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o-wise-corvid · 1 year

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Dathomir Daily

Was this the power of the Force that Maul venerated so much? It didn’t seem… natural for someone to go for so long without rest or food. But there Maul was. Hunched in the curve of a seat, eyes glued to the holonet that he’d been flipping through with singular intent for days. Savage watched the hyperspace lights, afraid of speaking lest he cross that invisible but very real like that would turn his brother from sullen and silent to blisteringly enraged. It didn’t take much. Feral turned the skewers of meat over on the stove, letting the other side char up a little and sprinkling a little of the salt he’d discovered in the ship. Rancor flesh was slightly muddy in taste and a little crunch was pleasant. The salt balanced the sweetness of the meat; good food was necessary for the ē.

He glanced at Savage, his brow knotted as he stared at the viewport, and then to Maul. Being busy seemed to soothe this brother. Perhaps keeping his hands and mind focused on something shielding him from harmful thoughts. Feral could understand that.

He’d been entranced by the start of the flight a few days back. The press of gravity on him, the view of the rose sky fading to the glittering black of endless space… it was a miracle. Feral had never seen anything so wondrous, except perhaps the one female he’d met all those years ago… the one he thought about from time to time. Wondering where she was. If she was well. Remembering her pale hair. And the stark tattoos like fish scales on her shoulders and back.

Feral scratched the base of his horns, feeling the itch of embarrassment turning them dark. He always did that when thinking of Biser. Maybe they would meet again. There was no guarantee… but maybe. Someday.

“FARK!” The word erupted out of Maul in a way that seemed involuntary. Feral nearly dropped the salt shaker and looked to him worriedly, and Savage jumped in shock, his pilot’s chair squeaking. Maul was leaning toward the holo, his eyes so wide that the skin around them almost seemed that it could split. “It cannot be…” The exact tone of voice was… Feral couldn’t place it. Was Maul in pain? Happy? Angry?

Maul’s hands tapped at the holo-display control panel, his lower lip trapped in his teeth so fiercely that a little blood was starting to trickle down his chin. “I-I… this cannot be- I would have seen before; I would have kn…” The image on the display was a human male, older. With white hair that was slicked back from a patrician’s face. He seemed… descent? Maybe? Feral thought the man had kind eyes?

“Maul? What is it?” Savage stood and walked over, carefully placing a large hand on Maul’s shoulder. Surprisingly, the smaller Zabrak didn’t flinch. In fact, he leaned into the touch, as if it steadied him. “Isn’t… isn’t that the Chancellor? Of the Republic? I remember a few news holos I saw…”

“It is him…” Feral’s hearts clenched at the sight of his brother, the desperate way he was all but clutching the console. Like he might collapse into death right there.

“Brother… who? Cē bā dē?” Feral touched him too, and that Maul’s tunic soaked in cold sweat beneath his fingers. “What has he done to you?”

A tremor began to thrum through the Zabrak’s rigid body. It was a conscious thing, but it rolled down from his taught shoulders to his hands, which trembled. Even when they reached for the touch of his brothers. This couldn’t be conscious either. No. This was… fear wasn’t a good enough word. Terror. Holorum. “His name is Sheev Palpatine… b-but he is- was mae Master. Laerd Sidious. Of the Sith.” Maul was shaking so hard that his words came out unevenly, a touch of the accent that most Nightbrothers possessed creeping through oddly. Something about that, the barest hint of who Maul was supposed to have been peeking through all these layers of scars and wounds, made Feral’s eyes burn with tears that he hurriedly tried not to shed.

“How is this possible? How have the Jedi not sensed him? If he’s the powerful sorcerer you described, wouldn’t they be able to feel him?”

Savage’s question seemed to help draw Maul out of whatever cave of thought he’d fallen into. He glanced up at Savage. “The Dark Side can mask one’s power… I… how have I not known before…?” Maul peered at the man’s face again, shaking his head in mute disbelief. “Why… why now?” The program continued, explaining that the Chancellor would be holding a private hearing with a Clone, CT-5555…? What a strange report…

“Savage… take us to Coruscant. Please.” Maul’s voice hardened, his brow pulling low. “I have to face him. I… I need to. He has to pay for what he has done to me.”

But the ship’s nav was already plotting a new course. Savage plotted the jumpstreams and then stood, tall and strong. “We will fight beside you.”

