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Chapter Text

He’d royally fucked up.

The branches swiped at his face, hurting worse than any faux sword slashed at him sparring with his trainers, but he didn’t tell his steed to slow down, to take another course, because hesitation meant surrender. Decisiveness meant death.

Luke wasn’t used to riding in snow, the coldness biting, his hurried, panicked breaths coming out in clouds whiter than the slush. He’d never been so thirsty, not even during his summers spent in his father’s homeland, tending fields and farmstock so he could live a normal life if but for a couple months out of the year, an insistence on his father’s part his mother didn’t appreciate. But while his mother was the ruler of their kingdom, his father was the ruler of their family (a choice they made during his mother’s pregnancy; a balance, so Anakin never felt the lesser, despite having been just a farmhand-turned-knight who stole the then-crown princess’s heart like a thief in the night). It was also his father’s decision to have Luke train as a knight too, since Leia was the first-born and therefore heir to the throne. Most princes in his place would’ve been raised like a horse, meant for nothing but good breeding for a good master. A second-in-line prince to be matched with a first-in-line princess, probably from a well-off land within their kingdom’s alliance: Coruscant, Alderaan, Bespin. Luke thanked his father for this decision most days.

Today was not one of those days.

If he hadn’t been trained a knight, he never would’ve stumbled upon the cottage in the middle of the woods during a manhunt, after his horse, Artoo, had broken a leg and Luke—adamant not to kill him despite the other knights’ opinions—had been stranded. He never would’ve met the small, strange old man with medicine to help Artoo sleep painlessly, enough food to feed them both (barely swallowable, but Luke was never one to complain; that was Leia’s expertise) and promises to tend to Artoo until he was well enough to ride again. He never would’ve noticed the odd things about the man: how he recited stories from centuries ago like they’d happened yesterday, how he spoke to the air like another person was listening and how, mysteriously, eerily, Luke couldn’t help but feel there was another person. The most obvious sign was Artoo. He was never given any physical medicine, no herbs or broths or ales. Yoda, the old man, just touched his front leg a few times during the day, eyes closed in deep focus, and in less than a fortnight, Artoo’s broken bone was healed.

“The force,” Yoda had called it, the name for magic in the days of old, before kingdoms like his mother’s and father’s had banned it after King Palpatine almost became Emperor Palpatine, the force his greatest weapon. And he would’ve succeeded too, if he hadn’t tried to convince Luke’s father, the greatest swordsmen of the knights, to be his processor.

“Join me,” he’d told him, while holding a dagger to Sir Windu’s throat, “and you can marry Padme, no matter your station. You can rule her and her kingdom.”

But Anakin never wanted power over Padme, never wanted power over anyone. He wanted love. Family. Home.

Palpatine died that very day, but it took years for Palpatine’s armies and allies to be defeated. It was the decision to ban magic—all force-users—from the world which had buried Palpatine’s evil conspirators once and for all.

A year later, Leia and Luke were born.

Luke had been taught his whole life magic was evil. The force was evil, no one believing this more than his father. It was the duty of the knights to destroy magic and protect the kingdom, to bring peace, freedom, justice, and security.

But Yoda, one so kind to strangers and animals, even to the son of the very people who’d exiled him into a life of loneliness, erasing his legacy of greatness and good, couldn’t be evil.

And so Luke came back to the cottage in the middle of the woods, claiming he was off on hunting trips to his parents. Leia thought he had a secret lover, teasing him about it relentlessly. And she wasn’t entirely wrong. Luke loved visiting Yoda and learning more about the days of old, the history of magic he’d never been told within Naboo’s borders, of goodness and healing and protection.

Luke loved the force.

But it’d been the force that’d woken Luke in the middle of the night, screaming at him he had to go and had to go now, or else something horrible was going to happen to the Child.

“What child?” he asked it, heart racing, sweat soaking through his linen night shirt as he already began packing a bag.

It didn’t answer him, merely chanted in his head—into the depths of his soul—to go to the Child. Protect the Child.

Save the Child.

Artoo whinnied, digging his hooves into the snow, and stopping them mere feet before the cliff’s edge, clumps of snow and rocks skidding off and landing into the roaring river below. Luke hadn’t noticed it, adrenaline overpowering thought, his heels digging into Artoo’s sides harsher than he ever had before, but they needed to go faster, faster, faster! His haste had nearly killed them, had Artoo not been wiser than any horse had the right to be.

“What do we do?” Luke asked; to who, he wasn’t sure. Artoo? The force? Himself? He could hear the thundering of the hooves, dozens of horses coming, seconds away from him. But there was nowhere to go.

Luke was about to die, all for a fool’s errand.

Maybe his father was right. Magic was a curse.

Artoo’s only hope now was to lose his rider. The grey patches (“They’re blue!” Luke swore) made him appear years ahead of his time; the Mandalorians wouldn’t bother killing an old horse, especially after Luke discarded the fine Naboo saddle and bridle, heaving it over the cliff. He petted Artoo’s nose, the horse nuzzling into him, then shoving him, urging him away from the cliff’s edge, somehow already knowing what Luke was planning. “Clever boy,” he said, smiling, despite what he was about to do. “Clever enough to make your way home, right? Won’t take you nearly as long as it had us,” almost a month Luke been riding horseback, ass sorer than the time Lady Tano dared him to ride an Arvala blurg and Luke lasted five whole seconds before being bucked off, “without my weight holding you back.”

He saw the piercing reflection first, the sunlight shining against the amor.

Most Mandalorians painted their armor different colors. like greens or blues or dark reds, unlike Naboo Knights who shimmered in gold.

But this one, the first to make it to Luke, had no colors painted on him. Just plain, naked silver. Even his cape was a humble brown, his horse a simple breed.

Luke knew this Mandalorian.

Quickly, remembering himself, Luke shoved the black hood of his cape over his face, guarding his identity but blocking his vision. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ he figured.

Artoo huffed at his side in puffs of angry clouds, front hooves digging into the snow menacingly, ready to protect his rider as the other horses caught up the silver Mandalorian, surrounding them in a perfect, deadly curve.

“Shh,” Luke tried to comfort Artoo, giving him gentle pats onto his side. “It’s alright, buddy. Be calm, and everything will be alright.”

The horse begrudgingly obeyed; no sense in getting them both killed.

Luke couldn’t see the Mandalorians in great detail, vision blocked except from their horses’ torsos and down. All he could see of their armor were their shin guards.

The silver one’s horse came closer. “State your allegiance, trespasser,” his voice all gravel and anger. He exuded strength. Skill. Leadership.

He exuded death.

Luke raised both arms cooperatively, showing he held no weapons. His sword hid beneath his cape, the hilt evidence he was a Knight of Naboo, which he wasn’t keen on revealing, otherwise it’d be a declaration of war. “I meant you no harm.”

“State,” the silver Mandalorian repeated, harsher, angrier, “your allegiance, trespasser.”

He stepped further from Artoo.

Closer to the cliff.

“I have no allegiance. I only came to Mandalore—”

“We know why you came,” said a Mandalorian on the left side, shin guards of forest green, “and that you failed in your mission. Tell us what kingdom sent you, and we may spare your life.”

Luke swallowed his laugh, despairing but genuine. Mandalorians were known for many things. Sparing lives wasn’t one of them. “As I said, I have no allegiance. I serve no kingdom.”

The silver Mandalorian’s horse came closer. Luke stepped back further. “Then who,” if tones could cut like swords, his would be a lethal blow, “told you of the Child?”

The only kingdom who hated force-users more than Luke’s was Mandalore. They’d hated force-users centuries before the rest of the world did. In fact, Coruscant, Naboo’s closest ally, once homed the most powerful band of force-users and went to war against Mandalore a thousand years ago on their behalf.

How times had changed.

The Mandalorians’ hatred, however, had not.

“I was informed the Child was in danger. I was sent to protect him.”

“The only danger I see,” said a Mandalorian in blue, a woman, to his right, “is you.”

But the silver one asked, “Who informed you that?” the sharpness in his tone dulling.

‘Oh,’ Luke realized with a start, his hands drooping minutely. ‘He’s scared. He’s scared for the Child.’

“I…” There was no point in hiding it. His heel hung over air. “The Force told me.”

He’d expected outrage. Swords to swing. Arrows to be shot.

But all that’d moved was the wind, sliding snow off branches, Luke’s breathing deafeningly loud.

“Are you a Jedi?”

Luke gasped. The name of the force-users of old was illegal to speak, punishable by death. But—“Yes, I am.”

“He’s lying!” shouted the blue woman. “A trick! Tell us who sent you, or we’ll—”

“What danger?” asked the silver one, shutting her up. He must’ve been of higher rank. “What does he need protecting from?”

An excellent question. “The force is not always clear in its messages. All I know is the Child is in danger, and it told me to come and save him.”

“Why you?”

An even better question. “I… I don’t know.”

“Remove your cloak, Jetii,” said the green one. “Show us your face.”

Luke sighed, closing his eyes. “It brings me comfort,” said Luke, “that the Child is safe with you.” Loved, he genuinely believed. “But be warned. Something is coming. I don’t know what, or when. I do not even know who the Child is. But danger is coming. Soon. And it will be hard to defeat.”

‘Impossible,’ whispered the force, ‘for them to defeat. Only you can.’

Luke prayed that wasn’t true. And even if it was, he couldn’t trade the safety of one child for the safety of his entire kingdom, of thousands of children. A force-wielding Naboo prince searching for a Mandalorian child: nothing short of Naboo’s eradication would satisfy them.

Luke fell backwards, arms spread wide, accepting of his fate.

His death.

But what he hadn’t expected was the force to laugh at him while he died.

‘Silly boy,’ it said—it taunted. ‘It is not your time.

We are not done with you yet.’

A hand gripped his chest, sinching the fabric of his shirt, and pulling Luke harshly back to his feet, onto the cliff. His cloak’s hood fell to his shoulders and Luke instinctively struggled, grabbing onto the wrist holding him with both hands, his nose pressed against the icy black of a silver helmet’s visor. The hand squeezed tighter; Luke could feel the coldness of the Mandalorian’s gloves through the fabric of his tunic, burning his chest.

He almost thought he saw eyes amongst the black, staring back.

“Where,” the silver man spoke, softly, raveningly, “do you think you’re going, little Jedi?”

‘He’s not done with you either.’

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut, beskar bars surrounding Luke on all sides except for the brick wall behind him, dried blood stuck between the bricks’ cracks like there’d been a splatter on the wall before, and even after cleaning it off, red managed to loiter.

Death always loitered.

The feeling was immediate. Or rather, the lack of. Yoda had off-handedly mentioned — between pouring cups of tea into lumpy clay mugs, the liquid rancid and boiling, but Luke knew better than to complain, lest he’d spend the day standing on one hand — beskar metal wasn’t force resistant. Beskar was force absorbent. Like a blackhole, it sucked the force dry from the room, leaving Luke gasping for air. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on the force, how it grounded him, until he had it ripped away. They could’ve stolen Luke’s lungs and he would’ve suffered less.

They didn’t know, he knew. Mandalorians never took the time to truly understand their enemies’ capabilities, beyond what was necessary to kill them. They didn’t know the extent of their metal, dug from the infamous, endless mines underfoot: a labyrinth worthy of myth. They didn’t know imprisoning Luke in a cell of beskar was the equivalent of torture. But even if he told him, the young Jedi feared they wouldn’t care either.

The silver Mandalorian — the Mand’alor — battled between feelings of angry, vicious protection and desperate, benevolent concern, both fueled by love for his son. How to treat this mysterious Jedi trespasser, the Mand’alor must be contemplating from the other side of the bars, standing straight and solid as a Naboo oak tree, while gloved hands fidgeted at his sides. As a prisoner? Or an ally?

Luke hoped to make the decision easier for him. “I didn’t know,” he said, just as the green Mandalorian finished whispering something to the Mand’alor, “the Child was in such good care. Had I, I wouldn’t have come, but rather sent word instead.”

“Word from Naboo.” A new Mandalorian entered the room, armor sparkling of gold, his voice identical to the green one’s. They must’ve been brothers.

Luke’s eyes squeezed shut in regret, before remembering himself and schooling his features into something composed and cool, the way he’d seen his mother and Sir Kenobi do many times. The way a proper Jedi should act.

He’d hoped they wouldn’t recognize him, even with his hood off and sword confiscated. (They hadn’t as much glanced at the hilt before throwing Luke’s sword over the cliff, alongside his pack and Artoo’s saddle and bridle. He mourned for it, more than he had his own life in the temporary milliseconds he thought himself dead. That was his father’s sword, used to protect his mother in their youth.)

“My reputation precedes me?” Luke asked. No Mandalorian had set foot in Naboo in decades, so they couldn’t have personally recognized him. But his looks — his golden hair, dusty blue eyes, and finely-sculpted but short (especially compared to his father) build — were legendary, the first thing anyone knew about him, and the only thing anyone commented on. ‘The Sunshine of Naboo’, he’d been nicknamed. It didn’t matter how many battles he won, how many lives he saved. People were determined to undermine his achievements and overdramatize his beauty. He wasn’t a knight in the world’s eyes. He was a pretty trophy. A doll.

A joke.

“The Kingdom of Naboo knows you exist?” asked the gold man. “Surprised you’re still living, with Consort Anakin Skywalker—” Luke blinked rapidly; no one called his father a consort in Naboo. He was King. Were they in Naboo, the unintentional slight would’ve earned the Mandalorian an afternoon in the stocks. “—around. The man’s like a dog with a scent when it comes to Jetii.”

They… They didn’t know who Luke was, aside from what he’d already told him. Mandalore’s isolation was proving useful. But then how did they know he was from Naboo if they didn’t know he was their prince…

If he wasn’t handcuffed, he would’ve smacked himself in the forehead.

His accent. Luke had a strong Naboo accent, as proper and obvious as they come. He was practically the poster-child of Naboo. Were he beaten unrecognizably, or his tongue cut and stolen, they would’ve known his nationality. As the Mand’alor oozed death, Luke oozed life, oozed daylight and fields of flowers and cherry blossom trees.

Luke answered, “There are whispers of a Jedi hiding within the Great Woods.” About Yoda, not him. But they didn’t need to know that. “And despite King Skywalker’s skill and efforts, he is a busy man. Can’t inspect the whole forest himself.”

Gold hummed his acknowledgment, a hint of suspicion lurking within.

“Not to mention,” said Green, “those useless Naboo knights he’s got working for him.” Luke had to bite his cheek to keep from reacting, tasting iron and salt. “They couldn’t find a tree in the forest, much less a Jetii.”

“Except for Sir Kenobi,” sharply replied Gold. “He’s a cunning warrior. And his predecessor, Prince Skywalker. I’ve heard there’s great potential there as well, like his father before him.”

Green waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. We know all about your little sword fight you had with Kenobi all those years ago. You spent, what, only ten minutes fighting him? Or should I say, ten minutes getting your ass kicked before he gave you diplomatic mercy and allowed your men to retreat. And now you won’t karking shut up about him.”

“It was longer than ten minutes—” Luke imagined the Mandalorian pouting beneath his helmet of gold. But what sword fight was he talking about? Obi-Wan never mentioned he’d met Mandalorians before, much less that he’d battled and defeated one. “—and it’s the Way to acknowledge and respect the skills of a great warrior when deserved.”

“As for the prince,” said the Mand’alor, and Luke felt his spine involuntarily straighten, eager (and a little nervous) to hear the king’s opinion, “not another word spoken about him. Understood?”

Luke resisted flinching. The Mand’alor spoke with such malice, such blatant hate, when it came to Luke — to Prince Luke — and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Luke had no active quarrel with Mandalorians, nor had he participated in any battles against Mandalorian allies; an easy feat, since Mandalore didn’t have any allies. But hate like that wasn’t earned from mere rumor and reports. The Mand’alor had a personal vendetta against the Prince of Naboo, one he hadn’t displayed for his father or Obi-Wan or anyone else in this brief discussion. Just him.

Why him?

The Mand’alor stepped closer to the bars, and Luke had to dig his heel into the dirt to combat instincts of retreat, keeping his ground firm as the silver helmet stood a foot away. Black visor met naked blue. “Tell me everything,” he growled. “How do you know about my son? And what kind of danger is he in?”

Fear clogged his throat. He tried to swallow it down. “As I told you before, I don’t really know. The Force—”

“Is not always clear in its messages. I know.” The Mand’alor’s dwindling patience was palpable, even without the Force. Like a storm, the pressure was rising, sky electric and waiting to strike. “So, tell me what you do know.” Luke opened to say he knew nothing, again, but the Mand’alor seemed to predict this. “Tell me what what happened when the Force… messaged you. Break it down for me. When did it happen? How did it happen? What did it feel like?”

No one had asked him that before, what the Force felt like. The sole person he could speak to about it was Yoda, and Yoda didn’t have to ask. He knew too.

What did the Force feel like? How do you describe it in words? How do you explain to a blind man what it felt to see? A deaf man what I felt to hear?

Luke took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. To speak of the Force but not feel it… It was a cruel reminder. Salt in a wound. But still, he tried, centering himself on the physical sensation of soft dirt beneath his soles, of the stagnant glacial air — his breath visible from inside the dungeon — and the smell of the cold, a sharp clean smell, blending with the scents from outside: metal, fire, earth. He centered himself with Mandalore.

His eyes closed.

“It felt… cold.”

“Cold?” the Mand’alor repeated, softer than Luke had heard him before, like they were sharing secrets.

“Like being dumped in ice water. An adrenaline rush. I was sleeping when it woke me up.”

“So, this was at night?”

Luke could almost see the moon shining through his chamber’s windows, lines of white light on the floorboards. “Yes. It was a lot warmer in Naboo. Spring’s coming soon.” Probably was already there, it having been a month since Luke last slept in his bed. Velvet blanket. Silk sheets. “The Force doesn’t communicate in words. It’s more like… feelings. No. Like instincts, like you’re thinking the thoughts instinctively yourself, but the voice isn’t yours. Like a separate consciousness, harmoniously blended with your own.”

“Like you’re being haunted.” It wasn’t a question. A statement, spoken assuredly without doubt or hesitation.

Being haunted wasn’t quite what Luke felt, but if that was what the Mand’alor needed to understand, so be it. “I didn’t think or hear that I needed to go to Mandalore. I knew. Could feel in in my muscles, my soul. I had to move, to go quickly. My heart was racing so fast, I thought I was going to pass out.”

“And,” his careful, gentle patience made it blatantly obvious now the Mand’alor was a parent, “what did it tell you—did you feel about him?”

Luke titled his head. “Him?”

“The Child. How did the Force communicate to you you were looking for a child?”

Water came to mind again, but not ice water this time. A gentle pond, crystal clear and lively with fish and frogs. Grass soft as carpet surrounding it. Tempting cool mud, just asking to be made a mess with. Morning sun and crickets chirping. “I could feel him, I think. His essence in the Force.” Luke’s brow furrowed. “It’s strange. Usually, when I feel someone’s Force signature, it gets stronger the closer I am to them. But his… The closer to Mandalore, the weaker it got. But I knew I needed to come here.” Probably because of the beskar nullifying the Force, both covering the locals warriors and swathing the ground below.

If Luke thought his voice was soft before, he was mistaken. Because when the Mand’alor said, “What did he feel like?” it was spoken like prose, soft and sweet. Like how Luke’s father sounded when he told him bedtime stories or sang lullabies.

It sounded like a father’s love.

“Innocence,” Luke answered easily. “Cheerfulness. Hope.” He couldn’t help but smile. “Your son’s so bright and lively in the Force. A little fireball of energy. Naptime must be an adventure, huh?”

The Mand’alor chuckled, just a bit. “You have no idea. Are…” His hesitancy had Luke blinking his eyes open, startled slightly by the lanterns’ lights lining the dungeon walls. “Are you a father too?”

“No.”

“Oh.” If Luke hadn’t known who he was talking to, what kingdom he was standing in, he would’ve thought he heard disappointment in the Mandalorian. “I just thought… The naptime comment…”

Which was maybe why he quickly added, “But I’d like to be, someday. I spend a lot of time around children.” The courtyard was constantly filled with them, little bundles of energy and curiosity running, all flocking to their prince when he had time between royal duties.

“Hmm.”

Luke didn’t know what to think of that.

The Mand’alor, as if remembering this was actually an interrogation, stepped back from the bars and towards the other Mandalorians, clearing his throat, hand falling to his sword’s hilt, the blade hidden inside a sheath of pitch-black leather.

“And what of the danger?” asked Gold. “What did that feel like?”

