#a basket with small balls of remainder yarn

[iocheaira]

also i have to either seriously uhm. get rid of some shit. or start knitting my mom an xmas gift NOW instead of at thanksgiving

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Seven.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count: 7.5 K  

chapter summary: Marathel had seen her sisters and cousins suffer greatly for what they thought was love.  And now she would follow in their footsteps.   

warnings:  sexual abuse, physical abuse, violence towards women, child sexual abuse, child rape, child pregnancy, forced pregnancy, torture, allusion to suicide ideation, enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing   

You Were Marked: Masterlist    

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter  

It was deep in the night before Marathel was able to get up out of bed.  Every time she shifted, the Bounty Hunter would shift right with her, keeping his arms wound tightly around her.  He resisted her attempts to move his hands, mumbling something in his language.  She finally managed to gently push him to his back, his hand dragging off her and coming to rest on his chest.  

Marathel was torn by her actions.  She wanted so much to remain next to him as long as possible, to keep her fantasy of being loved and cherished alive.  At the same time, she needed to protect her heart if she was going to manage to get through the next few hours.   Getting herself and the eggs to the Hold and the Aurodium coins into the Bounty Hunter’s hands was going to take the remainder of her resolve; after that, she would easily shatter into a million pieces, and it would be a blessing.  She only hoped that the Bounty Hunter would unknowingly continue to play his part until this was finished.   

Marathel rolled off the bed tick and on to the wooden floor, and she held the curtain open to look back at the man who had unexpectedly come into her life.  She supposed he cared for her on some level, which amazed her.  Surely there were women on these other planets who would better suit him than someone like her.  Marathel watched him sleep, his armored chest rising and falling.  She marveled how he could sleep wearing all that. The helmet must create a cradle for his head, she thought.  He had mentioned an Armourer;  and she supposed that each piece must be crafted for him.   

Was he a high-ranking Elder in his tribe?   

The idea of the Bounty Hunter being an Elder as she knew it nauseated her to the point of tears, and this thought got her up and moving.  He had seen enough of her tears. 

Marathel found the basket that she hoped she would never look in again.  At the very bottom were the articles of clothing she detested.   She pulled each of them out, assessing their condition: wrinkled but still intact.  Marathel took the small stack of clothing behind her hut to press out the wrinkles and freshen them, wondering how many times she prepared the same items for others in the Hold.  She had taken these with her when Diwhyn Olba had taken her from the Hold, thinking that she wouldn’t be gone very long, and she would be wearing these sooner than later.  Each passing season they remained in the basket, until now.  When they were finished, they hung on her drying rack, next to the Bounty Hunter’s clothing, and for a fleeting moment she indulged the fantasy that they lived somewhere far away from the Hold, where they were each other’s, where she was a part of his Mudhorn clan of two, making it three.  The tears threatened again, and she sharply slapped herself across the face twice to stop that foolishness.  Realizing that the noise might wake the Bounty Hunter, she held her breath, feeling frantic, waiting.  After a few moments, she quietly collected his clothing and brought it back to the hut. 

After laying the clothing on her table, she went to find her sewing kit, accidentally kicking some of the twigs she and Grogu had collected earlier.  She froze again, listening for any sign that she had woken up the Bounty Hunter.  There was nothing but silence.  Marathel felt panic rising; she needed to escape this hut before she began to scream.  She grabbed a few twigs and the three balls of yarn off the floor and dashed off the platform, following the stream towards the necessary and her garden.  When she felt she was a safe distance away, she fell to her knees — what were a few more bruises now? — and began to sob uncontrollably, shaking, mourning what she was not allowed to have. 

After the worst of her breakdown had ebbed, under the moonlight, she chose the three best twigs, and wove them together in a little raft, using the three colors of yarn: green for Grogu, brown for the Bounty Hunter, and yellow for herself.  She kissed the little raft and set it sailing down the stream, knowing it would pass by the hut and under the platform where the Bounty Hunter slept.  Would he know? Would he be able to tell that the last pieces of my heart are drifting right by?  As it floated away, she said goodbye to the life she’d had the past few days, her best days, her happiest, her tiny family.  Looking up at the moon, she cursed Frith for granting her wish just to take it away. 

Weary now, Marathel stood and went to her garden, walking through each row, trailing her fingers along the tops of each plant, thanking them for feeding her and a Bounty Hunter and his little boy.  She went to the chook pen and opened the gate to allow them to run free if they chose.  They were stupid, though, and would probably be picked off by the Dahls.  She hoped Rodanthe would get to them first.   

Rodanthe, my love, why did you leave me when I need you so much now?   

