Work Text:
Bo-Katan was seven years old when she was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because her cough wouldn’t stop. Her father carried her in his arms in a way he hadn’t for years. And he shouldn’t have done that, she wanted to protest that she could walk on her own, but her words were stifled by a new fit of coughing.
After they had made it to the speeder hangar and got hold of a trustworthy pilot, Father shoved a handkerchief into her hands – one embroidered with intricate patterns of turquoise vines, no doubt Satine’s handiwork – but not without reminding her that she was a lady and should watch herself in public accordingly.
She tried to hold herself back, but her throat was dry and scratchy, like something was trying to creep up. She hid her features behind the handkerchief as she continued to cough and cough all the way to the physician’s home.
The delicate piece of cloth was stained with crimson spots as she pulled it away, drops of blood and flower petals scattered across it. Real flower petals, there was no mistaking it.
There was plenty of green on Kalevala where she’d grown up, tree-covered peaks and luscious meadows and exotic plants, but those were incredibly rare on Mandalore. Not even crops could survive without the cover of the domed cities, and cultivating flowers wasn’t exactly a priority, no matter how pretty they were. They didn’t help feed people.
Satine liked them. Her sister could certainly afford them, and even flaunted them by wearing them as an accessory, sending some kind of message Bo wasn’t certain she completely understood.
The physician they ended up seeing was an old lady everyone called Baar’ur. Bo-Katan wasn’t sure about her age, but she looked fragile and much older than anyone else she knew. As the old woman fidgeted with the settings on the med scanner, Bo-Katan noted that her hands were wrinkly, the veins on their back blue and bulging – but her movements were steady enough that her hands did not tremble when she administered the hypo that made Bo flinch.
She simply patted Bo-Katan’s head and moved to the side to talk to her father, whispering just out of earshot. At least up to the point when Father, always loud and short-tempered, exclaimed, “I asked you: how long?”
Bo-Katan did not like it when grown-ups talked over her head as if she weren’t there. But she recognised that tone all too well; and she’d rather not get mixed up in it if she didn’t have to. She dropped her gaze to the floor, pretending she didn’t hear the conversation that was about to unfold.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Highness.”
“You said she has it,” Father hissed, his voice cutting through the confused silence. “How long before she suffocates?”
The healer sounded genuinely baffled as she answered, “Your Highness, with all due respect, no one dies from a broken heart anymore.”
“Her mother did,” Father gritted out.
Bo withheld the urge to look up. They never discussed Mother. She didn’t even know what she’d looked like, never having seen a portrait, and everyone around her kept saying how much the little princess took after her father with her rust-coloured hair and freckled cheeks.
“My condolences,” Baar’ur said solemnly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that–”
“Is she healed? Just like that?” Father cut in, clearly in disbelief.
“There is no cure, I’m afraid,” the old woman admitted. “The serum I administered won’t let the disease spread to her lungs and should ease the cough for a few days, but it won’t eliminate it. However, if she learns to come to terms with her emotions, it can become completely asymptomatic. I would recommend talking to a mind–”
Bo-Katan risked peeking upwards, only for her father to avoid meeting her eyes, his face flushed with ire.
“None of that,” he said firmly, taking his daughter’s hand and tugging her towards the exit. “Thank you, Baar’ur, but I shall seek a second opinion.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” The physician inclined her head.
Before they left, she gave Bo-Katan a handkerchief to replace the old one, in spite of the princess’s polite objections. Bo only noticed the hand-stitched lettering a few days later, when the coughs returned. Speak your heart to mend your soul. It must have been the motto of the Baar’ur’s clan, she mused, because it didn’t make a lot of sense.
***
“I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors...”
Bo-Katan bit back the sudden urge to laugh as she recited the words. It was like watching one of those plays, the ones Father enjoyed immensely and seized every opportunity to drag his daughters with him. They were horribly long and impossible to follow, but he would hush them down whenever Satine tried to explain the plot, so all Bo could do was make fun of the over-the-top costumes and overdramatic lines.
Except she was one of the players today. She was standing knee-deep in the Living Waters in her ridiculously expensive powder blue dress, repeating words that had long lost their meaning.
She also felt the lingering, burning urge to cough.
Sneakily, she caught a glimpse of Father. He must’ve heard her voice quiver at the last word. She stopped for a split second, clearing her throat as quietly as she could manage, and went on, “…the words of the Creed shall be forever forged in my heart.”
He looked at her with something akin to pride in his eyes, and the scratch and soreness in her throat returned tenfold.
She wiggled her toes; the water was cold and her feet were getting numb, but she had to stand there until the ceremony was over. That was the most laughable detail of the whole ordeal. If anyone, then she of all people knew that the Living Waters held no magic powers as some liked to claim.
It had been the suggestion of one of the healers Father had dragged her to after her second fit – to visit the mines regularly, to submerge herself underwater and inhale the vapours, promising that it would rid her of the illness.
The coughing hadn’t stopped, of course.
Others had prescribed her tinctures and lotions while talking about the time vegetation had covered all of Mandalore; or they just went on and on about the significance of flowers, believing that just like the colour of their armour, each of them held different meanings, and if only Bo-Katan could decipher them, she would be cured.
The latter was absolutely baseless. She had been coughing up the same boring red petals since that fateful night.
To her father’s credit, it had not been a complete waste of time, although not in the way he had intended. It turned out that one of the healers had treated her mother right before she’d died from the same disease that now ailed her daughter.
Bo-Katan had known that the marriage between her mother and her father had been somewhat different. She now learned that it was born out of an alliance during the political turmoil that followed the Civil War. Father’s advisors had suggested that a royal marriage uniting the two sides could show their people that it was possible to put aside their differences, even after years of fighting. None of them wished to burden the young Satine any further – she had enough on her plate as the newly appointed leader of their planet – so the responsibility fell to the Dowager Duke. Despite the fact that, according to the healer, it was an open secret that Father was still grieving the loss of Satine’s mother, the late Duchess of Kalevala.
“Your mother had died because she thought her husband didn’t love her back,” the healer had explained, “and there had been no way to treat it.”
Bo-Katan would never dare ask her father whether her mother had been right. Nor would she ask whether he could love the daughter of that woman regardless.
***
“Get up.”
Bo-Katan shut her eyes for a moment. She exhaled the air trapped in her lungs before scrambling to her feet and facing her father. Again.
“You rely too much on your jetpack.”
She was well aware. Her coughing fits frequently occurred during the training sessions with her father. And even apart from that, she often got breathless and too weary too soon, as if there was something heavy buried inside her chest, weighing her down. She had no chance at running long distances, but she had stamina, so Father had made her climb the peaks of Kyrimorut on a regular basis. Luckily, she was allowed to set her own pace.
“Perhaps, because–“ she started, but broke off. She could already feel the silk-smooth surface of a petal under her tongue. Another fit was coming.
Her father didn’t like it when she spoke of the disease. Apparently, because it had to do with emotions. Suppressing them.
Bo-Katan didn’t know whether that was another stupid superstition or the scientific consensus, but she’d quickly learned that the belief was widespread enough that most people considered it a shameful condition. Mandalorians did not dwell on their feelings. They took whatever they wanted, or laid claim on it and died trying to obtain it. They certainly did not hold back for fear of rejection.
“I won’t, this time.” Her attempts to hide it were futile, her panting must have been audible from afar. “I’ll stay on the ground.”
And she tried. Really tried. But soon her father had her cornered against an alcove, surrounded by rocks from all sides, and she had no other options but to turn on her jetpack and slip away if she wanted to avoid the training staff coming her way.