“Like fear. Deep in your gut. The feeling you get when someone you care about is sick or hurting—” ‘Or dying’, he didn’t want to say, worried how the Mandalore would react. “—and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Like I said, it felt cold.”

“Have you ever felt something like that before?”

Luke shook his head. “In the spur of the moments, I’ll get warnings. But never out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. And never about someone I hadn’t met before.”

Both the Mand’alor and Gold seemed to be in deep concentration, absorbing all that Luke had told them and strategizing on what to do next. But Green, he incredulously glanced between the two fellow Mandalorians. “You’re kidding me, right? We’re actually taking the word of this Jetii?”

“Got any better ideas?” asked Gold.

“Yeah. Not taking his word.”

“Why else would he be here? Would he risk his life to tell us lies?”

“Would he be willing to kill himself?” added the Mand’alor.

“Because he’s a Jetii! A child snatcher!” That was a myth the Mandalorians had long believed, mistaking the Sith — who took any Force sensitive children without care for either the child or the parents’ welfare — for the Jedi, back in the days of old. But the Sith hadn’t been a real civilization worthy of mention in decades, the Rule of Two having dwindled their numbers before Anakin Skywalker finally finished the job. No children had been ‘snatched’ in any of the Mandalorians’ lifetimes. “He sensed the kid’s powers and came here to take him for himself!”

Luke opened his mouth to defend himself, but the Mand’alor beat him to it. “No!” Luke did flinch this time, surprised by the fury — the fire — radiating from the silver king. But not as startled as the Mand’alor himself appeared, stilling instantly, as if he hadn’t meant to say anything, but it just came out of him. “No,” he repeated, quieter but more even-tempered. Assured. He hadn’t meant to say it, everyone knew, but he had, and there was no going back now. “We shouldn’t punish him for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“He trespassed,” deadpanned Green.

“Yes, he did. And for this he will spend the remainder of his time on Mand’alor imprisoned. Unless,” a silver helmet turned to Luke, “he can prove himself more useful than he has so far.”

Luke gulped.

Gold spoke up, almost reluctantly, “But what about trespassing into the castle? While, yes, trespassing on Mandalorian soil accounts for a limited imprisonment, he snuck into your person wing, Sir. Admitted his intentions to take the prince. That’s grounds for an execution.”

A war raged inside that helmet of silver. For some reason, the Mand’alor wanted Luke here. Alive. But he didn’t have the grounds nor the support to keep him in either state.

Luke offered, “It’s alright. I understand.”

Every helmet turned to him.

“Understand what?” asked Gold.

“I committed a crime. I must be held accountable for it in accordance with Mandalorian law.”

“You…” The Mand’alor spoke. “You are fine with being executed?”

Luke shrugged, far more casually than he felt. But this was already longer than he’d expected to live just a few hours prior. Artoo was on his way back to Naboo, the Mandalorians having let him go. And—“As long as the Child is protected, my mission here is done.” What is, is. The burning horror branding his chest was irrelevant. “Death comes for us all eventually.”

“But we don’t know that,” the Mand’alor for some reason pleaded to Luke, as though he was the man behind bars rather than the man holding the bars’ keys. “We don’t know the Child’s safe. If the Force—”

“The farce,” spat Green. Luke rolled his eyes.

The Mand’alor ignored him. “—thinks this Jedi is my son’s best chance, then I say let him stay. At least until next season has passed. No one would dare attack during a Mandalorian winter. But once the snow melts, let us see if this threat is real. Should a decent amount of time pass and the Child remains unthreatened,” the Mand’alor’s hand around his hilt tightened, “we execute the Jedi. But I’d rather regret letting the Jedi live, than regret letting the Jedi die.” Green wanted to argue back, but the Mand’alor silenced him effectively by saying, “My son’s life is worth a little regret, wouldn’t you say, Fett?”

Fett didn’t verbally respond, but instead bowed his green head obediently.

The Mand’alor turned to Gold. “Cody?”

Cody bowed his gold head. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good.”

“But,” said Cody, “the people can’t know about this. If word gets out a Jetii is amongst us, it could cause problems. More than a few assassination attempts. Perhaps even a riot.”

“What do you suggest? He can’t pass as Mandalorian.”

Cody looked at Luke, eyeing him from head to toe, and Luke fisted his hands so nails bit into flesh painfully, even through gloves, fighting the urge to squirm. “He’s pretty. Why not dress him up? Make him seem like an ambassador or prince from some local kingdom, trying to make peace.”

Fett snorted. “When’s the last time another kingdom was stupid enough to send over an ambassador, vod?”

The Mand’alor paused, before speaking up, “Why not Tatooine?”

Luke barked a laugh, surprised.

The other Mandalorians were just as shocked. “Tatooine?” repeated Fett. “The Hutts don’t bother sending over ambassadors to anyone, not unless you’re a drug lord. And, even then, I don’t think sex-slaves count as ambassadors.”

“Exactly,” said the Mand’alor. “No one’s heard of a Tatooine ambassador, so no one knows what to expect.”

“Blond hair,” Cody observed, seemingly taking the Mand’alor’s recommendation seriously. “Tan skin. He might pass as a Tatooine native.”

“Actually,” said Luke, a strange giddiness arising. His Tatooine heritage was something he was extremely proud of, despite the way his Naboo heritage looked down upon it. “My father was born in Tatooine.”

“Can you fake a convincing Tatooine accent?” Cody asked.

Luke smiled from to ear-to-ear, impossible to hide from the Mandalorians. But he didn’t care. Finally, all of his skills — not just his royalty and knight-ship, both handed to him more than earned, but his Jedi skills and the skills he learnt in the Tatooine desert, helping Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on their farm, growing life in a climate determined to kill it, shooting womp rats away from the grain storage, flying through Tusken Territory on Artoo as silent as he was fast — would be put to use. Finally, all of him was going to be useful, his traits not to be hidden, but to be proud of.

He could finally help others to the best of his abilities.

Both he and the child were going to make it out of this alive. Everything would be okay. He going home at the end of this.

But little did he know, beneath the Mand’alor’s helmet, he was smiling too.

And for very, very different reasons.

Chapter Text

Din closed the door quickly behind him, leaning his back against it. Or rather, collapsing against it, his breathing heavy, heart thudding behind his chest piece; he worried it’d break through the beskar. He ripped his helmet off and tossed it aside like filth. But somehow, it made his suffocating worse.

‘This couldn’t be happening.’

In the same day he found a stranger tiptoeing through his personal wing, mere feet away from his son’s nursery, black gloved hand outstretched towards the door’s handle before Din caught him, It decided to speak up. After months of blessed, beautiful silence, It chose then to distract him, so the mysterious stranger escaped through the window (The window! Who jumps out of a window over forty stories high and survives?), only to get caught on the Holy Cliffs where he tried to sacrifice himself the same way the First King did: eyes closed and arms spread wide. But Din caught him. Din caught him because It told him to.

The first time It spoke was two years after Din had found and rescued his child (The mysterious, vicious, magical creature he’d been hired to kill on behalf of an anonymous benefactor. And while his bounty did turn out to be a mysterious, magical creature, he was one as vicious as a goose-feathered pillow, and just as soft and cuddly too. Not to mention, was a literal child!) when Din was faced with a horrible crisis.

He wasn’t a true son of Mandalore. He was a foundling, taken in by a Mandalorian cult of zealots who believed their helmets were to remain on at all times, or else the evil spirits of the world would infiltrate their souls like they had the other Mandalorians. Din knew better, of course, having met one of those evil spirits he now called his son. And perhaps his cult was right and he was compromised; what was love if not an infiltration of the heart? Din just didn’t care anymore.

But due to the harboring of his child, his cult outcasted him, and Din found out how cruel the world truly was to a Mandalorian when neither his cult nor the Mandalorian Kingdom (a hell hole in-of-itself, there being no official Mand’alor in two generations, so the land was shrouded in chaos and battling clans and sanctions) granted him sanctuary. Din and his son were alone, and they wouldn’t survive much longer.

That’s when he heard it. In the middle of Visla Forest where the First King was said to have sleighed the mythosaur, Razor (Din’s horse) was resting as the child floated carrots towards his mouth and the horse happily munched on them, when Din heard it. Whispering. Purring.

He left the child with Razor, which should’ve been his first clue something was wrong, that he wasn’t in his right mind, because when had Din left the child out of his sight willingly before?

But he did, following the alluring whispers, the sounds of thousands of soft, incoherent voices. And the closer he got, the louder the whispering became. The more coherent. Thousands of voices began to merge into one. By the time he made it to the mythosaur skull, the voice was clear and concise.

It sounded like Din’s.

He stood in a clearing, a perfect circle of trees surrounding him, green grass with white and purple wildflowers sprinkled throughout — a rushing brook sounded somewhere near but out of sight, one that shouldn’t have existed in this forest — sunlight shining onto the gigantic mythosaur skull like a beacon, where a sword with a pitch-black blade sat embedded between the two eye sockets.

‘Come closer,’ he heard his voice speak to him, emanating from the mythosaur skull. But it sounded off. Unnatural. Like an echo trapped within his own skull’s boundaries.

Still, Din obeyed, walking towards it with no hesitation or fear.

‘Take the hilt in your hand.’

He climbed atop the mythosaur skull, using its tusks as a stepping stool. The silver hilt was etched with intricate details. He wrapped his hands around it, the metal cool to the touch, even through the thickness of his gloves.

‘Pull, my King.’

Din thudded his head against the door, the Dark Sword he’d pulled out of the skull now sitting heavy at his hip, where it had for the past three long years.

He’d do almost anything to go back in time and prevent himself from pulling the sword out of the skull and unintentionally branding himself Mand’alor. But it was no use. The sword had whispered and nagged him until he was on the brink of insanity, and Din had no option but to go to Mand’alor, claim the throne, and rebuild the once powerful empire into a kingdom worthy of its ancestors.

He hadn’t heard It speak since.

There were upsides to being Mand’alor. His son was protected under his title of prince, despite former Mandalorian law forbidding those of magical origins. And, over time, his people had learned to love him as Din had, the child’s likeability and cuteness a spell no mortal was immune to.

But while life in the castle was far more enjoyable for a kid than life in the dangerous wilderness, it wasn’t for Din. Politics weren’t his thing, much less diplomacy. And regardless of his constant attempts to lose the Dark Sword to a more worthy adversary, a more worthy adversary simply didn’t exist. He was challenged, naturally, a non-native king with a magical son being highly controversial. But Din was honor bound as a Mandalorian to fight to the best of his abilities, and every time he was challenged, he won. And Din, begrudgingly, was a good king. He’d brought peace and stability within the kingdom, exuded strength and dignity, was a force his people respected and outsiders feared. And his total distaste for power made him even more beloved because what was more Mandalorian than setting your own desires aside to serve and protect his clan?

But now the man was here. The stranger. The Jedi.

His son was a Jedi, or would’ve been, were their culture not extinct. And his powers were growing beyond control. The child never willingly used them, didn’t know how to. Instead, the Force erupted from him in times of extreme emotions, ranging from happiness to toddler-tantrum anger. He unintentionally broke things and hurt people (never too seriously, but Paz still limped when he thought no one was looking), and it broke Din’s heart to watch his son burst into tears, scared and guilty for an ability he couldn’t control.

How terrible, to be afraid of yourself.

So, this should’ve been good. Din had been looking for a Jedi to help take care of his son before the Dark Sword came into his life. But the Jedi wasn’t here to teach or nurture his abilities. He came because Din’s son — the light of his life — his whole heart — his whole soul — was in danger from an unknown entity, so powerful and alarming the last known remaining Jedi was willing to break into the land most hostile towards his kind, and kill himself over it.

Over Din’s son.

Din slid to the ground, head hanging between his knees.

Its voice rang clear when Din saw the Jedi at the Holy Cliffs, when he realized what the man in black was planning as he slowly inched close to the edge.

Din hadn’t known he was a Jedi yet, hadn’t spoken a word to him. All he’d seen was dirty blonde hair, almost golden in the sunlight, and eyes the sky would’ve envied, staring wide and startled before the man hastily lifted his hood back over his face. Then the others came, and the man sweetly calmed his horse. (His gods-damned horse! When he himself was moments from death!)

‘He’s perfect,’ It said.

And Din, still stuck on blue eyes hidden behind black fabric, couldn’t help but agree.

Then he remembered why they were here, who’d the man had almost gotten to, almost taken, and his grip on his reins tightened, urging Razor forwards and into the Jedi’s space.

The following conversation was a whirlwind. At first, Din was convinced the man was an assassin from a warring kingdom (which was every kingdom; while Mandalore hadn’t officially declared war with anyone in Din’s reign, they were all enemies). But as the interrogation went on, Din was less and less convinced, until finally he was absolutely certain the man wasn’t here to harm the child.

He was here to help.

It agreed, oozing its approval of the Jedi into Din, affecting him in ways Din hadn’t known It could. It warmed his bones. Calmed his mind. Entranced him further regarding the Jedi with raised apologetic arms and feet too close to the cliff’s edge.

Din’s heart stopped when the Jedi’s heel hung off, no earth under it.

‘He is a powerful warrior,’ It spoke, making it hard for Din to focus on whatever the Jedi was saying; something about him being comforted the child was safe in Mandalore. ‘He has the lineage of queens and knights. Has known the touch of gold and blood. He would make a great consort for a great king.’

His stomach burned delightfully at the idea, images flashing behind Din’s eyes of the Jedi, of blue eyes and blonde hair, sitting beside him in the throne room. Lying beside him in bed.

Lying beneath him in bed.

Din startled alert again. What was he thinking? He hadn’t had fantasies like that in a long, long time, since before he’d become a hunter for his cult and those kinds of selfish desires were carved out of him. And over a Jedi of all people…

A Jedi who was about to die.

It hadn’t as much whispered this time as it had screamed.

‘SAVE HIM!’

Pure instinct had Din jumping off Razor, snatching the fabric of the Jedi’s tunic and pulling him close. Closer than necessary, he realized only as flesh touched metal, the Jedi — futilely struggling against Din’s grip, the hood falling back down so his face was fully visible again, sparking that same warmth in Din’s stomach — squished against him, breath fogging Din’s visor.

The Jedi found Din's eyes effortlessly.

Impossibly.

The interrogation in the dungeon had been even worse. Din was frantic with worry for his son and with anger for who ever threatened him. And on top of that, with conflicting attraction and trust for the Jedi. So, he’d asked Fett to accompany him, knowing his hatred towards Jedi after his father had been killed by one, and also called for Cody, knowing he had a particular affinity towards the Naboo Kingdom due to his respect (crush) for Knight Kenobi. They’d be a good balance; the angel and devil on Din’s shoulders, so to speak.

Din tried to come off as intimidating, tapping into his burning rage for those who’d take his son from him, who’d do gods know what to him. But it was hard. The Jedi was so kind, so open. There was an obvious desperation in him to help. Why couldn’t he had been unbearably cocky and proud like most men as handsome as him were, so Din stood a chance against his darling charms?

‘Do not underestimate him,’ It said, as Fett prattled on about baby snatchers or something. ‘There is strength beneath that kindness, the likes Mandalore has never bared witness to. The likes the world has never bared witness to. He is the most powerful warrior in the galaxy, and you would be wise to brandish such a weapon. Not sheath it.’

A pity this weapon was so willing to die.

If Din wasn’t wearing a helmet, he’d be pulling his hair out. Every time he tried to protect the Jedi, the Jedi chivalrously (stupidly) offered himself up for sacrifice. It was a stroke of luck Din came up with Tatooine for the Jedi’s fake origin story, a desert land Din had visited twice in his life (twice too many), and that the Jedi had ancestry there.

A strange combination: Naboo and Tatooine. As opposite as two lands could be. One soft and lively, one harsh and barren.

But, for reasons Din couldn’t fully grasp, they both suited the Jedi, like how both the sun and the moon suited the sky.

“What’s your name, kid?” he’d overheard Cody ask the Jedi, as he and Fett began walking up the dungeon stairs.

“Han,” the Jedi answered. “Han… Bolo.”

That was good to know; the Jedi was a terrible liar.

After a debriefing with Din’s trusted council, and a hefty berating from Bo Katan, Din finally escaped to his chambers, where he sat now, head between his knees, helmet tossed aside. Confused and frustrated.

His son was having his daily private lessons and Din didn’t want to disturb him, not when the kid was well attuned to his emotions and would pick up on Din’s distress. But how desperately he wanted to hold his little boy, to know he was okay and to promise he was going to stay okay.

He also, shockingly, horrifically, wanted to hold the Jedi too.

Gods, what was he going to do?

Chapter Text

“Here are the rules.”

Luke straightened the poncho they gave him, reminiscent of the brown one he wore in Tatooine, although made from far better quality fabric that didn’t leave rashes anywhere it touched bare skin, and it was deep, beautiful navy. He’d mentioned when handed it that Tatooine doesn’t have any colorful dyes, just shades of beige, to which he was quickly informed that, yes, Tatooine actually does. Those associated with Jabba the Hutt always wore clothes with imported dyes to signify their wealth and status. Luke had never met the infamous cruel glutton nor any of his associates, so he accepted his blue poncho and tight lighter blue pants and fine leather boots, the likes of which Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru could never afford, along with a conical hat he thought was a bit much considering it was winter in Mandalore, but he didn’t comment on it this time. He was on thin ice already.

It was still early in the morning, but Mandalorians, it seemed, were early risers. As Sir Cody led Luke through the courtyard — unlike Naboo’s immaculate marbles and golden accents, with sunlight pouring in from everywhere and trees of cherry blossom and banisters of silk, Mandalore’s was made from grey stones and black bricks, decorated with burgundy flags and rugs and dark wooden tables designated for the market vendors setting up, the walls lined in torches since the winter sky blocked the sun, warming Luke every time they passed one — the pair of them gained attention from every eye. The Mand’alor was right; Luke would stand out, no matter how they dressed him. He fought the urge to take off the hat.

“Number one: the hand cuffs stay on unless you are in the presence of the Mand’alor,” Cody listed off, “but keep them hidden from the people. If they know you’re a prisoner, they’ll get suspicious. Number two: you are to go nowhere beyond your chambers unescorted. There will be guards posted outside your doors. If you need to go somewhere, you inform one of them, and they will request for you an escort, and if granted permission — you may be refused — the Mand’alor will personally assign you one. Number three: you are not to speak unless spoken to. Number four: if spoken to by a member outside of the Mand’alor’s personal council, you will be given a list of approved topics of conversation. Do not stray outside of them and try to stick to simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. If the question does not pertain to any of the approved topics, your escort will come up with an excuse and usher you away. Number five,” Cody stopped walking for this one, turning around to face Luke so he was forced to stop too; the golden sheen of his helmet reminded Luke too much of the Naboo knights, too much of Obi-Wan, and his heart ached for home, “you are never to meet the prince.”

Luke’s nose scrunched. “But how am I supposed to protect him if I’m not allowed—”

“If you get within even ten yards of him,” Cody paused to symbolize the direness, with a hint of compassion on Luke’s behalf, “you will be executed on sight. Understood?”

Luke sighed. Only being allowed to use the Force while in the Mand’alor’s presence (which Luke figured wouldn’t be often; he knew from experience kings and queens were busy people) and never being allowed to meet the Child was going to make Luke’s job protecting him a lot harder. Near impossible. Perhaps he could convince the Mand’alor with time to trust him. But time, he worried, wasn’t a luxury they could afford.

“Understood, Sir.”

A huff of air escaped the helmet, which Luke thought might’ve been a slight laugh. “You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’, kid. Cody will do.”

“But you’re a knight?”

“Yes. But this isn’t Naboo. We don’t have all the rules and etiquette your people do. You can call me Cody. Do yourself a favor, though, and don’t call anybody by their name unless they’ve given it to. Names are a very personal, sacred matter on Mandalore.”

Luke nodded, wondering what the Mand’alor’s name was, while also knowing he’d never be permitted to speak it. “Yes, Si—Cody. Thank you for the advice.”

Cody waited a moment, his emotions impenetrable thanks to Luke’s cuffs and the beskar helmet. It was strange. Luke hadn’t realized how much he depended on the Force to read other people’s feelings until then, until he’d realized he’d lost a lifetime’s worth of instinct over body language in just three years’ time. “Don’t…” Cody hesitated, and the hairs on Luke’s neck rose; he’d said something wrong, or at least something that’d made Cody upset. But what or why, he hadn’t a clue. “…mention it, kid. Really.”