“No!… no. He will kill you both. I-I… It must be alone. I will contact you. When it is over.”

Feral didn’t like the sound or look of Maul’s answer. His brother wouldn’t contact them. Because he would die. If Sidious was that powerful… was Maul a match for him? With such fear in his spirit, could he be? “What if he beats you?”

“Either I expose him by forcing him to reveal his power or I expose him by defeating him… it must be, either way.” Maul actually looked at Feral, finally. His eyes were steady. Sure. Full of purpose. But there was… a peace there now.“You and I… we are bonded differently… why?”

“We are twins.” Feral touched the red band around his bicep. “You should have one to match me…”

“Sidious stripped my tattoos,” Maul answered, looking at the red marking, and then ever so gently, laying his palm there. “He took my self from me… I wish very much, that I had known you as a boy. Brother.”

Feral swallowed. And then pulled Maul’s head closer, catching him round the back of the neck. He rested their horns together, forehead to forehead. “So do I. I wish I could go with you. You don’t have to be alone always.”

Maul didn’t say anything. Instead, he just pressed his forehead a little tighter still and for the barest of moments, closed his eyes. Feral dabbed away the blood on his brother’s chin with his sleeve. His previously unshed tears flowed free then. Maul was allowing all this. So freely… it was because he could sense death on the horizon. Did he hope for it? Desire to meet Ōlen so young? Did he not understand how it would leave Savage and himself? No… no, Feral didn’t think Maul did. And that was Sidious’ fault.

So Feral prayed silently. To Gun Tā’zhudo’rr and Cor Dē’zhudo’rr, the Winged and Fanged Twins of the deep magicks. To save his brother. But also… for the end of the one who’d made his brother suffer for so very long. For peace. And for vengeance. For balance. While he did this, Feral held Maul close in a fierce embrace.

And Maul allowed it.

Tag list: @alexeithegoat @thesitharts @crc-jedi-knight-serushna @hotshot9 @smoooothbrain @gran-maul-seizure @foreverchangingfandomsao3 @herbalinz-of-yesteryear @justalittletomato @stardustbee @storm89 @by-the-primes @ohboi @and-claudia @eloquentmoon

#dathomir daily #brought to you by ✨ye olde genifer✨#a snippet Jess and I were discussing earlier this week #we need brehs to be BREHS #maul opress #savage opress #feral opress #word list: hearts #who is he?#terror #Death #The Winged Goddess #The Fanged God

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phoenixyfriend · 2 years

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Secrets

We can do author reveals for @spreadyourwingsexchange now! Mine was written for PaxDuane (@callacabforme)

Read on AO3

Relationships:

Jaster Mereel/Mace Windu, The Daughter | Winged Goddess/Jango Fett, Jango Fett & Jaster Mereel, Depa Billaba & Jango Fett, Depa Billaba & Mace Windu

Characters:

Jaster Mereel, Jango Fett, Mace Windu, Depa Billaba, The Daughter | Winged Goddess, Morai (Star Wars)

Additional Tags:

Time Travel, Romance, Hard of Hearing Jaster Mereel, Asexual Depa Billaba, POV Outsider, POV Multiple, Dreamsharing, Age Difference, (But all are consenting adults)

Summary:

Jaster worries Mace teaches Depa watches Jango lives

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Jaster first notices something’s changed when Jango is fourteen. The shift in personality is sudden, but the kid is well into his teenage years and picking up more responsibility, even if it’s under supervision, so… maybe it’s normal.

Jaster keeps an eye on him, sure, but if it’s important, Jango will come to him, right? He’s basically an adult now, he can handle some things himself. Maybe it’s girl problems. Or boy problems. Or something.

He hopes that, if it is a crush, it’s not on Montross. Jango keeps staring at Jaster’s second, and it’s with a curiously blank look that Jaster can’t figure out. It could just as easily be… uh…

Actually, a crush on someone twice his age who is definitely going to reject him might actually be the best option. Well, no, the best option would be that Jango wants to learn a skill that Montross has and other people don’t, but both are still better than, say, Jango suspecting Montross of something, or Montross actually having done something, to Jango, that Jaster hasn’t noticed.

So really, Jaster is… it’s just Jango being a teenager, right?

He’ll keep an eye on it.

Jango will come to him when he’s ready.

So.

Montross betrayed them.

Jaster hadn’t seen it coming. Jango had. That might be the only reason Jaster’s alive right now.

