#i love color correcting holo projections

[askmalal]

“I am to join you in the effort to deal with the Hellespont Void Forms, then.”

The Blind King regards Konrad Curze with an appraising gaze. Both men look as if they have been rudely awoken from sleep, but Curze has been awake for hours.

“This is all new information to me as well, Konrad. I am sure we will work out the details. I do have a Cohort of the Second Legion with me.”

Kurze raises a goblet to his lips and takes a long, slow drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and returns Aenon’s gaze. “They will be useful, i think. If this intelligence is correct.”

“Yes. The phasing ability seems to be linked to....”

“Your name, Aenon. The cognomen,” Curze interrupts. It is an abrupt, utterly unrelated new direction. Somewhat disorienting, but not unexpected with Konrad, who is both brilliant and mad in equal measure. “‘Blind King’. What is its origin?”

The Eleventh Son blinks. “We have spoken many times, you and I. Why are you asking this now?”

Curze shrugs. “When last we spoke, after our meting with Sanguinius, you told me that I would always find shelter with you. Was that true?” The question seems to reverberate though this is merely a holo projected image.

“Perhaps we should discuss this when we meet in person, I...”

“Was it true, Aenon, who is called ‘Blind’ but can see?”

Aenon nods. “Yes. You are my brother. I never expected to have any brothers, let alone eighteen. I am always willing to speak with you. And you will always have a home with me, even if we do not always agree.”

“You did not approve of my handling of the Sagrada matter.” This is not a question. It is a statement.

“I did not.” Aenon frowns. “But I will not indulge you if you want a lecture from me. You accomplished your objective. You saved lives in the process. I was not present. I did not have the knowledge that you had. “

Conrad Kurze, who is sometimes the Night Haunter and sometimes Konrad Curze, is briefly silenced by this. He does expect a lecture; in fact, he was hoping to bait Aenon into it. This is a surprise, but not entirely unexpected.

“Do you know, Blind King, that among our brothers, very few have hesitated to tell me precisely what they think?”

“Oh?” Aenon is not one for morality plays. There is right, there is wrong. There was then. There is now. “I can imagine.”

“I can count on my fingertips those who have not. Including you,” Curze extends a gauntleted left index finger wreathed in painted lightning. “That makes two.” He grins slightly to himself, amused by the conceit.

“Who else, then?” Aenon smirks.

“Oh... hmm... it was the Phoenician. Yes, Fulgrim. Our peacock of a brother.”

Aenon raises an eyebrow, “You don’t say. Heart of a poet, that one.”

Curze nods, “He says the same of you.”

Aenon smiles, faintly, “I’ll accept the compliment.”

“So, I want to know. If you are truly sincere. If you wish to be kind to me, oh.. what is it they call you? Ahh.. Ru-Ri, yes? The only Ard-Ri, the only High King, is Father if I understand the archaic Gaelic of your homeworld correctly.”

Curze is brilliant, Aenon knows. Frighteningly so. He nods acknowledgement . “Then tell me, King Aenon, who is held as king of Caesar’s Folly, Hibernia, and Pariah. Why are you also the Blind King? I must know. Indulge me. Indulge my madness. After all, Roboute says that I am mad. So indulge my eccentricities.”

“Roboute should not say such things.”

“And you,” Curze smiles, showing canines filed to points, the better to perpetuate the fearsome reputation he carries, and continued, “should answer my question. Yes?”

Aenon sighs. "Did you know that I cannot see colors?"

Konrad smirks, "You are joking."

"No... I am not. I can't see a color in the sky. Could not tell you what color the sea is. My first love, I'm told, had auburn hair; I wouldn't be able to identify auburn in a catalog full of colors. I see in shades of grey, and what I’m told are black and white, which fall along that spectrum. Monochrome.” He turns his words to a question. “Do you remember what I told you when we first met?”

“I do,” Konrad nods. “I asked you, ‘where in hell are you from, then?”

“And I said…”

“You said ‘Caesar’s Folly.’ And I laughed my ass off.”

“That you did. Do you know there’s another name, one vastly preferred by Imperial cartographers?”

“Eh?”

“Prism, it was originally called Prism. It’s because of the flowers. There are lmillions of species. A real botanical wonderland, if color is (to your mind) the heart of botany. Flowers of every type. They say there are colors that show up on prism that cannot be found in any naturally occurring flower anywhere else in the galaxy.”

“Eh, I grew up on an industrial world that was just open enough not to qualify as a hive,” Curze replies. “Cities in gloom year round. There are a few native trees, admittedly lovely. But I suspect that is the pollution rather than anything natural.”

Aenon continues, “These flowers on my own homeworld. You’d think they would be useful for something. Vulkan says there are flowers on Nocturne that were grown from old earth samples. Things that can treat disease, cure depression. Roboute says that there are flowers on MacCragge that can be used to treat infection, soothe pain, make soup, or poison you. And that is but one variety. The flowers on Caesar’s Folly, the world they’d prefer to call Prism… do you know what they do?”

“I have no idea, I’m sure. I’m no apothecary.”

“They produce nectar. Otherwise, they do nothing. They have no nutritional value to most animals, only birds and bees seem to make use of them. They can’t be used for medicine. They aren’t potent enough to produce perfume in quantities that would be economical. The color is no good for dyes. It is oily, runny, not good for pigment. They have no medicinal value. There are poison plants across the face of that planet, none of them are flowers. You can get better plant fiber from the grasses.”

The Night King considers. “Genetically engineered?”

“Yes. We think so. Ornamental varieties. Maybe somebody’s idea of turning a world meant for grazing aurochs and cutting timber into a holiday world. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that, for thousands of years, conquerors of every stripe have tried to take Caesar’s Folly. Some have succeeded. Others have failed. It always ends up badly: the planet is never worth as much as the cost of conquering it. If you want trade wealth, you go to New Hibernia. If you want STCs, there is a factory on New Hibernia, and at one time there was a much larger factory on Pariah. That’s why they call it Caesar’s Folly.”

“What does this have to do with your being blind?”

“I don’t see colors. Caesar’s Folly is precious to me. It is my home, no matter where I was born. But those flowers, they mean nothing to me beyond curiosity at the variety in nature, or engineered nature if you prefer. They can’t feed my people, or their cattle, or fuel their towns, cities, petty kingdoms. But to natives, they are so much more. Because the flowers that grow in your part of the world are unique to your part of the world. They become irrationally attached to them. Every kingdom has a flag, and on that flag is a flower. And that flower can be found etched on the lapels, or shoulders, or helmets of every soldier in every army. They gather them in heaps to hand off to soldiers as they march off to war. They pile them on graves. They burn them and scatter the ashes on the front steps of the bereaved. There are plenty of flowers. And plenty of wars. And so plenty of soldiers to give them to, to bury with them. And plenty of front steps to scatter them on. Flowers were a symbol of nationalistic jingo when I grew up on Caesar’s Folly.” Aenon shakes his head, sadly. “They called me blind because I could not see the flowers the way that they did. Because I was more concerned with endless wars and petty rivalries than symbols, because I cared more about raids by slavers and lawless warbands than I did about propriety and formalized cattle raids calculated to artificially sustain a feudal aristocracy maintained by an illusory balance of power.”

Curze cocks an eyebrow. “That is a hell of a speech, brother.”