They walked in complete silence after that, Cody escorting him to his chambers. Expecting the bare minimum, perhaps a broom closet with a rotting old mattress thrown in, the stunning chambers he’d been brought to stole Luke’s breath. A roaring ivory fireplace. Stained glass windows. A canopy bed even bigger than his at home, with thick burgundy velvet blankets and curtains, and plush white goose-feather pillows. Gorgeous tapestries hung on the walls. Intricate woven rugs. A dark walnut dining table and chairs, with a matching desk sitting in the corner by the window. They’d given him chambers fit for a prince, and they didn’t even know he was one.

“What were you expecting?” asked Cody, after giving Luke a minute to bask in it all. “Another dungeon?”

“No.” Yes. “I just… I hadn’t… This is…”

“You’re supposed to be an ambassador, Han.” Luke winced at the name, hoping his discomfort wasn’t obvious. He couldn’t have come up with an alias better than his sister’s secret lover? (His parents could never find out she was in love with a petty thief and smuggler; she was the Crown Princess, destined to marry the prince of Alderaan. It was ironic that the one thing the whole kingdom could afford — true love — was the one thing its royalty couldn’t.) “People would be suspicious if we didn’t treat you like one.”

“And what exactly will my duties entail—”

A harsh knock on the door worthy of a battering ram startled Luke, though Cody casually walked over to it, opening it to show Sir Fett with hands on his sword hilt like he was expecting to find Cody dead and challenge Luke to a vengeance duel. “Mand’alor needs you,” he said to Cody.

There hadn’t been any guards at the door before, but now Luke could see them, two by the sides of the doors, two across, and it was a safe assumption there were more lingering in the hall. He found the number of guards both intimidating and a compliment.

Cody gave one last look to Luke, and Luke hoped his expression resembled the Jedi Master he wanted to be, and not the scared, naïve boy he knew he was. Whatever Cody saw, after a brisk nod goodbye, he followed Fett out of the room, and the door closed shut with a sharp click.

Luke was locked in.

His foot wouldn’t stop bouncing. It echoed through the throne room, the soft small talk of Din’s personal council imperceivable to him amongst the clatter of his leather sole shoes atop polished grey tile. Or maybe the whisperings of It were what was drowning them out, flooding Din’s senses with anxiety and an overwhelming urge to do something. Anything but sit here, useless. Waiting.

His son was in danger.

A Jedi lived amongst them.

And to think just yesterday his biggest worry had been Clan Shale’s inner dispute over which breed of grains to plant come spring.

Finally, Cody and Fett walked in. They both gave their respecting bows, Cody adding another nod afterwards to let Din know everything had gone fine with the Jedi. Din had ordered the Jedi be roomed in the chambers directly below his own, his excuse being so he could hear him easily in case he tried to escape out a window again. It had nothing to do with the chambers below his being the third finest in the palace, coming after only his and son’s in terms of luxuries. Or the fact that the Jedi being below him meant Din would be able to hear if any dangers arose, and their closeness would also mean he’d be able to come to the Jedi’s rescue should need be.

Din sighed, the desire to rub his hands over his face overwhelming, his helmet obnoxiously in his way. Why would the Jedi need Din’s rescuing? He knew the legends. Heard the rumors about Jedi warriors. What could Din have to offer him?

A hot, searing anger washed over him. How incompetent he was! King of the most fearsome warriors in all the lands, and he couldn’t even protect his own son better than a stranger? Than an ancient enemy?

‘Patience’, It cooed at him, and Din hated to admit it, but It did calm him down, like a cool rag on the forehead during a fever. ‘Your time will come to prove yourself, to both your kingdom and the Jedi. He shall see your skill. He shall see you shine, My King, and he shall bask in your glow.’

Din closed his eyes, imagining the Jedi kneeling at the base of the throne, open admiration painted upon his face, more gorgeous than any makeup dared be. Din would tell him to rise, to not dirty the precious silks he’d given him to wear: clothes fitting of a royal consort. And the Jedi would, smiling like the sun in summer, hands calloused from years of battle reaching to lift the bottom of Din’s helmet ever so, only so his mouth was bare, and the Jedi would lean forward and—

Din slammed his foot down, demanding that it’d stop bouncing and that whatever illusion It was feeding to him would stop. Why would a Mandalorian weapon — mysteriously sentient but Din long accepted the fact that magic and Mandalore was a tapestry too interwoven to unravel, years of laws forbidding magic no match for centuries of history — would want a Jedi Master as Din’s spouse? Yes, he was powerful and beautiful and kind. But he was a Jedi. A Jetii. His people would never accept him as a mere guest to the kingdom, much less a consort to their king.

The ricocheting of his foot’s slam had caught the attention of all in the throne room, their quiet chatter silencing. Pretending that was why he’d slammed his foot, he spoke, “What were the scouts’ findings?”

Paz stepped forward, Din’s oldest friend and, for a long time, his only friend. He’d left the cult when Din took the throne, it being his clan that’d forged the Dark Sword and therefore, his ancestors must have given Din their blessings for him to have found it in the first place.

“The Jetii might have some validity in his claims,” Paz said, and Din knew how much it pained his friend to admit that. “They found tracks just outside of the Mandicore’s Cavern,” an underground rock cavern that had once hosted the Mandicore — half Mandalorian human, half unicorn — a wise creature who could predict the future; this was his undoing, after he predicted the Mand’alor the First would die shamed, so the Mand’alor had him hunted down and executed him for this profanity, only for a the Mandicore’s predictions to come true a few decades later. “They’d done a good job. Used horseshoes crafted to appear like deer tracks. But they were too deep, and they missed a few piles of horse droppings too. I’d say there were at least a dozen of them camping there. But no sign of them now, I’m afraid. Fresh snow buried the tracks before we could track them beyond our territories.”

“How do we know,” said Bo Katan, standing closer to Din’s right, “that the party wasn’t friends of the Jetii’s?”

“The Jedi was found in the Holy Cliffs,” Cody spoke up. “That’s a two days’ ride.”

Fett said, “But he could’ve been at the Mandicore’s Cavern before he broke in to the castle.”

“Unlikely. Why would he ride in a direction he wasn’t sure of? Everyone knows Mandalore is rife with elemental dangers.” Quicksand in the north. Fire geysers in the south. It was rumored a few mythosaurs still roamed Visla Forest, lurking amongst the moss and boulders, waiting for their revenge. There was a reason all Mandalorians lived in Sundari. It was the only area habitable for human life. “Even cornered, a Jedi Knight wouldn’t be stupid enough to travel through our uncharted lands.”

“Not to mention,” said Rex, Cody’s twin brother and the general of Din’s army, “the Mandicore’s Cavern connects to the Beskar mines. The Jedi’s powers would be rendered useless. He’d never camp there.”

“Which confirms my theory,” snapped Paz, annoyed he’d been doubted in the first place. “Someone was in our territories, watching us. And whatever they were watching us for, they found it and left.”

Din’s head ached from the pressure. Someone was here, in his land, and they’d gotten away without a scratch on them. The dishonor: it was enough to make his blood boil, bones itching for vicious retaliation. “General, I want troops lining the borders. And not just the usual checkpoints. I want a wall of Mandalorian warriors around our entire perimeter.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Rex bowed, thumping his balled fist to his chest. “I’ll have ten troops shipped out within the hour. Fifty by end day.”

“Paz, I want search parties in every territory.”

Even with his armor on, Din could see Paz stiffen. “Every territory? Even…?” He drifted off, not wanting to speak the only area forbidden in Mandalore’s name.

“Yes,” Din confirmed, harsher so Paz wouldn’t talk back twice. They weren’t equals in the cult anymore. “Every territory. No exceptions.”

It was belated, but eventually Paz bowed. “Yes, My Lord.”

After a few more orders — Bo Katan was to make contact with her foreign spies, Cody to tighten security around the palace, Fett to announce and enforce curfew for the townspeople — Din dismissed the council, anxious to empty the room so he could restlessly pace around in peace, gather his thoughts into a semblance of sanity.

But one person lingered.

“Something to say, Cody?”

“The Jedi.” Cody walked closer to the throne, his caution in his steps making Din sit straighter. “He’s… not what I expected Jedi to be like.”

Wide, beautiful, terrified blue eyes came to Din’s mind. “No. He’s not.”

“He’s soft. Kind.”

“Maybe.”

“You think he’s pretending?”

Din could tell by Cody’s tone that he didn’t think so. And honestly, neither did Din. But he’d learned a long time ago trust was something to be earned. Never freely given. Like respect. “I think he’s a stranger, and it’d be best to keep a suspicious eye on him.”

“He’s a Jedi. Do you truly think keeping a suspicious eye on him will work?”

“No. But if I’m going to be stabbed in the back, I’d rather it at least not be a surprise.”

Cody hummed, not agreeing with Din, but acknowledging him.

Din sighed. “Just say it, Cody.”

“I… There’s something about him, Sir. Something familiar. Almost like I’d met him before. Or someone very much like him.”

Cody’s blatant confusion worried Din more than Paz’s confirmations they were being spied upon. Cody was always cautious — its why Din had him take charge of the palace security, because he knew his son would heavily protected in thanks to Cody, almost too heavily — but never confused. Hesitant. Baffled.

“I don’t mean this in a bad way,” Cody continued. “Just… strange.”

“He’s lying about his identity.”

Cody snorted. “Obviously. Han Bolo? Isn’t that the name of that smuggler Jabba the Hutt has a bounty on?”

That’s why the name was so familiar. Jabba put out the second highest bounty payment in Tatooine history. If it wasn’t for Mandalore’s hatred of the slaver, he knew half of their hunters would be out looking for—“Solo. Not Bolo.”

Cody snapped his fingers. “Right! Han Solo! Stole a whole shipment of pleasure herbs from Jabba. Bold move for a small operation.”

“Stupid move.”

“Almost as stupid as taking his name.”

“Do you think there’s any relation between them?” A spark of jealousy fired in Din.

And even after Cody said, “No. Doesn’t seem like the kind of friend the Jedi would keep. He’d probably just heard the name, being of Tatooine descent,” the spark didn’t go away. “But it does beg the question—”

“What’s the Jedi’s real name.”

“And why doesn’t he want us to know it. If no one’s ever heard of him, giving us his real name shouldn’t matter.”

“Meaning he’s somewhat well known.” Din hadn’t thought of that. Rumors of surviving Jedi had faded into myth. It was presumed those who’d Anakin Skywalker hadn’t managed to find and slaughter were so well hidden, they’d never be found, doomed to be hermits who were once hailed heroes. For their Jedi to be a prominent figure while also secretly a Jedi Knight seemed an unlikely scenario. Impossible.

Yet a lot of things about the Jedi were impossible.

“If he is,” said Cody, “then someone’s probably looking for him. Either as a worried family or lover,” the spark burned unbearably hotter, “or as a bounty.”

The Dark Sword hissed at his side. ‘Don’t,’ It warned. ‘Let the Jedi tell you himself, or lest this be perceived as a betrayal of trust.’

Clearly, It hadn’t known Din as well as It thought It did. Trust wasn’t to be freely given. “Send your cousin Hunter’s troop to investigate it. Discretely.”

“Discretely?” Cody incredulously repeated. “The Bad Batch?”

Din knew it was a lot to ask of the rambunctious group, but gods-damn if they weren’t the most effective thieves (in stealing both goods and information) and, more often than not, assassins in the world. What they lacked in subtly, they made up for in aptitude. “I want this done well. And I know they’ll keep the purpose of their mission to themselves.” The only thing Mandalorians enjoyed more than fighting, and eating, and fucking, was gossiping. And with the Bad Batch not being well liked amongst the people, having a certain rebellious disposition towards tradition, there wasn’t anyone for them to gossip with except each other. “Have then start in Tatooine, since the Jedi claims to have family origins there. Then work their way north to Naboo.”

He ignored the growing loudness of It’s complaining as Cody left the throne room, the sword insisting Din had made a mistake. He should leave the Jedi be. All would be well if he was just patient and waited for the Jedi to freely give his identity.

But — Din stood, finally able to pace like the caged tiger he felt he was — there wasn’t time for that. He was placing his son’s life in this man’s hands. How was he supposed to do that contentedly if he didn’t even know the man’s real name?

And, again, it had nothing to do how desperately he wanted the intimacy of it, to carve the Jedi’s true name on his tongue, to whisper it in bed like a secret, moan it like a sin.

No.

Nothing to do with that.

The screams were the first sign.

He stormed from the palace, rushing down the stairs and into the open courtyard where the commotion came from. A crowd had encircled whatever it was, the people gasping and whispering and crying. He ripped his way through, too quickly for the people to recognize him and step aside like they would’ve in any other situation, subjects tumbling to the ground as he made it to the front.

The horse was naked. No saddle. No bridle. No sign he’d ever had a rider aside his shoes that were always kept in pristine condition, dirtied and outgrown. Scrapes lined his body, from either branches and bristles of nature or the tips of man-made blades; he wasn’t sure.

But one thing he was sure about.

This was his son’s horse, and his son would never abandon him unless there was no alternative. Unless he was captured…

Or dead.

The people silenced their talking and crying to stare intently at him, awaiting the fury he’d grown infamous for.

But they wouldn’t get it.

That fury was to be bottled up, saved for whoever dared lay a hand on his precious son. His darling, precious sunlight. Hell was about to be unleashed, the likes of which King Palpatine couldn’t have dreamed to concoct, which would’ve left any Sith Lord trembling from the might and mayhem and pure, rampant viciousness.

He knew where he was going. There was only one kingdom so brazen to challenge him, that had the resources or the audacity to kidnap a child of Naboo.

Anakin Skywalker was headed to Mandalore.

Chapter Text

Almost a fortnight had passed, and Luke was growing antsy. His days consisted of being served a luxurious breakfast (far spicier than anything served in Naboo and Luke loved it; it reminded him of Tatooine) in his chambers, and then a curt walk around the palace grounds with the Mand’alor and Cody, his beskar cuffs removed so he could investigate the territory with the Force. There was never conversation besides Luke confirming he felt no threatening presence nearby. But a rock was growing in the pit of his stomach, becoming heavier and heavier with each passing moment.

Something was looming, something dark, like a raincloud trudging its way through the sky agonizingly and tauntingly slow. But he could never sense it up close, so for now, it was a vague feeling the Mandalorian nor Luke could act upon.

Then it was lunch, which he also ate alone in his chambers, another walk with the Mand’alor and Cody — this time outside of Sundari’s borders and into the surrounding woodlands — and then dinner by himself, another walk around the courtyard, and bed.

Luke had begun to dread his chambers. He knew every crook and cranny of it now, had counted every tile, every brick, every woodgrain in the furniture, every slightly pulled thread of fabric in his linens and curtains. Usually, he handled solitude better than this, like he had when he trained with Master Yoda, but his disconnection from the Force was unbearable. He couldn’t meditate to calm his mind and ground himself. He felt like a ghost, a severed spirit haunting the halls of Mandalore.

He felt useless.

The Mand’alor would grow bored of him soon, Luke was sure. And having not served a purpose, there would be no staving off execution this time. Luke kicked his bedpost, groaning when something in his toe cracked, but he found himself not regretting it. The pain was the most eventful thing to happen since arriving in Mandalore.

A knock at his door startled him. He looked to the window, checking the shadows cast upon the courtyard below; it wasn’t dinnertime yet.

He limped slightly to the door, straightening himself and his clothes into someone he hoped resembled the Jedis of legend, and said, “Come in.”

Immediately, he knew it wasn’t Cody. The door opened too slowly, cracking a little bit, as if waiting for Luke to suddenly change his mind and demand whoever they were leave, before finally opening the door all the way, and Luke stumbled backwards, shocked to see the Mand’alor. He never approached Luke’s chambers; Cody was who came and brought Luke to wherever their walk with the Mand’alor would begin. And never had he and the Mand’alor been alone.

He gulped.

The Mand’alor just stood there, arms hanging awkwardly at his side, fingers fidgeting like he was used to holding something in these scenarios, probably his sword, the silver helmet facing Luke, but Luke had a strange feeling the Mand’alor was avoiding looking at him directly.

“Can I help y—?” Luke started.

“You’re coming with me.” And just like that, the Mand’alor turned around and walked out.

Luke blinked, gaping. Then he got a hold of himself and rushed to where a green poncho hung on a chair. Hopping towards where the Mand’alor had disappeared while putting both boots on, he just caught the glimmer of silver disappearing into another hallway to the right, and hurried to catch up. The Mand’alor was walking fast. Determined. He would’ve thought he was trying to lose him if it wasn’t for the fact the Mandalorian wouldn’t dare let a Jedi roam his city unchaperoned.

It was strange without Cody. They walked in silence like usual, but it was charged now, an energy Cody’s sturdy yet kind presence wasn’t here to absorb. Luke wanted to ask where they were going, but he controlled himself, knowing the Mand’alor would tell him if he needed to know.

But once they made it to the stables, half a dozen Mandalorians waiting for them atop steeds, Luke couldn’t help it. “Where are we going?”

The Mand’alor roughly grabbed the chain linking Luke’s hands. Luke stumbled forward as the Mandalorian placed his wrists on a blacksmith’s anvil. Before Luke could open his mouth to ask what was happening, the large blue armored Mandalorian Luke had seen that first day at the cliff slammed a pickaxe onto the handcuffs’ chains. The sound of metal hitting metal filled the stable, it taking three solid blows that could’ve easily chopped a hundred-year-old oak tree down to split the beskar chains. The ringing in his ears didn’t stop, even after the blue Mandalorian set the axe down and Luke’s hands were no longer bound to each other.

The collar of his poncho was grabbed, the Mand’alor pulling Luke closer again. “You don’t leave my side,” he said, voice harsher than the pickaxe. “Walk beyond three yards of me, and you’ll be immediately shot.” A blue armored woman (not the one from the cliffs; this woman was much shorter) patted her crossbow for emphasis. They all had crossbows, Luke noticed, except for the Mand’alor. “Understood?”

‘Hard not to,’ he thought. “Yes, Mand’alor.”

The Mand’alor’s grip on Luke’s collar tightened, and for a second, Luke thought he didn’t believe him. But finally, he let go with a little shove towards the grey horse Luke recognized at the Mand’alor’s. “And we ride together.”

“You’re joking.” The last time he rode on a horse with someone else, he was seven years old, his father not trusting him to ride alone despite letting Leia ride solo for over a year at that point.

The Mand’alor stepped into Luke’s space, helmet inches from his face as the prince found himself trapped against the horse. “Do I look like one to joke, Jedi?”

“No, Sir,” Luke said, grateful to the gods his voice hadn’t wobbled. “But, with all your armor and weapons, our combined weight would be over four hundred and fifty pounds. That’s a lot for a horse, Your Highness.”

The Mand’alor patted the horse, his arm grazing Luke’s right ear. “Razor can handle it. Mandalorian horses aren’t like your Naboo thoroughbreds. They’re used to heavier riders.”

Luke almost asked what kind of a name Razor for a horse was, but then he remembered he named his horse Artoo, and quickly closed his jaw with an audible click.

Luke was hefted onto the saddle, forced to sit behind the Mand’alor regardless of his protests. (“Why can’t I sit in front?” “Because I’m leading.” “But I’m shorter. I can’t see over you.” “Good thing you don’t need to see, Jedi.”) Paz had taken the lead with the Mand’alor and Luke right behind him, and the blue armored woman, Reeves, stationed in the back. There were four others between — two green armored, one brown, one burgundy — but they remained quiet in the background.

It wasn’t an easy ride, especially sitting behind someone, having to grapple onto the Mand’alor’s waist, tighter than Luke was comfortable with, but he didn’t have a choice. Their horses were sprinting towards the west, quickly clearing the woodlands and into more barren land, grey, dry dirt that resembled ashes more than earth. Not much was known about Mandalorian territory, except for the fact it was the most ruthless of all the kingdoms’. Dangers at every turn. Monsters. Fire tornados. Quicksand disguised as solid ground. Ghosts disguised as the breeze. Maybe that’s why they were riding so fast.

Luke’s hold around the Mand’alor tightened.

It felt like they’d been traveling for hours; Luke didn’t know for sure. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, the sky unchangingly gloomy and dark grey.

They stopped suddenly, Razor sputtering dirt into the air as she slid to a halt.

“Must’ve taken them months digging this,” said Paz, as everyone dismounted their horses, the Mand’alor jumping off first before he raised his hands towards Luke. It was an oddly intimate gesture, and no one had offered to help him like this since he was a child, but he swung his leg over and let the Mand’alor grab him by the hips to help him down. The instant Luke’s feet were on solid ground, the Mand’alor let go like their touching had burned him. Luke tried not to be offended. They were ancient enemies after all. But the warmth of the Mand’alor’s gloves lingered.

“Gods,” said Reeves, and Luke couldn’t help but agree.

