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Chapter Text

A metallic clink sounded as the small object landed on the table. It flickered to life with a high-pitched warbling hum, displaying a small holoimage.

A bounty puck.

"You're worth a million credits, friend," the man who'd tossed the puck on the table stated, leaning forward.  "We're here to collect."

The young man seated in the booth set down his cup of namana juice –  the most chemically-inoffensive item on the cantina's menu – and turned his head, regarding the man and his companions. Eight of them, all male; six humans, a Gamorrean, and a particularly vicious Twi'lek.

"I don't want any trouble," the young man said calmly.

The leader shrugged, staring fixedly at the glareshades covering the young man's eyes.  "Someone wants trouble with you, and for a million, your wants ain't relevant to us."  Another metallic sound, louder and heavier, as another object landed on the table.

A pair of binders.

"Slap 'em on, stand up, and let's go."

"No," the young man replied evenly.  "I'm not going with you."

"Well, you got two choices.  You slip those binders on and come with us, nice and quiet like, or we kick six different colors of poodoo out of you, then put the binders on and drag you to our ship ourselves.  We're good either way."

"Gentles, turn about and face me."

The voice that rang through the cantina was female, filtered through the enunciator of an armored helmet.  Her voice was deep and authoritative, and she spoke with a Coruscanti accent, though not the clipped, precise tones of the Imperial elite and those who sought to emulate them.

The leader turned to face the interloper, while the rest of his gang stayed focused on their prey.  He took in her distinctive silver armor with its purple highlights.  "Scrap off, Mando.  We were here first, this bounty's ours."

"I'm not here for any bounty.  I'm here for you."

Two of the gang, the Twi'lek and one of the humans, turned now to face the armor-clad intruder.  Eight hands moved to rest on blasters.  The Mandalorian already had hers out, one in each hand, though not aimed.  The young man in the booth centered himself and prepared for violence.  An unseen darkness gathered in the dim room.

"Alright, that's enough!" the cantina owner hollered, hustling out from behind the bar.  "No fights, no blasters, no trouble, no mess.  Not in my place.  Take it outside.  All of you."  He glowered at the ten people at the nexus of the confrontation, the other half-dozen patrons watching with increasing interest.

The leader of the gang of bounty hunters scoffed, glancing incredulously between the Mandalorian, his target, and the bartender.  Before anyone could react, he drew his blaster and fired.  The cantina owner crumpled to the ground, disbelieving his own sudden death.

A blaster still in each hand, the Mandalorian vaulted over the bar with one hand, the other spitting fire at the gang.  They scattered for cover, though the angry red bolts cut down the Gamorrean.  The other patrons dove under tables and behind benches, wanting to watch the fight but not become embroiled in it.

The young man sprung up from his seat, bringing the edge of his hand down on the junction between one hunter's neck and shoulder.  The man crumpled but did not fall, and the young man took a double handful of his tunic and hauled him to the side, crashing him into another of the hunters.  The two men went down in a tangle of arms and legs.  A third turned to bring his blaster to bear, but the young man drove his fist into the hunter's solar plexus.  The blaster fell from nerveless fingers as the hunter fought to breathe, and the young man seized his shoulders, kicked his legs out from under him, and shoved hard, bringing the hunter crashing down atop the other two men who had just started struggling to rise.

"Kriffing Mandos," the hunter leader swore softly, barely audible over the hail of blasterfire streaking back and forth through the small room.  He pulled an object from his belt and flicked the switch.  A distinctive whine filled the air as he tossed the object towards the bar.

A thermal detonator.

The young man had only a split second to make a choice.  It was easy, for it was really no choice at all.

He extended his hand, palm down, then flicked his wrist a quarter-circle.  The thermal detonator suddenly changed course and accelerated away from the bar as though struck by an invisible shockballer champion.  It hurtled into the back storeroom and exploded.  The stink of a hundred flash-vaporized spirits filled the cantina.

The Twi'lek swore and pulled something from his belt.  A throbbing buzz, more felt than heard.  A vibroblade.  One of the humans turned his blaster towards the young man.  The three men on the ground would soon be back on their feet, and back in the fight.  The other two were adequate to keep the Mandalorian pinned, and if any of them had more explosives. . . 

Again, the choice was no choice at all.  Besides, it wasn't as though this particular situation could get any worse.

The Twi'lek dropped into a fighting stance.  The young man's hand closed around a small metal cylinder, hidden at the small of his back under his tunic.  The blaster tracked towards him.  The young man brought his hand out, grasping the cylinder tightly and pressing the activation stud.  The hunter pulled the trigger, the blaster bolt darted towards the young man--

And was met in midair by a blazing beam of energy, which ricocheted the bolt into the ceiling.  The uninvolved patrons ran screaming at the unmistakable snap-hiss sound.

The young man swept his lightsaber forward, cutting the blaster in half.  For the briefest of moments, he debated his next move, before closing down the weapon and punching the hunter in the face.  The small hilt wrapped in his hand amplified the damage of the punch, knocking the hunter out cold.

That decision very nearly proved fatal.

Spying the opening, the Twi'lek darted forward, the tip of his vibroblade seeking the young man's heart.  The young man twisted, trying to avoid the blow, tried to reactivate his lightsaber and bring it around to intercept the attack.  He was too slow.

The blade slid into his flesh with no resistance.  The Twi'lek pulled it back out.  Blood poured down the young man's side.  He pressed his left hand to the vicious wound, just below his rib cage, and struck out with his reactivated lightsaber, catching the Twi'lek in the face.  He went down with an agonized scream.

"No!" the leader screamed, turning to survey the carnage.  "He's worth twice as much alive, you damn fools!"

The Mandalorian popped up from behind the bar, her dual blaster pistols spraying eerily accurate fire over the remaining hunters.  They fell to the ground, burns marking their corpses.

The young man followed shortly, his hands falling away from his lightsaber and stab wound.

The Mandalorian vaulted back over the bar and walked quickly to the leader's body.  From under his tunic she pulled a gold chain, from which hung an ancient holodisc.  She effortlessly snapped the chain and slipped the disc into a belt pouch.  Then her eyes fell on the unconscious and bleeding young man.

He was a Jedi, that much was obvious, and these days that was a death sentence.  And unless he'd done something inspirationally stupid to someone with a lot of money and no real intelligence, it was certain whoever was willing to pay one million credits for him – alive – knew.  Or at least, suspected.

And now those suspicions were confirmed.  Because of her.  Because he'd exposed his Jedi powers and Jedi weapon to save her.

It didn't matter.  There was no shortage of bad, bloody history between Mandalorian and Jedi, with the Mandalorians frequently on the losing side.  Neither were the kind to hold grudges, but a Mandalorian certainly wouldn't go out of their way to help a Jedi.

For the Jedi?  Going out of their way to help people was the whole point.  Blasted fools.  Whatever the consequences for this young Jedi's actions, he'd brought them on himself.  They weren't in any part her problem.

So why was she still here, standing over him, instead of halfway back to her ship already?

Groaning in exasperation at herself, she knelt down next to the Jedi and tore open his tunic over the stab wound.  Pulling a bacta patch out of her utility belt, she slapped it over the wound, tucked the small hilt of the lightsaber in its place at the back of his belt, then hoisted him over her shoulder and began carrying him back to her ship.

Fortunately, Abregado-Rae was the sort of place where people went out of their way to ignore things like a woman in Mandalorian armor carrying an unconscious man on her shoulders.

"Blip, engines still hot?" the Mandalorian asked as she climbed the ramp with her unwitting guest.

R5-B1P, her astromech unit, warbled an assent.  "Good, prepare for liftoff."

Blip fired an alarmed-sounding series of binary queries at her as she crossed the corridor to the med bay.  Her armor's onboard computer could handle some simple translations, but nothing so dense as this.

"Don't know what you say, don't care what you say," she replied testily, depositing the Jedi on the medbed.  "Just get the ship ready."

Blip gave an affronted warble and rolled back to the engine room.  The Mandalorian quickly hooked her charge up to the automated systems on the medbed.  They would keep him alive and stable for a time, but he'd need real attention soon.

Attention she couldn't give him now.  A half dozen cantina rats had seen him use the Force and pull a lightsaber, and it was a good bet every single one was rushing to tell the nearest Imperial all about it.  There was good money to be made, turning the Imps on to any Jedi survivors.  Should the sighting be verified.

Which meant it was only a matter of time before someone connected the only Mandalorian on Abregado-Rae to (in all likelihood) the only Jedi on Abregado-Rae, since they'd both been in the same cantina brawl that left seven dead, one with the unmistakable marks of lightsaber wounds.

Which meant the Mandalorian needed to be gone.  Immediately, if not sooner.

She dropped into the pilot's chair in the cockpit and began bringing the ship's systems online.  "Gripe, cargo still locked down?" she called into the intercom.

"Affirmative," her ASP general purpose droid replied.

"Then we're out of here."  She cut in the repulsorlifts, raising the XS freighter out of the docking pit and ignoring the sudden, frantic calls from port control that she was not cleared for liftoff.  After only thirty seconds, the calls stopped.  Abregado port control was used to unscheduled landings and takeoffs.

The gravity well was cleared, calculations were made, and Blood Raven entered hyperspace, all without incident.  The Mandalorian hadn't expected a Star Destroyer to be waiting in orbit to ambush her or anything, but she hadn't expected to bump into a Jedi, either.

Even for her, it had been a weird day.

Just in case, she muddled her vector a bit before seeing to her unexpected passenger.

The medbed reported him in remarkably stable condition, and she took the opportunity to inspect his gear as she prepared him for treatment.  His clothes were simple and nondescript, a loose tunic, tight undertunic, leggings, and over-the-calf boots that wouldn't look out of place on a hundred different worlds.  A simple belt held a credit pouch which contained small-denomination chits totaling less than a hundred.  No blaster, vibroblade, or other weapon.

Except for the one.

Curiously, she examined the lightsaber.  It was smaller than she'd thought it would be, the hilt vanishing almost completely in her hand.  Pressing the activation stud, she saw the brilliant blue beam extend again, less than a meter long.  Again, she'd been under the impression the blade would be longer.  It seemed underwhelming, somehow, compared to the stories she'd heard of the legendary Jedi weapon.

Shaking her head, she closed the lightsaber down and began to tend to her patient.  She was no doctor, but had a good working knowledge of treating assorted injuries.  Cleaning the wound and infusing it with bacta was relatively simple, as was dressing it.  The medbed was already infusing him with blood substitute safe for his biochemical makeup, which it reported was close to but not precisely human.

Finishing the immediate tasks, the Mandalorian removed the glareshades over the Jedi's eyes.

And gasped in shock.

Chapter Text

The Jedi woke with a start, trying to figure out where he was.  From the sound and feel of the engines, he was on a ship in hyperspace, probably a light freighter, but the surroundings were of a type with which he was not familiar.  He was connected to a medbed, and the lack of audible alarms indicated his vitals were likely stable.  The sickly sweet smell of bacta told him his wound was being tended to effectively, and the dull ache in his side and general feel of body and mind were evidence of painkillers in his system.

Shifting in the bunk, he found his limbs were not bound, nor was there any indication attempts had been made to keep him chemically subdued.  Which meant that whoever owned the vessel wasn't interested in collecting the price on his head.

Or wanted him to think they weren't interested.

Stupid , he chastised himself, recalling the events in the cantina.  Should have stayed hidden, should have stayed safe.  Should have–

Betrayed everything you believe in?

It betrayed me first , he thought back to himself petulantly.

The click of boots on deckplates.  Someone approaching, hurriedly but not aggressively.  In the door of the medbay, the woman appeared again, still clad in her Mandalorian armor.

"You're awake," she said, stepping into the bay and approaching the bunk.  "How do you feel?"

"Pretty good," the Jedi replied warily.  He should have expected it to be the Mandalorian who had rescued him – she was the only one present at the end of the fight, after all – but it seemed somehow unbelievable.  Why should a Mandalorian stick her neck out, armored or not, for a complete stranger?

Especially a Jedi stranger?

"Good," the Mandalorian replied, checking the bed's displays.  She nodded, apparently satisfied with what she saw.  "You're responding well, you should get back on your feet in a day or so."

"How long was I out?"

"Two days.  I think you're well enough I could bring you food and water, if you need."

The Jedi nodded.  "If it's no trouble."

The Mandalorian's reply revealed a wry smirk beneath her helmet.  "I think we're long past that point, don't you agree?"

The Jedi smiled in response.  "So it would seem.  Why am I here?  You could have just left me bleeding on the cantina floor."

"I've been asking myself that for two days," the Mandalorian replied sourly.

"And?" the Jedi prompted after several seconds of silence.

"And nothing," the Mandalorian answered curtly.  She paused, taking in his appearance.  "I'm no expert, but I've seen several kinds of battlefield injuries.  That doesn't look like one."  She gestured at his eyes.

The Jedi nodded.  He'd rarely let himself be seen without something covering his eyes, but he knew what they looked like.  Hollow sockets, skin grown smoothly over the back of the useless depressions in his skull.  "No, not an injury.  I was born this way."

"A defect?" the Mandalorian asked, surprised.  "You couldn't have had it corrected?"

"It's not a defect."  The Jedi sighed.  "I'm a Miraluka."

"A what?"

"A breed of Near-Human.  Aside from the hair, our main defining feature is the lack of eyes."

The Mandalorian glanced at the Jedi's close-cropped gray-white hair.  Enough humans and Near-Humans had such pale hair colors she hadn't really paid it any attention, especially not after her first look at what the glareshades had concealed.  She returned her attention to his face.  "No eyes?  How does that work?"

The Jedi shrugged.  "It varies.  Some are like me, empty sockets.  Some have eyes, but with eyelids fused shut over them.  Some have eyes that don't work, and a rare few have vestigial eyes that can actually see.  Still legally blind on any world you care to name, but able to make out shapes and maybe colors."

The Mandalorian shook her head.  "No.  There's no way you're blind, no way your whole species is blind.  You couldn't have fought like that without sight, and a people with no visual perception would be unable to function in the galaxy."

"Really?" the Jedi asked, half-amused and half-offended.  "A being cannot overcome a disadvantage, cannot perceive the universe in a way you do not?"

The Mandalorian swung her fist at the Jedi's face.  He flinched away, and she stopped well short of striking him.  "You can see," she said triumphantly.

"True. . . and false.  My people do not see, in the sense of perceiving radiation along the electromagnetic spectrum.  We 'see' through the Force."

The Mandalorian was silent for several seconds.  "An entire race of Jedi," she said dubiously.

"No.  There are degrees of sensitivity, and not all Miraluka are strong enough in the Force to use it as Jedi do.  Even you, by virtue of being a living being, draw on the Force to some extent.  Miraluka are more attuned to the Force than most, but even among us, the spark necessary to train as Jedi is rare."

The Mandalorian shifted uncomfortably.  "So. . . what, you can only see things that draw on the Force?  Living things?"

The Jedi suppressed a smile, pretty sure he knew what she was really asking.  "I perceive objects.  I know you're wearing armor, I know where the bulkheads of the ship and the objects in this room are in relation to me.  I do perceive you through your armor, but not in anything you would call shape or color.  I see you as you are within the Force."

Again, the Mandalorian was silent for a while.  "What do you see?" she asked quietly.

The Jedi considered her a moment, weighing her presence and sense.  Currently, there was much of trepidation and embarrassment about her, but that was the reaction of the immediate, and not indicative of the woman herself overall.  Instead, he measured what he had seen of her before the subject of his vision arose, then thought about how best to communicate his impressions.

"My people have words to describe that which we see.  The word most fitting for you would be zhadrosh'couritsh .  A combination of courage, willpower, inner strength, wrapped around a core of determination that crushes all obstacles before you as a hammer.  When you set yourself to a thing, the universe must bend, for you will not."

Her sense in the Force shifted, a swell of pride contained in the iron fist of her self-aware will.  Pleasure at the flattering description.  Unease that this stranger could see her so clearly.  Relief that, though his vision could pierce the very core of her being, he could not perceive the flesh beneath her beskar .

"Well," she answered after a moment.  "That's. . . interesting."

The Jedi decided it was time to change the subject.  "Where are we?  What type of ship is this?"

"My ship, Blood Raven .  An XS stock light freighter, though she's hardly stock anymore.  We're en route to Besnia, I need to stop for fuel and provisions.  We should be there day after tomorrow.  You'll be good by then to make your own way."

The Jedi nodded, unsurprised, but oddly discontent, that their paths should separate so soon.  "Then. . . thank you, I suppose."

The Mandalorian regarded him through her blank helmet.  Through the Force, the Jedi could see her searching for something more to say.  "I'll bring you something to eat," was what she eventually settled on.

"Wait here," the Mandalorian said to the Jedi.  Her ASP droid – Gripe, she called it – was waiting patiently with a hoversled as the ramp descended.  "I'll square away fuel and supplies, get you some new clothes, do a little casual poking about.  When I'm ready to leave, I should be able to point you in a direction you can disappear.  Probably."

"That's very generous," the Jedi replied.  "I have some funds, I'll happily chip in.  I've eaten your food, and you shouldn't pay for my clothes."

The Mandalorian scoffed.  "I've seen your funds.  You need them more than I do."  The ramp down, she waved to the ASP.  "Come on, Gripe, let's move."

"Affirmative," Gripe replied, pushing the hoversled out of the Blood Raven .

The Jedi closed the ramp behind them, wondering privately how the Mandalorian intended to "casually poke around" clad in her distinctive armor.

Outside the ship, the Mandalorian approached the pit supervisor.  With her left hand, she carefully drew a stack of chits from her credit pouch, placed just to the right of her belt buckle, deliberately away from her blasters.  "Refueling and maintenance diagnostic."  As the supervisor – a smarmy-looking Twi'lek male – reached for the credits, she drew her hand back, wrapping her fingers tightly around them.  " Only .  No maintenance, no repairs, no upkeep or cleaning or anything else.  When I get back, we'll discuss any issues and the price of any work I want to have done here.  Is there an understanding between us?"

The Twi'lek smiled, eying the credits in her closed fist lustily.  "Yes, mistress, of course, anything and everything you wish."

The Mandalorian remained still a moment, then offered the chits again.  As though afraid they'd be snatched away again, the supervisor grabbed them.  It was half again the going rate for what she'd requested, but would still be far cheaper than the bill for all the "issues" that would be "fixed" in her absence.  And of course, the supervisor was confident he could bilk her for at least the same amount again on her return, one way or another.

"Come along, Gripe."

"Affirmative."

Several vendor stalls were set up around and outside the spaceport and its landing pits, and it didn't take the Mandalorian long to find a promising one, run by a Toydarian.  "One month standard shipboard rations, please."

"Oh, yeah, we can do that, I think, yeah." the Toydarian replied, his eyes roving over her armor.  The Mandalorian was inured to such appraising glances.  "But we can do better, I think, too."

"Standard rations will do fine."

"Lookee here, I think.  For forty percent more only – special deal for you, I think – one month premium rations.  Twice the flavor, same nutrition!  Keep you fighting trim, I think."

"Standard rations will do fine," the Mandalorian repeated, more sternly this time.

"But wait, there's more!  Includes one-month sampler pack, finest spirits in Inner Rim, guaranteed!  Try all, find some you like, Jocko keep you supplied!"

The Mandalorian moved her left hand, hooking her thumb into her belt to the left of her buckle.  A bit farther from her credit case, a bit closer to one of her blasters.  "Standard.  Rations.  Please."

The movement, its deliberateness, and its import was not lost on Jocko.  "Yeah, standard rations, yeah.  Two hundred."

"One-fifty," the Mandalorian countered.

"No, no, is two hundred, going rate!"

"One-fifty is going rate."

"Delivery fee!  You don't want to lug big, heavy crate on your lonesome, I think."

Wordlessly, the Mandalorian looked pointedly at the ASP and its hoversled, then back to the Toydarian.  "One-fifty."

The Toydarian's eyes flicked rapidly between the Mandalorian and the droid.  Eventually, he deflated.  "One-fifty, fine."  As the chits landed on his table, Jocko motioned one of his own ASP droids to bring out a crate.  "You swindle me, I think."

"One good swindle deserves another," she replied, checking the label, then cracking the crate open to check the contents.

"What, now you don't trust me?" the Toydarian asked, affronted, as he counted her credits for the third time.

" Mando'a has no word for 'trust,'" she replied, smiling.  It was a joke, but one Jocko probably wouldn't get.  "Gripe, load it up, take it back to the ship, stow it."

"Affirmative."

She waited just long enough to see that Gripe was on its way back before moving out again.  The easy errands were finished, now for the more challenging task. . . finding decent clothes for her Jedi friend.

She frowned under her helmet.  Friend? She'd known him for five days, and he'd been unconscious for two of them.  She neither needed nor wanted friends, especially ones that came with complications like lightsabers and Force sight.  She had her droids, she had her Clan, and she had her mission, that was all she needed.  And by the end of the day, the Jedi would be gone, back in hiding.  Finding the deepest hole he could crawl into and pull in after him, if he had any sense.  Never to be seen again.  Out of her life for good.

Why wasn't that a cheerful thought?

As a Mandalorian, clothes shopping was one of the top ten things she'd believed she'd never have to put up with.  She'd never even considered clothes shopping for a male.  In the end, she had to visit seven different shops – and endure or deflect a ridiculous number of questions, from the annoying to the uncomfortable to the moronic – before she found what she thought was a suitably innocent-looking outfit that would fit the Jedi and his needs.  She bought four of them, in variations of tan, brown, and gray, and as she handed over six hundred credits, plus two hundred for another pair of boots, found another reason to swear off clothes shopping forever.

With the box tucked under her left arm, she began making her way back to her ship.  Then she turned down a random side street.  Then another.  And another.  After her fourth random turn, she was positive.

She continued to wind her way through the city, though now with at least a general goal in mind.  She moved through side streets and alleyways, working her way deeper into the city, away from the spaceport.  If not for her armor's automap, she'd be hopelessly lost.

Finally, she reached an industrial sector, no foot traffic.  She turned down a narrow alley, then whirled, drawing her blaster.

The droid had barely come around the corner when she shot it.

It was tiny.  Head a sharp-edged saucer with a single photoreceptor.  Body packed with miniature repulsorlifts as well as a wide array of sensors.  Spindly, spidery arms, and far too many of them.

A probe droid.  A very small, very advanced, very expensive probe droid.

Tucking the box of clothes more tightly under her arm, she sprinted for Blood Raven .

The Mandalorian triggered the comlink in her helmet.  “Blip, prep the ship, we’re leaving.”

The R5’s whistled response was translated in text on her helmet’s display.  “Yes, right now!  You’ve got five minutes, we’re taking off as soon as I get there.”  Blip warbled again.  “Well, the plan changed, now get it in gear!  Gripe, open the ramp.”

“Affirmative.”

The pit supervisor saw her running for her ship, and moved to intercept her.  “Ah, mistress, I have the results of–”

“Clear the bay,” she snapped back, sprinting past him and up the ramp to her ship.  She flung her left arm outwards, the box of clothes sailing through the air to crash against the bulkhead and tumble to the deck.  She hit the stud to close the ramp and hatch.  “We’re leaving!”

The groan of stressed servomotors spun her around.  The hatch and ramp were jammed, straining against the empty air.

Standing just outside the ship was a slender figure, clad in black plastoid armor, hands extended towards Blood Raven .  “I want the Jedi,” the figure said.  The voice was a cool, feminine contralto, edged with threat.  “Give him to me and leave in peace.”

The Mandalorian dipped for her blaster.  The black-armored woman reached for the cylinder on her belt.  The Mandalorian fired.  The black-armored woman tumbled back.  The hatch effortlessly slid closed.

Blood Raven jerked and rose into the air on its repulsorlifts.  “What the–?”  The Mandalorian darted towards the cockpit.

In the pilot’s chair, the Jedi was bringing her ship up out of the landing pit.  The transceiver squawked, a surprised but stern voice demanding they power down and await clearance for takeoff.

The Mandalorian muted it.  “You can’t fly!” she shouted at the Jedi.

“Obviously, I can,” he replied serenely, clearing the landing pit and maneuvering on an outbound vector away from other spaceport traffic.

“You’re blind, you blasted idiot!”

“Come now, we both know that’s not entirely true.”

“Does the Force let you see spaceships?”

“Are we in danger of colliding with any?”

Dropping into the copilot seat, the Mandalorian had to admit that, no, they weren’t in danger of a collision.  The vector wasn’t the one she would have picked, but realistically it was just as good.  “You don’t fly someone else’s ship without permission,” she grumbled.

“Normally, I would agree completely.  However, I sensed fury, wrath, violence, and darkness approach.  I felt fear in you, and a spark of rage from your adversary.  I saw power being drawn in from the Dark Side, and surmised it would be best to leave immediately.  Waiting would have cost us our lives.”

The blue sky faded into black space.  “You should take the controls now.  I can’t read your displays, find your autopilot, or use your navicomputer.”

Suppressing a groan, the Mandalorian switched places with the Jedi.  “So you can evade starships, but not read a datapad?”

“I can see energy moving, so I can tell if a display is active or not, but I cannot see the screen or read the text on it.  I can see the energy and the life within a starship, and detect the ship itself as it moves through the Force.”

The Mandalorian shook her head, this odd man and his odd senses starting to give her a headache.  “I’m not seeing any pursuit.”

“No.  She was frustrated when we took off, she knows she cannot follow us quickly enough.  We have evaded her. . . for the time being, at least.  Who is she?”

The Mandalorian shrugged.  “Some kind of elite Imperial agent.  That armor had the Empire’s fashion sense all but stamped on it.  And she was tracking me with a probe droid, a very compact and expensive model, unlike anything I’ve seen before.  Add to that someone willing to put a million-credit price on your head, and only the Empire has pockets that deep.”

The navicomputer was nearly ready for their jump to hyperspace before the Jedi spoke again.  “She requested you turn me over to her.  You shot her.  No hesitation.  You didn’t even consider her offer.  Why?”

“Because no one deserves to be handed over to the Empire.  They’ve wiped your people from the galaxy.  Almost, at any rate.  And I’ll be damned if I help them finish the job.”  She paused, rechecking the calculations, then pushing Blood Raven past lightspeed.  “And you’re in danger because of me.”

“I was in danger before I met you.  There was already a price on my head.”

“But now they know.  We made a mess and left a trail a blind moron could follow.”  The Mandalorian winced beneath her helmet.  “No offense.”

The Jedi shrugged.  “I’m not a moron, none taken.”

“Point is, they know who and what you are now, they have your scent, because you exposed yourself to protect me.  Why?  Why did you do that?”

The Jedi pursed his lips, then finally shrugged.  “I just did.”

“That’s it?  You just did?  That’s all you’ve got?”

“Are you any closer to figuring out why you didn’t just walk away and leave me to die?”

The Mandalorian just shook her head.

“So, what now?” the Jedi asked.  “Put me off at the next planet?”

The Mandalorian scoffed.  “It’d be kinder to shove you out the airlock now.  My next stop’s not the kind of place you build a summer home.  After that. . . wherever I drop you, they’ll be looking for you.  We’ll have to come up with a better plan than sending you off with a pat on the back and a fare-thee-well.”

The Jedi was silent for a long time.  “We have not been introduced,” he said finally.  “I am Jedi Padawan Nomen Lok.”

The Mandalorian nodded.  “Yordis Cadera of Clan Cadera.”

“Pleased to meet you, Yordis Cadera of Clan Cadera.”

“Swell to meet you too, Jedi Padawan Nomen Lok.”

Chapter Text

Nomen stood in the entry to Blood Raven ’s cargo hold, observing, perceiving the bay and its contents as the Force flowed through it and him on its way out into the rest of the galaxy.  Durasteel, laminoid, even beskar was no obstacle to the energy of life itself.  And thus, no obstacle to his perception.  Objects, and what lay within or beyond them, were equally sensible by him.

Gripe was powered down at the recharging socket on the left-hand wall, energy flowing from the ship’s power plant into its batteries, circuits, and motors.  Energy cycled through the repulsorlift coils that kept the hoversled steady at knee height above the grav plating in the deck.  Against the right-hand wall rested crates in orderly stacks.  Some were empty, some contained emergency supplies, some assorted tools, some useful items to have to hand.

But his attention was focused on the shining presence in the Force that dominated the hold, the cool, determined will whose presence in his sense was becoming familiar.

Yordis moved through the bay with a quick efficiency, consulting a datapad.  Nomen couldn’t read the screen, but sensed the shifts in her luminous being that translated into movements of the flesh and armor encasing her.  She was apparently following a checklist, ticking off items as she ran a diagnostic on Gripe and checked his power levels, went over the hoversled, checked its batteries and the two empty and two full crates loaded on it, looked over the stacked crates, disassembled and reassembled her blasters at the workbench, then finally connected the datapad to one of her bracers, apparently running a diagnostic on her armor’s systems.  Then she repeated the list, checking everything over once again.

“You need something?” Yordis asked, finally satisfied all was in order.

“No,” Nomen replied.  “Just watching.”

The Mandalorian’s attention divided between Nomen and the workbench.  She was motioning to it.  “Check your weapon.”

“It’s working fine,” the Jedi replied.

“You’re sure of that, now?”

“I am.”

Conflict rippled within her as she debated whether this was a battle worth fighting, ultimately deciding it was not.  “Fine, suit yourself.”  Curiosity spiked, and Nomen felt her own perceptions combing his belt and coming up empty.  His lightsaber was again concealed at the small of his back, under his new tunic.  “It’s smaller than I expected.”

Nomen raised an eyebrow.  “Beg pardon?”

“Your lightsaber, I mean,” Yordis replied, embarrassment flashing.  Her helmet tipped level from its downward cast.  “From the stories, I thought it would be bigger.”

“Size matters not,” Nomen replied, trying not to be amused.  Or at least, not let it show.  “But. . . well, it is the only lightsaber I’ve had, the same one I’ve had since I was six.”

Yordis rippled with confusion.  “You can’t rebuild it, modify it, make it bigger?  I’ve got a wide range of small arms components you can use.  I could help, I know my way around a few kinds of weapons.”

“A lightsaber is a bit more complicated than that.”

“Don’t tell me those rumors that you conjure them out of the Force are true,” Yordis scoffed.

“No.  Well. . . not entirely.  The basic principle of a lightsaber isn’t that complex, compared to blasters and such.  But what makes a true lightsaber so special – and so effective – is the way a Jedi constructs it, using the Force to assemble the components with a degree of precision and efficiency impossible any other way.  It is one of the final Trials a Jedi takes before graduating from Padawan learner to Jedi Knight.”  Nomen hung his head sadly.  “I’m not strong enough or knowledgeable enough in the Force to succeed in such a task.  With no Master, I doubt I’ll ever be.”

Sympathy strobbed from Yordis, a ripple of wry humor rising around it.  “Just my luck.  Stuck with a Jedi who’s trapped at the youngling’s table.”

Trained discipline and calm kept Nomen from flinching; the barb had stung more than Yordis had intended.  “Still, I’ll do my best to be of assistance while we’re together.”

“I don’t suppose you can use a blaster?”

Nomen smiled.  “I can see well enough to shoot, but I was never taught to.”

“Then how do you know?”

Nomen shrugged.  “Remote training.  You’re aware lightsaber blades deflect blaster bolts?”  Yordis’ sense shifted towards assent, she was nodding.  “We train against remotes firing sting blasts, learning to reach into the Force for our perceptions, as well as practical self-defense skills.  Naturally, I had an advantage in this exercise, and quickly picked up not only how to block a blaster bolt, but redirect it at a target.  So I know I can perceive a target at a distance and strike it at that distance.  I just don’t know how to do it with a blaster in my hand.”

More conflict, an internal debate, then resigned frustration flashed by quickly.  “I don’t have time right now to teach you,” Yordis said.  “So stick with the mini laser blade for now, I guess.”

“As you wish,” Nomen replied.

Yordis took a step forward, irritation building within her.  “Are you going to move?” she asked.  “I kind of have a ship that needs flying.”

Smiling, Nomen stepped out of the doorway, bowing and motioning Yordis through.  She sighed, amused annoyance spiking.

Nomen followed her into the cockpit.  Checking the instruments, Yordis announced they were close to their destination.  Ten minutes later, she reverted them from hyperspace.  He'd heard traditionally-sighted sapients describe space, an endless black void lit by the distant pinpricks of dim stars, seeming so cold and alone in the infinite night.

To Nomen, it was a vast plain of endless energy as the Force flowed through the entire galaxy, and likely beyond.  Distance was no obstacle for the Force, but it was for his fragile mortal perception.  The infinity of the Force was punctuated not by the electromagnetic radiation of distant suns, but by the flare of beings on life-bearing worlds, their very existence creating and adding to the Great Mystery.  Connected to Nomen as he was connected to them, no matter how vast the distance.  Yordis might be seeing the light of stars gone cold and dead hundreds of years ago; Nomen was sensing beings living and breathing right now.

It was a sensation that always made him feel simultaneously insignificantly small and vastly blessed to be a part of it.

"Ashla is with me, and I am one with Ashla, and Ashla is with me."

"What was that?" Yordis asked.

"Old Miraluka prayer."

Rather than get mired in a conversation about ancient alien culture, Yordis plotted her flight path.  "Alright, we should be clear of any Imperial patrol routes and have a clear shot to our destination."

"Where are we going, anyway?  You've yet to tell me."

"You didn't ask.  We're heading to Dxun, largest moon of Onderon."

Nomen reached out with his senses.  There was a planet, shining with the life and energy he'd come to associate with a developed world.  Onderon, presumably.  And close to it, too close in astronomical terms, was a moon, also brimming with life.  But the sense of it. . . 

"I see it.  I have a bad feeling about that place."

"Why?"

"It feels wrong, somehow.  Harsh and grating."

Confusion bubbled within Yordis, then was cast aside as irrelevant.  "It is home to one of the top five deadliest ecologies in the galaxy.  The good news being no one much bothers with the place, so no one should bother us.  Bad news being we'll have to watch our step.  See why I don't want to put you off here?"

Nomen nodded.  "I don't even want to visit this time."

"Then stay in the ship," Yordis snapped.

Nomen seriously considered that.  "No," he said eventually.  "I won't let you face whatever's down there alone."

"Why, thank you," Yordis replied, bristling with sarcasm.  "I feel so much safer with my big, strong, brave and bold Jedi protector to watch over me."

Nomen rubbed his temples beneath his glareshades.  Of all the Mandalorians in the galaxy, I get stuck with the rude sarcastic comedian.

Yordis brought Blood Raven down in the closest clearing she could find to her destination.  Nomen had been fidgeting with increased nervousness the closer they drew to the moon.

"We should not be here," he said.  "Darkness swirls in this place, hatred given life of its own, that breathes death into life."

"Congratulations," Yordis replied.  "That's the single most uninformative sentence I've ever heard."

"What are we even doing here?"

"What I'm doing here is my business.  You want to tag along and help, fine.  If not, wait until I get back."

Nomen stood and followed her closely to the cargo bay.  Yordis prepped Gripe and the hoversled, then led the way, Nomen behind her, the ASP pushing the sled bringing up the rear.  Yordis opened the hatch and ramp, and the group set foot for the first time on Dxun.

The air was thick with the smell of plant and animal life, a pervasive undercurrent of rot and decay.  The sweet scent of flowers and fruit was absent, replaced with the musk of predators and the sourness of botanical chemical defenses.

And the sense of wrongness that had been growing in Nomen crystallized.  He now recognized the twist in the way the Force reached him, the distortion of his perceptions through a jagged, occluded filter.

"This place is strong with the Dark Side."

"Like I said, not the kind of place you build a summer home," Yordis replied.  Retrieving the holodisc she'd taken from Nomen's attackers, she slipped it into a small holoprojector.  The device whirred to life, compiling the data on the disc with that stored in its memory, and produced a map.  "There.  Good, we're only about two kilometers away."

"From what?"

"Old Mandalorian battlefield.  My people fought yours here thousands of years ago, during the time of the Old, Old Republic."

"What interest do you have in an ancient battlefield?"

Yordis smiled beneath her helmet.  "To see what's left.  Come on, Gripe.  You, too, if you're still coming."

Grumbling internally, Nomen headed off behind the Mandalorian and her droid, wondering what fresh insanity he'd gotten roped into now.

Yordis quickly became impressed by the Jedi and his weapon.  After leaving the clearing, the jungle pressed in around them.  False paths dead-ended suddenly, real paths were blocked by tangles of vegetation and fallen trees.  Nomen made short work of the latter with his lightsaber and ability to move impossibly weighty and bulky objects with a wave of his hand.  So many of my earlier adventures would have been so much easier with him along, she mused.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to ask about making this arrangement permanent?

No.  Whatever advantages his skills bring are outweighed by the complications.  And what would Father say if you brought a Jedi home with you?

Nomen sensed the Mandalorian's admiring turmoil, but said nothing.

As he finished cutting away a cluster of thorny vines in their path, a flicker in the Force alerted him.  He whirled, and a moment later a rustle in the undergrowth caused Yordis to raise her blasters.  She'd barely begun when the predator pounced.

It was large, two meters from its round head to the base of its whip-like tail, which added another meter.  A lithe yet powerfully built quadruped, long slender limbs ending in vicious claws.  Its mouth sported five large, sharp, tusk-like fangs.  Its leathery skin was deep red, spotted with brown-red armored scales.  Its neck was long, densely corded with muscle, and surprisingly supple.

To Nomen's sight, it was a bundle of unadulterated aggression and violence, far out of proportion to any natural prey drive.  Once, its kind may have been ordinary animals.  Now this one, at least, had been tainted by the corruption of the Dark Side of the Force.

It flew through the air, neck curving backwards and forelimbs extended, preparing to rake Nomen with those savage claws and maul him with its enormous fangs.

Nomen sidestepped, bringing his lightsaber down on the creature's long neck.  The blade bit, but the leathery hide somehow resisted the lightsaber's absurd cutting power.

Few materials in the galaxy were capable of that .

The creature let out an eerie howling shriek, turning to face Nomen.  His lightsaber flashed again, striking the creature in the face, doing little more than blackening the tough skin.

Yordis fired, twin blaster bolts striking the creature's flank, doing no more damage than Nomen's lightsaber.  The creature let out another eerie howl.  Yordis fired again, still to minimal effect.

Cursing his youngling-sized lightsaber, Nomen wrapped his left hand around his right, giving the most powerful two-handed swing he could with the undersized weapon.  He caught the creature in the face, scoring deeper into its hide this time.  One of its eyes burst as the lightsaber flash-vaporized the liquid within, and the creature howled again.  Any other predator would retreat at this point, seeking prey less able to injure it.

This predator didn't want to eat.  It wanted to kill.  It reared up on its hind legs, forelimbs raised, preparing to bring them down on Nomen in a brutally fatal blow.

Forgoing her blasters, Yordis fired a rocket dart from her right bracer.  The sharpened durasteel tip of the missile burrowed only a few centimeters into the creature's hide before detonating, but it ripped a jagged hole in its back.  Unbalanced by the explosion and its own agonized contortions, the creature fell away from Nomen.  He struck repeatedly with his lightsaber as the creature regained its feet, none seeming to do serious damage.

Yordis fired uselessly at the creature's flank.  "I opened its back, but I have no shot!"

Releasing one hand from his lightsaber, Nomen made a rising gesture.  The creature again reared up on its hind legs, this time clearly against its will.  The ragged, shallow wound now exposed, Yordis poured blasterfire into the creature's innards, hoping they were softer than its leathery hide.

They were.  With one last eerie howl, the beast fell to the ground.  Nomen hacked its head off, taking nearly a dozen swings to do so, just to be sure.

"Thanks," Yordis said, picking up the severed head.

"You want to keep that?" Nomen asked incredulously.  "What even is it?"

"I don't know," Yordis replied, dropping the head in one of the empty crates.  She'd carbon-freeze it for preservation when they got back to the ship.  "But after the trouble it gave us, aren't you curious to find out?"

Put that way, it made an odd amount of sense.

No more of the long-necked predators attacked the pair, though they did have to fight off two packs of hairless, bug-eyed dog-like things before they finally reached their destination.

The clearing was not large enough to land Blood Raven , and was broken up with large boulders and grown trees.  But it was big enough that it had clearly once been a sizable open area before the jungle reclaimed it.  It did have the look of an old battlefield, though the scars of combat had long been erased, both to Yordis' eyes and Nomen's sense.

Yordis found a smooth, open area, and busied herself setting up a piece of equipment from one of the crates.  "What's that?" Nomen asked.

"Dirtmapper.  Uses sonic pulses to identify soil, rock, fossils. . . and manmade objects."

Nomen couldn't help but smile.  "Buried treasure.  You hunt for buried treasure."

Amusement rippled in Nomen's senses from the Mandalorian woman.  "If you want to look at it that way, yeah, sometimes."  She activated the dirtmapper, which filled the area with a bone-rattling throb.

Yordis watched as the holomap of the ground beneath them slowly took shape.  Finally, she spotted a promising-looking find.  Leaving the dirtmapper to continue its work, she directed Gripe to pick up the other crate of tools, telling Nomen to follow.  Reaching the dig point, she broke out the power-shovels, directing Nomen and Gripe to assist in the digging.

The power-shovels made the work far easier than it would have been with ordinary shovels, but it was still brutally laborious.  By the time they made it to the find, some three meters down in the dirt, Nomen was aching in a way he hadn't since the earliest days of his Jedi training.

Climbing out of the hole to retrieve a different set of tools, Yordis began delicately clearing the dirt off her find.  Slowly, three suits of armor were uncovered.  The body glove and connecting armorweave had long since rotted away, but the metal plates looked as though they had been buried just the day before.  The styling was different, older, but unmistakably Mandalorian.

"They seem brand new," Nomen said quietly as Yordis handed up another piece, which he in turn handed to Gripe who loaded it in one of the empty crates.

"True beskar doesn't corrode," Yordis replied, shining with excitement and pride.

Eventually, Yordis passed up the last of the beskar armor pieces and climbed out of the hole.  "Alright, let's get this back to the ship."

"That's all?  You're not digging anything else up?"