There were worse reasons for Jango to have focused on Montross as he had, but not many. Not many at all.

“Are you alright?” Jaster asks, clapping a hand on Jango’s shoulder. Jango twitches under the gesture, looking away from the empty space he’d fixated on. There’s something in his eyes that Jaster would have called unfamiliar a few months ago, but knows too well now. Jango’s always had eyes that are too old for his age, but it’s been more, this past while.

“I’m fine,” Jango says, in that rough and stilted way he’d picked up from… somewhere.

Jaster has the right to worry. He just doesn’t know what it is that he’s worried about, entirely. “Ready to tell me how you knew about Montross?”

Jango’s eyes flick away for a moment, and then back to Jaster. “I’d prefer not to.”

“Ad’ika—”

“I’m not a child,” Jango says, fast and odd and Jaster is begging the stars to tell him what it is that’s changed his son so much.

“You’re my child,” Jaster says.

The look Jango gives him is indecipherable, searching and sad and something that Jaster doesn’t have nearly enough information to really read. “I know. It’s just uncomfortable to hear.”

“Jango—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jango says, firm and final and frustratingly distant. “Please respect that, buir.”

There is no answer he can give that he hasn’t already. “Alright, I’ll leave it for now. Just… you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

His son looks away from him, and hesitates. He fixes his stare on nothing, ready to just go back to zoning out as he had been, and says, “yes, sir.”

“Right,” Jaster says, and they both know that he isn’t buying it. He sighs, pats Jango on the shoulder again, and heads for the door. “Get some rest, son.”

“Will do.”

The first time Jaster sees The Habit, he thinks it’s something else entirely.

He passes by the door to Jango’s room, and pauses at the sound of a single, agitated voice. The door is open just a crack, enough for the voice to escape, and Jaster steps back to look through it. The room is lit, and Jango is alone.

The boy is pacing, gesturing as he speaks and pausing every little bit. Jaster only sees flashes of this, because he doesn’t want to risk opening the door or invading Jango’s privacy even more, and Jango’s pacing is taking him all over the room. There isn’t an answering voice, and Jaster can’t see a comm from this angle, or even hear the low buzz of a response.

Jaster’s hearing is kind of a mess, though. He’s been in the vicinity of too many explosions for his eardrums to still be in top condition, and he doesn’t bother with the aides unless he’s doing diplomatic work. He’s sure as hell not wearing them in his own home if he doesn’t have to.

Would be nice to have them now, to figure out what the heck is going on with his son.

Jaster catches snippets of what’s being said, but between the lack of visual help and the fact that Jango’s speaking away from the door as often as not, it’s not much.

Jango doesn’t seem distressed, he decides. He’s probably either talking to someone on a comm that’s out of Jaster’s narrow line of sight into the room, or practicing an argument of some sort. Either way, he’s fine. Probably.

Jaster leaves him to it.

It happens again. This time, the door is fully open, and Jaster sees him argue with thin air, dropping names he’s never heard, like Kenobi and Boba and Windu and Tyranus. He seems to circle back to the same spot with his gaze, high up against the wall, and addresses it as ‘ma’am.’

Jaster knocks on the door, this time. It’s open, after all. Jango starts with surprise, and turns to face him. “Buir?”

“Heard you talking,” Jaster says. “Figured if it was loud enough for me to hear, then there was something wrong.”

Jango looks away, a flush rising in his cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

“Who were you arguing with?” Jaster prompts.

“It wasn’t an argument,” Jango says, too quick to be true. He won’t meet Jaster’s eyes. “And it’s… nobody, really. I’m just trying to get my thoughts in order.”

“Practicing for a debate?”

Jango snorts. “Something like that.”

“With…?” Jaster tries.

His son winces, looking away. “The New Mando types, mostly.”

Jaster frowns. “We’re on good terms with Adonai.”

This earns him a shrug. “I have concerns on some things I’ve heard. It might not come to anything, but it’s better to work out how to phrase things ahead of time, isn’t it? If I have to speak?”

Jango is not a good public speaker. Jaster is passable, at least, but Jango is… a work in progress.

“Practice is good,” Jaster tells him. “Maybe close your door next time, though. Keeps people from worrying.”

“Will do, sir.”

Jaster can’t help but ruffle Jango’s hair when he passes him, narrowly avoiding the offended squawk he gets for the act. It’s childish, especially considering how grown up Jango’s been behaving, and the return to something even slightly resembling acting his age is reassuring.