All the same, she ended up with her back slammed against the ground when Father’s next move effortlessly knocked her off her feet before she could take off.
“Again,” he called from above, the staff at the ready in his hand.
Bo-Katan rose, her pulse pounding in her ears, and every inhale sharp and burning. She refused to gasp for air in front of her father, so she only gave a jerky nod to indicate she was all set.
“Who is going to protect your sister, if you won’t?” Father continued. “She’s too stubborn to engage in a fight, restrained by her convictions. But I am raising you to be a warrior.”
Something stirred inside Bo, and she did not wait for the next attack; she grabbed her own staff with both hands, delivering the first strike.
She knew that Father had been pulling his punches during their sparring matches, but just this once she must have caught him off-guard because he barely managed to raise his arms at the last second to fend off the blow with his vambraces. She was quick to react after that, relentlessly meeting his every move, as if she’d anticipated where they would be coming from.
She kept that up until she became short of breath again, her chest tight and her knees wobbling. She needed to get away. And so, she reached for her jetpack to do just that, ascending with steady speed, glancing down at her father from a safe distance. But he didn’t seem to think the fight was over, as he raised his right arm, aiming right at her.
Father’s vambraces were equipped with darts. Not training darts, sharp ones.
Before she could even think of turning her plasma shield on and deflecting the shot, the dart hit the fuel tank of her jetpack. The device burst out in blue sparkles and dark grey smoke, and stopped whirring.
Bo-Katan absently noted that she was falling, unable to tell which way was up. The world turned into a swirl of colours, the rusty red of the rocks, the ochre brown of the barren ground, and the luminous blue of the plasma shield she’d activated too late. And then there was crimson, the exact shade of the petals, which was impossible because there had been no flowers there. Flowers needed soil to grow.
She only realised later that her forehead had been bleeding, tinting her vision with red.
***
“You look very pretty.”
Bo-Katan didn’t need to turn around to know it was her sister. Father must have sent Satine to look for her because she was late. She couldn’t care less, not when she could barely stand to look at her own reflection. The scar on her forehead was impossible to miss, the skin raised and angry red. She wouldn’t allow people to see her like that.
“Can I borrow some of your makeup?” Bo-Katan growled in lieu of a reply, chucking the comb to the side. No matter what she did to her hair, it remained straight as an arrow and just wouldn’t fall in a way that concealed the right side of her forehead. She envied Satine’s light curls that her sister wore perfectly coiffed at all times.
“You can, but you don’t need it, Bo.”
Satine moved to her side, and before Bo-Katan had a chance to protest, she removed her own headpiece, offering it out to her little sister.
“Take this. I have more of them than I could ever wear, and it would suit you rather well.”
It was one of the few accessories Satine possessed that Bo-Katan had always secretly liked for its elegant simplicity. She would have accepted it without hesitation before the incident.
“It won’t hide the scar.” Her voice was raspy and tears pricked her eyes, threatening to burst. She forced herself to swallow down the urge; she hated to cry in front of others.
“No, it won’t.” Satine’s smile was tight and bittersweet, making her seem older than she actually was. “You should still wear it. It’s made of beskar, it’s just as sturdy as you are.” She paused, perhaps expecting Bo to smile. Not deterred by the uncomfortable silence, she went on, “Pull your hair back and show it off. There’ll be many people in the room who have scars on their own – and those who don’t might be jealous that you do.”
Bo-Katan knew that Satine had scars as well, most of them served as a permanent reminder of the year she’d spent on the run during the war, but none of them showed under the long-sleeved tunics and floor-length gowns she wore.
“It was a stupid training accident,” Bo mumbled.
“And that’s more than some of them have achieved,” her sister went on. “Have you met the oldest son of the Governor of Tracyn? Poor boy can’t hold the blaster steady. Even I would beat him at target practice.”
Bo-Katan chuckled. She knew Satine only said that to cheer her up, the duchess wasn’t a bad shot at all. Her talents were truly wasted on someone who would only raise her weapon in self-defence.
And despite Satine’s ulterior motives behind comforting her little sister– namely dragging her downstairs to join the feast – it worked. Bo found herself nodding when Satine suggested she at least tried the headdress on, letting her older sister arrange her red locks as she saw it fit.
When she finished, the duchess rested her chin on Bo-Katan’s shoulder, looking at their reflection in the mirror. “I meant it, Bo,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to her little sister’s temple. “You’re a sight to behold.”
Bo could only return a faint shadow of the smile on Satine’s face, because she felt a familiar itch, now a foreboding sign, at the back of her throat.
“Go now. I’ll be right with you,” she bit out, hoping her sister would neither take offence, nor notice that something was off.
Bo-Katan kept her composure, waiting for the door to shut and grabbing a handkerchief just in time before doubling over, practically retching until a strange flower escaped her lips.
When the healers had suggested that she should seek a higher meaning in her symptoms, she had successfully identified the red petals as those of the bloodflower, a rare plant native to the planet Grella. She’d also attempted to dissect the significance behind the colour, but it had so many different connotations. Some cultures associated it with violence and anger, others with passion and love, while her people chose it for their armour in honour their parents. She’d also learned first-hand that it was the exact shade of Human blood from a freshly cut wound.
Suffice to say, she had spent a lot of time in the Royal Archives, overwhelmed with information, but not any closer to making sense of it all.
This flower, on the other hand, she recognised right away. It was bigger, shaped a bit like a trumpet, white, and disappointingly, it had absolutely no scent. She had seen a lot of them growing up – it was a Kalevalan Calla. Satine liked to wear them in her hair.
Bo-Katan threw the flower down the chute, glanced into the mirror one last time, her eyes momentarily caught on the scar, then turned around, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her tunic, and left to join her family.
She’d had no idea what nightmare she was about to walk into. The celebrations had been interrupted when a woman who had returned from her exile from Concordia and broken into the palace. She refused to recognise Satine’s rule, so she challenged the Kryze sisters’ father for the throne.
Father accepted, of course.
Bo-Katan didn’t know whether it was the shock or sheer worry for her father’s life, but it seemed as if the entire ordeal was over before it began. The woman looked desperate and as the duel went on, her movements turned hasty and imprudent. She collapsed like a ragdoll when Father’s beskad pierced her heart, but even as she was on her knees, defeated and trembling, blood leaking from her lips like a wine-dark creek, she summoned all her remaining strength to eject a single, poisoned dart.
Father fell asleep that night and never woke up. There was nothing Baar’ur could do to save him.
***
Satine’s voice was deafening in the awkward silence that filled the absence of the chattering of the respective politicians, governors, and noblemen which had stopped the moment Bo-Katan had walked in, even though all her sister said was, “Walk with me, Bo-Katan.”
Satine was furious, Bo-Katan could tell, because she didn’t even pretend to phrase it as a request. She also refrained from using her nickname, and just like any other time the duchess was angry, her eyebrows shot up involuntarily – one of the few things she couldn’t hide, not even during the council meetings Bo had attended.
There was no need to force their way through the crowd, the people around them parted without prompting, letting them pass. Bo fell into step behind Satine, and kept her head down. She might have arrived expecting repercussions, but she knew better than to speak unless spoken to.
Eventually, they entered a greenhouse, but Bo did not fail to recognise it as the one right next to Peace Park. Of course. It conveyed the same symbolism the park did, barring the prying eyes of commoners.