"The map plus three suits beskar'gam proves this site is worth sending a full expedition."

Nomen nodded, frowning as Yordis made her way back to the hoversled.  There was something, like an intermittent tickle, just at the edge of his perception.

And it was coming from the freshly-dug hole.

"You coming?" Yordis called to him from the hoversled.

"Just a minute," Nomen replied, then jumped down.

Focusing intently, stretching his senses in a way he hadn't in a long time, he honed in on the faint pulse in the Force.  As his focus deepened, the flicker grew steadier and brighter, resolving itself into an object and a location.

Brushing dirt away with his fingertips, Nomen uncovered a small cube, maybe twice the size of the average chance cube.  The edges were raised maybe two centimeters over the faces, but other than that, it was completely smooth.

But the Force swirled about it with mesmerizing beauty.

Nomen climbed out of the hole, sensing Yordis' disapproval.  "What did you find?"

"Who says I found anything?"

"So you climbed back into a three-meter deep hole in the ground for your health?  That a traditional Jedi exercise?"

"If I found anything–"

"It was on a Mandalorian battlefield.  If it's an artifact of my people, then it belongs to me , and that's the end of it."

"It's not a Mandalorian artifact."

"Prove it."

Sighing, Nomen drew the cube from his belt pouch, holding it out in his palm for Yordis' inspection.  When she made to grab it he thought about stopping her, but decided it would only escalate the argument.

"You're right, it's not Mandalorian," she said, curiosity quickly replacing disapproval and aggression as she turned the cube back and forth, examining it.  "I've never seen anything like it."

Nomen took the cube back.  "It's a Jedi meditation focus, an ancient one.  It's constructed in such a way to gather the Force around it, helping a Jedi reach out and connect to the Force on deeper and deeper levels.  This one was passed from Master to Padawan several times, each leaving their own unique resonances on it."

"You can sense that just by touching it?"

"No.  The ability to read an object's history through touch is a very rare and difficult one.  But the nature of the focus lets it pick up the residue of its owners and meld to them more readily."

Confusion again bubbled up before being cast aside, more quickly this time.  Yordis was clearly developing a "Jedi Business" bin in her mind into which she could chuck Nomen's more nonsensical statements.  "Well, then if you're finished, let's get off this rock before we find out what it's like at night."

They made their way back to Blood Raven , having to fight off another pack of bug-eyed dog-things.  As Yordis directed Gripe in stowing their haul and the tools by which they'd attained it, Nomen secured the meditation focus in his quarters.  The ship had two cabins; Yordis had long claimed the more spacious "Captain's Cabin" for herself, but the other had stood vacant until Nomen came aboard.

They lifted off without incident, and the calculations for the jump to lightspeed were nearly complete when Nomen sensed a familiar swirl of wrath, hate, and violence.

"Raise shields," he said.

"What?" Yordis asked.

"Shields, now!" Nomen snapped.

Yordis put Blood Raven 's shields up a split second before the laser blast splashed against them.

"That blast would have taken the engines," Yordis said, her sense shifting instantly into the cold, quick calculations combat required.  "I've got it.  Some kind of advanced TIE variant I've never seen before."

"It's her.  The Imperial agent from Besnia."

"Impossible.  You can't track a ship through hyperspace."  Yordis twisted Blood Raven through evasive maneuvers, triggering the automatic twin laser cannon on the ship's port side.  The targeting computer set about trying to blast the unfamiliar TIE out of the stars; the Imperial pilot deftly evaded those attempts while keeping up her own attack.

"She can track me," Nomen said.  "Between observation of our hyperspace vector and the Force, she can follow me."

"She couldn't see our vector at Besnia."

"She can see it now ."

Understanding blossomed rapidly in Yordis, followed by a quick decision.  "Dorsal gun, go.  Prove to me you can shoot."  Hesitation flickered.  "You can shoot a quad laser cannon, yes?"

"Better than your targeting computer," Nomen replied, already on his feet.

Unlike later models of Corellian light freighter, the XS only had one crew-serviced turret.  As such, there was no right-angle gravity discontinuity as Nomen climbed up the ladder; "down" in the gunwell was the same as "down" in the ship proper.

The quad laser was already active when he arrived; apparently, Yordis didn't trust him to find the power toggle on his own.  Taking the controls, Nomen fell into the Force, the attacker's presence instantly calling out to him like a black beacon.  He knew where she was in relation to him and his weapon.

More importantly, he knew where she was going to be.

The Force sung out to him now , and he squeezed the triggers.  The reciprocating barrels of the laser thudded, and he felt the energy reaching out for the distant fighter.  The Imperial tried to evade, too late.  The blow glanced off the tiny ship's shields, but sent it whirling on a new vector.  The dark focus on Blood Raven and Nomen himself vanished, curling inward as the pilot fought to control her craft.

"Now!" Nomen shouted.

Outside the gunwell's canopy, the stars stretched into starlines, which gave way to the mottled sky of hyperspace.

They were safe.

For now.

Chapter Text

Yordis insisted on reverting from hyperspace out in deep space, no stars of any kind for a dozen light years in any direction.  When Nomen had asked her why, she'd told him to shut up.

He followed her back to the engine room, where her R5 unit was busy with repairs from their scuffle.  They'd barely entered when the astromech let loose with angry-sounding bleeps.

"I know," Yordis replied.  "It'll be fine."

The droid warbled again.

"Because this is my ship and I said so.  But nevermind that now, I've got a different job for you."

Blip blatted indignantly.

"Yes, it's more important, or I wouldn't be saying anything.  I need you to go outside and do a full hull integrity survey.  And I mean a full survey this time."

Blip responded with an electronic raspberry.

"I refer you back to the part where Aurek: this is my ship and Besh: because I said so."

The droid gave a distinctly unpleasant-sounding warble as it rolled off for the maintenance lift and airlock.

"And watch your language!" Yordis called after it.  She turned to Nomen with a tinge of apologetic embarrassment.  "Sorry, R5s, you know.  They can be. . . temperamental."

Nomen shrugged.  "I worked with a few in the Order, they were pleasant enough.  Perhaps you should try being a bit nicer to him?"

Indignation flared.  "Perhaps I decide how to run things on my ship?  That alright by you, Captain Jedi Sir?"

Nomen held up his hands.  "Apologies, I meant no offense."

Contrition and shame rose within her.  Humor rippled up around them like a deflector shield, then collapsed as she apparently failed to find a witty retort.  Contrition and pride battled for dominance as cruelty spiked and was forcibly pushed back down, pride quickly winning out.  "Well, so long as we have that straight."

Nomen nodded in response.  Yordis stared at him.  Awkward silence grew.

"Don't you need to do. . . something?  Recharge your lightsaber or give it a good polish or whatever?"

"I know it doesn't impress you, but my lightsaber is in perfect working order."

"I wouldn't say I'm unimpressed.  It may not match my expectations, but you handle it surprisingly well, given the size."  She paused.  "You're certain there's nothing I can do to help with that?"

"I'm certain you're quite skilled with any number of weapons, but a lightsaber requires a rather special touch."

Yordis was about to take that as a challenge, then realized this particular conversation was getting a bit too charged for her liking.  She clamped down on and discarded that avenue of thought, only for another to take its place.

Nomen felt curiosity bubble up within her.  He was surprised he'd missed it in his initial perception of her; it was such a fundamental and easily-roused part of her being.

"So what's your story?  How did a blind Jedi trainee survive the Purge and come to be wandering the galaxy alone?"

Nomen folded his arms over his chest.  "Are you sure you want to know?"

Yordis thought hard about it.  She was certainly curious about this man, but was already growing more attached to him than she'd ever intended.  The prospect of dropping him off somewhere and bidding him a permanent farewell was steadily growing less relieving and more dreadful.  Hearing his story, knowing about his past and his pain would only make that farewell more difficult when the time came.  And yet there was something, something that made her crave knowing more about him.  He was a capable warrior and ally, but the complications still outweighed the advantages in her scandoc.  But there was still something that she couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't, yet identify.

"Yes, I want to know," she answered.

Nomen pondered her request.  She wanted to know, but did he want to tell her?  It was a painful memory – an attachment – he'd tried to let go of, but it still clung to him despite his best efforts, assaulting him in his weakest moments.  It was a dark, festering wound in his spirit, pushed as deep as it could go, which only seemed to encourage its growth.  Nomen feared bringing it forth, giving it the chance to root itself more firmly in the front of his mind.

Yet, feeling Yordis' clear, calm determination, he couldn't help but think of her as smooth, slick transparisteel, letting all attempts to scratch or mar its flawless surface simply slide off, effortlessly.  He admired that calm.  And in this moment, he wanted her to share it with him.

He could trust her.

"I was nine when the Purge started," Nomen began.  "My Master, Rham Kota, was actually talking about making me a full-sized lightsaber, since I was already outgrowing my first one.  Being so young, my Master and I didn't really participate in the Clone Wars.  Instead, we were assigned a Jedi scout ship and sent out looking for convenient places for hidden forward bases, concealed Separatist strongholds, traces of the Sith, and the like.

"We received a general recall transmission, stating that the war was over and all Jedi should return to the Temple.  Master Kota felt there was something wrong.  Our mission was technically part of the war effort, so we should have been subject to the general recall, but our mission was also secret enough and important enough we should have gotten a personal communication from the Council.  The next day, the recall order stopped, then we received a warning that the Republic and Jedi Order had fallen, and any surviving Jedi should go to ground.

"Master Kota did his best.  He wanted to raise a militia and strike back against the Empire, but with a nine-year-old Padawan in tow, that wasn't an option.  We abandoned our ship on Nar Shaddaa and tried to fade away into the population.  We heard the stories that the Emperor had an enforcer, a Dark Lord of the Sith named Darth Vader, who was hunting down and murdering any Jedi he could find.  Master Kota suspended my training, fearing that, since I already draw on the Force constantly to see, deepening my connection to it would only make it easier for Darth Vader to find us.  He didn't build me a new lightsaber, because using it would only attract the wrong kind of attention.

"We kept on the move, traveling from planet to planet as refugees.  Everywhere, we saw the grip of the Empire tightening, clone troopers turned into stormtroopers, and the Jedi, once respected and admired, now feared and hated.  We lived that way for four years.

"On Pantolomin, Master Kota and I split up to get supplies, money, maybe jobs and a ship.  I was talking to an electronics assembler, trying to convince him my small, nimble fingers could work as well as his droids, when I felt it.  A flash of aggression and violence, a desperate plea directed at me, a moment of serenity, then nothing.  A dark, gaping hole carved out of me where my Master used to live.

"Through the Force, I felt him die.  Murdered in the street by agents of the Empire.

"I jumped onto the first transport offworld I could find, and kept moving.  Six years later, I ended up on Abregado-Rae, and that's where you came into the story."

Yordis' sense was filled with guarded sympathy, but even that cheered Nomen in a way he found strange but surprisingly pleasant.  "So you had no idea you had a bounty on your head?" she asked.

"Oh, I was pretty sure I did.  I imagine the Empire has analysts combing through the archives of the Jedi Temple, keeping track of which Jedi are still unaccounted for.  Every so often, they extrapolate a new holo of what we probably look like now, then issue a new wave of bounty pucks."

Yordis was silent for a moment, her sense more open and vulnerable than Nomen had ever perceived it.  "I'm sorry about your Master," she said quietly.  "He. . . seems like a man I would have liked to meet."

Nomen smiled wistfully.  "I think he would have liked you.  He valued self-sufficiency and a take-no-poodoo attitude."

Something flickered deep within Yordis' sense, so deep Nomen could barely make it out, couldn't discern what it was, and doubted even Yordis, self-aware as she was, was aware of it.  Before that flicker could begin to build, the maintenance lift whooshed down, and Blip returned, whistling with excitement, waving something in one of his manipulator arms.

The device was tiny, no larger than one of Nomen's spread hands, yet released fantastic amounts of energy in clear, shining pulses.

Yordis took the device, examining it.  "A homing beacon, I figured as much.  This is how that mother nexu followed us.  She must have tossed it on the hull after I shot her."  She held the device up to Nomen, accusation thrusting out towards him.  "And you didn't notice this?"

"I'm a Jedi, not a sensor pack," he replied indignantly.  "You didn't notice it, either."

"I'm not the one with magical X-Ray Force vision," she countered, though Nomen sensed grudging amusement behind her words.  "Aren't you Jedi supposed to know about danger before it happens?"

"Remind me, who was it who told you to raise shields and saved your engines from being blasted to slag?"

Mirth now fully bubbling within her, Yordis lowered the homing beacon.  "Alright, fine.  Blip, flush this into space," she said, handing the droid the device.  "Then let's get going."  Yordis made for the cockpit, Nomen following.

"Where are we off to now?" he asked as he settled in the copilot's seat.

"Not where I'd planned to go next," Yordis replied, bringing up the navicomputer, her sense shifting into intense concentration and evaluation.  "I want to find somewhere to lie low for a while, make sure ditching the beacon gets her off our track."

"Somewhere busy where we can get lost in the crowd?" Nomen asked.

"I wear Mandalorian armor, you've got the whole no-eyes thing.  We'll stick out like Wookiees at a Jawa swap meet.  I'm thinking. . .'' she trailed off, her attention grabbed by something in the navicomputer.  "There.  Ukio.  Half the galaxy away, tiny little agriworld of no interest to anyone.  Plenty of places we can set down unregistered and camp out for a week or two."

"A week or two?" Nomen asked, confused.

"We want to make sure she can't still track us.  So we stick in one spot long enough to make sure we've given her the slip.  Besides, it'll give me some time to check you out on a blaster.  We don't want you pulling out your highly-conspicuous lightsaber every time there's a hint of trouble."

Nomen sat back, unable to fault her reasoning.  It seemed he'd be camping out on a farming planet for the next week or two, in the company of Yordis Cadera, Mandalorian warrior of Clan Cadera.

There were worse ways to spend one's time.

Early on their second morning on Ukio, Yordis banged her gloved hand urgently and loudly on the door to Nomen's cabin.  "Nomen, are you awake?"

Withdrawing his attention from the meditation focus, Nomen stood.  "If I wasn't, I am now."

A flicker of hesitation from outside the door.  "Are you clothed?"

"I am."

The door to his cabin hissed open.  "Come on, let's go, time's slipping."

"Is the sun even up yet?" Nomen asked.

Wry amusement rippled.  "Does it matter to you?"

"No, but it might matter to you, Oh Eye-Having One."

The tap of a gloved finger on a beskar helmet.  "Mandalorian.  Prepared for any and every eventuality."

"Even the ones you can't prepare for?"

" Especially the ones I can't prepare for."

Chuckling at that bit of nonsense – which doesn't mean it isn't true – Nomen followed Yordis to the cargo bay.

Pulling open a crate, Yordis produced a weapon.  "WESTAR-35 blaster pistol, same model I carry.  Mandalorian made.  Simply put, there is no better blaster anywhere in the galaxy.  BlasTech, Merr-Sonn, SoroSuub. . . they wish they could build guns like this."  She offered the weapon to Nomen.

He took it carefully, suppressing a smile.  Mandalorian weapons were indeed well-made – and highly sought by collectors and underworld types – but they were not as decidedly superior as Yordis claimed.  A high-end BlasTech, like the DL-18 or -44, would offer comparable performance.

They were vastly superior to the cheap, mass-produced, designed-by-the-lowest-bidder weapons coming out of the Imperial Munitions factories, but a well-built Stone Age bow-and-arrow could probably make that claim.

Yordis led the way out of the ship.  She'd spent most of their first day outside with Gripe, and Nomen could now easily perceive what she'd been working on.

Sturdy branches had been stuck in the ground, pointed as close to straight up as possible.  A thick log, about half a meter across, had been cut in roughly circular cross-sections, those slices affixed to the branches with cargo crate sealing strips, making a series of ad hoc targets between ten and thirty meters distant, placed between one and two meters off the ground.

"Alright, first lesson.  Unless you're intending to blast it, don't point the blaster at it, and keep your finger off the trigger.  Rest it on the trigger guard, like so."  Yordis took hold of Nomen's forefinger, laying it against the trigger guard, pointing straight in the same direction as the blaster's barrel.  "That's also a good place to have your finger when you point the blaster at something you do want to blast.  Aim your finger at what you want to shoot, and the blaster is aimed at it, too."  She guided his blaster up toward the closest target, leaning in to sight along Nomen's arm.  "Feel that?"

Nomen nodded.  The aim felt right, at least in his perception.  "I think I'm on target."

"Then go ahead, squeeze off a charge."

Nomen pulled the trigger and a blaster bolt zipped forth to clip the very edge of the wooden target.

" Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it.  The tiniest motion you impart to the blaster can have a large effect by the time the bolt reaches the target."

Nomen squeezed the trigger very gently, trying to keep the blaster absolutely still in his hand.  The bolt still hit the edge of the target, but more solidly this time.

"Again," Yordis said

Again, Nomen hit the outer edge.

"At this point, I'd normally think about adjusting the sights, but. . . are they useful to you at all?"

Nomen shook his head.  "I'm relying on my sense of where the tip of the blaster is and where the target is."

"Try this.  Lay your finger back on the trigger guard, point right at where you want the bolt to go.  Once you feel like you have it locked in, like you know your finger, and the blaster, is right where you intend it to be, move your finger to the trigger and fire."

Nomen did as instructed.  It was a slow, complicated process – in many ways, more complicated than his first remote exercises with a lightsaber – but he was definitely getting closer and closer to the center of the target each try.

Eventually, Yordis called a halt.  "Not bad.  You're no marksman, but I wouldn't have bet you could hit the target, let alone with consistency.  If that were a stormtrooper, you could have put him down first."

"Thank you," Nomen replied, grateful for the break.  The training was unexpectedly exhausting.  Not so much physically, though his hand tingled from the constant thrum of the blaster firing and his arm twinged at holding its weight at extension for so long, but it was mentally challenging, stretching his perceptions in a way he never had before.

Yordis gave him two more sessions in the makeshift target range that day, with several hours of rest in between.  She mostly coached him placing shots accurately on one target, but by the third session, she was pushing him to rapidly shift between targets, putting two shots in one, two shots in the next, then four in the third, then back to put two more shots each in the second and first.  She explained it was a standard pistol drill, intended to coach one in how to spread a volume of fire among multiple attackers, neutralizing them all as efficiently as possible.

It was midafternoon on their fourth day on Ukio, between sessions of blaster practice.  Finally confident they were isolated enough no one was going to accidentally drop by, and increasingly confident in his slowly-growing blaster skills, Nomen took the opportunity to brush up on his lightsaber skills.  The agent pursuing them was strong in the Force, trained to use the Dark Side.  It seemed likely to Nomen she had a lightsaber and knew how to use it.  Inadequate as his own weapon was, he'd bet on it over a blaster should he be forced to confront her.

Deep in physical connection with the Force, running through the velocities of Shii-Cho, he felt Yordis approach and watch his exercise, disappointed amusement rising within her at every swing of his blade.

Finishing his current velocity, he closed down the lightsaber and glared at her as well as a man with no eyes can glare.  "What's so funny?"

"What was that ?" Yordis asked, her smile audible.

"Lightsaber Form practice," Nomen replied defensively.

"Your 'form' bites spice.  You looked like a flailing farmboy on his first vacation to Zeltros."

"My form is perfectly proper for Shii-Cho."

"Am I supposed to know what that is?"

"The First of the Seven Forms of Lightsaber Combat, developed and perfected by the Jedi over a thousand generations."

"Well, that's the problem.  There are millions of martial arts in the galaxy, honed to perfection over hundreds or thousands of years, rigorously disciplined to study, breathtakingly beautiful when performed by a master, and absolutely useless in a real fight where the only rule is 'don't get dead.'  Think about it:  before the Clone Wars, before Count Dooku and General Grievous, how often did Jedi draw their lightsabers and fight for their lives against competent opponents who didn't soil themselves at the sight of your overgrown glowrod?"

"Often enough," Nomen replied.  He could sense where she was going with this, and he didn't like it.

"And did mastery of any of those Seven Forms save any Jedi from the Purge?"

"We don't know they didn't!"

"And we don't know they did."  Yordis sighed, realizing she'd pushed too far into "argument."  "Look, you want to get better with your lightsaber, I can respect that.  The Imp tailing us has one, and I'm pretty sure she knows how to use it."

"How do you know that?"

"She had one on her belt, dipped for it when I shot her.  I was faster, that time."

"She won't get caught by surprise like that again," Nomen said.

"I agree, if she's any kind of competent.  I know some tricks for getting blasterfire through a lightsaber defense.  In theory, anyway.  But if we bump into her again, you and your lightsaber is probably our best bet."

"And yet you come to mock me."

"You're right, maybe I was a little harsh."  Nomen tilted his head, his eyebrows appearing over the top of his glareshades.  "Alright, I was being a mother nexu about it.  But practicing some old form in a vacuum isn't going to keep you alive.  Learning how to fight will ."

"So what do you suggest?"

Yordis' sense shifted to the thoughtful, memories being conjured to the surface of her mind.  Nomen couldn't see them, but he could see her seeing them.

"You handled yourself pretty well in that cantina with your fists.  Better, I think, then after you pulled the saber.  I don't know from lightsabers, but I can teach you how to fight.  How to anticipate an opponent, spot openings, strike to stun, wound, maim, or kill as needed.  It'll be up to you translate that to the glowrod, but. . . it should help, shouldn't it?" she finished hopefully.

"It couldn't hurt," Nomen answered.

They didn't get to their third blaster practice session that day, spending it sparring instead.  Nomen even managed to teach Yordis a thing or two regarding hand-to-hand combat.  But Yordis taught him far more.

Chapter Text

By the evening of their sixth day on Ukio, they'd fallen into a routine.  Blaster practice first thing in the morning, followed by breakfast, another blaster practice before lunch, sparring after lunch, then a couple hours' break before supper.  In between, Nomen would meditate, rest, or try and apply what he learned in sparring to his lightsaber.  He still ran through the Shii-Cho velocities -- patterns of attack and defense predicated on the presence of imaginary opponents -- but he felt he was understanding them better.

First attack position to deal with the first attacker, second defense position to ward off the second, fourth attack position to take out the third.  Second defense works if the attack is to my left side, but if it's to my right, I'll need third defense. . . and I'm completely out of position for it after first attack.

Thoughts of lightsaber combat, anticipating the opponent, and adaptability consumed Nomen as he ate his evening meal.  Wanting to quiet the unproductive riot in his mind, he lay back on the grass and gazed out at the night sky.  The surge and swell of Ukio's myriad and abundant life occluded his perception of the universe through the Force, but it was still a profoundly beautiful thing to watch the life of one planet radiate outwards to conjoin and commingle with all others.

The clink of boots on Blood Raven 's ramp; Yordis had finished her supper.  For as long as he'd known her, Yordis had insisted on taking her meals alone in her cabin.  Nomen had offered to sequester himself at mealtimes -- it was her ship, after all, he was her guest, and she should be allowed to have the run of it as she saw fit.  She had declined.

To his surprise, Yordis stretched out on the grass next to him, also looking up at the night sky, her sense introspective.  The description of space Nomen had heard from sighted beings always made it seem cold, lonely, and rather frightening, a vast black void prepared to gobble up the unwary.  He wondered if what Yordis saw with her vision was as beautiful to her as what he sensed through the Force was to him.

They lay quietly for a time, each lost in their own ruminations, gazing at the same phenomena from vastly different perspectives.  Eventually, out of nowhere, Nomen broke the silence.  "How is Blip with fine metalwork?"

Yordis' helmet turned to face him, the slow, random meanderings of her thoughts slamming back into disciplined order, curious caution swelling.  "Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking, if you're going to keep me around awhile longer, it might be beneficial if I could operate your ship better.  If Blip is up to the task, we could add Miralukese labels to some of the controls."  Disbelief spiked.  "Yes, my people have a written language.  We're blind, not barbarians."

"How does that even work?"

"Raised glyphs, distinct to properly trained fingertips.  We read by touch."

"You want to slap alien symbols all over my ship."

"Not all over.  Just wherever you agree it might be helpful for me to be able to read the controls.  If you think it's a good idea at all.  If not, don't worry about it."

"I'll think about it."  Yordis was quiet for a while.  "So, you can read these glyphs by touch, but not a datapad screen?"

"No, a conventional datapad is useless to me.  I used to have a Miraluka datapad, it had a memory plastic display instead of a screen, and a Basic translation matrix.  Converted Basic words to Miralukese glyphs, which raised out of the memory plastic.  I had to abandon it when Master Kota and I were forced to move on faster than we'd anticipated."

"I'm guessing we're not likely to find another one at a random junk dealer."

"They're very rare off Alpheridies, which I gather is under strict Imperial occupation.  Given all the trouble the Emperor went to exterminating the Jedi, an entire race with above-average Force-sensitivity apparently makes him nervous."  Nomen paused.  "And my people have a long history of persecution, death, and near-annihilation.  My brothers and sisters would not be pleased if I brought my troubles home to them."

A wave of unguarded sympathy rolled out from Yordis, covering Nomen like a warm blanket.  He shook off the dark turn his thoughts had taken.  "The point being, a Miraluka datapad is really only useful to Miraluka.  Other beings with defective sight correct it medically."

"Why don't you?" Yordis asked.  "A good cyberneticist could have you seeing perfectly in a day.  A really good one would make it better than perfect."

"When the Order stood, it was unnecessary.  My vision in the Force was sufficient, and if I required some compensation for my biology, it was no different than Kel Dor requiring a breath mask and hermetically sealed quarters.  After. . . well, cybernetics aren't cheap, and the price climbs rapidly when looking for one who won't recognize you for what you are, take your money, then call the closest Imperials after he puts you under for surgery.  Besides, I am as Ashla made me, changing what I am seems. . . wrong.  There are stories, old stories, of Miraluka who did as you suggest, and it. . . ended badly."

"How badly?"

"Nebulously so, or varying from story to story.  Vague or different enough each time you know the stories are false, terrible enough you believe they're true."

Yordis nodded to herself.  That statement made sense.  Either she'd been hanging around Nomen too long, or his words spoke to a fundamental cross-cultural truth about the nature and need for fear and the cautionary tale.

No, she'd definitely been hanging around the Jedi too long.  Especially considering the question that rose in her mind like an irritating bubble, refusing to let her rest until she popped it.  "What's this 'ashla' you keep talking about?"

"Eons ago, my people believed in the twin gods of Ashla and Bogan.  Today, we know them as the Force and the Dark Side.  Ashla is the Force, the light, bringing life and death in due time which brings forth new life.  Bogan is the Dark Side, the unnatural, corruption and perversion."

"So when we went to Dxun, and you said it was strong in the Dark Side?"

"I was not being poetic.  The whole moon was a vergence, concentrating and emanating Dark Side energy.  That first beast we faced, the one whose head is frozen in carbonite in the hold; did its behavior match that of any predator you've encountered?"

"It was awfully persistent."

"And resistant.  Neither my lightsaber nor your blasters were capable of injuring it.  Such resilience is not natural.  The beast had been corrupted by the Dark Side."

"So the Dark Side is powerful."

"Yes, at a price.  The power of the Dark Side lies in the unnatural, in corruption, and in deception.  In their arrogance, adherents of the Dark Side believe they control the Force itself, while a Jedi, calm and at peace with himself, allows the Force to guide him.  Which is more powerful:  the fool who believes he controls something far greater than himself, or the wise man who knows he is controlled by something far greater than himself?"

Yordis shook her head.  "My money's still on the quickest and most accurate shot with a blaster."

"The Force moves in mysterious ways."

Yordis frowned under her helmet, looking at Nomen, then noticed the sly smile on his lips.  He was teasing her.

"Fine, then," she said.  "Tomorrow we'll pit your guidance by the Force against my eyesight and see who hits more targets."

"And when I win, what do I get?" Nomen asked innocently.

"My respect," Yordis said evenly.  "Something you'll never have."

Nomen's smile widened, knowing that, despite her words, he'd already earned a fair measure of her respect.  But winning more couldn't hurt.

In the end, they spent nearly three weeks on Ukio, with no sign their pursuer was still on their track.  Their last day was spent breaking down their camp before Yordis flew them over to one of the planet's small spaceports.

"We need fuel and provisions for the last leg of the trip," she declared as she set them down in the landing pit.

"And then you need to figure out what to do with me before you go your own way?" Nomen asked.  Turmoil had been steadily growing in Yordis as their departure grew nearer, circling a monumental decision that oscillated back and forth with alarming frequency and rapidity.

"Something like that," Yordis said noncommittally.

"I can feel the conflict in you.  What's wrong?"

Yordis sighed.  "I just can't think of any place I can drop you off where you'll be safe, but I'm fairly certain things won't be any better for you where I'm going.  I've been searching for a good answer, and there just isn't one."

"I'm a Jedi in an Empire that's outlawed them.  I'll never be perfectly safe.  You've done more for me than I had any right to expect already."

"That doesn't change the fact that your safety is my responsibility now."

"You're not responsible for the state of the whole galaxy."

"I didn't say I was.  I said I'm responsible for you ."

Nomen threw up his hands.  "Why?  I'm a grown man, I can look after myself."

"You're a barely-begun Padawan who aged, that's not the same thing.  Given half a chance, either the underworld or the Empire will chew you up and spit you out.  I don't mean to be rude, but. . . our roles reversed, would you be able to just send me off and hope for the best?"

"No," Nomen admitted.  "But I'm a Jedi.  Foolish altruism is kind of the point.  I'm surprised to see it from a Mandalorian."

"We're more than blasters with legs," Yordis replied huffily, rising from the pilot's seat.  "Come on, let's get our supplies and get moving."

In contrast to every other place Yordis had ever landed, the Ukians were unfailingly polite and honest.  The pit supervisor vowed that of course nothing would be done to her ship without her express permission, seemingly offended at the very idea, and steadfastly denied her customary fifty percent markup on refueling services, refusing to take more credits than were owed.  The rations vendor was similarly polite, only once offering an addition of locally-grown fresh produce, unoffended when Yordis declined.  Even that had seemed less an attempt to score more of Yordis' credits and more a genuine desire to provide her with good food.

Yordis found the whole thing quietly disconcerting.  People weren't this consistently nice unless they wanted something.

Nomen found Yordis' discomfiture quite amusing.

Until they got back to the ship.

"A total engine overhaul?" Yordis asked incredulously.  "Are you serious?"

 "Serious I am, sorry to say," the pit supervisor replied, spreading his lanky green arms in an alien gesture Yordis assumed to be apologetic.  "Much space your ship has seen, some combat too."  A shudder ran through the Ukian's gangly body.  "More sorry I am to say it cannot be done here, facilities we do not have would it take.  Happy I am to say urgent it is not, run well your ship will yet some time for."

"When you say it can't be done here, do you mean here at this port or here on this planet?"

"Here planet I mean to say, sorry for vagueness I am.  Large ships well-equipped we are to handle, bulk freighters for transport of our crops to worlds less bountiful than we.  Limited service we offer to small ships as yours, noble of bearing may they be, sorry again I am to say."

"Fine, fine.  You have the report?"

"Report I have for you here," the pit supervisor said, producing a datacard.  "And fully fueled is your ship, to the stars ready again to take.  Paid all credits have been, ready to leave you are as you wish.  Slow day is it, trouble and wait authorization to lift for be there should not."

That last taxed Yordis' "mangled Basic" interpolating skills, but she finally nodded.  "Thank you."

"Thank not me, bearer of bad news I am.  Thank you I for patronage, to service you and noble ship with better news someday I wish."

Between the Ukian's earnestness and Yordis' growing annoyance, Nomen was struggling not to burst out laughing.

Yordis turned and entered Blood Raven , Nomen following.  "Not.  One.  Word .  I'll have Blip weld your lips together," Yordis said as she closed the hatch.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Nomen replied, still fighting laughter.

Yordis found the astromech in the engine room.  "Check this," she said, holding out the datacard.

Blip blew an electronic raspberry, turning his datacard slot away from Yordis' hand.

"And what's your problem, you rolling barrel of spare parts?"

Nomen plucked the datacard from Yordis' fingers.  "Blip, would you be so kind as to check this for us, please?"

Blip tootled cheerfully.

"And when you're done, weld his lips together," Yordis added, shooting Nomen a scathing look, knowing the effect for him would not be blunted by her helmet.

Blip chirruped.

"What do you mean, 'no?'"  Blip tweeted.  "You like him better than me?  Well, just remember who supplies your power and oil baths."  Blip blatted.  "No, I don't know when your last oil bath was, what's that got to do with anything?"

His disciple finally failing, Nomen sagged against the bulkhead, laughing uproariously.  The venomous glare Yordis focused on him did not blunt his mirth.

Eventually, Nomen laughed himself out, and Blip finished his analysis of the datacard.  The little droid concurred with the pit supervisor; Blood Raven needed a complete engine overhaul.  Not immediately, but sooner would be better.

Grumbling and taking mental stock of her funds, Yordis made her way to the cockpit.  Nomen followed after giving Blip a thank-you and affectionate pat.

"Where to next?" Nomen asked after Yordis finished requesting liftoff clearance and began consulting the navicomputer.

"Somewhere that can handle our repairs.  We don't want to attract attention, which rules out most of the big spaceports, but we don't want to set down somewhere too disreputable, either.  Plus, I'm getting short on cash, so. . . ah, Plex-Parr Station, perfect."

"I'm not familiar with it."

"It's a pirate port, I wouldn't expect you to be."

"Didn't you just say we didn't want to land anywhere too disreputable?"

"The wrong kind of disreputable, then.  Anyone on Plex-Parr who knows you have a price on your head is going to be too busy worrying about the price on their heads.  I've done business there before, we can trust their work and their prices. . . for a given value of 'trust,' at any rate.  And I can probably make a deal or two to refill my credit pouch, at least long enough to get us where we're going."

"Wherever that may be," Nomen added.

Yordis was awkwardly silent a moment.  "Wherever that may be," she agreed.

Yordis received liftoff clearance well before she'd finished her preflight checks.  It was oddly refreshing to leave a civilized world without the squawk of angry space traffic controllers behind her.

Chapter Text

Plex-Parr Station was a cobbled-together heap of old hulks and space containers held together, as near as Nomen could tell, through sheer force of will.  He was grateful he had no eyes, for he was afraid that if he crossed them, the whole thing would fly apart.

"It looks like a shipyard vomited," he said.

Yordis shrugged.  "It's not much, but. . . yeah, it's not much."

The ship's comm crackled to life.  "Unidentified ship, turn about or be destroyed," a gruff voice threatened.

Even at this distance, Nomen was sure he'd notice defensive weapons powering up.  "Are they--?"

"Lying out the exhaust port?  Yup."  Yordis flipped on the comm.  "Plex-Parr Station, this is Yordis Cadera of Clan Cadera aboard Blood Raven , requesting docking clearance."

"No Mandalorians.  We're still cleaning up from the last one."

"Fine.  Then you can tell Boss Skadge why his shipment -- for which he paid a premium for delivery under Mandalorian security -- never arrived."

"Bay Twelve," the gruff voice said irritably before closing the channel.

"Thank you ever so much," Yordis muttered to the dead air.

"Who's Boss Skadge?" Nomen asked.

"No idea," Yordis replied.  "He sounds scary, though, doesn't he?"

The bay supervisor -- an uncharacteristically ornery Sluissi -- bargained like a Zygerrian slaver, but Yordis was able to talk her down to a reasonable price and timeframe for the overhaul.  Yordis double-checked that her droids (and other valuables) were secure aboard the ship, then tasked Nomen to carry the long, slender box whose contents she hoped her buyer would be sufficiently interested in.

Nomen perceived the item within the box through the Force, and regarded Yordis with surprise.  "You're sure you want to sell this?"

"I've found several, some in almost as good condition as that one, others working their way that direction."  Nomen had no idea what she meant by that.  "Come on, my buyer should be in a spendy mood by now."

With that, Yordis led Nomen through, without doubt, a far more wretched and disreputable place than he could ever have imagined to exist.

Beings from a hundred different worlds milled about, many of them engaged in illicit dealings Nomen didn't even have names for.  Intoxicants solid, liquid, and vaporous flowed freely, and in the latter category Nomen identified the scent of several substances banned under both Republic and Imperial law on the grounds they were hazardous to the health of anyone who happened to be in the vicinity.  Vice, greed, gluttony, lust for goods or services or cash or flesh pressed around him so thickly he quickly developed a pounding headache.

But Yordis had been right:  no one paid any attention to him and his glareshades, though they kept a respectful distance from Yordis and her Mandalorian armor.

Finally, they reached their destination.  Calling it a cantina would be like calling a Jedi Master a constable:  accurate as far as it went, but woefully inadequate to encompass the entirety of the thing.

Heavy, loud music thudded out from within, doing Nomen's headache no favors.  Entering, the scent of assorted intoxicants doubled, and was joined by the sweat of too many beings having too much fun in too small a space.  In the middle of the space was an elevated stage on which a pair of Zeltrons, male and female, danced in such scandalously scant attire and in such a manner that Nomen blushed furiously.  He couldn't see the expanse of bright pink flesh on display, but the emotions and desires pouring off of them through the Force. . . well, they were certainly enthusiastic about their job.

Through all this, Yordis' clear, calm will was a beacon, a rock for Nomen to anchor his perceptions to.  Without her he'd be lost, overwhelmed by the vast tide of powerful and unfamiliar sensations.

For her part, Yordis was a bit disappointed Nomen didn't have eyes; it would have been funny watching them shoot out of his head when he saw the Zeltron dancers and their tiny black leather costumes.  She made a mental note to ask him later what they looked like to him.

She led the way to the corner booth her buyer frequented, finding him as she often did.  The thick Chagrian sat back, a drink and plate of tomo-spiced ribenes before him, eyes glazed from his indulgences, a waitress -- a scantily-clad Pantoran this time -- standing by to attend his whims.

"Hello, Chaggy," she said smoothly as she sat down, motioning Nomen to set the box on the table.  "How's things?"

"They are, they are," Chaggy replied, his rough, crackling voice evidence of the habitual abuse he inflicted on his body.  As always, Yordis carefully took stock of his physical appearance and estimated how long it would be before Chaggy put himself out of business.  Two years, three at the outside.  He's doing better than I thought.

Chaggy barely spared Yordis or Nomen a glance, his gaze fixed on the Zeltrons.  Yordis kept her attention on Chaggy, but from the roar of the crowd and Nomen's sudden awkward stiffness, she gathered the dancing had. . . escalated.

"Feel like talking some business, Chaggy?"

Slowly, Chaggy's focus shifted to Yordis, partly from the Zeltrons' no doubt intense show, mostly from the mire of intoxicants dueling for supremacy in the Chagrian's bloodstream.  "Business, yes, always good for business."  Chaggy reached for his drink, and Yordis noted that she had, indeed, timed her arrival perfectly.  He drained the last swallow, then snapped at the waitress to refill it.  He didn't ask if Yordis or Nomen wanted anything.  "Whachaa brung me?" he slurred, taking a gulp of his freshened drink.

Yordis slid the case across the table towards Chaggy.  He set down his drink and fumbled with the latches before lifting the lid and drawing in a rattling breath.

"Ooh, ver' nice, ver' nice."  Chaggy withdrew the vibrosword from the padded interior of the box.  " Old Republic style.  Three thousand years if a day."

"Phrik alloy layered, too," Yordis added.  "You can tell from the wave-like pattern of the striations.  Lightsaber-resistant."

"Useless.  Valuable, but useless."

Phrik was something Nomen knew a lot about from his Jedi training, both historical and “theoretically practical” combat training.  Even among valuable metals like doonium, phrik had stood out for its rarity, and all indications were it had been mined to extinction thousands of years ago.  Its ability to resist the cutting power of a lightsaber blade had made it extremely valuable for weapons and armor on both sides of several conflicts between the Jedi Orders of those times and the various Sith Empires that had cropped up with distressing regularity in that bygone era.

Most of those weapons and armors had been lost or destroyed in the interminable battles of those wars.  Some had found their way into the hands of collectors.  A very few had become the property of pirates, outlaws, corrupt government officials, and others whose activities put them at odds with Jedi mandates and desired a weapon that would level the field when they finally encountered one.  In theory, anyway.  In reality, the weapons were largely a non-issue.

First, Sith were not dangerous to Jedi because of their use of lightsabers, but because of their skill and power with the Dark Side of the Force, granting them offensive abilities as well defense against a Jedi’s own Force powers.  The most skilled bladesbeing with no sensitivity to or training with the Force was vulnerable to any number of Jedi tricks that could end a duel in a single stroke.  Second, while it was commonly stated among those who knew the material existed that phrik could withstand the blazing blade of a lightsaber, gambling one’s life on cold steel against the brilliant glow and ominous buzz of the Jedi weapon was another matter entirely, especially if one didn’t fully trust the honesty of whoever sold it.  Finally, with only a few thousand Jedi to keep the peace among millions of systems in the Republic, most could go their whole lives without meeting or even seeing a Jedi, never mind obtaining a comprehensive overview of their skills, abilities, powers, and weaknesses.  Thus, Jedi abilities were frequently elevated to mythological levels.  Drawing even a supposedly lightsaber-resistant sword with the intent of crossing blades with a Jedi Knight required a depth, level, and type of courage or stupidity that was fortunately very rare in the galaxy.

Hence Nomen’s combat training against such weapons being “theoretically practical.”  The odds of needing to know how to face and defeat one were vanishingly small, but present.

Chaggy considered the sword for several moments, running his thumb across the blade, pleased to see it was still sharp.  "Two thousand."

Yordis scoffed.  "You'll start the bidding at four."

"S'why I offer two."

"Let me rephrase.  You'll start the bidding at four, it'll even out around ten, then you'll get a comm from a mysterious private collector -- who's really your assistant -- offering fourteen, and the final bid will be between sixteen and eighteen.  Sound about right?"

Chaggy glowered.  "Whachaa wan'?"

"Six thousand," Yordis said calmly.

The Chagrian glared. . . then broke into a wide smile.  "I like you, Yordy, you bargain good.  Five thousand."