He hadn’t noticed it from afar. The grey horizon blended with grey dirt. But sitting before them over fifty feet below was a ginormous ditch, filled with abandoned tents. It could’ve housed over a hundred men.

“No tracks, obviously,” Paz said, “since the wind and dirt would’ve made quick work of a trail. There’s a ramp, over there, large enough to carry horses and wagons with equipment. Tents large and furnished, posts dug into the dirt to keep them steady. And by the sheer size of it, I think it’s safe to say an army camped here, and had been camping here for some time.”

Luke thought Paz was talking to the Mand’alor, but when he dared look away from the massive army grounds and towards the other Mandalorians, he realized they were all looking at him. Paz was briefing him. “You want me to scope it out,” Luke realized. “Investigate with the Force.”

“Why else would we bother dragging the likes of you out here?” Paz asked, irritated. “It’s like I said, there’s no tracks. No items left behind with any identifiable factors. Whoever was here clearly knew what they were doing.”

As they walked down the ramp, the wind whistling in their ears and dirt scratching Luke’s eyes, Reeves asked, “How did they survive out here for so long? There’s no food or water for miles. And the creatures…” She trailed off.

“What creatures?” Luke asked.

“There aren’t any creatures,” the Mand’alor was quick to interject. “They’re just superstition. An old wives’ tale. And I don’t,” he pointed his finger at Paz, which Luke assumed meant they’d had this conversation before, “want to hear anything more about it.”

The Mand’alor removed the key from his pouch as they finally made it down into the camp, the other Mandalorians pulling their swords from their sheaths, Reeves loading her crossbow.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the Mand’alor said to Luke as he slotted the key into Luke’s right handcuff, and it was then Luke understood the weapons weren’t in preparation for whatever they found in the camp. They were for him.

Luke knew being without the Force was a painful experience, like being imprisoned in isolation, forever separated from the one you loved most. But he’d been growing used to the sensation since living in Mandalore, more used to not having the connection than having it, and every time the Mand’alor unlocked his handcuffs Luke nearly passed out from bliss. He was freed from his prison. The world had meaning and color again.

Even in this barren land with companions armored in beskar, the universe sung with life, with the Force. He could feel the very vibrations of existence, the interconnected web that strung us all together. He could feel the horses waiting for them, the tiny invisible bacteria in the ashy dirt. Could feel the breeze wafting pollen and particles from afar. Could feel the thrumming of everything that was and is and is yet to come.

But what he couldn’t feel was anything that’d identify who’d been in the camp.

They’d all walked through every inch of it, through every pavilion, inspecting the tables and deserted armory racks, the empty abandoned crates, the blacksmith forgery that was impressively built considering how quickly it must’ve been constructed. But there were no signs of life. Luke stretched out with the Force, asking a question it didn’t have an answer to.

“I don’t understand,” he said, the Mand’alor by his side as the others continued to futilely search. “I should be able to sense something.”

“Maybe they’ve been gone for a while,” the Mand’alor replied.

“No, that shouldn’t matter. I’ve been able to sense life from centuries before.” The Ruins of the Fallen Knights evidence of that. He’d stumbled upon it after being chased by bandits outside of Coruscant, hiding behind a statue of a tall man with long, flowing hair. He could sense the spirits of the many Jedi buried there, witnessed their walking around, appearing as alive and real as Luke was, but with an odd light blue sheerness, like glowing ghosts. “But I don’t sense anything here. Nothing. It’s like no one was here at all.”

The Mand’alor heavily sighed, leaning against one of the tables. “You’re certain?” he asked, though he sounded like he already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s only one answer for who camped here.” His helmeted head hung down, defeated. “Mandalorians.”

Luke hadn’t considered that, but it did make the most sense. It explained why he couldn’t sense them and why they’d managed to remain undetected; they looked like everyone else.

But still, it didn’t feel right. “I don’t know,” Luke said. “Something doesn’t—” Then it occurred him, watching the Mand’alor lean against the table. “There’s no benches.”

“What?” asked the Mand’alor, lifting his head to look at Luke.

“There aren’t any benches to sit on. And I don’t remember seeing any beds or cots. No place to put beds and cots either.” All the pavilions were filled with crates or racks for weapons and armor.

The Mand’alor straightened, realizing as he glanced around that Luke was right. His hand went to his sword’s hilt, not pulling it out, but keeping a tight grip on it. “But what does that mean? Why wouldn’t there be benches or beds?”

“I…” The rock in Luke’s stomach grew into a boulder. “I don’t know.”

“That whoever was in charge didn’t let his men rest? That doesn’t make any sense. Men have to rest, or they die.”

“If they don’t go crazy first,” Luke added.

“Maybe they slept on the ground.”

“There’s not enough space for a hundred men to lay around,” not with the crates and the tables.

The Mandalorian sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Well, then maybe they didn’t sleep here. Maybe they have another campground.”

“Maybe,” Luke conceded, but the Mand’alor’s theory sounded weak to both of their ears.

He had a bad feeling about this.

Handcuffed again, the group headed out shortly after, hoping to make it back to the woodlands before dark, but it was too late. The sun was setting, the dark grey sky nearly black, the flat dirt blending with the horizon so it appeared they were engulfed by pure nothingness. The horses wouldn’t go on; they were as frightened as their riders.

The bonfire Reeves made as they set up camp didn’t help to fight the shadows either.

“I hate it here,” grumbled Paz, sitting to the right of the Mand’alor as he scraped his tin plate clean, Luke positioned close to the Mand’alor’s left.

“It’s not called ‘The Cursed Lands’ for no reason,” said Reeves, “di’kut.” Wind that sounded suspiciously like whispers drifted into their small campsite, playing with the bonfire’s flames. Reeves wrapped her blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The Mand’alor aggressively nudged Luke with his elbow. “Eat. Do not waste our resources.”

“Bad enough we wasted a trip taking you here,” the burgundy armored Mandalorian mumbled, the first they’d spoken.

Luke had been pushing around the meat with his fork, trying his hardest to seem like he was eating, burying some of it into the ashy dirt when no one was looking, but it wasn’t enough. “I…” How did he explain this without offending sensitive Mandalorian honor? “I cannot.”

And just as he feared, the Mand’alor was offended. “Why not?”

Paz pitched in bitterly, “Our spices too much for you to handle, little Jetii?”

“No, Sir.” On the contrary. Luke fully intended to smuggle some spices back to Naboo, if he survived. “But as Jedi, I cannot eat meat.”

“I have been to many banquets in Coruscant,” said Reeves, “back when the Jedi were still considered heroes, and I saw many of them east meat.”

That perked Luke’s interest in the smaller woman. She’s seen Jedi? Met Jedi? A Mandalorian? “Well, yes, some Jedi do eat meat. My master, for instance, was a carnivore.” Luke witnessed him eat a live snake raw once, slurped it like soup. Luke vomited immediately, and Yoda made him scrub the whole hut’s floor, Luke being the first person to ever clean the hut’s floor so it took him hours on his hands and knees. “But every Jedi’s abilities are different, and with different levels of ability too. Mine makes me highly empathetic. I can sense another living being’s feelings by touch, even after death.”

“Wait,” Paz said. “You’re saying you can sense the boar’s feeling, even though it’s been dead and gutted and skinned over an hour ago?” Paz had been the one to shoot it while they were still in the woodlands, strapping it onto his horse’s back. It reeked the whole ride there.

“Not its every feeling. But whenever I eat meat, I can sense the way the animal felt when it died. I feel what it felt, the pain, the fear, as if I was the one dying.”

The group was silent, all helmets looking down at their plates, potentially imagining how the boar felt and, therefore, how Luke would’ve felt eating it.

The Mand’alor took Luke’s plate, handing him a small bag from his belt instead. “Dried berries,” he explained. “But don’t eat too much. They’re very sweet.”

Luke couldn’t help but smile a little, the Mand’alor reminding him of Luke’s father, always scolding him on his sweet tooth and warning it’ll give him a “tummy ache”. Even with the Mand’alor’s son miles away, at his core, the king was a father. The thought was sweeter than the berries were.

The night was horrid. Luke drifted here and there, but pressed to closely to the Mand’alor, their shoulders touching — the Mandalorian got angry if Luke rolled away and he couldn’t feel him — the cold of his beskar paired with the unfamiliar feeling of sleeping close to someone kept Luke alert. And amongst the eeriness of foreign, cursed surroundings, he doubted any of them were going to have a good night’s sleep.

It was during his drifting, the strange in-between consciousness of not quite asleep but not quite awake, Luke heard something. His eyes shot open. At first, he thought he dreamt it. The Mand’alor was next to him, breathing deeper and slower than he had earlier, so Luke assumed he was asleep. And the burgundy armored man was on guard duty, standing in attention but unalarmed. Surely, he hadn’t heard anything.

But there it was again, distant somewhere, so much Luke couldn’t tell where it’d come from, but he was certain he heard it. A single flapping noise, like a flag in the wind or the dusting of a blanket. Should he wake the Mand’alor? Alert the guard?

He didn’t have the chance to do either.

The winged creature swooped down, snapping its jaws at Luke and the Mand’alor. Luke hadn’t time to think; he grabbed the Mand’alor’s sword from its sheath and swung it at the creature before it could bite into them, slicing through its mouth. The creature hissed with a horrible, eardrum-shattering squeal.

Everyone was awake now, the Mand’alor jumping to his feet and taking the sword aggressively from him. “Never,” he screamed in Luke’s face, shoving the Jedi back to the ground as he tried to stand, “touch the Dark Sword again!”

“But—!” ‘I just saved your life!’ he was going to say, until the creature swooped down again.

The Mand’alor, if by pure, perfect instinct, reached out and grabbed the creature by its bloody snout with his hand, squeezing fingers so tightly into scaled flesh Luke could hear the squelch, and the Mand’alor slammed its head to the ground. Before Luke could close and reopen his eyes from blinking, the Dark Sword was stabbed right between the glowing gold eyes. The beast was dead.

Luke released a rush of startled air. He’d never seen anything like it. He was a Jedi, a Knight of Naboo, son of the strongest, most powerful Knight in existence, and he could’ve never done that. Just grabbed the creature like it was but an annoying pest and squished it dead. All in mere seconds.

Who was this man?

What was he?

And what was that sword made of?

It shined in the bonfire’s dying glow, but not like metal reflected light. The blackness of the blade seemed darker than night, than the pits of hell. It swallowed all light. Only the very edges of it reflected the fire, making it appear like it was on fire itself, glowing bright, blinding red. Luke may’ve not been connected to the Force, but he was certain he could hear the sword singing with it.

Dozens more creatures were swooping down, the Mandalorians swinging their blades around, blindly shooting arrows into the invisible sky. Luke could do nothing but lay there, the Mand’alor standing above him and shoving Luke down every time he tried to stand up, to help.

Yoda had told him about these. Wyverns, distant cousins of dragons, smaller and stupider, but nonetheless vicious.

A woman screamed, and Luke watched as one of the green armored Mandalorians was carried off by a wyvern into the black. The other green Mandalorian yelled, “Kaya!” over and over, chasing them down and frantically shooting at a target he couldn’t see — he had as good of a chance as shooting Kaya as he did the wyvern — until he’d disappeared too, and his yelling stopped.

“Kriff!” Reeves yelled, angrily slamming her crossbow to the dirt and switching to her sword; she was out of arrows.

They all were.

It was hard to tell how many wyverns there were, the night blanketing them from sight, but their numbers felt infinite. Just as the Mand’alor would slaughter one, the carcass heavy and gushing blood, quickly staining the grey dirt red, another would swoop down, and another, and another, and another.

The Mand’alor had the key to Luke’s handcuffs strapped to his belt in the same pouch he’d handed Luke the berries from. It was a risk that might wind up with Luke’s head on a chopping block, but it was better than in the belly of one of these things.

Distracted by two wyverns at once, the Mand’alor couldn’t do anything as Luke stole the dagger from his boot and sliced through the king’s belt. He didn’t even noticed his belt was gone, that Luke was frantically trying to undo his beskar handcuffs. It was hard. The lock was intricately made so the tiny key had to be put in precisely right, and in the dark, the Mand’alor kicking dirt into Luke’s face as he fought, it was almost impossible.

Almost.

The left one fell open with a click, and the rush of power, even if by a hair, was so overwhelming Luke was seeing stars. It was like a rush of adrenaline. Like an orgasm. An indescribable, delicious feeling Luke wished he could bask in it forever.

But he couldn’t.

The Mand’alor was shoved back, landing on top of Luke and pushing them both into the dirt, the Mand’alor’s back pressed into Luke’s chest. A wyvern was biting into the Mand’alor’s forearm, the clanking of beskar against teeth the most beautiful sound Luke had ever heard, because it meant the Mand’alor wasn’t being devoured. His armor was protecting him.

The Mand’alor dropped his sword in favor of punching the wyvern in the eye, and it worked, the creature letting go, but only for another one to take its place, grabbing the Mand’alor’s now defenseless right arm’s shoulder. It wasn’t enough of a grip for the wyvern to fly off with him. The Mand’alor fell back to the dirt, on top of Luke, both men grunting. But it had pierced flesh. The king’s shoulder was pouring out blood, flowing hotly onto Luke like liquid fire.

The Mand’alor scrambled to find his sword from amongst the dirt with his uninjured arm, just when Luke realized the key was lost in the dirt too. One handcuff hadn’t been enough. He still couldn’t use the Force.

The wyverns were circling back, coming to finish the Mand’alor and Luke off.

Luke saw the tip of the Dark Sword peeking from outside of the sand.

He had no choice.

Luke crawled from beneath the Mand’alor, grabbed the Dark Sword, and chopped below the right handcuff.

The Force rushed back into him, so beautifully and strikingly overwhelming he hadn’t felt the pain, hadn’t looked at the detached hand sitting dead and bloody in the dirt.

He didn’t waste a second.

Yoda would've been disappointed, constantly drilling into Luke's brain the Force was never to be manipulated by emotion. A Jedi must have a clear and levelled head, or else the balance will be disrupted and this is what leads to the Dark. But Luke didn't have time for a clear and levelled head. He screamed out, all the frustrations and worries of the past month and a half erupting from him until his jaw and throat ached.

The wyverns were flung from the sky, shoved by an invisible force, dead bodies falling almost in a perfect circle around him and the Mandalorians, the creatures’ necks snapped.

The rush of power left Luke as quickly as it’d come. He collapsed, the pain of his hand unbearable, and had barely made the sight of a knight in shining silver armor rush to him, gloved hands grabbing his face, before his eyes drifted closed, and the pain stopped.

Chapter Text

“We can’t!” yelled Din, even as Koska heated the Dark Sword over the fire.

He knew her father was the highest skilled blacksmith in Mandalore, but it still amazed him how efficiently she could build a fire hot enough to melt steel with little more than kindling. But the Dark Sword wouldn’t melt. No fires, not even the hottest depths in the volcanoes of Mustafar, could damage the magical sword.

But this fire wasn’t for the Sword.

“We have no choice,” she said. “There’s too much blood. If we don’t cauterize the wound, he’ll die before we return to Sundari.”

“But…” The Jedi was so pale, skin cold yet clammy. It didn’t matter how tightly Din had bound the tourniquet around his arm. Blood gushed out, red and vibrant and revolting. Bile rushed up Din’s throat. “… he’s too weak as is. And cauterizing risks infection.” Not to mention, the pain. The Jedi might’ve been unconscious, but his closed eyelids were fluttering, frantic, his jaw set tight so the veins in his forehead bulged. Din had no doubt the Jedi was feeling everything right now, and he would feel the sting of the Sword too.

Could a wound this large even be cauterized? Din had seen it done on stab wounds, but on this scale?

The hand laid surrounded by a puddle of the Jedi’s blood in the sand, its color rapidly greying, the handcuff firmly in place. Din hated the sight of it, wanted it buried alongside this horrible experience. But for some reason his eyes kept landing on it.

“Infection will be a luxury,” said Koska, nearing the Mand’alor and the Jedi, holding out the black steaming blade. “It’ll means he’s survived long enough to have one.”

The urge to shield the Jedi from the Sword with his body was strong, to lay atop him like a blanket of beskar and protection, like the blanket he’d tried to be earlier when the winged beasts attacked. But this stupid, beautiful, immensely powerful Jedi seemed determined to sacrifice himself whenever the chance presented himself.

This was all Din’s fault. He hadn’t been strong enough to fight off the creatures. He hadn’t been diligent enough to protect his land from invaders nor smart enough to identify them either. Now the Jedi was dying because of his failure.

Din grabbed one of the forks from their dirty dishes and shoved it between the Jedi’s teeth. He’d already lost a hand. Didn’t need to lose his tongue too. “Alright,” he said, the Jedi’s head in his lap. He grazed the sweating, crinkled forehead, the Jedi unconsciously leaning towards his touch. “Paz, come hold his legs.”

Everyone in position, Din closed his eyes while counting down, “Three,” one hand braced on the Jedi’s chest while the other held the wrist out. “Two.” He prayed his trembling didn’t affect Koska’s aim, prayed the Jedi would forgive him one day.

But he could never forgive himself.

‘I am sorry, dear one,’ It whispered, and Din knew It wasn’t talking to him this time.

“One.”

The ground was cold, a pointy rock slicing into Luke’s cheek. He tried to open his eyes, but it was hard, and the lightheadedness wasn’t helping either, his sore muscles refusing to let him push himself up from the floor he laid on, belly down. Luke couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, wherever here was.

“It is because you are not here,” said a voice, and immediately Luke’s eyes shot open.

He was in a cave, lined from the damp, ice-cold floor to its soaring ceiling in bright crystals. No sunlight pierced through from the outside, yet the crystals shined, reflecting a rainbow of colors throughout, and for a moment, Luke thought he could hear them singing.

“This,” the disembodied voice spoke, vibrating all around Luke like echoes of war drums, “is the Crystal Cave, birthplace of the Force. No mortal has stepped foot in its blessed halls since you were born, young Skywalker, yet all Jedi know it in their hearts.”

He groaned as he tried to sit up, his limbs slower than his brain. Reality moved jagged, too slowly yet too quickly all at once. “I’m dreaming,” he finally understood, his bones feeling a thousand times their usual weight. Then, he gasped. “I’m dead!”

The voice laughed, the crystals tinkling against each other. “No, dear little one. You are not dead. Merely unconscious.”

“Then,” his tongue was heavy too, and he tasted blood, “why am I here?”

“You know.”

Luke wrinkled his nose in confusion, and even that was difficult to manage.

He tried to remember where he’d been before this, what day it was, what year it was. Yet nothing. All he could remember was someone caressing his forehead, light and gentle, like he was something precious, though he didn’t know when or who’d the sensation came from. “No, I really don’t.”

“The Child.”

It felt a sucker punch to the face. His memories raced back to him, of being woken in the middle of the night back in Naboo, the Force screaming at him to save the Child, the smell of early morning dew as Luke rode Artoo towards Mandalore that same day, the biting frost of a land still shrouded in winter. The Mand’alor. The dungeons. Cody. His chambers.

The wyverns.

“…Oh.”

“Focus not on what you’ve lost,” the Force said as Luke looked to his right hand that, while was still attached, he knew once he awoke it wouldn’t be. He’d been trained to swordfight with both his hands; his father made sure of it, considering Anakin had lost his left hand in his battle with Lord Dooku before Luke had been born. But Luke was a far better swordsman with his right hand, mediocre at best with his left. What kind of a knight was mediocre with a sword? What kind of a Jedi? “But instead, on what you’ve gained.”

Luke laughed, realizing only when his vision blurred with tears he hadn’t laughed at all, but instead let out a sob. “I haven’t seen my family in almost two months,” mouth wobbling like his words. “Haven’t seen Obi-Wan or Han. Yoda. I’ve been trapped in a land that hates me, with a king who merely tolerates me. And being disconnected from the Force most the time, what use am I? What was the point to any of this?” What worth is a sacrifice when your loss only rewarded more loss?

“You saw the camp, yes?”

Luke took deep breaths, trying to center himself. Eyes cinched closed, he forced his mind to recall endless grey dirt and a ditch dug amongst it. Tents and empty armor racks but no benches or beds. “Yes,” he said.

“And what did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’?” the Force repeated, and Luke heard humor lurking behind its reply. “How remarkable. I have never witnessed such a thing, this ‘nothing’. Tell me, young one, what is ‘nothing’?”

Luke blinked rapidly, at a loss for words. Nothing is nothing. The absence of something. “Oh,” Luke said, feeling dumb, this being the second time he’s replied that. Yoda had taught him the Force was with everything everywhere, with every being, every soul and spec of dust, every particle the universe spat out in its great origin. Therefore, the Force is everything. And if the Force is everything—“Nothing is nothing.”