Satine did not speak before she was sure they were alone, save for the guards at the doors. “What in the galaxy possessed you to appear in full armour on the anniversary of the ceasefire?” She kept her gaze averted, seemingly admiring the black orchids in front of her.
“Your protectors are allowed to wear armour,” Bo-Katan countered.
“Not beskar’gam,” her sister hissed.
Was that the problem? That Bo-Katan took a piece of their traditions and wished to preserve it?
She’d thought Satine would be mad that she’d refused to put on the dress that had been picked out for her, not that she’d chosen armour instead.
It was all they had left that belonged to Father. Their names, their titles, the right to rule their planet – they inherited all that from Satine’s mother. As the eldest sibling, Satine was supposed to receive the beskar’gam as well, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
So Bo-Katan took it for herself. The pauldrons and the vambraces fit her without much of a problem, but she’d had the rest of the pieces altered. She’d chosen the blue of House Kryze and painted the owl displayed on the crest of her mother’s clan on it herself. Since her mother’s line had ended so abruptly, she was the first person to wear that symbol in a long time.
“You can’t forbid me from wearing it.”
Maybe she could. Bo-Katan had no idea where a duchess’s jurisdiction ended.
“I can’t,” Satine charitably admitted, her jaw still tense. “But do you have any idea how it made me look? My own sister–”
“You can’t force people to abandon their ways,” Bo cut in. “If something, then Father’s death has proven that. You’ve been betraying everything we as Mandalorians stand for, and our people can only take it for so long!“
Her sister winced. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.” She spoke evenly and patiently as she always did, but Bo saw how much effort it took her not to snap back. “You’re too young to have seen the destruction war has caused our people, our planet… To see what we have inflicted upon each other.”
Bo-Katan shook her head, wishing she could shake Satine the same way, so that she could come to her senses.
“Times change, Satine!” The words burst out of her, much like the flower petals. “The entire Galaxy is at war. It isn’t right that we’re not defending ourselves. We’re Mandalorians, that’s what we’ve always done. Even the Jedi have joined the fight, and they’re cowards.”
The duchess spread her arms helplessly, light flickering across the sequined sleeves of her tunic with every movement. “What would you have me do? Pick a side and waste lives needlessly for a cause none of us believe in?”
Bo-Katan sneered, growing more and more annoyed, because Satine was missing the whole point. They were warriors, no matter how hard the duchess and her advisors had been trying to pretend otherwise. It was a question of defending their honour.
“You can’t expect us to just sit with our hands in our laps! He would want us to fight for ourselves.”
Satine scoffed, then countered, raising her voice for the first time, “It’s not my fault that Father has taught you nothing but how to wield a sword!”
He only trained me so that I’d be able to protect you, Bo-Katan wanted to say. And I would, if you’d only let me. But the air felt suffocating, and she suspected it was not only due to the artificial humidity that was maintained for the wellbeing of the plants.
“He also taught me how to fire a blaster pretty well,” she said instead, hating how childish she sounded. But she’d rather swallow her tongue than fall into a fit in front of Satine.
Satine, groaned in frustration. “Stars, you can be so daft sometimes!” she cried, throwing all semblance of politeness to the wind.
Her eyes widened, and perhaps she was about to apologise, but Bo-Katan interjected before she could say anything, “If you excuse me, Your Majesty,” she snarled. “I’ll go and change into more appropriate attire.”
She turned and left, with no intention of returning. She went straight to the outskirts of Sundari, following whispers of renegade Mandalorians who rejected her sister’s rule. But even in her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have predicted that that would be the last time she set foot on Mandalore for a while.
***
This was a test, her first solo mission. To see what she’s made of.
Her orders sounded easy enough: sneak into the warehouse, place the thermal detonators strategically, get out on time, and don’t blow yourself up.
Vizsla had promised her a promotion if she succeeded.
Their current target was the warehouse of a Separatist weapons factory. A tenday ago, it had been a Republic base, a pirate ship before that. It had nothing to do with Galactic politics. Their primary concern was acquiring weapons, not where they were getting them from. They needed to arm themselves if they ever hoped to remove Satine from the throne and subjugate her treacherous followers.
But before that, they needed a plan. Without exception, every single member of Death Watch would be ready to rush head-first into combat at the drop of a helmet. Although Bo-Katan could sympathise with that sentiment, they couldn’t just invade their home planet. Under no circumstance could they afford to antagonise the people of Mandalore.
Even though their people had strayed from their ways, abandoning every single tradition that had made them who they were, they had been deceived by Satine and her empty promises of peace and prosperity. It was time someone showed them what it meant to fight for their future with honour.
There was a catch, of course. They hadn’t been able to obtain any information regarding the civilian workers’ shifts. They had no choice but to conduct the operation during the night cycle and hope for the best.
“Think you can get the job done?” Pre asked, tapping the tabletop with his knuckles impatiently. The stolen blueprints of the factory were still on display, illuminating the entire tent in a dimmed, shimmering blue light.
I would do anything you asked of me, the thought barely crossed Bo-Katan’s mind, it was cut off as her throat tightened and her mouth filled with saliva. Not now, she pleaded inwardly.
She swallowed thickly, but felt as if she was gulping down soap. The taste was familiar, and although it took her a moment to pinpoint it, it reminded her of the heady scent of the tea Vizsla liked to brew using the dried florets of the Cassius tree.
Bo-Katan was immensely grateful that she’d already popped the helmet on her head.
“I will. For Mandalore,” she bit out and nodded, choking back the flowers that would inevitably come back up the second she lost her self-restraint. But she couldn’t allow Pre to see her showing such weakness. She knew deep down that the Death Watch leader had only taken her in so that he could declare the support of House Kryze on his side when he made his claim to the throne.
This was her chance to prove herself, to prove that there was more to her than her name.
***
Bo-Katan’s whole world had been shaken.
And not simply because she was hovering metres above the ground, lungs burning, arms and legs wiggling helplessly in the air.
They’d been fools to involve Maul. To think they could double-cross him. Was she really willing to go this far? How many of her principles had she already given up on the way?
And for what? Power was fleeting and meaningless in itself, she could see that now.
Even though she’d learned her lesson of what Maul was capable of, but that hadn’t stopped her from charging at the Sith without a second thought, raising both her blasters in a futile, rage-fuelled attempt. Because the prospect of being choked wasn’t nearly as threatening, having spent more than half of her life breathless, gasping for oxygen, with her airways obstructed by flower petals.
***
She could already feel the lump in her throat when she’d given one of Satine’s old headdresses, a long, sleeveless tunic, and a pair of vambraces to Ahsoka – the Jedi had refused to wear anything more than that, no matter how scornfully Bo had looked at her.
The first cough only hit her after they had said their goodbyes. Bo-Katan knew not to expect the bloodflower that had stopped coming after Father’s death, nor the white one from Kalevala that had been dear to Satine, nor the tiny golden florets that reminded her of Vizsla.
You never did learn to gain control over your emotions, she thought to herself grimly as she bent over, gagging until she could breathe again. Even a Jedi can get through your defences.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, glimpsed gloved fingers from the corner of her eyes that slid to the side of her head, gently pulling her hair back. She shuddered under the touch before the sickening urge overwhelmed her one more time.
She glanced down at her hand to find a tight bundle of dark orange petals – a flower bud, not even a full blossom, and leaned back, the hands in her hair shifting again to caress her back as her nausea subsided.
“Want to talk about it?” came Ursa’s voice from behind her.
Bo didn’t turn back, just shook her head, letting Ursa lock her in a tight embrace.
There was no point.