"Deal," Yordis replied.  Chaggy reached into a bag on the seat next to him and produced a stack of credit chits, placing them on the table in front of Yordis.  She counted them quickly before slipping them into her credit case.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Chaggy," Yordis said, standing.

"Wait!  Stay, drink, enjoy show!  'S jus' get good.  I’ll call waiter for you, waitress for ‘r friend."

"Very generous, Chaggy, but we really must get back to our ship."

"Ah," Chaggy said knowingly, leering at the pair.  "Got your own private celebration to get to, eh?"

"Something like that," Yordis replied mysteriously.

"Ah, good.  Stick with this one, boy," Chaggy said to Nomen.  "She wild like fire.  Trust Chaggy, Chaggy know."

"He really doesn't," Yordis muttered as soon as they were out of earshot.

"So I gathered," Nomen replied, still flushed from the intensity of the place.

“We’ve got a few hours before the overhaul’s done.  Come on, I’ll show you the sights.”

“Such as they are,” Nomen replied, smiling.

They’d been wandering about for an hour and a half, Yordis pointing out bits of interest, when a harsh voice rang out.  "Yordis Cadera, as I live and breathe!  You've got a lot of guts showing that bucket of yours back here again."

Yordis turned toward the voice, seeing a familiar ugly-looking human with an equally-ugly scar on the right side of his face.  "Crash," she said, then nodded to his gathered associates.  "Boys."

"Got yourself a new boytoy, I see," Crash said.  "Watch yourself with this one, boy, or you end up like this."  He pointed to his massive scar.

"That scar is your own fault, Crash," Yordis interjected quickly, unsure if Nomen could perceive the disfigurement.

"You gave it to me!" Crash roared.

Yordis shrugged.  "Still your fault."

Nomen hadn't sensed the scar, but as Crash began ranting at Yordis -- something about a lost Mandalorian battlecruiser, misplaced air filters, monetary disputes, betrayal, and a fambaa -- he sensed something else.  A pinpoint of anticipation and excitement tinged with fear and violent intent, growing brighter and closer. . . 

Nomen whirled, drawing the WESTAR-35 Yordis had given him and aiming at the sense that rapidly slammed from excitedly violent anticipation to surprised terror.  "Back off, buster."

"Heh, the kid's pretty good," Crash said admiringly.  "Take 'em."

Before anyone could react, Yordis' blasters were up.  Two shots were fired, and two of Crash's boys hit the deck, smoking holes in their chests.  "Don't take 'em," she said, blasters rock steady.

Crash looked around at his suddenly unmanned boys.  "She can't get all of us!"

"Maybe not," Nomen said.  "But who wants to find out?"

Between Nomen's inexplicable ability to get the drop on their skifter and Yordis reducing their number by two in the blink of an eye, none of the boys seemed interested in backing Crash's hand anymore.  Muttering quietly, they melded back into the crowd, ignoring Crash's spluttering.

"I'll fix you, Yordis.  Hear me?  I'm gonna fix you."

"Not today," Yordis replied, blasters aimed steadily at Crash's heart.  "Now be a good little boy and run along."

With one last glare and rude gesture, Crash vanished into the crowd.

"Well," Yordis said, holstering her blasters.  "That was an adventure.  Good work on the backup, well spotted."

"It's not easy to sneak up on me," Nomen replied, holstering his own blaster.

"Good to know.  Still couldn't spot that homing beacon, though?"

Nomen groaned.  "I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I?"

"Not for a while, I think," Yordis replied, smiling beneath her helmet.

For three more hours, Yordis guided Nomen around Plex-Parr Station.  As he learned to process and filter the surging tide of unfamiliar sensations, he found himself appreciating it more.  It was still a wretched hive that would best be served by a Jedi strike team scrubbing it out from top to bottom -- Master Plo Koon would have been perfect for the job -- but there was something beautiful here, shared by and binding together everyone on Plex-Parr.

Freedom.

Beneath their criminality, beneath the vice and short-sighted selfishness and the minor feeding of the Dark Side, everyone here desired freedom above all else.  They strove to be unbound by the oppression of the Empire. . . or anyone else, for that matter.

Nomen could respect that.  He liked freedom, though felt it was useless, even dangerous, unless coupled with wisdom and discipline.  True freedom was elusive, and what appeared to be freedom could be harshest bondage.  Nomen had been "free" from the strictures of the Jedi Order and the dogma of the Jedi Council for ten years; he'd been "free" from Master Kota's supervision for six.  But he'd been trapped by an Empire hunting his kind to extinction, the need to conceal his identity and nature, the difficulties of making his way in a galaxy that no longer had a place for him, and the looming question he didn't dare acknowledge:  Who Am I Now?

These thoughts preoccupied him as Yordis finally guided them back to Bay Twelve.

The engine overhaul was complete, and flawless as per typical Sluissi standards, though Yordis insisted on double-checking the work, for which the bay supervisor charged them an extra day's rental on the docking bay.

"Good, good," the Sluissi said, her muscular tail thrashing as she snatched more of Yordis' credits.  "Now go, before I lose more business to a full bay.  Go on, get!"  The serpentine alien slithered away.

Yordis slumped into the pilot's seat.  The distractions of Plex-Parr fell away from her, turmoil rising to replace them with violent swiftness.

Nomen slipped into the copilot seat, wanting to comfort Yordis, unsure how to do so.

"I am out of ideas," she said finally.  "I can't just drop you anywhere, I can't take you with me, I. . ." she trailed off, sighing heavily.

"You don't need to be responsible for me," Nomen said quietly.  "I made my choices, I'll accept the consequences."

"Since one of the consequences is me feeling responsible for you, accept that," Yordis countered.  "I need guidance," she said, her turmoil lowering, but not vanishing completely, as determination rose around it.  "So I'm taking you to the one place I swore I wouldn't.  The one place where maybe we can get some help sorting all this out."  Yordis powered up Blood Raven and began her preflight checks.

"And where is that?" Nomen asked.

"Taris," Yordis answered.  "The Clan Cadera Covert.  You're going to meet my family, Nomen."

"Oh," Nomen said, surprised.

But of course Yordis had a support structure.  She'd never referenced it directly, but it was clear now that she was out in the galaxy at the behest of her Clan, working toward their benefit.  She'd wanted to see if the battlefield on Dxun would be worth sending a larger force to excavate.

And that mission had been delayed a month because of Nomen and the difficulties he brought with him.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Nomen muttered.

Chapter Text

Taris was unusual in terms of planets in the known galaxy.  It was an ecumenopolis not unlike Coruscant, which was not particularly notable in and of itself.  Rather, this city-planet was unusual for the stark divide of its cities.  On one side stood the massive, gleaming towers of the rich and powerful surrounded by the urban sprawl of the middle class.  On the other lived the destitute and undesirable, in a wasteland of decayed urban infrastructure, ancient crashed spaceships, and old shipping containers, encroached upon by toxic swamps, the result of a devastation sometime in Taris' distant past.

In the thousand years the Republic had stood, numerous attempts had been made to clean up Taris, both ecologically and socially.  None had accomplished anything.  Some believed the world was cursed.  There were stories that some ancient Sith Lord had decided to doom the planet to suffer in strife and squalor until its sun burned out, perhaps because the inhabitants had dared oppose him, perhaps to increase his status in that Sith Order or his power in the Dark Side, maybe for simple amusement.

Nomen sensed no Dark Side vergence, though the planet was hardly pleasing to his perception.  He was not so naive as to think that Coruscant didn't have its underlevels and undesirables, but Taris seemed to wear its seedy underbelly like a badge of honor.

And so he was displeased, but not surprised, when Yordis locked in a course for the destitute half of the planet.

"You couldn't have built your Covert in a nicer neighborhood?" Nomen asked.

"Wouldn't be a Covert if we had," Yordis replied.

The landing platform Yordis guided them to was a cobbled-together junk pile Nomen seriously doubted would hold Blood Raven 's weight.  It creaked ominously as Yordis settled the ship down, but held as she secured and powered down the vessel.

They moved to the hold to affix a repulsor handle to the crate of salvaged old Mandalorian armor.  Yordis handed Nomen a breath mask as they made for the ramp.  "You'll want this," she said simply.

There was no platform supervisor or maintenance crew in sight as they exited the ship, and the fuel pump was self-serve.  Yordis directed Blip to hook up and monitor refueling as she dropped credit chits into the machine.  She then led the way down rusty, shifting stairs into what could only charitably be called streets.  The air stung and prickled Nomen's exposed skin, and even through the breath mask reeked of the sharp, sour tang of chemical pollution.

Pain, depression, and despair assaulted Nomen from every angle.  He did his best to block it out, but it still made his heart ache, sensing so many in such dire need and being completely unable to help them.

I am one with Ashla, and Ashla is with all.   The old variation on the old prayer brought him no comfort.

Something grew on the edge of his sense.  A pocket of stability, an island of certainty in the morass of suffering.

"The Covert's ahead and to the right, just under a kilometer, isn't it?" Nomen asked quietly.

"You can sense it from here?"

"I sense calm and discipline and purpose.  It kind of stands out."

"Yes, I imagine it would."  As unpleasant as the sight of Taris' poor section was to her, it had to be inconceivably worse for her Jedi friend.

Finally, they were literally right on top of the cool, clear presence Nomen had sensed.  Yordis paused before a nondescript door.  "Let me go first and do the talking."

"Of course," Nomen replied.

Yordis opened the door and stepped through, Nomen followed and closed it behind him.  They were in a blank room, no other obvious passages.  Yordis turned and moved to the right wall, knocking rhythmically.  A concealed viewport opened.

"Yordis Cadera, ni yaim'ol. "

A voice from beyond the port responded.  " Gar serim.  Tion'cuy? "

" Burc'ya ," Yordis answered.

" Aruetii ?" the voice asked harshly.

" Burc'ya ," Yordis replied more forcefully.

There was a pregnant pause, then the viewport slid shut, and an equally well-concealed door opened on the left wall.  Two Mandalorians in full armor and carrying blaster rifles regarded Nomen and Yordis carefully.  Their weapons weren't precisely aimed at him, but neither were they at ease.

"I've returned from my mission, successful with artifacts," she said in Basic.

" Gar -- you're late," one of them replied, thrown by the switch in language.

"Complications arose," Yordis replied simply.

"Those complications include an outsider?" the other retorted.

"They do," Yordis answered calmly.  "I'm home to deliver my find to my father, and discuss the outsider with him.  Let us pass."

For a moment, the two Mandalorians seemed disinclined to agree.  Then, grudgingly, they lowered their blasters and stepped aside.  Past the hidden door was a small chamber with a rickety lift that brought Yordis and Nomen down into the Covert.

It was a maze of tight and twisting tunnels, and even Nomen's untrained perception realized how it provided ample cover from, and points of ambush against, any potential invaders.

Eventually, they arrived at a relatively-spacious chamber near the center of the warren.  Inside was a man.  Nomen could sense the outline of his armor as he could Yordis’, but the man’s armor was far larger, indicating a much more powerfully-built body beneath.  The armor was adorned with what Nomen was eventually able to determine was a fur mantle.

"Hello, Father," Yordis said in Basic.  "I have returned."

The man’s sense rippled briefly with surprise at being addressed in Basic, but he adapted instantly.  "So you have, Daughter.  You were successful?"  His voice was rough yet sonorous, deep with clear, calm authority, but held no trace of Yordis' Coruscanti accent.

"I was," she replied, opening the crate.  Their words were cool and respectful, their exterior senses collected and disciplined.  The love and affection burning beneath was as powerful as any Nomen had ever sensed.

The man removed one of the helmets from the crate, admiring it.  "Neo-Crusader vintage."  He flicked his finger against the metal, listening to the distinctive sound.  "Genuine beskar .  Impressive."

"I have a full dirtmap of the site," Yordis said, producing a holodisc from her belt pouch.  "There is much more there we could recover with a full expedition.  It would be well worth the time and effort."

"I'm sure," the man said, setting the holodisc aside.  He focused on Nomen, calculating and evaluating him at a glance.  "It seems you stumbled upon something else in your travels, Daughter."

"I did, Father.  This is Nomen Lok.  He was seriously injured in the altercation with the bounty hunters who held the last piece of the map to the Dxun battleground.  He suffered this injury deflecting a thermal detonator meant for me."  She hesitated.  "The bounty hunters were after him.  He is a Jedi.  His actions assisting me have exposed him to his enemies."

"And you've taken responsibility for him?"

"Yes."

Pride rippled out from the man, aimed at Yordis.  "Good.  This is the Way."  The man's focus shifted to Nomen, he gestured.  "Come here, boy, let me have a look at you."

Nomen approached, and the man scrutinized him.  His first impression altered, but not much.  "A bit scrawnier than I'd expect of a Jedi.  Young, too.  You were but a child when the Order fell, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Nomen said, unsure why this man rated an automatic "sir" from him.

"Take the glareshades off, boy.  Let me see your eyes and any fire they hold."

"I don't think you want me to, sir."

"It's alright, Nomen," Yordis said, beaming quiet encouragement.

Hesitatingly, Nomen removed his glareshades.  Surprise rippled in the man, was acknowledged and pushed aside.  "That's something different," he said curiously.  "You are blind, then?"

"As you would define it, yes. . . and somewhat no.  I'm Miraluka, we 'see' through the Force."

Understanding clicked.  "I've heard stories of such things, though I see now they were not just stories."  He considered Nomen a little longer, then shifted his focus to Yordis.  "Why do you bring him before me?"

"I require guidance, Father.  He is hunted by his enemies and cannot conceal what he is for long.  I cannot abandon him to his fate, but I don't know what else to do.  Help us, Father."

Plans and possibilities zipped through the man's mind, evaluated, modified, and discarded with practiced ease and efficiency.  The process had barely begun before it was interrupted.

A man in Mandalorian armor burst into the room, his sense a stormcloud of aggression and outrage.  Nomen quickly slapped his glareshades back on.  "It's true!" the newcomer exclaimed, rounding on Yordis.  "You brought an outsider here?  Are you mad?"  He shifted his focus to the man, threat building in his sense.  His hand was on his blaster.  " Alor , let me deal with this aruetii ."

"Calm yourself, Cant," the man said.  Nomen doubted it would do any good, he could already hear hushed but angry voices building in the tunnel beyond.  "My daughter trusts him and has offered her aid, so I trust and offer mine.  This is the Way."

"This is not the Way!" Cant shot back.  "The Way is to protect our people from the likes of him!  He is an outsider, outsiders are dangerous and must be dealt with."

Anger flashed in Yordis, followed by inspiration.  Uncharacteristically, she latched on to it immediately, spitting it out without pausing to think about it.

"He is not an outsider," she said.  She turned her attention to Nomen.  " Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad, Nomen Lok."  Cant gasped in shock, the angry voices outside grew quiet.  Yordis shifted her attention to her father.  "Father, I officially claim him as a Foundling."

Pride, pleasure, and no small amount of mirth surged from the man.  "So you do.  I recognize him as Nomen Lok of Clan Cadera."

Cant stuttered in rage.  "You can't do that!" he finally got out.  "He knows nothing of our ways!"

"No Foundling does, that's why they're Foundlings," the man replied, humor rippling through his words.

"He's a grown man, not a child!"

"The Way accepts all who choose to follow it.  Do you choose to follow it, ad'ika ?" the man asked Nomen, voice deathly serious.

There are times in one's life when a simple decision can send them hurtling along a completely new and unexpected path.  Nomen didn't need the Force to tell him this was one of those times, but through the Force he could see, in the briefest moment of pure clarity, that based on his answer right now, many of those paths would close forever.  He saw that the brighter, more alluring path was the one he hadn't realized he wanted to take, and should he do so, a most surprising future became the one all others branched off from.

Or perhaps not so surprising, really.  From the moment they'd chosen to save each other, Nomen and Yordis had bound their destinies together, and every step they'd taken had only strengthened that bond.  It had just taken them this long to realize it.

The moment of farsight ended, leaving Nomen with no memory and little awareness of what he'd seen beyond the choice immediately before him.  Perhaps the first true choice he'd ever made.

"I do," Nomen said.

The man assented cheerfully.  "Then you are Nomen Lok of Clan Cadera.  It is done.  This is the Way."

"This is the Way," Yordis said, shining with joy.

"This is the Way," Cant grumbled.

The man pushed the crate at Cant.  "Take this to the Armorer, with instructions that a portion go to a beskar'gam for our new Foundling."

" He gets a beskar'gam already?" Cant whined.

"You helped Yordis retrieve this treasure, did you not?” the man asked.

“I did, sir,” Nomen replied.

“Then he is entitled to a share of spoils.  This is the Way," the man replied.

Impotent wrath roiling within him, Cant pushed the crate out into the warren.

The man regarded Nomen again.  " Ad , leave us," he said to Yordis.  "I'd like to talk to our new Foundling alone."

"Yes, Buir .  I forgot something aboard Blood Raven I wanted to show you, I'll go fetch it."

"Perfect."  When Yordis had left, the man began pacing the room.  "You are an interesting one, ad'ika , I'll say that much.  What to do with you."  Aggression flared in the space between heartbeats.

Nomen drew his blaster, pointing it at the man.  "Don't," he pleaded.

The man was not angry or frightened, but amused and impressed as he relaxed out of the fighting stance he'd sprung into.  "Yordis taught you well.  I wouldn't have accepted anything less."  The man paused, and Nomen knew where Yordis' prodigious curiosity came from.  "You can see well enough to aim a blaster at me, how?"

"I can perceive your armor and other objects in space in relation to me, so I know where your armor is and where the muzzle of my blaster is.  More importantly, I perceive you in the Force, so I know where you are.  It was difficult, but Yordis taught me to aim based on those perceptions."

"Good.  But. . . light, shape, color?"

"Meaningless to me."

The man rippled with assent.  "Very well.  I am Parl Cadera, father of Yordis Cadera.  You may call me Alor , which means 'leader.'  I call you ad'ika , in this context meaning 'boy.'  Yordis will teach you the rest of your new language.  Understood, ad'ika ?"

"Yes, Alor .  But. . . forgive me, I am a grown man."

"You are a Foundling who does not know the Way, that makes you a child among us.  Moreover, I see much of the boy still about you.  You have aged , but have yet to grow up ."

Nomen chewed on that.  "Yordis said much the same thing."

"She is wise beyond her years.  You were lucky to cross her path."  Parl considered a moment.  "And perhaps she was lucky to cross yours."

"The Force brought us together, and I feel it was wise to do so."

"Be that as it may," Parl replied noncommittally.  "Speaking of which, I think I have something for you."  He began rummaging through some containers on a shelf against one wall.  "It is customary to present a new Foundling with a token of their acceptance, typically a signet of the Clan or of the Mando'ade .  But you are a most unusual Foundling, and so. . . ah, here it is."

Parl pulled the small object out of its box.  "This has been handed down through the leaders of Clan Cadera for generations.  According to legends, it comes from the time my people last fought yours in open battle.  We lost more than we won, but there is no shame in losing to a superior opponent, and we did win from time to time.  This is a trophy of one such victory."

The object was no larger than the tip of Nomen's thumb, yet it shone in his perception with beautiful brightness.  It resonated and radiated the Force in a way he hadn't felt for a long time.  And it sang to him.

It was a kyber crystal, and it was singing to him.  From what he'd been taught, that only happened when a crystal had chosen the Jedi who would wield it in their lightsaber.

"This is of no use to me," Parl said, offering the crystal.  "A trophy gathering dust of a battle long forgotten.  Can you put it to a better use?"

Excitement warred with trepidation inside Nomen.  He certainly hadn't been growing stronger in the Force during his time with Yordis, had he?  He'd meditated with the focus he'd found and practiced his combat skills, but that wouldn't bring him closer to building his own lightsaber, to becoming a Jedi Knight, would it?  But then, the crystal was undeniably singing to him, choosing him .  That had to mean he was ready, or close to it, didn't it?

"Not right now," Nomen answered.  "But soon, I hope."

"Then I look forward to seeing what you make of it," Parl said.

Nomen took the crystal, feeling like he'd found a part of himself he didn't know was missing.  "Thank you, Alor ."

Yordis returned soon with the carbon-frozen head of the Dxun beast they'd worked so hard to bring down.  It was brought to the Forge and thawed, Parl consulting all the records Clan Cadera had as Yordis related the story of how she and Nomen had brought down the creature.

"A maalraas," Parl finally declared.  "Dangerous beast of Dxun.  Hunting and killing one used to be quite the challenge for Mandalorian warriors.  Not so impressive a kill as a zakkeg, but still."  Parl shone with admiration and pride.  "Armorer, prepare a signet.  A maalraas skull.  My daughter and her Foundling have earned it."

"Of course," the Armorer replied, placing the head in a holoscanner.  Once it had finished compiling an image of the skull, she began manipulating it, trying out a few possible renderings of a maalraas-skull signet in the Mandalorian style.  Face-on, like the mythosaur skull, looked best, she thought.  "And the Foundling," the Armorer asked, motioning to Nomen.  "Will he be needing. . . any computerized visual assistance in his helmet?"

It took Nomen a moment to realize the Armorer, Parl, and Yordis were all looking at him, waiting.  "Uh, no," he said.  "Light, shape, color, all lost on me."

"Auditory enhancement?  Or would that disrupt the way you use your other senses to function?"

Nomen sighed, and yet again explained how he perceived the universe.

"Not much I can do with that," the Armorer said.  "But. . . auditory enhancers, atmosphere filters, comlink. . . the basics should suffice."

"Simple visual alarms could work," Yordis stated.

"How's that?" the Armorer asked.

"Well, you can 'see' energy, at least well enough to tell if, for instance, a designator light is on or off, yes?"  Nomen nodded.  "Then, some simple on/off designators, correctly placed around the visor, could still provide a lot of information."

The Armorer nodded.  "Good idea," she said, programming the specifications into the forge.  She looked at Nomen.  “Can you see the pad of my large holoscanner?  I need you to stand on it.”

“I can,” Nomen replied, stepping atop the large round disc.  The Armorer took a holoscan of Nomen to ensure a proper fit for his armor.  With the scan complete, Nomen stepped off the holoscanner as the Armorer continued her work.

As the forging began, Parl leaned close to Nomen.  "She'll never admit it," he said quietly, indicating the Armorer, "but she's loving the challenge you present, ad'ika ."

"I can tell," Nomen replied.  Listening to Parl's rough but soothing voice, the obvious question finally occurred to him.  "Forgive me, Alor , but you say you're Yordis' father, yet--"

"She doesn't sound anything like me?" Parl finished, amusement rippling.  "Would you believe she takes after her mother?"

"No," Nomen replied.

"Well, it's true as far as it goes," Parl said, amusement fading, solemnity rising to replace it.  "She's a Foundling, like you.  I adopted her, oh, year or so after the Clone Wars."

"How?"

"That, ad'ika , is her story to tell you, when she's ready.  Yordis!" he called.  "Leave Netta to her work.  You've got a share of your own with your Foundling and plenty of time before fitting, make use of it."

"Yes, Buir ," she replied.  "Come along, ad'ika ."

Symbol though it was of his unexpected acceptance, Nomen found the nickname was already wearing thin.

Chapter Text

Yordis led Nomen to a small chamber deep in the tunnels of the Covert.  Through the Force, he detected the very sparse contents: a single bed, a small table with two chairs, a shelf with a noteputer, a few datapads, and many datacards, another shelf with a few small, old artifacts.  He could also sense Yordis' distinctive aura imprinted upon the room and its contents.

Yordis directed Nomen to sit at the table with her, then launched into possibly the most important part of Nomen's education about his new people:  learning the Mandalorian language.

Nomen found it deceptively difficult compared to other languages he'd learned.  Mando'a was gender-neutral, thus " ad " could mean "son" or "daughter," " buir '' could mean mother or father, and so on.  It had a very simple grammar, vocabulary, and sentence structure, with no connecting words.  Yordis' words when arriving at the Covert, " ni yaim'ol ,'' literally translated to "I return," but based on the context, meant "I have come home from my mission," and further implied "successfully with spoils."  Sentences were simple and consisted of few words, but their true meaning needed to be inferred from the context in which they were used.

'Ika was a diminutive suffix, thus ad'ika was a diminutive form of "child," though it could express meanings ranging from patronizing to affectionate to intimate.  Which one a person meant, and whether they were trying to insult you, was dependent entirely on the tone of the speaker and their relationship with who they were talking to.

A language being so deeply context-sensitive was confusing for Nomen, but already he could understand how Mando'a was well-constructed to issue clear, concise commands to soldiers in battle.  He wondered if the Clone Troopers had been educated in it.

Their lesson was interrupted by a knock at the open door, followed by Cant sticking his helmeted head in.  "The Armorer told me to tell you the Foundling -" venom infused the word and distaste spiked in Cant's sense- "should report for fitting after the evening meal."

"Thank you," Yordis replied coolly.  Aggression, irritation, and bitter, disappointed anger flashed within Cant, focused on Nomen like a target lock, then vanished as he left without a word.

"Alright, what is his problem with me?" Nomen asked quietly.

"Less a problem with you than me, I think," Yordis replied, embarrassment rising in her sense.

Nomen hesitated, then decided to press the point.  "And he's glaring vibroblades at me because. . ?"

Yordis also hesitated, embarrassment rising more, before deciding to spit it out.  "Cant's been trying to get into my armor for a long time."

Nomen tilted his head quizzically.  "But he has his own.  Is yours that much better?"

Shock rippled out from Yordis, disbelief suppressing embarrassment.  "No, I mean. . . he's wanted to charge up my loading ramp."  She gazed at Nomen's blank, uncomprehending face.  "Wants me to polish his blaster?  Give him a manual coolant flush?  Play Seek The Space Slug?  Spend quality time in a horizontal position ?"  Nomen still regarded her with confusion.  "Chaos take it, even drawing you a picture wouldn't help!"

The frustrated mortification rising within Yordis finally clued Nomen in to what she really meant.  "Oh," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"Finally, he gets it!" Yordis exclaimed, mirth and sympathy rising.  "Stars in space, you really were a sheltered boy, weren't you?"

"I guess," Nomen replied, still struggling to process.  The next question had to be asked, though he wasn't sure why, or why he was dreading the answer.  "Did you. . . Er--"

"Let him up my loading ramp?  Not that it's your business, but no."

Nomen nodded, relieved.  Though she was right, it really wasn't his business.  "So. . . you think he thinks you. . . I mean, that we--"

"I don't know what he thinks -- or if he thinks.  But he's a male, you're a male, and you've been spending a lot of time alone with me, a female he wants.  That's enough to upset him, you know how fragile the male ego can be."

"I do?" Nomen asked, confused.

Yordis regarded him again in disbelief, then thought about everything she'd come to know about him during their time together.  Nomen really didn't have a typical male ego, at least not of the sort she'd become accustomed to.

"Hm.  Wonderful thing, that Jedi training.  Alright, back to the lesson."

They continued their language lesson for a few hours before Yordis declared it was time for supper, leading Nomen back out into the tunnels.  Nomen expected them to collect basic ration packs, then retire to separate chambers to eat, since Yordis had always dined in private before.

Thus he was surprised when Yordis led him into a large mess hall, his senses picking up several Mandalorians absent helmets.  His nose told him the food on offer was a far cry from the basic ration packs he and Yordis had lived on for nearly a month.

"So you can take your helmets off," Nomen said as Yordis led them to the line to collect their meal.

"Under certain circumstances.  You're Clan now, so it's allowed.  Different groups have different ideas about what constitutes 'wearing armor,' we're one of the stricter ones."  They collected their trays, and Yordis suggested to Nomen a few different dishes to try, which the servers dutifully loaded him up with.  Then she led them to a small corner table, took off her helmet and rested it on a hook built for the purpose, and tucked in.

The Mandalorian cooking was different from anything Nomen had ever had before, but quite good -- and, as he would soon learn, easy on the digestion.  Nothing too spicy or rich or heavy to make one sluggish and queasy after eating, but filling.  The dishes were also prepared and served in such a way that one could quickly clean one's tray by just shoveling the food down.  Once again, the Mandalorian warrior cultural emphasis showed up in an unexpected place.

As Nomen ate, he considered Yordis, helmetless before him for the first time.  Despite sensing her helmet on the hook attached to the table instead of over her head, he still had no idea what her face actually looked like.  Her sense in the Force was also unchanged.

At least, it hadn't changed strictly due to the removal of her helmet.  Rather, something growing slowly within her since they had reached the Covert peaked now, in this room.  Nomen studied her closely, trying to figure out what it was.

He had to look hard for it, but once he saw it he couldn't mistake it.  Yordis' sense was more open and free than he'd ever perceived it, and through that openness Nomen sensed the bonds connecting her to every other Mandalorian in the room and them to her, even to and from the swirl of detest representing Cant.  Her guard was at its lowest as she opened herself up to the simple contentment of being back among her people.  Her family.

And Nomen could perceive those same bonds already moving towards him, tentatively, though prepared to embrace him should he embrace them.

But the strongest bond in the room was the one that hummed between Yordis and himself.  Finally open to it, walls coming down in the soothing presence of her Clan, Yordis was surprised, but not displeased, to discover that she really did care for Nomen and wanted him at her side.

Nomen felt the same.

After eating, they proceeded to the Forge.  The Armorer was there waiting for them, gleaming plates of beskar laid out, waiting to be mounted to body glove and armorweave to finally become what they were meant to be:  a beskar'gam .

The Armorer handed Nomen the bodyglove she’d fabricated to his measurements, then directed Nomen to a private alcove where he could change clothes.  After he emerged she began fitting the plates and the armorweave that would join them together.  She paused several times to ask Nomen to bend, twist, shift, and move, making sure he was adequately protected but his motion was unhampered.  She made constant adjustments, tightening a bit here and loosening a bit there.  The adjustments were imperceptible to Nomen, but consistently improved the way the armor felt on his body.

Finally all pieces were in place save two.

"This you must know now," the Armorer said, lifting the helmet she'd made for Nomen in her hands.  "To be a Mandalorian -- of Clan Cadera, at least -- means you can never show your face to one not of the Clan.  Once you put this on, you may not remove it except in complete solitude or among only other members of Clan Cadera.  Not in front of outsiders, not in front of other Mandalorians not of Clan Cadera, not even in front of droids.  This the Way.  Do you understand?"

Nomen considered a moment.  Hiding his face constantly provided many advantages and no real drawbacks he could discern.  "I understand and accept."

"Good," the Armorer replied.  As Nomen removed his glareshades, she set the helmet upon his head.  "How does it feel?"

Nomen tilted, turned, and shook his head, the helmet remained firmly in place.  There was no discomfort and the additional weight was negligible; Nomen was sure he'd quickly become accustomed to it.  "Perfect."

The Armorer glowed with satisfaction and pride at her work.

Yordis stepped forward with the last piece, the Mandalorian diamond that sat at the center of the chestplate.  “This is your ka’rta .  Your Heart.  A symbol of Mandalorian culture and solidarity.  When cast in beskar , the Heart of Iron symbolizes the strength and commitment of a warrior to fight to protect their fellows.”  Yordis slotted the device into the vacant slot on Nomen’s chestplate.  “Wear this with pride, and through it be bonded to all of the Clan, and all Children of Mandalore.”

For the next hour, they ran checks on the armor's systems, including the display lights Yordis had suggested.  The light on the far left of the visor indicated an unbreathable atmosphere, the one on the far right hard vacuum.  A light at top center alerted of a hostile environment within the suit, either because of an environment it hadn't been designed to handle or a breach in the suit itself.  Such breaches were indicated by a light immediately to the right.  At the corners where the visor angled down to form the distinctive T-shape, the left-hand light warned of moderate depletion of the armor's power cells, the right-hand of critical depletion.  Comlink, environmental filters, and audio enhancers all checked out.

"The bracers, for now, are just bracers," the Armorer said.  "Learn the Way, demonstrate skill and ability worthy of a Mandalorian, and tools, implements, and weapons can be added to them."

"I understand," Nomen replied.  A suggestion almost bubbled up from his lips, but he sensed now was not the right time. . . for the Armorer or himself.

"There is one more thing," Yordis said.  Her sense flickered oddly.  She was gesturing, stroking the side of her helmet along the visor.

"He wouldn't appreciate it," the Armorer replied.

"I would," Yordis answered.

"Very well."  The Armorer retrieved an object.  There was a sharp pop, and Nomen noticed a new smell.

Paint.

"What are you doing?" he asked with alarm, worried he was about to become the victim of a Mandalorian prank.

"My armor is trimmed in purple, the color of Clan Cadera.  Yours should be, too.  Quite the dashing pair we'd make, don't you think?"  Yordis' sense rippled humorously.

Nomen stretched his senses out at the two women.  There was much of amusement about them, but it wasn't precisely aimed at him, and he could not detect any malice or deception.  "Very well," Nomen said.

"Stand still," the Armorer said, and proceeded to apply the paint.  She highlighted the curved flat of the helmet around the visor, the bulging domes of the lower cheeks, both shoulder and thigh plates, and the Mandalorian hexagon – the ka’rta – at the center of the chestplate.

"It is done," the Armorer said.  "How does he look?"

"Perfect," Yordis replied, her sense coloring with embarrassed pleasure.

Nomen knocked at the open door, focusing his attention on the brusque-sensed man within.  "Are you Torth Harvin?"

"I am," the man said, turning to regard Nomen.  "Yordis' new Foundling, right?  Nomar?"

"Nomen, Nomen Lok.  Yordis said I should see you about improving my swordsmanship."

Torth's attention drifted to the lightsaber on Nomen's belt.  The armor and its utility belt were well-equipped, but lacked a place to conceal the Jedi weapon.

Torth nodded.  "Alright, let's see what we can do.  Show me your lightsaber."

Nomen drew the weapon and ignited the undersized blade.  Torth laughed.  "That is the weapon of a boy, not a man!"

"Yes," Nomen replied uneasily.  "It is."

Torth sobered.  "First lesson:  fear not the weapon, fear the warrior.  The deadliest weapon is nothing in the wrong hands; a true warrior is deadly with nothing in his hands."  Torth moved to a weapon rack and selected a vibrosword, of the same make as the one Yordis had sold to Chaggy.  Nomen understood her comments then better now, she had brought some of the blades back to be reconditioned.

"Alright, this should stand against your Jedi toy."  Torth slipped easily into a ready stance.  "Show me what you've got."

"With this?" Nomen said, lifting his lightsaber slightly.  "I don't want to hurt you."

"You've sparred with it before?"  Nomen nodded.  "Then I trust your control.  And my skills."  The last was said with an audibly cocky smirk.

Shrugging, Nomen settled into his own ready stance.  The pair faced each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Torth's patience ran out first.  His blade was, indeed, capable of matching a lightsaber without being sundered, and they clashed repeatedly in multiple back-and-forths of advance and withdraw, attack and defense, parry and riposte.  In the end, Torth's superior skill, and superior reach, won out, as he slid past one of Nomen's attacks and brought the flat of his blade up into Nomen's side, knocking the wind out of the young Jedi and driving him to his knees.  Impressive though the beskar'gam was, his flexible middle had only armorweave and body glove to protect it.

"Not bad," Torth said as Nomen regained his breath and feet.  "You lack polish, your form's a bit rigid and lacks flexibility, but you know how to read an opponent, anticipate attacks and openings.  Nearly had me a few times.  A good foundation to build from."

"Thank you," Nomen said, still breathing heavily.  Did he have to hit so hard?

Torth's attention focused on Nomen's lightsaber.  "I've heard those don't handle like a regular sword."

Nomen nodded.  "The plasma blade is functionally weightless, but the arcing energy flow and magnetic fields create a kind of inertia.  Without the Force guiding your hand, it's very difficult to judge where the blade is or how it's moving.  Unskilled users are as likely to hurt themselves as their opponents."

Torth continued to consider the weapon, anticipation, excitement, and two different flavors of fear swirling in him.  Finally, he extended his hand.  "Do you mind?" he asked sincerely.

Closing down the lightsaber, Nomen handed it over.  "Be careful."

"Of course."  Torth took the weapon and ignited it cautiously, waving it gently before giving it a few carefully experimental swings.  "It is very different," he said, shutting the lightsaber down and handing it back.  "Stick with that.  Teaching you with a regular sword would be starting completely over, and the muscle memory wouldn't translate directly."

With that, they launched back into blade training.

While Nomen practiced his swordplay, Yordis was hard at work on her noteputer.  She'd finished her recommendations for an expedition to Dxun -- including a heavy weapons squad should more maalraas, or even worse a zakkeg, show up -- and now was splitting her time between research for her next trip and planning out Nomen's education in the Mandalorian Way.

When she hit a block in her research, she shifted over to plotting.  When inspiration struck -- or the plotting became too tedious -- she went back to her research.

Mandalorians had fought all over the galaxy over the past few thousand years.  Many of those battles and battlefields were well-known, linchpins upon which galactic history turned, for better or worse.  Some worlds still bore the scars of Mandalorian guns.  Others were lost to history, known only by names and dates no one cared enough to remember.

But what was lost could be found by someone sufficiently diligent, intelligent, and determined to look for it.

Yordis was chasing down one such bit of lost history now, a familiar thrill building within her.  She was close, she could feel it.  The pieces were all there, she but needed to assemble them correctly. . . 

No, there was a piece missing.  One final piece that would see all the others fall perfectly into place.

She went to her shelf of datacards, found the one she needed.  Returning to her table, she slid it into her datapad, locating the passage she needed.  She compared it with the information on her noteputer.

Excitement reached a peak.  Her breath grew short, the thrill tingling through her.  This was it, this was definitely it!

Compiling everything together was simple, and led to a conclusion so obvious but so obscure it had to be correct.  Few had known to look in the first place, and those who had hadn't thought to convert between the local, contemporary, and modern calendars.

The precise when pointed towards the precise where.  At least, if you knew the detailed movements of Mandalorian Clans in 2255 Pre-Empire Date.

Yordis compiled and saved her work thus far, returned the datacards to their proper places on her shelf, and pulled a set of new ones.  This would be a longer and more arduous task.  Using ancient and somewhat dubious sources, she had to work out a coherent map of the movements of at least six Clans for the three years around her target date.  But she was closer, closer than anyone had ever come before.

The excitement wouldn't see her through to the completion of her research, but it would give the initial phase a pleasant boost.

Chapter Text

Nomen knocked at the open door of the Forge.  The Armorer answered with a Mando'a word.  Enter , Nomen recalled after a moment, and so he did.

Only two of the suits he and Yordis had recovered had been melted down for their beskar .  The third had been mounted on a stand, and the Armorer was scrutinizing it critically.  "Ah, Nomen," she said.  "Something I can help you with?  Nothing wrong with the armor, I trust."

"My beskar'gam is perfect," Nomen replied, earning another trill of satisfied pride from the Armorer.  "I was actually hoping you could help me learn more about this."  He unhooked his lightsaber from his belt.

A shock of excited curiosity pulsed from her.  "I'd certainly be interested to try," she said, warming up her holoscanner.  "Place it here."  Nomen laid the weapon on the scanning pad, then stood by patiently while she compiled and examined the images he could not see.

"The principle of the thing is straightforward enough," she said at last.  "But there's an efficiency to it the design itself doesn't account for."

"Jedi use the Force to construct their lightsabers with a level of efficiency impossible to accomplish otherwise."

"Don't know I can help with that, but I see where you're going.  You didn't build this one, did you?"

"No, my Master did."

"And you want to figure out how to rebuild it for an adult size."

"No, I want to build a completely new one."  Confusion swirled.  "Building a lightsaber is an important rite of passage for a Jedi.  It's one of the final Trials for a Padawan learner to graduate to Jedi Knight.  It's a sign of their understanding of and power within the Force."

Confusion melted away as the Armorer accepted his explanation.  "So, I help you figure out how to build your own lightsaber, you get to be a full Jedi Knight?"

"No.  Constructing your own lightsaber is only one of the Trials.  There's no Council to administer the others, or to recognize me as a Knight even if I passed them.  My interest is rather more practical."

"How so?"

"You're aware the Empire is hunting any surviving Jedi?"  The Armorer rippled in assent.  "They're aware of me, personally.  Some kind of elite operative was dispatched to get me.  Yordis and I gave her the slip, but I don't doubt we'll cross paths with her, or one like her, again.  She's strong in the Force, trained in the Dark Side, and carries a lightsaber.  If I mean to protect myself and Yordis, I'll need one of my own.  Not a youngling-sized one."

Understanding swelled in the Armorer.  "Yes, with an Inquisitor on your tail, you'll need a proper lightsaber."

"A what?" Nomen asked.

"An Inquisitor.  That operative you were talking about?  One of the Imperial Inquisitors, tasked with hunting down Jedi and anyone with the potential to be Jedi.  I thought you'd have heard of them."

"I'm surprised you have, you seem to know more than me."

"I heard it from a man who makes it his business to know things he's not supposed to know.  The less people want him to know something, the more he simply has to."

"Sounds like a good man to know."  Nomen motioned at the holoscanner.  "So you see why this is important."

"Yes, I do."  The Armorer considered the holo a moment.  "So, let's start figuring this out.  You can see. . . actually, you can't, can you?"

Nomen shook his head.  "I can tell your holoscanner and its projector are running, but I can't see the holo."

"Hm," the Armorer muttered, excitement surging.  Not only was she getting to examine something that, to her knowledge, no Mandalorian ever had, but now she had the challenge of explaining its workings to someone absent sight.

But not completely.  "You can detect and discern physical objects, yes?"  Nomen nodded.  "Alright, then."  She rummaged in a bin a bit before holding something up.  "What's this?"

Nomen focused in on the object, solidifying its appearance in his sense.  "A power cell?"

"Diatium power cell, much like the one in your lightsaber."  She rooted around for another item.  "This?"

Nomen focused again.  "Circuits?"

"Dimetris modulation circuits, again much like those."  She produced another object.

This one Nomen didn't recognize.  "I don't know."

"A big bore blast chamber, for use in repeating blasters.  With some modification, I think it will make a good blade emitter shroud.  This is going to be the hard part," she said, motioning at the holo.  "The emitter matrix looks like it's holding some kind of crystal in precision alignment."

"A kyber crystal, the heart of the blade."