“Meaning?”

“There wasn’t an absence of Force, but a repellant of it?”

“Or,” said the Force, “a removal of it.”

“A removal?” That didn’t make sense. How could you remove the Force from something? Erase it from existence? Could that even happen? “What do you—”

“We are running out of time.” Luke sensed it the same time the Force did. His hand was beginning to burn. He was beginning to gain awareness. “This cave is where your Jedi forebearers collected the crystals they then carved into the Swords of the Roundtable. Find this cave. Carve your sword. And only when the Once and Future King has established the Roundtable once again, can peace be brought to Albion, and magic can freely exist.”

“What?” Albion? Once and Future King? What were these things the Force spoke? “Wait, where is the cave? How do I carve a sword out of—”

“Only when Albion is united can the Child truly be safe.” The Force sighed; Luke felt it like a gush of warm, summer wind. “May the Force with you, my dearest one. Always.”

It’d been two days. Two gods-damned days, and the Jedi was still unconscious in bed, the wet towel Din had constantly reapplied to his forehead doing nothing to combat the fever.

Just as he feared, infection spread quickly after the cauterizing. Even with Din’s helmet on and the event long passed, the smell of burning flesh flooded his senses, branded into his brain like the wound now branded onto the Jedi. Leeches weren’t working. The herbs Kix slowly dripped into the Jedi’s mouth weren’t either. The bed and blankets were drenched with sweat, the room wreaking of body odor and rotting skin.

The Jedi was dying, still, and Din could do nothing but sit by his bed and worry.

There was no reason for him to be so attached to the Jedi. They’d only been aware of the others’ existences for a meager fortnight, and the only time they spent together were the walks shared three times a day, and always Din kept his mouth shut and eyes fixed forward. His ears he couldn’t turn off, cursed to listen to Cody and the Jedi’s conversations about nothing, about how beautiful the sunsets were, how much they both enjoyed music but only the Jedi enjoyed dancing (images arose of the Jedi in robes of silk and a beskar crown laced in jewels, sparkling in the chandeliers’ lights as he elegantly twirled to an orchestra of music and into Din’s arms; Din quickly tried to forget ever having such delusions, but they lingered in his dreams), how the Jedi’s favorite flowers grew in Tatooine and only one day out of the year, how the Jedi loved Mandalorian food more than Naboo’s, how the Jedi loved children, loved sparring, loved the ocean and laying in the grass on a starry night. But small talk wasn’t why the Jedi was here. He had a duty to protect Din’s son, and he was failing in this duty. Sure, Din hadn’t made it easy for the Jedi to fulfill this duty since Bo Katan advised they keep the Jedi handcuffed, and despite Cody trying to assure the council the Jedi wasn’t a threat, or at the very least wasn’t the biggest threat they had and they should choose to fight their battles wiser, the council had voted to keep the handcuffs on. And Din agreed, because the longer the Jedi had the handcuffs on, the longer he wouldn’t be able to sense his son. But it also meant for the vast majority of the Jedi’s stay, he hadn’t been able to sense the mysterious threat hanging over Din’s head like a guillotine. Or rather, Din’s son.

His son had been the first and only person (if he could be called a person; Din himself had called him an ‘it’ the first year they were together) to gain Din’s love and protection so quickly. Everyone else took time. Patience. Conscious, bitter effort. Affection didn’t come naturally to Din. Like trust, it had to be earned.

Until his son.

And until the Jedi.

It could’ve been the Sword’s influence. The Jedi enthused It, they both being creatures of magic and great power — kin — and It in return was trying to enthuse Din.

Then why wasn’t Din convinced it was?

He stood up, the chair scraping on the floor from his speed. A small part of him (okay, a very, very large part of him) had hoped the Jedi would flinch from the sudden sound, startling him awake, alert. Alive. But the Jedi remained still as a corpse, darkening his pillow in sweat, and Din started to pace.

There had been word sent back from every scouting party; no one else found settlements, or any signs of intruders. And Rex assured Din their borders were well secured. More knights had been sent to guard the perimeter of the Cursed Lands (not stay the actual lands themselves; that was a death sentence, which made the fact someone had done just that in the abandoned camp all the more mystifying and concerning) to make sure no one got in or out. They hadn’t sent word yet, but they would soon. There was nothing else anyone could do, no one except the Jedi.

Din had killed their only hope.

A knock sounded on the door. Din hadn’t realized he’d unsheathed the Dark Sword until he saw its black blade shining in the fireplace’s glow, standing at the Jedi’s bedside again, ready to draw blood.

Embarrassed, he’d hoped whoever stood outside hadn’t heard him unsheathe it or sheathe it again. “Come in.” Gods, his voice was scratchy. When was the last time he’d drank something?

Cody entered, briefly bowing to Din before closing the door softly behind him. He had a box in hand. “It’s finished,” he said, and he didn’t need to elaborate for Din to know what ‘it’ was.

Din’s son loved puppets, just as much as Din hated them. He loved to use the Force and make his disturbing wooden puppets dance around his nursery, putting on little shows Din had no hopes in understanding the plotlines behind, though there were a concerning amount of beheadings.

They had a royal puppeteer, a title which hadn’t existed before Din was Mand’alor, and Din had sent a request to him the first night after their arrival from the Cursed Lands, his body forcing him to sleep despite the way his armor dug into his skin after sitting in the chair aside the Jedi for so long. Din had a horrific nightmare about the wyverns attacking, only this time they were made with wood and wires, their wings attached to strings. That’s when he got the idea.

“He won’t be able to use it,” said Cody quietly, as if he was trying to not disturb the Jedi; Din wished he would disturb the Jedi, because it would mean the Jedi was aware enough to be disturbed, “with the handcuffs on, Sir.”

The right handcuff remained where the Jedi had cut it off, in bloodied sand, and Din had taken the other one off long ago, thinking perhaps the Force would help the Jedi heal. “Don’t worry. Those things are never going back on him.”

“Good.”

Cody was such an even-tempered man. It was hard to decipher what he felt. But even so, a blind man could’ve seen Cody had grown fond of their new companion, and Din wondered if Cody blamed him for what had happened. He hoped so. He wanted Cody to hate him, craved for Cody to hate him, just as much as he hated himself right now, if only to have some justice in a universe constantly cursed with bad things happening to good people. Din deserved the bad. Not the Jedi.

He didn’t even know his name.

“Any news from Hunter?” he asked Cody.

The Dark Sword hissed. Din ignored it.

“No, Sir. They only left yesterday.”

“Still, make sure I’m told the moment their hawk arrives.” Hawks were far better messenger birds than pigeons. Din didn’t know why kingdoms like the Naboo used them. There was a time dragons were the messengers of the sky, before Mandalorians hunted them down centuries ago and dwindled their numbers to extinction. Pigeons were a pathetic downgrade. At least the Mandalorians’ birds were hunters instead of prey. “No one except us and the Batch can know about this, Cody.”

“Yes, Sir.” A hand touched Din’s shoulder. He had to fight the urge to not slap it off. “Perhaps you should get some rest, Sir. Change your clothes. Take a bath. Spend some time with your son.”

How could Din look his son in the eyes when he’d doomed him? How could he engage in luxuries like fresh linens and warm baths when the Jedi laid on his deathbed? “I appreciate the concern,” he answered in a voice that let Cody know how much he really didn’t appreciate it, “but I can take care of myself.”

Cody set the box down at the foot of the bed. “The puppeteer crafted it to your exact parameters,” he said. “Smooth, polished wood waxed and varnished. Painted white and with the little gold accents,” Din had requested an elegant design with a sun in the middle and little stars speckled around it, so while it may not be as beautiful as the one gifted it, it was nonetheless pretty to look at, “you’d think it was porcelain and not wood. I think he’ll like it.”

Din thought he’ll hate it, being a stark reminder of what was lost thanks to Din. But it was better than nothing.

A Mandalorian’s pride was in their ability to fight and protect.

Din had taken the Jedi’s pride.

“Is there anything else, Cody?”

There was something else. Din could feel it in the thick tension of the air. But Cody answered, “No, Sir.”

“Then get back to your duty guarding this castle.” Guarding his son. “And inform me of any updates the instant they arrive.”

Din hadn’t heard Cody leave, hadn’t heard the gentle click of the door or the sigh Cody gave once on the other side. He only had ears for the too strained breaths coming from the Jedi, sitting down again in that same uncomfortable wooden chair Din had been sitting in for the past two days, removing his gloves so he could feel the pulse of the Jedi’s wrist as he held his arm, letting himself drift asleep and praying to gods he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore the Jedi would be alive next time he awoke.

He didn’t hear the door open again either, or the pitter patter of tiny green feet hobbling over to the bed.

The Dark Sword did, stroking its Force signature against Grogu’s fondly like a parent’s caress. But Grogu wasn’t here for the comfort the Dark Sword always gave him, or to see his father he’d missed dearly these past few days. Buir was in pain, and he wanted to be alone right now. Grogu would respect that. Sometimes, when Buir didn’t let him eat cookies before dinner or play with his toys until he’d cleaned up his others toys, Grogu would get upset and want to be alone too.

He struggled to climb the bed, digging his clothes into the blankets so they ripped a little. He felt bad about it, but he knew he’d be forgiven. He always was.

The Sun Man was pretty, even while wet and covered in gross leeches. His hair looked shiny and Grogu wanted to pet it. Maybe later, when the Sun Man was feeling better.

Speaking of…

Chapter Text

He’d always loved flowers. Something about them, how creations so lovely, born from the griminess of dirt and sting of the sun, could be ground up or steeped to become tools of healing that’d mesmerized him since he was a young boy. They were more than just a professional asset to him. They were art.

His brother, Jango, had teased him about it relentlessly. He was a warrior, built seemingly from bones of beskar. Strength was all that mattered to him. Honor. Glory. How could he understand the delicate, beautiful nature of healing? How could he respect what it was to sit and spend hours perfecting a craft, of watching nothing become something, death become life, when he himself was a tool of death? Honorable death, certainly. But it was Jango’s duty in life to kill men. It was Kix’s duty to heal.

It was these chosen duties that had sealed their fates. Jango had been buried nearly thirty years ago, just before the birth of his third son. And here Kix stood, sonless and wifeless, surrounded by vials and pots and books and, his favorite of all, flowers. Perhaps he’d regret dedicating his life to medicine instead of family and fighting like most Mandalorians. His home was so quiet at night it amplified his thoughts, his loneliness, worrying him on more days than none it’d drive him mad eventually.

But there was no time for worrying over such things. He was a busy man. Over thirty patients to see today and only so many hours to do it.

At least his first patient was adorable.

When the Mand’alor first arrived in Sundari, he’d kept his son hidden in a cloak, swaddled like a newborn. He wouldn’t let anyone see him, much to the confusion of everyone around him. He was the Mand’alor, which made his son a crown prince. Why would he want to hide a prince from his people?

Then, the Mand’alor knocked on Kix’s door in the middle of the night, no guards or beskar armor to protect him aside his helmet, and holding a cloak in his arms like it were the most precious thing in the universe. “Please,” he said, and Kix knew a terrified father when he heard one, “help him.”

He wasn’t the first of the Child’s kind Kix had seen. Long ago, he’d traveled to Corosaunt secretly (if anyone had found out in Mandalore, he would’ve been tried for treason) and had been taught by Jedi masters their methods of healing. Kix’s manipulation of the Force was rudimentary at best. But he practiced constantly in those days, reading any book he could get his hands on. In a book of magical creatures, Kix had learned of a species who was almost always Force sensitive, their strongest abilities being in ways of healing. He’d catalogued this in the back of his mind; they were nearly extinct thanks to Kix’s own biological people, and after the kingdom of Naboo had outlawed magic, certainly any of this species were dead.

Then the Mand’alor laid one onto his cot, a child, eyes closed and barely breathing. “It wasn’t his fault,” said the Mand’alor, sounding very much a child himself. “He hadn’t meant to knock over the statue. He was just trying to move the bird’s nest from on top of it. He’s always struggled with aim.” That day, a statue of the First Mand’alor had unexpectedly fallen, shattering into a million pieces of heavy cement onto the city square. It’d injured seven people, killed one. “He passed out quickly after, but I’d thought he’d get over it eventually. He always does, after a little rest. But it’s been hours.”

“He overexerted himself,” said Kix, remembering the first time he tried to Force-seal a wound, and how ill he’d been for the following week. “Using more Force than one can handle is like overwhelming a muscle. It doesn’t matter how strong you are; if you try to pick up a boulder, you will be crushed.”

“What do we do?”

There was nothing really to do. The Child had used more Force than he had, draining his personal life-force. The only thing they could do is hope the Child’s could replenish its Force faster than it had left him.

But Kix wasn’t about to tell a father all he could do was wait around and see if his son would die or not. “He needs a Mortaeus flower petal,” said Kix, “found only in the caves beneath the Great Forest of Naboo.” The flower was a miracle worker for many ailments, even magical ones. In this particular case, it would do nothing to save the Child. But it gave the Mand’alor something to do, anything other than waiting. He was a Mandalorian, a man of action.

Just like Jango.

It’d been a long night for Kix. He’d tried giving the Child some arnica potion, just in case he was in any pain, as well some feverfew and fenugreek. The Child’s temperature had gone down and his fidgeting slowed, letting Kix know he’d at least provided comfort. But the rest was up to the Child and the Force, a battle no one could fight for the little one. Still, Kix sat by his side diligently, patting his little green forehead with a damp cloth to try to keep him cool, and singing the few lullabies he remembered his own father singing him when ill.

When the Mand’alor returned in the late afternoon, the king looked crushed. He could barely walk into the room, collapsing onto his knees at his son’s bedside.

“Are you injured, Sire?” asked Kix. Gods, if he got the king gravely injured on a wild goose chase, he’d never forgive himself.

But the Mand’alor shook his head. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, so quietly Kix had almost missed it. “The Prince of Naboo, it’s his birthday today. They’re having a big celebration in the Great Forest since apparently it’s Prince Luke’s,” he spoke the name with such venom, a hatred Kix hadn’t heard the king speak with before, even when discussing their worst enemies in council, “favorite place to be. The guards wouldn’t let me anywhere near the caves. I tried to explain, tried to fight them when that didn’t work, but there were too many of them. I couldn’t get the flower.”

Kix gripped his chest, the guilt overwhelming. He put his hand on the king’s shoulder, about to explain the flower wouldn’t have worked anyway and it was just a silly old man’s idea of a diversion, not having intended for him to nearly declare war with the strongest kingdom in the lands, nor break the Mand’alor’s heart.

But a soft little, “Patuu,” snatched both of their attentions.

“Well,” said Kix, smiling harder than he had in years, “it seems we won’t be needing the flower after all.”

Kix knocked on the familiar nursery door. Long gone were the days of secrecy. Now, the whole of Mandalore knew of the little green goblin that’d stolen all their hearts, Kix’s especially. Unfortunately, the Child still struggled with his powers, and there was nothing Kix could do to help him but administer a mild sedative to him in the mornings and nights.

He’d given the Child his morning dosage, as well a tea for the Child’s nursemaid, Iggie, to help with her headaches and stiff joints, when a guard came running to him. “Sir,” he said to Kix, “the Mand’alor returns from the Cursed Lands. They need immediate medical assistance.”

Kix had prepared for the worst, gathering everything he had into his bag and hoping it was enough. The kingdom couldn’t handle losing the Mand’alor, not after all he had done and without a successor. The Child was years — if not decades — away from being mature enough to handle the crown. And the next in line was the Mand’alor’s top advisor, Bo Katan, whom the people would riot over if she rose to power. All remembered her days of terrorism and treason. The Mand’alor having a child of magic should’ve been the most controversial thing about him. Instead, it was his choice in pardons and top advisors.

What he hadn’t prepared for was a young non-Mandalorian man to be laying on the king’s bed, skin paler than the moon and sweating enough to fill the lake of Avalon, his right arm swathed in bloody rags Kix recognized as the Mand’alor’s tunic.

“Please,” the king said, just as terrified as he had been the first time years ago, “help him.”

Luke threw up before he opened his eyes, tasting of bile and berries and the undeniable acidic bite of blood. His only mercy was remembering to lean over the bed first instead of vomiting all over himself, having been knocked out many times before as a knight so Luke knew the drill by now.

Unknown hands were pulling his hair back, keeping the dirty blonde locks from becoming even dirtier. “It’s alright,” a deep voice cooed, the days spent unconscious clouding Luke’s mind and he didn’t recognize who it was. But regardless, he relaxed, knowing in the depths of his soul he was safe. “That’s it. You’re alright. Let it out.” There was relief in the words. Luke couldn’t imagine why anyone would feel relief while he spat out his last bits of vomit onto their floor, his stomach painfully clenching from the emptiness.

Finally, Luke was done, collapsing back onto the soft mattress and pillow, gasping. His head throbbed, but nearly as much as his right hand did.

He blinked his eyes open, harder than usual because of crusted eyelashes. The room didn’t look familiar. At least it wasn’t a dungeon or a torture room. Whoever held his hair back was hidden behind the opened door and was yelling something in a language Luke didn’t recognize. It was a man; Luke gathered this much.
Force, what happened? Where was he?

He raised his hand to rub at his temple, the headache growing worse. But when he did, something cold and hard hit his forehead instead.

A voice in the back of Luke’s head screamed at him not to look. ‘Don’t remember!’ It wasn’t the Force. It sounded too much like Anakin’s overbearing tone to be the Force, a father always trying to protect his child for however long they could.

But Luke couldn’t help it. He looked, finding the pain from his right hand wasn’t coming from his right hand at all because…

…there wasn’t a right hand.

There was something, but it wasn’t flesh and bones. It was fake. A white, shiny polished hand, the joints made from what appeared solid gold, with reflective gold paint decorating the white, a gold sun on the palm surrounded by delicately painted stars. The largest star coincided with where a freckle had been on the back of his hand, right beneath his old index finger. The fake hand stopped right where the injury had ended, bound to his wrist by a gold strap similar to the handcuffs, but as Luke closed his eyes and begged the Force for help, to center himself and stop his hyperventilating, tears of pure relief flowed down his cheeks when the Force answered and peace washed over him, heavy and warm like a blanket on a cold winter’s day.

The Mand’alor rushed back over, standing on the left side of him this time to avoid the puke. “How do you feel?” the Mandalorian asked, a cool towel blotting Luke’s forehead.

He must’ve looked a mess, sobbing and sweaty, reeking of vomit and body odor. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I’m alright,” he said, and he meant it. “My head hurts, and my… arm, but I’m alright.” He dared to open his eyes, finding a black visor focused onto him with an intensity he could feel, hot and blaring. “Sorry for throwing up on your floor.”

And then a sound Luke thought he’d never hear happened; the Mand’alor laughed, a shocked, overjoyed laugh. “For throwing up on the—Jedi! You almost died!”

Luke smiled, so exhausted only one corner of his mouth managed to rise. “So, nothing new there?”

The Mand’alor chuckled, sitting down beside Luke on the bed, his weight sinking the mattress so Luke’s leg slid closer towards him, the heat from both of their bodies mixing. “That’s not funny, Jedi.”

“You laughed.”

“Because of how pathetic you are. Not because it was funny.” But Luke knew he was smiling beneath that bucket of Beskar. “You really do need to work on that, you know.”

“Being funny?”

“Not making a martyr of yourself.”

“I’m a Jedi,” Luke said, without thinking much of it. “I accepted my life wasn’t my own to keep a long time ago.”

He also knew the Mand’alor stopped smiling. “What does that mean?”

“I live to protect people. I die to protect people.” It was a simple life motto that gave Luke peace in the nights the Force couldn’t. Surely a Mandalorian — the Mandalorian king, of all people — could understand service and honor.

Yet he remained quiet for a moment, the silence stretching farther than Luke was comfortable with. “Thank you,” he said, not really wanting to broach the subject so soon, but it was better than whatever tension had filled the room, “for this.” He held up his right arm.

The Mand’alor sucked in a harsh breath, as if he’d forgotten Luke had lost his hand. He bowed his head. “My son likes puppets.”

That was random. “Huh?”

“He likes puppets, the wooden marionette ones. Likes to use your wizard magic to move them around his room, put on shows. He doesn’t have much control over his powers, but he’s honed that skill down to perfection. Can move them around so realistically you’d think they were just tiny beings walking on their own. I was thinking—I know your magic takes energy and concentration, but since you’re far more advanced than he is and older, maybe it wouldn’t be so tiring, and maybe over time it could be easy. Instinctive. I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid. I’m no expert on your kind or your abilities but…”

He trailed off as Luke absorbed what the Mand’alor was saying. He looked at the fake hand again, at the masterful craftmanship. Like a puppet, the king was implying, with joints that can move via the Force. It was a good idea. It might take a while for Luke to get used to it, but Yoda had always said the Force came naturally to him compared to other Jedi, that what Luke had learned in minutes had taken other Jedi years. He couldn’t just manipulate the Force. He was the Force. It flowed through him like blood. Perhaps over time, Luke could learn to move this new hand as effortlessly as he had the last. All in all, it was a genius idea on the Mand’alor’s behalf.

