpleton”. That one is thanks to my sibling; don’t know where they picked it up but chances are the army. That’s where most of the fun slang in my family seems to come from, anyway.

So next time you wonder what tiingilar is served with, here’s my take.

[tolkienreader1996]

Polls already done: drink menu, appetizers, main courses

Please reblog so other people can order food

[oolathurman]

Space Shanty, Mandalorian Edition

Just cuz I've been working on a mandosona who likes shanties! I'll try to provide notes and translations beside the phrase of interest, so y'all don't have to scroll up and down too much.

This is to the tune of A Drop of Nelson's Blood / Roll The Old Chariot Along.

"And we'll roll the old chariot along" has been replaced with "And we'll all march to-wards to the stars."

In addition, "And we'll all hang on behind" has been replaced with "Gal ori'skraan, riduur, yaim dab." (The phrase refers to R&R, and literally translates to "Beer, big eats, good company and return to camp." I've shortened "dab'ika" to "dab," since that can be interpreted as one's current place of stay or rest.)

Common verses:

And a drop of net'ra gal, wouldn't do us any harm // Net'ra gal, a black ale.

And a drop of spiced tihaar, wouldn't do us any harm // Tihaar, a strong clear alcoholic spirit.

And a game of meshgeroya, wouldn't do us any harm // Meshgeroya, a Mandalorian game.

And a plate of tiingilar, would fill us up real good // Tiingilar, a spicy mandalorian casserole, dish made from leftovers.

It'd be alright if we make it 'round Krownest // Krownest, ancestral home of Clan Wren

It'd be alright if the Void of Blue eats us // Void of Blue, a reference to the lights of hyperspace

And a night on the town wouldn't do us any harm

And a moment of aay'han, wouldn't do us any harm // Aay'han, bittersweet perfect moment of mourning and joy - remembering and celebrating.

And rolling with our vod, wouldn't do us any harm // Rolling, in this case used as innuendo or as a suggestive comment. Vod as in, sibling, brother, sister; comrade, close mate. In this case, the latter 'comrade/close mate' is used.

And a night planetside, wouldn't do us any harm

And a big ol' ori'skraan, wouldn't do us any harm // ori'skraan, a feast.

What I love about a shanty like Nelson's Blood is the ability to easily make up verses on the fly, and I imagine that whoever starts the song would encourage others to throw in random verses as the song goes on. What verse would you add? :D

[imarvelatstars]

She Walks In Starlight

Pairings: Clone Trooper Sister x f!Reader

Content: slight angst, rex's clone uprising, tbb s3 spoilers, vague description of blood and injuries, inspired by feast of starlight from the hobbit

Word Count: 2.6k

originally posted march 17th, 2024

[masterlist] [ao3 link]

Sister knows a disaster when she sees it; she's been through enough of them with the 212th. It's just that she's never had a disaster of this magnitude happen to her.

There's so much blood. It slicks her gloves until they're soaked, streaks across her armor until the pink and blue brushstrokes are entirely gone. And her heart. It's pounding in her ears so fiercely that she can feel the veins there ticking, feel her skin pulsating with each beat.

She scrambles out of the wreckage, but she's dizzy and her visor's busted, and everything feels wrong. Everything's too tight, too constricting. Her body's hot and cold all at once. And her head hurts like a kriffing clanker just walloped her in the face.

The helmet comes off and clatters atop the cobbles she's crashed upon. Then her knees give out.

The world is hazy now, distant and far away. Something in the back of her mind screams that this is bad, but she can't find it in her to care. Somehow, that seems bad too.

With the last of her strength, she forces her eyes open and fixates on the burning wreckage of her ship. Hardly a ship now when it's busted into pieces and melting all over the forest floor. But she made it, she realizes in a moment of clarity, and that makes her smile. Even if she dies here, even if this is the end of her story, she's proud to have made it this far. She escaped the Empire and that was all she wanted.

Well. Almost.

A breeze comes drifting through the leaves then and as it stirs her hair, Sister finds herself regretting just one last thing. She wishes she could have seen you again.

"We need a medic!"

Whatever was left of your tiingilar goes spilling across the table as Samson, Greer, and Koa breach the main entrance, half tripping over themselves as they carry a- is that kriffing body? Fireball swipes the remainder of his shit off the table - a data pad, his helmet, his own empty bowl - while you run for the nearest medpac.

"She's bleeding out. I need gauze!"

It doesn't hit you until the moment you return, when you see her, what he's said. She.

The body. The body wearing clone armor, painted blue and pink at the joints and chest, covered in blood. Is it her own? Utterly frozen, your eyes drop to the chestplate that's scored with dirt and vibroblade marks, chipped with paint that you know like the back of your own hand. Maker help you, you know that armor. You know her. Even without the armor, you'd know her.

The medpac is ripped from your hands and someone's grabbing you, shouting at you, but you can't hear a single thing they're saying because she is everything - everything you see, everything your universe contains - and she is bleeding out on the table where you take your meals each day.