Ahsoka had been… Nothing like she’d imagined a Jedi to be. She was reckless and relentless, a force to be reckoned with. Someone who had managed to coax the Republic into helping them, who had no use for jetpacks, and fought with all the grace and fierceness of a true warrior. And above all, Bo-Katan had trusted her – not just to handle Maul but with her people’s fate.
But their unlikely alliance had come to an end – Ahsoka left. And Bo-Katan could not waste more time dwelling on her emotions now. Her people needed her.
***
She had never expected to call Kryze Castle her home again.
Although she had spent her childhood on Kalevala, Bo-Katan almost forgot how many memories had been confined between the cold, grey walls.
It was as if the entire castle had been frozen in carbonite, so much of it had remained unchanged. The blue banners with the crest of House Kryze, the royal portraits of Father and Satine’s mother, and the frankly hideous paintings Satine had commissioned to subsidise aspiring young artists.
They glared down at her, laughing at her from across time and space.
“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” The robotic voice asking her was completely devoid of emotion, yet to her ears, it sounded like the droid was gloating.
She’d never made it to the throne, her legs gave out before she could have reached the top of the stairs, and collapsed on the cold marble steps.
She would have laughed at the irony of it all, if only the coughing stopped for a second so that she could catch her breath. But it wouldn’t. The petals and blossoms scattered around her, a burst of colour against the grey floor. The red ones that had been ailing her for more than a decade, and new ones, greys and blacks and blues, soaked in a growing pool of crimson fluid. Never before had she lost so much blood.
“Get rid of those stupid pictures,” she barked the order as soon as she could manage to speak.
At least the droid still followed her instructions. Unlike her own people, who’d rather sided with Saxon and the Empire.
It would have been easy to make herself at home on Kalevala, sit back, and see how Galactic politics would play out. But this was nothing like the conflict before, she couldn’t simply stay out of it, not like Satine had – no one was safe from the Empire’s crushing hands. She owed it to her people to try and liberate them, even if she had ultimately been deemed unfit to rule them.
***
Satine would be rolling in her grave.
It was already bad enough that someone had dubbed a blaster pistol Satine’s Lament, Sabine Wren had gone ahead and named a weapon of mass destruction after the onetime duchess.
She thought fondly of Sabine now. If anyone, then Bo-Katan knew what it was to be young and impressionable, to be influenced by grand ideas she could barely comprehend, and yet be willing to sacrifice anything for the greater goal. She had her fair share of missteps to live with, and she was working on settling the score every single day. Nonetheless, she would never understand what had possessed the young girl to choose that nickname, of all things.
Bo-Katan chuckled, recalling the grimace Satine would have made, a mixture of outrage and disgust, that she had always tried her damnedest to hide but not always succeeded.
It must have come out louder than she had intended because Koska roused next to her.
“What’s so funny?” the young woman asked, her words slurred with sleep. She stretched, revealing more of her bare skin that contrasted against the white of the sheets. Bo-Katan had always teased her about her sleeping habits, she was certain Koska could fall asleep anywhere if she was left alone for five consecutive minutes. Less when she was exhausted.
And Bo-Katan had done her best to wear her out.
“Something silly.”
The grief never quite went away, and the fact that she could think of Satine without the sharp pang of sorrow and regret in her chest was still a new sensation. She wasn’t ready to share that part of her. Not with Koska, anyway.
She forcibly cleared her throat and got up, coming to a halt next to the table on which the darksaber rested.
She could not erase the past, but she could continue to make amends by ruling in her sister’s name, trying to reconcile her people. After all, Satine had managed to keep Mandalore independent and peaceful for almost two decades.
“It’s just funny,” Bo said, igniting the blade that seemed to swallow all light around it, as if that had been the only thing on her mind. “It’s so light and fragile. You can only feel the weight of the hilt, really.”
She twirled it in the air as if to emphasise the point; Koska watched from the bed, eyes heavy-lidded.
Satine had committed one fatal mistake though, one that had not only caused her only sister to estrange but had led to her eventual downfall – she’d underestimated how much their people clung to their traditions. Bo-Katan was afraid the same fate would befall her. The saber was supposed to be a symbol of unity, and yet, there had been clans, tribes, and numerous other Mandalorian fractions that had outright refused to pledge their loyalty to her because it had been gifted to her by Sabine Wren, not won in combat.
As if the blade had not been coated with enough blood already. As if their people had not been fractured enough. They kept finding reasons to divide themselves.
“Would you follow me if I didn’t have it?” Bo-Katan refrained from glancing back over her shoulder as she asked the question. She waited for an answer, her pulse racing and her breath held in anticipation.
It did not arrive for too long for Bo-Katan’s comfort. She could practically feel her heart sink lower and lower with every passing second.
“Dunno,” Koska said at last, voice husky with sleep. “Does it matter? You got it. No one else has more right to be Mand’alor.”
It wasn’t the reply Bo-Katan had expected.
“Get out,” she growled, her chest now heaving.
Koska did not stir at first. Then, pursing her lips and cocking a sceptical eyebrow, she stretched languidly, taking up more space across the bed than should have been physically possible. Only to get up and discard the sheet that had covered her body with an abrupt movement she must have thought was irresistible – it would have been, any other day.
“I said get out,” Bo repeated, her patience running short, feeling lightheaded and struggling to keep her breathing steady. “You’re not welcome in my bed anymore.”
“All right, I’m going,” the brunette grumbled, heading for the door, wrapped only in the sheet that she’d grabbed on the way out. “Let me know when you’ve calmed down.”
Bo-Katan wasn’t going to let her have the last word, but she couldn’t find her voice, and the door slid shut behind the other woman. Saliva flooded her mouth and all she could do was gulp desperately in an attempt to force back down whatever weed was threatening to burst out of her this time. She’d barely reached the basin when she started spewing the tiny blue flower heads and even smaller petals, and leaves covered with soft purple hairs that felt like velvet in her mouth, and curling green vines that almost made her choke.
Looking into the mirror, she noticed how flustered she was, her cheeks horribly red, clashing with the colour of her hair, while the bits of plants lying at the bottom of the sink matched the shade of the bruises blooming on her pale skin, of the love-bites trailing down her neck towards her chest.
Maybe this was what coming to terms with her emotions felt like, she wondered, as she turned her back on the soaked leaves. It was better this way, it wasn’t like she needed Koska.
Reeves would find someone more deserving of her attentions, anyway.
Bo snorted and opened the tap, letting the water wash the smaller flowers away, while the rest got stuck in the drain. The cleaning droids would get to it, sooner or later.
***
Ahsoka stirred before she could have possibly heard Bo-Katan’s steps, and turned around, with a welding torch fizzing in one hand, pushing her goggles to the top of her head with the other.
“Good to see you in one piece, Bo,” the Togruta said in place of a greeting. Then, without waiting for an answer, she strode closer, placing a datachip in Bo-Katan’s hand.
The Mandalorian took it, confounded for a moment, unsure what to do next. After all, she’d acquired what she came for.
But she was standing across from the only person who could even begin to understand what it was like to lose everyone around her in a heartbeat.
Except, unlike Ahsoka, she’d had a responsibility to lead those people, and had sworn to protect them, only to break that oath in the same breath by surrendering to a liar, handing over her people on a silver plate. Since then the Battle of Jakku had ended, the Galactic Concordance had been signed and ratified, and the entire Galaxy erupted in cheers – though many hadn’t stopped celebrating since the Rebellion’s victory on Endor.