"I don't have anything like that. . . but I could fabricate one.  How precise does the alignment need to be?"

"I have no idea," Nomen confessed.

"We'll err on the side of caution, then."  She rummaged again.  "We'll need a -- one of these?" she said, catching herself just in time and holding out another object.

"An energy gate," Nomen answered.

"And finally an outer casing and activation plate.  I can fabricate those, as well."  The Armorer paused for a moment, then set the components on a small table.  "Dry run.  Show me how a Jedi builds a lightsaber."

"We're missing the emitter matrix and crystal chamber, but I have the crystal."  Nomen pulled the kyber crystal Parl had given him from a belt pouch.

"Very good.  I'll try and help."

Nomen focused, stretching out into the Force, letting the components and crystal before him grow to dominate his senses.  He could feel them, feel the Force wanting to guide him in bonding them together, the parts themselves almost yearning to become a greater whole, but there was something missing, something preventing everything from falling into place as it was meant to.  Partly it was the missing emitter matrix and casing.

Mostly, it was something within Nomen himself.

Still, he would try.  Reaching out in the Force, he embraced the pieces that were destined to be his new lightsaber.

The Armorer gasped, surprise pulsing out from her.  She had expected Nomen to work with his hands; she had not been prepared for the components to begin floating in the air and moving towards each other.

Surprise quickly gave way to criticism.

"No, the blade shroud is backward, rotate it.  The power cell needs to be connected to the circuits first.  No, turn them the other way.  If the crystal goes in the emitter matrix, the energy gate needs to be before it, not after.  No, the circuits are still misaligned."

Nomen lowered the components gently back on the table, his concentration nearly spent.  The Armorer regarded him, skepticism flashing.  "How were you expected to do this on your own?" she asked.

"I don't know," Nomen answered, fatigue seeping into his mind.  "I presume my Master would have explained it to me, but the final assembly would always be up to me."

"With no way to even see if you've got all the parts?" the Armorer asked bluntly.

"My people aren't complete savages.  We maintain a galactic standard level of technology on our world, memory plastic displays for a language we read by touch for noteputers and datapads.  I just haven't had any formal tech education."

Doubt rippled from the Armorer, but was pushed aside.  "Alright, let's try again."

Nomen started to reach up to rub his forehead, remembered he couldn't through his helmet.  "I don't think that's the right move just yet."

"You doubt my ability to teach you?"

"No. . . but I don't think this is how a Jedi would build a lightsaber."

"Maybe not.  But it's how a Mandalorian would."

Nomen was beginning to sense a problem.

Yordis struggled with her research.  She'd started easy, with the movements of Clan Cadera, for which she obviously had the most extensive records and knowledge.  It had taken her only a few hours to prove they were nowhere near the area she was searching for, eliminating three whole sectors.  Now she was focused on the far more difficult Clan Vizla.  Difficult partly due to their wide scatter at this particular point in history, but mostly because of the need to separate them from Clan Viszla.  Many of the sources she had access to were less than distinct as to which of the similarly-named Clans they referred to, necessitating exhaustive cross-referencing.

Clans Vizla and Viszla had quickly and brutally murdered her enthusiasm for the project.  Sheer force of will kept her plugging away at it.

There was a knock at her open door.  "Enter," she called in Mando'a , then turned.  "Nomen," she said, switching to Basic with confusion.  "What are you doing here?"

"You told me to report here at this time."

Yordis checked the chrono display on her noteputer's screen.  "Dank ferrik, I'm sorry.  I lost track of time."  Her eyes had difficulty focusing on Nomen, having too long flicked between screens of noteputer and datapad.  "Close the door."

Nomen tilted his helmeted head quizzically, but did as she asked.  As soon as the door clicked shut, she slid her helmet off her head, twisting and stretching the kinks out of her neck.  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and dug her fingers into her temples.  "Sorry, aggravating research project.  Give me a few minutes to decompress, and we'll resume your lessons."

"Anything I can help with?" Nomen asked.

"You know anything about the movements of Mandalorian Clans in 2255 PED?"

"No."

"Well, then, there you go."

She felt Nomen approach behind her.  His hands chased hers away, his fingers digging into her temples, more gently yet effectively than hers.  He circled his hands up to her forehead, then brushed them back over her shaggy hair, sweaty and tangled from time spent under her helmet.  He didn't try to pluck out the tangles, just gently brushed his fingers along her hair, over the top of her head, down to the nape of her neck, then out over her shoulders.  He brought his fingers back up to her forehead and repeated the motion, then again.

Tension and a headache Yordis didn't know she had melted away.  Fatigue receded as a general sense of relaxed contentment suffused her.

"Mm," she moaned.  "That feels good.  What are you doing?"

"Cleansing your aura," Nomen replied.

Yordis chuckled.  "No, seriously, what are you doing?"

"Cleansing your aura," Nomen answered seriously.  "Overexerting the resources of mind, body, and spirit builds blockages that prevent the Force from flowing through you freely.  I'm clearing them, restoring you to your natural connection to and balance within the Force."

"I'm not like you.  I don't draw on the Force."

"All life adds to and draws upon the Force," Nomen said quietly.  "You may not feel or call upon it as I do, but your personal connection to the Force is as important a part of your being as the strength of your muscles, the speed of your reflexes, or the sharpness of your mind.  If one is injured, the whole suffers."

It seemed superstitious nonsense to Yordis, but as Nomen withdrew his hands, she had to admit she felt parsecs better.  "You can open the door again," she said as she slipped her helmet back on.

"Do you need to close it just to take your helmet off?" Nomen asked as he followed her instruction.

"No.  But if someone were to pass by and see us alone together, my head uncovered for no obvious reason, it could invite. . . awkward conclusions."

"More awkward than your door being closed?"

"My door could be closed for a variety of reasons, none of them having anything to do with you."

"I don't understand," Nomen said.

"You will," Yordis assured him.  "But that's a lesson for another time.  I believe we were going over tense prefixes."

The Dxun focus dominating his senses, Nomen meditated.  The past weeks had seen him growing to understand and appreciate the Mandalorian culture.  His time had been spent between studying swordplay with Torth, tech education with the Armorer, and his lessons in the Mandalorian Way with Yordis.  He was far from fluent in the language, but his attempts to speak it were now met with ripples of amusement instead of suppressed laughter.

But with that growth had come a growing shadow in his mind, a looming, formless thing that took more and more of his attention.  It had now grown to the point it could not be ignored.  So Nomen sunk into his meditation, diving deeper and deeper into the Force, to learn what the shadow was and how he might defeat it.

Consumed by the meditation focus and his own delving into the depths of the Force, Nomen suddenly became acutely aware of his beskar'gam .  He'd long since gotten used to the armor, but now it felt an unyielding prison, an armored coffin dragging him down, and he was almost overcome with the urge to spring from his meditation and tear the suit from his body before it suffocated him.  The shadow nearly slipped from his perceptions. . .

There.  He latched on to it with indefatigable determination, refusing to let it slip away from him again.

He was at a crossroads, a subtler but perhaps more important one than when he'd first agreed to join Clan Cadera.  Before him lay the Mandalorian Way, from which he could still retreat.  It would be painful, but he could turn away.  Behind him lay the path of the Jedi, which led only to a dead end, possibly quite literally.  Whatever legacy the Jedi yet had in the galaxy, his role in it had ended.

So why was the Mandalorian path so dark and foreboding, swirling with the occluding miasma of fear?

Why fear? Nomen asked himself.  He disregarded his Jedi teachings, embracing and examining the emotion instead of turning away from it.

There is no emotion, there is peace.   The line of the Jedi Code seemed to rebuke him.

Seemingly from nowhere, the line from the older version of the Code blossomed in his thoughts.

Emotion, yet peace.

Nomen seized the fear firmly, tore it asunder, and examined its pieces.

Its skin was common fear anyone might experience upon deciding to walk a new path.  Can I do this?  Will I be any good?  Would a different path be better?  Is this what I'm meant to be? Is this what I want to be?

Nomen discarded the skin without a second thought.  He had committed to this path, he would walk it to the best of his ability, and he would be successful, through his own skill and discipline, and especially with Yordis at his side.

The fear laughed at this, its claws reaching for him, so Nomen dissected them next.  Fear of loss, that Yordis would be taken from him in violence, or simply choose to walk a path that no longer conjoined with his.  Fear bred from the attachment his Jedi training forbade.  That was the breath of the fear, he realized.  Fear of failing, of falling.

Nomen cast the claws aside, exhaled away the breath.  That fear was of the future, and Nomen would deal with it as and if it arose.  His concern was of the now.

And so Nomen plunged into the chest of the fear, tore out its beating heart, and studied it.

Within he saw himself, beskar'gam loose and ill-fitting, his youngling's lightsaber awkward in his tiny hands, his unskilled flailings helpless against the rising influence of the Dark Side that turned the galaxy cruel and uncaring.

Parl watched, radiating disappointment.  "I still see much of the boy about you," he said.

Yordis watched in disgust.  "You have aged , but have yet to grow up ."

Cant was gleeful.  "The aruetti will never be one of us.  Let me deal with him, Alor ."

Torth was disinterested.  "That is the weapon of a boy, and I no longer teach boys."

The fear whispered to him mirthfully.  "The Mandalorians cannot make you a man.  The Jedi cannot make you a man.  All you are, all you will ever be, is a helpless ad'ika ."

Nomen turned his back on the remains of the ravaged but undefeated fear.  What he was hearing was impossible, was unthinkable, was--

Emotion, yet peace.

Was true.  Whatever nebulous definition separated "boy" from "man," he had yet to meet it.  And neither the Jedi nor the Mandalorians would change that.

Rham Kota's voice gently slid into his thoughts from an impossible distance.  "If they cannot make of you a man, Padawan. . . who can?"

Nomen dove away, plunging now towards the very core of himself, seeking the answer.  He found it in such a way that told him he'd already known.

He could not be Nomen Lok, Mandalorian warrior of Clan Cadera.  He could not be Nomen Lok, Knight of the Jedi Order.

Or rather, he could not be either of those things.

He could be both .

Gently, Nomen eased out of his meditation, now focused on thinking.  Neither of the paths before him were right.  Only by forging his own path, a middle path, built upon the foundations supplied to him, could he become what he wanted to be.  What he needed to be.

His own man.

Chapter Text

"Why do you want to leave?" Parl asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Not permanently," Nomen replied.  "Just for a little while."

"Why?" Parl asked again.

"I need to," Nomen answered.  "I need to. . . go do something."

"What do you need to do?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know."

"Is this something you're going to do for, with, or to someone?"

"I don't know."

Parl paused.  "Well, thanks for clearing that up."

Nomen sighed.  "It's difficult to explain," he said.  "But I've been meditating, and I know there's something out there I need to go do.  I don't know what, or where, or even really why, but I know I have to.  I have to trust in the Force to guide me."

"You're right, I liked your first explanation better."  Parl sat back in his chair, thoughtfulness settling about him.  "I can't force you to stay if you insist on leaving, but I'm hesitant.  You really can't tell me what brought this on?  The Force just pokes you in the brain and says 'Hey, go for a walk, it's important?'"

"Not exactly," Nomen said, sighing again.  He had to tell Parl, that much was clear.  He should understand; after all, from a certain point of view, Nomen was only taking Parl's advice to heart.  "I've been meditating."

"You mentioned."

"What you said – you still see much of the boy in me – you were right.  You are right.  I need to grow up, to become a man."

"That still bothering you?  Don't worry about it, ad'ika .  Everyone grows up eventually."

"Everyone gets old , not everyone grows up ."

"Fair point," Parl admitted.

"I need to forge my own path.  I still mean to learn and follow the Way," Nomen assured, heading off the swell of concern rising from Parl.  "But I need to take what I'm learning from your- my- our Clan, my Jedi teachings, and whatever I figure out for myself and build my own way."

Understanding, backed with pride but tinged with trepidation, rolled through Parl.  "I see," he said quietly.  "And you believe the Force will guide you on this path?"

"Or towards it," Nomen answered.

Parl nodded.  "Very well."  He stood.  "We'll find Semnith, she'll show you one of the secret doors out.  I can't keep you here if you want to leave, so I'll wish you luck, ask you to be careful and come home soon, and warn you to be cautious.  Not just for your sake.  Draw the wrong kind of attention, be followed, and you place the whole Clan at risk.  You place my daughter at risk.  Is there an understanding between us?"

Nomen nodded.  "There is, Alor ."

Parl turned the full weight of his leadership, authority, and will on Nomen, impressing upon him the extent of the trust he was being granted.  Nomen did not flinch or shrink.

"Very good," Parl said at last.  "Come along, ad'ika ."

For hours, Nomen walked the slums of Taris, suffering and despair smothering him again.  The collective discipline of the Covert was a shield; once away, Nomen had only his own discipline to protect himself.

His beskar'gam drew attention.  People flocked to him, begging for food, for credits, for protection, for mercy.  Nomen pushed them from his thoughts, he was not here for them.

No, that was wrong.  He was here for them, but not one at a time with handouts he did not have.

He trusted his course wholly to the Force, taking a turn here, a turn there, walking straight a full hour before another turn.  The Covert was all but lost to his senses, but he was not concerned.  When the time was right, the Force would lead him back just as it had led him away.

The Force aimed his attention at something.  A raised platform, containing an old airspeeder and an even older protocol droid.  "What is this?" Nomen asked the droid as he climbed the platform's steps.

"Nonstop taxi service to Siccaro Tower, two hundred credits for those with authorized identification.  Do you have authorized identification, gentlebeing?"

"No, but I have four hundred credits."

"I'm terribly sorry, but this unit is not programmed to accept bribes."

"I'm sure," Nomen said, resting one hand on his blaster, the other indicating his armor.  "But you can see I'm no slum rat.  Your master -- Siccaro, was it? -- would want to see me."

"Master Zeneb Siccaro has no need for bounty hunters at this time."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

"Then I see no need to trouble Master Siccaro."

Through the Force, Nomen noticed the instability in the droid's primary power cell, as well as an impending short in the high-draw lines leading from it.  He debated his action briefly, decided he was only accelerating the inevitable.

A twitch in the Force brought the high-draw lines together.  Electricity arced across the droid's shell as its power core dumped its unstable charge out the new path of least resistance.  The droid shrieked, then collapsed in a smoking heap.

Thank you, Netta, Nomen thought as he leaned against the platform's railing to wait.

Over the next twenty minutes, a comlink in the airspeeder beeped in increasingly-short intervals.  Ten minutes after its last unanswered beep, another airspeeder approached.  Nomen waited patiently as it settled on the platform, two humans in functional jumpsuits climbing out.

"What happened?" one of them demanded, storming up to Nomen.

Nomen shrugged casually.  "No idea.  I was talking to him and he shorted out."

"I told you we needed to replace those lines!" the second said.

"Stow it!" the first shot back angrily.  "What did you need to talk to the droid about?" he asked Nomen harshly.

"He said this was a taxi to Siccaro Tower, two hundred and authorized identification."

"Yeah, what of it?"

"I don't have identification," Nomen said, slipping a tendril of the Force into the man's mind.  "But your boss would be very interested in talking to me."

"My boss would be very interested in talking to you," the man agreed, then turned to his companion.  "How long's that gonna take?"

"A day," the other replied sourly.

"Kriff," the first swore.  "Alright, load the droid up in this speeder and take it back to the tower, I'll bring our guest in ours."

Nomen smiled under his helmet as he climbed into the airspeeder.  I can't believe that worked!   He hadn't used the Force to influence another being's mind since before the Purge, and hadn't been all that successful then.  Do or do not, there is no try, he mused.

"So, what kind of work does your boss do?" Nomen casually asked the pilot.

"Work?" the man scoffed.  "Boss don't do 'work.'  That's what he pays us for."

"So how does he afford to pay you?"

"Eh, he's old Tarisian money.  Way I hear it, he's set for life like four times over.  Just needs to keep an eye on the accounts and investments for the next generation.  If he works at anything, he works real hard at that, know what I mean?"  Suggestiveness brimmed in the man's sense.

"I get the holo," Nomen replied in what he hoped was a slyly knowing tone.  "So is that all he does with his time, try to contribute to the planetary census?"

"Mostly he throws parties.  Big charity galas, fundraising to improve the slum sectors.  Why he has a private taxi out here."

"Makes sense," Nomen said, smiling again.  Now he knew why the Force had guided him here.  Next he had to discover what and how .

" What do you mean he left? " Yordis shouted.

Parl gave no reaction to his daughter's outburst.  "He said he had to follow some guidance or urging or something from the Force.  It didn't make much sense to me, but he made a fair case to be allowed to go.  And you know I can't force him to stay against his will."

"You should have told me!  He should have told me!"

"And you would have stopped him?"

"You're damn right I would've!"

"That's probably why he didn't tell you.  What this is, what he must do now, he must do for himself.  We cannot stop him. . . and we cannot help him."

"Is this the Way?" Yordis asked scornfully.

"The Way is not everything, Daughter.  It is a guide for our lives, not the whole of our lives."

Yordis crossed her arms over her chest.  "Where did he go?"

"I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"It's dangerous for him to be out there alone, Father!  That Inquisitor could catch up with him and he left his lightsaber here!  Someone else could figure out what he is!  He could lead our enemies back here!"

"If you truly thought him that incompetent, you never would have adopted him."

"I adopted him to keep Cant from killing him."

"That wasn't your only reason.  Not even your primary one.  Be honest with yourself, Daughter."

"Honestly, he needs my help."

"It is always difficult for a parent when their child begins to grow beyond them."

"He's not my child!" Yordis protested.

"You adopted him.  'I know your name as my child, Nomen Lok.'  By our Way, he's as much your Son as you are my Daughter."  Parl noticed Yordis shift in her armor.  "That thought troubles you?"

"It's not that," she answered uneasily.  "It's. . . I don't know what it is."

"Then when he returns, the two of you will have much to discuss."

"You mean when I find him and drag him back here by the scruff of his neck," she countered, loosening her blasters in their holsters.  "Probably have to shoot another dozen bounty hunters off his back."

"I can't force you to stay any more than I could force him," Parl sighed.  "But as your father, I ask you to please allow him to do this for himself."

"I hear you, Father, and I refuse.  He is still my responsibility."  With that, she turned and left.

Discovering which exit Nomen had used was simple, if time consuming.  He was the only one to have left the Covert since before he and Yordis had arrived.  All she had to do was check each one and ask the guards if anyone had left recently.

Tracking Nomen after making her way out his chosen exit was more difficult.  She could ask the slum rats – the disadvantage of the Covert's location was that Mandalorians stood out among the impoverished of Taris – but she didn't want to draw more attention to the sudden pair of surprise Mandalorians wandering the streets.

It was slow going, his trail seemingly aimless and random, the signs obscured by the passage of time and other people, but she followed it determinedly.

And when she caught up with Nomen, she owed him a short, sharp kick in the teeth.

Nomen's driver led him from the spacious landing deck to the front door of Siccaro Tower.  A dozen guards were on duty in overlapping rings of defense around it, and Nomen sensed many more inside, as well as concealed defense emplacements operated by yet more security forces.

The guards challenged him despite the pilot's assertions, and Nomen dutifully handed over his blaster as he stepped through the weapon scanner.  The guard operating it swirled with confusion.

"Just the blaster?  Aren't Mandos supposed to be walking armories?  The scanner should be pitching a meltdown."

"I'm not here for trouble," Nomen said calmly.

"Maybe.  We're keeping this, though," the guard hefted Nomen's blaster.

"Just until I get back," Nomen replied sternly.

"If you get back.  If not, I've always wanted a WESTAR."

The pilot led Nomen to the reception desk.  The Mirialan woman attending it was focused on something else, distraction coursing through her.

"The boss is going to be very interested in talking to this guy," the pilot said.

"Do you. . . have. . . an. . . appointment?" the receptionist asked, trailing off back and forth as distraction faded and shock surged, attempting to process the Mandalorian who had appeared before her.

"No," Nomen answered, reaching out with the Force again.  "But your boss is going to be very interested in talking to me."

The Mirialan woman was made of sterner stuff than Siccaro's rank-and-file, brushing off the gentle push on her mind without even noticing.  "I'm sorry, Master Siccaro doesn't see anyone without an appointment.  Have a pleasant day."

"Just call him, he'll want to see me."

"It's my job to keep just anyone from bothering Master Siccaro."

"And you can plainly see I'm not just anyone."

Conflict swirled within the Mirialan woman.  Letting him through would make Siccaro furious, but was she being paid enough to antagonize even a disarmed Mandalorian?

Apparently, she decided she was not.  Resignation sweeping over her, she triggered a panel on her desk and began speaking into her headset comlink.  "Master Siccaro, there's a Mandalorian here to see you.  No, he does not have an appointment.  No, I haven't.  No.  Frankly, sir, I don't think anyone gets paid enough for that.  Yes sir, I understand."  She ended the call.  "Master Siccaro will see you now."  She motioned to two of the security guards near the reception desk.  "These men will escort you up."

"Thank you ever so much," Nomen replied sincerely.  He sensed no duplicity or hostility, but a great wave of dread now smothered the receptionist.  He'd have to see if he could do something about that, too.

The guards escorted him to a turbolift, which brought him to one of the upper floors.  A short trip down a hall, and Nomen was led into a large, opulent office.  Behind a desk far larger than any conceivable amount of work could require sat Zeneb Siccaro.

Nomen could not discern much of the man's wardrobe, but the way it shifted and flowed in his sense indicated a fabric far smoother and richer than any Nomen had encountered.  The man himself was a whirl of fear and apprehension shielded poorly by irritation and aggression.

"Alright, what's so blasted important?  Speak quickly then kindly get out."

"Master Siccaro, I presume," Nomen said pleasantly.  "I'm given to understand you're the biggest name in charity fundraising to provide aid to the Taris slums.  I wanted to discuss how the aid operations proceed."

"They proceed fine," Siccaro snapped.  "If that was all?"

"Define 'fine.'  How are the logistics of supply?  How are the relief centers operating?  Are the supplies reaching the people who need them?"

"Fine, fine, fine," Siccaro said, apprehension and fear rising, belligerence being forced up around them.  "Now I really do have a lot of work."

"And the funds?  They're holding out well and being apportioned effectively?"

"Of course!"  Terrified deception burst through Siccaro's hasty emotional barriers.

And there it is, Nomen thought, smiling beneath his helmet.  "You're lying," he said confidently.

"How dare you!  I do not tolerate uninvited guests or insults, now leave!"

"No," Nomen replied mildly.  "Because you're lying."

"Leave before I make you leave."

"How?"

Siccaro scoffed.  "I can have an army of my private security up here in thirty seconds.  In five minutes I can have the planetary constables.  In ten minutes Major Hemneth and his Army troops from the Imperial garrison.  Take your blasted pick."

"An Imperial Army officer at your beck and call?  Must be handy.  And expensive."  Nomen's smile widened.  "There is no charity, is there?  Those fundraisers are for your own pockets, aren't they?"

"Get out!" Siccaro roared.

Nomen shrugged.  "Go ahead.  Call your security, call the constables, call the Emperor himself if it pleases you.  By sunset, this whole half of the planet will be abuzz with the news that a Mandalorian came to see you and was thrown out.  A Mandalorian seen wandering the slums before boarding your private taxi.  People will be wondering why I was here.  Why I was in the slums.  Why you have a taxi in the slums.  Why you have so many charity galas and nothing to show for it.  And at least some of those people will know how to follow the money."

With each sentence, everything except fear drained from Siccaro's sense.  By the time Nomen finished, he was a swirling morass of terror absent the will to oppose Nomen further.  Only for the briefest of moments did he consider ordering his security to make Nomen disappear.  If the Mandalorian knew this much, who else had he told?

Of course, no one at all knew where Nomen was, or what he was doing, or why.  But Zeneb Siccaro didn't know that.

After all, only a great fool would walk alone and unarmed into the lair of the rich and powerful and insult him without any kind of backup plan or exit strategy.

A great fool. . . or a Jedi with the Force as his ally.

"What do you want?" Zeneb asked.

"This scam of yours:  are your investors involved, or are you lying to them, too?"

"They think they're donating for a good cause.  Makes them a little less guilty about their own lives of luxury and gives them a nice deduction on their taxes."  Fear still dominated Siccaro's sense, but egotistical excitement began to rise as he explained his brilliant scheme.  "A few are aware, like Major Hemneth.  He 'donates' a chunk of his savings as he can, I invest it.  When he retires, I'll repay him the balance and earnings less my percentage.  He could already retire twice."

"And in the meantime, you have an Imperial Army officer on the payroll."

"Yes."

"These fundraisers of yours.  Would you be destitute without them?"

Siccaro snorted.  "Hardly.  The old accounts and investments are doing just fine."  Inspiration flashed.  "I can pay you.  Forget all this.  Two million in cash, right now.  Used, non-sequential chits."  Nomen kept his even focus on Siccaro, his Mandalorian helmet impassive.  "Five million."  Nomen remained silent.  "Ten minutes, I'll have a camtono filled to bursting with credits, all for you friend!"

"I don't want your money," Nomen replied.  "But if you can slap together five million and more in ten minutes, you can start making good on your promises."

"What do you mean?"

"Assemble a tech team and security squad.  Send them down to that private taxi of yours.  There's a structure right next to it perfect for your first relief center."

Deceptive assent rippled through Siccaro.  "Yes. . . a week, perhaps two–"

"Ten minutes," Nomen replied.

"What?"

"Ten minutes, the techs and security are assembled on your landing platform.  When I leave, they're right behind me, and hop to work the second we're back in the slum."

"Impossible!  There's. . . there's permits and zoning and. . . and supply logistics and contract bidding and–"

"And you know how to cut through all that in a day, don't you?"

"What's your hook?" Siccaro asked, suspicion flaring.  "What do you get out of this?"

"Absolutely nothing," Nomen replied evenly.

"But then. . . then why?" Siccaro asked, confusion overwhelming him.

"Because it's who I choose to be.  Who do you choose to be, Zeneb Siccaro?  Just another of the galaxy's billions of lying scum, or the man who did the impossible and cleaned up Taris? "

Egotistical excitement pulsed again.  "I do like the sound of that."

"I thought you might."

Siccaro touched a control on his desk.  "Construction tech team and security detail to landing pad.  Ready to move in ten minutes.  Pull Relief Center One schematic and start work as soon as you arrive.  I want it fully functional in fifty hours."

"You had a schematic ready?" Nomen asked.

"Of course.  The best cons have as much truth to them as possible.  I also wasn't lying about the difficulties in getting set up.  Same line I gave anyone who asked so they didn't tumble to the scheme."

"And were you lying about being able to cut through those difficulties?" Nomen asked threateningly.

"No."

"Good.  I'll await your men on the pad."  He turned to leave.  "Oh, one more thing.  Are you planning to fire your receptionist for letting me pass?"

"Fire, no.  Punish?  Yes."

"Don't."  Siccaro flared with confusion.  "You see how persuasive I am.  Do you really think she stood a chance?"

"But why do you care?"

"Someday – soon, I hope – I think you'll understand for yourself."

Yordis caught up with Nomen's trail at the taxi pad just as a small fleet of airspeeders arrived, a small army of men debarking and setting about working on a split-open cargo container.  Among them she spied Nomen, who even through his armor somehow managed to look insufferably pleased with himself.

"What.  Did you.  Do? " she hissed as she walked up to him.

"I found the man in charge of charity relief efforts for the Taris slums and assisted him in the logistics of beginning his efforts."

Yordis blinked behind her helmet, stunned.  "That. . . that's it?  That's what was so blasted important?  Convincing some fat Canto Bighter to part with his table scraps? "

"I cleared a path for these people to receive aid they desperately need," Nomen said quietly.  "Can you honestly tell me you object to that?"

She really couldn't.  "You put yourself at risk.  You put the Clan at risk."

"Are we forbidden from helping others?  Is that the Way?"

"No, but. . . why, Nomen?"

"Because I had to."

"You're impossible!" she snarled.  "Dammit, I was worried about you!"

"I know.  And I'm sorry."

Great, he'd apologized.  Now she couldn't even be mad at him.

Yordis grunted in frustration.  "Let's just go home."

"Yes, Buir ."

For some reason she didn't want to define, Nomen calling her "Mother" sent an unpleasant shiver up her spine.  Nomen sensed her discomfort, had shared it speaking the word, but said nothing further.

Chapter Text

Two more weeks of meticulous drudgery had paid off.  Yordis had the map of Clan movements nailed down to within an acceptable margin of error.  The paths supported each other beautifully in a way that told her she was as close to pure truth as anyone in her field ever got.

She'd just finished compiling her report when Nomen appeared at her door.  "Ready for our next lesson?" he asked in greatly-improved Mando'a .

"Not right now," Yordis replied in Basic, seizing the datacard from her noteputer's slot.  "Come with me."

Nomen chasing after, Yordis raced to her father's quarters, barging in as soon as she arrived.  "I found it, Father," she exclaimed breathlessly.  "I found it!"

"Found what?" Parl asked.

"Found what?" Nomen asked as he arrived a moment later.

"The Last Redoubt of Mandalore the Amazing."

"Mandalore the Amazing?" Nomen asked with amusement.

"It sounds better in Mando'a ," Yordis replied.  She held out the datacard to her father.  "It's all right here."

Parl slid the card into his datapad.  "Summarize," he said.

"Tracking Clan movements in accordance with the proper dates for the battles, after converting for the different calendars recording them, points to the northern mountains of the eastern continent of Korriz."

"An old Sith Empire planet.  Mandalore would have liked the idea of making his stand there."

"I'd like to check it out.  See what's still there."

Parl nodded.  "Very well."

Yordis paused.  "I'd also like to take Nomen with me."

She could hear her father's faint smile in his rough voice.  "I thought you might.  He's your Foundling.  If you think he's ready, I have no objections."

"Excellent.  I'll prep Blood Raven ."

Nomen spoke.  "Before you do, I'd like your help with something.  Yours too, Alor ."

"What can we help with?" Parl asked.

"Well, 'help' may not precisely be the correct word.  Can you meet me in the Forge in ten minutes?"

Parl nodded.  "I can."

"I'll be there," Yordis promised.

"Great," Nomen replied, then ran off.

It was twelve minutes before Nomen arrived at the Forge with Torth in tow, tracking down the swordmaster being responsible for the delay.

"So, you think you're ready?" the Armorer said, her sense filled with wary anticipation.

"Whether I am or not, this is the time," Nomen answered, sitting cross-legged on the floor and opening the bundle containing his lightsaber parts.  "The rest is ready?"

"It is."  The Armorer opened a drawer, retrieving the remaining parts she'd fabricated.  "Both halves of the casing, pommel cap, activator plate, emitter matrix, housing for the blade shroud, and a maalraas-leather wrapping."

"I wouldn't have thought of that," Nomen said.

"The ergonomics of your old hilt leave much to be desired," the Armorer replied wryly.

Nomen couldn't help but smile.  "What did you make the case out of?"

"Desh-aluminum alloy.  Sturdy and good insulation for a high-draw weapon."

Nomen nodded, his sense taking in the four Mandalorians around him.  "Each of you have helped prepare me for this, in your own ways.  Before the Purge, a Jedi would construct their first lightsaber with the guidance and supervision of their Master, and in doing so prove they had learned all the Master had to teach.  I have much to learn from all of you yet, but in doing this, I place my past and my childhood behind me, and prepare to meet my future.  It feels right to share this moment with the four of you."

"This is the Way," Parl said quietly.

"This is the Way," the others echoed.

Nomen took a deep breath, and stretched into the Force.  The four Mandalorians were clear presences of calm encouragement, but the components before him immediately dominated his attention.  They were ready.  The Force was ready.

Most importantly, Nomen himself was ready.

Effortlessly, the kyber crystal floated into the air before Nomen, spinning slowly on its axis.  The emitter matrix rose to slide over the crystal.  The energy gate clicked into the base of the emitter, the dimetris circuits into the gate.  The power cell plugged into the circuits, the blade shroud snapped into the top of the emitter, the activation plate nestled against its home on the emitter.  The shroud housing and case clicked gently into place, the pommel cap screwed in tight, and the maalraas-leather wrapping wound itself around the hilt, leaving only pommel cap, shroud housing, and activation plate bare.  The entire assembly rotated lazily in the air before lowering gently into Nomen's waiting palm.

Silence reigned for several heartbeats.

"Is that it?" Parl asked quietly.  "Did it work?"

"Let's find out," Nomen said, and thumbed the plate.

With a snap-hiss and steady hum, the lightsaber blade came into existence.  Waving it carefully, Nomen listened to the soothing buzz that assured him the weapon was functioning perfectly.  "Feels good," he said happily.

"It looks good," Parl said with approval.

"It looks perfect," Yordis added joyfully.  "Nomen, how did you know?"

"Know what?"

"How to make it that color?"

"I didn't.  The crystal chose the color."

"Then it chose well," she said, still shining with delight.

"Or our ancestor did," Parl added, his sense of approval more restrained but no less powerful.

"I'm sorry, someone's going to have to explain to me what you're all so excited about."  Nomen waved his free hand in front of his visor.

"Your lightsaber is purple, ad ," Parl said, resonating deep satisfaction.  "The color of Clan Cadera."

Nomen smiled widely as he closed down his lightsaber.  "Armorer, I'd like to request an expansion to one of my bracers."

"I don't know," she said, playfulness rippling.  "Do you think he's earned it?" she asked Parl.

"Perhaps," he replied in much the same tone, picking up on Netta's jest.  "Speak what you have in mind, ad , and we shall judge."

"A concealed compartment to hold this," Nomen said, indicating his lightsaber.

"Doable," the Armorer replied.  "Spring-loaded for quick draw.  Trigger it right, and your lightsaber will pop right into your hand."

"That sounds perfect."

"Leave your right bracer with me, then, I'll get started."

"And you two have a trip to prepare for," Parl stated.  "Let Netta be about her work, and you be about yours."

The trip to Blood Raven was quiet.  The overwhelming depression of the slums still smothered Nomen, but it was lighter than it had been.  Already, Siccaro's relief efforts were having an effect.  Plus, there was Yordis, whose current unbridled joy could push back against the deepest darkness.

As soon as they secured Blood Raven 's hatch, Yordis seized Nomen's helmet, yanking it from his head.  Removing her own, she pulled him into a passionate hug.

"Nomen, I'm so proud of you!" she said, squeezing him tightly.

"Thank you," he replied, surprised.  He had sensed her joy was prodigious, he hadn't thought it uncontainable .  Not that he was complaining as he wrapped his arms around her.

They held each other for a brief eternity.

Yordis released Nomen, stepping back and clearing her throat.  "Alright.  You go turn on Blip and have him start warming up the engines, I'll start powering up for preflight."  She turned, then stopped and retrieved her helmet from the deck.  "Don't forget your helmet."

And just like that her composure was back, internal shields of emotional beskar rising once more.

But not rapidly, and not completely.  Nomen could detect an openness he suspected existed only for him, and through it sensed joy, pride, admiration, kinship. . . and affection.

As Yordis moved to the cockpit and Nomen to the engine room, he searched his feelings and found in them a reflection of what he'd sensed in her.

Emotion, yet peace , he thought, deciding to embrace what they were feeling for each other.  As he basked in the glow of reflected feeling, he pondered And perhaps, peace from emotion.

If that thought triggered the memory of the disapproving tones of every Jedi Master from Yoda through Kota, Nomen paid them little heed.

Not the Jedi way. . . but my way.

Nomen fastened his modified bracer on his arm.  It bulged outward at the outside of his arm, large enough to comfortably hold his lightsaber but artfully enough to not look like it.

"To open it for holstering, or just to retrieve it normally, press here."  The Armorer indicated what would appear to be a critical screw in the bracer's construction.  The hatch by the edge of his hand popped open.  "Now just slide it in, pommel first."

Nomen guided the pommel of his hilt into the hidden compartment and gently pushed it in.  He felt something click and catch within, resistance as the lightsaber met the spring mechanism.  Once it was ensconced completely, he pressed the camouflaged stud again, and the hatch closed.

"Now flick your wrist to the outside of your arm, fingers splayed."  The Armorer demonstrated the motion.

Nomen repeated it, the hatch clicked open, and his lightsaber shot into his waiting fingers.  Jedi reflexes closed his hand around it, thumb poised right over the activation plate.

"Perfect," Nomen said in awe.  "This is way better than I was thinking of."

"You shouldn't use it unless you absolutely need to," the Armorer replied.  "But if you absolutely need to, we don't want you fumbling around for it."

"Thank you," Nomen said, slipping his lightsaber back into its compartment.  "It seems so inadequate, but I truly mean it."

"I have something else for you," she said.  From the workbench next to her, she picked up a thin, rectangular object and handed it to him.

It was a datapad, Nomen could tell that much.  Running his fingers over it--

His head jerked up to face the Armorer's in shock.  "Miraluka?"

"I remembered what you said about memory plastic screens and a tactile language.  Yordis helped with some of the details and research.  This will translate both written Basic and Mando'a into Miraluka."

Nomen swallowed, his throat and nose thick with emotion.  "I. . . I don't know what to say."

Satisfied pleasure and pride beamed from her.  "It was a most interesting challenge, and I am pleased you like it and will put it to good use."

"I will," Nomen promised.  "Thank you."

Two ASP droids accompanied them on their final trip out to Blood Raven , carrying two crates apiece filled with goods the Covert had produced and which Yordis could sell for traveling money, setting some funds aside to bring back to the Clan.

Nomen supervised the droids as they stowed the cargo, then double-checked it was secure while Yordis ran her preflight checks.  By the time he arrived in the cockpit, they were nearly ready to lift off.

And Nomen noticed another surprise.  "Blip's rubbish with fine metalwork," Yordis said casually.  "Netta, on the other hand. . ."

Nomen ran his fingertips over the Miraluka labels on the controls.  "You didn't have to," he said, his voice again thick with emotion.

"It helps you, which helps me.  And might as well make you feel more at home.  I foresee us being together a long time, Nomen."

"Hey," Nomen said, humor rising in his voice.  "Farseeing is my thing.  Get your own."

"Oh, no!" Yordis exclaimed in mock horror.  "You mean I can't add that to being a crack shot ace pilot brilliant negotiator wickedly-intelligent archaeologist?"

"Fine, you've made your point.  You're better than me in every way."

"And always will be," she replied sweetly.

Nomen sat back in his seat, smiling under his helmet.  The time at the Covert had been. . . interesting.  Educational in many ways.  Even fun.  But he hadn't realized how much he missed this.  He and Yordis aboard Blood Raven , bantering and sniping at each other playfully, heading out to meet whatever the Force had in store for them next.

Yordis was right.  He wasn't sure precisely when it had happened, but this ship was now his home.

The days Blood Raven spent in hyperspace saw a change in their routine from the last time they'd been aboard.  Nomen and Yordis now ate together in her quarters, since he was now allowed to "see" her absent helmet.  Yordis had stated that, while aboard ship, she would not speak to Nomen except in Mando'a , and not respond to him unless he at least tried to speak in Mando'a .  If nothing else, this had the effect of burning the phrase for "How do you say?" into Nomen's brain to the point he heard it in his dreams.

The only time Yordis would converse with him in Basic was during their lessons, which were expanding to cover Mandalorian culture and history, including the numerous times the Mandalorians had fought the Jedi.  This was of particular interest to Nomen.  Jedi history taught that Mandalorians were implacable warriors, and no matter how often or how badly they were beaten they were always waiting and rebuilding to plunge the galaxy once more into violence and death and darkness.  They also seemed to have a special hatred for Jedi, allying with assorted Sith orders of ages past in order to array against the Jedi they so very much wanted to kill.

The Mandalorian perspective, unsurprisingly, was somewhat different.

"Mandalorians consider themselves the finest warriors in the galaxy," Yordis said.  "But it's one thing to say you're the best, quite another to prove it.  Yes, according to legends, Mandalorians often allied with Sith to fight Jedi, but it was because we considered the Jedi and Republic the best, and wished to test ourselves against them.  Sith Orders and Empires rise and inevitably crumble and collapse on themselves.  The Republic and Jedi endure, rebuild, and grow stronger.  There's a very old saying I've uncovered in my research:  Jetiise jate par akaanir, darjetiise jate par waadas .  Jedi are good for a fight, Sith are good for a payday."

"So, Mandalorians actually like Jedi?"

"Like?  No.  Respect, yes.  We take their lesson to heart, testing ourselves against the greatest challenges of the age.  Should we be defeated, we endure and grow stronger for the next challenge."

"Conflict breeds death and darkness.  Peace and harmony breed balance and light."

"Peace and harmony must be tested to endure.  After a thousand years of peace, the Republic and the Jedi grew corrupt and complacent.  Was it not inevitable that someone like Palpatine would come along, who could turn that corruption and complacency to his advantage?"

Nomen chewed on that.  Master Kota had been of similar opinion, stating that they should have seen whatever doom befell the Jedi coming, but hadn't.  Either they had been blind. . . or they had simply refused to see.

But something still troubled him.  "It seems more of the Sith Code."

Surprise rippled through Yordis.  "You know the Sith Code?  There is a Sith Code?"

Nomen nodded.  "Master Kota was a firm believer in 'know thy enemy.'  Once the Council agreed the Sith had returned, he taught it to me as a guide for how our enemy would think."

Curiosity spiked.  "What is it?"

Nomen reached back into his memory.

"Peace is a lie.  There is only Passion.

Through Passion I gain Strength.

Through Strength I gain Power.

Through Power I gain Victory.

Through Victory my chains are Broken.

The Force shall free me."

"I see what you mean," Yordis said, her sense awhirl with new thoughts and information, curiosity still rising high.  "Then there's a Jedi Code?"

"Two versions," Nomen replied.  "The one I was mostly taught is:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

There is no death, there is the Force."

Nomen hesitated, but the other was begging to burst from his lips.  "There's a lesser-known version, too:

Emotion, yet peace.

Ignorance, yet knowledge.

Passion, yet serenity.

Chaos, yet harmony.

Death, yet the Force."

"I like the second one better," Yordis said after a moment.

"I think I do, too," Nomen replied.

"But that's just what I was saying.  Harmony needs to be challenged by chaos to endure, and chaos must be overcome to build harmony."