“So it is,” Aenon smiles. “People like to say that they cannot see color as a sort of proof that they lack prejudice. Whereas, being born without the ability to see color, I wanted to see colors so badly that I could not understand why people would give their lives for something so insignificant as a flower. There are a million colors of flower on Caesar’s Folly, but a billion colors of skin, twice as many hair. There is the sea, and the land, and the sky. The way a little child’s eyes light up when it sees it’s mother. The way a woman’s cheeks flush when you tell her you love her. I wanted Caesar’s Folly to be Prism again, and that has absolutely nothing to do with the flowers. Father says the name should be changed when all of this conflict is over. When we can stop sending the children of Hybernia, and Caesar’s Folly, Nostramo, Terra… to die on a world where nobody will care about the flowers they are buried with. I hope I live to see the day.”

Curze frowns again, as if disappointed. “And yet you are a vicious, bloody handed killer when needs be. And the Cu-Sith… what a model for a warrior poet you have chosen! Heralds death with but a glance. I know a little something of all this, you know.”

“I do. And I am. But I’ll say this much. Every monster deserves a chance for a happy ending. Even the hounds of hell want to cool their heels in the Styx.”

Kurze smiles. It is a wide, beaming smile. Almost unnatural for his face. As such, the Blind King knows it to be genuine. “Good news, brother,” Konrad says. And then he frowns sharply, the smile wiped away in an instance. “Or perhaps bad news for you, I am afraid.”

Aenon narrows his eyes. “And that is?”

“I have decided I like you. I like you very much. We will be brotherly, you and I.”

“Oh, shit.” Aenon remarks.

And though no one will believe it in years to come, they laugh until tears come from their eyes.

[mangobilorian]

Milk | (explicit) v

Paring: Din Djarin x Reader

Words: 6609

read chapter four  read on AO3

After you and Crix finish eating, you both go outside, giving Mando the privacy of the house. It seems a little overkill to leave the man an entire house to himself (and the bounty), but he deserves that much at least. And while the Tatooine night isn’t as beautiful as the sunsets, the stars more than make up for it. 

“There, you see that,” you say, pointing towards the right side of the sky. “Somewhere in that constellation is my star, and the system that surrounds it.” 

“Beautiful,” Crix replies. “You know, I never studied astronomy on Alderaan, too happy with history to bother. And we’ve explored most of the galaxy anyway.” 

“I guess. I’m pretty sure we know less than we think we do. The Unknown Regions could be twice or three times the size of the Core and all the Rims combined. Think about it!” Crix laughs and takes a sip of his tea. A sleeping tea, this time, cooled and perfect for an easy rest.

“How many constellations do you know?” You pause, taking the time to mull over the question. When you dreamed about finding your brother, you studied the stars. You plotted different routes he could take, the planets he could reach given the fuel capacity of his ship, which ones he’d avoid or welcome. Charts of the skies were imprinted on the back of your eyelids, day and night. 

It also helped, that your time doing finances for your parents gave you constant practice with math. While you weren’t the next big physicist, you knew enough to plot coordinates. And make finance sheets compatible with different holo programs. 

Somehow, in all that studying, you enjoyed learning about the stars. Not enough to make a career out of it (and what a useless career that would be), but it’s a fun enough hobby. “I can point out most of the constellations that make up the Known Regions,” you grin. “And if we’re talking Mid Rim in, I could tell you the different constellations in the main languages from their systems.” 

“Oh? You know many languages and are a budding astronomer. I see.” Rolling your eyes, you shuffle a bit. The sand is as irritating as always but- you could get used to it. Probably. “If- you mentioned becoming a pilot and following your brother were your dreams, right?” You nod, looking at Crix. The night is too dark, however, so you only see a shadow. “I could teach you how to fly, if you want. If we can get a ship.” You pause, dumbfounded. 

It’s so easy for Crix to offer you flying lessons when it took Mando so much kriffing effort to even agree.

Crix would be a better teacher. He’s gentle and softhearted. He’ll give you corrections sandwiched between compliments and encouragement. A far cry from Mando’s disastrous lesson. Maker, you can imagine it: you, a few years from now, with fantastic piloting skills honed by an ex-rebel pilot. 

But flying with Crix would mean letting Mando go, and you’re not sure if you want that. In fact, you’re not sure if flying is a thing you want to do for yourself and not for your brother. Your mind hurts at the implication, though, so you steal a sip of Crix’s tea before thinking of your reply. 

You open your mouth to speak, ready to give an answer when- “Or, we can go to Anchorhead, and see if there’s a book about stars. For you to take on your trip with your Mandalorian.” 

Oh. Oh. You release a breath, stomach giddy and confused. Crix knows you better than you know yourself, you realize. Which you shouldn’t be surprised about, honestly. Your brother held your identity so secret that only Crix knew he had family, but that didn’t stop him from telling Crix every embarrassing story from your childhood. 

“I’d like that. Thank you.” You hear Crix chuckle.

“You’re welcome.” The both of you stay quiet for a moment, content to sit next to each other in silence. It’s a stark difference from the thick tension between you and Mando. And there’s always tension whether it be sexual or emotional or- or anything else. “Tell me about your parents,” Crix says softly. “What are they like?” You furrow your brows. You already told him all about them before. 

But this is the first time Crix wanted to know something, the first time he asked an actual question. Taking your silence as rejection, he says, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to-”

“They’re nice. I think, once they get over the fact that you’re a boy, they’ll like you. Of course, they’d learn their firstborn son had lied about his death in a plot to destroy the Empire, but,” you shrug, “they’ll learn to internalize their grief and move on like everyone else.” Crix stays silent, and you worry that maybe what you said isn’t the sort of thing he was looking for.

“My dad… he likes his caf with just a little sugar. No cream. He can’t drink lactose without getting an upset stomach. He loves sour treats, especially the lemon tarts imported from Naboo. His favorite color is orange, and he doesn’t like speaking when he has to. My mom,” you pause, choking back the urge to cry. 

You don’t know why you suddenly want to bawl, but, just as you feel the familiar urge of drowning, Crix places a warm hand on your elbow. You suck back your tears and continue. 

“My mom loves plants and pretty things. It’s why she likes the b-bar girls so much. They’re prettier than me. But she loves me, in her own way. She buys me d-dresses and skirts, but they never fit. She sees everything as a project, a slate for her to fix,” you fiddle your fingers, thinking of all those beautiful clothes the bar girls wear while you get too-big or too-small garments. The colors shine and shimmer on the Twi’leks, Togrutas, Pantorans…. They never glitter on you. 

“She likes lemon tarts too and takes her caf with cream and lots of sugar. If she had the choice, she’d probably travel, looking for the prettiest things in the world and leaving me and dad behind. But she lo-loves us so m-much,” you sob, burying your face in your hands, chest squeezing. It’s been a while since you last cried, much less about your parents; the last time you shed a tear was before Mando… before you and Mando…. 

Life is so different now; you’re so different. You’re no longer a bumbling, naive girl with dreams too big to ever complete. Truly, you’d been a fool to ever think that you’d track your brother’s journey through the galaxy, years after his supposed death. But you found a man who made you feel what love is like (is it love?), and you found the truth about your brother on the first planet you landed on, and somehow, in the past month, you found out how to be just a bit stronger, a bit less rambling and insecure. 

None of that would have happened if Mando never saved you that day when you got in his way, surely endangering himself and his bounty. 