Bo-Katan wondered whether Ahsoka had been just as lost and disoriented in the aftermath. They both had been raised as warriors, even if they had long abandoned their original cause. They were out of place in a peaceful galaxy. What were they to do when there was no one left to fight?
As if she could read her mind, Ahsoka asked, “What are you gonna do now?”
“I’m not giving up this time,” Bo-Katan replied with all her resolve. “My people have been decimated and scattered, but they’re still out there. I can unite them, I just need what Gideon has taken from me.”
And she found that she meant every word. She’d given herself time to grieve, but she had to act now.
Ahsoka merely inclined her head, as if it hadn’t been news to her.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Bo remarked.
Ahsoka cocked an amused eyebrow. “I figured you aren’t interested in the location of Imperial remnants just to check on their well-being.”
Bo-Katan exhaled a silent laugh. “What about you?” she asked, glancing at the hall of the ship the Jedi had been tinkering with. It didn’t look like it would be ready for take-off any time soon. “Care to join the hunt? For old times’ sake.”
Ahsoka folded her arms across her chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’m after bigger fish than a self-proclaimed Moff.”
Bo-Katan sighed dramatically, trying to conceal the fondness in her tone as she said, “Sounds like you, you selfless maniac.”
There wasn’t much to say, after that.
They were headed their separate ways, but they knew how to find each other if needed.
Bo-Katan had already got back to her ship when she couldn’t keep herself from doubling over anymore, holding the fabric of her poncho against her mouth to muffle the sound of her coughs.
She didn’t want Ahsoka to worry, but more than that, she didn’t want her asking questions.
She was almost relieved as she watched the flower land on her palm. It was familiar, except that it was in full bloom now, its orange petals opened up like rays of sunshine, enclosing the dark blue pistil.
The plant was native to Shili, Bo recalled, but Togrutans were so fond of it that they cultivated it all over the Galaxy. She knew all that because she’d done her research the last time she’d parted ways with Ahsoka.
It felt a bit on the nose, considering.
***
The Nite Owls had pledged their loyalties directly to Bo-Katan. Not to Vizsla, not to Maul. They hadn’t hesitated to leave with her when she’d refused to bow to Maul, and they had followed her lead during the Siege of Mandalore without missing a beat. They hadn’t wavered when she’d been forced to flee and build up resistance against the Empire from Kalevala, and continued to support her during her short-lived rule. And the few who had survived the Purge went on to aid her efforts to reclaim the darksaber.
But Bo-Katan had failed to do just that. Din Djarin had got to it first, making him the rightful Mand’alor.
Consequently, for the first time in her life, she was completely and utterly alone, having lost the faith of the last of her allies.
Returning to Castle Kryze for the second time wasn’t half as painful as she’d imagined it. Apart from the banners of her clan, the castle was stripped of memories; any reminders of her loved ones had long been moved out of sight. Her childhood home was empty, mirroring the hollowness that had settled in her chest. The anticipated coughing fit, however, did not come – even the flower petals refused to fill the void.
Although the castle wasn’t completely empty. The footman droid still roamed the halls with its incessant Your Majesties, as if it had no other job but to mock her. She should have reprogrammed it long ago, but it would be just as easy – and slightly less pointless – to use the no-good bucket of bolts for target practice.
***
Months had passed since the fateful day the Armourer had requested Bo-Katan remove her helmet and tasked her with leading their people. Bo-Katan had taken a leap of faith when she’d confided in the leader of the Tribe, and – ignoring how mad she’d sounded even to her own ears – revealed to her what she’d witnessed in the mines. Somewhere along the way, the mutual respect and admiration they had for each other had evolved, something more akin to trust taking root in their place.
And so, for the first time in her life, Bo-Katan did not feel completely ambushed by the uncomfortable sensation surging up her chest, the itch in her throat every time she swallowed. They were symptoms she’d learned to recognise long ago.
She forcibly cleared her throat and tried to refocus her attention on the Council meeting around her. Not that it mattered because the conversation trailed off again, they had been discussing petty internal conflicts, drunken brawls, and other minor disputes for the past hour. Supposedly, there had been a disagreement over a tiingilar recipe, which had quickly turned into a cooking competition, ultimately ending in a food fight over the impartiality of the judges. But miraculously, it had been resolved without bloodshed.
Hearing that, Councillor Strill – one of the elders and a bit of a hardliner – had suggested that all this wouldn’t have been a problem if they had a common enemy to shoot at, which then prompted a whole other discussion. Which meant that they were wasting precious time instead of finding solutions to their actual problems, like how they were going to house the newcomers Woves would be arriving with any day now.
Bo-Katan tried to suppress any sign of her disagreement when Strill started reminiscing about bygone conflicts. But if the heads snapping in her direction were any indication, her frustrated groan had been very much audible.
“My parents must have been onto something,” she said finally, her voice a little husky. “They just got hitched when the civil war ended to show an example of unity.”
“That sounds more sensible than to start another conflict,” Laz of Clan Eldar muttered under his breath, his eyes shooting daggers at Strill.
Bo glimpsed Koska from the corner of her eye. The young woman had always been ready to jump at any opportunity to defend Bo-Katan, regardless of whether the fight took place on the field of battle or around a table. Perhaps she would take Bo’s remark for what it was – a cue to move on to more pressing matters.
“A good feast is bound to distract people,” Koska interjected, her face practically lit up at the thought.
Bo-Katan held back another grunt.
“You mean getting them drunk,” Laz countered, voice dripping with disapproval.
Koska shot the young man an unimpressed look. To his credit, Laz did not flinch. “That doesn’t hurt, no,” she quipped, “might even improve your aim if there is a brawl…”
If Laz had a comeback prepared, it was drowned out by the argument unfolding around them.
Instead of joining in, Bo-Katan sat back in her chair and spared the Armourer a glance. The leader of the Tribe had been one of the most vocal opponents of the Council when Bo had come up with the idea. She’d thought it best to involve everyone in the decision-making process as much as possible, deliberating and voting on each issue in front of everyone as she’d done with her Tribe for years.
But as they grew in numbers, it had quickly become unmanageable. The Armourer and Bo-Katan then decided to establish a council including ten rotating members, five of each fraction, their names drawn from a pool of volunteers.
Bo-Katan would rather not imagine what this meeting would have looked like with every single godsdamned Mandalorian there to say their own piece. The way the Armourer’s golden helmet seemed to glare back at her, she suspected they saw eye to eye on the issue now.
The bickering broke off the moment an axe crashed into the wood of the council table. Bo didn’t have to look up to see who it belonged to. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she was instantly recognisable by her immaculate white armour and the two axes strapped to her back at all times.
Well, unless they were otherwise occupied.
“The way I see it,” the woman began, not raising her voice, which was further muted by her helmet, and yet, the room’s attention was fixed on her. “If two prominent members of each tribe were to be wed… That would be more than an empty gesture, or an excuse to celebrate. It could put out the fires for a while.”
The speaker was once a foundling, Bo-Katan was told, who rigorously followed the Creed, but was not part of any of the clans.
Bo also knew distantly that her armour was spotless, the foundling prided herself in it – quite fittingly, white was traditionally the colour of a new beginning, a clean slate. Which also meant that the black spots swimming across Bo-Katan’s vision couldn’t really be there, and by extension, weren’t a good sign.
The Armourer spoke up next, using the contemplative silence that followed the white-clad woman’s statement. “It could provide a solid foundation for the New Age we are entering.” She inclined her head in agreement, then turned to Bo-Katan. “Would you be amenable to such an arrangement, Lady Kryze?”