The way that Jango fights is controlled, but often uncertain. It often seems like he doesn’t quite know how to manage his own body, as if the size of it surprises him every other day. Jaster keeps an eye on it, but Jango had a growth spurt pretty recently, and that should probably be enough of an explanation, right?

Sure, Jango’s mistakes seem more like someone who’s adjusting to a smaller reach than they’re used to, not a longer one, but that’s… that’s…

It’s fine, right? Jango’s spending a lot of time practicing his forms, which is good, and he’s keeping up with his studies, doing well, even, and he’s been shining in missions and strategy sessions, keeping his calm when he argues for a tactic or insists on gathering more information or whatever it is this time. Jango’s fine.

Jaster watches him test the weight of a practice sword, swinging it in a set of forms that look more Jedi than anything, but still decidedly Mandalorian, and still testing and hesitant and almost as if he were… trying to reverse engineer lightsaber forms.

Jango’s never met a Jedi. Jaster would know.

Even Jaster’s only ever met two. Jedi are rare, especially outside the Core.

With a stifled noise, Jango takes on an odd jump, awkward and high and decidedly not designed with armor in mind, and lands surprisingly well. Jaster looks at the sharp grin and the confident way his son rises to his feet, the kind of competent that Jaster should be proud of, should be happy with, should support in all ways.

And he worries.

Jaster makes a habit of passing by Jango’s rooms when they have downtime. He’s not hovering, and he’s certainly not suspicious of his own son, but he’s… a parent. Right. He’s a parent, and this is normal for an unsure parent who wants to figure out what their child is going through without prying too much.

Jango has many one-sided conversations. He never has them in public, certainly, and he definitely doesn’t seem to be noticing or reacting to things that aren’t there, but Jaster starts thinking more and more that it’s something to look out for. It’s never big things, not really, but there are moments where Jango just… isn’t right.

It’s been six months, maybe more, when Jaster does roundup after a mission and finds that Jango is at the very edge of the meadow they’d landed the gunship in, right at the treeline, and holding a conversation with a convor.

People have conversations with animals all the time, Jaster thinks, just a touch desperately. One of their medics has a tooka that she talks too like a baby, every day. One of his snipers carries around a snake whenever they’re off duty, wearing it like a scarf and asking it ‘do you believe this shit?’ whenever something even slightly inconvenient happens. Myles wrestles with his father’s akk dog every time he visits home, with the ever popular ‘who’s a good girl’ dropping from his mouth as easily as kisses for the mutt. That slicer that joined up a few months back treats zir carnivorous rabbit as a coding partner, explaining problems in the program until the process of talking it through has led zir to an epiphany.

It's normal to talk to animals. Loads of people do it.

Sure, Jango seems like he’s having more of a business negotiation than a pet conversation with the bird, but it’s still normal, right?

Even if the convor, seemingly wild, nods to something, waits for Jango to raise his arm, and then delicately hops on.

Jango talks to the bird in quiet murmurs for another half hour before they part ways, and Jaster doesn’t know what to think of it.

So his kid is weird, practicing arguments and reinventing lightsaber forms and talking to animals, all normal things done in a decidedly odd way. It’s fine. Jango can be as weird as he wants, so long as he’s being safe, or as safe as a mercenary can be, and working towards being happy. He’s got an injury right now, a large cut that needed stitches and cracked ribs that needed taping, but he’s fine. Jaster almost even believes it.

And then someone shows him a security feed from the galley, something people barely ever look at, even on duty, and it’s Jango. He’s having a meal, alone, in the early hours of the day cycle. Nightmares, maybe, or just an awkwardly shifted internal clock. It’s normal.

It’s normal, it’s all so normal, until he tries to reach for a bowl, stops with a wince as he strains his stitches, and instead floats the dish down.

“So,” the soldier says, low and slow, “did you know?”

“Not this,” Jaster says. He wonders how much of the last months—almost a year now, if he’s being honest with himself—can be explained by this. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ll handle this.”

“As Mand’alor, or as a father?” the soldier asks.

“As a father,” Jaster says, “and if that doesn’t work… we’ll see.”

(Continue on AO3)

#star wars #the clone wars #sw legends #Jango Fett #Jaster Mereel #Depa Billaba #Daughter #Daughter of Mortis #The Winged Goddess #Morai #phoenix files

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