You reach for her, but you never manage to grab hold. "Sister," you say, but the word is gritty and raw, dry in your mouth. "Sister. She's..." You don't even dare to say it for fear of speaking the nightmare into existence. But she's bloody and pale, and she's not waking up. And you know she's probably going to die. "Help her."

It's then that you realize why you can't reach her. It's Echo. He's holding you back, a hand wrapped around your elbow and the scomp on your back. You turn to him, but you don't see him, can't see him. All you see is her. Her hair, her eyes, closed but you know they're dark and warm beneath the lids. You know the path of her scars and the shape of her callouses, and she's here and you can't find her, and you can't see Echo, and it's all too much because it's all so wrong.

"Echo," you start. You're squirming as he fights to hold you back. "Echo, she's, she's not... She's bleeding. Help her."

"Samson's got her taken care of," he assures you. "You need to give him room to work."

But you shake your head. "No." That's not right either. "She needs me."

She's dying. Why else would there be so much blood?

"What she needs is for you to give them space to save her. She'll be alright."

And maybe she will be. Perhaps in some other dimension, she makes it out of this alive, but that's not here, that's not now. Here and now, you're watching the woman you love bleed out on the dinner table and it's the first time you've seen her since before the Republic collapsed. And you'll be damned if you're not by her side the entire time.

Echo doesn't seem to see it the same way, and that's what gets you detained in a holding zone for the next hour.

"She's stable now," he tells you once he returns to let you out. "You okay?"

Kriff no, you're not okay. Your stomach is churning and the whole inside of your cheek is raw from chewing on it, and your leg won't stop bouncing nor will your heart stop pounding. Because you really thought you'd lost her.

But for his sake, you attempt a polite grimace. "Yeah. Can I see her?"

His palm flattens against the door controls. Heart in your throat, you follow him across the compound to the table she rests on. All of her armor's been removed and stacked in a vaguely neat pile along the nearby supply crates, but it's still stained with blood, all crusty and rusted pink. Her body is crisscrossed with gauze strips and bacta patches, her blacks torn to shreds to the point where they're hardly useful anymore. But she's there, alive, and realer than any dream you've had before.

"Cyare."

Your hand finds her jaw before you even realize you're doing it. And for a moment, one singular, fleeting moment, it's as if you're back on Coruscant, as if this war had never happened, as if she's just got back from deployment and you're welcoming her into your flat. The way it used to be. The way it should have been.

"What happened to you?" you ask, though there's no one to answer you. Sister may be alive, but she's thoroughly unconscious and likely will be for a while if her injuries are anything to go by.

Your hands find one of hers and lift it to your mouth to press a kiss there, like you always used to do, but your lips are met with gauze. And it breaks your fucking heart.

"It's okay. It's okay, baby." You kiss the wrinkled slip of gauze across her knuckles. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Keeping busy is the only thing you can do. Your mind is too scattered to be of much use to anyone, so your usual duties are taken over by Greer, and the time spent anxiously waiting for Sister to wake is used on other things that won't drive you mad - checking her injuries and changing her bandages, scrubbing the blood from her armor, quietly whispering all the things you've longed to share with her in the year she's been gone. You tell her how you found Rex, the work you did in the early days of his rebellion shuttling food and clothes to the Martez repair shop. You tell her about the brothers that were lost and the brothers that were found, how every day you hoped and prayed you'd find her among the clones fleeing the Empire. You tell her that you never gave up searching, never stopped believing you'd find her again. You tell her you love her, but it's not enough to wake her.

Rex takes the empty end of the bench. "How're you holding up?"

The truth is too painful to verbalize, so you opt for a half-truth instead. "I'm okay. I'm just glad she's here."

He nods, almost smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You want me to watch her for a while?"

"No," you say far too quickly, and with a frantic urgency that should be embarrassing. It's not. Not when it's her. "Sorry. I just, I wanna be here when she wakes up."

A dozen different strings of thought seem to cross his mind then, though he doesn't speak any of them. Whatever he's thinking, he ultimately chooses to keep to himself. "I understand. It's not easy being the one who has to wait."

No, it's not.

"I'd suggest you take a break and get some sleep, but you're not gonna listen. Are you?"

You could apologize for it, but you'd both know it to be a lie. Instead, you offer Rex a smile that says everything you don't know how to say. He sighs.

"Once she's up. I promise."

"Alright." His hand rests gently on your shoulder and then he's gone.

Your attention returns to Sister, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest that marks a rhythm so familiar it might as well be carved into your very bones. "You'll be up soon, huh?" You lean in to nuzzle your cheek against the upper swell of her arm. "It'll be okay, cyare. I promise."

But by now, you're not sure if it's a promise you can keep. The Empire has taken so much from all of you, it would make sense for it to take her too. If you had never known she was still alive, it might have been easier. If you had been forced to endure the rest of your days believing in a dream that could never be, it might have been endurable, but now that you know she's been alive all this time, now that you know she tried to come to Teth and join the uprising, you're not sure you could ever know a moment of peace if she died here.