Bo-Katan wasn’t exactly sure why she was being addressed all of a sudden, although she had been the one who’d brought the idea up in the first place. She didn’t know of any intertribal couples, let alone of someone who could be considered a ‘prominent member’. But who was she to get in the way if they wanted to tie the knot? She blinked, her vision getting blurrier, eyes flickering briefly towards the exit, then back at the Armourer. Did the Armourer have someone? For some reason, she’d never thought to ask, she just assumed–
She caught sight of the amused glance Koska threw her, reminding her that the Council had been expecting an answer.
“I would.” She stifled a cough as she got up, head spinning, to make a hasty escape. “Excuse me.”
***
Bo-Katan headed straight to the healer’s home following her abrupt exit from the Council Hall. Well, calling it a hall was rather charitable – it was once a room aboard the Star Destroyer she and her Nite Owls had snatched from a group of particularly well-equipped Imperial remnants. It was her idea to repurpose it, utilising every last scrap for their settlement around the Great Forge. And although it resulted in some unconventional structures, if all went well, a warship wouldn’t have been of much use to them, anyway.
They had plenty of smaller spacecrafts left for transportation and trade. Some of them – like the one currently under Woves’s command – had been continuously roaming the Galaxy in search of fellow Mandalorians who might wish to return home.
They’d also received a more than generous donation consisting of droids of various shapes and sizes from the people of Plazir-15. Most of them were a bit on the old side, but they did their job well enough, cleaning the debris and building the walls that protected their nascent city. And every minute they had to spend on maintenance of the pre-Imperial models was worth it, in Bo-Katan’s opinion, if only for the way Djarin flinched whenever he unexpectedly encountered one of them.
After she’d turned up to the healer with her knees about to give out, leaving a trail of petals in her wake to the man’s absolute horror, got a diagnosis she was already aware of and an ointment that did absolutely nothing – the last thing she’d expected was being cornered by the Armourer the moment she stepped outside.
“Am I needed?” Bo asked, inwardly grateful that her voice sounded surer than she felt.
“The meeting was adjourned after you’ve left,” the Armourer replied and, tilting her head in the general direction of the healer’s home, she added, “Is there something you wish to share?”
Bo-Katan could have sworn that the dark visor of the golden helmet facing her looked scolding. “I am perfectly capable of performing my duties,” she informed curtly.
“I have never doubted that.”
She tried to put her suspicions to rest, but she couldn’t help but assume there was a reason she’d been followed all the way from the Council Hall. “Why are you interrogating me, then?”
“I am not,” the other woman protested, seemingly not offended by Bo-Katan’s clipped tone. “I am offering to shoulder the burden.”
Bo considered that. She did not think the Armourer would outright lie to her, even if she had a habit of being annoyingly cryptic at times.
“It’s a condition,” she admitted defensively, tilting her chin up. “Nothing new. I can do whatever’s required of me– for our people.”
She couldn’t put her finger on the reason – perhaps the way the Armourer’s shoulders squared, or the way she only gave a small nod in response and turned to leave immediately – but she felt like it had been the wrong thing to say.
***
“Do you know what this is?” Bo-Katan asked the Captain a few days later, showcasing the flower that had been troubling her in the palm of her hand. She’d rinsed it in water before bringing it here, which gave it a bit of a wilted look.
It was rather unremarkable, really, with its small, rounded petals, plain white apart from its blue centre. The Captain leaned in closer to examine it, sniffing a little. It did smell nice, Bo-Katan supposed.
“It’s called vormur,” he said eventually. “It originates from Mandalore but I’ve never seen it in person. If the stories are to be believed, it used to grow on the meadows like weed.” The Captain looked up at her, his forehead all creased. “Where did you get it, milady?”
“Let a woman have her secrets, Captain.” She had a feeling any explanation she could provide would only raise more questions she’d rather not answer. “Can you grow more of it?”
The honorary gardener pursed his lips into a tight smile. “The stem is tiny, but it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Bo-Katan had to clear her throat for the dozenth time that day before she managed to grunt out her next question, “How long would that take?”
“Couple of tendays tops. I’ll let you know,” the Captain readily replied, lines of worry contorting his features for a moment, as Bo-Katan only returned a grateful nod. “I have something for you,” he said, walking up to a nearby tree – barely a sapling, really – and plucking a few of its blossoms. “We’ve managed to keep a few Cassius trees alive. I don’t know about the royal household, but its tea was pretty popular where I grew up.”
Bo-Katan had recognised the tree that looked as if it had been dipped in melted gold instantly.
“I’ve heard of it,” she rasped out.
The Captain shot her another concerned look. “Might help soothe that throat of yours.”
At that, the redhead could practically feel that her face took a shade that would very closely match her hair. She didn’t want people coddling her, she had everything under control. But before she could decide whether to gently chide the man or just thank him properly, the Captain said something she couldn’t even begin to parse.
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
She couldn’t quite place the expression that spread across the man’s face but it was a mix between sheer delight and poorly exercised self-restraint.
“You’ve lost me, Captain,” Bo-Katan said, trying to hide her bewilderment behind a polite smile.
“I apologise.” It was the veteran’s turn to be embarrassed, it seemed. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. Well, I was under the impression that there would be an official announcement of sorts later on, but I didn’t think–“
***
Apparently, Bo-Katan was betrothed to the Armourer. There was no other way to put it.
She could, of course, explain that she’d had no idea what she was agreeing to – she’d been wrapped up in her own head, too distracted by the oncoming fit. The Armourer had even seen her leaving the healer’s place. No one could fault Bo for it, because who in their right mind would phrase a marriage proposal that way? She couldn’t even recall the exact words, they had been that vague.
She should have gone to find her and call the whole thing off.
Instead, she’d been sitting at home. She poured hot water over the florets she’d been given, staring into the mid-distance as she waited for the tea to finish steeping, because–
She didn’t want to call it off.
The realisation hit her like a speeder. It shouldn’t have, not when she had been literally plagued by flowers for days on end due to an illness catalysed by her own misplaced feelings. Not when she’d been inexplicably attracted to the other woman since they’d met, as if she had her own gravitational pull.
Or more like a tractor beam directed straight towards Bo-Katan, she mused, taking a sip of the Cassius tea. It was stronger than she was used to, steeped for way too long, but the familiar sweet and faintly floral taste coated her tongue. To her surprise, it did not turn to ashes in her mouth, not even as it made her recall her time on the base on Concordia.
She’d come a long way, and stumbled even more, since then.
She peered at the florets floating in her cup like tiny, bright yellow boats, and sighed, pushing the memories away, pondering her options regarding her current predicament. In terms of results, being engaged to be married to the Armourer was more than desirable. It was something she wouldn’t have dared hope for a mere tenday ago.
And yet, the thought of getting married for political reasons made her chest clench, aching from the inside, because even if they went through with it, it would be wrong from the very start.
Her fear of rejection seemed infinitesimal compared to that.
***
The Armourer was easy to find most of the time.
And so, Bo-Katan made her descent to the Great Forge with a steaming bowl of tiingilar in one hand, her helmet clasped under the other arm. The clanging of hammer on beskar deafening from up close, as she came to a halt in front of the incessantly burning flames, the only substantial source of heat and light down there.
The Armourer must have noticed her, but even so, she kept her waiting, hammering the piece with forceful yet precise blows, only sparing Bo-Katan a glance when even the smallest of dents was gone.