Marathel raised her face in a vain attempt to keep the tears in her eyes, and she looked at the tree where Grogu had moved her, where she’d gotten stuck, much to the amusement of the Bounty Hunter, and she’d thrown eggs at him, eggs, for Frith’s sake. 

The night before that, she had had her first experience of the Bounty Hunter beneath his armor, the first touches of his skin, his body against hers, in hers … but it wasn’t until she’d heard him laughing that she knew he was a person. And, of course, that was the moment she knew she loved him. Such a ridiculous thing to do, really. Love always takes, never gives.  She had seen her sisters and cousins suffer greatly for what they thought was love.  And now she would follow in their footsteps.   

Marathel returned to the hut and shook her lantern to make it give off a pale light, just enough to barely see by.  She futzed about in her kitchen briefly, making sure each jar had its lid and pushing all the pots until they were even with the shelf edge. Just above the dry sink, her fingertips fell on a little clam shell, the one Grogu had given her at the lava flats.  There was a tiny worm hole at the top of the shell, near the hinge.  Taking the three balls of yarn from her pocket, she untwisted a length of each color and knitted a slender cord, attaching it to the shell to create a pendant. Instead of wearing it, she decided to simply hang it on a peg of her loom, for whomever came to this hut after her, as a symbol that three people lived here as a family, connected by the little child. 

These chores done, Marathel sat down to repair the Bounty Hunter’s flight suit and embroider the Mudhorn on the inside pocket, hoping that whatever he did think of her — whether it was true affection or just desire of an object — he would carry a memory of her when he left this place. 

It was sometime later that Din awoke.  He hadn’t been dreaming, strictly speaking, but he’d become aware that he was alone again in this bed tick.  He turned his head to the side, flicked on the thermal sensor, and verified by the lack of any heat signature that Marathel was up and about again, and had been for some time.  He rolled off the tick, feeling ungainly and stiff.  He hated beds on the floor more with damn passing year.  He stepped out through the curtains, and saw Marathel slumped over at the table, needle and thread in her hand.  He moved closer to her, and a smile came to his face: she had gathered his flight suit into a little pillow and was fast asleep on the pile of stiff fabric.  He gently pulled her hair back behind her shoulders and stroked her face with his gloved hand.  “Marathel, wake up.” 

She frowned in her sleep and softly smacked her lips.  “Mmmmm …” she groaned as she tried to bury her face deeper in his flight suit. “Not finished with this …” 

“You’ve done enough.  Put down the needle.” He pulled the needle from her hand and stuck it into the fabric so it wouldn’t get lost.  He pulled her up to a standing position, lifting her into his arms.  He laid her back down on her bed tick and laid beside her again, wrapping both arms around her. “Stay with me; sleep now.” 

“Can’t stay … must get eggs,” she muttered in protest, even as she snuggled tighter against him. 

“I’ll wake you, I promise, cyar’e.  Stay with me, now.”  He sighed, stroking her hair, wondering if he should have granted her request.  On an impulse, he lifted his helmet just enough to press his lips against her scalp, feeling her warmth, smelling her hair, trying to commit her scent to memory before he dropped his helmet back in place. 

They slept. 

Din was already awake when his vambrace vibrated to let him know dawn was approaching.  Marathel was curled against him like they were two half-open jackknives in a drawer.  Some of her hair had made its way under his helmet and into his mouth. One of his knees was wedged between both of hers, and her hands were pressed up against his chest.  Her head rested on his bicep, and that arm was completely asleep.  His other hand was under her tunic against her bare back, and he must have removed his glove at some point without realizing it, as his hand was bare as well. 

Din reluctantly removed his hand from her back, and carefully pulled her hair out from underneath his helmet. He smoothed her hair off her face, whispering, “Marathel, it’s almost dawn, mesh’la.” She groaned softly but didn’t wake.  He looked down at her, soft and warm in her sleep.  Why hadn’t he watched her sleep before now?  Her eyes had dark circles and sand in the corners.  She had been crying again.  Din refused to believe she was crying for him, so she must be crying about what awaited her today.  He stroked the delicate, bruised skin under her eye with the pad of his bare thumb.  Ne’kar’ta, he thought.  The tip of his thumb brushed her eyelashes, and she twitched her eyebrows, beginning to wake.  Her eyes creaked open, squinting, focusing on the dark helmet inches from her face.  “Mesh’la,” said Din. 

Marathel stared at him for a moment as she became more awake.  She immediately pushed up to a sitting position, looking away from him, intending to get up.  “I must go get the eggs now.” 