Nomen smiled.  " Alor said you were wise beyond your years."

Pleasure and affection squirmed through her.  "Well, you look into the past long enough, you're bound to learn a few things."

Nomen tried to focus on the rest of their lesson, but new thoughts ran rampant in his mind.  I'll have to meditate later , he thought, honing in on Yordis' presence, somehow both calming and exciting to him.  Especially on the parts about passion.

Chapter Text

Three days in hyperspace saw them arrive at their first destination, Botajef, where Yordis would sell the Covert's cargo and buy fuel and supplies to bring them to Korriz and back.

"Alright, you get to be Gripe today," Yordis said, directing Nomen to take charge of the hoversled loaded with cargo crates.

"And why isn't Gripe being Gripe today?" Nomen asked.

"You prefer to stay on the ship?  You want to come along, make yourself useful."

"As you wish, Buir ," Nomen replied, drawing an inappropriate amount of pleasure from the way Yordis bristled.

As they exited Blood Raven , they were met by the pit supervisor and its protocol droid.  The supervisor was a gangly Verpine, its technician's jumpsuit adorned with tools and equipment on belt and baldrics.  The droid was a spindly model with pale yellow plating, clearly designed on the aesthetics of the insectoid Verpine instead of those of more mammalian species.

"Drone J9-D9 greets you on behalf of Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik, supervisor of the landing pit in which you are currently docked," the droid said in a flat, mechanical buzz.  "How may Drone J9-D9 and its Master be of service to you and your vessel during the time the latter resides in this place?"

"Refueling and maintenance check," Yordis said, pulling a stack of credit chits from her pouch.  " Only ."

The Verpine eyed the stack of credits, then chittered to its droid.  "The docking fee is fifty credits per day," the droid said.  "The maintenance check is another fifty credits, bringing your current payment to one hundred credits.  Any maintenance, repairs, or replacements necessary or desired which are revealed by the maintenance check can be negotiated upon your return to your vessel in this landing pit.  You are holding one-hundred fifty credits.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik refuses to accept excess credits, though it understands you have likely met other pit supervisors who have attempted to overcharge you for what was certainly inferior work, ergo your caution is justified and it does not take offense."

Yordis paused to parse all that.  "Okay," she said slowly, dropping three credit chits back in her case.

The Verpine took the credits, chittering again. J9-D9 translated.  "Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik offers gratitude to you for selecting its landing pit in which to dock your vessel during your stay on this planet.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik promises to have your vessel's fuel tanks completely replenished and the complete and accurate report of the maintenance check upon your return to this landing pit in which your vessel is currently docked.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik further expresses wishes that your business on Botajef be concluded in the manner you would deem to be of highest efficiency and beneficence."

"Um. . . thanks."  Yordis motioned to Nomen, and they left the landing pit.  "Strange alien," she muttered once they were away.

"That's just Verpine," Nomen replied.  "Very specific in their speech.  You know what they call Roche Engineering?"

"No," Yordis answered.

"Roche Hive Mechanical Apparatus Design and Construction Activity for Those Who Need the Hive's Machines," Nomen replied.

"Well, that's a mouthful."

"I gather it's shorter in their language."

"How do you know so much about Verpine?"

"The scout ship Master Kota and I were assigned to was designed and built by them.  We spent some time on Roche before starting our mission.  They're a fascinating people."

"The whole bug thing doesn't bother you?"

Nomen shrugged.  "Not the way I see things."

Yordis considered that.  If Nomen really didn't see the Verpine as just a two-meter tall talking bug. . . 

"Sometimes, Nomen, I think I envy you."

"You mean you're not better than me in every way?" he asked humorously.

"Now you've ruined it.  We were having a moment, and you blew it."

"Oh, well, forgive me," he replied sardonically.  "So what does that mean?"

"That I'm still better than you in every way," she answered sweetly.

Before long, Yordis directed them into a small shop.  As Nomen pushed the hoversled through the door and down the short flight of steps, the Devaronian male behind the counter stood and gestured broadly, his sense gleaming with greedy glee.

"Yordy!" he bellowed.  "Good to see you again, my friend, good to see you."  His attention turned to Nomen, and minor hostility flashed.  "Who's your friend?"

"A friend," Yordis answered neutrally.

Nomen resisted the urge to go for his blaster.  There was hostility, but no aggression.  Nomen pulled the sensation apart in his mind, seeking to understand it.  It was similar to what he felt from Cant. . . 

Belatedly, it clicked.  Jealousy.  That's interesting .

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, Yordy," the Devaronian said, putting Nomen from his mind.  "What do you have for me?"

"See for yourself, Algoth," she replied, directing Nomen to bring the sled and crates up to the counter.

Algoth opened the seal strips and riffled through the contents of crates.  "Ugly. . . ugly. . . old and ugly. . ."

"Yes, yes, but let's not bring your mother into this."  Algoth snorted in laughter.  "So, usual rate?"

"Hm, well, that's the thing," Algoth said.

"We've got a good deal going, Algoth," Yordis said warningly.  "Don't blast it."

"Did you know the Empire is securing their hold on our little planet, hm?"

"Yours and a billion others," Yordis said dryly.  "Join the club."

"Makes business difficult, very difficult."  Algoth paused.  "'Difficult' means 'expensive.'"

"What's your offer?"

"Two thousand."

"As you wish," Yordis said.  Algoth's sense surged with victory.  "Pack it up, dear," she said to Nomen.  Algoth's sense of victory evaporated.

"What are you doing?" Algoth demanded.

"I'm sure I can find a businessman having fewer difficulties."  Yordis paused.  "'Fewer difficulties' means 'they pay more.'"

"Wait!" Algoth exclaimed as Nomen grabbed the lid of the first crate.  "Yordy, we've got a good deal!  Let's not blast it.  Twenty-five hundred."

"That's still half the usual.  Forty-five hundred."

"I can't go over three thousand."

"Then we pack up and take our business elsewhere."

"Fine.  I'll be taking a loss but. . . because I like you, four thousand."

Yordis nodded.  "Done."

"Wonderful!" Algoth exclaimed, the greed surging in his sense indicating he would be taking no loss.  "You know, it's a shame you didn't bring me any blasters this time.  I told you before, just a few of those WESTARs and I could make us both filthy rich."

"None to spare," Yordis said casually.

"Yes, I'm sure you don't have any just laying around," Algoth replied, looking pointedly at Nomen's hip.

"My credits?" Yordis asked.

"Oh, of course."  Algoth produced a large credit case from under the counter, filling it with chits before sliding it to Yordis.  Yordis carefully watched as he counted out the four thousand, and Nomen kept his sense open for any sign of duplicity.  Both were satisfied as Yordis placed the case on the hoversled.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Algoth," Yordis said as Nomen turned the sled for the door.  "Keep it that way, and I'll see you again soon."

"Don't be a stranger, Yordy!" he called.  "You are always welcome here!"  If he quite noticeably emphasized " you ," neither Nomen nor Yordis commented on it.

"So," Nomen said when they were a few blocks away.  "I gather he–"

"Wants to charge up my loading ramp, too," Yordis finished.  "I never let him."

"I know," Nomen replied.  He wasn't sure how or why, but it had been obvious all the same.  "Where next?"

Yordis pointed to a stall she'd noted earlier, run by a scruffy-looking Neimoidian.  "There.  Rations."

The Neimoidian perked up as they approached.  "Ah, what can Lok Nark do this fine day for a pair of noble warriors of Mandalore?"

"One month standard shipboard rations for two, please," Yordis said.

"Come now," Lok Nark said solicitously.  "Mandalorians fight well, you should live well!"  Nomen felt Yordis groan internally.  "For only seven hundred, one month deluxe rations for two."

"Standard rations only, please," Yordis answered.

"Includes twelve bottles of the finest Alderaanian wine," Lok continued.

"Standard rations, please."

"And a special offer, a personal gift from me to you.  Pack of potent aphrodisiacs, fresh from Zeltros!  Enjoy your time together to its fullest!"

Mortified rage bubbled up in Yordis, and for perhaps the first time since Nomen had met her she was at a loss for words.

Nomen had a sudden idea, however.  "I told you we'd have done better the next street over," he said accusingly.

Yordis clearly had no idea what he was talking about, but playing along helped her regain her composure.  "You're right," she sighed.  "I thought we should give the Neimoidian a chance."

Lok's eyes narrowed, anger flashed in his sense.  "What you talk about?"  He paused, something clicking in his thoughts.  "You mean that Twi'lek?  No!  He sells rot, calls it deluxe, and overcharges!  My standard is better than his best Hutt-swill!"

"I don't know," Nomen said, struggling not to smile, lest Lok hear it in his voice.  "I'm kind of in the mood for Hutt-swill."  With great difficulty, Yordis fought back a surge of humor.

"No!" the Neimoidian all but roared.  "You buy from Lok Nark, you get the best!  Better than any swindling Twi'lek!"

"Prove it," Yordis said coolly.

"One month standard shipboard rations for two!" Lok declared, as though he was the victor of the interaction.  "Two-hundred fifty, bulk rate discount."  He directed a pit droid to bring out the crate.  "You be very pleased, Lok Nark sells only the very best!"

"I'm sure," Yordis replied, handing over the credits and checking inside the crate.  Lok didn't seem offended at her thoroughness.

As they loaded the crate on the sled and turned back to Blood Raven , the Neimoidian called out to them.  "Remember Lok Nark when next you come to Botajef!  I give you good deals!  I'll let you know if I have more of those Zeltron aphrodisiacs in stock!"

Yordis' flustered blush was hidden from sight by her armor.  Nomen could sense it plainly.

Arriving back at the ship, they spotted two large, multi-armed droids hovering above it, two meters long each and bearing a distinctive insectoid aesthetic.

"Drone J9-D9 greets you on behalf of Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik upon your return to its landing pit in which you have elected to dock your vessel.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik expresses pleasure to report that the fuel tanks of your vessel have been completely replenished, and that Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik and its Hatchling droids have finished an exhaustive maintenance check, the results of which are on this datacard Drone J9-D9 holds in its hand and offers to the female humanoid Mandalorian."  Rolling her eyes so hard her head shook, Yordis took the datacard.  "Drone J9-D9 summarizes the report on behalf of Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik.  Your vessel is fully operational within an acceptable degree of efficiency.  However, Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik recommends a reset and complete inspection of the vessel's primary power grid.  This is because of a zero-point-zero-zero-zero-zero-four-one-three-one variance detected during routine maintenance stress testing.  It is so small most technicians would ignore it at this stage, but it will grow to be a problem.  Within three years, the variance will become noticeable and affect the vessel's performance.  Within seven years after that, the power grid reset and inspection will be necessary to avoid a catastrophic failure."

Yordis thought about it.  She could put it off, and in any other circumstance, she would.  But it wasn't every day she lucked into a landing pit run by a Verpine.

"How much?" she asked.

Zaxik'krik chittered.  "Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik states that if the malfunctioning component is the one it posits it to be and in the location it deduces is the nexus of the variance, then the work should take no more than two hours and cost less than one thousand credits.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik further claims that, when the work is completed to its standards, the vessel will require no further maintenance, repair, or replacement of the primary power grid for the next twenty Galactic Standard years.  Disclaimer:  this estimate assumes a normal usage cycle for a vessel of this type.  Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik will not guarantee its work against error on behalf of the operator of the vessel, which is you.  Such error includes but is not limited to:  operating the vessel in corrosive or radioactive environments outside its designed tolerances, operating the vessel in pressures and materials outside its designed tolerances such as underwater, or operating the vessel in atmospheric or exo-atmospheric combat.  Drone J9-D9 advises you to consult your owner's manual for the vessel's precise tolerances and operational ranges."

Slowly, Yordis nodded.  "Fine, fine.  You may proceed."  She reached for her credit case.

"Drone J9-D9 states that payment will be due upon completion of the reset and inspection, neither before nor during.  While the work is in process, Drone J9-D9 recommends using this landing pit's observation lounge, from which you may supervise the work as it progresses."

"Thank you," Yordis said, turning away with Nomen as Zaxik'krik began coordinating the Hatchling droids to start the repairs.

"Worst.  Protocol droid.  Ever! " Yordis grumbled as she flung herself onto the couch.  The arrangement had apparently been pulled whole out of some model of Corellian light freighter; it was basically identical to the crew lounge aboard Blood Raven .

"The J9 Worker Drone was a galactic flop for Roche Engineering," Nomen admitted.  "They tried to compete with Cybot Galactica's 3PO and TC series, but got utterly crushed."

"Easy to see why," Yordis snorted.  "The appearance or the personality alone would vape it in the galactic market.  Put them together and you have the databank definition of 'abject failure.'  Why does it even keep that thing around?"

Nomen shrugged.  "Brand loyalty, maybe.  It's still a well-built droid.  Verpine machines may not always be aesthetically pleasing to non-Verpine, but they do what they're built to do better than anything else."  Nomen paused, considering Zaxik'krik's sense as they'd talked to its droid.  "I think Zaxik'krik is holding out hope.  That people coming through its landing pit will see how good the droid really is and want one of their own."

"And instead it's showcasing exactly why they should spend their credits on literally anything else .  It's a protocol droid that can't even protocol right!  Prissy and pretentious as they are, a 3PO would have cut all the inane redundancy out of those conversations."

"Maybe Zaxik'krik likes knowing what it says is being relayed accurately and completely."

"We pay for its convenience?"

"If you want to look at it that way."

Yordis rested her helmeted head in her hands.  "Once we're secure in hyperspace, can you do that aura thing again?  This whole planet is giving me a headache."

"It would be my pleasure."

Chapter Text

"You're sure about this?" Yordis asked, checking the power setting on her blasters for the third time.

"Yes," Nomen answered, flicking his wrist to pop his lightsaber into his hand.  "It'll be good for both of us."

They stood in Blood Raven 's crew lounge, the largest open space in the ship.  Aside from the seating arrangement and holotable on one side and the minibar on the other, the room had mounting points that could accommodate several other entertainments and diversions.  Yordis had never bothered to add any.

"Alright, if you're sure," Yordis said hesitantly.

"If you're sure those can fire just sting blasts."

Yordis checked the power settings again.  "They can and they are."

Nomen ignited his lightsaber.  "Then let's do this."

Without warning, Yordis opened fire.  Nomen's blade buzzed and crackled as it swung through the air, swatting the sting bolts aside.

Yordis took a moment to admire Nomen's skill.  The speed, elegance, and certainty of his movements was beautiful as he effortlessly deflected her opening salvo.

But she wasn't here to admire his abilities.  She was here to test them.

Yordis brought her blasters together, squeezing off two shots each straight at the center of Nomen's mass.  Then she began walking them apart, her left blaster tracking towards his right shoulder, her right towards his left hip.  Nomen caught the first four shots with two slight shifts of his blade, then had to move more and more, over greater and greater distances, to keep the sting bolts from reaching him.

Nomen fell into the Force, trusting it to guide his limbs and guard his body.  He'd always excelled at this particular skill.  Seeing the universe through the eyes of the Force already, he had only to extend his perception to a new dimension, perceiving not what is , but what is about to be .  With the Force flowing through him, he moved to guard against each shot before it was fired.

But while the Force is unlimited and infinite, Nomen was not.  Even with the Force as his ally, pushing his body to speed and precision far beyond its normal limits, the crude matter of his physical being could be pushed only so far.  In the end persistence and volume won out over Force-empowered speed and prescience.

Yordis sprayed three shots from each of her blasters across Nomen's body.  He intercepted four of them. The fifth hit his left knee, the sixth his right bicep.

Nomen yelped and hopped in place, spinning in a circle as he tried to keep his balance, his knee refusing to bear weight while the sting bolt throbbed pain within it.  Yordis giggled.

"You look ridiculous," she said.  "Or is this the latest Jedi dance craze?"

"Ow," Nomen replied, finally getting his body back under control.  "On a few levels now, thank you very much."  He drew the Force into his body, using it to push the pain away.  It vanished from his perceptions, but was still there, fading normally as his nerves slowly quieted their protests.  "How long was that?"

"You don't know?"

"My perception was of the next, not the now."

"Okay.  About half an hour."

"I can do better."  Nomen reignited his lightsaber.  "Ready to go again?"

Yordis twirled her blasters, then fired.

For the next nine days, they spent a few hours each in their unique form of sparring.  Nomen was initially displeased that each individual session remained stable around the half-hour mark, but eventually realized he and Yordis were consistently improving together.

"I'm having to shoot faster, farther apart, and in more complex sprays to get through your defense," she said after Nomen broached the subject with her.  "You're easily defending against my old tricks.  You're getting better, and I have to keep getting better to beat you."

Nomen nodded, pleased Yordis' more logical analysis matched what he felt in the Force.  "We still only know how we match up against each other, though.  No idea how we'd fare against the galaxy at large."

"Well, we don't exactly have any spare Jedi laying about for me to practice with, and I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of anyone else shooting at you."

"But you're okay with shooting at me?"

"When I shoot at you, it's out of love."  Yordis' sense exploded.  "As my Foundling, I mean.  And friend.  Partner.  Good teammate, I mean."

"I know what you mean," Nomen replied soothingly, trying not to be overwhelmed by Yordis' sudden outburst.  He couldn't even discern all it contained, there was so much.

Her will exerted itself, and the explosion vanished as though it had never been.  But she had felt it, and she knew Nomen had, too.  For just an instant, she almost felt she could feel him feeling it.

Nomen noticed the echo, too.  Nervousness rose within him.  "Do. . . do you feel this?" he asked quietly.

"Feel what?" Yordis replied quickly.

"This.  A connection growing between us, a bond deepening and strengthening in the Force."

"I don't feel the Force."

"All that lives–"

"All that lives is the Force, I know.  I just. . . I don't know what I'm feeling, what you think I'm supposed to be feeling."

"I can't tell you that.  I can tell you that opening yourself up to it will tell you."

"I. . ." Yordis trailed off.  "I don't think I can do that.  I can't. . . I don't connect with people, not like that."

"You're lying," Nomen said.

"Excuse me?" Yordis replied coldly.

"I saw you in the Covert, the bonds you share with your Clan and they with you.  How relaxed and open you are around them."

"They're my people."

Nomen paused.  "I'm your people now, too."

Yordis was silent a moment.  "Yes," she said softly.  "I suppose you are."

A two-tone beeping filled the ship.  "We're coming up on Korriz," Yordis said, the door within herself she'd been cautiously easing open slamming shut.  "We'd best get ready."

As they headed for the cockpit, Nomen sensed that door within her, firmly closed, unknown potential pressing against it, yearning for release.  And tightly shut though it was, there was a crack. . . no, not a crack, but a keyhole.

Nomen sensed that while he held the key, the decision to use it was not his.  It belonged to Yordis.

He was a Jedi.  He would be patient, and he would accept whatever future the Force flowed into.

Yordis inserted Blood Raven into Korriz's atmosphere, cutting out the sublight engines and engaging the repulsorlifts.  She locked the northern mountains of the eastern continent into the flight computer.

Korriz was an oddly pleasant world, all things considered.  Type I atmosphere and within standard gravity.  Rugged mountains, high plains, and deep, swift rivers dominated the landscape, hardy green plants sharing the plains with drifts of snow as the temperature fluctuated approximately ten degrees above and below freezing.  A bit on the chilly side, but there were far worse places that were far more populous.

That, at least, wouldn't be a problem.  The sensors had picked up no sign of habitation, technology, or advanced civilization anywhere on the planet.  There could be nomadic tribes too primitive to be detectable, but even if they were present, Yordis doubted they'd be a problem in the area she was searching.

Arriving at the target mountain range, she programmed a search pattern into the flight computer and turned her attention to the scanner.  Nomen sat quietly in the copilot seat, letting her be about her work.

An hour later, she had it.  "There.  A valley between three peaks, large enough to land four ships our size, if the pilots are very good.  Lots of refined metal and open passages underneath the peak I'm designating Aurek.  A lot of that rock has the look of old, settled, eroded rubble, too."

"Sounds promising," Nomen said.

"So glad you concur," Yordis answered with warm sarcasm.

The grassy valley with its drifts of snow may have been a tight fit for four Blood Raven s, but Yordis had no problem setting the ship down. "I am, after all, the best pilot on this planet," she murmured to herself.

"Yes, yes you are," Nomen answered.

"Shut up and come along," Yordis shot back, standing.

In the cargo bay, Nomen and Yordis ran checks on their armor's systems, Nomen's new Miraluka datapad telling him everything was functioning perfectly.  Yordis broke down and reassembled all three of their blasters, ensuring they were in perfect working order.  Nomen observed closely, anticipating surprising Yordis soon by being able to do it himself.  Finally, Yordis loaded up two backpacks with field rations, water, rechargers for their armor, light tools, and other equipment.

"Stay on the ship," she ordered Gripe.

"Affirmative," the ASP replied, turning to watch them leave.

Blip was waiting for them at the hatch.  "Lock down the ship once we're gone," Yordis said.  Blip tootled a question.  "When I tell you to, obviously."  Blip beeped sourly.  "Nonsense.  When have I ever not come back?"  Blip blatted.  "Not for this, there isn't.  Just talk to the holotable or something if you get bored."  Blip warbled indignantly.

Nomen patted the droid's angled dome.  "We'll be fine, little buddy, don't you worry."  Blip twittered happily.

"Stop seducing my droid," Yordis said in annoyance.  Nomen shrugged silently.

Turning, Yordis led them out the hatch, down the ramp, and onto the surface of Korriz.

"So," she asked as she and Nomen took in the planet with their vastly different senses.  "Any indigenous katarns, sand panthers, or maalraas we should be worried about?"

"I don't sense anything out of the ordinary.  At least, nothing like Dxun."

"Good, I suppose.  Come on."

"And we're not bringing Gripe or the hoversled?"

"My, you catch on quick," she said, voice again warmly sarcastic.  "The rubble looks pretty rough, and we have no idea the condition of the interior.  I'd rather scout it ourselves, see how far we can get, and if Gripe and the sled can traverse to anything worth bringing out."

"Makes sense."

They climbed the ancient rubble, noting a few places where old durasteel ramparts poked through, worn and weathered by the passage of time.  The rubble almost covered the entrance, a once-grand durasteel archway, now clogged with rock and the sediment of ages, leading into the mountain itself.

"Not what I pictured for a Mandalorian fort," Nomen said.

"Mandalore the Amazing probably didn't build it, just repurposed it.  Korriz was an old Sith world; those ancient Sith loved building castles and standings and temples and academies anywhere they could."

"The Jedi and the Republic razed as many of them as they could find."

"And the Sith raised many more besides," Yordis replied.

They had to squirm through the rubble-choked entrance, their beskar scraping against rock and durasteel.  Once through, a narrow corridor opened up into a large chamber, pillars holding up the cracked and crumbling ceiling.  The left wall and roof had collapsed, as had some of the far end.  Yordis made immediately for that area, Nomen following cautiously.

Yordis ran a hand along some of the broken rock.  "Carbon scoring, melting, and blast points consistent with laser and turbolaser cannon barrage.  Someone definitely tried to violently bury this place."  She brushed aside some of the dirt and dust.  "There's something else."  Shifting a few of the larger pieces, she uncovered something different beneath.  "Smashed beneath the rest of this was something made of some kind of extremely smooth black stone.  Odd glyphs carved in it.  Might have been an ornate table, or an altar of some kind.  Maybe a throne?"

Nomen stretched out with his senses, but could detect nothing unusual.  If the Force had ever echoed in this place, darkly or otherwise, those echoes had long since faded.

Yordis drew her datapad and collected a few images of the rubble and the rubble beneath.  She then led them to the three doorways on the right-hand wall.  The one by the collapsed end and the one near the entrance led to rubble-strewn chambers, anything they may have once held destroyed in the doom that had claimed this place.  The middle door led to a corridor winding deeper into the mountain.

Something undefined that had been bothering Nomen since they entered finally clicked.  "Where are the bodies?"

"What?" Yordis asked.

"You called this 'The Last Redoubt of Mandalore the Amazing.'  That implies a battle that Mandalore lost.  So where are the dead?"

Yordis considered that.  "The victors probably removed their dead for whatever they considered proper disposal.  The Mandalorians were likely pushed deeper into the fort before their defeat."

"Pushed deeper into the fort?  Without suffering any casualties?" Nomen asked skeptically.

"It's been over three thousand years.  Plenty of time for bodies to decay to nothing."  Though now that he mentioned it, this did seem emptier than any battlefield she'd ever explored.

"True beskar doesn't corrode," Nomen reminded her.

"Come on."  Yordis was not prone to uneasiness or jumping at shadows, but Nomen's observations had her. . . Not 'unsettled,' she told herself firmly.  Perhaps 'additionally cautious.'

The corridor exhibited damage from the assault as well, requiring them to maneuver around or clamber over fallen debris.  Yordis had been correct, Gripe and the hoversled never would have made it even through the front door.  Excavating the site would require heavy equipment and lots of hard work.

After several twists and turns, they encountered their first major obstacle.  The rock of the mountain had shifted, either from the bombardment or natural geological activity.  A crevice had opened, with the result that the corridor they were in ended at a seemingly-bottomless chasm to continue on the other side, some twenty meters distant and ten meters above.

"Looks like this is the end of the run," Nomen said.

"The Corellian hell it is," Yordis replied, surveying the opposite side with her helmet's sensors.

"And how do you propose we cross this gap and get up there?  We don't have jetpacks."  Nomen paused.  "We don't have jetpacks.  Why don't we have jetpacks?  Isn't that a Mandalorian thing?"

"You're stereotyping," Yordis said absently, focused on her observations.  Yes, that should work nicely.  "Wait here."  With that, Yordis extended her right arm, aimed carefully, and fired her whipcord.

The grapnel burrowed into the stone above the corridor, its microcomputer and her armor's systems confirming it was lodged sufficiently to support her weight.  Pulling on her arm, she lifted her feet from the floor and swung to the opposite wall.  Pressing the stud to reel in the whipcord, she rappelled up the wall and into the hall.  Once she was sure of her footing, she disengaged the grapnel and finished reeling in the whipcord.

"That's great for you," Nomen said through their helmet comlinks.  "But I don't have one of those."

Yordis extended her arm towards Nomen, aiming carefully and bracing herself.  "Catch it."

"Wait, what do you mean, 'catch it?'"

"Use those vaunted Jedi reflexes," Yordis said, then fired her whipcord again.

Nomen did, indeed, catch it, after about two meters had passed him by.  The excess wrapped around his waist as it was designed to do.  "Now, hold on and swing to the other side."  Yordis grunted softly as she took Nomen's weight.  "Now I'll reel in the rope, just climb on up."

Yordis' arm was protesting as Nomen neared the top.  He released the rope with his hands, trusting the length wrapped around his waist to hold him while he scrabbled for purchase.  Yordis wound up snaking her arm around Nomen's waist as the cord retracted, and the pair staggered to a safe if undignified halt against the wall.

"See?" Yordis said, breathing heavily.  "No problem."

"Then I don't want to know what for you is a problem," Nomen replied.

After catching their breath, Yordis and Nomen proceeded down the corridor.  More wrecked and collapsed side rooms were revealed before they entered another large chamber.

Yordis motioned at the detritus across the floor.  "Mystery solved.  There's your bodies.  And remains, and equipment, and. . . oh, kriff."

The last was spoken as she noticed what had occupied Nomen's attention.  The ceiling was coated with living, rustling forms, which were now screeching and making threatening displays at the Mandalorian intruders.  Some local variety of wingmaw, Yordis surmised, social reptavian predators, about a meter in wingspan.  Aggressive and territorial.

And she and Nomen had just blundered straight into an entire colony.

The wingmaws launched into the air from the chamber's ceiling, screeching and flapping, clawed hindlimbs extended and toothy mouths open to rip and tear.

The predators would prefer to kill and eat the intruders with a minimum of fuss.  They'd settle for driving them away.  But the only place Nomen and Yordis could run was back to the chasm, and there was no way they could cross it before the wingmaws caught them.  Even if they could, the reptavians could pursue them all the way back to the rubble-choked entrance.

With no way to retreat, the only option was to fight.  Yordis drew her blasters and opened fire.

Nomen was getting quite skilled with his blaster, but he couldn't hope to hit so many small, moving, flying targets quickly enough to keep from being overwhelmed.  He brought his lightsaber out into a whirling amethyst arc of death.

The wingmaws were beyond hope of counting, diving and screeching and reaching for the pair with their deadly natural weapons, but Yordis and Nomen were Mandalorian and Jedi, and neither would fall easily.  They trusted their skills, their training, their instincts, and each other.  Nomen cut down three beasts diving at Yordis' back, she shot two angling for his saberarm.  A barrage of fire from her blasters drove back one front, he picked up a dozen body parts with the Force and flung them out to disrupt another.

Suddenly plunged into battle for their very lives, the remaining barrier between them crumbled, and they fought as one.

Violently territorial as they were, even the instincts of the wingmaws must realize at some point survival is the ultimate goal of every lifeform.  When only a handful of the horde remained, they scrabbled through small passages in the damaged ceiling and into the open sky beyond, away from this strange threat they could not overcome.

Chapter Text

Yordis and Nomen remained on alert, scouring the room with their respective senses, making sure the wingmaws were actually retreating, and not withdrawing in preparation for an ambush.  Many of the galaxy's predatory beasts could be remarkably sophisticated about such things.

"I sense no more danger," Nomen said after a moment, closing down and stowing his lightsaber.

"Yes," Yordis murmured.  "I feel it, too."  She paused.  "Actually, I don't, but. . . yet I do?"  She grunted in frustration.  "I'm not making any sense."

"You are to me," Nomen replied.  "I think it's an echo.  You feel yourself sensing my perception."

"What is this?  What just happened?"

"I'm not sure.  But I think that, suddenly finding ourselves in a desperate fight for our lives against overwhelming odds, we instinctively reached for each other.  To survive, you had to trust me, and when you did, the bond growing between us matured.  You lowered your guard and let me in."

"So did you," she said quietly, not sure why, but knowing it felt right to say it.

Nomen hesitated.  "Yes, I suppose I did."  He'd been so focused on the distance between them Yordis had been enforcing, he hadn't realized he'd been doing the same.  A sliver of the fear, the lessons of the Jedi engraved fundamentally in his mind, his inexperience and remaining immaturity formed barriers reflecting Yordis' own.

Those barriers were down now, but not gone.

"But we fought for our lives before," Yordis said.  "The maalraas?  Nothing like this happened."

"We didn't really know each other then.  Didn't particularly trust each other.  That battle was but a step in our shared journey, as was this.  A big step though it may be."

Yordis was silent for a time.  "So where do we go from here?" she asked softly.

"I don't know," Nomen answered just as softly.  "That is for us to decide.  Together."

Taking in the chamber recently evacuated by living wingmaws and littered with dead ones, something sprung into Yordis' mind.  "You didn't sense them.  You didn't spot the danger and warn me.  Why?"

Nomen considered that, wondering the same thing since the wingmaws had surprised him.  "This is different from anything I've done before," he said.  "Exploring caves and underground passages.  I was focused on the rock and walls around us, trying to spot danger in them and not get lost.  I wasn't looking for wingmaws, so I didn't see them."

Good to know Nomen's strange perception had limits.  "Let me worry about the rocks and tunnels," she said.  "I do have a fair amount of experience in that."

"Of course," Nomen replied.

Kneeling down, Yordis began surveying the cluttered floor.  "Looks like, after they moved in, the wingmaws collected whatever bits of shiny caught their fancy from the rest of the complex.  Frequently still attached to the remains of their owners.  Lots of bits of old armor, blasters, and so on."

"So this is where all the bodies went, then?"

"I think so."  Yordis picked up a pauldron and examined it.  "Some genuine beskar here, but most is – was – standard durasteel and plastoid."

"So the victors didn't reclaim their dead."

"No, it's not that.  A lot of it still has distinct Mandalorian styling.  I think Mandalore the Amazing was abandoned before this fight by most real Mandalorians, leaving him mostly second-raters and wish-to-bes."

"But true Mandalorians must answer the call of Mandalore.  This is the Way."

Yordis scoffed.  "A Mandalore who leads his people into a hopeless battle against inferior warriors is no true Mandalore, and should not be followed."

"I guess that makes sense," Nomen replied, for lack of anything better.  "So, is that it, then?  Can we get out of here?"

"We can't leave yet," Yordis said, equally excited and offended.  "We haven't found the remains of Mandalore the Amazing yet."

"How can you tell?"

"His armor was supposedly very distinctive.  Had a curved crest on either side of the helmet, sweeping up at the back."

"Sounds ostentatious."

"I think he thought it was charismatic."  Yordis stood and gestured towards another corridor leading off the wingmaw chamber.  "Let's keep moving."

Grumbling to himself, Nomen followed.

Partway down,  the corridor dead-ended in an impassable tangle of durasteel panels and struts, fallen from the collapsed ceiling.  Nearby, Yordis spotted an unusually intact door.  Made of heavy durasteel, it looked nearly like a starship-grade blast door.  Yordis tried it, but the power to open it was long depleted, the door itself wedged shut through centuries upon centuries of disuse.  "Nomen, can you?"

Drawing his lightsaber, Nomen carefully cut the door open, using the Force to move it out into the corridor and lean it against the opposite wall.  Yordis entered, Nomen following.

The room beyond was gloomy, lit only by light spilling in from the now-open door.  Empty racks for weapons and armor lined the walls.  In the middle of the room was a large metal case, two meters to a side.

"Baradium warheads," Yordis said, examining the case.  "For use in ship-to-ship missiles.  A starfighter armed with these could cripple a Star Destroyer in one salvo."

"Baradium explosives are highly restricted, if not outright illegal."

"Always have been.  Too powerful, too easy to make, too unstable. . . oh, no."  Yordis and Nomen picked up a high-pitched hum within the case, growing steadily louder.  "Speaking of unstable, we've altered the environment in the room.  The baradium and explosive triggers were already decaying, and now it's accelerating.  If I don't defuse it, the whole stockpile will blow."  Yordis pried a panel off the case and began reaching for parts.

"Shouldn't we be running?" Nomen asked.

"No good.  Explosion this big will bring the whole complex down on us.  No idea how long we have, but not long enough to get outside."

"Then let me help."

"You have no idea what to do!" Yordis objected.

"No, I don't," Nomen admitted.  "But the Force does."

Yordis ran a quick calculation in her head.  She was already fairly certain that, even going as fast as she could, she would be unable to disarm all the devices before one of them detonated, setting off all the others.  Nomen's aid offered a chance of accelerating the explosion, but a greater chance of stopping it successfully.

"Other side," she said.

Nomen darted around the device and yanked open another panel.  Danger swirled around specific components in his sense.  With speed and certainty, his hands moved in, disconnecting and removing piece after piece.  He had no idea what he was doing, or why, or how, any more than he understood how a specific flick of his lightsaber would send a specific blaster bolt bouncing off it and into a target he'd highlighted in his mind.  His hands were the hands of the Force, and he entrusted his fate to them.

Seconds ticked by, the hum growing steadily louder, interrupted by the click and snick of Nomen and Yordis at work.  Seconds rolled into minutes, and both accumulated a pile of components at their feet.  The hum still grew, though not as rapidly.  Heat built within the case, stinging their hands even through their temperature-control body gloves.  Neither spoke, focused on their efforts.

Eventually, the hum stopped growing, and soon started dropping.  Both were in the case past their elbows, reaching around and through components to reach the pieces they needed to evade death.

Finally, the hum died away, Yordis plucking the last failing detonation trigger from its assembly.  She heaved a sigh of relief.

"Well," Nomen said, likewise breathing heavily from sheer tension.  "That was an adventure."

Yordis nodded, going over the case again to make sure the baradium harbored no concealed intent to detonate.  "So, what next?" she asked herself, considering her options.

"Looks like this really is the end of the run," Nomen replied.  "The corridor is blocked, this room is completely enclosed, and I didn't see any other paths."

"You're right," Yordis said, and her tone gave Nomen a very bad feeling.  "We'll have to make one."

"Excuse me, 'make one?'  You want me to just carve through that blockage?"

"No, not at all.  It's holding the ceiling up.  If we just remove it, who knows how much more will collapse in on us?  What we need to do is bore through in such a way as to leave a load-bearing structure above us.  Luckily, we have a serviceable tool for the job to hand."

"You can't be serious."

"You know the fun thing about baradium explosives?" Yordis asked, kneeling at the open case.  "As the baradium detonates, it generates a particle field around itself.  The size of the field and the explosion are determined by the amount used.  It self-contains its own explosion, destroying everything within and nothing outside."

"Fascinating, but how does that help?"

"A baradium explosion is primarily heat," Yordis said, freeing one of the warheads from within the case.  "Hence 'thermal detonator.'  Now, decayed as this baradium is, it won't explode as destructively."  She reached back into the case.  "The formation and collapse of the particle field, and thus the 'speed' of the explosion, can be slowed by. . ." she trailed off, tugging at something within.  "Ah-ha!"  She pulled out a small tank and some tubing.  "Silontplex.  Old engine coolant, very toxic, hasn't been used in two hundred years.  At least partly because, in a badly-built missile, it interferes with the detonation of the baradium warhead."

"This sounds insane."

"Not at all," Yordis replied, beginning to disassemble the warhead.  "The silontplex will slow the explosion.  The heat of the exploding baradium will soften the durasteel, the expanding particle field will push it up into a load-bearing arch."

"We nearly died almost setting this stuff off by accident, worked our butts off stopping it from exploding, and now you want to detonate it deliberately?"

"That's about the size of it," Yordis agreed.  "Now, we need a hemispherical detonation, so we need – there, a configurable lamanium plate."  She fiddled with something on the warhead, and the cup-shaped piece slowly flattened into a plate with an ear-splitting groan.  "Shapes baradium explosions for maximum desired impact."

"Yordis, please, don't do this."

She looked up at Nomen.  "Is that an urging in the Force, or just you being unaccustomed to archeology with high explosives?"

"You're about to detonate a jury-rigged bomb from a two thousand year old missile designed to kill capital ships.  Do you need an urging from the Force to tell you that's a bad plan ?"

"Trust me," Yordis said, gathering up her supplies.

At the tangled mass of durasteel blocking their way, Yordis set the lamanium plate on the floor, then delicately placed the baradium crystal on top.  Holding her breath, she sprinkled the baradium with the silontplex, then moved back along the corridor.  She motioned Nomen farther back than the already generous distance he'd put between himself and Yordis' insanity.

"Alright," she said, drawing her blaster and adjusting the power setting.  "Here goes."  She fired a sting bolt at the baradium.

The reaction was less impressive than Nomen had anticipated.  Then again, he'd anticipated sudden vaporizing death.

Slowly, a perfect expanding semicircle of the blockage began to glow red, shifting as the particle field pushed upwards against it.  The blockage shifted alarmingly, but remained in place as a dome slowly opened at the bottom.  Eventually, the "explosion" stopped and the durasteel began to cool.  There was now a knee-high, perfectly spherical divot at the base of the blocked corridor.

"Perfect!  Told you there was nothing to worry about."

"I guess one shouldn't doubt a Mandalorian when it comes to explosives," Nomen admitted, shaking the tension out of his body.

"Four, maybe five more, and we'll be through!"

The tension slammed back with a vengeance.  " Five more ?"

"Trust me," Yordis said, darting back into the armory.

"I want to go home," Nomen mumbled.

Four of Yordis' improvised demolition charges later, and they were through the obstruction and into the corridor beyond.

Water dripped from the ceiling with increasing frequency as they continued, pattering on the rusty durasteel floor.  They'd made it about ten meters down the corridor when an ominous creak and sudden flare of danger assaulted Nomen's senses.  He had enough time to mutter "Oh, frell," before the floor gave way beneath them.

Two meters down, their feet thudded against a rocky slope, worn smooth by water erosion and covered in a thin layer of fine, slick slurry.  Their feet shot out from under them, slamming them on to their backs, knocking the breath from their lungs as they careened down the slope.

The muddy chute twisted and turned, carrying them deep into the bowels of the mountain.  Its slope varied, never quite steep enough to send them into freefall or shallow enough to give them a chance to stop.

Finally, they tumbled into a large cave, filled with the sounds of dripping and running water.  Nomen staggered to his feet.  "Leave the rock and tunnel to you, you said," he complained, stretching his back.  A series of pops sounded from his spine.  "Ow.  I know what I'm doing, you said."  He flexed his twinging right knee.

"We're alive, aren't we?" Yordis asked acidly, standing carefully.  Her own body was as battered as Nomen's, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of complaining about it.

"Let me get back to you on that," Nomen answered, gingerly rotating his right shoulder in a circle.

Yordis flicked on her helmet light and began looking around.  "Nomen, your lamp?"

"I can see fine."

"Wookiee for you," she replied sardonically.  " I can't."  Sheepishly, Nomen fumbled for the trigger for his helmet light.

It was definitely a natural cavern, far below the artificial, excavated tunnels of the fortress above.  Along the far wall flowed a swift underground river, vanishing from and into enclosed tunnels on either side of the cave.  Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, making the floor wet and muddy.

Yordis was looking for a way out when she was interrupted by a loud splash and bellowing roar.

From the river emerged a large, reptilian beast, four meters long from snout to the tip of its lashing twin tails.  Its low, barrel-like body was supported by four stubby but muscular limbs.  It was covered in thick, leathery scales, its mouth packed with curved, serrated teeth.  Still bellowing its mighty roar, the creature charged.

Yordis drew her blasters and opened fire.  The bolts scorched the thickly-armored hide, the beast roared in pain, but did not slow or stop.  Yordis backpedaled, pouring fire into the beast, desperate to bring it down before it reached her.

Nomen also drew and fired, but quickly sensed their blasters weren't powerful enough to penetrate sufficiently to seriously injure the beast before it got them.  He executed another move he'd been practicing aboard Blood Raven .  He tossed his blaster from his right hand to his left, drew his lightsaber, and leapt at the beast, all in one smooth, fluid motion.