He told him as much.

“Well, it’s the least I could do,” said the Mand’alor, softer than usual. “You injured yourself to protect me and mine, after I’d failed to do so.”

“I didn’t do it just for you. I was protecting myself too.”

“Oh, so you knew you’d survive the injury?” the Mand’alor asked doubtfully, and Luke couldn’t meet his eyes. “That’s what I thought. You’re a terrible liar.”

Luke scoffed. “I am not!”

“Then what’s your name?”

He stuttered for a minute, trying to remember the name he’d given Cody. “Han Bolo.”

“Han Bolo?” the king repeated, and Luke knew he’d been caught.

His ears burned red. “Yeah. It’s a Tatooine name.”

“So, it has nothing to do with the Concordian smuggler Han Solo?”

His ears weren’t the only part of him burning red now. His whole face must’ve been, Luke’s complexion resembling a tomato more than a human. Of course the Mand’alor knew who Han was. His kind were infamous for being the best bounty hunters in all the lands (besides Luke’s father), and Han had one of the largest bounty payouts in Tatooine history. “Never heard of him.”

The Mand’alor laughed again, low and graveled, and Luke hated the way he loved it. “Sure you haven’t.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” the king said.

Cody walked in, alongside a helmetless elderly man, his white hair tied into a bun above his head. “Kid,” said Cody, “this is the Court Physician.”

Their eyes met, and they both instantly knew. The Force had intertwined their paths long ago, a destiny forged into stone.

“But you may call me Kix,” the elderly man said, slightly breathless.

And what else was there for him to say back except—“And you can call me Luke.”

Obi-Wan sat up, the nightmare fading from his mind’s eye.

But it wasn’t a nightmare, he realized as he looked around. It was reality.

A night spent on a forest floor not how the knight preferred to wake up, but he’d sleep in a firepit if it meant getting Luke back. How could Luke have been so stupid as to get captured by Mandalorians, a man of his station and with his special abilities? Why had he left in the first place?

Luke didn’t know his teacher knew of his gifts with the Force. Obi-Wan had spent his whole life hiding Luke’s abilities, after the first time he caught Luke spinning the mobile over his crib with magic. It was a direct betrayal of his best friend — his brother; he’d practically raised Anakin after his mother died — and his Queen. But it wasn’t Luke’s fault he was special.

So, when Luke was of age, he’d recommended to Anakin that Luke should train as a knight, if only so Obi-Wan could keep a close eye on the boy and try to keep him from discovering his powers. It was easier than Obi-Wan had thought. Luke was a talented and disciplined swordsman. Day and night he’d practiced with his blade, proud to be following in his father’s footsteps. Never once did he show any signs of wanting to learn magic, and Obi-Wan would’ve known. Luke was a terrible liar.

Until that day. That gods-damned day.

It had been the first mission Obi-Wan hadn’t gone with the knights on, it having been his late lover’s birthday, and he wanted to spend the day remembering her. And that’s when Artoo decided to break a leg, so Luke had been stranded for well over a week on his own. Obi-Wan had spent the whole week looking for him, of course, but had no luck. It was like the young prince had disappeared, only to reappear randomly at the palace gates, both he and his horse unharmed, as if by… by…

Well, by magic.

His family had grown suspicious as to why Luke was always running off in the months afterwards. Obi-Wan had given him a few excuses. “I sent him on an errand.” “He’s on a hunting expedition.” “He’s at the tavern.” Eventually, he’d even convinced the crown-princess (of course it was her that realized Luke would rather shoot himself than shoot an animal for sport) that Luke was actually off seeing a secret lover.

But Obi-Wan knew the truth. Luke had discovered his powers, possibly healed Artoo himself. Obi-Wan had failed, and now the boy he loved like son was missing. Had he wandered into Mandalorian territory? Or had he been taken? His being a prince of Naboo might be enough for them not to kill him, but his being a sorcerer? He’d be executed the minute they found him out.

“You alright?” whispered Anakin.

Anakin hadn’t slept longer than an hour at a time since Luke’s disappearance. It was no way to live, but life without Luke wasn’t life at all for Anakin. “Fine. Nightmare, is all.”

Anakin was quiet for a moment, and Obi-Wan optimistically thought he’d fallen asleep. He should’ve known better. “About Luke?”

“No,” he lied. “I dreamt we were married. It was our wedding night.”

Any other time, Anakin would’ve laughed at that, probably waking up the rest of the knights sleeping around them. This night, however, it didn’t even earn him a chuckle. “Anytime I sleep, I dream about Luke,” he spoke softly. “I dream about having to carry him home, telling Padme I’d failed and our baby,” his voice broke, and Obi-Wan’s heart broke along with it, “is gone.”

“Luke’s not gone. He’s simply being detained. The Mandalorians would never kill a Prince of Naboo. It’d be a dishonorable declaration of war.”

“And what is his kidnapping supposed to be?” Anakin’s voice took a spiteful turn. “Some sort of peace treaty?”

“I didn’t mean—” Obi-Wan sighed, centering himself. “The Mandalorians, while different than us, are a culture built from honor. Killing Luke would be dishonorable. Cowardly. If the Mand’alor wanted a member of the royal family dead, he would’ve challenged you to a duel.”

“Unless he knew he wouldn’t win.”

“He’s a Mandalorian, Anakin. They always think they’ll win.”

Obi-Wan laid back down, trying to make out the stars through the branches of the trees, hoping the familiar constellations would beckon him to sleep.

Anakin rolled onto his back, parallel of Obi-Wan. “Do you think they’ll torture him?”

It’d be an insult to his friend to lie. “Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “But he’s a strong boy — a strong man. He won’t give them any information.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. I’d rather him give them information than they keep torturing him.”

“Luke’s too much like his father to do that,” but he instantly wished he hadn’t said it, hating the way Anakin drew in a pained breath. “I mean he’s proud. He’d rather die than betray his people.”

“Again,” said Anakin, and Obi-Wan knew neither of them would be getting any sleep tonight; he just wished Luke was, that wherever he found himself, the gods granted him peace this evening and let the sweet boy rest, “that’s what I’m worried about."

Chapter Text

“Luke?” the Mand’alor repeated, snatching Luke’s attention from Kix and his warm brown eyes. “That’s your real name? Like Prince Luke?”

Luke didn’t have time for the panic to spread on his face before Kix spoke up, “A common name in Naboo, Sire, for that very reason.”

“Yeah,” Luke tried, looking back to Kix and projecting through the Force his thanks. The corner of Kix’s mouth barely twitched upwards. “I was born around the same time as him. My mother picked the name.” Not technically lies.

“Now if you’d excuse us,” said Kix, “I’d like to speak to my patient in private.”

The Mand’alor’s hand instinctively reached for Luke’s wrist, above the new fake hand, gripping it with a weight worthy of the handcuffs as though he desperately didn’t want to leave Luke’s side. It was odd — Why would react so aggressively to leaving Luke? — yet comforting. Luke placed his left hand on top of the Mand’alor’s, squeezing in a way he hoped was reassuring. “It’s alright. Thank you for your help, Your Majesty.”

“Din,” the Mand’alor spat out rather than said.

Luke’s nose crinkled; he didn’t know that word.

“My name,” he clarified. “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

All air rushed out of Luke, his hand going slack atop Din’s. Then he smiled, face hurting from how wide it stretched. “Din,” he repeated, the three simple letters tasting like sugar on his tongue. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Din bowed his head slightly. “A pleasure to meet you too, Luke.”

Luke smiled impossibly wider.

Cody cleared his throat.

Din flinched away from Luke, like a child who’s hand had been slapped when caught reaching for the cookie jar. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat as well. “I will check on you after the council meeting.” And with another bow of his head, Din and Cody left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

Luke didn’t waste a moment, sitting up fully despite the way it made his head swirl. “You have the Force,” he said to Kix, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning.

“And you are Prince Luke of Naboo.”

The Christmas feeling went away. “How—”

“I’ve spent some time in Coruscant, back when your mother was merely a princess and your father her guard. You look like them. Your father a bit more so, but you have your mother’s essence.”

“Oh,” was all Luke could think to say.

“Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness.”

“Please, call me Luke.”

Kix smiled, sitting at the foot of the bed, Luke moving his legs slightly so the old man could fit. “Now, let me see that hand, hmm?” Kix removed the fake hand, inspecting Luke’s injury, the burn marks already beginning to scar with no signs of infection. “Remarkable. Only yesterday we worried you wouldn’t make it through the night due to infection.”

“They cauterized it?” Luke would’ve never thought it. He’d seen knights cauterized in only the direst of situations, and the pain they suffered afterwards was great, the infection sometimes equally as intense as the burn. It was a Hail Mary — a last desperate resort.

“Yes. Your blood loss was too great.”

“I’m surprised it worked on such a big wound.”

“It almost didn’t.” Kix opened his bag, pulling out a jar with a clear, thick substance resembling lard. He began to spread it on Luke’s injury, the gel cold and soothing. “It’d coagulated the blood, but the infection was almost immediate. I’d tried nearly everything to rid you of it, but the worst of it had happened before you arrived in Sundari. Even with how brightly you shine with the Force, I feared your powers weren’t enough to heal you alone.”

Luke didn’t remember much after the injury. He’d dreamt something, but the details of what he’d dreamt alluded him. Like grasping at sand, the harder to tried to grab onto the memories of the dream, the more it slipped away from him. But he did remember a feeling. Like a gentle pond, crustal clear and lively with fish. Morning sun and crickets chirping. “The Child, I think he healed me.”

Kix’s brows furrowed. “The Child? The Mand’alor let his son visit you?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly. I was still unconscious. But I sensed him, I think.”

“Hmm. It is possible. His species was known for their healing abilities in the Force. And,” his face softened with fondness, “he is quite good at escaping his crib during the night. Drives his father and nursemaid wild.” The fondness vanished, a stern expression replacing it that had goosebumps spreading across Luke’s arms. “Luke, why are you here in Mandalore? Do you know the kind of danger you’ve put yourself in? Aside your being a Jedi, if the Mand’alor finds out about your lineage—”

“I didn’t have a choice. The Force called me in the middle of the night, warning me the Child was in danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

Luke sighed, leaning back into his sweaty pillows. “I don’t know for sure. But we discovered an abandoned camp in the Cursed Lands, big enough for an army.”

"An army had managed to infiltrate Mandalore territory?”

“Apparently. And what’s more, there was something about the camp. Something off. Wrong.”

“Do you think the Force has to do with it?”

“That’s just it. There was no Force. None. I couldn’t since a thing inside the camp.”

“None? That’s impossible.”

“That’s what I thought. The Mand’alor thinks the army were Mandalorians, and their beskar armor is why I couldn’t sense their Force signatures.”

“But you disagree.”

“Can’t you feel it?” Luke asked, the swirling gloom weighing heavily in the room, an eternal thunderstorm that refused to truly begin, clouds black and swirling and haunting, mocking Luke. “Something is coming. I don’t know what, but it’s powerful. And dark.”

“And it wants the Child.”

Luke nodded, looking to his nearly healed stub, glistening with the medicine Kix had put onto it. “Yes,” he said, raising it to his chest and cradling it with his other hand. “It does.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, Cody asked, “Should we send word to Hunter of the Jedi’s real name?”

But Din didn’t hear him. All he could focus on was the beautiful constant chant inside his head of Luke, Luke, Luke. An unfortunate coincidence that Luke was named after the very man Din hated more than anyone else in the universe, besides whoever was trying to kidnap his son. But still, Din couldn’t deny the name suited the man, being light and gentle like a petal’s caress against a naked cheek. Din should pick Luke some flowers today to brighten up his chambers.

Luke.

His Royal Consort, Prince Luke Djarin of Mandalore. How easily that rolled off the tongue.

He understood now why he’d been feeling a certain way since he met the Jedi at the cliffs. It wasn’t just the Dark Sword whispering in his ear like a snake charmer’s flute. Like recognizes like. Like yearns for like. After their conversation about honor and duty, Din realized that he and Luke — gods, how good it was the know his name now, to be able to moan it at night when his thoughts strayed and hands strayed lower — were the same: humble warriors forced into an impossibly great position, an isolating role of both savior and sacrifice, king and slave. Mand’alor and the Last Jedi.

He'd never had this, someone who understood him completely. And he’d never dreamed that someone would be so beautiful and kind and strong, an angel who’d fallen into Din’s lap.

What a pretty image, Luke in Din’s lap.

"My Lord?”

Din snapped his head towards Cody. “What?”

“Hunter,” he said. “Should I send word to him about the Jedi’s true name?”

Oh. Din had completely forgotten about all of that. Suddenly, he regretted not heading the Dark Sword’s advice, guilt weighing heavily in chest and tasting of bile. Luke had lost his hand and almost his life to protect Din, who in turn was invading his privacy — privacy being paramount to the Jedi and his massacred people’s survival. Had he’d risked Luke’s life by turning over long abandoned rocks, by asking around about a mysterious man dressed in black with eyes like the sky and a smile like the sun? Would this draw attention from Consort Skywalker and the Knights of Naboo? The Bad Batch was known for many things, but discretion was not one of them. “No.”

“No?” Cody incredulity repeated. “May I ask why not, Sire?"

Din didn’t have a good answer other than he was growing soft, so he said back bluntly, “No.”

Cody gaped at him, before briskly clicking jaw shut. “Very well, Sire. I suppose—” they began to walk down the hall, towards the council chambers “—his being called Luke wouldn’t be much help anyway. Like Kix said, it’s a popular name in Naboo. It’d be like asking the Batch to go looking for a specific grain of sand in Tatooine.”

Din desperately wished he could recall the Batch back from their mission now. But their carrier hawk was supposed to arrive soon with their latest intel. He’d simply send a message back then calling them home.

“How’s the kid doing?” asked Cody: a safe topic.

Din shrugged. “He’s been tired today. Probably has sensed the stress within the castle. I told Kix to make his sedative doses a little higher, with Luke no longer wearing the handcuffs. That probably has something to do with it as well."

“You think he can sense him? And vice versa?”

“I don’t think the kid can.” He knew his son; if he’d sensed Luke, he would’ve given a tantrum worthy of a tsunami until he’d gotten to meet him. “But Luke sensed him from Naboo. Surely, he can sense him from across the hall.” Just a few days ago, that would’ve worried him, Luke being able to sense his son. But now, it was oddly soothing. Here were two creatures of the same creed, alone since their sad, sequestered beginnings, reunited under Din’s roof.

Din wasn’t quite ready to introduce them. Luke’s obnoxious predisposition to martyr himself off needed to be tamed more before meeting another of his kind; the instinct to be the Child’s constant guardian would be too strong for the Last Jedi to resist. And he needed time to heal in both body and mind from his traumatizing injury. Din loved his son, but he could be very draining, especially around nap time, or bedtime, or when he was hungry or thirsty or wanted to play or eat sweets. Luke and the kid would meet eventually.

Afterall, he had a feeling Luke would be sticking around for a long, long time.

Finally, the Dark Sword sighed in relief.

He almost missed it, the sun’s shining reflection upon the hilt blending into the rest of the creek. But once Anakin saw it, he was running into the water, splashing Obi-Wan’s face where he knelt, trying to refill his canteen. “Anakin!” he chided.

But Anakin was already knee deep in water, pulling the familiar sword from amongst the pebbles and frantic fish. It was still in the scabbard, the belt not unbuckled but sliced through, like someone had cut through it and most likely its wearer in the same blow.

“It doesn’t mean he’s dead,” said Obi-Wan, who’d silently made it to Anakin’s side. Or maybe Anakin just hadn’t heard him, the loud rushing noise of the creek’s water blending with the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. “Perhaps they just confiscated his weapon.”

Anakin remembered when he’d been gifted this sword. Padme gave it to him on the day Anakin was knighted, the blue jewel pommel being “the same color as your eyes”, according to the then-princess. Anakin had blushed for weeks after that.

He’d given it to Luke the day he was knighted as well.

Anakin tied the sword around his waist, knotting the belt at where it’d been cut through like a piece of cheap rope. “Untie the horses.”

“What?” Obi-Wan said. “But we just started making camp—”

“Change of plans. We travel through the night.”

“But the men are tired and—”

“Did I stutter,” Anakin snarled through clenched teeth, stepping into Obi-Wan’s space, his nose inches away from his old teacher’s, “master?”

The ‘master’ was a cruel mock. Long gone were the days when Obi-Wan could tell Anakin what to do. While he remained a knight and a general, Anakin was now a prince, husband of a queen. “No, Your Highness,” Obi-Wan answered smoothly, as coolly as the water soaking into their pants and flooding their boots. “You didn’t.”

Chapter Text

Luke was confused, to say the least. Just four weeks ago, he was utterly hated by the Mand’alor, only for hatred to immediately turn into indifference (which bothered Luke more than the hatred had; he understood the animosity, him being a powerful stranger who very much appeared to be kidnapping his son, but for the Mand’alor to totally lose interest in him after they’d spoken was borderline insulting, as if Luke couldn’t possibly be a threat, his soft features he’d inherited from his mother not only causing general disrespect and objectification from the Naboo people but also the Mandalorians), and now it seemed the Mand’alor would’ve rather cut off his own hand than leave Luke. The king doted on him: constantly asking if his pillows were fluffy enough, his blankets fresh and soft on his skin, were the flowers to his liking or did he prefer a gentler scent? How was his hand feeling? How did he sleep? Was he thirsty? Hungry? Tired? Did he want wine? Berries? Sweets? Luke was convinced he could’ve asked Din to fetch him the moon and it’d be at his bedside come morning.

And it wasn’t as though Luke didn’t appreciate the attention. Admittedly, he’d liked it at first. The Mand’alor and him were becoming friends, learning to trust one another. And having the ability to connect with the Force and sense the Child’s well-being, also the immediate safety of their surroundings, had certainly aided in Luke’s original mission in coming to Mandalore. It just baffled him. Yes, Luke had gotten severely injured, but why would the Mand’alor care so much about some strange Jedi’s health now when just days ago he wouldn’t have minded Luke getting eaten by a Tatooine sarlac?

The doting must’ve been some sort of political tactic, perhaps an attempt at gaining Luke’s trust? The threat of an army in Mandalore enough Din was willing to shake hands with the devil if it meant gaining a powerful ally?

Not just shake hands, but share a bed with the devil. Only today had the king finally conceded and allowed Luke to return to his own chambers and give the Mand’alor his chamber’s back. Din’s excuse had been Luke was taken there because it was closer to Kix’s chambers, and while that was true, Luke’s old chambers had only been a floor beneath Din’s. Surely, it didn’t make that much of a difference. Especially now that Luke’s life didn’t hang in the balance. Luke didn’t know where Din had been sleeping for the past week, but he was relieved to be giving the king back his room, if only so he felt less a burden. Less a useless bother.

Four weeks Luke had been here. Four weeks. And he was nowhere closer to finding the threat against the Child than he was the day he arrived. It was coming, growing, a far-off dark energy festering amongst Mandalore like mold spores and driving Luke mad with anxiety. His ability to sense the Force was back permanently, yet it hadn’t aided him in the slightest in his quest. Forget his abilities as a Jedi. What kind of knight was Luke if he couldn’t protect a single child?

“You’re quiet,” said Kix as he walked Luke to his chambers, carrying a bag full of the potions and lotions that’d grown at Luke’s bedside table to aid in his healing. “Perhaps I should be rejoicing, but it’s making me nervous.”

Luke smirked, knowing he’d been talking Kix’s ear off since they’d met, desperate to learn everything about the Force from someone who’d actually studied it in Coruscant, especially when it came to healing techniques, which Yoda had never even breeched the topic before. Luke felt guilty for never asking Yoda before. He knew the Force could heal since Yoda had used it to heal Artoo. But he’d always been so obsessed with using the Force to better serve and protect his kingdom through the art of combat, he’d never considered using it to serve and protect through the art of healing. To give life instead of taking it. What kind of man did that make Luke, if it instinct was to slice through his problems with blade and spear instead of solving the problems with diplomacy and kindness? Care? He’d been told often by Obi-Wan that he had the rambunctiousness of his father but the compassion of his mother. Luke was beginning to doubt that.