But you can’t deny that, for the first time, you miss your parents. You’ve changed, yes, but- Maker, you miss them so kriffing much. In the holodramas, the young girls that go on adventures have no parents, while you willingly left yours behind. Crix pulls you into a sideways hug, and you lean in. 

“Shhh, it’s ok. Thanks for telling me,” he says, after your tears dry and sobs stop. You realize that you’ve probably been out here for an hour, and Mando is definitely finished with his food and armor cleaning. Voicing your observation, Crix agrees, and you head back, wiping your face one last time.

When you enter the house, you find Mando closer to the door than you thought. Odd, but not unwarranted. Crix breezes to his room, claiming the sleepy tea made him exhausted, and leaves you alone with the bounty hunter.

“Where’s the bounty?” you ask after an uncomfortable silence. Mando points to the corner at the man, gagged, bound, and unconscious. But not tied to anything. “He won’t escape?” Mando shrugs, and his armor gleams from the moonlight. 

“I broke his ankles. He won’t run anytime soon. Once he’s in carbonite, he’s not a problem.” Mando walks over to you, a hulking man of metal, and gently brushes his knuckles against your cheeks. “Does that scare you?” You gulp. 

“No,” you say. Because you’re not. You think. You know how Mando can get, how all bounty hunters act when the prey is caught and the hunt ends. But breaking a man’s ankles seems unnecessarily cruel but- you know Mando would never hurt you.

“No, I’m not,” you smile, leaning into the gloved hand that now cups your cheek. This is what you wanted, right? For him to touch you like he loves you, like he’s a romantic interest in the holodramas, and you’re the main character. So why is your heart pounding with a little dread? 

“Good.” He pulls away from you quickly, and you almost want to bring him back closer but- you’re not foolish enough to think he’d like that. Mando is blunt, quiet, and scary. Independent. He doesn’t need a girl like you, lost and chirping away, tugging at his hand for affection. 

“Okay,” you reply because you don’t know what else to say. With that, you turn to Crix’s bedroom, but stop in your tracks. Would Mando…? 

No, he wouldn’t mind that you and Crix would share a bed, right? Crix had voiced his concern, but Mando had to see you weren’t interested in Crix like that. Besides, the couch is too small for both you and the bounty hunter. And there is no way Crix and Mando would share a bed. The thought almost makes you laugh, but you stop the sound from bubbling past your lips. 

And yet… 

You breeze into Crix’s room, tugging at the spare linens in his closet and stealing the second pillow off his bed. He shoots you a knowing smile, even winking at you which you pointedly ignore. Mando doesn’t say anything when you throw the couch cushions on the floor, doesn’t even move when you settle between the spare blanket, motioning for him to share the pillow.

Later, with Mando’s arm across your waist, armorless except for his helmet, you shut your eyes and try to sleep. You dream of stars and spaceships and siblings. 

*****

Mando had stayed behind with the bounty on the homestead when you and Crix left.   

He had wanted to leave the man’s injuries unattended, but he caved and allowed you to brace his ankle after you pressed a kiss to his helmet. The man cried when you did, almost reaching a hand out to touch you, but Mando stopped him.

“He’s a killer,” he said. You didn’t mention the fact that Mando’s a killer too. That he shot Ras Drun because he didn’t want others to kill him first and- you shove that thought out your traitorous mind. Killing is part of the job; he doesn’t like what he does. Mando is the only justice the galaxy can get, the type of justice that tracks criminals over systems.

When you and Crix reach Anchorhead it’s as dull as before, but the library isn’t. Small, dusty, and on the brink of collapse, the library teems with old books. Tatooine is decades behind on literature, but the stars don’t change much, and Crix secures you a book with paper pages. Paper! An outdated thing, yes, but the book is so beautiful. You thank Crix many times over, and he laughs it off like the good would-have-been brother-in-law he is. 

The book, titled The Scholar’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Stars and Systems, Edition Twelve, sits on the bottom of your bag. Crix pushes the bag, filled with tea and milk and bantha jerky, at you, making you promise to come back. 

You leave that night since Mando prefers travelling when the oppressive heat doesn’t cook him in his armor. He returns the speeder bike in Mos Eisley and drags the bounty through the sand, braced ankles and all. It’s a blessing that the man doesn’t wake up; you can’t comprehend the pain he’s going through, killer or not. It serves as another reminder that, much like Tatooine, the real galaxy is full of pain and suffering, more than the small glimpses you had back home.

The trip back to the Crest is silent, Mando not speaking even when you arrive at the ship, opting to open the hatch and climb right in without sparing you a word. 

You place the bag on the floor gently, mindful of the inner contents, and crouch down. The milk will go sour soon, so you should probably drink it now. Before you can continue contemplating what time to drink your blue milk, you hear the tell-tale signs of the carbonite sealing around the bounty. 

As the hiss dies down, you look towards Mando on the other end of the ship, then at the bounty’s face, mouth wide open in a silent scream. You wonder if the braces you gave him would be enough to help him heal while he spends time in his frozen prison. 

Sighing, you reach back into the bag to pull your book out when Mando suddenly towers over you. A bit spooked, you scoot back. 

He looks so large standing there, a mountain of metal. You know the corded muscles that sculpt his body; you know that if you reach out to the tiny spot below his ear, and give him a little kiss, he’d treat you with a groan. But it’s been so long since you two had any real time together (not counting last night because you both were tired), despite it being three or so days since you landed on Tatooine. Your face heats up at the memory. 

You expect him to reach out to you, to speak and say what’s on his mind. Instead, Mando pushes past you and heads up the ladder. It stings like rejection, but you push the feeling down. You have no right to feel that way. 

After a minute or so, the ship rumbles, and you feel the Crest rise into the air. You should’ve gone up with him, so you can help plot the coordinates on his next bounty or something. You want to be more useful, less like a burden. 

With another sigh (geez, when did you get so gloomy?), you trudge up the ladder and into the cockpit. Mando sits in the main chair, broad and unwavering as always. For a moment, your throat goes dry, and you wonder what to say. Thankfully, he beats you to it.

“We’re going to Cato Neimoidia,” he says, not bothering to face you as he speaks. 

You calculate the distance on your fingers, almost surprised at how quick the journey would be. You’ve never ventured that far into the galaxy before, much less to a Neimoidian purse world. “That’ll be, what, five and a half days of travel?” Mando wheels his chair around. 

“Yes,” he says, curtly. Oh. Well all right. You fiddle your fingers a bit, unsure on how to proceed. It’s always been slightly awkward around Mando, but you got used to it. Now? Now, there’s something different, an underlying tension you’re not quite sure you like. 

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the last time you were in the cockpit, horny and frustrated. Back then, you still had faraway dreams of tracing your brother’s path. But when you finally got the answers you ached to have… that means it’s all going to end, right? You should’ve stayed with Crix when he gave you the chance. Because as much as you want to stay with Mando, maybe he doesn’t want you to. But he did offer to continue your piloting lessons, and he never explicitly said he’d kick you out. 

“W-would you like some milk?” you ask after a long, long time of standing. “We should finish it before it spoils. Crix said-”

“I know what he said.” Mando turns around, and that’s as big of a dismissal as you’re going to get. It stings, just a little, to be pushed aside so easily but- what can you expect? He doesn’t owe you anything even if you wish he had a little more tact. 