“Marathel …” 

“If you want to be helpful, collect the three pots of sand under the edge of the platform.  Put them on the hob.  I need hot sand to keep the eggs warm.”  She was already stepping out of the curtains and heading to the kitchen as she said this, and Din hurried to follow her. 

“Mesh’la, please …” 

“No more ‘Mesh’la’, Bounty Hunter!” she snapped.  Her hands went to her temples in frustration.  “Please … if you hold any regard for me, any at all, do not question me.  Do as I say.  Do you understand?” 

Din stepped back at her vehemence.  “I understand.” 

“Good.”  Marathel found a basket that held a stack of furs.  She tossed a long strap of fabric on top and left the hut by the back corner, without a backwards glance.  Din watched her go along the stream and past the rock outcrop, out of sight.  He stepped off the platform, looked under, and found the clay pots of sand she spoke of.  He lifted them up to the platform, stoked the fire, and placed the pots on the hob as she had requested.  Once done, Din went to Grogu’s pram and opened the lid, expecting to see a sleeping boy.  Instead, Grogu was already awake, sitting up in the center.  Grogu looked up at Din, his large eyes full of worry.  “Sad Mahr?” 

Din sighed.  “Yeah, buddy, sad Mahr.”  He placed his hand on the boy’s head, stroking his soft ear.  Grogu looked back down to his little feet.  “Are you hungry, pal?” Grogu shook his head, which worried Din.  He went down to one knee to get to the boy’s level.  “Sad Grogu?”  Grogu nodded.  “Me too, buddy.  Sad Din.”  Grogu looked back up to Din’s helmet.  “We have to say goodbye to Mahr today.  We both need to be brave.  We can do that, right?” 

Please say you can, kid, I won’t be able to be brave today without you. 

Grogu looked dubious, but finally nodded.  He reached out for Din with both arms, and Din pulled the boy into a hug.  “It’s going to be okay.”  Perhaps if he said it enough, Din might begin to believe it.   

Marathel had found the eggs she wanted to collect, despite being unable to hear where all the Dahls were.  Established females liked the same spots each season.  It still took a while to collect, as Marathel only took one egg from each clutch, and only if there were at least four eggs.  As she moved from clutch to clutch, she could hear the cries of each female as they discovered the theft of their eggs.  Each cry rent her heart, and she apologized to each female for taking a kit.  She begged Rodanthe to intercede for her as she had done in the past, but Rodanthe did not answer.   

Oh, she was so tired.  She was so ready for this to end.  On her way back to the hut, she noticed that the chooks still wandered about the pen, despite the unlatched gate.  Damned stupid clucks, she thought.  She was hardly any better, but at least her actions today would benefit the Bounty Hunter’s people as well as the Bounty Hunter, and the little boy she loved so much.  She would suffer anything for that child … and suffer she would. 

As she got back to the hut, she could see Grogu sitting on the table, refusing to eat the little bites of bread and cheese the Bounty Hunter offered him. The child was wearing the shirt and jump-ups from yesterday; the Bounty Hunter must have figured them out.  She also noticed that the Bounty Hunter was finishing the repairs on his flight suit.  “I’m sorry I didn’t finish the sewing.” 

Din looked at her briefly.  “It was almost done.  Of course, my handiwork is nowhere as good as yours.”  She sensed a fib as he deftly tied off the thread, even as he wore gloves.    

Marathel untied the heavy basket from her back.  “I’m sorry I snapped at you.” 

Din got up immediately to take the basket for her and help her step up into the hut.  “It was nothing, ne’kar’ta.”  Din grimaced under his helmet for saying the diminutive. Marathel looked at him, but she did not ask for a translation of the new word.  Instead, she checked the sand heating on the fire. 

“The sand feels good.  It’s hard for me to lift these heavy pots.  Would you please help me?” 

“What are we doing?” 

“Layering the eggs between fur and sand to keep them warm.” 

Din looked at Grogu.  “Uh … just how big are these eggs?”  Marathel lifted the top fur from her basket, lifting up an egg for Din and Grogu to see.  It was an oval shape, oblong, with a dark stripe around the middle, almost the length of her hand.  Grogu’s eyes lit up, but Din immediately swept Grogu off the table, placing him in the pram.  Pointing a gloved finger at Grogu’s nose, the Bounty Hunter said firmly, “Do. Not. Touch.  No eating eggs.  Got it?”  Grogu cooed with a winsome smile, and Din said, “Nope.  Can’t trust you,” as he closed the lid.  He turned back to Marathel, who was actually smiling behind her hand. 

“He is a menace to eggs, isn’t he, Bounty Hunter?” 