“Lot on my mind, I guess.”

Kix hummed his acknowledgment. “Sometimes, focusing on your problems too much can become a problem in of itself.”

“I don’t have time not to. I’ve been here almost a month, and I haven’t done anything to help the Child or the Mand’alor.”

“You helped aid in the investigation of the camp, did you not? As well protect the Mand’alor and the knights when attacked.”

Luke shrugged it off. “A lot of good that did. Now the Mand’alor thinks fellow Mandalorians are plotting some kind of coup against him.” An early curfew had been enforced since their arrival back, with constant random searches being conducted in homes and businesses in search of treason: a hard thing to find, or rather not find, considering weapons were a strong part of their religion, so a single household having dozens upon dozens of weapons was the equivalent of finding dozens upon dozens of dresses in Leia’s wardrobe. No arrests had been made, but the Mandalorian people knew they were all suspects, and if they weren’t assured soon, uneasiness would quickly evolve into panic.

“That is not your fault. You cannot control the Mand’alor’s actions. You told him what you knew, which is more than we knew before. All you can do now is trust the Force will guide you when and where you need to be.”

Luke winced.

“What?”

“It’s just… I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like I’m forgetting something, like the Force has already guided me, but—I don’t know! It’s strange. It’s like seeing someone in the corner of your eye, but every time you go to look, they’ve disappeared. The Force is trying to guide me somewhere. I know it! But every time I try to follow…” He sighed. “Maybe I’m not strong enough in the Force to see what’s it’s trying to show me.”

“Or maybe you can’t see because you’re looking too hard.” They made it to Luke’s chambers, Kix opening the door for Luke after he’d lifted his right hand to open it, only to collide wood into wood uselessly, so Kix took over instead.

The Mand’alor’s gift of the hand was highly appreciated, but Luke still hadn’t gotten the hang of it. He’d practiced here and there, it being surprisingly hard. All the little independent joints were difficult to move in a congruent pattern. He couldn’t simply move his fingers in the exact same way. He had to curve them all differently, with different pressures and angles — every finger, every joint, but at distinctive intervals — a factor he’d never noticed before when he’d had two hands, that now he couldn’t ignore it. It was like playing two separate songs on two separate pianos simultaneously, and Leia had always joked Luke was tone deaf.

As soon as the door was fully opened, Luke’s jaw dropped.

The chambers were filled with flowers: vases on the tables, the nightstands, the wardrobe and chairs, even speckled around the floor like a field of wildflowers. And not just any flowers. Tatooine flowers. “B-but—” Luke stuttered. “How? These only grow one day out of the year!”

“Mandalore is a vast kingdom.”

Luke spun, shocked to see the Mand’alor standing behind Kix. He’d never get used to the way Beskar blocked his ability to sense people.

“Parts of our territory,” Din continued, “is very similar to Tatooine’s climate. You mentioned to Cody the kinds of flowers you like in Tatooine in great detail, so I had some of my men go out and pick the ones most similar I’d seen within our lands.”

Luke could do nothing but blink at him. His chambers looked like Naboo during the annual Festival of Nature, when the streets were smothered in statues made of flowers, more fallen petals on the ground than cobblestone. It was his mother’s favorite time of the year, and so his father made a point of buying any and every flower his mother stopped to smell.

The Mand’alor shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you like it? If the smell’s too much, I can have the maids come and clear it—”

“No,” said Luke, a bit breathless. “It’s lovely. Really. Thank you.”

“A kind gesture, My Lord,” Kix added.

Din flinched slightly, as if he’d forgotten Kix was there. Clearing his throat, he said, “There was a meeting this morning amongst the council. It’s been decided to investigate beyond Mandalore’s borders, in the nearest regions.”

Luke nodded. “I agree. That’s what I would do were I planning to invade a kingdom with an impressive army. I’d camp nearby but outside your perimeters to avoid scouts.”

“Where exactly would you camp?”

“Depends on the size of my troop. If it’s smaller, I’d camp in a poorer village: lay low and play nice. But if we’re dealing with a larger militia, as the camp in the Cursed Lands implies, I’d choose a bigger area: large city, specifically one more hostile against Mandalorians, split the troop strategically in different lodgings to decrease the chances of detection.”

Din crossed his arms. “Huh.”

“What?”

“That’s smart.”

Luke smirked playfully, tilting his head. “Should I be offended you’re surprised?”

“No, just didn’t think you’d have much experience working with a troop, is all, since Jedi are known for being solitary.”

Luke’s smirk fell, but before he could flounder for too long, Kix spoke up, “As Master Luke was just telling me, Sire, Jedi are trained in all matters of military strategy in order to remain undetected.”

How had Luke ever survived without Kix?

“So,” said Din, “you’re coming then?”

“I… I can come?” Luke asked. Finally, after weeks of being trapped like some pampered prince, some real action, the kind Luke had spent his life training for.

“Of course. We need your powers to help scope out the area.”

“What’s the area?”

“Ord Mantell.”

A sharp pricking raced up his spine: the Force warning him. “Lord Maul’s territory.” Ord Mantell had once been a part of Tatooine’s territory, when King Jabba Hutt’s father fancied himself an emperor. But Lord Darth Maul had long taken over, slaying what little enforcements King Hutt had placed in Ord Mantell, the majority of his army still based in Tatooine. He and the Knights of the Black Sun had laid siege of the city from before Luke was born, turning the once normal city full of families and working-class people into a den of criminal activity. And after a brief skirmish with the Mandalorian people when Lord Maul had assisted in a failed terrorist attempt, a strong animosity stood between the two lands. Mandalore’s army vastly outnumbered Maul’s, which was why he hadn’t invaded since, and Ord Mantell was a good deterrent for any outsiders to want to enter Mandalorian territory; to get to Mandalore from the northwest, you had to get through Ord Mantell first. But all it would take would be one transgression, one act of interpreted disrespect, and their frail unofficial armistice would shatter into an all-out war.

“There are rumors, Sire,” said Kix, “that Lord Maul has a substantial bounty out for any Jedi. Or rather,” he looked at Luke, swallowing nervously, “a bounty out for any Jedi’s head.”

“We’re not there for Maul,” Din replied, though Luke could see the tension in his shoulders and back. “We’re looking for any other Mandalorians. It’s like Luke said, we’ll split up and lay low. The Knights of the Black Sun won’t even know we were there.”

Luke asked, “But how are you and your men going to lay low in all your armor?”

“Simple.” Luke cocked his head. “We won’t be wearing any.”

The cloak itched, but not nearly as much as his face did. Din couldn’t help feel ridiculous, dressed in the same masks executioners wore — black fabric covering the upper half of his face and head, wrapping at the back of his head — as well a dirty burgundy cloak he’d worn in his bounty hunter days. He’d never considered himself regal, even as king, clothes meaning little to him besides their practical use. But standing in front of Luke dressed like a peasant made him crave the ceremony of his armor.

Luke wore a cloak too, hood over his head to hide his face slightly, but no mask. It was fortunate Ord Mantell was known for their shady characters, so folks walking around with masks and hoods wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.

Still, just a few years ago, Din would’ve never been able to remove his helmet, lest his cult claimed the evil Jedi magic would darken his soul. The mask helped, his face at least hidden. But he couldn’t shake the vulnerable sensation of being naked.

Which he wouldn’t have minded: being naked around Luke. But the other four who accompanied them were a different story.

“Just beyond that tree line,” said Boba, who’d insisted on accompanying them. He had a past when it came to Ord Mantell, one he declined to share, and while Din could’ve ordered him to, some things were best left unknown. Boba didn’t wear a mask or a cloak. His scarred face (also a secret from his past) was on full display. He’d fit in perfectly. “We should leave the horses here.”

Paz didn’t accompany them this time. It was hard for him to remove his helmet amongst others, and Din respected that. Which meant all who’d come along was Luke, Boba, Rex, Reeves, and Reeves’s friend Wedge Antilles (though most called him “Lancelot” because he had won the lancing competition in Mandalore for the past three years): one of the newest and most promising knights, far too handsome for Din’s liking considering the way he’d helped Luke off his horse, hands lingering a little too long on Luke’s waist, the bright smile too white and blush too red when Luke thanked him for his assistance. “Of course, My Lord,” Antilles had replied.

“Oh,” Luke was donning his Tatooine accent, pretending to be the ambassador like those outside of the Mand’alor’s council thought. Reeves may’ve trusted him, Rex too, but Din didn’t want him knowing of Luke’s powers with such a high bounty for Jedis here. Din didn’t want him knowing anything about Luke. “I’m not a lord. Just Luke.”

“Something tells me there’s nothing ‘just’ about you, Lord Luke,” Antilles said, his sincerity making Din’s fists clench.

“Lay out the plan again, General,” Din said, louder than necessary, grabbing both Luke and Antilles’s attention.

Rex spoke, “We go in in pairs: Fett with me, Lancelot with Reeves, and Luke with the Mand’alor. Fett and I investigate the taverns—”

“Hell yeah,” Fett cheered.

“—Reeves and Lancelot investigate the inns, and Mand’alor, you and the ambassador investigate the general area; walk around, get a feel for the city.”

“Perhaps, Sire,” said Antilles, “it would be best if I accompanied the ambassador, since Knight Reeves would be better protection for you.”

“Perhaps,” Din bit out through clenched teeth, “you should learn to keep your mouth shut when a superior gives you orders.”

Antilles blanched, taking a small step backwards. “Yes, Sire. My apologies.”

Din’s chest puffed out a bit. “Alright. Move out.”

Luke had never been to Ord Mantell, had only heard stories about it amongst the knights unfortunate enough to have visited, including Luke’s mentor, Knight Kenobi.

Lord Maul was a previous ally to King Palpatine, before some mysterious disagreement severed their alliance, leading to Palpatine’s attempted assassination against Maul. And while he failed, he’d succeeded in killing Lord Maul’s brother. Lord Maul then formed the Knights of the Black Sun and went on a killing spree, slaughtering any associated with King Palpatine, who at the time was close allies and friends with Naboo royalty, as well a young Anakin Skywalker. Long story short, Obi-Wan was sent to make sure Lord Maul never bothered Naboo again, and the knight walked away unscathed. Meanwhile, Lord Maul hadn’t been able to walk away at all because Obi-Wan had cut off his left leg. It’s rumored Maul has a peg leg now, though no one reputable enough has gotten close enough to confirm. Luke had even heard two men talking in the markets once, saying that Maul had grown his leg back by using dark magic. At the time, Luke hadn’t though much of it and arrested the two men for speaking of magic, him later finding out the two were dealing in black market trades of magical poisons so his mother sentenced them to death. But now, knowing what he did about the Force’s healing capabilities, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible.

The city was just as Obi-Wan had described it. Large, but suffocating: dirt streets littered with broken ale bottles and old puddles of blood and passed out men, smells of body odor and backed up sewage, drunken laughter mixed with drunken shouts, the constant clang of metal against metal signifying dozens of sword fights were taking place yet no one batted an eye. It was hard to imagine this city had once been beautiful, the laughter having belonged to little children playing ball in the open court instead of criminals barely able to put one foot in front of the other, stumbling from a belly full of mead and head empty of thoughts.

“Sense anything noteworthy yet?” Din asked.

Aside you? he thought. Luke was lightheaded from being this close to Din without his beskar armor on. His Force signature was unlike any Luke had known: warm like a hearth, beckoning Luke till he wanted to melt into it, bright and comforting and oh so beautiful. Din felt like home — a home Luke hadn’t known he’d been homesick for his whole life. “No.”

Din stepped over the third (hopefully just drunk and not dead) person on the street. “Far cry from Naboo, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Plant a few cherry blossom trees. Hang a few silk curtains. It’d be just like home.”

Din chuckled, before asking, “Do you really think of it as such?”

“As what?”

“Your home.”

“Of course I do. I was born and raised in Naboo.” If he had his way, he’d happily die there too, spend the rest of his days in the home of his mother’s ancestors, his bloodline as much a part of Naboo as the soil or its sky. But it wasn’t the second-born’s destiny to die in their homeland. Leia was crown-princess; her duty was to rule. Luke’s duty was to marry a crown-princess from some other kingdom to strengthen political alliances, and make a bunch of babies to rule over that kingdom — to grow up with different soil and sky, but the same royal destiny — his children’s relationship with Naboo being no more intimate than a dot on a map, a chapter in their world politics lessons. His duty was to buried amongst strangers in a strange land, so one day his second-born and any other children would be cursed to do the same too.

“But your,” Din cleared his throat, saying softly, “gifts—how can you feel safe living in the land where it all started? Where magic was banned? Where the greatest witch hunter of all time rules as a royal consort? How can you feel at home where everyone around you would see you happily dead, simply because you were born different than they were?”

He had one thing right; birth had everything to do with the way Luke felt about Naboo. But—“It’s complicated. But you of all people should understand having a duty to your people. The fact that life is hard for those with my,” he smiled, “gifts is exactly why I have to stay. To fight for those like me. To change the way things are done. Not despite my people. But for them. Leaving just concedes to those who are in power, and abandons those who aren’t, who aren’t as lucky as me to be able to leave.”

Din’s Force signature changed, the hearth burning less bright.

“Is something wrong?” Luke asked. Did he speak out of turn? Say something offensive?

The king shook his head. “No, no. It’s just you sacrifice so much to help others. But…” Din stopped walking, putting his hand on Luke’s arm so they both stood in the middle of the street, Luke forgetting he purposefully wasn’t making eye contact with Din while in the mask to respect his creed, and sky blue met chocolate brown. Din’s eyes looked exactly like how his essence in Force: warm, beautiful. Inviting. “Who sacrifices to help you?”

Luke gave a breathy laugh. “Why should someone? I don’t need any help.”

“It’s not about what you need, Luke.” Why did his name sound so pretty on Din’s tongue, on his pretty pink lips, framed with a mustache and short rugged facial hair that Luke wanted to rub his naked cheek against? “It’s about what you deserve. You deserve help. Deserve to be cared for. You deserve the world, Luke. Not just the shadows you’ve been forced to hide in.”

Luke broke his arm away from Din.

Why didn’t he understand? He was king of Mandalorians: the people who value honor above all else. He should understand what it is to sacrifice for the greater good, to forfeit what you want for what others need. Who cared about deserving? Luke was just one person — one sacrifice. What was he compared to the survival and wellbeing of millions? Of those like the Child and Yoda? Like Kix? He’d accepted a long time ago there’s a reason he was born as Prince of Naboo. He wasn’t on there earth to be happy. He was on this earth to be good. And that was enough.

It had to be.

“Din, I—”

He sensed it like a tidal wave, too late to do anything but brace for impact, lay low and let the wave roll over you. He should’ve sensed it earlier, so wrapped up in Din’s force signature and conversation to miss the cloud of darkness enveloping them both until there was no escape. “Don’t grab for your sword,” Luke said, as calmly as he could. “They’ll kill you if you do.”

He could see Din’s eyes narrow in confusion, but quickly they widened when the menacing laughter echoed down the street. Din reached for his sword instinctively, stopping halfway when he remembered Luke’s warning, his hand falling uselessly at his side as the twenty men emerged from their hiding spots and surrounded them, crossbows all pointed towards the two.

“Aren’t you smart?” said a deep, rumbling voice, and Luke didn’t need to turn to know exactly who was approaching them from behind. He could feel his Force, dark and twisted, licking him — tasting him. “Be a good boy now and slowly untie your sword’s belt, and drop it where my men can reach. You too, masked man.”

Luke immediately did as told, though Din was hesitant, but through pleading eyes Luke begged him to do the same, and begrudgingly — a low growl coming from the Mandalorian — Din untied his belt, dropping it, and a man swiftly snatched their swords away.

For a second, Luke thought he could hear Din’s sword growl too.

“It has been a long, long time since I sensed someone like you.” The voice was closer, right behind Luke if Din’s clenched fists were any sign. “The Force swaddles you, do you know that? As if you’re some precious favorite of its. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A hand clapped Luke’s shoulder, rough enough he stumbled forwards slightly, Din reaching out to help steady him, but the hand painfully cinched Luke’s shoulder, keeping him on his feet. “The question is though, why would a pretty Jedi like you be here in my town?”

“Just sightseeing,” Luke answered, keeping his tone cool and steady, how Obi-Wan would’ve. “Lovely place you have here.”

Maul laughed, close enough to Luke he could feel his chest’s vibrations against his back. “Why thank you. I suppose a Tatooine boy would think any place lovely. But, if you’re from Tatooine, explain to me why you have the fair skin of a nobleman?”

“You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“Oh, my dear,” his hand left Luke’s shoulder to wrap around his chest, pulling Luke tightly against him like a hug from behind, tight enough Luke could feel the dig of his sword’s hilt poking into Luke’s ribs, “I’m certainly hoping so.”

Chapter Text

Oh, he’s pretty.

Maul instantly sniffs him out, the stench of a Skywalker. Anakin’s prized offspring. He smells the son before he smells the sword, surprisingly. And even more surprisingly, Maul doesn’t care about the sword nearly as much as he cares about him.

They’re both unconscious, the pretty prince and the mighty Mandalorian king, wrists and ankles bound in chains against the stone walls in separate cells.

The Mand’alor’s (and he is undoubtedly the Mand’alor; if the sword wasn’t evidence enough, his very essence oozed strength and power, as though he were the human embodiment of their precious beskar) head hangs low, chin against chest, and it’s so tempting to reach out and snatch the pathetic mask off his face. How ashamed he must’ve felt already being without his helmet. To bare his face — his soul — to world? The mere idea sends chills racing up Maul’s spine.

But as he reaches out, pain pierces his temples, knocking him to his knees, and Maul recognizes the sensation immediately. The Dark Sword is screaming at him, yet it’s still a tease. It’s magic is so much stronger than this meager torture. If Maul disobeys It’s orders and removes It’s king’s mask, the Dark Sword will tear Maul’s mind apart.

How exciting.

Maul leaves the king and feels a sigh of relief ripple through the Force; the Sword is pleased. No matter. That wasn’t the man Maul was interested in, anyhow.

Does King Anakin know, he wonders, how magnificently his son shines in the Force. Prince Luke is like a beacon, a lighthouse summoning lost souls to shore. And oh how lost Maul felt lately, banished to his miserable town when he deserves so much more. When he deserves it all. If it hadn’t been for Palpatine, leading him astray and murdering his brother, and for that repugnantly charming Knight Kenobi…

Well, it's pointless dwelling in the past. Not when the present looks this beautiful.

He’d heard stories of the Prince of Naboo’s golden hair, his sky-blue eyes, his lean body worthy of a hundred statues and face worthy of a thousand portraits. But he never imagined this.

Slumped over, the young Prince still looked angelic, holy, even compared to the Mandalorian they had braced against the wall, hanging by his arms like Christ on the cross. (When they’d tried to attach Skywalker to the wall, his wrist popped off, so they had to sit him down.)

It was masterfully done, his false wooden arm. Maul had never seen such craftsmanship before, but far more shocking, Mandalorian craftmanship. What was the King of Mandalore doing with the Prince of Naboo? And why would the king have adorned the prince with such a lovely, expensive, beautiful gift?

When Maul and his men trapped the unlikely pair, they’d seemed to have been in a rather passionate conversation: standing close, the Mand’alor holding the Jedi as though he feared the wind would take him. Were they…? No, it couldn’t be. The King of Mand’alor, in love with the Prince of Naboo — the Jedi Prince of Naboo?

Then again, looking at Luke now, not falling in love with him seemed more impossible.

This was going to be so much fun.

Chapter Text

If Luke had been born a girl, his parents would’ve named him Lily, after his mother’s favorite flower. Leia even called Luke that on occasion, usually when Luke did something she deemed “too soft” for a ruler like giving coins to beggars (while they visited other regions; Naboo didn’t have poverty) or telling the children in the courtyard stories about knightly adventures when he should’ve been attending his knightly duties. In retaliation, Luke would then scrunch his nose at her or, when his parents weren’t looking, flip her off. But secretly, he’d wished he had been born a girl, if only to be called Lily.

Maybe that’s why he found himself surrounded by lilies, sat atop a cotton blanket in a field of white petals and green stems, stretching as far as the eyes could see.

He didn’t recognize the field, nor the species of lily — the white petals had a bright sheen, and it wasn’t until he leaned closer to smell, Luke discovered they weren’t actually white, but rather a reflective silver which shined so brightly from the sunlight they appeared white — yet he felt undeniably at home.

“This is how it began.”

A man suddenly appeared next to Luke, sat casually, dressed in loose black linen with loose curls. Or perhaps he’d been there the whole time and Luke was only noticing him now. Either way, Luke didn’t care. Something was very familiar about the handsome stranger.