So you hurry downstairs to your bag and split the glass of milk between two packed cups. You leave yours downstairs, a snack for when you read your new book, and take Mando’s up the ladder, careful not to spill. 

When you re-enter the cockpit, Mando has his head in his hands. “Are you all right?” He flinches at your voice, not bothering to acknowledge your presence. You set the cup down on a flat surface, making sure it won’t spill on the controls you only just managed to remember. Looking at them now, you can barely tell which meter is the gauge for the hyperspace fuel and which one is for the oxygen levels in the ship.  

“Yes,” Mando replies, and you realize you had forgotten what you even asked. Without a thank you, he picks the cup up, and you take your cue to leave him his privacy. When you descend the ladder, you fight the urge to throw your forehead against the wall and scream.

Why is he being so kriffing cold? Why? Things were good before Tatooine. Great, in fact. Those three days were both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. And the cantina? Stars, you almost gave him a handjob in public! So you don’t understand why Mando is being so- so stiff. 

Part of you thinks you should’ve known this might happen, that your days of happiness and bliss wouldn’t last. He’s a bounty hunter, not a prince. Bounty hunters don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves; that’s a business infraction. But another part says that he might’ve changed. Might’ve actually wanted to be nice, and that, beneath all that metal, he’s still a man. A man with toned muscles and a stiff co-

Okay. You should probably stop there. You’re mad at him, right? 

Shit. You don’t know what to do if you’re mad at him or if he’s mad at you. You wish Crix were here; he’d give you great advice.

And suddenly you have a bright thought, a glaring epiphany. Crix. You remember how quick Mando was when he slammed Crix into the wall and threatened him. You thought he got over the initial animosity since he allowed you to stay on Crix’s homestead while he did his job. Maybe Mando stayed territorial, possessive. But while your growing arousal surges at that thought, another part of you shivers. 

Yes, you like the feeling of him dominating you in bed. But dominating your affections? Your emotions? Who you could care for or be around? That doesn’t sit right with you at all. Especially since he has the gall to be jealous over your long-dead brother’s fiance. 

With a sudden spike of anger, you take a sip of your milk for some much-needed energy and climb the ladder once more. 

Before Mando can even turn in his seat, fully helmeted with an untouched cup of milk on the console, you wheel his chair around yourself. 

“Why are you like this?” you say, not really sure what you mean, but you know you have to get this off your chest. 

“What?” 

“This,” you wave your hands in his general direction. “Cold and mean. We were fine before- before Tatooine, and we come back, and you’re all grumpy. You don’t say anything on the ride here. You don’t say thanks when I give you milk. And you don’t even know what you’re doing wrong! I just don’t get it, and you don’t have any right to-”

Mando cuts you off by grabbing your wrists and pulling you in until you’re sprawled over his lap. “What-”

“Can you please shut up?”

“No,” you glare, your reflection distorted on his helmet. You try to wiggle away, but his grip is too tight.

“Listen to me. Can you- stop moving. I get it. You want to go back to that shit planet and be with your new boyfriend. But you said you wanted to learn to fly, and that little rebel farmer doesn’t even have a ship.” 

You freeze, unable to process what he said. But when you do, you become infuriated.

“Boyfriend?! What boyfriend? Last time I checked, Mandalorian, you’re the closest person to fit the bill! Did you really think Crix and I are- are dating? You and I slept on the floor last night! Together. I know you have a bucket on your head every day, but are you actually that dense?” You don’t know where the sudden venom in your voice comes from, but it’s there, glaring and loud and stinging.

You try to squirm away, too angry to deal with the blank, metal facade in front of you, but Mando pulls you tighter to his chest. “You seemed so happy with him, and told him about your parents that I thought-”

Wait. 

What? 

What do your parents have to do with anything unless- he heard you, didn’t he? Heard you cry and sob about missing them. And somehow, your words made him believe that you and Crix…  

“You thought what?” you say, softer, forcing the bite out your voice.“He asked about my parents, Mando. So I told him. Just because he’s a guy I’m friends with doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.”  

“Oh.” He sounds so… sad yet still gruff. Resigned. It almost breaks your heart, and for a moment you let yourself wonder about his personal life, about his parents. He’s never mentioned them, and you highly doubt he’d start talking now, but-

“You can always ask,” you say, and Mando brushes a finger against your cheek. “But next time, please don’t jump to conclusions. For both our sakes.”

“Hmm.”

You take a moment to linger in the aftermath of your miscommunication and- Maker, you feel so proud of yourself. For being able to handle the situation without any lasting consequences, for not fumbling over your words despite feeling overwhelmed. You might be a little high on adrenaline (his accusation almost gave you a heart attack), and you really, really want to laugh, or cry or sleep but- you hold it in. 

It’s ridiculous to think of Crix as anything other than a brother. But given that Mando is a touch-starved, emotionally stunted bounty hunter who can’t even show his face or divulge his name, he didn’t understand how simple your relationship with Crix is. How can anyone reach the conclusion that you and Crix are an item when you gave up an actual bed to sleep on the hard floor with Mando?

“Are you angry with me?” he asks after a long while. You shake your head immediately. No, you’re not angry. Or even scared. Because, while Mando breaks his bounty’s ankles or shoots them point blank, he’s still vulnerable enough to ask if you're angry with him. To grow soft at the mention of parents.  

You move to get up, but two gloved hands on your hips stop you. What-

Something hard and stiff presses against your inner thigh, and you fight the urge to squeal. Only now, far departed from that dirty cantina, do you remember the familiar feeling of want nestled in your stomach. You forgot how much you craved more of Mando’s body until his actual boner juts into your thigh, a reminder of what exactly will come next. 

And while some part of you wants to be petty and leave him hanging for being a jerk who talks first before thinking, you also desperately want him to take you right there in the cockpit. Or rather, you just want to be in his arms forever. 

“Fuck,” Mando grunts when you adjust yourself in his lap. “Eager, aren’t you?” 

“You’re one to talk,” you breathe out, hands already reaching between your bodies to where his cock tents, stiff and proud. You debate taking off his thigh armor but decide against it even though you really want to feel his muscular thigh. 

Bringing one hand to your mouth, Mando lets you take his glove off with his teeth, and you take a moment to appreciate his darkened skin, calloused and large. Together, you and Mando pull his pants down just enough for his cock to slip out and- Maker, it’s so much better seeing him in the light like this. The veins, slight curve, the leaking-

With a jolt, you realize that this is the first time you’ve ever seen any inch of unprotected skin (aside from his wrist). Maybe it’s a step in the right direction, an achievement to show that he’s willing to reveal parts of himself. 

You spit into your hand, much like the way you first touched him so long ago, and reach for him. You give him firm, slow strokes, and Mando rewards you with a groan. There’ll be no kissing this time, you mourn sadly, but he might give you access to his neck. The thought makes you giddy. 

With a little maneuvering, you manage to tug enough of Mando’s clothes down and reveal his equally tanned skin underneath. He lets you, surprisingly, but jolts when you first press your lips on the dip above his collarbone. His cock even twitches in your hand. 

Mando gets tired eventually, though, and he wrenches your own pants to your knees. You stand up for a moment, basking in his attention, and undress the whole way, throwing the pants on the floor, soon followed by your shirt and undergarments.