“And to frogs.” 

“He will be in my heart for the rest of my life,” said Marathel. Din saw tears glittering in her eyes, and he took two long strides to her and wrapped her in his arms, hard enough to clack her teeth together.  Her arms went immediately around his shoulders, squeezing his armor so tightly it left new bruises.  “Did you kiss me last night?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought you weren’t allowed to do that.” 

“I’m not,” he said gruffly. 

A sob escaped her throat at the strain she heard in his voice. “Thank you.”  They held each other a few moments longer, until Marathel pushed away, turning to the basket.  “The eggs are cooling too much.”  Din helped her repack the basket, layering furs, hot sand, and eggs, and wrapping the whole affair with a large fur that she tied on with the long fabric strap.  Din replaced the large pots under the platform.  As he stepped back up, Marathel announced, “Now, you must take all your weapons back to your flying ship.  You may not, you must not bring them into the Hold.”  She looked at him, waiting for him to challenge her.  At his silence, she said, “You may not carry a single weapon with you.  No knives in boots, no whatever is in your wrist-thing, not even those metal jars on your leg.  A weapon will be seen as a challenge, and you will forfeit your reward.”  Again, her tone said she would brook no quarter.  “And … please take Grogu with you.  I need privacy … to prepare.” 

“Should we wait for you up there?” 

“No, come back here.  You must escort me to the Hold.” 

“That is …” Din was about to argue that making one-and-half round trips was completely unnecessary; who in the Hold would observe him escorting her up those switchbacks?  But then he saw her eyes drop again, her hands begin to tremble, and he thought that if he didn’t do her bidding, she was going to break apart.  “How long do you need us gone?” 

“If you go straight there and back, I’ll be ready.” 

Din opened Grogu’s pram, and Grogu kept looking pensively back and forth between the two grown-ups.  He floated over to Din, who had stepped off the platform and was re-attaching his plethora of weapons.  “Mahr?” said Grogu, pointing with his little clawed finger back towards Marathel, who stood in the center of the hut, twisting her hands together. 

“We’re coming back, kid, Mahr has things she needs to do without us here,” said Din. 

“It’s not good-bye yet, my little Godynferth.  I will see you soon.” 

Din slung his bag over his shoulder and took a last long look at the beautiful pale woman with the long silver hair, already missing her before they were gone.  Marathel returned his gaze, seeing him as he was when they first met, when she stood terrified of the metal man and little green creature who came unbidden and unwelcome to her life.  He turned and walked away, the pram floating behind him.   

Grogu looked back.  The Bounty Hunter did not.

Marathel died inside. 

As they entered the tall grass, Grogu softly whined, “Sad Mahr.”  Din swallowed and kept walking, knowing that if he looked back, there would be nothing in the galaxy that would stop him from running back to her and dragging her off this planet, Aurodium be damned. 

Marathel took her ceremonial bath as prescribed by the teachings of the Hold to the best of her abilities.  She did not have access to the powders and potions from the Hold, so she had to make do with what she had.  She sharply parted her wet hair down the middle, pulling the two sections to her temples, tightly plaiting the coarse locks into two braids that reached her waist.  She wrapped the pale blue wimple over her forehead, covering her ears.  Over this she placed the matching gorget over her throat and upper chest, ramming pins against her scalp to keep it in place.  Next came the skirt of blue with the fine embroidery, which fell to the middle of her shins.  When she was first given the skirt, it would have been closer to her ankles, but she had grown taller since then.  She was worried that the blouse would be too small, but she needn’t have worried.  It was a bit tight through the shoulders, but the blouse was voluminous enough that she was fully covered, and the sleeves were the right length to properly hide her hands.  The blouse was the same mid-tone blue as the skirt, and featured smocking on the sleeves with thread in dark blue, red, and two shades of green.  The embroidery was made of the same threads, swirls and flowers, all done by the hands of many Diwhyns that came before her.  The ends of the gorget and wimple tucked into the square neckline of the blouse.   

Marathel looked into the polished pot lid she used as a mirror.  The pale blue fabric against her pale skin made her look like a wraith, the two silver braids coming from her temples like long, drooping horns.  The veil and other items she would put on when she reached the Hold wall.  These she put in a gathering bag, then sat with her back to the table, tying the ends of the blue strap around her to secure the basket to her back.  She got up unsteadily, shifting the basket and re-tying the straps until the heavy basket was balanced properly on her back.  Marathel walked to the center of her hut, turning around, casting her eyes a final time on her home, where at least she had been contented with her small life, if not happy.  With a sigh, she sat on the steps to wait. 