“I was told you wish to discuss the latest meeting of the Council,” the leader of the Tribe began then, her words partially stifled by a loud hiss, as she submerged the helmet she’d been working on in water. It was too small to fit an adult, she must have prepared it for the next child who would take the Creed. Bo had seen plenty of ceremonies recently, and none of them felt like the theatrical performance she’d recalled from her youth. The Tribe still abode by their tenets, but they no longer rejected those who did not.
“Is that tiingilar?” The Armourer asked, golden helmet tilted slightly to the side, saving Bo-Katan from having to conjure up an answer,
“It is.” Bo-Katan smirked, holding out the dish.
She’d quickly realised that Din Djarin wasn’t the only one outrageously unfamiliar with their people’s cuisine, so blatantly unversed in a fundamental part of their culture. The members of the Tribe ate by themselves, and their occasional feasts mainly consisted of roasts. It made sense in a way, after all, they hadn’t had the chance to settle down and grow the spices that were the heart and soul of everything Mandalorians cooked. They also couldn’t afford to sit around and simmer the stews for hours, as was required by traditional recipes.
And Bo-Katan had prepared this from scratch, from peeling the vegetables and dicing the meat to letting it cook slowly, allowing the spices to infuse all the ingredients. Without shortcuts, food processors, or cooking droids involved.
“Don’t believe what anyone else tells you,” she said, a hint of amusement colouring her voice. “This is the only right way to make it.”
No wonder a fight broke out over it, she mused. Each clan had their own recipes and very strong opinions on which herbs or vegetables to add and which to omit. But what made all the difference, in Bo-Katan’s opinion, was the fresh Kalevalan Coriander, another courtesy of the Captain and his ever-growing gardens. It just wasn’t the same without it.
“I last had it when I was a child,” the Armourer admitted, the tools she’d used clattering as she set them aside. “Can’t say I remember the taste, only that I drank about a gallon of water afterwards.”
Bo-Katan chuckled, hoping dearly she hadn’t been overzealous with the seasoning. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, bowing slightly and taking a step backwards, but was stopped short before she could make her exit.
“Was that all you wished to talk about, Lady Kryze?”
“It was,” she could lie. The tiingilar might have been an excuse, and a poorly hidden one at that, but it had been discussed during the meeting, it would have been perfectly plausible to–
The words just would not leave her lips. So, she stood there, tongue-tied and rooted to the spot, with the flowers threatening to crawl up her throat.
“My parents got married for political gains,” she said, swallowing down the bile and the blossoms that rose to her mouth, the words tumbling out unstoppably once she’d started talking. “And my mother died believing my father didn’t love her back.”
The end of the sentence must have been unintelligible by the wheezing that came over her. Unable to withhold it anymore, she spat to the side, a single white petal hitting the ground.
She didn’t remember moving, but when she glanced up, the distance between her and the Armourer had been closed, and a hand rested on her old pauldron.
Even through the helmet, the Armourer’s voice had a strange tinge to it. “Is that… Is this the condition you were talking about? Bo-Katan, I–”
But Bo-Katan cut her off, “I don’t want to make the same mistake by marrying you. Just–“ She raised her hand to stop the other woman from interrupting, because it was getting harder and harder to form the words. “Hear me out, please.”
The hand on her shoulder did not move, but the Armourer’s posture straightened with tension.
“It really is lonely at the top, I’ve always…” she trailed off, hating how her voice cracked.
She had been lonely for so long, and not only because she had been abandoned, but because she’d fled and pushed people away. People who might have cared about her. And the fear of that solitude had been the very thing that had made her run to the arms of Death Watch, surround herself with her Nite Owls, and dedicate years of her life to retrieve the darksaber.
She could feel another wave of petals stuck in her throat as she swallowed thickly, trying to clear them away before continuing, “I don’t want to be, not anymore. If there really is a new age to come, and I have any say in it, then I don’t want to face it alone. I don’t want to be Mand’alor alone.”
With her fingers shaking and her head throbbing, it grew increasingly more difficult to keep her grasp on her helmet. She wanted to place it on the ground, but it slipped from her hand. The noise echoed like roll of thunder in the silence of the Forge.
“But I’d rather be alone than pretend I don’t–“
The rest of the sentence was strangled in Bo-Katan’s throat by a bunch of white petals that soon landed by her feet in a pile, like huge flakes of snow.
Bo-Katan watched them fall.
“I love you,” she choked out between two coughs, gaze dropped to the floor, the declaration barely audible. As soon as she uttered the words, relief flooded her, and she inhaled gulps of air, her airways unobstructed at last.
The long silence that followed, however, made her doubt whether the Armourer had caught it at all, until the other woman spoke, “Nymien.”
Despite having regained her composure as best she could, the headache fading but sheer confusion taking over her, as Bo-Katan found she had no way to respond to that. Never before had she wished more that she were able to see the Armourer’s face. All she could make out was her own reflection in the other woman’s almond-shaped visor.
“What?” she sputtered, voice still hoarse.
“My name. It’s Nymien,” the Armourer clarified, reaching for Bo-Katan’s hands.
And if it were anyone else, the redhead would have jerked them away to hide the quivering – a sign of the passing fit. But it was all too easy to let them be gently clasped by the glove-covered hands until it subsided.
“Thank you for telling me.” Bo could imagine the reason behind the secrecy, considering how many times the Tribe must have been forced to relocate since they’d left Concordia. Which is why she never would have pushed by asking. “Nymien,” she repeated the name. She liked how it rolled off her tongue.
The Armourer tightened her grip around the Nite Owl’s hands. “You must know it,” she declared, and if Bo didn’t know any better, she would have sworn she could hear a smile. “How else could you sing it in song?”
Bo-Katan’s breath hitched at the implication. Because she’d done her research once she’d resolved to profess her feelings, consulting the only person she’d deemed well-informed and trustworthy enough.
And Din Djarin had proceeded to laugh his ass off, only stopping when Bo threatened to throw him in front of a reprogrammed super battle droid. He then graciously shared that the wedding traditions of the Tribe were rather… intimate. The couple simply exchanged vows in private, and the next time the whole tribe gathered together, they announced it by singing each other’s names in song, letting everyone know of their commitment. When she’d told Koska about it, her only addition was that if they got the timing right, they could get away with having two wedding nights.
Bo-Katan couldn’t prevent the snort that escaped her throat, realising that this had been the second time within a tenday the Armourer had proposed to her without explicitly saying so.
***
The Armourer was lying on her bed, sprawled across blankets and a frankly unnecessary number of pillows, her legs no longer quivering but her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Bo-Katan sat at the foot of the bed, admiring the view before her, when the burning urge to lean closer overcame her.
Resisting that took a woman stronger than Bo-Katan Kryze.
So, she moved forward, resting her head on the other woman’s bare sternum, focusing on the heartbeat thundering in her ear. It was erratic and worryingly out of rhythm, and Bo was about to ask whether everything was alright, when–
“You can take it off, you know?”
Too stunned to do anything else, Bo-Katan cocked her head up to face Nymien, and stuttered, “What?”
She might have misunderstood. The Armourer was famously prone to make ambiguous statements. But then again, there wasn’t much left to take off…
“My helmet,” Nymien clarified, as if it were clearly evident. “Now that we’re united in marriage, you may remove it,” she went on, not leaving anything up for interpretation.
“And you’re only mentioning this now?” Bo-Katan failed to keep the accusatory tone from her voice. She had refrained from bursting out in a hysterical laugh, however, so all things considered, she’d exercised copious amounts of self-control.
She only received a teasing remark in response.
“You were the one who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.”
