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Kuiil Djarin is a smart boy.
The big words that his tribe uses are still new and fresh, odd sounds that don’t quite fit in his mouth yet, his vocal cords preferring the growls and trills that accompanied his early speech. But he’s smart and he can figure them out. Certain words come easier, like buir even with its pronunciation and no, shorter words like those. But he’s figuring it out.
He’ll babble up a storm in front of anyone who’ll listen, pausing only for the gentle corrections that he’ll take a moment to consider, testing the new and proper sound. Buir always corrects him, with a simple correct pronunciation, straight to the point. His bavodu’e will chuckle at the funny mistakes and give a correction before a gentle explanation. Some of his cousins will laugh at him, but they aren’t being mean.
Most of the talking happens around him. It’s hard to pick up the brand new words when they’re only in passing. Buir talks to him, Ba’vodu Paz talks to him, but they aren’t his best source of learning.
Instead, the best learning happens down the hall, in the hottest room of the covert, when no one knows he’s there.
The Armorer is not as scary as he once thought. When he and buir had first come to the covert, she was… well, scary. She had a firm voice. She didn’t talk to him much, like the others who cooed over him. And she most often spent time in the forge room, where he was not allowed to go. In his little, very young mind, that was… a reason for healthy fear. Or so he thought.
Until his father brought him to that room to get his first vambraces, and he’s realized that… no, the Armorer wasn’t that scary. She was nice. Just not as involved as the others.
The first time he wanders into it, it’s a nightmare that drives him there. It startles him from his sleep with the sound of resounding blaster fire, and though he’s tucked and warm in his buir’s shirt -- a place that’s quite comfortable on the regular -- it now feels constricting. So he squirms out of it and climbs down to the floor.
Buir doesn’t wake. Just turns over, snoring softly, face buried in the pillow.
For a moment, the kid looks at him. It would be easy to wake his buir, to stir him out of sleep for comfort, and his father would give it. Sleepy and tired but he’d cuddle Kuiil close and murmur the words that would make him feel better, lie awake with him until he finally goes back to sleep. That would be nice.
But he knows buir hasn’t slept well lately and he shouldn’t bother him. Instead, he starts to wander towards the door to find someone else for the comfort he wants.
Their home is quiet now. It’s dark, the lights turned off, and no one is around. All are elsewhere, asleep, and he walks slowly through the halls. He comes towards their front door, where most of their larger rooms sit. He finds a person here -- Griphin. Ari’s buir is sitting by the door on watch, wiping down his blaster until he notices Kuiil. He sits up.
“What are you doing, little one?” he asks.
Kuiil comes up to his chair, putting a hand against his shin. “Bad dr… dream,” he says, and it comes out scratchy and growl-y. But Griphin understands anyway and he reaches down to brush his fingers over his shoulder.
“Go back to bed,” he says. His voice is soft. “Those dreams are more scared of you.”
Kuiil smiles a little, but it isn’t the comfort he wants. He starts back towards their room, though, dragging his feet, slow in an already massive hallway. The Mandalorians have mentioned how small this place is, but for him it’s so… big. It’s just big. They’re too big.
He comes to their door and steps into the doorway. Buir hasn’t moved, an arm thrown over the side of the bed, face turned away. Kuiil walks in, feeling a little calmer than before, and comes to the bed. He can’t lie on his father’s chest anymore, tucked into his shirt like is their usual routine. Instead, he’ll have to settle for snuggling in somewhere.
But then hammering begins in the distance.
It’s a familiar background sound to life in the covert and not strange, but it’s enough to make him stop. His ears flit upwards and he turns, looking towards the door again, before he gets an idea and scurries towards it. He steps out into the hall, then down, in the opposite direction of Griphin. He’s as quiet as can be, making his way down the hall and following the sound. He doesn’t make as much progress as he would like. Their home is so big.
But he makes it.
The Armorer works in silence, even when her craft is anything but. The room here is hot, the heat traveling around, and he remains beside the doorway as he watches the flames. At first, he doesn’t try to call out, afraid to do so. He knows he should not be here without being allowed. But he draws up his courage and begins to walk in. She doesn’t notice him until she does, her helmet tilting down to see him, and he freezes.
“Why are you up, little one?”
He stares up at her, but she hasn’t rebuked him and he begins to come closer. He walks as best he can, not so weighed down when he wears his sweater rather than robe, and comes to her. He puts her hands on her boot and she watches him. “Ba… Bad dream. Bad dream.”