When the hut came back into view, Din thought a stranger was sitting on Marathel’s steps.  It wasn’t until they were in the middle of the tall grass that he realized it was Marathel, fully dressed in blue. Her clothing was finely embroidered, but on her it seemed garish, tawdry.  Her hair was tightly bound in long braids that came out of the sides of her head, which looked like it hurt.  Her pale, expressionless face seemed even more ghostly against the blue fabric wound tightly around her face, reminding him of that dream he’d had.  He hated how she looked.  If he could get her off this planet, he would never want to see her hair in braids again.   

The thought also came to him: why the shab does she need to wear what appears to be ceremonial clothing to deliver eggs?  

Grogu was already reaching for Marathel as they approached, and he leapt out of the bag and into her arms over a distance of several meters, which surprised Marathel into a grin.  “My leaping Godynferth!  How talented you are, my love.”  Marathel raised her eyes to the Bounty Hunter.  “May I please have a few moments with him, to say goodbye?  Please?” 

Din immediately stepped back, turning to the stream, and sat on the rock where he had held Marathel’s hair while she vomited after saving Grogu’s life from Mist.  He looked to his feet, and there, stuck against the rock, was a tiny raft made of twigs, tied with the yarn Marathel and Grogu used to play their stick game.  What did she call it?  Something ridiculous.  ‘Poosticks’, that was it.  He picked up the little raft, turning it over in his gloved fingers before tucking it into a pocket, knowing that Marathel had made it, probably sometime in the night.  Why she had made it, Din could only guess, but he was loath to leave something made by her hands behind. 

Marathel put her hands on Grogu’s cheeks, looking into his eyes.  “My little Godynferth, this is goodbye.  I never did tell you that story, did I?”  She sniffled and ran her fingers through the child’s whispery hair.  “We will never meet again, child.”  Marathel lost her ability to speak for a moment as she watched Grogu’s face fall and his ears droop.   “I know you will grow up to be strong and brave, but please, please grow up to be kind.”  She pressed her lips to Grogu’s cheek.  “Please take care of your father.  I believe he needs you more than you need him.  He needs your love.  And please … remember me.”  Grogu held her cheeks in his little hands, and Marathel felt his love flow through her, giving her a sense of peace and calm.  “Thank you, my sweet,” she whispered.  Louder, she said, “It’s time to go.” 

Din stood and came over to her.  “If you like, I could carry the eggs so that you may carry Grogu.” 

“No, the eggs are my burden.”  She gave Grogu a last cuddle and handed him back to the Bounty Hunter before standing.  Marathel took a breath, willing her feet to move her.  She began to walk towards the tall grass, Din following behind with Grogu. 

Once they reached the mountain road, Marathel paused to look over the meadows, listening for the Dahls.  She heard nothing.  Sighing, she began walking again.  It was slow going, and the basket was heavy, but they eventually got to the switchbacks.   

Din remained silent but watched her every movement, the swing of her skirt, the stretch of the arch of her back foot as she stepped forward and up.  The supposed finery of the fabric against her bare legs seemed so out of place.  Her homespun clothing was as fine as garments from a high-end shop on Coruscant, in his opinion – and he wished he could see that fabric again, flowing against her magnificent skin as she stood ankle-deep in the stream beside her hut, the afternoon sun burnishing her hair to gold.  He forced himself to concentrate on the task coming up: getting to the Hold, potentially entering the Hold, and turning over the eggs.  He knew there would be more to happen, he knew Marathel was leaving out information, but he felt he could handle the possibilities, even without his weapons.  His fists made formidable weapons when needed, and sometimes, he preferred it that way.  Get her there, drop the eggs, get the coins, get her out.  Easy.  Minimum effort.  Whoever was up there didn’t have blasters, and it was easy to disarm those with knives and other primitive weapons.  He liked the odds.   

They came up to the edge of the plateau just under the Hold.  Marathel paused, looking up at the rock wall above her.  “Bounty Hunter, it’s time to take Grogu to your flying ship.  He must not come into the Hold.” 

Din shook his head.  “No.  He goes where I go.” 

Marathel sighed. “They will not understand a … they will be frightened by him, just as I was when you first arrived.  They have never seen a little green boy before.  It is safer for him to be locked in your ship.  And … I don’t want him to see anything that might happen in there.” 

Din felt his stomach drop again.  “Why? What could happen?” 

Marathel sighed.  “Frightened people are unpredictable people.” 

Never a truer word was spoken, thought the Bounty Hunter. 