Kriff, you feel all the blood in your body burning, aching for more Mando, for more of him, helmeted or not. He eases a finger into you, and you gasp, body opening up again after a few days of celibacy. He presses the pad of his finger right into the ridged, highly sensitive part of you, and you drool against his neck.  

“F-fuck, Mando, right-” 

You climax not soon after, two of Mando’s fingers curved upwards into you while one thumb rests above your clit. When Mando slides between your folds and begins thrusting, it’s like the past few days never happened, and you���re right back normal. A simple girl with dreams of following her brother through space. A girl with a useless, hopeless crush on a masked bounty hunter. 

It takes you begging for his helmet to come off to make Mando twist you around so your back presses against his chest. The position is new and exhilarating, and it sends shivers of excitement up your spine. 

Mando touches you, all of you, and as his mouth sucks wet hickeys on your throat, he thrusts up into you. There’s no measured pace, no cadence with his motions. It’s pure, wild fucking and- there’s something like desperation there. 

With him squeezing a nipple in one hand and covering your eyes with the other, it’s up to you to rub your clit, chasing down a second high as your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder, chest heaving from Mando’s rough thrusts.

Moments later, bright white flashes behind your eyelids, you’re entire head going fuzzy and airy and wired and- fuck, you go limp in Mando’s arms. With a drawn-out groan, he finishes inside you, a trickle of his release gliding down your aching thighs.

When you think it’s time to go, Mando keeps you there, and you feel him soften, sometimes twitching. It’s… new but not unwanted. In fact, the whole experience has been something novel, a new achievement indeed. He presses a gentle kiss to your ear, and you swoon, happy to pretend for a little longer.

Promising to keep your eyes closed, you allow yourself to be picked up and off his lap as Mando grabs his helmet from the floor, groaning at the sudden emptiness. And, when your eyes begin to droop and you don’t need to force them closed, you let him tuck you into a co-pilot chair, his cape draped over you like a blanket.

*****

Din doesn’t remember why he first asked you to join him on Tatooine. All Din knows is that he didn’t want to leave you behind on the Crest, all sad and lonely, especially not after he fucked you for three days straight. 

And it’s not like you ask to come to missions, only prompting questions about the next destination, so Tatooine would be a change of pace. 

You were mildly interested in Nevarro, but while he’d left you behind on the Crest before, he didn’t dare bring you there. If Paz catches wind of you— weak and starry-eyed—the whole Covert would wonder why Din would choose someone so soft. But Din doesn’t want you to make more younglings for the Covert; boiling down your purpose to a breeder seems so… demeaning. No, he doesn’t really know why he wants you next to him. Something about you makes him… start questioning things. 

So he takes you to Mos Eisley, buys you a drink as if he were just another man, and watches as you almost gag at the taste. It stings a bit, but what did he expect? Din Djarin is not the definition of a “good date” and never has been. 

And then he has to control himself when your pretty little hand cups him through his pants with the promise of more. Fuck, the dirtiest words escape your mouth. You surprise him, but he should’ve known that you’re a little vixen under all your awkward fumbling. Or rather, you grew more confident to show that side of yourself after a month under Din’s rough tutelage. After all, you’re very different from the stuttering girl who spilled details on one elusive Devaronian bounty. 

Everything in the cantina goes well, the buildup of something dirty and satisfying just barely out of reach. Then you go and meet that odd, grimy, ex-rebel, and Din has to watch you smile at his stories and stay at his farm. 

He thinks of you during the entire hunt despite the rational part of his head telling him to stop. You are… well, Din doesn’t know what you are. What your relationship is. Are you his girlfriend? Would that make him a boyfriend? Din doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend. The word itself seems a little… immature. Young. Juvenile. And Din is too old to be using those words. 

He’s only ever had lovers, most of them seedy, and no one near serious. But you- you sleep in his bed, allow him to ravage your inexperienced body, and clean up the ship. You want to learn to fly, want to trace your brother’s footsteps, want to seem like an older woman rather than the small girl you are. 

He wants to be at the farm with you, have you on a real bed regardless if there’s company (but he really does not want to share) but- there’s a bounty to catch. And if Din takes out his personal frustrations on the boy, he’ll never tell. Thankfully, the kid’s already weak ankles break easily. Gagged, bound, unconscious. Easy money. 

But when he arrives to see you and Crix watching the kriffing sunset together, he feels an ugly coil settle in his stomach. 

And fuck, Crix gives you everything you want. He knew your brother. He was a pilot who could teach you better than Din can. And Crix makes you smile and laugh and talk about the personal details of your life that you never divulged to Din. Even worse, Crix is still young, younger than Din. And you’re fresh and green, barely into adulthood and- and Din used you. 

He knows you were willing, but he still thinks himself a little monstrous for taking advantage of you. Cabin fever, his shebs. All his talk of taking it slow led to three days of sex, three days of leaving you in the dark about everything in his life while he takes and takes and takes from your innocent body. 

Din resolves himself to be silent, to not make your departure from Tatooine any harder than it has to be. Half of him thinks you would actually stay with Crix, and he’s happy you don’t. But he hears you talk about your parents, and Din, for an achingly long moment, wonders if you'll ever share that information with him. 

He wonders if his parents would have liked you. And shit- he hasn’t thought about them for years, not after Death Watch showed him the Way, and Din Djarin became Mando. The fact that you- an unassuming, stuttering girl makes him remember, makes him question… he doesn’t know what to think about that. 

His only reprieve is holding you at night on the hard floor of another man’s house where he can’t even take his helmet off to kiss you. You’re as soft as ever and Din… Din feels emotions other than lust when he hugs you close.  

Then he returns to the ship, and Din’s constantly reminded of Crix everywhere. Your little book about the stars— an interest that you never told Din before. The tea sashays you bring: a drink you actually enjoy instead of Din’s atrocious gift at that cantina. Hells, the milk you pour into a cup and give to him. 

And then- then you storm back up, demanding to know why he’s acting cold and blunt, not realizing that he’s building his walls because of you. With his heart caught between his ribs, he only says what he thinks is true. That you and Crix have to be together because there’s no way in all of Corellia’s hells that you like Din as much as he likes you.

Fuck, it feels so good to admit that in his head. He likes curling you into his chest at night, likes draping an arm around your shoulder at seedy cantinas, likes kissing you senseless. Likes teaching you everything whether it be sex or piloting or carbon freezing. 

Before you, he resigned himself to thinking of himself as more metal than man. More Creed than person. He was Mando like all other Mandos, plain and simple. 

With you, he can be Din Djarin. He can approach a past buried under pain and devotion to the Way. 

He wants you to understand, just for a bit, how he’s in pain at the thought of not having you. Because he knows for a fact that if you were to leave… he’d go right back to being Mando the bounty hunter, one of many other bucket heads, follower of a stiff creed from a broken planet.  

So right now, angry and hurting, he pours out his frustrations only for you to respond back with more determination and grit that he’s ever seen. And while the jealous, irrational part of him says Crix made you stronger, he’d be blind to not realize that no man could change you. He has no right to say that he’s the one responsible for your new-found strength.

While Din taught you not to stutter and how to suck cock, you grew up on your own. No longer chasing long dead relatives but now your own desires. Din’s happy you chose him to continue to be in your life, so fucking happy and reassured and safe. 

So he stops you from leaving and shows you just what you do to him. 