She looks at him a bit longer. But soon she puts down her tools and leans down. He happily raises his arms and coos as she picks him up, cradled in the nook of her arm, and he snuggles there. She begins to set aside her tools with one hand, placing them on a small table beside the forge and covering with a cloth. She finds a nearby chair and sits down there, letting Kuiil settle in her lap.
“Can you tell me about this dream?”
For a moment, he’s very quiet. He has to find the words first, and he isn’t sure what they are. He lifts a hand, trying to think of the signs they taught him for the important words. Food. Help. Parent. But the signs don’t help him now. He stares down at his hands before giving it a try. “People trying to… to hurt me,” he says. “But buir didn’t let th-them. Saved me.”
“He’s saved you many times,” the Armorer says, agreeing with him.
“They didn’t stop.” He frowns. “They… they don’t stop. Kept running. Scary.”
“Hm.” It’s an inquisitive sound and her arms are warm around him. “Our dreams may show what we are afraid of. Sometimes, what we fear isn’t something that will happen. You are safe with us, little one.”
He looks up at her, and isn’t entirely sure what she means about fear. His dream was frightening and now he’s… well, scared. Even if what scared him isn’t real, it still… it still did scare him. With an unsatisfied expression, he leans into her arm.
“Would you like a story?”
That grabs his attention. “Yes!” he says, smiling, and he straightens up in her lap. She leans back in her chair, and he waits patiently. He’s good. He’ll show everyone that he’s good and patient.
“... One of the stars.” She looks down at him, and he’s already enraptured by the mention of stars. He loves stars, he’s about to say, they’re so pretty, but he quiets himself down with hands over his mouth to listen. He looks up at her, attention undivided.
“Has your father told you of the warriors in the stars?”
Kuiil shakes his head. “No,” he whispers past his hands. “There’s w… war…”
“Warriors.”
“Warriors!”
She nods. “Like us,” she says, and he nods back. “There are many. Great Mandalorians who have gone on to the Manda, but we remember now by the stars. Constellations to help us remember.”
“Conste… lla -- llations?”
“Constellations. Stars that resemble an image.” When he nods in understanding, she continues. “We could see them from Concordia. The warriors that seemed to battle on in the skies. One was the tale of Tamet Harend. He battled when the mythosaurs still roamed, and fought with valiance to protect our people from those who would harm us.”
She stands, letting him settle again on her arm, and walks to the nearby table. She reaches out to the holoset, and he watches as she taps on the device. A hologram of a cuirass appears, but with a few more taps, it turns instead to white dots. Kuiil stares at the dots before realizing they are stars. “He holds a shield,” she says, “as he shielded others during our battles.”
It takes him time to see it. But when he realizes the outline of the person, creating a body, and the curve of more stars to create a shield. He stares at it with wide eyes, and soon the image changes.
“Redar Mandell. A poet.”
“Po… Po-it. Poet?”
“Someone who uses their words,” she says. “Words that can teach, inspire, create.” As she gestures towards the stars, air-drawing the lines herself, he begins to see the image. A person holding something up to the sky. He isn’t sure what it is. “He used his gifts to rally others. Our weapons and our armor are not useful if there is no desire to fight. Sometimes, our courage comes from others. Words are powerful, no matter who you are.”
“Power… ful,” Kuiil whispers.
“Yes, powerful.” She taps to another constellation. This one is harder to discern, but soon the shape begins to clear. “He holds the sword, there. He once ruled over the Mandalorians and led us to many victories. One of the many leaders that brought us honor and glory.”
Kuiil stares at the image. “Whoa,” he says. “... Whoa.”
“Mandalorians have a rich history,” she says, and reaches out to turn off the hologram. Kuiil’s ears lower at the disappearance. “It is part of your heritage, as Mando’ad. Many have tried to destroy it, but the past lives on through the lessons it teaches us.”
Kuiil nods, solemn.
She looks down at him. “Can you sleep now, ad’ika?”
Kuill pouts. “But -- more stor-stories!”
“There are many stories to tell,” she says. “A lifetime to tell them. We all learn these stories so we can tell them again.”
He’s lowered down to the ground. Kuiil turns and watches as she returns to the forge, uncovering the tools to pick them up, and returns to the earlier project. He watches, jumping in place when the bam of a hammer strikes. He begins towards the door, back to where he should be, through the too-big halls.
But the constellations play through his mind in a loop of fascination, and he knows that he wants to hear more. As he reaches his room and gets into bed, snuggling down against his father’s chest, he’s determined to visit again.