Whether it was the blazing beam of the lightsaber blade, its threatening buzz, or some keen predatory instinct, the creature detected Nomen's charge.  With surprising grace and agility, it turned its body and brought one of its tails up to slam into Nomen's chest, swatting him away.  Nomen crashed against the cave wall and slumped to the floor.

But this victory had cost the creature.  Nomen's lightsaber had caught the beast's tail as it had caught him, effortlessly shearing nearly half a meter off its end.  The creature howled in agony.

Yordis saw the opening and instantly took it, firing a rocket dart from her bracer into the beast's wide-open mouth.  The dart penetrated the soft flesh of its palate before detonating.  The creature's head vanished in a shower of meaty shrapnel.

"Nomen!" she cried, rushing over to him.  "Are you alright?"

Nomen grunted and exclaimed in pain.  "Now can we get out of here?" he asked, voice rough and hollow.

"If we can get out of here," Yordis agreed.  "How badly are you hurt?"

"Pretty sure at least some of my ribs are cracked."

Yordis plucked at Nomen's chestplate.  "Right, let's get you out of this."

"Is it safe?" Nomen asked, wary of being attacked by another underground river monster while out of his armor.

"Yes," Yordis replied.

"You're sure?"

"You want me to explain, or fix your ribs?"

With many grunts, gasps, and cries of pain, they got Nomen out of the upper half of his beskar'gam .  Yordis plucked a bacta injector from her medpac.  "This is going to hurt," she warned.  Nomen cried out but remained still as she injected the bacta against his ribs, where it could begin mending the fractures.  Once that was done, she liberally placed bacta patches on his chest, already blossoming into a massive, deep, colorful bruise.

"Alright," Yordis said, checking her treatment again.  "You rest up a bit, I'll start looking for a way out."

"Better," Nomen said, breathing deeply, trying to run through his Jedi pain-blocking techniques.  "I'll slip into a hibernation trance.  It should speed up my healing a bit.  I'll come out in an hour, or if you say the words 'Nomen, wake up.'"

Yordis paused, then decided now was not the time to press for details.  "Alright.  Have a good. . . Force nap, I guess."

Nomen drifted off into what appeared to be sleep, then deeper still, to the point Yordis grew concerned he'd died.  Then she saw his chest rise, almost imperceptibly slowly.  Curious, she felt for his pulse, and had to wait several seconds before she felt a single surge of blood move from his heart to his brain.

Fascinating .

She stood, regarding her Foundling Jedi partner.  The last time she'd seen him naked from the waist up she'd also been treating his injuries, and he had changed dramatically since then.  His muscles had gained new tone and definition, rippling beneath skin grown paler and softer under the protection of beskar .  When she'd first met him, she'd thought of him as a young man, and as she'd come to know him, had started to realize he was still a boy in many ways.

Now, he was a man.  Or at least well on the path to becoming one.

Yordis looked long at his face, completely relaxed in deep hibernation, not put off in the slightest by his empty eye sockets.  She hoped he wouldn't completely discard his boyish innocence.  It was too intrinsic a part of him, she felt, and losing it would somehow diminish him.

Yordis shook her head.  Turning away from her odd thoughts, she began searching for a usable exit.

Somehow, despite the hibernation trance stealing all but the deepest levels of unconscious thought, it still left one with the sense of the passage of time.  Thus, Nomen knew as he emerged from the trance it had been precisely one hour since he had entered it.  His senses instantly, instinctively locked on to Yordis, resting nearby.  She was as calm and collected as ever, no trace of alarm, surprise, pain, or despair.  If anything, she was a bit bored.

Nomen grunted as he sat up.  His ribs felt better, but even bacta and rudimentary Jedi healing techniques could only do so much so fast.  He could only hope Yordis had found a way out that wasn't too strenuous.

The calm boredom of her sense told him she had found a way.  Or she was very good at deeply burying the fear of an imminent lingering demise.

Yordis stirred as she heard Nomen grunt.  "Feeling better?"

"A bit," Nomen answered, gently touching the bacta patches on his chest.  Their painkillers and his Jedi abilities were doing their part, but there were limits when every breath wanted to feel like roaring fire.  Yordis approached and helped him struggle back into his armor.  "You found a way out."

"Up there," Yordis answered, pointing at the ceiling.  About three meters above them, a small crevice opened, maybe a half-meter wide.  "I scanned it with the electrobinoculars.  There's light at the top.  Not sure if it leads outside or just to a lit portion of the Redoubt."

"Climbing?" Nomen asked.  "Seriously?"

"It's that or swim the river," Yordis replied evenly.  "The underground, probably icy-cold river.  Which is a game trail for at least one massive reptilian amphibious predator."  She finished fastening Nomen's chestplate.  "In our armor."

Nomen considered that.  "So, climbing."

"We don't have the kind of equipment we'd normally need, but it's just wide enough all the way up for a rock chimney.  Ever done that before?"

"Never even heard of it."

Yordis smirked under her helmet.  "Then watch and learn, my young Padawan."  Yordis reslung her backpack so it hung low beneath her posterior.  After finding the crevice and while waiting for Nomen to come out of his trance, she'd checked the contents of both packs.  Much had been damaged or destroyed in their long slide or where Nomen had hit the wall, but she'd consolidated what was worth carrying in her bag.

Aiming carefully, Yordis fired her whipcord up into the crevice, then winched herself up.  Jamming her feet against one wall and her back against the other, she wedged herself firmly in place before disengaging the grapnel.  "See what I'm doing?" she called down.

Nomen focused on his perception of Yordis' body and armor against the rock.  "Using the tension of your body to wedge yourself in?"

"Yes," Yordis replied, relieved.  She hadn't been sure if Nomen could perceive what she was doing well enough to mimic it.  "Now, watch how I climb.  Separate your feet a bit, shift the tension, slide your back up a bit."  She demonstrated as she spoke.  "Brace with your arms to get your back moving if you have to."  Once she was about two meters up, she stopped and braced herself.  "Alright, I think I'm stable enough to haul you up with the whipcord."

"Don't," Nomen replied.  "Just scoot up another meter or two."  Yordis complied.  Gathering the Force into his body, wincing in anticipatory agony, Nomen jumped.

He shot up as though fired from a launcher.  As the Force ebbed and gravity resumed control, some five meters off the floor, Nomen shoved out with his legs, jamming himself firmly in the rocky crevice.

He gasped loudly as fire exploded in his chest.  "Are you alright?" Yordis asked, alarmed.

"No," Nomen grunted.  "But it's this or spend two weeks down there, right?"

"And we don't have supplies for that."

"Wonder if that river cave dragon is edible?" Nomen asked.

"With what shall we cook it, dear?"

Nomen grimaced.  If unknown alien cave monster sounded like a poor dinner option, raw unknown alien cave monster sounded even worse.  "Right, then," he said, trying to fight back the agony in his chest.  "Up we go."

The climb was long, and slow, and terrifying, and agonizingly painful.  Every spasm from his injured ribs threatened to loosen the tension keeping Nomen from plummeting to his doom.  The unfamiliar activity took focus from blocking his pain with the Force, which in turn stole focus from his attempt to climb.  Several times he had to ask Yordis to stop and rest, and thrice he nearly gave up.

I am a Jedi.  I am of Clan Cadera.  I will not be defeated by some rock and a few sore ribs.

Yordis could all but feel Nomen's pain, his flagging stamina and rising determination.  Less than halfway up, she was certain only sheer force of will was keeping him moving.  For her part, she tried to keep herself open to him, fill herself with quiet calm and clear determination, to beat back and bottle up her own growing concern and fear for him.

Nomen lost all sense of time.  He existed only within fear and pain and exhaustion and exertion.  The fear was easy, he simply let it pass through and out of and beyond him, as he had been trained.  The pain and exhaustion and exertion were more difficult, and Nomen drew heavily on the Force to combat them.  But he knew all too well that while the Force was infinite, his ability to draw on it was not.  When that failed him, it would all be over.  He could only hope the shaft was more finite than he.

Finally, Yordis reached the top and clambered over the edge, turning to reach down to Nomen as he climbed the last few meters with agonizing slowness.  Her whipcord had long been ready to try and catch him should he fall.

With her help, Nomen rolled over the lip of the crevice and onto a smooth, durasteel floor.  He panted for breath, no longer trying to fight the fire in his chest, just doing his best to ignore it.

"Are you alright?" Yordis asked, kneeling over him with concern.

"Wizard," Nomen answered sarcastically.

"You rest up a bit," she said tenderly.  "It seems safe enough here."

"What, no descendant of someone's pet rancor?  No ancient Sith Lord just revived from stasis?  No ticking proton bomb Mandalore set up to take his enemies with him?"

"'Rest' means 'stop talking,'" Yordis said, not unkindly.  While Nomen recovered from their latest ordeal, she took stock of the room.

It was quite large, and appeared at one time to have been an opulent bedroom, though the furnishings had long ago succumbed to the ravages of time.  The doorway out was caved in and collapsed, utterly impassable.  The opposite wall was a great transparisteel window, looking out over a snowy plateau near the peak.  The late afternoon sun of Korriz streamed through, illuminating the space.  Near that window was a gigantic bed, easily large enough to sleep four, more if they were all inordinately fond of each other.  The bed had once hovered about half a meter off the floor, though the repulsorlifts or their power source had long ago failed, bringing the bed crashing down and disrupting its contents.

On the bed a mummified corpse had sat, now toppled over on its side.  It wore old but distinctly Mandalorian armor, painted deep, rich blue and trimmed with gold, completely unblemished.  The helmet, with its backcurved and upswept crests, rested at the foot of the bed, where it had presumably rolled when the bed had stopped defying gravity.  In the corpse's hand was clutched a blaster pistol, exquisitely crafted for form over function.

Though if the blackened hole in Mandalore the Amazing's skull was any indication, it had also been perfectly functional.

Yordis regarded the body with disgust.  Not at its condition of itself – she'd seen many a mummified corpse in her time – but at what its condition suggested.  Either Mandalore the Amazing had taken his own life rather than meet defeat by his enemies, or had dressed someone else in his armor, before or after the apparently self-inflicted blaster wound, then used that as a distraction to escape defeat.

Either way, no true Mandalore indeed.

For a long time, she debated what to do.  This was no tale of glorious victory, or even honorable defeat.  It was the story of one man's arrogance, folly, and ultimately cowardice.  It was the exact opposite of the Way.

In the end, that was what sealed her decision.  She unslung her pack, picking up Mandalore's helmet.  "You're not useless," she said to the corpse who could no longer hear her.  "You can still serve as a bad example."  She tucked the helmet into her pack and reslung it on her shoulders.

Eventually, Nomen awoke, not realizing he'd fallen asleep in the first place.  His body ached with the intolerable punishment he'd put it through lately.  He groaned as he sat up, wishing Blood Raven had a bacta tank.  As unpleasant as a dip in the cloying, sticky liquid was, it was better than this.

"Back with us?" Yordis asked quietly.

"For now," Nomen grunted.  He regarded the sealed room they'd climbed into.  He also took note of Yordis' new acquisition.  "You found what you were looking for, I see."

"Not exactly," Yordis replied, squirming uncomfortably.  "But close enough."

"Any thoughts on how we're getting out?"

Yordis gestured at the window.  "That should do.  If you're ready?"

"Beyond ready," Nomen replied, struggling to his feet.  He and Yordis moved to the wall with the blocked-off door.  She drew her blasters and sprayed fire across the vast transparisteel pane.

The blasters left scorch marks and shallow, melted divots, but otherwise had no effect.

"Starship-grade," Yordis said with surprise.  "Whoever built this place was paranoid."

"Properly so, judging by the current condition of it," Nomen replied.  "I think I've got this."  Pressing the stud on his bracer, he opened the compartment and withdrew his lightsaber.

"You're sure that will work?"

"It should."  If they were high enough, and if this room was still enclosed enough, to have a sufficient pressure differential. . .

Nomen activated his lightsaber and slashed at the pane.  The purple blade sliced through with no resistance, the thicker air in the room rushing behind his stroke to meet the thinner air outside.

The transparisteel pane shattered, shards blowing outward to litter the snowy ground.

"Smooth," Yordis said approvingly.

Together, they stepped out the shattered window into the snow.  "We're in luck," Yordis said, scanning the ground ahead and correlating with her armor's automap.  "I think this path leads back down the mountain.  It should bring us to where we landed."

"Do you mean to tell me," Nomen said, quietly fuming.  "That we could have just hiked up this path, cut through this window, grabbed your damn helmet, and been back on the ship in time for lunch?  That we could have avoided all that other. . . other. . . other stuff?"

"Well, yes," Yordis answered.  "But we didn't know that at the time, did we?"

Nomen glared blindly at her.  "I.  Hate.  This.  Job."

"I thought Jedi were all about the journey, not the destination."

"Just get us home."

"As you wish."

Together, they trudged down the mountain path.

Chapter Text

Indeed, the path did lead them all the way back to the plateau where Yordis had landed Blood Raven .  It wasn't even that arduous a hike, even for Nomen's battered and bruised condition.

But the Force was truly not with them, for there was one more obstacle between them and the ship.

Yordis had predicted that the only sentient life on this planet she might have failed to detect were nomadic tribes too primitive to leave any traces her sensors could pick up and recognize.  That prediction proved correct, as one such nomadic tribe was currently arrayed between them and Blood Raven .  This disproved her other prediction, that any such natives wouldn't bother them this high in the mountains.

The natives wore only loincloths and footwraps, with the occasional baldric to hang tools, trophies, or weapons, apparently immune to the chill weather.  They were heavily muscled and massive, the shortest still at least two full meters, the tallest nearly if not actually three.  They had ugly, apelike faces, limp, fleshy tendrils adorning jowls and heads in place of hair.  Their skin was a rich crimson.

"I don't believe it," Nomen said quietly.  "Those are Massassi!"

"What's a Massassi?" Yordis asked.

"Foot soldiers and shock troops for the ancient Sith orders.  They're supposed to be extinct!"

"Apparently not," Yordis mused, regarding the way the creatures regarded them with their beady yellow eyes.  "Wonder how they got here?"

"Is that really an important question right now?"

The largest Massassi in the group, a full three meters easy, shoved his way to the front, eyes going wide as it stared at Nomen.  "Zhed-Ah!"

"Did it just say 'Jedi?'" Yordis asked, suddenly very concerned.

"I think so," Nomen replied, fear surging through him.  He let it pass him by.

The huge Massassi reached over his shoulder, drawing a massive vibrosword.  The blade was wide as Yordis' waist and longer than her legs.  Pitted and scored by ages of use and neglect, the power cell certainly long dead, but backed by the massive creature's prodigious muscles, it was undoubtedly astonishingly lethal.  "Kheel Zhed-Ah!"

Nomen went for his lightsaber.  "Yordis, how old is that sword?"

"Three thousand years at a guess, why?" she asked, having no idea why this was a relevant question.

"Phrik-layered?" Nomen asked.

Understanding clicked, and Yordis studied the blade carefully as the Massassi brandished the massive weapon in one hand as though it weighed nothing.  "No," she declared.  "It's a cheap knockoff.  An ancient cheap knockoff, but still."

"Good," Nomen said, igniting his lightsaber and readying himself.

The Massassi was a primitive brute, but possessed all the lethal cunning such a violent upbringing required.  He sized up his opponent, instinctively refusing to underestimate the smaller creature because of its size.  Nomen waited patiently, content to let the Massassi attack first.

Finally, the Massassi lunged forward, the tip of its massive blade seeking Nomen's heart, only to immediately withdraw and come around in a wide arc meant to separate Nomen's top and bottom halves.

Were Nomen to block the blow, and were the blade lightsaber-resistant, the force of it would have plowed through his defense, bearing him to the ground at best.  If his block had sundered the weapon, inertia would have carried two large pieces of vibroblade into his body.  Instead, Nomen stepped back beyond the vibrosword's reach, turning and bringing his lightsaber down on the blade as it passed him by.

Yordis was right.  The pitted and rusted durasteel offered no challenge to his lightsaber's cutting power, the top two-thirds sailing free to land harmlessly in the snow.

"Yield and let us pass," Nomen said.  "We mean you no harm."

The Massassi roared, dropping its ruined weapon, and lunged for Nomen, massive red claws outstretched.  Its tribe followed suit.

What followed was confused, chaotic violence.  Nomen's amethyst blade arced and spun, seeking and severing every muscular crimson appendage that offered itself as a target.  Yordis' blasters fired in a steady stream, debilitating or picking off combatants, her fire only briefly interrupted as she launched a rocket dart to cripple a convenient cluster of hostiles.  Bodies and body parts of wounded, stunned, maimed, dying, and dead Massassi piled up on the plateau.  None of the crimson juggernauts fled, all fought until rendered incapable.

Yordis and Nomen took punishing blows on their beskar , but each one cost the enemy a half dozen combatants.  By the time it was done, Nomen and Yordis were badly battered, but the Massassi tribe – or at least, its warrior party – was completely neutralized.

Nomen sheathed his lightsaber and slumped in pain and exhaustion.  His limits, physically and within the Force, had been reached, surpassed, and surpassed again.

Yordis was instantly at his side, looping his arm over her shoulders, taking his weight.  "Just a bit farther," she said quietly.  "I'll get you back in the medbed, just hang on.  You'll be fine."

"Of course I will," Nomen said weakly.  "I have you."

It was an odd reflection of their first meeting, Yordis thought.  Nomen was barely conscious instead of unconscious, clad in Mandalorian armor instead of simple clothes and glareshades, his injuries different but no less severe, and Yordis had again charged herself with nursing him back to health.

"You really need to stop getting yourself into trouble," she said as she guided him down to the medbed.

"When I have such a capable and entertaining nurse to mend me?" Nomen asked, settling back.

"I'm serious," she said, starting to unfasten his armor.  "I might not always be there for you."

"You will," he replied, voice thick with delirium.  "We'll be together forever, Yordis Cadera.  I have foreseen it."  Nomen drifted into unconsciousness.

Yordis shook her head, stripping Nomen of his armor and hooking him up to the medbed.  Alarms flashed as soon as the sensors got a look at him, continued as they tallied up his generally poor condition.  Severe exhaustion, multiple contusions, minor internal bleeding, a mild concussion, and the fractured ribs.

Yordis was impressed.  Most of that had doubtless been sustained when the river dragon had tail-smashed him, and he'd still climbed a hundred meters of rock chimney, hiked down a mountain path, and fought off a band of alien warrior savages.  Given all that, she could forgive him his bizarre choice of parting words before passing out.

Methodically, Yordis began applying the treatments suggested by the medbed.  Once Nomen's recovery was underway, she heaved herself up, starting to feel her own aches and bruises and fatigue.  Perhaps she should invest in a second medbed.  Or a bacta tank.

She sealed the medbay door, then shut down Blip and Gripe, securing them in the engine room and cargo bay respectively.  She didn't want to lock Nomen in the medbay and she didn't trust the droids – especially Blip – not to wander in and see Nomen bereft of his armor.  Such a failure of the Way wouldn't be his fault. . . it would be hers.

Once the calculations were complete and Blood Raven was safely in hyperspace and on course back to Botajef, Yordis returned to the medbay.  Stripping off her own armor, she began tending her wounds as best she could, keeping an eye on the medbed's readouts.  Nomen was recovering better than projected.

Finishing what she could without aid of the medbed, Yordis elected to leave her armor off for the time being.  Even with his impressive recuperative ability, Nomen would be out at least into tomorrow.  Yordis went to the lounge to get something to eat, but she ate in the medbay.  If anything went wrong, she wanted to see to it immediately.

As Nomen awoke, he reflected that it was an odd variation of his first time aboard Blood Raven .  The ship itself and its sole other organic occupant was no longer alarmingly strange, but now comfortingly familiar.

Yordis was also not up in the cockpit, but sitting in the medbay.  "Good morning," Nomen said.

Yordis stood and approached, and Nomen noticed another difference.  Her helmet was off, resting on the medbay's small work counter.  "You're awake," Yordis said.  "How do you feel?"

Nomen took stock, instantly identifying the fuzziness of mind and body indicating painkillers.  There was pain they couldn't quite manage, a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to permeate every last cell of his being.  But there were no sharp stabs of fire as breathed, no bludgeons of bruised discomfort as he shifted his body.  "Better," he said.  "Don't think I'll be up to any sparring, let alone your version of archeology, for a few more days yet, but better."

"Good."  Yordis rested her gloved hand on his forehead, stroking down over the top of his head.  "I'm glad."

Nomen smiled, her simple touch warming and soothing him in ways he couldn't quite define.  The barriers between them were still down and quickly fading, their bond flowing and growing steadily between them.  Tentatively, Nomen reached and took gentle hold of it.  He sensed Yordis flinch, but she did not withdraw, physically or otherwise.

"How much do you remember?" she asked.  "Before you passed out."

"I remember the battle against the Massassi," Nomen answered, empowering his recall with the Force.  "I remember the injuries and exhaustion catching up with me, and you supporting me, helping me back to the ship.  I remember it looking so far away, and wondering why you hadn't landed closer."

"Anything else?" she asked, and Nomen felt reticence brew within her.  "Anything – anything you said?"

"I think. . . I thanked you for helping me?  For always being there for me."  Nomen focused, but could recall nothing else.  "Everything else is blank.  I don't even remember getting back on Blood Raven .  Why?  Did I say something embarrassing?  Upsetting?"

"Nothing to worry about," Yordis answered, discarding whatever was bothering her from her mind.  "I'm just glad you're alright."

"Thank you," Nomen said.  He reached up and took her hand from his head, holding it in his.  Again, Yordis flinched, though not away.  "And you?  Are you hurt?"

"I've had worse," she replied.  "I could use a stretch in the medbed, but that can wait."  Before Nomen could do more than think about trying to sit up, her other hand pressed gently but firmly against his bare chest.  "You need it more."

Nomen nodded, unable and unwilling to argue.

"Are you hungry?" Yordis asked.  "Would you like me to bring you something?"

"Yes, please."  He released her hand as she turned for the door.  "Your helmet!"

"Blip and Gripe are switched off and locked down."  For the briefest of moments, Nomen thought he could almost see her smile.  "Better them than you, don't you think?"

Nomen smiled back.  "I'm hardly in a position to disagree."

Her sense fluttering with happiness and affection, Yordis swept from the room.

They were six days out from Botajef.  Between the medbed, Yordis' care, and several hibernation trances, Nomen was completely recovered.

They were in Yordis' quarters, the door locked, as she stripped out of her armor.  "You're sure about this?" she asked yet again.

"I am if you still are," Nomen answered.

"You've done this before?  With someone else, I mean."

"Yes.  Just relax."

"Easy for you to say," Yordis replied, stretching out on her bed.  "I've never done this before."

"It's as easy as falling asleep," Nomen said, sitting on the bed next to her.  "Trust me."

"I do trust you.  But one hour, that's all."

"One hour precisely," Nomen agreed.

"Alright."  Yordis settled herself on the bed, releasing a deep breath that quaked with nervousness.  "Ready when you are."

Delicately, Nomen placed one hand on her forehead, the other on her chest, feeling for the beat of her heart and the swell of her respiration.  He pulled the Force into him, and through him into her.  He found the rhythms and cycles of her body, mind, and spirit, then slowly, gently, cautiously, he began to manipulate them.

Her breathing and heartbeat slowed, the firing of neurons in her brain quieted.  She fell out of nervousness into calm, past calm through relaxation, drifting consciousness, sleep, then finally into hibernation.  Nomen primed her body to revive itself after one hour, her mind to awaken if she heard him say "Wake up, Yordis," then he withdrew his hands and climbed gently off the bed.

Astonished at how quickly Nomen had healed, Yordis had agreed to try a Jedi hibernation trance herself to clear up the lingering effects of their adventure.  Of course, not being a Jedi herself, this required Yordis to place an extreme level of trust in Nomen and his admittedly limited abilities.

Nomen settled back with his datapad to read and wait.

An hour later, Yordis awoke from the trance, feeling fine.  All the remaining aches and pains had been erased, some she only noticed now by their absence.  It was as good as a dip in a bacta tank, but didn't leave you feeling like you needed to shower for a week afterwards.  "Wow," she breathed.

"Good Force nap?" Nomen asked.

"The best," Yordis replied, hopping off the bed and starting to put her armor back on.  "I feel amazing.  You do good work."

"It's not that impressive," Nomen said.  "You would have healed on your own in less than a week."

"Still, a week's worth of healing in an hour is pretty amazing."  Yordis stopped sorting out her armor and stepped over to Nomen, running a hand through his hair.  "Don't sell yourself short.  You are amazing in so many ways, Nomen."

"Thank you," he replied, genuinely touched.  "So are you, Yordis."

"Oh, I know," she said cheerfully, returning to getting dressed.

"See, we were having a moment, and now you ruined it."

"Maybe because I'm suddenly famished."

"Hibernation can do that," Nomen said, slipping on his helmet.  "I'll get us some food."

The next day, they resumed their unique form of sparring, though it was quickly obvious it was doing neither of them much good.  With the barriers between them disintegrating, their strengthening connection meant they were too good at anticipating each other, knew too much about each other, to make it a useful contest.  It helped them regain some conditioning after their convalescences, nothing more.  But they enjoyed it, so they continued.

They filled the rest of their time with new exercises to regain and improve their fighting form and conversation.  They talked about Mandalorian culture and history, Jedi practice and philosophy.  Yordis told Nomen jokes she'd picked up in her travels, some of them rather bawdy (which she then had to explain).  Nomen told Yordis some surprisingly humorous stories from within the stately and dignified walls of the Jedi Temple.  He held her tenderly as she explained how she came to be a Foundling under the care of Parl Cadera.  She held him as he described the disturbance in the Force as thousands of Jedi died simultaneously in the opening salvo of the Jedi Purge.  They shared their joys and sorrows, and deepened their bond.

The night before they arrived at Botajef, they began to see each others' dreams.

Yordis did something she had never done before, and requested the same landing pit she'd had on her previous visit.

"I thought you didn't like Zaxik'krik," Nomen said.

"I don't like its droid," she replied.  "And, yes, humanoid talking insects creep me out.  But its work is top-notch and it's honest, for that I'll chance it."

Luckily, Zaxik'krik's docking bay was available.  Interestingly, as Nomen and Yordis exited Blood Raven , neither Zaxik'krik nor J9-D9 were present to meet them.

"Hello?" Yordis called, walking farther out into the pit.

"Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik?" Nomen followed.  "Worker Drone J9-D9 who translates on behalf of Pit Supervisor Zaxik'krik?"

Behind them, at the foot of Blood Raven 's ramp, a ripple in the Force occurred as a distortion within it dropped, revealing what it had been concealing.  A swirl of anger and aggression, focused through cold, cruel amusement.  "Hello, Nomen.  Love the new outfit.  It's so. . . not you."

Nomen and Yordis turned towards the dangerously contralto voice.  Yordis recognized a slender, feminine figure wrapped in aggressively-styled black plastoid armor.  Nomen recognized a steady, trained presence in the Dark Side.

The Inquisitor had found them.

Chapter Text

The Inquisitor stood blocking them from Blood Raven 's ramp.  Her lightsaber was in her hand, deactivated but clearly in a ready stance.  After Yordis had caught her by surprise last time, she appeared to be taking no chances.

"How in the Corellian hell did you find us?" Yordis asked, mostly to buy time as she assessed her tactical options.

"Please," the Inquisitor replied condescendingly.  "A woman in purple-trimmed Mandalorian armor and a man in glareshades spotted on Plex-Parr Station?  A woman in purple Mandalorian armor and a man in glareshades spotted arriving on Taris?  A female and male in purple Mandalorian armor seen leaving Taris, then arriving and departing Botajef?  Just between us, that armor isn't nearly as inconspicuous as you seem to think."

And Yordis had made it easy by choosing the same landing pit twice in a row.  The Inquisitor might have found them if they'd landed somewhere else, but they might have been able to refuel, resupply, and lift off before that happened.  Or at least, they could have fought on a ground not wholly of the Inquisitor's choosing.

Blindly, Yordis groped for the connection she shared with Nomen.  She felt him take hold of it and throw it wide open, their thoughts and feelings and sensations melding.  When they fought, they would fight as one.

"Now, let's make this simple," the Inquisitor said calmly, her lightsaber still in its ready position.  "Nomen, drop your weapons, take off that ridiculous outfit, and come quietly.  You, Mandalorian, I'll forgive for shooting me and let you be on your way – this time.  But pray you never cross my path again."

"Not going to happen," Yordis answered.

She'd barely begun moving her hands toward her blasters when the Inquisitor ignited her lightsaber.  " Touch those blasters and I'll cut off your legs and make you watch while I beat Nomen into submission and drag him naked back to my ship."

Nomen's lightsaber sprang to life, arcing at the Inquisitor's neck.  Her red-white blade intercepted his purple-white blade, spitting and crackling as they locked.  "Not going to happen," Nomen said coolly.

Yordis drew her blasters and fired.  The Inquisitor disengaged her blade from Nomen's, deflecting Yordis' fire.  Before she could begin trying to shoot around the Inquisitor's defense, the black-clad woman moved to use Nomen himself as cover.

Linked through the very essence of their being, Yordis and Nomen maneuvered to give her a clear shot at the Inquisitor, who was not so easily overcome.  She quickly countered their positioning, and managed to guide her and Nomen's strikes and blocks to simultaneously deflect Yordis' shots.  The fight was a furious clash of lightsaber against lightsaber against flurry of blasterfire, maneuver against counter-maneuver.

Guided by the Force, Nomen sensed an opening and took it, his blade lashing out.  The Inquisitor sensed and evaded the attack, but not with complete success.  His lightsaber sundered her helmet, shattering it off her head.  Ratty sapphire hair was revealed atop pale pink skin, sickly black veins visible beneath it, yellow eyes gleaming with hate.  A Zeltron, her beauty marred by the corruption of the Dark Side.

The close call stoked fear and anger in the Inquisitor, who renewed her assault on Nomen with pure Dark Side fury.  Nomen trusted in the Force, knowing the duel's conclusion approached.  He sensed Yordis' fear, haste, and desire to see the battle ended quickly, tried to calm her through their bond.  Patience, peace, calm.  This will be over soon.

He knew that very possibility was what dominated her concern.

The end arrived, perfectly clear in Nomen's sight.  His foot shifted on the floor of the landing pit, twisting his body to the side and spoiling the setup for his next strike.  The Inquisitor brought her blade down, aiming at Nomen's wrists.  With improbable timing, Yordis fired, two blaster bolts streaking at the Inquisitor's face.  She abandoned her attack, bringing her lightsaber up to bat the bolts away from her head and towards Yordis'.  But for reasons she didn't know, Yordis had ducked immediately after shooting, and the bolts sailed harmlessly over her head.

And Nomen's lightsaber came up and effortlessly sliced through the Inquisitor's wrists.  Her severed hands tumbled to the ground, her lightsaber extinguishing itself as pressure fell away from its activation plate.

The Inquisitor dropped to her knees in pain and shock.  Nomen brought his lightsaber to point at her throat.

"Go ahead," the Inquisitor said, laughing.  "Kill me.  Except you can't, not a helpless, defenseless, defeated opponent.  That's not your Jedi way, is it?  But if you don't, I'll come back and keep hunting you, and I'll make you both suffer for this."

"You're right," Nomen said, closing down his lightsaber.  "I can't take the life of a defeated opponent in cold blood.  It's not the Jedi way."

Yordis approached to stand beside Nomen.  The bond flowing between them was in perfect harmony.  "I'm not a Jedi," she said, raising her blaster.  A single shot speared the Inquisitor's forehead, flash-vaporizing her brain.  Her lifeless body slumped to the permacrete floor.

Yordis knelt, patting down the Inquisitor's body, removing a slender oblong object from the dead woman's utility belt.  "We should get out of here," she said, stuffing the object into her own belt.

"We should see what happened to Zaxik'krik," Nomen countered, turning towards the Pit Supervisor's office.  Yordis followed, signaling Gripe to bring the Inquisitor’s body, lightsaber, hands, and helmet fragments on board.

It didn't take them long.  Zaxik'krik lay on the floor, a lightsaber gash in its chest.  J9-D9 had been cut to pieces, still occasionally sparking and smoldering.  Even the Hatchling droids had been destroyed, though the method was somewhat different.

"No lightsaber marks," Yordis observed.

Nomen grimaced beneath his helmet.  "She pulled them apart with the Force.  A piece at a time, like a cruel child tearing the legs off an insect."

"One wouldn't expect one of the Empire's top enforcers to be polite," Yordis replied, disgusted though not shocked by the display of casual barbarism.  A quick glance confirmed for her the Inquisitor had also made short work of the bay’s limited security and surveillance equipment.  "We done here?"

Nomen considered a moment.  "I'd like to see that Zaxik'krik gets whatever counts for a proper burial for Verpine, but you're right, we should be going."

Botajef space traffic control was incensed when Blood Raven lifted without clearance or flight plan, even more so when Yordis declined to acknowledge their angry hails.

This time, she was fully expecting a Star Destroyer to be waiting for them, and was surprised to see no Imperial warships at all in orbit to challenge them.

Yordis withdrew the small, oblong device she'd taken from the Inquisitor.  "What is that?" Nomen asked as Yordis studied it.

"Exactly what I thought it was," she answered.  "Beckon call for our Inquisitor's ship.  High-end one, too.  Able to fly, maneuver, even fight with some proficiency on its way to this."  Yordis activated the device.

"What are you doing?" Nomen asked in alarm, sensing the power flow in the beckon call change.

"I want to know what she knew.  If more Inquisitors are going to be after us, forewarned is forearmed.  And the only place we can learn what she knew now is her ship's logs."

"And won't it try and shoot us down once it gets here?"

"Not if we don't provoke it.  I can put it back on standby, we'll get it docked, then hyperspace anywhere else to go over it.  Once we're done, if it's still on standby, we can blow it up, no problem."

Minutes later, the same odd, advanced TIE variant that had ambushed them at Dxun arrived.  Yordis put the TIE back on standby, and it braked to a halt relative to Blood Raven .  After a bit of deceptively tricky flying, Yordis had it secured to the airlock, then they were off in hyperspace to a random point in deep space.

Accessing the ship's computer turned out to be far easier than Nomen had thought.  "Imperial encryptions bite spice," Yordis said as Blip sliced through them from Blood Raven , downloading everything to a secure compartment he'd established in the freighter's computer.  "Blip eats them for breakfast, don't you?"

Blip twittered happily.

"Yes, yes, soon as we get home, I promise," Yordis said as she began bringing up the Inquisitor's logs.  Nomen felt relief ripple out from her as she sighed.  "She didn't tell anyone about us."

"That's. . . unusual."

"Maybe not.  Listen to this."  Yordis began to read from the log.  "Have located Jedi survivor, Miraluka, description matching Padawan Nomen Lok.  He should be no challenge to capture, bereft of training since I killed his Master on Pantolomin, and easily converted to our order.  Should I accomplish this, Lord Vader will be pleased, and I will be rewarded.  That should wipe that irritating smirk from Seventh Sister's face."

"The Dark Side isn't long on cooperation," Nomen admitted.  "If these Inquisitors are competing against each other to round up remaining Jedi. . ."

"Then we've just killed the only one who knows about you," Yordis interrupted excitedly.  "We're safe!  Well, safer than we were before today."

"You're forgetting about the bounty puck that started all this."

"You're Mandalorian now.  Only the Clan will see your face, and they won't betray their own.  The man in the glareshades has vanished, the only link between him and you is dead or in these two computers."  Yordis paused, scanning the rest of the logs.  Nothing immediately important leaped out at her.  "Blip, delete everything we've downloaded from the ship."  Blip blatted.  "Yes, I know you just spent several minutes getting it, now I want you to get rid of it.  Purge the Inquisitor's ship, too."

"Wait," Nomen said.  "Who knows what else is in there?  Aren't you curious to find out?"

"Yes, I am.  But this data is a threat to you, and I'm not curious enough to risk the Empire getting hold of it again.  Blip, do it."

Blip twittered to himself as he purged the Inquisitor's data from Blood Raven and the TIE, while Yordis had Gripe load the Inquisitor’s remains and effects on the ship.  Once that was done, Yordis released the TIE from the docking clamps and maneuvered a safe distance away.  One salvo from Blood Raven 's lasers reduced the tiny ship to its component atoms, spilling endlessly into the void of space.

Safely back in hyperspace en route to Taris, Nomen and Yordis got out of their seats to leave the cockpit.  Nomen was surprised when Yordis took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his.  She guided him to her cabin.  She released his hand to secure the door, then slowly lifted his helmet off his head.

"Nomen," she said softly as she removed her own helmet.  "I. . ." she trailed off, unsure how to fit her feelings into mere words.

She didn't need to.  "I know," Nomen whispered, running the back of his gloved fingers over her cheek.  He took her chin between the tip of his thumb and the curl of his forefinger.  He leaned forward.  So did she.

When they kissed, the last tattered remnants keeping them separate vanished.  Their souls became one.

"I want to try something," Nomen whispered when they eventually broke the kiss.

"After that, I should hope so," Yordis said cheekily.

"Not that," Nomen replied, smiling.  "Well, yes, that, but that's not what I was talking about."  He took a deep breath.  "I don't know if this will work, but I think it will.  Feel my presence in your mind, reach out to it, open yourself up to it."

Yordis felt, in this moment, that if she were any more open she'd explode, but did as he asked, focusing on the sense of. . . Nomen-ness within her.  It was new and different, yet at the same time felt as though it had always been there, waiting patiently for her to notice it.

Her world shifted.  She still saw Nomen, his armor, and her quarters, but overlaid on it were things she couldn't possibly name or describe.  Energy, light, flow, swirling around an impossible brightness.  "What is this?" she asked.

"We're sharing perception.  You're seeing yourself through my – well, lack of eyes, and I see myself through your eyes."

"It's. . . it's incredible."

"I don't know if we'll be able to do this often, or even repeat it, but. . . I wanted to see you.  Even if only once."

Nodding, Yordis turned to the full-length mirror, useful for double-checking that she had donned her armor correctly.  Through her eyes, Nomen drank in her appearance.

"You are indescribably beautiful," he breathed.

"Keep watching," she whispered back, then began unfastening her armor.  Nomen struggled to maintain the connection until she finished.

When Yordis had removed the last of her beskar , Nomen let go, and they fell back into their own perceptions.  But they had shared something precious, and beautiful, and unique to them.

And are about to share something else precious, unique, and beautiful , Nomen thought as he felt Yordis’ hands working at the clasps of his beskar .  With his assistance, the work was quick, and she pushed him down on her bed.

Nomen recalled them being in a similar situation not so long ago.  "This I have not done before," he admitted.

Yordis gently stroked his cheek.  "Fear not, cyar'ika .  I am here for you."  She kissed him, and all fear, doubt, nervousness, and confusion melted away as they became one; mind, body, and soul.

Nomen awoke to a sensation completely new to him, but one which was immeasurably enjoyable.

The warmth and softness of Yordis laying next to him.

The sound of her slow, rhythmic breathing and the blurry openness of her sense told him she was still asleep.  He shifted, draping an arm over her and pulling them closer together.  Her breathing sped and her sense sharpened momentarily, before some part of her unawareness remembered that she had fallen asleep with Nomen in her bed, there was no danger, and she relaxed back down again.

Nomen’s nose brushed the hair behind her ear, inhaling her scent.  The musk of time spent in armor, not precisely pleasant but not rank.  Her own unique aroma, a thing new to him but as pleasing in its own way as the cool, calm confidence of her sense that he’d grown familiar with.

More than familiar , Nomen thought.  Attached to.

Attachments were forbidden not because they were inherently bad, but for the possibility of them corrupting a Jedi, of the Dark Side twisting the selfless emotion of love into the selfish emotion of possessiveness.  And possessiveness poisoned love, transforming it into hate.

And hate leads to suffering.

Opening his mind to the possibilities now, Nomen saw the danger clearly.  Already there was little he would not do to keep Yordis close to him, to keep her safe and spare himself the pain of losing her.  But the woman he now knew he loved was no treasure to be secured in a vault; she was a vibrant, vital part of the wider galaxy, a person of intelligence, wit, and adventure, and to attempt to protect her from the dangers of the life she chose would be to destroy everything he had fallen in love with.

Someday, he knew, one of them would lose the other.  It would be painful, it would be difficult, but he would let it pass, and allow him to be a richer person – a better man – for having loved and been loved by her.

But that was for the future, and Nomen would deal with it as it became necessary, vowing that he would not permit himself to destroy the man Yordis had come to love.  For now, they were alive, and they were together.

And Yordis was waking up.

“Good morning,” she said softly as she wrapped her arms around the arm Nomen had wrapped around her.

“Good morning,” he replied, taking the opportunity to snuggle a bit closer to her, enjoying the warmth and softness of her skin, the tone of her muscles sliding underneath.

Enjoying it perhaps a bit too much, as the shift of his body drew both of their attention to a specific point of Nomen’s body.

“Well, well,” Yordis said teasingly.  “Someone’s excited.”

Nomen blushed, still smiling at her friendly barb.  “We don’t. . . I mean, I don’t expect. . .”

Yordis turned in his embrace, silencing him with a lingering kiss.  “I hope you don’t think I want this to be just a one-time deal.”

Nomen shook his head.  “I’m glad you don’t.  Just, I think, you know. . . when you’re ready. . .”

Yordis gently pushed Nomen to roll him on his back.  “I am.”

They shared time in the cabin’s refresher, taking many more playful swipes at each other verbally and physically, and discovering the joy of each other with the added sensation of hot water coursing over their bodies, and how delightful it could be to have someone else help you wash up.

Blip, of course, noted that they were both several hours late emerging from their cabins, and that Nomen emerged not from his own, but from Yordis’.  While an astromech wasn’t programmed for such things, and most droids wouldn’t care even if they were, Blip was just twitchy and cantankerous enough to give them a hard time.

Briefly.

“One more beep about it, I’m donating you to a Tarisian engineering school.”

At Yordis’ scolding, Blip rolled off to sulk, but not before tossing Nomen a surreptitious wave from his fine manipulator arm.