“Please, just do as I say,” she said wearily.  “Go ahead, then meet me at the door.”  Din stared at the back of her head for a moment, watching the braids tremble at her temples.  He passed by, Grogu gazing at her over Din’s shoulder.  Marathel blew him a kiss as they went up and over the plateau.  Once they had gone, Marathel took the last two steps up.  She pulled out the remaining items from her bag and leaned against the rock to put on the long white stockings that rolled up to mid-thigh, tying them off with the blue ribboned garters.   

After this came the shoes, the only shoes females were allowed to wear, and they were ever only worn once.  More of a slipper than a shoe, the heavy dark blue canvas wrapped around her foot, and the laces were finger-wide straps that wound up and around her legs until they reached her knees, at which point her knees were tied together in a twisted symbol of virginity.  It would make for difficult walking, but the shoes would not remain on her long. Her fingers trembled as she made the last knot.

Marathel stood, and lastly placed the woven light blue veil over her face and head. The ends were split to accommodate her braids, which remained exposed, with the remainder of the fabric going down her back to her ankles.  Marathel looked dumbly at the empty bag in her hand for a moment before she tossed it down the path.  Someone would find it and use it.  Slowly and awkwardly, she went to the door, her hands up her sleeves, to wait for the Bounty Hunter to return, to carry on the next phase of her end. 

Din emerged from the woods to see Marathel, looking like a very shy bride, covered as she was from head to toe.  He paused at the sight of her legs and feet clad in stockings and shoes, her attire putting him in the mind of an elaborate doll.  He came up beside her, looking at her face that he could no longer see behind the swath of fabric.  He felt dismay at the loss of the sight of her lovely face. 

Marathel took a breath and said, “Shortly, I will knock on this door, and you will take me inside.  You will hold me by my upper arm until I am called forward by the Elders.  You will not speak, you will not interject, you will not intercede, no matter what happens in there.” 

“Marathel …” 

“You will be still!  For the love of Frith and anything that you have ever held sacred in your life, you will do as I say!”  Her trembling hands went to her temples again, and she bent over slightly to regain her composure.  Din placed his hand on her upper arm, much as he would drag a mark back to his ship.  Marathel took a breath and straightened but continued to tremble.  She raised her fist to pound on the door, but … could not. 

Marathel turned to him, placing her shaking hands on his forearms, and looked up to his helmet.  “Bounty Hunter … please … tell me your name.” 

How had he not told her all this time?  After everything that had gone between them? He gripped her arms as she gripped his, his hands shaking as well.  “My name is … Din Djarin.” 

“Din Djarin,” Marathel parroted back to him, and she reached up and placed her hands on his helmet, then kissed him where she supposed his mouth would be, the fabric of her veil and the beskar between them, and he placed his hands on her jaw, and all he could see was fabric in his visor, and he could not kiss her back because of the molded interior of his helmet, with space between the beskar and his face.  She pulled her lips away but placed her forehead against his, and said, “Din Djarin, thank you for giving me the happiest days of my life.”  She sobbed once.  “Din Djarin, know that I loved you as much as I knew how.  Please … remember me.”  Marathel pulled out of his grasp and pounded on the door four times with her fist. 

After a few moments, the peep hole in the door slid open, and there was an audible gasp behind it.  The heavy door opened, and the woman in red appeared, moaning, “No, no, no … Don’t do this, Marathel!” 

Marathel’s voice was flat as a prairie on Kinyen as she said, “Open the door, Olba.  Ring the bell.” 

“Not this way, child!”  Diwhyn Olba reached out to Din, pleading, “Bounty Hunter, take her away from here!  Take her on your flying ship!  Don’t let her do this!” 

“Ring the bell, Olba.”  Olba burst into tears.  Marathel took her hands gently.  “This is the way.”  Din had never hated hearing the call of his people more.  Olba knew something he didn’t, Marathel had in fact lied to him about what would happen to her, and he felt powerless to make it stop.  Marathel took Din’s hand and placed it on her upper arm.  “It’s time to get your reward, Bounty Hunter.”  Olba, still sobbing, pushed the doors fully open, and Marathel led Din inside the Hold.   

It was a large, flat, dirt courtyard, a large portion given over to a highly organized garden, with certain walls holding well-manicured berry vines.  Olba rang a large bell that hung just inside the large doors, and the doors opened on the low, flat building, and people began to spill out.  As Marathel and Din moved forward, he was careful to keep his helmet pointed forward, but he could easily see the people coming out the of the building.  Women and girls of all ages gathered together.  Every single one was barefoot.  The taller women all wore ankle-length gowns that seemed to be in four major colors: blue, like the color Marathel was wearing, red, and two distinct shades of green.  All the women in the gowns wore a full-face veil, and many were in various stages of pregnancy.  The younger girls wore tunics and skirts of the same colors.  Then he noticed that some of the pregnant ones were not small women but were in fact young girls.  Girls who hadn’t even reached their full heights, he assumed, and one in particular, gravid and swollen, grasped the hand of a taller woman beside her for support, was surely still of an age in the single digits. 