He takes you right there in his chair, even taking his helmet off to kiss your neck because he needs you. All of you. When he finishes inside you and keeps himself there, he almost confesses his fucking feelings like the love drunk fool he is. But the words don’t tumble past his lips, not even as a whisper or murmur. 

Din feels how tired you are, though, too tired to head down the ladder yourself. So he dresses you back in your shirt and tucks you into the co-pilot chair, snuggled under his unfastened cape. He watches you sleep, as creepy as that sounds, and sips the milk. It’s an odd taste, and he doesn’t know why you like it so much. 

He doesn’t know a lot about you actually. You said that he only had to ask about your life, and you would answer. But that might mean giving up his own history, and Din’s pretty sure he’s not ready for that anytime soon. 

Din buckles down in the chair, refraining from thinking about the events that happened a few minutes prior. He watches the NavComp chirp the coordinates to Cato Neimoidia and thinks about the next target, a girl slightly younger than you. Wanted because she killed the man who slaughtered her family. If Din had a stronger moral compass, he wouldn’t take the job but- he needs the credits to support you. And the younglings back on Nevarro. 

He only hopes you don’t find out the grisly details of the job and, since Guild members don’t ask questions, he won’t know more than he needs to. Because he doesn’t know what he’d do if you reacted badly to the truth about his next bounty. Doesn’t know what he’d do if you realize he really is a bad man who preys on weak, young girls, whether or not he had to stow them on his ship in the middle of a firefight. 

Sighing, Din spares one last look at you before heading downstairs. He picks up the book Crix bought you, flips through the pages, and settles on your home planet. For the next hour or so until you wake up, Din memorizes every single bit of information about your home world, ingraining then in his head. He wants to say he’s doing it out of curiosity but the growing romantic in him says that he simply wants to impress you. 

So he learns about the local vegetation, biomes, unique animals, big cities. The singular page devoted to the planet is half scientific, half cultural. There’s a big festival coming up, and Din pulls up a galactic standard calendar. If he catches the next bounty within a month, he might be able to bring you back home in time for it. 

He thinks you’d like to be back home, if not for the festival then for your parents. He remembers what you said about them, about the too-big clothes and Naboo lemon tarts. Selfishly, Din wants to celebrate the festival with you, wants to know what it’s like to have fun with someone he likes, wants to see your face light up with surprise and joy because it’s Din, not anyone else, who brings you home. 

And, with a nervous fidget, he imagines what it would be like to meet your parents. What their reactions would be to seeing their precious daughter with a Mando bounty hunter bound by a code that hides his face. They won’t like me, he thinks sourly, but at least you do. Snorting, he realizes this is the first time he’s ever entertained the thought of seeing someone’s parents. How… domestic. 

By the end of his reading, Din feels more confident, more self-assured than he’s been in a long time. He’ll show you how he feels when he’s ready. And he hopes that, when the time comes, you aren’t scared off. 

a/n: sorry this chapter took a week to x-post on tumblr! I’ve been having major computer issues and had to get a new one :(

read chapter six

[whirlybirbs]

;   ---   SHATTERED HILT   /   01

summary: ru’kali survives order 66. cal kestis does, too. while cal spends his days on bracca, stripping starships for parts, ru spends her days earning her protection from the empire in the fighting pits on ordo eris; both do what it takes to survive. but, when a wayward quest and a plethora of owed debts lead cal kestis straight back to his fellow padawan -- a once shy girl turned raging fire -- the pit fighter is left with a choice: leave, or spend the rest of her life a pawn in a game much bigger than her. pairing: cal kestis / original female character, ru’kali lof word count: 2k a/n: i cannot remember the last time i wrote something that wasn’t a reader-insert, and i’m not sure how this will do -- feedback is genuinely appreciated on this, since i know i’m mostly a reader writer! everyone loved ru from her intro to my clone trooper squad, which you can read here! 

Ru’kali Lof startles awake to the sound of three loud, rough bangs on the door to her quarters. 

She wonders bitterly, as she blinks up at the ceiling, if she can just ignore the sound. With any luck, they’ll leave her alone and Ru can go back to bed --

Then, the knocks come again. Louder and faster. 

“Rise ‘n’ shine, sweetheart!”

Ru snarls.

Beneath the durasteel door, she can see the long shadow of someone shifting back and forth in their boots -- immediately, the Mirialan, as she stands and throws herself to the door, knows it’s Atticus. The sheer bombastic chaos that follows the bounty hunter swims through the force to greet her before she even opens the door.

When she does, he’s got an arm on the doorframe and he’s leering. 

Atticus Rex isn’t much to look at, nor is he kind nor smart, but he’s muscle -- his head is shaved in a tight buzz, littered with scars, and his muzzled grin is picked clean with a toothpick that hangs from his lips. 

He smells like day-old ale and sweat.

“Where y’ been, Ru?”

It leaks out of him like a jab. She has to restrain the snarl that threatens to leap across her face. Her attitude is sharp and wants to go straight for the Haxion Brood Lieutenant’s throat. 

“Asleep,” she bites, crossing her arms and cocking a hip as she goes to hit the switch and shut the door, “Do you mind?”

Atticus snorts, hand planted on the frame and forcing the door to stay open. 

Ru leans back, peering into her room, to eye the chronometer hanging on the wall. The digits read 1038 -- it’s late, and she’d finally fallen asleep after she’d managed to quiet down the usual roaring river in her mind. Not an easy task. 

"Get dressed,” the Bounty Hunter chirps, “S’ fight night, sunshine.”

--

Fight nights were common.

But, fight nights were Ru fought? Those were rare -- and though she’s sure Sorc Tormo would put her in the ring every night if he could, she’s also aware that to the Umbaran crime-lord she’s an asset. A big asset. A big, money-making asset that draws a big crowd and big bets.

Huge bets.

(The exact kind of bets that got Greez Dritus into this mess in the first place, and by proxy his new-found friend.)

Ordo Eris, on fight nights, becomes more like a city than the cold, lonely, terrible astroid colony it really is. The space station fills with scoundrels and thugs from all across the galaxy who traverse the rocky space around the arena’s hub to get a spot around the ring -- Ru eyes the growing crowd, nearly every attendee with credits in hand, as the lift carries her upwards to the top level of the arena’s loge.

Beside her Atticus flicks the smoldering bud of his deathstick down the shaft.

Speaking of Sorc Tormo, the sleaze ball greets Ru’kali with wide open arms and a devious grin. 

“Ah! My prized warrior princess!”

Ru cross her arms and swaggers forward -- the small rope of lucky beads tied to her sash tinkers as she does, knocking against the chromium smelted hilt of one of her two sabers. One is hers from when she was a Padawan. The other is a recent build and it’s temperamental. Using a stolen, mined kyber crystal is to blame, no doubt.

Master Yoda was right -- the crystals are supposed to pick the Jedi. 

Atticus meanders along behind you. Skulking as per usual.

Ru looks out past the arena to the screens bolted up along the pit. Pale blue eyes narrow tightly, the deep scar over her right eye warping slightly as she does. The broadcast is in the lower levels. Some idiot running around on the walls. Plugging wires in. 

A show, for sure.

Ru raise a brow.

“What’s all this about?” she asks, turning to eye Sorc Tormo.