Luke asked, “How what began?”

The stranger plucked a flower, placing it behind Luke’s ear. “Do you feel it, young prince?” asked the stranger. “Do you feel how beautifully the Force thrives here?”

Luke closed his eyes, shutting down his five physical senses as Yoda had taught him, and let himself feel nothing but the Force. His smile was irrepressible. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve never felt anything like it. It feels… delicate here. Light. Precious. And yet, very deeply rooted, like its power is ancient and unending and nothing in the universe could best it.”

The back of a hand gently caressed Luke’s cheek, startling Luke’s eyes open. “That’s right, little one,” the stranger said, hand not faltering. Luke didn’t make him move it. “These flowers grew here unfathomably long ago, before mankind existed. These,” his hand moved to the flower at Luke’s ear, affectionately rubbing a petal between calloused fingers; Luke found himself jealous over the attention, “are beskar in its earliest, purest form, before the millenniums of rain and snow and sediment ground them up and forced them underground into the caves, before any mortal emotion could pollute them.”

“This is Mandalore?”

The stranger nodded. “And there was another field of flowers like this one too, in the forest Jedha, also pure of the Force. But instead of absorbing the Force energy of others and letting it bind them impenetrably hard into beskar metal, these flowers became something which radiates the Force outwards, magnifies the abilities of whomever wields it.”

Luke blinked, a thought he hadn’t known was burrowed into the very back of his mind resurfacing with a blinding clarity. “The Crystal Cave.”

The stranger smiled, relieved. “Yes. Very good, ner cyar’ika. Now, this part is very important—”

“Who are you?” The last time Luke had been given a vision, it was from the Force itself. But the stranger was a singular entity, unlike anyone or anything Luke had the pleasure of meeting. He radiated strength and fire and passion. Not quite Dark, but certainly not of the Light.

“—you must remember this when you awake. I know, it’s hard. Visions often go forgotten, even by the most powerful of seers. But you are so strong, ner Luke, stronger than you could possibly know. And it’s imperative that you remember this; even though you do not trust him, go with him.”

“What? Who are you talking about—”

The stranger grabbed Luke’s cheeks, not painfully tight, but Luke couldn’t turn away if he dared. The stranger leaned closer, his irises blacker than any night sky. “You will want to save our king, but it is his destiny to save you. Not the other way around. Allow him this.”

“I don’t understand. What king? Who don’t I trust? Who are you —”

“Remember; even though you do not trust him, go with him.”

Luke tried to shake his head, but the hands held firmly.

“Go with him!”

Sunshine. Warmth coated Din like a blanket, his closed eyelids lit with orange. It was well into the morning. When was the last time Din stayed in bed this late? Not since he inherited the throne, and certainly not since he inherited the child. He swore that little gremlin woke up at the crack of dawn just to spite Din.

He should get up, make breakfast, wake up his son. But the bed was so soft, so warm, enveloping him in just the right spots. Nothing ached for once. The Sword wasn’t weighing in the back of his head, whispering duties and destinies Din had never wanted to be bestowed with.

Just a few more minutes of this couldn’t hurt, right?

“I really tired you out last night, huh?”

Din’s eyes shot open.

Two things registered simultaneously. One, Luke was next to him, messy blonde hair catching the morning light, resting his false hand against his cheek, looking at Din lovingly — worshipfully — like he had put the sun in the sky, white sheets draped atop his body teasing the fact Luke was very, very naked underneath them. And two, Din was also very, very naked.

He surged up, back hitting the headboard painfully. Where was his helmet? The rest of his armor? Where was he? This wasn’t the palace or anywhere else Din had lived. Wooden walls, a small brick fireplace, children’s artwork on the walls, cotton sheets and a green quilt. A cottage, most likely, made by a humble farmer.

Luke snorted, completely unbothered by Din’s panic. “Wow. You must’ve really been sleeping hard if I managed to scare you.”

“Luke,” Din gasped. He desperately wanted to crawl under the blankets and hide his face, but then he’d see what Luke had hidden under the shoddily made quilt, and Din was stressed enough; he didn’t need a heart attack. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry.” Luke sat up, crowding Din, the warmth from the sunshine nothing compared to the warmth of Luke’s smile. And, gods, those eyes. Even more stunning without the visor dimming their hue. His breath smelled of tea and honey. “The kids are with Cody, remember? We have the whole day to ourselves.”

Luke leaned down and kissed Din’s jaw, right where he knew his beard had a naked patch, where only he and his son should know his beard had a naked patch. “I can’t even remember,” Luke moved to face Din, their noses brushing, Luke’s gaze locked onto Din’s dry, panting lips, “the last time we had a day off. Ever since little Rey and Finn came along, we hardly get an hour to ourselves. What ever are we going to do with this much time?”

He began to move closer, their lips centimeters away, when Din turned his face just in time, Luke’s opened mouth landing on his cheek moistly.

“Din, sweetheart, it’s cute you’re playing hard to get, but considering how hard you’ve already gotten—” Was there no mercy to be had? Din hadn’t even realized, but the tent he’d created beneath the sheets was now painfully obvious. “—it seems a bit redundant, don’t you think? Unless…” A mischievous glint fired in Luke’s eyes, and the heart attack might be inevitable after all, because suddenly Luke started backing up till his head hovered over where Din’s dick stood firm in attention. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather my mouth be, ner riduur?”

Well, that should keep the Mandalorian occupied.

Maul couldn’t keep knocking the poor man out without risking permanent brain damage, and killing his greatest bargaining chip against Prince Luke would be wasteful. This way, the king was thoroughly entranced in his vision, no escape attempts warranted, while Maul was free to interrogate the little Jedi prince worriless of any infamous Mandalorian vengeances interrupting them. It was generous, really. Such a delicious fantasy to get lost in. Maul almost envied him.

It was a delightful happenstance. Plopped into Maul’s lap wrapped in a pretty beskar bow was the son of Palpatine’s killer. The destroyer of the dark side. The slaughter of sorcerers. Did the young prince know the atrocities his father had committed to those of his own kind? Did the father know his young prince is the very essence of his greatest hatred?

Who had trained Prince Luke, Maul wondered. Regardless of his raw, blinding power, the boy was too disciplined to be masterless. A Jedi Master of Old had slipped from their lonely shadows to train a Skywalker offspring in the heart of Naboo. Whoever they were, they were either idiotic or ingenious. Perhaps a generous helping of both.

Maul leaned against the opened cell door’s frame, the cool metal bars soothing his inner burning. He grinned. Oh, what fun this one was going to be. “I know you’re awake, little prince.”

Prince Luke, slumped on the ground, seated and legs sprawled, abandoned his pretense immediately and straightened into a perfect posture — the picture of Jedi composure — blue eyes sharply finding yellow in an instant. “Worth a shot,” he said, also abandoning his Tatooine accent. The princely title had given him away. They both knew where the other stood now. The battle of wills begins. “Lord Maul. Glad to see Sir Kenobi didn’t affect your mobility too much.”

“Oh, it affected me. It affected me more than you'll ever know. But you’ll find, physically, there is nothing I am lacking in now.”

“How fortunate,” Prince Luke lied.

“But we are not here,” Maul stepped inside the cell, closing the door behind him, sitting parallel to Prince Luke, equalizing them if only in appearance, “to talk about me or my dalliances with Sir Kenobi. I’m far more interested in you, little prince.” A spark of yellow aura fired from Prince Luke: the Force equivalent of eye rolling. “For instance, does your father know you’re gallivanting across the continent with a Mandalorian king of all people?”

There it was. The prince’s real weakness. A crack in the perfect, pretty façade. But was it the mentioning of his father that triggered the flare of red aura, the slightest flinch, or was it the Mand’alor hidden from view?

“A Mandalorian king? With me? I fear Sir Kenobi took more than your leg, Lord Maul. A bit of your sanity appears to be missing as well.”

Maul chuckled. “What a charmingly poor liar you are. A fine trait for a Jedi, I’m sure, but not a prince. Diplomacy, I’ve learned from your own family tree, is simply the art of dressing up lies as facts. But then again, I suppose you are merely the second child. They don’t need you to be diplomatic. They need you to be obedient. I’ve never seen a failure so beautiful as you.”

“We have different definitions of failure.”

“Oh? Do tell. What is the correct definition?”

“I don’t have to tell you. Sir Kenobi already taught you that lesson.”

Maul’s grin fell. Oh, he did love to pour salt in the wound, didn’t he? There was more of his father in him than Prince Luke realized. It’ll make Maul’s job here harder, but all the more satisfying. “How long have you known?”

Prince Luke’s eyebrow rose minutely. “Known what?”

“Your talents with the Force. When did you discover them?”

“I don’t see the relevancy—”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve lived such a sheltered life, bound by rules and limitations, both Naboo and Jedi, you’ve never been taught how to live, my boy. Truly live. You have no idea how powerful being a wielder of the Force makes one. We are gods amongst mortals. Masters amongst peasants.”

“Oh, yes,” Prince Luke replied, oozing in sarcasm. “Sitting in a damp, foul-smelling dungeon in the land of the damned. Kings of the world, we are.”

“A necessary incumbrance. Too much wealth attracts the wrong attention.”

“Because the attention of pirates and drunkards is so much better.”

“I see,” he stood up, “you learned your conversational skills from Sir Kenobi.”

“And you learned nothing from him.” Prince Luke stood too, the chains bound to his arms keeping him in place. “Honor amongst thieves is but a saying, Lord Maul. Word will spread you have a Naboo prince in your jails and all hell will rain upon you and yours. Is that what you want? To be the sole outlet of rage from my father?”

“On the contrary. I very much want for you to go free. The real question is, what do you want?”

He rattled his chains. “I think that’s obvious.”

“Why? So you can leave this dungeon just to step into another? Forever hide like a leper in quarantine for the singular crime of being extraordinary? Is that what you want? Mediocrity? Oppression?”

He’d stumped the young prince, the boy eying him like he’d hadn't seen Maul before this very second. “What do you want?”

“Come with me,” he said, stepping forward so Prince Luke instinctively stepped back, but there was no where for him to go; his back met wall. “Let me show you what true power can look like. No light side. No dark side. No Jedi or Sith. Just power, in whatever form you desire to sculpt it.”

“You… You want me to go with you?”

“Yes.”

The hesitation was palpable; Maul didn’t need the Force to see it. Prince Luke didn’t trust him, but something inside of him was pushing him towards Maul. He didn’t want to go. He needed to go. “My companion. If I go with you, what happens to him?”

Maul shrugged. “Once he wakes up, he’ll be free to go.”

“And he will wake up.” Not a question. A command.

The lord snickered. Already thinking like a Sith. Such a clever boy. “Of course, little Prince. I swear to you, not a single hair will be harmed on his helmetless head. He and his entourage will leave my borders perfectly intact.”

“Alright. I’ll go with you.”

Maul blinked. Honestly, he hadn’t expected it to go this easily. Sir Kenobi would've certainly given a longer fight. And King Anakin... Maul wouldn't have stood a chance. They'd rot in that cell till they were but bones and ash with that infamous stubbornness and pride of his. There was a prologue to the book of Prince Luke Maul hadn’t been privileged enough to read yet, but he always did enjoy a little suspense in his stories.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Text

It was almost cute, how well the five men thought they were doing at being inconspicuous. And, don’t get them wrong, they were doing quite well to the untrained eye. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Cassian was anything but untrained.

He was supposed to have this time off. His wife’s birth had been complicated, and she required much care and dedicated time to recuperate. The Naboo royal physician, Cilghal, said it’d be at least three months before she’d recover enough to attend her maternal duties. Cassian’s support as husband and father was paramount.

But this couldn’t wait. Prince Luke was missing, and how could Cassian stay at home holding his own child, safe and warm and cozy in the blanket Kay knitted for them, in his arms when Queen Padme couldn’t hold hers?

The men were no coincidence. Their posture, bulk, accents: everything about them screamed Mandalorian. But what were they doing here? Surely, they knew most of the Naboo knights roamed the country lands hunting Prince Luke’s Mandalorian kidnappers, and those who didn’t, patrolled Naboo’s own grounds like hound dogs per King Anakin’s orders. To risk capture… It made no sense.

One thing was for sure; Naboo was not their first stop on whatever strange excursion they’ve been on. Cassian was well traveled enough to recognize what a classic “Tatooine tan” looked like.

Anakin Skywalker was from Tatooine, and Prince Luke vacationed there often to stay with family and live as normal of a life the universe would allow him. Did they take him there, for some reason? Were they investigating Anakin’s adopted brother and sister-in-law?

The biggest of the five lagged behind, busy inhaling more than eating the infamous Naboo popcorn — rose petal flavored. Not a favorite of Cassian’s, but his wife ate three bags a day during the worst of her cravings. While perhaps he wasn’t the weakest link physically, maybe mentally…

“Greetings,” Cassian said, casually. The big man stopped walking, mouth hanging open mid inhalation. “Yes, you.” The smile Cassian plastered on physically hurt, but his usual smile, he’d been informed, had the same comforting effect of a sarlacc pit. “I see you’re a man of great taste.”

The big man glanced to his accomplices, watching as they continued to walk away, further into the marketplace’s usual morning crowd, but stayed in place. “Uh…” the big man spoke. “Haven’t been told that before.”

Cassian chuckled. “Then you’ve been spending time with the wrong people. Come, come,” he ushered the man closer to the stall. This wasn’t Cassian’s stall, of course. It belonged to Chirrut and his husband. But Chirrut was out collecting crystals from what few collectors existed while Baze stood in the background menacingly, making sure no sellers took advantage of the kind blind man. Cassian was simply borrowing it. They wouldn’t mind.

Well, Chirrut wouldn’t mind.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“I sense there’s someone special in your life,” Cassian said, having heard the spiel a thousand times from scammers in Coruscant and Tatooine, and his former handler. “A…” He closed his eyes, pressing his finger to his temple and tensing. “Ah! Yes. A young lady, perhaps?”

The big man’s mouth dropped. “Yeah! How’d you know?”

Cassian pulled one of the crates from beneath the table. Chirrut and Baze stored them securely in a locked chest whenever they weren’t here, but locks haven’t been an obstacle for Cassian since he was six years old. “With these.”

And the big man was hooked, Cassian reeling him into the shadows of the stall canopy with false promises of big, shiny bait. Cassian pulled one of the crystals out, a purple one. “Once clear as the Gungan Lake, crystals gain their colors from the Force essence of their master. This crystal’s master, for instance, had the gift of balance, perfecting the delicate dance between light and dark side. But the user died, it would seem, before they could wield the true power of the crystal’s magic.”

“How do you know he’s dead?” asked the big man, the purple reflecting in his deep brown eyes.

“Because crystals were the material force users used to craft their swords. Magnificent weapons, sharper and swifter than any blade steel could produce.”

“Then how’d you get it?” The big man crossed his arms. “You the one who killed him?”

Cassian gasped, clutching his heart. “I am a gentleman of Naboo, sir! The only blood these hands have touched is of my own, cut while painstakingly freeing the crystals from their unceremonious crypts to they may once again shine in the light of day.”

“But I thought Nabooians hate Force peoples.”

“We hate the magic, sir, not the people.” Not exactly King Anakin’s philosophy — Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and who wields more power than those who can bend reality’s will? — but Cassian wasn’t one to judge others.

Publicly.

The big man leaned forward, eyeing the other crystal neatly lined up. “What’s the blue one mean?”

“Blue crystals were forged by the Guardians of Old, the most skilled of Force manipulation. They were the strongest of the Jedi Knights.”

“What about the green?”

“Green?” Cassian accidentally blurted out. He looked in the crate. Sure enough, there was a green one, smaller than the rest, but nonetheless vibrant. Shit. Chirrut never mentioned green Kyber crystals in all his speeches during dinner or at the tavern. Or maybe he had but Cassian was blissfully drunk by then and spaced out. “Ah, green! Yes, the green. Very rare. Very valuable.”

“But what’s it mean?”

“It means… hope.”

“Hope?”

Sure, why not? “Yes. Wielders of green crystals symbolized hope for the future. Green is the color of a flourishing crop, is not? Green is growth. A green-Jedi was a Jedi with a kind heart and strong mind. Leaders who cared. Who loved.”

The big man picked up the crystal. It appeared so tiny in his large fingers. The slightest pressure and it’d crack in two. “Kind heart and strong mind, huh?”

“Like the lady in your life?” Cassian guessed.

A soft smile grew on the man’s face. Cassian knew a father’s pride when he saw it. “Yeah. Just like her.”

“I’ll tell you what—” Chirrut was going to kill Cassian, assuming Baze didn’t beat him to it. “—you can have it. Free of charge.”

The big man looked genuinely touched by Cassian’s offer. An unfamiliar feeling arose in Cassian’s chest. “You mean it?”

Oh, Cassian realized with horror. Guilt. He was feeling guilt.

He mentally shook it off, and answered, “Yes. A gift from the country of Naboo, to you. We’re known for our hospitality, you know. Here,” he reached out his hand, “let me package it safely for you, for your journey home.”

The big man left shortly after with a friendly wave, the velvet bag containing the crystal tucked into his pack, Chirrut now short one piece of merchandise. But Cassian would pay him back.

The guilt would be harder to satisfy.

Cassian hated the tunnels. It reminded him of his days spent in Coruscant, a simple thief who fancied himself a rebel. Hungry. Alone. Desperate. Even Naboo, known for its sunshine and flowers, managed to have dank tunnels lurking beneath, an escape route built by a culture long forgotten but the castle still had access to. Force users had used the tunnels to escape, it’s rumored, Jedi and Sith alike.

She stood at the very end of the tunnel, near the castle’s hidden entrance, carrying a torch and dressed in a dark purple — nearly black — hooded cloak with exquisite golden accents. It looked odd on her, certainly wasn’t a part of her usual wardrobe. Cassian wondered who she’d gotten it from, and if it was done with consent.

“Was the mission successful?” she asked. She sounded different too. Deeper. Darker. Cassian convinced himself it was the tunnel playing tricks on the ear.

Cassian pulled out the empty vial from his pocket. “I dyed the bag in it, just like you said. Any decently bred Loth-wolf should be able to track its scent.”

“And the Mandalorian took it without question?”

“Oh, he had questions alright. None of them the right ones, though.”

She nodded, solemnly. Cassian wished he could see her eyes beneath the hood’s shadow. “Very well. I thank you for your discretion, as always.”

“Yeah, I’m always discrete. But to hide if from Her Majesty… That’s a bit unusual, even for you. Don’t you think she and His Majesty have the right to know—”

“No!” Her shout echoed through the gullet of the tunnels. Cassian barely withheld a flinch. She cleared her throat. “No,” she repeated, softer. “No need to give the royal family any false hope.”

“Hope can never be false,” Cassian said, unsure of why exactly, but if felt important she knew.

“I didn’t peg you for an optimist.”

“And I didn’t peg you for a killer.” She took a step backwards, caught off guard. Cassian smiled; he hoped they were right about his smile and sarlacc pits. “I smelled the gas long before I stepped into the tunnels. You drank the potion that protects you beforehand, I assume. Tastes like shit, huh?”

“Then why did you—”

“Still enter? Because I knew if you didn’t succeed in killing me, you’d kill my family before I could warn them.”

She gave a single surprised laugh. It sounded cold. How far she’d fallen from the woman he’d met all those years ago… His death damaged her more than anyone realized. “That’s it? You, the infamous spy, the ‘Secret Weapon of Naboo’, dies quietly in abandoned tunnels, alone and with nothing?”

“Alone, perhaps. But not with nothing.”

“Oh? Does the Secret Weapon have a secret weapon?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to be the one who kills you. That pleasure lies with someone else’s fate. But they will be armed with the same thing I am now.”

“What?” she asked, annoyance tinged with anxiety.

It’s cheesy, sounds like something his old friend, Nemik, would say. Not him. And maybe that’s why he says it. “Hope.”

She laughs again, this time genuine and for a long, long time. “Hope? You think I and my whole army will be defeated by sweet little hope?”

He shrugged. “Rebellions are built on hope.”

He doesn’t remember anything after this. The world blurred into a fog, the poison taking over. Some small part of him recognized he was laying on the damp ground, and that she’d probably left a long time ago, though time didn’t exist for him anymore. A life flashed before his eyes. His sister. His adopted parents. Starry nights. Home. Losing home. Finding home. His wife. His son. His friends who became his family. But the last thing he saw was something he’d never seen before. A sword of green, shattering a sword of red. Hope defeating evil.

And when the knights found him hours later, rumors of hushed conversations leaking through the castle floorboards, they found Cassian Andor, dead, but with a soft smile on his face.