She has to live. There is no other option.

Hope comes late at night when the stars are out and your body has given in to exhaustion. You're stirred from your slumber when your head thunks solidly on the table. Still half asleep, you jerk into a sitting position and look around in an attempt to assess the situation. Is it an attack? Is something wrong? Is Sister alright?

"Mmh, where... am I?"

That voice. Oh Maker, that voice, you'd know it anywhere. You fear for the longest moment that it's a figment of your imagination, the product of your sleep-addled mind conjuring hallucinations, that this is all just another dream, but no. No, it's real. She's awake and blinking, frowning. She's alive.

You're so frantic to stand that you nearly trip over yourself trying to extract your legs from the bench. "Sister? Baby, are you-?"

"'s so dark," she slurs. "Can't... Where...?"

You're shouting before you even realize it. "Rex! Rex, she's awake!" You're so happy, you could cry. You are crying. "Cyare, honey, it's okay. It's me."

Her head tilts to one side, then the other as she tries to assess her surroundings, but it's clear she's struggling. A concussion, one of her brothers had said, a side effect of the crash that had nearly cost her life. Between that and the dimmed lights, it would be a miracle if she could make out anything in the entire compound.

Her furrowed gaze settles on you a moment later, only without a shred of recognition. "Who, who are you?"

Your heart is shattering. Every broken shard of it is piercing through your skin, ripping you apart from the inside out. Does she truly not remember you?

You press one of her hands to your face. "It's me, Sister, your..." Her what, exactly? There had never been a true label on the thing that simmered between you. In your head and in your heart, she had quite simply been yours as you had been hers. Now, though, you wish for a word deeper than girlfriend and more vibrant than lover. "You remember me?"

Rex, Nemec, and Samson come running in then with a couple of spare medpacs and wide, frantic eyes. Rex wordlessly asks for your hand - to take you away, no doubt, to let their brothers check her over. You know they need to, you know she needs the medical attention more than she needs you, but you hate having to leave her.

"No, wait, Rex, I can stay. Let me stay."

"That's not a good idea," he answers with a shake of his head. He's already starting to pull you away. "She'll be fine. Let's just give the boys some space, alright?"

You lunge for her hand as you're maneuvered apart. "Cyare, cyare, it's okay! It's okay, just stay awake for me, baby, okay? Rex, lemme-"

"Is that...?" It's as if your voice is a magnet, drawing her up until she's sitting upright, blindly searching the room for - for you? Your name is desperate on her tongue in the worst possible way. "Can't be..."

"Easy, vod," says Samson with a hand at her collarbone. "Lay back. You're still pretty roughed up."

Nemec leans in with a bacta stim. "Talk to me, Sister, okay? Can you do that?"

She frowns as she's laid back down. You've stopped struggling by now, but it's more from your own shock than anything else. This all feels too real and somehow not real enough. You're watching her as if through a lens, as if she were far away, as if your reality has ceased to exist while she wades through her the uncertainty of her own.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Sister grunts when Samson starts swiping disinfectant over one of her wounds. "My ship... They shot me right before I, I went to hyperspace, and then..." She starts to sit up again, but Nemec holds her down. "Where is she?"

"Your ship crashed in the jungle. Not much of it left, I'm afraid."

"No." She says your name again, softer this time, as Rex's arms tighten around you. "She was here, but... She can't be." You know the separation is for the best, that you'd be little more than a distraction if you were free, but it kills you just the same.

The two brothers exchange looks.

"Made sure of it," she mutters, and her head falls back against the table. "'s not safe."

You strain against the press of the Captain's vambraces, but he holds fast. "Rex, please."

Nemec offers her a comforting pat on the shoulder. "It's alright, vod, you're safe now. The Empire's not gonna find you here. We'll get you all taken care of."

But she keeps babbling, mumbling half-finished sentences that don't make any sense, about Kamino, Coruscant, the Empire, you. She keeps asking for you as if she were indeed still stuck in a dream, caught somewhere else where the world is vast and hope is a sure thing.

"Promised her I'd come back. Never, never did. Now she's far away." She smiles in the prettiest way she ever has, half delirious and broken, and you swear nothing's ever hurt so much as this does. "She's... she's like, like starlight."

Samson's head tilts in your direction, eyes dark and tired, but you think he might be inclined to smile. He applies another bacta patch to the worst of the wounds with gentle, steady hands. "Tell us about her."

"She's gone," she laments. "She'll forget about me. 's, 's for the best..."

Later, though, when the boys are gone and she's lucid, you'll tell her just how wrong she is. You'll tell her how you would have waited a lifetime for her, you'll tell her that she's too deeply imprinted on your heart for you to ever love another. And you'll hold her 'til the stars fall from the sky, 'til the universe crumbles around you. You'll tell her that she is the truest starlight you've ever known, always illuminating the darkest night with her brilliantly shimmering heart and her undying hope. You'll tell her that she walks in starlight in another world, and you're simply blessed to follow along in her wake.