Bo-Katan scoffed in disbelief, lurched even further forward and sat up, straddling the other woman’s hips. “I swear,” she said wryly. “If the vows hadn’t been as straightforward as they were, I wouldn’t even be aware we’re married.”
Nymien propped herself up on her elbows, the gap between them closing. “Is this your way of voicing your concerns regarding our union?”
“No,” Bo-Katan hurried to protest. “No concerns.”
She meant it, she had none.
The ritual itself had been short, which didn’t hurt, because contrary to tradition, they’d opted to recite their vows in front of everyone, and the crowd had been eager to start the celebrations. So much so that barely anyone had noticed when the newlyweds had slipped away.
It was anticlimactic, hastily organised, and yet, despite rushing head-first into it, Bo had never been surer of anything in her life.
She failed to suppress a shiver that ran through her when the Armourer extended a hand, combing her fingers through Bo-Katan’s fiery red hair, pinching something between two of them before pulling away.
Bo chuckled when she realised what she’d found. During the ceremony, both of them had worn crowns woven from the vormur flowers the Captain had grown at her request. Nymien’s was placed over her helmet, while Bo-Katan had left hers behind, so the garland was pinned directly into her hair. She’d felt exposed, not unlike when the Tribe had first seen her bare face, but this time around no one had raised a word of protest.
A petal from that crown had been caught in her hair, now sitting on the Armourer’s finger, like a tiny, white butterfly. Bo-Katan blew out a breath and it fluttered away.
Then, she moved both her hands to the sides of the golden helmet that gleamed even in the dimly lit quarters. She hesitated, waiting for permission with her heart throbbing in her ears and air stuck in her throat. At Nymien’s slight nod, she finally lifted it off.
“You don’t have any tattoos,” she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind before she could stop herself.
It was the Armourer’s turn to huff a small laugh. “Is that all you’re hung up on?” she asked, the corners of her lips ticking up in amusement.
And wasn’t that mind-blowing in itself? To be able to discern the tiniest crinkles gathering at the corner of Nymien’s eyes and the dimples in her cheeks, to pinpoint the beads of sweat above her eyebrows, and to see the way her dark irises glistened, reflecting the yellowish light filtered through the transparisteel window. To be allowed to witness it all.
“Yes– Well,” Bo started, reaching out and gently sweeping auburn locks aside until her fingers bumped into the sharp horns above Nymien’s temple, half-concealed beneath loose waves of hair.
She’d had plenty of time to mull over the other woman’s appearance, her curious choice of armour, and draw her own conclusions. Traditionally, Mandalorians seeking vengeance painted their armour in gold, while red was worn to honour a parent. Although the latter – along with the ornamental horns – had also been infamously used by the commandos who had allied themselves with the usurper Sith, as malevolent whispers did not hesitate to point it out.
“I figured your helmet wasn’t an homage to Maul,” Bo-Katan went on dryly, hopefully conveying what she thought of those rumours. “But I imagined you would have tattoos. On your face, at least.”
“I was very young when I was displaced and found by Mandalorians who decided to take me in.” The Armourer’s voice came off as raw without the distortion of the vocoder in her helmet, but it carried the same weight. “Too young to receive any markings.”
Bo-Katan stroked Nymien’s sharp cheekbones with her thumb, tracing non-existent lines on her skin and not-quite meeting her gaze, as she summoned all her courage to ask, “What about you? Any regrets?”
The Armourer clasped Bo’s hand with one of hers, holding it fast and leaning into the touch. “Not about this,” she stated, sure as ever. “I do love you, Bo-Katan Kryze.” She pressed a kiss to her wife’s palm, her lips soft and hot against Bo’s skin. “I might have been halfway in love with you when you stepped up to rescue a foundling you barely knew. But I only realised it when you returned, all smug about bringing the raptor chicks back, thinking you’ve beaten me at my own game.”
Although Bo-Katan’s heart rate definitely picked up hearing the confession, not even mentioning the fact that the incident had happened months ago, she put all that aside for a moment. “Not about this?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow in question. “I highly doubt you’ve done anything wrong in your life.”
Nymien did not shy away from a difficult answer, she met the redhead’s gaze point-blank.
“Many have been banished from our tribe for parting with our ways.” Her voice rang with sorrow. “Had you not come along with Din Djarin that day, perhaps I never would have reconsidered my position. And our people would not have made their way back to Mandalore at all.”
Bo-Katan furrowed her forehead in confusion. “So, you regret following the Way?”
“Not at all. I did what I thought was right for our people at the time.” She placed her index finger under Bo’s chin, tipping her head up. “I do regret not knowing you sooner.”
And that was too much for Bo-Katan to take, affection flaring up in her chest, dangerously close to the brim. She surged forward, capturing Nymien’s lips with hers. It was everything she had imagined in her wildest dreams, and more, the soft hum coming from her wife’s mouth as she deepened the kiss throwing a switch off in her head and she gasped, wanting more, the knowledge that she could do this any time they were alone now dizzying.
“I wouldn’t have been pleasant company if we’d met sooner, I assure you,” she said softly after pulling away. They had discussed her past missteps at length.
Nymien, at the very least, knew what she was signing up for.
She tilted her head up to rest their foreheads together, their breaths mingling as she countered, “People need some shaping. Just as beskar does.”
Bo-Katan chuckled. “Some more than most.” She slumped down next to her wife once her knees had started to ache. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you about the flowers when you first asked,” she added more sincerely.
They were lying on their sides now, face-to-face, legs tangled up like vines.
“Will you tell me if they ever come back?” Nymien shifted, letting Bo use her arm as a pillow.
Bo nodded slowly.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, then.”
She felt a bit baffled by the simplicity of the statement. She turned her head, covering her wife’s well-toned bicep in absent-minded kisses, still pondering.
“I think they stopped because you love me back,” she said finally. At the non-committal noise from the other woman, Bo raised herself on one elbow to get a better look, then asked pointedly, “What?”
“You did not know I returned your feelings when they disappeared,” Nymien explained. “I rather think they went away because you confessed.”
Bo-Katan opened her mouth to argue but found that she could not, remembering the times she had felt as if the flowers hadn’t been the only thing clogging her chest, and the one time they simply vanished mid-sentence, and Baar’ur’s warning, and–
And above all, that would have meant there was a chance that all those people all those years ago might have cared for her in return.
She chased those thoughts away.
“Well, then,” she said instead, a wicked grin she couldn’t prevent spreading on her face. “I’ll just have to remind you every now and then to keep them away.”
Her wife’s expression was less enthusiastic.
“Every now and then?” she repeated flatly.
Bo-Katan nodded seriously, assuming her previous position, with her legs framing Nymien’s body.
“How does every five minutes sound?” she asked, deadpan, ignoring the faint pain from her knees.
“Overwhelming,” Nymien replied, a smile playing on her lips.
Bo elected to ignore the mocking tone and hummed, considering. “Too bad, because I’m pretty sure it’s been significantly more than five minutes since I la–“
The words died on her lips as she was pulled into an eager kiss, leaving her completely out of breath when they finally parted.
“I do have to make up for that heartfelt declaration…” she quipped teasingly once her breathing evened out.
Nymien crossed her ankles behind Bo-Katan’s waist and rolled over, switching their positions with remarkable ease.
“I can find other ways to distract you,” she said, slightly panting, her lips swollen and pink.
Bo-Katan was ready to retort, but she fell silent when her wife pressed one last kiss to her lips, moving on to her forehead, to her jawline, then started to make her way downwards, and–
Her thoughts were a little scrambled, after that.