The Umbaran man is eccentric, to say the least. His facial hair runs right down his chin in one fine line, green in color. That same green, punchy and vomit-reminiscent, echoes in his Canto Bight-esque outfit. Large, pompous sleeves and pants that are three sizes too tight. All green. 

He looks like seventy kliks of bad road, honestly. 

Hell, everyone on Ordo Eris does. 

Ru’kali is no exception -- she’s rougher than she was when she first arrived here. Littered in scars and bitter. The years of pit fighting have settled in her stance and though she’s athletic, she’s a rogue brawler with enough crackling, dangerous rage to power an entire Star Destroyer.

Fighting takes the edge off. Makes her feel less afraid. 

“Well,” the lone, pale fingers of the Umbaran curl around Ru’kali’s pale pink shoulders, nails drumming against the diamond shaped markings there, “I am glad you asked, my dear. We have a special contender for you --”

“Cut to the chase, Tormo.”

The egg shaped head of the Umbaran rolls as he steps away, waving off Ru’s evident irritation; the crime-lord gestures to the screen. “He’s friends with someone who owes me a lotta money. He was carrying this around --”

His fingers snap twice.

“Atticus --”

Ru’kali was not expecting Atticus Rex to procure, from the back of his belt, a lightsaber.

And she certainly wasn’t expecting him to hand it to Tormo and for the Umbaran to ignite it, presenting a glimmering yellow blade. 

The Mirialan’s face falls -- anger bubbles up there, warping the navy tattooed features of her face as she steps forward and yanks the hilt from the hands of the crime-lord.

Her lips twitches.

“What?” she sneers vengefully, “Did he pull this from a corpse, then?”

She has seen another Jedi’s saber three times now in this station. Once on the belt of a traveler who’d laughed in her face and waved the blue thing around, proudly proclaiming they’d bought it off clone trooper for drinking money. The second time, on a bounty hunter -- he’d murdered a Jedi Knight for Imperial credits, kept the blade though. The third, was now. 

Ru could only assume the weapon to be another stolen relic, a ground-in-the-dirt memory of her life before Ordo Eris. This contender probably had no idea how to use it, let alone the life this saber had before now.

A laxidasical wave. “Maybe. Don’t care. But! My sweet, sweet, Jedi -- I want you to kill him. Seeing two saber swordsmen dueling... Goodness, me oh my, that will certainly bring in the money, won’t it, Atticus?”

“Sure will.”

And it does.

--

Cal Kestis is having a pretty shit day.

Not that he’d ever say so -- no, because, sure, it might be terrible and he might be navigating some wild underground dungeon maze, but Cal has BD-1 back on his shoulder and that’s all that matters. 

He’s got a mission, he’s got BD-1, and despite being a little sore, he’s good. All good. Everything’s good. Totally good. 

As he rides the lift to the upper levels of this... place... Cal wonders if he’s gonna eat that sentiment.

The first thing he hears is the chants -- raucous roars of a large crowd. Before him lays a large square space, illuminated by stark spotlights and swarmed with drone droids, each with blinking red lights on their helms to show their recording status. 

It becomes abundantly clear to Cal that he’s suddenly in the spotlight. And, that the itching feeling that he was being watched was correct. 

The redheaded Jedi steps out from under the bay, suddenly exposed to the bright light of the arena. 

Around him on the upper decks are hundreds of people, all clamoring to get a view of him -- the large screens on the sides of the loge show him squinting, raising a hand and grimacing into the light. 

BD-1 gives a worried boowoop. 

“I got a bad feeling about this too, lil’ buddy.”

Suddenly, a holo-projection fizzles in before Cal -- large and tall and to the excitement of the crowd. The man’s appearance is met with a rise in cheers, rolling off the voices of the spectators with thirst for action. 

Sorc Tormo laughs.

“Ah, finally he arrives!” 

The projection waves wildly, spinning about, and Cal watches carefully as this eccentric ego-maniac waves his hand with a grandiose flourishes as he speaks. 

“We had action on how long it would take for you to get here!”

Yeah, well, BD-1 was kinda his priority.

Irritation bites at Cal’s features. The Jedi scowls. His stance is tense.

“And who are you?” Cal calls out, voice rising over the roar of the crowd.

“Ha ha ha! Who am I? I’m Sorc Tormo, baby! I’m the boss of this operation!”

The crowd goes wild at that, whoops and hollers serenading the arena to the tune of the crimelord’s name. A television drone swoops close to Cal’s head and the Jedi side-steps it with a disgusted look on his face. 

“Right,” Cal snarks, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Maybe not you, but to your friend Greezy Four-arms it does! You’ve got him to thank for gettin’ you into this pickle!”

Of course. 

Cere had made a comment off-hand about the pilot’s penchant for gambling -- not that Cal was any stranger to the concept. Back on Bracca, Prauf had muscled Cal into tagging along to a few card games here and there. And though the redhead never partook in wagering his entire week’s pay on precious metals, Prauf had once or twice. On those nights that Prauf lost -- because he always lost -- there was nothing that could lift the Abednedo’s mood. 

Not even a signature Cal Kestis smile 'n’ pat on the back. 

Cal could use one of those right about now. 

“Yeah, well, once I’m finished with you, I will thank Greez,” it comes out just as cocky as it feels -- and maybe Cal shouldn’t had tried the attitude. 

Either way, when this Sorc Tormo guy laughs and waves his hand, proclaiming, “No, no, my friend, you won’t be fighting me...”

Suddenly, the air becomes electric.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the crime-lord turns on a heel, gesturing to the crowd with the all the practiced cool of an entertainer, “Our lovely little guest will be going head to head with our favorite...”

There’s a crescendo of excitement. Cal notices an uptick on the counter on the broadcast screens -- he realize, quickly, that they’re bets and currently, someone named Fropolo’f is betting the most money against him. Real confidence booster that is. 

“Someone get baby his toy! He’s gonna need it!”

His lightsaber is launched from the loge, and the Jedi catches it quickly, igniting it on instinct as his skin crawls in anticipation. The redhead looks around, eyes cast on the crowds of smugglers and thugs lining the balcony.

The wide angle shot of fear on his face is painted across the rumbling arena’s screens.

Before Cal can bite in a retort, the echo of boots on durasteel begins -- coordinated and rhythmic. Boom... boom... boom... boom, boom, boom.

“You know her well -- a pure whirlwind of rage! She’s pink, she’s tatted, she’s daaaaaaaangerous!” 

Boom-boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom.

BD makes a nervous boo-weeeeeeeep as the pace picks up. Cal swallows, gloved fist tightening nervously around the hilt of his glowing, golden blade. Green eyes dart around the square expanse of the arena, trying to get a gauge on where this opponent might appear from --

“Give it up for our girl...”

Boomboomboom, boomboomboom. 

“RUUUUUUUU’KALLLLI!”

The roar is deafening. 

Suddenly, the paneling in the floor separates, and from it emerges --

“...Ru?”

Ru’kali Lof is suddenly staring face-to-face with a ghost.

Her stance, wide-set with double blades humming in a hot white, seems to crack when she finally sees the face of her opponent.

She’s a handful of meters away but she’d know that flash of red hair anywhere.

Cal Kestis.

Cal fucking Kestis.

Oh, this is bad. 

This is really bad. 

[theworstjedi]

Finding the Sunriders

Everything goes back to me in the end, Friyr heard her say.