Din had heard of such things happening, heard of places like this, but somehow, even during the darkest days of the Empire, he’d managed to not have to see such things with his own eyes.  How lucky he’d been.   

Beyond the throng of women were a bunch of small boys, many wearing the same style of jump-ups that Marathel had made for Grogu.  Every boy wore a pair of shoes and held themselves with a superior air to the women who stood behind them, their heads held high, many with a knowing smirk on their faces as Marathel passed them, as if they knew what was about to commence.   

The doors of the tall round building opened, and a phalanx of young men came out.  Each young man wore the same colors as the women, leading Din to assume they represented the four houses of the Elders.  Each one wore boots, finely polished.  Each one carried some sort of weapon, mostly small knives, until the older and larger men came out.  These men carried larger weapons that seemed to coincide with age and rank.  Din noticed a few swords, spears, a battle axe or two.  One sported a large hammer that had a peculiar glint to it.  Din began plotting methods to disarm as many as possible, if need be, deciding whom he would go for first.   

The Elders were next.  They were led by a large man, taller than Din and just as broad, bedecked fully in red.  His boots, breeches, jerkin and fur-trimmed houppelande, were all in various shades of red from the color of blood to the deepest burgundy.  Two younger men in shades of green followed, flanking an older man using a walking stick.  The older man wore a brocaded long coat of shades of blue, trimmed with fur and metallic threads, over pants of darkest navy and black leather boots, embroidered with many shades of blue thread.  His hair was long and was a deep silver, his skin the white of the underbelly of a dead fish, and his hands were long, bony, just like the hands Din remembered from his dream.  Marathel trembled beside him, and he could feel the vibrations of terror in the hand that was holding her arm.  It could only be the Bishop. 

The man in red called out, “Who comes?” 

Marathel took a deep breath and announced, “Captain, it is I, Marathel.  I am presenting myself as Whyn to the Bishop.” 

Din felt his heart drop.  There were some gasps among the women, but the Captain laughed.  He turned to the other Elders and said, “Fuck me sideways, it worked, Duke, it worked.  Many, many seasons late, but it finally worked.”  The Captain turned back to Marathel.  He nodded at Din.  “And this is … a bounty hunter?” 

Din suddenly felt a hand squeeze around his upper arm, much like how he held Marathel’s arm.  A sideways glance told him it was Olba, warning him.  “It is,” Din responded. 

The Captain looked Din up and down.  “What sort of bounty hunter are you?” 

“One that expects payment on delivery.”  Din was glad his voice was even as he counted the weapons on the Captain’s belt.  A knife, a short recurving sword, and what appeared to be another knife in one boot.   

The Captain laughed.  “All in good time, friend.”  He reached out and pulled Marathel away from Din.  “Take the eggs,” the Captain ordered to the closest of the younger men in blue.  They came forward and untied the basket from her back and took it away from her.  “She does look much different than I remember, doesn’t she, Bishop?“ 

“She does. It has been too long, my sweet girl. Come to me, baby girl,” crooned the old man.  Marathel stepped forward awkwardly towards the man she hated.  “Show me.”  Marathel faltered, but reached down and lifted her skirt up to her waist, exposing her nudity to the entire Hold.  Din turned his head and shut his eyes, ashamed to be witnessing her degradation, but not before he had seen her knees tied together, the reason for which he could not fathom.  “Cut them,” snapped the Bishop, making Din turn back to the spectacle before him in horror.  Cut what?  The same two young men in blue came forward with their knives to cut loose the bonds holding her legs together, fondling her exposed skin while they did so, rolling down her stockings and forcing her out of them. As she stood barefoot and exposed, the taller of the boys reached between her thighs and pulled her leg -- the one with the brand -- to the side as he grabbed her breast and squeezed.  Marathel whimpered.  You will be the first to die, thought Din as he clenched his fists.   

The Bishop bent slightly to inspect the brand on Marathel’s leg, his bony fingers trailing on her skin.  “You’ve come back, like the good girl you are.  Are you still my good girl?  Are you?” The Bishop drove his finger inside her, and she cried out.  Din tried to take a step forward, but Olba squeezed his arm even tighter.  Din noticed the man with the hammer leave rank and circle closer to him, opposite the Captain. Din wanted to keep an eye on that hammer.  Something about the metal made him think that it could possibly be beskar.  Aurodium coins and a beskar weapon?  What other secrets are here? 