It takes some time before he does visit again. He isn’t allowed near the forge without permission, of course, and there are many who would stop him from approaching that place. Instead, he has to wait. But the time comes soon, when he’s startled from sleep once again by nightmares and begins to head down the hall. And once again, the Armorer is awake as well, and will hold him as she shows him more constellations.
Kena of Clan Avane, a pioneer in art, her legend remembered by a constellation of music notes. Tarsi Arach who led his Mandalorians to victory. He doesn’t remember these names, but their stories stick with him. She tells him stories of bravery, of love and family and what being a Mandalorian means. His attention is held through it all. He sees his father in these stories, of men and women willing to do anything for those they love.
“Like my buir,” he says.
She nods.
“Can’t we see the stars?” he whispers. “They’re pretty. I want to see them.”
She looks at him for a time, and her voice is soft. “We cannot see them,” she says, and he frowns. “We may never see those same stars again. They shone bright each night from Concordia, and our pilots had a particular love for them. Your father was among them. But no, we cannot see these Ka’ra from here. They exist now as our memories.”
The kid frowns, and his ears droop.
While the stories entertain and teach, they help him learn.
His father notices, but doesn’t question him on it. His vocabulary expands, taught new words by their Armorer that he begins to use. He doesn’t notice for a long time, but his words begin to become a little better. Like the others, she is patient in correcting him, never revealing a lapse of irritation. There is no schedule to their nightly talks, and no end in sight with always more stories to tell.
His buir doesn’t know. Or, Kuiil thinks he doesn’t. And it leaves him a sense of delight to have this secret, this hidden activity. No other foundling gets this.
“Tamet! Again!”
She’ll repeat as many stories as he likes. Until he knows them by heart, and can tell them to himself as he falls asleep, and can fight alongside those legends in his dreams.
“Look. See the bright star?”
Kuiil looks up. He sits in the copilot’s seat of the Crest, playing with the figure in his hands, as his father flies the ship. They’re returning home from a supply run, and it’s been rather boring so far. But he slips off the seat and instead climbs up into his father’s lap to see. He puts his hands against the dash and stands on his cuiss. “They’re all bright,” he grumbles.
“There.” His buir points past him. “It’s the brightest one.”
He sees it now. In a cluster of stars, one shines just a little more. Kuiil peers at it. “I see it.”
“We called that Arach’s Point,” Din says. “It was part of our star navigation. We had other important ones, and their position relative to Concordia was how we knew which ports were safe to land in.”
“Arach?” Kuiil whispers.
“Tarsi Arach.” There’s a smile in his father’s voice. “You know about him. That star is the hand holding his blaster.”
Kuiil’s eyes widen for a moment. “I know…”
“You aren’t one for stealth, ad’ika. You’ve heard the stories.”
Kuiil feels a spike of shy embarrassment and looks out towards the stars, but then he squints. “Where’s the rest?” he said. “It… doesn’t look like anything.”
“You’d have to be on Concordia in the right places to see the constellations,” his buir says, and Kuiil tests that word in his mouth, constellations. “You have to learn to notice them, too. We were trained to do so as pilots. It just looks like a trah from here.”
“Trah?”
“Star field. Look there.”
His father points elsewhere, and Kuiil leans to look towards the side of the transparisteel. He can see… something. Purple and greenish… whatever it is, with some colorful stars dotted around. The area around it looks blue-ish.
“That’s a star nebula. Those colors are gas. They’ll condense to form new stars. It’s like a… nursery for young stars that have been born.”
“Whoa,” Kuiil whispers. “Can we go see?”
“No,” his father says, “nebulae are massive. That one is far away. They’re dangerous.”
Kuiil pouts. The nebula -- and Arach’s Point -- both drift from view as they turn and prepare for hyperdrive. He settles down in his buir’s lap as the lever is pulled and all the pretty stars become just streaks going past the ship.
“Stars are b… born?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“They’re born stars. Like… Ari. And Jaylen. They’re… born Mandos.”
Din looks down at him.
“Are there foundling stars?” Kuiil asks. “Like me?”
His father makes a sound in his throat like the start of a response, but doesn’t speak. “I don’t think s-” But he looks down at Kuiil again and cuts himself off. “Maybe. Maybe there are foundling stars.”
Kuiil smiles, and they fly in comfortable silence.
“Has she told you about Cen Vizsla?”
Kuiil looks up and shakes his head.
“It’s a good one,” his father says softly, and Kuiil sits up to listen.