Chapter Text

Nomen spent some of that day moving his few things into Yordis’ quarters.  They hadn’t actually spoken of it – she had not invited him nor had he asked – but after confirming they were still on course and there were no issues with the ship, before even grabbing their breakfast rations from the galley, Yordis had cleared a space in her quarters for his things.  That, and the distaste for maintaining separate rooms and the excitement at sharing one that flowed through their connection in the Force was all the discussion the decision had required.

They’d already basically been living together, Nomen reflected.  Eating meals together, training together, adventuring together, growing together.  Now they were simply making it official, sharing a room and a bed.

Well, semi-official, as quite coincidentally Yordis and Nomen reached the section of Mandalorian cultural training that emphasized family, Foundlings, adoption, and marriage.

“ Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad ,” Yordis said.  “I know your name as my child.  The phrase spoken when a Mandalorian officially adopts another as a Foundling into their Clan.”

Nomen rested his gloved hand atop Yordis’.  “Sounds like it makes this. . . awkward.”

“Not necessarily.  While a Foundling is often a youngling, it is not always so, and adoptions by Mandalorians of an age with their adoptees aren’t common, but aren’t unheard of.  We’re not the first time such a thing has happened.  There is even a combined marriage and adoption, where one is essentially married into the Clan and Mandalorian way of life.”  Distaste twisted in Yordis’ sense.  “It has happened that a much older Mandalorian has adopted a much younger Foundling, and they have gone on to have non-familial relations, though several of these are suspect for the imbalance within those relationships.”

Slowly, Nomen nodded.  “So. . . the Clan isn’t going to be angry that we’re. . . spending quality time together?”

“Oh, Cant will be furious.  A few of the others will be very upset.  Netta and Torth will probably be amused.  Father. . . I think he’ll be happy.  He’s always supported me supporting the Clan, but I know he doesn’t like that I’m always off alone.  And I know he likes you.  I think he’ll be glad you're watching my back, and more that. . .” she paused, the emotions she just didn’t have proper words for stopping her again.

Nomen smiled beneath his helmet.  “That you’re not alone anymore.”

Yordis nodded, and squeezed Nomen’s hand.

While their days were spent in their unique form of sparring and Nomen’s continued education in Mandalorian culture, their nights were spent enthusiastically exploring the new facet of their relationship.  Bouts of passion preceded by and followed with comfortable relaxation in each others’ presence, basking in the simple feeling of holding and being held.  Which often led to another bout of passion.

It was a sadly short three days before they arrived at Taris, fuel and supplies lower than Yordis would have liked.  Something else she could blame the vaporized Inquisitor for.

Returning to the Covert, Nomen sensed the slight but noticeable effect Siccaro’s relief efforts were having.  Or perhaps he was just shielded by the calm, content joy that thrummed between Yordis and himself.

The guards let them back into the Covert with much less fuss this time, and Yordis again proceeded to her father’s office with her catch.

The helm made a surprisingly weighty thud as she set it on his desk.  “The helm of Mandalore the Amazing.”

Parl picked up the helmet and examined it.  “So it is.  Well done, Daughter.”  Joy blossomed in Yordis at receiving praise from her father.  “And to you, Nomen, for assisting.  Tell me, what did you learn of Mandalore’s last battle?”

“It wasn’t much of a battle,” Yordis replied.

“The Redoubt was an old Sith castle or standing, we believe, that Mandalore had appropriated.  It had been pounded by laser cannon and turbolaser fire, probably softening it up for the ground forces to storm it,” Nomen continued.

Yordis picked up.  “We think there was a running firefight, but a wingmaw colony moved most of the bodies, so I can’t be certain.  And while I’m certain that is Mandalore the Amazing’s helmet, I am certain he wasn’t wearing it at the time of his demise.”  She projected the image of the state she’d found the body in.  “Either Mandalore committed suicide to avoid being defeated by his enemies, or put a decoy in his armor, before or after shooting them, and fled.  Either way–”

“He was no true Mandalore,” Nomen finished.

“Indeed,” Parl said, setting the helm back down.  “Worth mounting an expedition?”

“Unlikely,” Yordis replied.  “Between the bombardment and time, the Redoubt is all but unnavigable.”

Nomen continued.  “Most of the true Mandalorians appear to have abandoned Mandalore before the final battle, we found no beskar .”

Yordis finished.  “What little we did find isn’t worth the effort of digging it out, and even if it was, it would be an undertaking we just don’t have the resources and manpower for.”

Amusement grew within Parl.  “Well, glad to see you’re passing on your skills to your Foundling.”  Nomen and Yordis both felt warm embarrassment.  “Perhaps I’ll pass this on to another Clan, maybe even those on Mandalore.  They might be able to make something of it.  Well done, both of you.  Get some rest.”  Nomen sensed a probing attention directed at them from Parl, particularly towards Nomen.  “Not too much rest.”

Five minutes later they were in Yordis’ quarters, eagerly attacking the clasps of each others’ armor as soon as the door clicked closed and locked.

Yordis and Nomen were late to the evening meal, having had to put their armor back on after spending an indulgent amount of time without it.  The assembled Mandalorians of Clan Cadera definitely took notice of their arrival.

As they loaded their trays, picked a table, placed their helmets on the hooks and began to eat, Nomen felt the bonds of camaraderie moving towards them, less diffidently and more confidently in his case.  He also sensed swirls of speculation in regards to them and small spikes of jealousy from some of the men and women in the mess hall.

And one particularly large spike, aimed square at Nomen, once again so intense it triggered his danger sense.

Cant.

As they ate, they talked companionably, and Nomen did his best to ignore the attention and speculation studiously not being directed at them, but encompassing them nevertheless.

Then he said something that made Yordis laugh, a happy, full-throated laugh that drew much attention.  Most of the speculation transitioned to certainty, much of the jealousy spiked before being slowly smothered in acceptance.

One spike immediately engorged, inflamed.

A grating clatter as a chair scraped backwards across the floor.  Heavy, aggressive footfalls as someone approached.  The spike of jealousy grew more dominant in Nomen’s sense.  Yordis’ thoughts shifted from open comfort into the patterns Nomen knew well from all the times violence had been suddenly thrust upon them both.

“Nomen Lok, Foundling of Yordis Cadera, I, Cant Onasus of Clan Cadera, challenge you in the Battle Circle.”

“On what grounds?” Yordis demanded.

“I need no grounds to challenge this Foundling’s claim to be Mandalorian.”

Another grating clatter as Yordis stood, shoving her chair back.  “Then you challenge my judgment in adopting him and my ability to teach him our ways.”

“I challenge his ability to learn our ways, not yours to teach them,” Cant fired back.

The Battle Circle had been covered in his lessons with Yordis, a place where Mandalorians could settle disputes in combat.  While it was technically acceptable for Cant to voice his real reason for wanting to challenge Nomen – wanting to claim Yordis for himself – it was frowned upon, as no Mandalorian cared to have their judgment questioned when it came to their choice of partners.  And anyone, Mandalorian or no, who tried to claim a Mandalorian woman as a mate when she had not claimed him in return was practically begging for their lifespan to suffer a dramatic reduction.

No, Cant knew this wouldn’t win him Yordis, though he may have fooled himself into believing it might.  Cant just wanted to beat Nomen for, in Cant’s perception, stealing Yordis from him.

“I accept,” Nomen replied evenly.

Yordis rounded on him, anger fueled by fear for his safety flaring.  “You can’t!”

“I have to,” Nomen replied.  “I have been challenged, I must accept or forfeit.  If I forfeit in these circumstances, I am admitting that I am not, and never will be, Mandalorian.”

Nomen felt the victorious surge in Cant’s sense, tempered by a bit of concern.  Clearly, he’d never doubted that Nomen would fall into his trap, but having Nomen see and explain the trap had put him off-balance.

“I believe that now,” Nomen continued, wanting to keep whatever initiative he’d gained, “we must negotiate the terms of our battle.”

“Hand-to-hand,” Cant said after a split second’s hesitation.  While a part of him wanted to shoot Nomen dead with a blaster or take a piece of him off with a sword, Cant didn’t really bear Nomen murderous intent, even if Nomen sometimes felt otherwise.

And beating the upstart Foundling to a pulp with his bare hands would be far, far more satisfying.

For his part, Nomen saw no need to escalate the situation any further.  “Hand-to-hand, I concur.”

“If I win, you leave,” Cant added.

“No,” Parl’s voice rumbled out.  It was a gentle no, but firm and unyielding as the Clan leader’s beskar armor.  “He has been adopted and recognized by the Clan, and committed no crimes against it.  He cannot be exiled through decision of the Circle.”

Frustration boiled within Cant, who struggled to find anything he wanted to win from Nomen in the Circle that he legally could and would be socially acceptable.  Failing, he finally shook his head.  “I withdraw stakes.  A battle over. . . a conflict of personality.”

Nomen nodded.  “A conflict of personality.”

Parl rippled in assent.  “Very well.  After the evening meal, a challenge in the Battle Circle between Nomen Lok and Cant Onasus.”

Slowly the rest of the Clan went back to their meals, and Parl stopped by Yordis and Nomen’s table.  “Well handled, ad’ika .  Don’t embarrass my daughter with your performance.”  His sense turned thoughtful and focused on Cant.  “ Do embarrass him, if you can manage it.”

As Parl left, Nomen shook his head.  “I must not quite understand Mando’a yet.  Alor used to call me ad’ika , then switched to ad after I built my lightsaber, but now he’s calling me ad’ika again.  I don’t get it.”

“Context, Nomen,” Yordis replied.  “Before, he was calling you something akin to ‘boy.’  Once you proved yourself your way, it shifted to something more like ‘son,’ but like an older man might call any younger man ‘son.’  Now, he’s calling you, ‘Son.’  Acknowledging you as. . . well, as his son as I am his daughter.”

Nomen shivered slightly.  “He knows?”

“He probably knew the second he saw us.  But if not, he does now.  They all do.  If they don’t, it’ll be explained to them by the time you're done with Cant in the Circle.”

“ Ner vode ,” Parl began.  “We are gathered to witness judgment in the Battle Circle.  Cant Onasus of Clan Cadera has challenged Nomen Lok of Clan Cadera over a conflict of personality.  They shall battle with empty hands until one yields, exits the Circle, or is unable to continue fighting.  Step forth.”

Nomen, bereft of his armor and wearing only tight fighting trunks, stepped to the edge that marked the boundary of the Battle Circle.  Cant stood opposite him, similarly garbed.  Nomen sensed his eagerness to pound Nomen into pieces.  Nomen drew on his Jedi calm and brought all his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat to the fore, opening himself up to the Force, highlighting Cant in his perception.

“You enter the Circle as rivals.”  At the cue, Nomen and Cant stepped into the Circle.  “You leave as brothers.  This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” the assembled Mandalorians repeated, including Cant and Nomen.

“Speak your last.”

The words were meant for duels specifically to the death, which rarely happened, but it was still a final opportunity to resolve whatever issue had brought the warriors to the Circle before blows were exchanged.  Most often, it was used by opponents to taunt each other.

Cant didn’t disappoint.  “I’m going to beat you so hard you’ll never fit back in your armor.”

Nomen didn’t bother to suppress his grin.  “ Verd ori'shya beskar'gam .”

Amusement rippled through the crowd as they appreciated Nomen’s use of the traditional saying, “a warrior is more than his armor,” in this context.

“Begin!” Parl barked.

Cant charged Nomen, fists stretching out for his face.  Nomen blocked and pivoted, knocking the blows aside, but they came too fast and furious for Nomen to find an opening to counterattack.  But his Force-empowered reflexes and agility, boosted by the tone and training of his body under Yordis’ tutelage, meant he was in no danger of Cant landing a hit.

Cant was skilled and powerful, but his anger and jealousy, his rampant desire to beat Nomen to a bloody pulp, robbed him of clarity and strategy.  Nomen fell into the Force, treating Cant’s fists as blaster bolts and his own arms as lightsabers, parrying and deflecting the attacks effortlessly.

A particularly fast and brutal flurry saw Nomen casually bat all of Cant’s attacks aside, bringing them close enough together that Nomen could simply shove Cant back with an extension of his arms.  “Do you yield?” Nomen asked, hoping Cant could see how hopeless the fight was.

Cant roared and charged again.

Trusting his instincts, Nomen parried the strike aside, twisting in the direction of the punch and bringing his other arm up to strike Cant just above his hip bone.  The hit did little to slow or dull Cant’s attacks, but as Nomen grew more confident in his ability to weather the jealous man’s offensive, openings presented themselves.  Less than two minutes later, Nomen had landed nearly a dozen hits, while Cant had yet to land one.

“Cant, you cannot win,” Parl said.  “Do you yield?”

“ Nayc! ” Cant exclaimed, rushing in again, fist cocked back for a heavy punch that would rattle Nomen even if blocked.

Nomen ducked under it, and just as the Force promised, Cant overextended himself.  Nomen thrust up his hands and stood, holding Cant in the air over his head.  A flex of his arms, and Cant crashed to the floor of the Circle, grunting as the impact shuddered through his body.

“Yield, Cant,” Nomen said.

Cant got to his feet stiffly and started forward again, but the hits were taking their toll.  Nomen blocked his slower, weaker, and clumsier blows, feet striking out whenever the Force told him his balance was assured, punishing Cant’s legs.

Two minutes later, after a particularly hard kick to the inside of his right thigh, Cant dropped to the ground.

“Yield,” Nomen commanded.

Cant struggled to get to his feet, but his body wasn’t answering him anymore.  Legs curled under him refused to uncurl, abused muscles cramped and knotted, lungs heaved in ragged breath.  Cant’s body knew it had surpassed its limits even if the man himself did not, and he had nothing to draw upon to surpass them again.

Nothing but his anger.  If he were Force-Sensitive, that might have been enough.  But he was not, so it was not.

Finally, Cant creaked halfway to his feet before toppling backward to land on his backside on the floor of the Circle.

“Cant can no longer continue to fight,” Parl said.  “The challenge is complete.  Nomen Lok of Clan Cadera is the victor.”

Nomen extended his hand to Cant.

Grudgingly, Cant took it, and allowed Nomen to haul him to his feet.

“You entered the Circle as rivals, you leave as Brothers,” Parl intoned.  “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” the assembled Mandalorians answered.

“This is the Way,” Nomen said.

Cant hesitated.  “This is the Way,” he finally gasped.

Cant’s associates came forward, letting him lean on them as they guided him to a seat and began checking his injuries.  Nothing that some rest and a few days of stiffness wouldn’t cure, Nomen was sure.

Perhaps I should find him later and offer a healing trance?

Then Yordis was there, hugging him, her beskar pleasantly pulling the heat of his exertion out of his skin.  “Well done!  I knew you’d handle him, but you did so well!”

“Thanks,” Nomen replied, feeling a little shaky himself now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off.

“Why didn’t you throw him out of the ring when you had him hoisted over your head?  Could have ended it there.”

Leave it to Yordis to still have criticism even while being exceptionally proud of him.  “I wasn’t sure how long I could hold him up, if I’d have enough time to put that much force into it.”

“You didn’t seem to be straining.”

“I meant before he got his wits about him and started punching me in the head.”

“Ah.”

Parl’s hand landed on Nomen’s shoulder.  “Good show, ad’ika .  I am proud of the man you’ve become.”

Nomen smiled.  “Thank you, Alor .”

Parl’s arm wrapped comfortingly around Nomen’s shoulders, and Nomen felt his attention splitting between Nomen and Yordis.  “You may call me Parl, ad’ika .  Or Buir , if it suits you.”

“Not yet,” Yordis added.

Again, the bond between Nomen and Yordis was in perfect harmony.

“But soon,” Nomen finished.

Chapter Text

Torth landed on his rump, his beskar making a clatter as he landed.  Nomen’s lightsaber swept forward to point at his throat, and Torth raised a hand, palm outward.  “Yield.”

Nomen closed down his lightsaber and extended his hand.  Torth clasped Nomen’s forearm, Nomen gripped back and hauled the swordmaster to his feet.

“You’ve improved greatly,” Torth said, stopping to pick up his sword from where it had landed.  Nomen had pried it from Torth’s grasp with an economical disarm, then kicked Torth in the chest to knock him down and leave him open for the finishing blow.

“Thank you.  Yordis and I have been sparring, and my connection to the Force has deepened and matured.  Thanks, in part, to your training.”

Nomen could sense Torth’s proud smile as he flourished his blade.  “Then, you are a Jedi Knight now?”

Nomen shook his head.  “No, not really.  There are no Jedi, certainly not in any capacity to recognize me as one.  But I’ve changed and grown.  I don’t really have a label for what I am now.”

Torth considered that.  “Some kind of. . . Gray Jedi, then?”

Nomen twisted his lip in distaste.  “What would you call someone who wears beskar , but does not follow other tenets of the Resol’nare , and willfully acts counter to others?”

“ Dar’manda ,” Torth answered without hesitation.  “Not Mandalorian.”

Nomen nodded.  “Exactly.  ‘Gray Jedi’ is just another way of saying ‘Not Jedi.’  There might be some granularity of meaning – a Dark Jedi is not a Jedi, but has fallen to the Dark Side, a Gray Jedi may not be of the Dark, but is still not a Jedi.  Jedi have their own Code, their own relationship with the Force, and to be Jedi is to live by that understanding, just as to be Mandalorian is to live by the Resol’nare .”

“But you are ‘not Jedi,’ you said so yourself.”

“. . . Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

Torth flourished his sword before bringing it into a guard.  “Well, whatever you are, you are also Mandalorian, and that means always being your best.”

Nomen activated his lightsaber and brought it up.  “Tough talk from one who’s eaten mat four times today.”

Torth laughed warmly.  “Oh, is that how it is?  I’ll make you regret those words, ad .”  With that, Torth charged.

Nomen knocked at the open door of the Forge.  "You asked to see me?"

"I did," Netta replied, motioning him in.  "Yordis told me all about your journey to Korriz.  Quite the tale.  You rose to meet every challenge, endured and overcame grave injury.  You faced and defeated the Inquisitor hunting you.  Remove your bracers and helmet."

Nomen lifted his helmet from his head.  "Why?"

"You have earned upgrades."  Netta collected his helmet, then the bracers as he unfastened them.  "I'll send for you again when they're ready."

Nomen's blaster spat fire, the bolts connecting with the target downrange.  The computer recorded the time between shots as well as how accurately the shots were placed, tallying up a final score after a preset time limit.

"Seventy-three.  Excellent improvement," Yordis said, reading off the display.

Shin Cadera watched in fascination.  "I still can't believe you can shoot at all," she said.  "Never mind so well."

Nomen smiled.  The whole Clan had seen his lack of eyes in the fight with Cant, and several times in the mess hall.  That he was without helmet now caused no great discomfort.  Some were put off by the disturbing look of his empty eye sockets, but all accepted it as just part of who Nomen was.  "Yordis has taught me well."

Shin shook her helmeted head.  "I just can't understand how you can function so well, or at all, with no eyes."

Nomen shrugged.  "I can't understand how you can function so well, or at all, without feeling the Force."

Amusement rippled in Shin's sense.  "I suppose that makes sense."

Englo Saxon nodded.  "Ever has the true strength of Mandalore been accepting all.  Trueborn Mandalorians, Foundlings, all add to the differences that make Mandalore stronger."

"It's also been our greatest weakness," Tirion Garen scoffed.  "All the different Clans, Creeds, and Tribes killing each other over who is really 'true' Mandalorian.  The New Mandalorians hated the Old Mandalorians, the Death Watch hated the New Mandalorians, the Nite Owls hate the Death Watch, the Children of the Watch hate everyone.  Clan Kryze hates Clan Vizla, Clan Vizla hates Clan Viszla, Clan Wren hates us.  To many feuds, too much infighting, leaving us helpless before our real enemies."

"We test our strength against each other," Saxon said.

"We waste our strength," Shin put in.

"Mandalore has teetered on the brink of annihilation often in its history, but we've always persevered," Yordis said.

"Perhaps that only means our luck is running out," Tirion said.

"What do you think, Nomen?" Englo asked.

Nomen considered for a moment.  "Diversity united in common cause is one of the most powerful forces in the universe, and there is always an area of agreement two people can reach.  The trick is to agree with someone else while remaining in agreement with yourself."

Netta seemed pleased with herself when Nomen returned to the Forge.  "Your helmet and bracers are ready.  Try them on."

Nomen settled the helmet back on his head, noting the presence of a new indicator light around the (useless to him) viewslit.  He fastened the bracers back over his forearms.

"First, left bracer.  There's a stud on the inside of your arm, press it."

Nomen did, and a small, round energy shield blossomed above the bracer.

"Some additional defense.  Beskar can ward off lightsabers and blasters, but is not indestructible.  This will provide an extra layer without forcing you to unveil your Jedi weapon."

Nomen moved his arm, getting a sense for what coverage the shield offered and how he might effectively utilize it while under attack.  "Most useful, thank you."

"Your right bracer now includes a whipcord launcher, like the one Yordis has.  The new light, at center right, will tell you when the grapnel is sufficiently anchored to take your weight.  Simply aim your arm, hold a vertical fist, tilt your hand back and clench the fist to fire the cord.  Give it a try."

Nomen aimed at a bare patch of ceiling, and followed Netta's instructions.  The cord lashed out past the heel of his hand, the durasteel grapnel head digging into the stone.  The left-center light powered up.

"The buttons on the side control the internal microwinch."

Nomen pressed a button with the Miralukese glyph for "Ascend," and was lifted off the ground.  He touched the glyph for "Descend," and his feet came back to the floor.  He touched the glyph for "Release," and the grapnel detached itself from the roof, the light powering down.

"Terrific," Nomen said, smiling.

"None of this interferes with the storage or retrieval of your lightsaber."

Nomen tested it for himself, and Netta, as always, was correct.  "I am most honored, Armorer.  Truly, thank you."

"You have earned them, ad'ika .  Use them well."

"I will."

Nomen collapsed back on the bed, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down his naked torso.  Yordis plopped down next to him, just as sweaty and breathing just as hard.  She molded her body to his, he wrapped his arms around her.

Her nose nuzzled his cheek.  "I love you, cyar'ika ."

He squeezed her tight.  "I love you, cyar'ika ."

They lay together, their breathing slowing, hearts beating as one, and drifted off to sleep.

Sand.  Blood.  Sleeping ancient buried power death life destruction redemption darkness hate rage love power darkness death power . . .

Nomen awoke, the vision fluttering in his mind.  The story was fresh in his thoughts, the ancient legend he'd always assumed was just that.  He hadn't thought about it in years, but now he felt certain, deep in his bones, that it was true.

Yordis stirred as he got out of bed, but remained asleep.  He retrieved his datapad, plugged it into Yordis' computer so he could work the latter, then crossed to the shelves packed with datacards.  His fingers glided over the labels on the cases, unable to distinguish print from packing.

Still, when he hit the right one, he knew.  The Force sang out to him Here!

He removed the datacard from.its case and slipped it into the computer, then sat and picked up his datapad, searching for the information the Force considered it of paramount importance he discover.

Yordis awoke, immediately thinking how strange it was that an empty bed should be so alarming.  She had slept alone far longer than she had slept with Nomen, yet his absence when she woke was a shock.

She turned and saw him sitting at her table, working at her computer.  "Morning," he said absently.

"Morning.  Couldn't sleep?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said.  "I'm looking for something."

"What?"  Yordis got up, padded over to look over Nomen's shoulder at the screen.

"A place, I'm not sure where, but there's something important there."

"This another brain-poke from the Force?"

"Yes."

Yordis sighed.  "That's not a lot to go on."

Nomen turned to her and smiled.  "And yet. . ." he pointed at the screen.

"Interesting," she said, taking in what Nomen had found.  "Still not a fix.  But. . ." she trailed off, heading to her shelf, looking for another set of datacards.

Together, Nomen and Yordis dug into the small leads Nomen had found, gradually closing in on their quarry.

Yordis compiled their findings.  Nomen felt her sense darkening as she did.  "Oh, this is bad."

"Yes.  We have to tell Parl."

"Get dressed."

Chapter Text

"What's this?" Parl asked as Yordis and Nomen barged into his office.

Yordis began tying her datapad to the main screen.  "We have something to show you," she said.

"It is important," Nomen added.  "It cannot wait.  Yordis?"

"I've got your back," she replied, calling up her compiled presentation.  "Ready."

Nomen nodded, turned to Parl.  "There is a story among the Jedi, a legend.  None can say when or where it happened, under which iteration of the Jedi, or even if it happened at all.  Today, I am certain it did."

Parl nodded, listening, inviting Nomen to continue.

"The story goes that a Master sent seven apprentices to seek a powerful relic.  It was a quest that carried them across the galaxy, took them years.  Yet along the way, they succumbed to their greatest flaws.  Aggression.  Apathy.  Arrogance.  Avarice.  Lust.  Fear.  Hate.  But eventually, they found the relic, and returned to the Master."

Yordis was displaying images found in her research that supported Nomen's story.

"The Master tossed the relic aside.  It was a trinket, worthless.  The real treasure was to have been what the apprentices had learned about themselves, but the Master could see they had done the opposite of learn."

Parl was following Nomen's story and Yordis' presentation with interest.

"Enraged, the apprentices drew their lightsabers and murdered the Master.  They looked at what they had done, and realized the Master was right, they had fallen to the Dark Side.  Seeing only one way to atone, the apprentices turned their lightsabers on themselves.  They committed suicide, either as penance for their actions or to spare any others from falling to their darkness."  Nomen cleared his throat.

"The bodies of the Master and apprentices became a vergence in the Force," Nomen said as Yordis brought up a new image.  "A wellspring of the Force, and of the Dark Side.  The bodies were cremated, as is Jedi tradition, but the vergence remained fixed on them.  The ashes and lightsabers of the Master and the apprentices were secured in a specially designed vault, the Vault of Blighted Promise, to contain the vergence they created."

Yordis spoke, indicating the image.  "Apparently, it's made of phrik-layered doonium, plated in gold-press lamanium with cortosis weave.  Practically indestructible."

Nomen nodded.  "The Vault was moved from temple to temple, always placed among the most dangerous and secure artifacts the Jedi possessed.  Yet still, several times, it was opened.  Sometimes by Jedi seeking secrets and power, sometimes as a last-ditch weapon against hostiles.  Some who opened it fell to the Dark Side.  Some were driven mad.  Some died outright."

Yordis cleared her throat.  "If the renderings and references I've found are accurate, I've never seen anything constructed in this manner, and there's no logical reason for it to be built the way it is.  Nomen claims it's built to contain extremely powerful Force energy, or something."

Nomen nodded.  "The last temple to house the Vault was called Havor'aptra.  It was assaulted and laid waste by the Sith, with no Jedi defender or Sith attacker surviving.  It is said the Sith sought the power of the Vault, and the power consumed the temple, all life, perhaps the planet itself.  The Vault has been lost ever since."

"Until now," Yordis said.

Nomen paused, knowing how this next part would sound.  "As I slept last night, the Force gave me a vision, a vision of the Vault and the planet on which it waits."

Yordis brought up a new image.  "We tracked stories of Jedi bases and temples through the centuries, and located the planet."  She pointed.  "Here, in the Mid Rim, the Tolemay system."  She sighed.  "A week ago, an Imperial Star Destroyer and two Victory Star Destroyers were seen en route to Tolemay.  The Imperial has since left, the Victories are still there.  Given the cargo lift capacity of an Imperial -class Star Destroyer and the system defense capabilities of two Victory -class–"

"A forward operating base," Parl finished.  "And not a small one.  But why would the Empire be seeking an old Jedi artifact?"

Nomen swallowed.  "It is rumored the Clone Wars were a ploy by a Sith Lord to usurp power in the galaxy, to rebuild the Sith Empires of old.  The Jedi spent a great deal of effort trying to identify and apprehend this Sith Lord, with little luck.  The Inquisitors are not Sith, but do have some Sith teachings.  If there is a Sith Lord at the heart of the Empire, then that Sith may well know techniques or rituals to tap the power of the Vault."

Parl considered what he had heard.  Outwardly, he remained impassive, his armor so still one might think he had fallen asleep.  Nomen could see the riot in his sense as he evaluated the risks and possibilities.

The riot ended suddenly, a decision made.  Parl hit a control on his desk, a series of chimes sounded through the Covert.

The call for a council of war.

"Present your findings to the Clan," Parl said.  "And we shall decide how to proceed."

Nomen finished the presentation he and Yordis had given Parl, now gathered in the main space – the same place Nomen had fought Cant in the Battle Circle – before the entire Clan.

He could see, through his unusual perception, that his audience was less receptive than he would have liked.

"What do we care for some Jedi artifact?" someone asked.

"The Empire wants it," another replied.  "Reason enough to keep it out of their hands."

"It's not our responsibility, it's the Jedi's."

"There are no Jedi."

"Maybe, maybe not," Nomen said.  "Regardless, I don't think we can count on aid from any.  I do believe the Force has brought me here for a reason, and this is it.  Meeting Yordis, whose extensive collection of historical research allowed us to find the Vault, and whose list of contacts told us the Empire is looking for it.  Learning the Way, becoming Mandalorian, deepening and maturing my connection to the Force through all of you.  This is the destiny the Force has placed before me.  I know none of you feel the Force as I do, many of you don't even believe in it.  I'm not asking you to.  I must do this, and I will do it alone if I must."

He'd barely closed his mouth before Yordis stepped beside him.  "You won't be alone.  I don't – I didn't believe in the Force.  But I believe in you, Nomen.  I will go."

Cant stood, and Nomen groaned internally.  "I don't believe in the Force, and I don't believe in you , Nomen Lok."  He paused.  "But I do believe in fighting the Empire.  I will go."

Nomen was caught by surprise, but smiled.  Cant would be a boon.

Shin Cadera stood.  "I believe in the Force."  A ripple of surprise filtered through the Clan, Shin had never admitted to religious inclinations beyond the Way before.  "I will go."

Torvan Harvin stood.  "I don't believe in the Force, but I believe in you, Nomen Lok.  I will go."

Nomen nodded, holding up his hands.  "This is enough."

"Are you certain, ad'ika ?" Parl asked.

"Space is limited aboard Blood Raven , father," Yordis said.

"And a smaller force will be less noticeable," Nomen said.  "And. . . this feels right.  Like the Force wills the five of us to see this through."

Parl was hesitant.  Finally, he said "I am choosing to trust your judgment, ad ."

The meaning was not lost on Nomen.  Much was at stake, and what Nomen insisted was the Will of the Force looked to everyone else like having no idea what he was doing.  Parl was choosing to believe Nomen was not recklessly gambling with the fate of a priceless and powerful artifact, the secrecy and security of the Clan, and most importantly, the life of his daughter.

Nomen nodded.  "I will honor you, Buir ."

Parl nodded.  " Mando'ade! " he cried.  "We have a war party to see on their way!"

The Covert became a flurry of activity.  Supplies were retrieved, checked, and staged, weapons broken down, cleaned, and reassembled.  The five members of the team reported to the Forge to have their armor comprehensively inspected by Netta, adjustments and minor repairs were made.

Unlike his father, Torvan favored a blaster rifle, though he carried one of the phrik-layered swords Yordis had retrieved as a backup.  Shin likewise carried a rifle.  Cant favored a light repeating blaster, a cumbersome weapon that could spit large amounts of fire at a target.  Cant carried a blaster pistol as backup, Shin carried a pistol and vibroblade.

The next morning, the Taris slums were treated to a rare sight:  five Mandalorians on their way to a fight.

Four ASP droids trailed behind, carrying crates loaded with power packs, energy cells, spare parts, rations, and supplies.

Yordis directed the storage of the crates in the hold, while Nomen settled their guests in the spare quarters.

"You and Yordis are sharing, of course?" Shin asked playfully.

Nomen fought down embarrassment even as a flare of jealous anger rose from Cant to be quickly suppressed.  "That's correct," Nomen said, as neutrally as he could.

"We'll make do," Torvan said, surveying the room.  It was certainly spacious enough, though privacy would be nonexistent.

The crates were secured, the ASP droids trundled back to the Covert, and Yordis and Nomen slid into their seats in the cockpit, beginning their preparations for departure.

With five Mandalorians aboard and limited space, Blip and Gripe would spend most of the trip deactivated, Shin taking up the astromech's engineering duties.  She soon reported all was in readiness.  With clearance from what passed for space traffic control in this part of Taris, the Blood Raven lifted into the sky, heading again for the stars.

Yordis and Nomen emerged from their quarters the next morning, Cant, Shin, and Torvan sitting at the lounge table.  As Yordis and Nomen joined them, bowls of pog soup were pushed their way.

"You two seem to be getting on well," Shin said slyly.

Nomen blushed, Yordis shot her a glare.  "Quiet, Shin."

Shin's grin broadened, Nomen could sense her growing amusement.  "I didn't mean anything.  I'm just glad to hear he's taking such good care of you."

Yoris leveled a spoon threateningly at Shin.  "One more word, missy, and you'll be wearing your breakfast."

Torvan chuckled.  "If you didn't want it to be a topic of conversation, you should have been more discreet."

"Don't you start," Yordis replied.

"Come on," Cant grumbled.  "We have better things to do than talk about their love life."  Then he leaned towards Nomen, humor rippling in his sense.  "Unless you want to go into details."

Yordis sighed.  "If you're wondering why I never take any of you anywhere, this is why."

Shin laughed.  "But seriously, I have to know.  Just what did he do that made you make that squ–" Shin's mouth snapped shut mid-word, her voice unintelligible behind her closed lips.

Gradually, all eyes turned to Nomen.

Nomen slipped another spoonful of pog soup into his mouth.

"Thank you, dear," Yordis said sweetly.

"My pleasure," Nomen replied.

Cant and Torvan chuckled, and Shin slumped in her seat.  Nomen soon released his Force grip on her mouth, and she finished her soup in silence.

Nomen closed down his lightsaber and rubbed his shoulder, throbbing from the sting bolt Yordis had fired.  "Thirty-seven minutes.  Holding steady."

Nomen nodded.

" This is how you two have been spending your time?" Torvan asked.

Yordis nodded.  "It helps us both practice skills we can't really practice any other way."

"And we enjoy it," Nomen said.

"Are you getting better?" Shin asked.

Nomen shrugged.  "Tough to say.  We only have each other to measure against."

"You need a variable," Cant said.  "Test yourself against me."

Yordis' sense darkened.  "No, Cant."

Cant's sense was open and completely honest.  "Our quarrel is in the past.  I now offer my assistance to a brother Mandalorian."

"This is the Way," Torvan said.

Yordis was not moved.  Before she could say something unfortunate, Nomen spoke up, sending as much reassurance to Yordis as he could.  "I welcome your help, Cant."

Nomen could feel Yordis' glare, split between both men, as Cant took her position opposite Nomen.  Her attention riveted on his blaster as he drew it and adjusted the power setting.

"Ready?" Cant asked.

With a snap-hiss , Nomen brought up his saber.  "Ready."

Seconds passed.  Then, without warning, Cant snapped his blaster up and opened fire.

It was definitely different from defending against Yordis.  She had her own preferences and patterns, and she and Nomen had come to know each other intimately – on many levels – during their time together.  She also had two blasters to Cant's one.  But Cant's patterns were unfamiliar, and his marksmanship was just as keen as that of Yordis – perhaps more.

Nomen let the Force flow through him, guiding his perceptions and muscles to protect his body.  But, as always, he could not hold out forever.

The first thing he noticed after the initial shock was Cant shaking his blaster hand rapidly.  The second was the stunned senses of Yordis, Torvan, and Shin.

"Time?" Nomen asked.

"An hour and a half," Yordis said.

Nomen fought down the surge of pride.  It was good to be confident in one's abilities, but arrogance was a lethal trap.

"Shin had to toss me her blaster," Cant said, digging his thumb into the palm of his hand to loosen the tight tendons.  "My power pack ran dry."

"Why did you let him hit you?" Torvan asked Nomen.

"I didn't.  The power of the Force is infinite, I am not.  Eventually, my limits are surpassed."

Torvan shook his head.  "I mean, you can reflect blasts back at him, right?"

"Yes."

"So?  Why didn't you."

Yordis spoke up.  "We were drilling to help each other.  Him to get better at blocking blasterfire, me to get better at shooting around blocks."

"But a real enemy won't be so accommodating," Torvan said.

"What do you suggest?" Nomen asked.

"New sparring.  Sometimes one on one, sometimes two on one, sometimes all of us versus you.  Try and take us out by reflecting our sting blasts before we take you out."

Nomen grew concerned.  "Are you sure that's fair?  To you, I mean.  You can't defend yourselves like I can."

Torvan's sense turned wickedly gleeful.  "If you believe that, ad , then we really must teach you a lesson."

Chapter Text

The Mandalorians could, indeed, defend themselves from blasterfire.  While the properties of a sting bolt made beskar useless, in a real lightfight, their armor would absorb at least a few shots.  Torvan had a ray shield buckler like Nomen and was adept at keeping it between him and any return fire, while all of them were very good at moving in ways that made them unpredictable targets, difficult to hit.  Nomen splitting his focus between defending himself and hitting his attackers meant he couldn't hold out as long – but if his deflected fire was accurate, he wouldn't need to.

Nomen took to practicing at times with his own ray shield.  It couldn't deflect blaster bolts like his lightsaber, but learning to defend himself with it, on its own or in conjunction with his lightsaber, was a valuable skill.

In short, it was a highly educational week for all aboard the Blood Raven .

They emerged from hyperspace in the Tolemay system, immediately popping up on the scopes of the two Victory -class Star Destroyers.  Scant seconds after reversion, they were being hailed.

"This is the Star Destroyer Murmillo .  By order of the Empire, this is restricted space.  Transmit transponder code and stand by to be boarded."

Yordis, helmet off so its enunciator wouldn't carry over the transmission, keyed the mic.  "This is civilian freighter Wary Worrt , we've experienced a navigational malfunction and had to revert for correction.  Once it's fixed, we'll be on our way, apologies for the inconvenience."

" Wary Worrt ?" Cant asked incredulously.

Yordis shrugged.

"Transmit transponder and prepare to be boarded.  If you do not comply, we will open fire."

"They launched TIEs," Torvan said from the scope behind Yordis and to her left.  "Four of them, coming fast."

"TIEs don't come any other way," Yordis said.  "Nomen?"

"On it."  Nomen slid out of the copilot seat and began moving aft.

"You trust him to shoot?" Cant asked.

"More than anyone," Yordis replied.  She keyed the mic again.  "Just a few more seconds, and we'll be out of your hair, Murmillo .  No cause for alarm."

"You are in violation of Imperial regulation Besh 787-45 Aurek 24, regarding unauthorized entry into secure space.  You will submit to boarding and questioning or you will be destroyed."

Yordis opened up the throttle to full.  "Engine malfunction!" she cried.  "She's gone ber-" she cut the mic and turned off the comlink.

Nomen settled himself in the gunwell, powering up the quad laser cannon.  "Here they come," he said, as he felt the TIE fighters approaching, the senses of their pilots shifting from wary to prepared for battle.

"Remember, make it look good," Yordis said.

"Have I ever let you down?"

"Homing beacon."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

The TIEs swooped in as Yordis added a shimmy to Blood Raven 's flight, simultaneously making them greatly resemble a ship in distress and providing the TIE pilots a more difficult target.  Green lances of destructive energy reached out for them, none connecting solidly.

With Force-fed precision, Nomen returned fire, cleanly missing all the fighters while making it look like he was trying desperately to blast them out of the stars.  He was sure the comm officer aboard the Murmillo was shouting all manner of threats at them, but with the comlink "damaged by catastrophic malfunction" they couldn't hear him.

The Blood Raven knifed into the atmosphere, the TIEs hot on their tail.  Yordis continued to play the role of dangerously out of control starship, heading for the surface at a truly reckless velocity.

"Gripe, that crate prepped?" Yordis asked.

"Affirmative," the droid replied from the cargo lock.

"Drop on my signal."

"Affirmative."

The ground was rushing towards them far too quickly.  At well beyond the last second, Yordis threw Blood Raven into a rolling turn, leveling out and zipping away on a new vector, still at full speed.

As Yordis started her maneuver, again with precision possible only through the Force, Nomen squeezed off one salvo that shredded all four TIE fighters.

"Gripe, drop it!" Yordis yelled.

"Affirmative."  The droid shoved out the crate loaded into the cargo bay airlock.  It tumbled through the atmosphere, hitting the ground at the same time in roughly the same place as the TIE debris.

The coaxium and explosives packed in the crate detonated with spectacular force.

"That should leave an adequate crater," Yordis said.  "They'll think we crashed and our engines blew, and the TIEs were too close and got caught in the explosion.  It'll take them days to sort out what really happened.  With a little luck, we'll have the Vault by then and be on our way."

"There is no luck," Nomen said as he entered the cockpit.  "There is the Force."

"Don't remember that being in your Jedi Code," Yordis replied.

"It isn't," Nomen said.  "But it's something many Jedi believe."

Cant slapped Nomen on the shoulder as the latter passed by.  "Damn fine shooting.  For a blind man."

Shin chuckled.  "Compared to Nomen, you shoot like a blind man, Cant."

"So, any idea where to look for this lost artifact?" Yordis asked as Nomen slid back into the copilot seat.

"That way," Nomen said, pointing.  "I can sense something, vague and distorted, but there."

Yordis changed course, keeping Blood Raven low to avoid detection by the orbiting Star Destroyers or any Imperial ground forces.

"Wait, that's all we have to go on?" Cant asked.  "That vague 'I sense something' thing?"

"You have something better?" Nomen asked.

"It's a Jedi artifact," Yordis replied.  "So we'll trust the Jedi."

Cant grumbled.

Nomen directed them to land in a patch of desert that looked no different from any other patch of desert, at least to the Mandalorians with eyes.  Yordis wondered what Nomen saw.

They departed the ship, helmets back on, as Gripe unloaded a crate from the hold.

Nomen smiled.  "Ah, bring back memories, doesn't it?"

Yordis smiled back as she set up the dirtmapper.  "Let's find us some buried treasure."

Yordis started up the device, the bone-rattling throb of its sonic pulses felt by all.  "The Imps going to pick up on that?" Torvan asked.

"Not likely."