It wasn’t so much a sentence as a sigh on the breath of the wind that he needed no language for. A feeling as most Jedi would term it. How Master Mahar might’ve termed it if she was still alive to apply strictures to otherwise meaningless words. Friyr rubbed a nonexistent ache out of his wrist, and his fingers unconsciously set to tracing the outline of old scars. Despite knowing few other Force Users could feel the Force pressed up against the back of their teeth and unfurling words on their tongue, Friyr glanced between the other mourners. The field of black robes was dense and unmoving in the smoke from Mahar’s pyre.

Friyr stifled a cough that earned him a few glances he could feel. With the Force encroaching on the confines of reality, his throat threatening to suffocate itself, and feeling like something of a grief tourist - the former Sith nudged the harnessed NM-1 spider droid resting against his shins. It wobbled up onto its spindly feet then, without verbal cue began to lead Friyr along the way back down the winding path to the temple in a dimming twilight.

Dromund Kaas never quite got colors the way Tython did. The miasma of hue felt wrong to Friyr. The vibrant shade of pinks filtering through the thinning trees and dappling everything in a thin veil especially disconcerted him after a lifetime of grey.

“These sunsets remind me of Korriban,” he muttered, voice raspy from a combination of disuse and irritation.

The droid, silently devoted to his job until then, expressed a sharp beep of disdain.

“Sure, sure the core’s prettier than the Empire, but that’s your opinion as someone the light isn’t constantly trying to kill.” Friyr was silent for a moment, then quietly muttered, “Korriban’s kinda nice lookin’.” The Core Worlder franken-accent globbed onto the back of his throat like peanut butter so the words came out sticky.

If a comm could verbally wince, then that was the sound NM made.

“Too much?”

NM grumbled.

“It’s really not easy to pin down a Pub accent when you’ve got everybody and their grandmother from Core Space down here.”

NM-1 made a brief reply, then thoughtfully launched into a very subjective and weirdly racial explanation of the nuances of sound between Coruscant, Corellia, and every other founding Republic planet Friyr didn’t care about until finding himself among them. Friyr – who might’ve satisfied himself with giving the droid a little hell for his (pre-programed?) biases otherwise – found himself wavering in and out of attention when he parted ways with NM at the Temple steps up until he drifted into a forced sleep.

--

Three days later the same thoughts that kept him up at night ran through unanswered in his mind as he paced the gold trimmed halls. Not being a Jedi but rather someone’s pet project they’d died half-way through, Friyr found himself, for the first time, with nothing to do but scuff up dust on the ornate carpets. Not that he had been everyone’s favored Sith, but he had never found himself unneeded even on his personal time. He’d had a lot of that after the funeral. Besides submitting a request to be made an official part of the Order after a year of remolding and untangling, there had been nothing to do. He usually spent free time exploring the gnarls and underbrush of Tython to seek the Force in unexpected place, but since Mahar had died--

It gave the Force time to press in too close and … babble, he supposed he’d call it. His relationship with her was much gentler than it had been in the past, but that didn’t mean he reveled in spending his time decrypting a very alien presence slowly ballooning into the empty spaces Master Mahar had left vacant. He paced memorized routes through the Temple oftentimes, trying to get away from her and dodging the grounds where she was most present among the foliage and streams. Sometimes he purposefully lost himself in the bowels of the building and then goaded some kind-hearted soul into helping him get back before people turned in for the night.

Today was such a day, as he stumbled into, well. He didn’t rightfully know. It was very dark and pulsed with orderly rows of soft blue light, like someone had tried putting all the stars into lines.

“What brings you to the archives, Initiate Illustratum?”

Friyr, still captivated by his unknown surroundings missed the voice over his shoulder and a few subsequent repetitions of his name. A tap on his shoulder jerked him from thought with an ungraceful “WhhaaHAaa--?” that earned him a few disgruntled Shhhhhs from a group of disarrayed Padawans at a table littered with holos.

The archivist – whose face Friyr couldn’t properly see in the dim lighting – said, amusement coloring his tone, “You’re Initiate Illustratum, correct?”

“Oh yeah, that’s uhh—that’s definitely me.” Friyr threw him a somewhat defensive fingerblaster. “What’s up?”

“My condolences on Master Mahar; she was a good friend of mine and spoke highly of you. I know she took the task of rehabilitating you for consideration as a Jedi to heart. When I logged your updated status as an Initiate yesterday, it gladdened me that her last purpose was fulfilled in the end.”

Jedi speech had a sterility to it that saturated itself in larger pools as one progressed up the Order, almost as though the Light within cleansed them from without. It and the unexpected praise almost left Friyr with little to say. Almost.

“Yeah, I mean, you live, you join the Force. Because no death, right?” He shot a couple of fingerblasters again. It felt very inappropriate, but Friyr had stopped caring somewhere between Korriban and getting his face broken. Probably around the time he got his face broken. “I mean, it’s done and was gonna happen eventually, so I’m just thinking about moving forward. The council approved me, but placing me in classes is going to trigger every single Master getting snippy about the whole Sith thing.” He punctuated with his hands, which were getting animatedly into his chattering. “And they’ll want proof I’m not, like, crazy.”

The archivist, patient to the last in Friyr’s opinion, kept a neutral tone. “You were relying on Master Mahar vouching for you.”

“Yeahhh, a little.”

“And probably Padawaning you.”

“They really made you an archivist for a reason.”

The older man, Friyr assumed by the thinness of his voice, chuckled. “I chose it myself, and I’d like to think I had a good reason. Do you want some advice from someone who’s done it before?”

“Been a Sith, had his mentor die, dealt with the council?”

“Two out of three, but I meant more so having been an Initiate trying to decide what they wanted from the Order.”

“Golly,” Friyr said, then immediately cringed and decided never to use the word again, “I’m not sure I’m looking for anything out of the Order. I know who I am as a Force User already, I just need to find the right people willing to straighten out a few kinks.”

Knowingly - how part of the Sith in him, part of the slave residually hated anyone who said anything knowingly – the archivist replied, “Of course you do. Although we’re never the same people we were, but I can tell when I’m not needed. But to your ends of finding someone willing to accept you, there is more to the Jedi than just the Council and the Code. Many of us believe in redemption, and former Sith aren’t that uncommon. They aren’t always popular or flaunted, but they find their way. Do you know much about different Enclaves in the Order?”

At some point Friyr’s brow had adopted a sober furrow. “No.”

“Well, you’re in the right place.”

“I’ll … keep it in mind, but I’m much more a worda mouth person, if you catch my drift.”

“Well there are a few Enclaves that come to mind that would be very happy to have you. The Sunrider Disciples are one. They’re a little bit of a misfit child of the Order. Dogmatic in a different way and a little reactionary to traditionalists in their beliefs, but they’re small and make a point of welcoming repentant Sith.”

Friyr drummed his fingers over his crossed arms in a roll. “How would I go about making contact with them? Like do you know any Disciples?”

“No, but someone’s bound to know someone who knows a member; I think a lot of them are Greenies, so Corellians might be a good place to start asking.”

“Corellians? What now?”

The archivist laughed again. “Welcome to internal Jedi politics.”

Friyr grinned. “I love politics.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

--

When the time did finally come for Friyr to leave, he didn’t expect that letting go of Tython would be so hard when he’d been so eager to leave for Ambria. Even though he couldn’t see it beyond a field of green, he turned around for a last look.