The Bishop straightened, stepping even closer to Marathel, and she turned her head to the side, and Din could see her veil billowing in and out of her mouth with each of her panicked breaths.  The Bishop grabbed her jaw, forcing him to face her.  Pointing a finger at Din, the Bishop shouted, “DID HE TAKE YOU?”   

“NO!” screamed Marathel.  Then she took a deep breath, and said clearly, enunciating every syllable, “I took HIM.” 

“Fucking WHORE!”  The Bishop struck her with a backhanded hit that was more punch than slap.  Marathel stumbled sideways but did not fall.  Several of the women cried out.  Din’s fists clenched so hard stitches popped in the seams of his gloves, but he found himself unable to move, as if Diwhyn Olba’s hand on his arm prevented him from moving.  The wholesale cruelty of this Hold burned his mind and shocked him into inaction.  The atrocities that must happen here were beyond his ability to comprehend. 

“Brazen CUNT!”  The Bishop swung his walking stick, clocking Marathel on her ear, and this time, she did fall to her knees, a poppy of blood forming on her veil.   

The Bishop grabbed Marathel by one of her braids, pulling her up until she was barely on her feet, the braid looped around her neck, cutting off her air.  She scrabbled at the braid, only succeeding at scratching her own face. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!  But no words came from her; Marathel could only scream in her own head.  “You’re ready for him, you were dripping for his cock, but you ran away from me?  I’m not waiting for you any longer, pretty girl.  You were mine from the moment you were born.  You were marked for me!” 

The Captain rolled his eyes.  “Calm yourself, Bishop, we only requested she be returned; we did not specify her condition,” he guffawed, and some of the other men in red laughed as well. 

The Bishop let go of Marathel’s braid, and she fell to the ground.  “Get her up,” the Bishop snapped at the two young men in blue.  The men grabbed her by her arms and pulled her roughly to her feet.  The Bishop ripped off her veil.  Blood was oozing from her nose and ear, and a dark bruise was already forming on her cheekbone.  “You want to be a Belwhyn so bad, you bitch, you cunt, you whore?  I’ll make you a Belwhyn when I’m done with you.”    

Better a Belwhyn for one day than to be your Whyn for however many more seasons I have, thought Marathel.  She weaved on her feet for a moment, putting her hand to her face, bewildered by the blood on it. She looked over to Din, who still stood frozen, Olba clutching his arm.  Forgive me, Din Djarin, just a few more moments, and then this foolishness is done. Be still. 

“Captain!” she shouted.  “The Bounty Hunter must have his reward!” The Bishop backhanded her again, and Din was sure he saw a tooth fly.  Why was he frozen like this?  Why couldn’t he move? 

“Ah, yes, of course.”  The Captain tossed a cloth bag to Din, who caught it blindly.  The bag was heavy and felt full of coins.  He absently shoved it behind his cuirass, staring at Marathel.  His eyes locked on hers as she took a breath, turned, and with her head held high, walked under her own power into the round building. 

And then she was gone. 

Frith in heaven, thought Din.  What have I done? 

The Captain sidled closer to Din.  “You got to fuck that sweet fat pussy?  I heard Dahl-women pussy is the sweetest, fucking dripping for any cock in her holes ...” Din shook off Olba’s arm and threw his entire weight into a punch that sent the Captain staggering back a few feet.  Several of the larger men jumped forward to contain Din, who threw two of them off one arm as if they weighed nothing, while the two on his other arm half-twisted it behind Din’s back.  The Captain laughed as he said, “You won’t want to cum in that cunt’s pussy once we’re done with it, bounty hunter.” Din growled and threw himself forward, out of the hands of the men holding him, grabbing the Captain by his red fur collar and throwing him on the ground, grabbing the Captain’s knife out of his boot, driving his elbow into the Captain’s windpipe. 

“Call her a cunt again, hutuun,” snarled Din as he flipped the knife around to shove it up under the Captain’s ribs, when he was hit very hard in the back of his helmet with a resounding clang. 

Din Djarin fell flat on his face, and then everything went black. 

The Captain got up, rubbing his throat.  “Pwrs’ych,” he spat at the prone bounty hunter.  The Captain took three steps and kicked over the egg basket.  “Don’t know why we bother with those fucking things.” 

“What about the coins, Captain?” asked the under-Captain, the man with the beskar hammer. 

“Leave them.  They’re useless to us.  He plowed the cunt … he should get a prize.” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->