" How 'not likely?'" Shin asked.

Yordis shrugged.  "With the right instruments and if they knew what they were looking for, they could spot it from a few kilometers away.  Without, they'd need to be right over it, and even then wouldn't recognize it unless their scanners were configured properly."

The holomap began to take shape.  Nomen plugged his datapad into the dirtmapper, feeling out the contours of the structure below with his fingertips as the sonic pulses brought it into focus.

"We're in luck," Yordis said.  "Not too far down, looks like a hollow we can enter through.  I'm not seeing too clear a map of the interior, or where this temple might be."

"This is the temple," Nomen said.  "We're right above it.  And the Force will guide us to the Vault."

"You'll forgive us for taking a backup plan," Cant said, plugging his armor into the dirtmapper, linking the image to the automap in his HUD.  The other Mandalorians followed suit.

Yordis shut down the dirtmapper, and as Shin and Gripe stowed it, the others set to work with power shovels.

Hours later, they had a pit in the sand some eight meters deep and four square, the bottom firm, unyielding stone.

Yordis pulled out her fine detail tools, her archaeologist instincts drawing her to a pattern in the stone.  She carefully brushed away the accumulated sand, revealing a seam.  She followed it, outlining a square panel.

Repulsorlift handles were attached, and Shin and Torvan lifted the stone cover out of the way, revealing an empty black pit.

Cant snapped a chemlight stick and dropped it.  It fell through the dark, finally landing on the floor some thirty meters below.

Yordis and Shin assembled the winch array.  "We go first," Nomen said.

Cant sighed.  "Look, I know you think–"

"This is a Jedi temple, the Force is strong here.  And it's home to a powerful artifact housing a vergence in the Force.  I'm the only one equipped to determine what dangers might be down there."

"And I do this for a living," Yordis said.  "Anything he misses, I won't."

Torvan nodded.  "And, as Nomen said, this is a Jedi temple.  It belongs to his people, he should set foot in it first."

"This is the Way," Shin said.

Cant nodded.  "Alright."

The winch was designed to drop them in pairs, back to back, covering each other from any threat they might be descending into.  Nomen and Yordis had their blasters out, and Nomen had remembered to turn on his helmet lamp.

The chamber they were lowered into was empty, nothing but sand and dust covering the floor.  They unhooked and looked around as Shin and Cant made their way down.  Torvan came last, alone.

They looked at the corridors branching out from the room, but Nomen gravitated to one.  "This way," he said.

The Mandalorians soon gathered behind him.  His uncanny senses had been accurate so far.

They proceeded down the corridor.  The walls were blank, no carvings or embellishments, just featureless tan stone.  Their helmet lamps swept the gloom.  Sweat trickled down their spines beneath their beskar .  Each step drew darkness and nervousness about them.  None could shake the inexplicable feeling that there was something down here with them, watching them, considering them, planning how best to toy with and eliminate them.

Yordis whirled, blasters up.  Something moved in the shadows at the edge of her light.  Another.  Another.  She breathed heavily, whirled again at another strange sound.  Her lone lamp increased the darkness instead of piercing it.  She whirled again.

Ghoulish figures surged forward, hook-clawed hands grasping for her.  She screamed and fired, the monsters fell before her blasters, but there were more, always more.  She could feel the icy fingers of ones behind her and to the sides grabbing her armor, pulling her.

She always knew she'd die alone, buried with whatever find she'd been hunting.  In a thousand years, maybe, someone would dig her up.  Someone with no knowledge or care for who she'd been, how she'd lived, why she'd died, interested only in claiming her armor and melting it down for its beskar .

Discontinuity.

Her arms were pinned to her front, wrists crossed and held together, blasters still spitting fire as she convulsively pulled the triggers, but held pointed at the floor.  And there was a voice in her ear, as soothing and familiar as the presence in her mind.

"Calm, Yordis, stop, think," Nomen said calmly.  "You're all right.  You're fine.  Everything's fine."

Yordis forced herself to take deep, steady breaths, clutching at Nomen's presence in her thoughts for certainty and control.  The dream had been so vivid, so real. . . but it wasn't a dream, it couldn't have been, she was wide awake.  But it hadn’t been real, either.  What had it been?

"Nomen," she said, turning in his arms as he loosened his grip, seeing she was once again master of herself.  "What the kriffing frell was that?"

"The Force, and the Dark Side, are strong here.  That was an illusion, a mental protection.  Whether the Dark Side messing with us or the Force trying to protect the Vault, I'm not sure."

Yordis' response was interrupted by a hail of blasterfire.  She and Nomen hit the deck as Cant charged about, light repeating blaster filling the air with deadly crimson darts, shooting at everything and nothing.

"Can you fix him too?" Yordis asked.

"No connection.  I can't reach him through the Force or shield him if I could."

"So what now?"

"Can you stun him?"

Cant sprayed more blasterfire through the hall.

"Yordis?"

"I'm thinking!" she snapped, flicking her blasters to stun.  As the spray of bolts passed, Yordis sprang to her knees and fired.  Twin blue rings of stun fire hit Cant in the chest, knocking him out.

Nomen spun, drawing and igniting his lightsaber, blocking Torvan's wild swing.  Nomen levered Torvan's sword out and around, then rapped the pommel of his saber against Torvan's helmet, hard.  His knees buckled and he fell, disoriented but not unconscious.

Yordis fixed that with a stun bolt.

More blasterfire.  Nomen's lightsaber weaved an amethyst arc in the air, intercepting Shin's frenzied shots.  Yordis, still on her knees, leaned her head past Nomen's hip, arms on either side of his legs, and stunned their last companion.

"Well," Yordis asked as she got to her feet.  "Got a Jedi trick up your sleeve to keep them from going berserk when they wake up?"

"No.  We'd need to shield their minds from outside interference somehow, and I don't know how to do that."

"You and I are fine."

"I can protect myself, and we're attuned enough protecting you is like protecting me.  I don't have that with them."

Yordis nodded.  "I have an idea.  Keep ready."

Far sooner than they should have, the three began to awaken.

" Mando'ade, ke'sush! " Yordis snapped, voice weighty with authority.

The three snapped to their feet, standing rigid, swaying only slightly as the last lingering effects of unconsciousness dissipated.

"Do not speak.  Do not think.  You are at attention," Yordis continued.  "There is no fear, no hate, no rage.  There is only discipline.  Only the Resol’nare .  We are Mandalorians, we will not be frightened off by some boogey spirit.  We do not fear ghosts .  These things are not real, and illusions cannot harm us.  We are Mandalorians, and we do not fear!  We are what others fear!"

"Yes, alor !" Cant, Torvan, and Shin shouted in response.

Nomen was astonished.  The senses of the Mandalorians quickly whipped into filtered order, cast beskar blast doors into their minds slamming shut and locking.  The intangible force clawed at their barriers but found no purchase, no opening to leak in and manipulate them.  He'd known Jedi with less discipline.

Having fought off the first challenge Havor'aptra had to offer, they proceeded deeper into the accursed temple.

Chapter Text

"How much farther?" Shin asked.

"I don't know," Nomen replied.

"Feels like we've been down here for hours," Torvan said.

"Days," Cant grumbled.

"Probably just a trick of perception," Nomen said.

"And if it's not?" Cant asked.  "If we're lost?"

"Your automaps are working?"

The Mandalorians responded in the affirmative.

"Then we can find our way back out," Nomen said.  "Thus, we aren't lost."

"Actually, I contend that we are lost!" Cant snapped.  "We may know where we are, but we don't know where that is in relation to where we need to be!  We could wander down here forever, following a kriffing blind man! "

Yordis screamed in frustration.  "Just shut up!  Clap your damn mouth shut!"

"Why?" Cant shot back.  " You brought him into our lives, into our Clan, it's your fault we're down here.  Your fault we're going to die pointlessly!"

Yordis turned, getting right in Cant’s face.  "One more word, Cant.  I kriffing dare you:  one.  More.  Word."

Can't didn't back down.  "You're a schutta and we're going to die because you think with your–"

Yordis was hurled aside as Nomen barreled past her and into Cant, bellowing with rage.  His fists smashed into Cant's helmet, hurting Nomen more than Cant, but Nomen didn't feel it.  He felt nothing but white-hot rage, the searing desire to beat Cant to bloody, visceral death with his bare hands.

"Enough of you!" Nomen yelled, bearing Cant to the ground.  "I've had enough!"  Nomen began smashing Cant against the sandy floor.  "No more!  Shut up!  Stop talking!  Frelling die! "

His hands found their way between beskar breastplate and helmet, dug into the flexible bodyglove and flexible skin of Cant’s throat.  Cant began to choke.  Not as satisfying as seeing as his broken and bloody face smashed into unrecognizable pulp, but it would do.

"Emotion, yet peace.  Nomen, emotion, yet peace."

Yordis' quiet voice cut like a lightsaber through the rage clouding his mind.  His Jedi and Mandalorian discipline grappled that gap, tore it open.  Nomen seized control of himself again and stared, horrified at what he'd done.

He staggered back, pushing himself off Cant.  Cant coughed and drew ragged breaths, Shin and Torvan attending to him.

Yordis knelt by Nomen, who was sitting on the floor staring vacantly.  "Hey.  You okay?"

Nomen shook his helmeted head.  "I'm a Jedi.  I'm better than this.  I know I'm better than this.  I'm not supposed to hurt an ally."  He turned his head to her.  "Or the woman I love," he added quietly.

"I'm alright.  And that wasn't you.  It's this place, kriffing with our heads.  You still fought it off.  I'm fine, Cant. . . will be fine.  It's alright."

"It got to me.  It shouldn't have.  I'm a Jedi, I should have stopped it."

"Listen to me, Nomen Lok.  You are a Mandalorian warrior of Clan Cadera.  You lost, it happens.  But Mandalorians never stop fighting.  So stand the hell up and fight."

Nomen nodded, and together he and Yordis rose to their feet.  Nomen was still shaky, but Yordis was there to support him, in a way more profound than merely physical.

Shin had removed Cant’s helmet and checked his injuries, applying a medpack to treat them.

"He'll be alright," she said.  "Some bruising at the throat, but nothing serious."

Nomen felt horrible as he approached.  "Cant, I'm sorry."

Can't nodded.  "It's okay.  None of us were ourselves.  This isn't on you."

"Yes, it is."

Firm resolution filled Cant’s sense.  "No.  It is not."

"We are bonded in battle and blood," Torvan said.

"A bond that nothing can break," Shin added.

"We fight together as one, for each other, for the Clan, and for Mandalore," Yordis said.

"This is the Way," Cant finished, extending a hand to Nomen.

"This is the Way," Nomen replied, taking Cant’s hand.

Shin, Torvan, and Yordis added their hands, and Nomen felt the bonds between the five of them growing tighter and stronger.

They released their grips, and continued down the dusty corridors.

Finally, they reached the central secure chamber, where the Vault was stored.  Nomen could feel it close at hand.  Even muted, its Force presence seeped into the surroundings, magnifying and twisting the power of the Force around it.

The doors had been blown off long ago, the Sith fighting the Jedi defenders all the way back to and inside the artifact treasury.  Desiccated corpses littered the ground, discarded lightsabers lying near outstretched hands.

Another set of doors had been blasted open inside, exposing a secure treasury within the secure treasury.  Inside there was a plain stone box, utterly unremarkable.

Save for the tempest in the Force Nomen could sense around it.  In that plain stone box, he knew, was the Vault.

A part of that tempest coalesced as the Mandalorians entered.  As they made their way to the second door, a whisper, a hint of dry, dusty movement, could barely be heard.

One of the desiccated corpses lurched to its feet.  Then another.  And another.

Nomen struck out with his lightsaber, bisecting one of the shambling creatures from hip to shoulder.  The legs didn't fall, and the torso dragged itself towards him with its arms.

Yordis, Cant, Shin, and Torvan poured blasterfire into the animate dead, and the bolts blew chunks out of the targets' trunks, but didn't slow them, let alone stop them.

"Nomen, hope you've got a Jedi trick for this!" Yordis shouted.

Nomen considered a moment, then closed down his lightsaber.  "Cover me!" he called, retreating to between his four companions.  He knelt on the floor, closed his eyes, and fell into the Force.

"Cover him?" Cant asked.  "Is he crazy?"

"Just do it!" Yordis said.

The Mandalorians brought all their skill and weaponry to bear on buying Nomen time.

The Force was a riotous whirl, the black veins of the Dark Side choking and smothering.

It didn't take Nomen long to trace them to the consciousness controlling them.

It wasn't a ghost or spirit per se, not the imprint of a specific person left behind in the Force.  Rather, several powerful Sith dying in such close proximity to such a powerful, and powerfully tainted, vergence had formed a sort of gestalt, an amalgamation of malevolence and greed.

It's mine , the legion said.  You can't have it.  It's mine!

No, Nomen said.  You are dead, your time has passed.  Let go, become one with the Force.

I am the Force!   The legion of dead Sith reached out with all the dark power that was its to command to snuff Nomen out like a candle.

Nomen reached into the Force for defense.

The breadth and power of it astonished him.  He felt, in this moment, that for the first time he was truly grasping the infinity of the Force.  He felt not only the four Mandalorians fighting in the physical realm to buy him time, but all the way back on Taris, the whole of Clan Cadera, unknowingly lending their strength to a battle taking place light-years away and on another plane.  The slums of Taris were with him, everyone his actions had aided, and everyone they had aided in turn.  Across the whole galaxy, the infinite web of the Force, life touching life touching life, adding to the great mystery that was the Force.  An old man in a desert.  A young girl in a forest.  A young boy on an arid farm.  A young man on a ship, drawing strength from the woman who saved and loved him.  A woman, learning as Nomen was what it meant to be no longer a Jedi and forge her own way, her own relationship with the Force.  The gentle, firm encouragement of Master Yoda, "Do, or do not.  There is no try."  Nomen was part of nurturing and sustaining that complex web.

Against the limitless power of the Force, the combined might of all the Darkness in this place was merely a loud noise, easily ignored.

Nomen pushed back with Force, driving into the morass of Darkness, carefully cutting away at it like a surgeon removing a cancer.  The legion screamed, the coalesced Sith desperately clawing to their unnatural mockery of life rather than let go and join with Force.  Nomen didn't give them choice, dispersing them back into the endless pool of life.

On the plane of crude matter, the corpses, animated by the will of the collected Dark Side essence in the same way as a rock or lightsaber might be lifted, fell to the ground.

Nomen opened his eyes and sagged, the experience of fighting the mental battle, of becoming a conduit for the entirety of the Force, draining him more than anything he had ever done.

Yordis was at his side, holding him up.  "You did it!  I have no idea what, but you did it!"

"I'll explain," Nomen said weakly.  "Soon as I figure it out myself."

It was several minutes before Nomen was well enough to stand.  The others insisted he be the first to enter the inner treasury, even though he'd need to leave all the work of actually securing the Vault to them.

Yordis snapped a few holoimages on her datapad, then directed Shin, Cant, and Torvan at opening the stone case and revealing the Vault.

Nomen felt pure awe overtake Yordis.  "Nomen, we have to try and do that thing again.  You have to see this, it's beautiful."

In Nomen’s sense, the Vault was a brilliant swirl of the Force, tainted by sickly black veins of the Dark Side.  He nodded.  "It is. . . in its way."

Repulsorlift handles were attached to the Vault, and the group began steering it out of the temple.

It seemed to take a much shorter time to arrive back at their entry than it had taken to find the Vault, though they followed the same route back.  Shin and Cant went up the winch first, followed by Torvan and Yordis, and finally Nomen and the Vault.

Shin was breaking down the winch as Yordis and Torvan resealed the entrance when Nomen sensed something.  Instantly, he clamped down on his presence in the Force, muting it as much as he could and still see.  "Company," he said.

The Mandalorians turned as, from over the nearest dune, two squads of stormtroopers marched.

Leading them was a woman who, in Nomen's sense, held a familiar sense of rage and hate, steady and trained Dark Side focus.  Familiar, yet definitely distinct.

"Inquisitor," Yordis said softly.

"Mandalorians," the Inquisitor said.  "Thank you for retrieving the Emperor's prize.  Surrender it, your weapons, and your armor, and you will be arrested and stand trial.  Eventually, you might get to go home someday.  Resist, and die."  The stormtroopers trained their blasters.

Yordis scoffed.  "You're laser-brained if you think twenty stormtroopers are a match for five Mandalorians."

"Twenty stormtroopers," the Inquisitor ignited her lightsaber.  "And me."

"Mother nexu, please.  Mandalorians eat full-grown Jedi for breakfast.  You're just playing at being a real dar'jetii ."

"I will enjoy silencing that tongue of yours.  Attack."

The desert erupted with blasterfire.

Chapter Text

" Dar'jetii ibac'ner! " Nomen shouted, activating his shield and firing his blaster.

" Lek! " the Mandalorians responded, confirming that they'd let Nomen handle the Inquisitor.

The stormtroopers moved up as they fired, deadly red darts reaching for the Mandalorians with frightening accuracy.  But the Mandalorians were even more accurate.  Cant’s repeating blaster spit fire at one squad, taking half of them down in the blink of an eye.  Torvan knelt and fired his rifle, his shield covering him and Cant.  Yordis and Shin fired rocket darts from their bracers, thinning the second squad before picking off targets with their own blasters.

Nomen fired straight at the Inquisitor.  She batted aside his blaster bolts, advancing.  She swept her lightsaber at Nomen's blaster, he tossed it aside while making it look like she'd knocked it away while he tried to spare it from the sundering crimson beam of lightsaber.  Her weapon fell again and again, Nomen's shield blocking the blows.  He was driven to his knees.

Only one stormtrooper remained standing.

Nomen flicked his right wrist, his lightsaber shooting into his hand.  He activated the blade as he swept it up, slashing the Inquisitor in the chest.  Her sense registered a momentary shock, incredulous surprise that she had not noticed this Mandalorian's strength in the Force.  Then she fell backwards, dead.

"Jed-" the last stormtrooper got out before Yordis pinned a blaster bolt right between his eyes.

"Back to the Raven! " Yordis shouted.  "On the double!"

The Mandalorians raced for the ship.

Torvan and Shin secured the Vault in the cargo hold while Yordis jumped into the pilot seat.  Cant slid into the copilot seat as Nomen secured himself in the gunwell.

Blood Raven rose into the air, Yordis sweeping over the spot they'd fought the stormtroopers and Inquisitor.  She inverted the ship, and Nomen laid down a spray of fire from the quad laser cannon, raking the bodies, blasting them and scorching the sand below.  Eliminating any evidence that Mandalorians or Jedi had been involved.

Yordis shot back up into space.  The vagaries of hyperspace travel meant the outbound vector was too close to the Star Destroyers, but even so Yordis was able to keep them far enough away the Victory -class ships would never catch up before the navicomputer finished its hyperspace calculations.

The cloud of TIEs they'd launched was another story.

"Incoming!" Cant cried.

"I see them," Nomen confirmed, swiveling the guns to rake the fighters.  Three exploded with his first volley, but more were on top of them, twisting and turning and firing at Blood Raven .

"Shields holding," Yordis said as she threw the ship into a corkscrewing evasive maneuver.  "Calculations progressing."

Nomen smiled beneath his helmet at the calm, clear certainty in her sense.  In Yordis' mind, they were already in hyperspace on their way home, no question.  Nomen did his part to secure her vision of the future by blowing away two more TIEs.

Raven lurched again.  "Direct hit, aft quarter," Cant said.  "Thrusters getting hot."

"Shin, lock it down if you please," Yordis said.

"On it!" Shin replied.  Blip blatted indignantly.  "Yeah, you can help!"

Two of the TIEs led Nomen a frustrating chase, going full evasive while the others focused their attacks on Blood Raven 's ventral side.  Yordis flicked the controls, and the ship spun on its long axis, Nomen suddenly presented with clear shots at the fighters.  Two of them vaporized before the rest scattered, regrouping for another attack run.

"A few more seconds," Yordis said.

The TIEs arced through space, turning to head again at Blood Raven .  Nomen fired, trying to keep them at bay or break up their formation, but the remaining pilots were apparently the best.

"Thrusters stable!" Shin called.  "For now, anyway."

"Almost there. . ." Yordis said.

Nomen clipped one of the TIE's solar panels, sending it whirling.

"We're away!" Yordis announced, wrapping her hands around the hyperspace lever.  A gentle pull, and Blood Raven accelerated beyond the speed of light, beyond realspace, into hyperspace.

They were safe.

"Twenty three minutes on this course, then I'll drop out and send us off on a new heading.  A few more of those, we should be safe from any pursuit."  Yordis turned as Nomen entered the cockpit.  "Assuming. . ?"

"No homing beacon," Nomen confirmed.

Yordis nodded.  "Still, probably have Blip scour the hull again, just to be sure."

Nomen smiled under his helmet, resting his hand on Yordis' shoulder.  "What, don't you trust me?"

"Just checking your blind spots, dear."

"Oh, I'll get you back for that."

"I can hardly wait."

Cant blushed under his helmet.  "Uh, I think. . . someone needs help with. . . something."  He vacated the cockpit, closing the door.

Yordis pushed Nomen into the copilot seat and slid into his lap, straddling him.  "Now, why don't you tell me more about how, exactly, you intend to punish me?"

Nomen and Yordis stood in the cargo bay, their helmets off.  Gripe was switched off and locked down, Blip in the engine compartment struggling to patch up the jury-rigged repairs to the thrusters.

Nomen was reaching into Yordis' presence in the Force, and Yordis was letting him, spreading herself wide open before him.  As before, it took some effort, but they again managed to share perception.

Nomen regarded the Vault through Yordis' eyes, artfully constructed and decorated, gleaming gold, a style and artistry from a forgotten era.

"You're right," Nomen said.  "It is beautiful."

"It looks kind of scary from your view," Yordis said, observing the tempestuous swirl of light and dark.

"Yes," Nomen said.

"And you're sure you want to do this?"

Nomen nodded.  "It's the right call.  We can't risk it falling into anyone's hands."

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Can I take some holos first?"

Nomen considered, then nodded.

They fell back into their own heads, and Yordis busied herself collecting images on her datapad.

Nomen reflected on the Vault.  It seemed a shame, such an important piece of history. . . such a legend .  But it was too dangerous, there would be nowhere to store it the Empire couldn't eventually find it.  This was the only way.  Any hesitation on his part was only temptation concealed.

And he had enough unconcealed temptation to deal with.  A frighteningly large part of him wanted to open the Vault, see what power it really contained, what he might be able to do with it.  Both for his own intense curiosity – Yordis was a bad influence – and for what the power might let him accomplish.  Perhaps he could fix all that had gone wrong in the galaxy over the last ten years.

But that was not his place.  His destiny lay along a different path.  The future, and the Force, would attend to itself.

"Maybe someday, we'll be able to share with someone that the Vault was real, and what became of it."

Yordis nodded, finishing taking her holos.  "If your kind ever return, they'd certainly be interested."

Yordis and Nomen slipped their helmets back on, Yordis reactivated Gripe as they left the hold.  They made their way up to the cockpit.  Cant sat in the pilot's seat.

"We're two minutes out," he said, standing.

"Perfect," Yordis said, sliding into the pilot chair.  Nomen took his place at her side, Cant taking a seat behind him.

"You sure about this?" Cant asked Nomen.

"Positive," Nomen lied.

"Just seems a shame, going to all that effort and–"

"Hush, Cant," Yordis said.  The navicomputer beeped, and Yordis pushed the hyperdrive lever forward.  Blood Raven shot back into realspace.

"Tricky flying ahead," Yordis said, hand firm on the controls, sense calm and focused.

Nomen sensed the danger all around them.  A dense, misty cloud of gas, occluding traditional vision and instruments.  Massive carbon crystals drifting randomly amid powerful gravitic fluctuations.

Yordis deftly maneuvered them to their goal.  "There it is," she said, voice quiet with awe.  "Ready?"

"Ready," Nomen confirmed.

"Gripe, load the Vault into the cargo lock."

"Affirmative," the droid replied.  After a few moments, Gripe's voice sounded again.  "Affirmative."

"It's loaded?  Lock secure?"

"Affirmative."

"Pressure stable," Yordis said.  "We're lined up.  Gripe, open the outer hatch on. . . Nomen's mark."

"Affirmative."

Nomen swallowed.  "Gripe, open the hatch."

"Affirmative."

"It's away," Yordis said.

"I see it," Nomen replied quietly.

They both watched through their different perceptions as the Vault tumbled through space, propelled by the air escaping the cargo bay airlock.  It was quickly caught in the gravitational field of the Maw, the massive black hole at the heart of the Akkadese Maelstrom.  It vanished from Yordis' sight, and not long after from Nomen's sense.

"We're done here," Nomen said.

Yordis nodded.  "Right.  Let's go home."

Blood Raven had barely entered hyperspace when there was a small disturbance at the Maw.  From the rip in the fabric of space where reality stopped working and nothing could escape, the Vault winked back into existence.  It hung there, the light of the nebula glistening on its golden angles.  Then it vanished again, secreting itself away once more.

It, too, had a part to play, and its destiny was not yet fulfilled.

Chapter Text

The return to the Covert was much warmer this time, everyone very pleased the war party had returned with no casualties.  Their first stop, as usual, was Parl’s office.

“Welcome back, Daughter,” Parl said warmly.  “And all of you.”

“Thank you, Father,” Yordis replied.  Nomen and the others offered their thanks, as well.

“Were you successful?” Parl asked.

“We were,” Yordis replied.  “We beat the Empire to the Vault, recovered it.  We did have to fight an Inquisitor and two squads of stormtroopers, but that was little challenge.  We strafed the site of the battle as we took off, no evidence remains we were involved.”

“Excellent.  I would like to see your prize.”

Nomen stepped forward.  “Apologies, alor .  It is destroyed.  We fired it into the Maw to ensure it would never fall into the hands of servants of the Dark Side.”

Parl radiated surprise, but clamped down on it quickly.  “You are certain this was the wisest course of action?”

“Absolutely,” Nomen said.

“I trust your judgment, then.  Still, I would have liked to have seen it.”

“I have holos, Father,” Yordis said.

Amusement rippled from Parl.  “Of course you do.  I’d like to review them later.”

“Of course.”

Joy, relief, and elation surged in Parl's sense.  "But for now, a war party has returned victorious, in honor and glory!  Let us celebrate!"

The Mandalorians within earshot cheered.

The mess was quickly reorganized for the party.  The chefs made foods reserved for special occasions – spicier and richer than usual, though still relatively easy on the digestion.  Those of the Clan who were musically inclined broke out their instruments, and lively music accompanied good food and the swapping of war stories.

"I swear," Cant said, "we were just meters away from lithobraking when Yordis snap-turned and sent Raven off on a new heating.  And this one," he pointed at Nomen, "was done toying with those TIEs, blasted all four with one trigger pull."  Cant shook his head in amazement.  "Best damn shooting I ever saw."

"From a blind man?" someone asked.

"From anyone ," Cant answered.

"And don't forget the crypt-guarding mummies," Torvan said.

" Nu draar! " another listener exclaimed.

" Ori'haat ," Yordis said.  "Actual, walking desiccated corpses trying to kill us."

Nomen cleared his throat.  "Well, to be fair, that's not technically what happened."

"Oh?" Yordis asked with amusement.  "Then what did technically happen?"

"The spirits of most – maybe all – the dead Sith had sort of melded together, fueled and anchored by the power of the Vault.  They used what was in the environment to try to destroy us, and what was in the environment was desiccated corpses."  Nomen raised his hand, making his fork move artfully in the air.  "Exactly like this, just on a larger, more disgusting scale."

"Hm," Yordis said, as everyone else was considering that.  "So you're saying they were the undead, animated by an evil force and malign will?"

Nomen sighed, defeated.  "Yes, yes, you're always right."

"And don't you forget it."

The food gave way to drink, and Nomen, being inexperienced with intoxicants, didn't partake, and he was not the only one.  Even in celebration, Mandalorians valued their discipline.

The music being played changed, and soon there was dancing in the cleared space of the hall.  Nomen enjoyed the sensations of his Clanmates enjoying their dances, but the movements were too foreign and energetic for him to join in.

Until the music slowed, the dancing with it, most of the Mandalorians on the floor in pairs.

Yordis held her hand out.  Nomen debated a moment, then took it.

She led him out on the dance floor.  With her arms around him providing firm guidance, and his acute awareness of her body, he was able to avoid stepping on her feet.

"This is nice," Nomen said, feeling Yordis in his arms, the gentle sway and pulse of the music.  It would have been better without their armor separating them, but it was still quite pleasant.

"Yes, it is," she replied.  She tilted her head up, looking into his face even though that made no difference to him.  "I love you, Nomen."

He smiled.  "I love you, Yordis."

They continued to dance, feeling each other's bodies, the rhythm of the music, the beat of their hearts, their friendship and love, and the bonds between them forged through trial and fire.

Nomen settled at the table in Yordis' quarters, removing his helmet.  "Yes?"

"More Mandalorian culture lessons," she said, removing her helmet.

"How much more is there?"

"We're getting close.  Today, we're discussing courtship and marriage."

Nervousness, embarrassment, and some terror roiled in Yordis' sense, yet she kept it firm in the grip of her discipline and will.  There was a level of awkwardness in them discussing this specific topic, and Nomen could sense Yorids was concerned he'd take it as a signal or passive-aggressive demand from her.  She was afraid in three different ways:  he'd be offended and break away, ask too soon for the wrong reasons, or never be willing to make what they felt for each other official under Creed.

Nomen opened himself to her, sending waves of reassurance and love to her through their special bond.

"So, courtship is pretty straightforward.  Two Mandalorians interested in each other simply agree to spend more time together.  Depending on their individual preferences, there may be actual 'dates', or just helping each other out with their respective daily routines.  If you want to court a Mandalorian, just ask to spend more time with them.  If they agree, great, if not, it's wise to leave it be."

Nomen smirked.  "Only a fool or one tired of life annoys a Mandalorian."

"Just so.  If the prospective couple grow closer through this period, they may start talking marriage.  If not, often both parties will realize the error and agree to seek other mates, though it is common for one to decide this isn't working and request the other to leave them alone.  Again, it's unwise to try and force the issue."

Yordis cleared her throat, a fresh ripple of embarrassment rising, to Nomen's amusement.  "Sex may or may not be part of courtship, again depending on individual preference.  Sex can also occur outside courting arrangements, as something two consenting adults agree to for mutual recreation.  However , sex outside a courting arrangement or marriage while in one is enormously taboo, grounds for expulsion under most interpretations of Creed.  'Open' arrangements, where both partners agree sex can occur with those outside the arrangement, are rare and not recognized by all Mandalorians."

Nomen nodded, and Yordis continued.  "That said, there's no rules about the composition of a courting arrangement or marriage, only that all partners are fully consenting.  One male and one female, two males, two females, nonbinary arrangements, groups, all are equally permissible under Creed."  Yordis smirked.  "The largest group marriage I've found records for was thirteen partners, five men and eight women.  Between Foundlings and biological children, they had fifty-two kids."

Nomen's eyebrows went up.  "Wow."

"Yeah.  Foundlings are a major reason Mandalorian culture is so accommodating of different marriage arrangements.  Foundlings are just as much 'true' children as biological children are; the difference is academic and not always tracked."  Wry, annoyed amusement seeped into her sense.  "Makes my job difficult sometimes, needing to track specifically a genetic line to nail down a historical date or something, only to realize I'm looking at chains of adoptions and I left the bloodline entirely generations ago.  But for the most part, how you came to your family isn't important."

Nomen nodded.  "No one cares who your parents were, only the parent you'll be."

"Exactly."  Yordis paused.  "Marriage is also relatively simple.  If a courting arrangement has proceeded to the point of it being a possibility, those involved have likely discussed it.  There are no fancy ceremonies or elaborate gifts and symbols.  One just asks the other, 'shall we be married?' and awaits their answer.  Which will probably be an immediate 'Yes,' since, again, anyone in a courting arrangement proceeding to marriage probably knows it for some time before the question is asked."

Nomen nodded, digesting that.  "So. . . would you call what we have a courting arrangement?"

"Most definitely."

"Proceeding towards marriage?"

"A strong possibility."

Nomen swallowed.  His heart was suddenly thudding in his chest.  He felt his nervousness echoed from Yordis, but stronger than it was their love, and more importantly their like , of each other.

"So. . ." Nomen began hesitantly.  "Do you. . . think. . . shall we be married?"

Surprise rippled through her, less at Nomen's question than the immediate answer she wanted to give.  "I think. . . if you think we're ready. . . we should."

"I can't imagine us being more ready."

"Nor can I."

The nervousness vanished like fire in the vacuum of space, and all that was left was love, excitement, and elation.

They were in each other's arms before they knew it, lips pressed together passionately.

"So," Nomen asked when they finally came up for air.  "What's involved in planning a Mandalorian wedding?"

"More than you expect but less than you think," Yordis replied.  "The most important part is picking our bodyguards."

"Bodyguards?"

Yordis nodded.  "Old tradition, from the days when a bride or groom would be stolen from another Clan, both would have bodyguards to watch their back during the ceremony and make sure no one came to steal them back.  It's more an honorary position now, but still, they'll take their jobs seriously.  It's a Mandalorian wedding, remember, it's entirely possible a fight will break out."

Nomen grinned.  "And is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Yordis shrugged.  "Depends.  A challenge to the marriage can be seen as a good omen, if the challenger is easily defeated.  A friendly brawl here or there can bring a sense of camaraderie.  But if the marriage becomes a focal point of tensions within the Clan or between Clans, leading to real war. . . well, that's bad."

Nomen thought that an understatement.  "Are we in any danger of that?"

"I can't see how.  Cant was the only one who took you way too personally, and you've pretty much won him over.  Everyone else is perfectly willing to meet you where you are."

Nomen nodded.  "Should I pick Cant as my bodyguard?"

Yordis hissed in a breath between her teeth.  "That might be a bad idea.  He'll probably be in attendance either way, but he could choose to skip it, take guard duty or something.  And making him be part of it might be a firm poke in whatever resentment remains."

Nomen nodded again.  "Torvan, then."

"I thought you'd ask Torth."

"Torth's taught me a lot, he helped me grow into who I am.  But Torvan and I fought together.  That seems. . . more appropriate."

"I agree.  Same reason I'm asking Shin."

"Okay.  What else?"

"We need to inform my father."

Nomen winced.  "Should I have spoken to him first?  Asked his permission or something?"

Yordis snorted.  "Sure, if we were from Alderaan or something."

Parl looked up as they entered his office.  "Hm, another new and exciting discovery?"

"Not this time," Yordis said.  "Nomen and I decided to get married!"

Elation surged from Parl, so intense that a clear, perfectly formed thought carried itself from his mind to Nomen's through the Force:  It's about time!   Yet he was outwardly stern and reserved as he stood, fixing his attention on Nomen.  "I see," he said, his voice hard and neutral.  "And what claim do you make to be worthy of marrying my daughter?"

Nomen swallowed, taken aback by Parl's sudden stiff glower, while being able to sense his joy and approval.  "I love her, alor .  My heart beats for her, I cannot picture my world without her in it, the memories of the person I was before I met her a pale, incomplete shadow compared to the man she helped me become."

"Ah," Parl rumbled.  "So you are selfish, presuming this marriage is all for your benefit?"

"Uh. . . that wasn't what I meant. . ."

"Father," Yordis said wearily.  "Stop teasing him."

"It is a parent's duty to look after their child.  So, Nomen?  You have a satisfactory answer?"

"I. . . I will be with her in all things, to guide and protect her."

"You'll be putting her in danger?"

"No!  I will follow her where she goes, as long as she wishes."  Nomen smiled ruefully.  "Besides, from our track record, if anyone's going to get hurt, it'll be me ."

"So you think my daughter incompetent?"

"No!"

" Father ," Yordis put in sternly.  "You've had your fun."

"Not quite yet," Parl said, and now there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice.  "Nomen, you need to work on your verbal sparring.  But I am happy for and proud of both of you."  His amusement grew.  "Yordis, inform Netta, she'll prepare your Bride Trials."  His focus fixed on Nomen.  "And I shall see to your Groom Trials."

"Go easy on him, Father."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," Parl replied cryptically, still insufferably amused with himself.

"You didn't say anything about Trials," Nomen said to Yordis after they left Parl.

"Another old custom.  Back in the day, a family could challenge someone to prove they were worthy to marry a member of their family.  Now, it's mostly just a bonding session between prospective family members.  Nothing you can't handle."

"You sure about that?"

"Nomen, Father adores you."

"Yeah, that's what I have a bad feeling about."

Chapter Text

Nomen breathed deep, fighting back nervousness.  Realistically, he had no cause to be nervous.  All of this had happened countless times before with no issue, there was no reason for anything to suddenly go wrong just because he was involved.  Yet it was all so beyond his experience, all so strange and unexpected, nervous was his new ground state, and he suspected it would be until after the wedding.

He hoped the nervousness went away after the wedding.

Enough.  Be strong.  Be beskar .  Trust in Yordis, the Clan, the Way, and the Force.

Nomen took another breath as he spied Torvan heading for the shooting range.  Nomen struggled to keep his breaths steady and even.  "Torvan!" he called.

Torvan stopped, spotted Nomen, and moved to meet him.  "Nomen," he greeted.  "What can I do for you?"

"I have a favor to ask," Nomen replied, spending far more focus than should have been necessary on keeping his voice level and cool.

"Then ask," Torvan replied.

"Yordis and I are to be married."

Torvan's sense lit up with delight.  "Congratulations, brother!" he said, slapping Nomen's shoulder.  "Yordis is a fine woman, a cunning warrior, determined, intelligent, educated.  Many have dreamed of catching her eye.  You are a fortunate man."

Nomen nodded.  "I am. . . unbelievably grateful the Force brought us together."  Nomen cleared his throat, steeling himself for what he must ask next.  "I would like you to stand bodyguard to me."

Solemn joy burst in Torvan's sense.   "It would be my honor, brother," Torvan replied.  He extended his hand to Nomen.  "On my life, your union will be done."

"The honor is mine, brother."  Nomen gripped his forearm, Torvan gripped back, and they shook.

Yordis and Nomen had just finished putting on their armor for the day when there was a knock at their door.  Technically, it was still Yordis' door, but Nomen's quarters had stood empty for some time.

Yordis opened the door, revealing Parl, Torvan, Torth, and Cant.  "It is time, Nomen," Parl said, attention fixed on the soon-to-be husband.  "Come with us and begin your Groom Trials."  His focus shifted to Yordis.  "Netta will be along presently."

Nomen swallowed, and headed towards Parl.  Yordis flooded his sense with calm encouragement.  "May the Force be with you," she said quietly.

Parl led them to the sparring rooms, took one of the phrik-layered swords from the rack.  "Now, ad'ika , draw your jetii weapon and prove you are worthy for me to call you son."  Parl flourished the sword.

Nomen drew his lightsaber, igniting the blade.  Parl's sense was projecting stern solemnity and uncompromising nature, but this was an act.  Beneath that projected front, Nomen could sense joy, friendship, and humor.  Parl already knew Nomen and Yordis were perfect together.  This was simply adherence to tradition, a chance to lightly haze his new son, and a genuine curiosity to see Nomen's full combat skills in action.

Parl struck, a series of quick blows that Nomen was hard-pressed to counter.  Parl was no swordmaster, but he was no amateur, and what speed age had stolen was replaced by experience.  Shining metal and glowing plasma clashed, blinding arcs of attack and defense.

Parl pressed Nomen relentlessly, and Nomen tried to counterattack and steal the momentum.  Parl's attacks transitioned effortlessly to defenses, which were themselves attacks, keeping Nomen on the back foot.  Desperate to buy some breathing room, Nomen ensnared Parl's blade, wrapping and winding them and sending the sword flying from Parl's fingers.

His surge of relief was immediately ended by a concussion against his helmet as Parl punched him in the face.  A blow to Nomen's arm kept his lightsaber at bay long enough for Parl to seize his forearm in a vice grip.  Parl's other hand slid under Nomen's helmet and wrapped around his throat.  Not hard enough to cut off his air, but enough to let Nomen know he could .

"Is this all the worth you hold?" Parl asked.

Nomen put his free hand against Parl's chest plate.  A blast of Force energy sent him flying three meters through the air to land in a heap.  As Parl got to his feet, Nomen advanced, flourishing his lightsaber.

Parl spotted his discarded sword, dove for it.  Nomen flicked a finger, and the sword skittered beyond his reach.

Parl held up his hands.  "I yield."  His sense was filled with pride.  "Well done.  You are every bit as impressive as a jetii of the old stories."

Nomen closed down his lightsaber and secured it back in his bracer.  "Thank you, alor ."

"But you have more worth to prove.  Come."

Nomen was led to a small dining room and kitchen adjoining the main mess hall and the kitchen that served it.  "You will prepare us a meal," Parl said, taking a seat.  "Cant, supervise, but do not intervene."

"Just stop him from poisoning us," Torth joked.

Nomen swallowed nervously as Cant followed him to the kitchen.  Nomen had never really cooked before, eating mostly prepackaged rations or precooked meals.  He had no idea what to make or how to make it.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.  Start at the beginning, and every meal started with a recipe. . .

There, a small computer terminal containing recipes the cook could consult.  Nomen plugged in his datapad, reading the lists with his fingertips, selecting one more or less at random.  He blanched beneath his helmet as the list of ingredients and preparation and cooking instructions overwhelmed him, but took another deep breath and focused first on the ingredients, then the first one.  He wasn't even sure what it was, let alone how to find it. . .

There.  A swirl in his perception, guiding him to the preservation unit and a chunk of meat within.  He went down the list, highlighting each piece one at a time in his sense.  Even if he didn't know what they were or what they were for, the Force did.  Measuring was slightly trickier, but again he was able to sense the correct utensils fill them with the right liquids and solids.

By the time he got to actually cooking what he'd put together, Nomen was feeling fairly confident.  He could sense Cant growing more and more impressed, and while Cant guarded his thoughts and feelings closely, Nomen understood why Parl had tasked him with watching Nomen:  Cant was a respectable chef in his own right.

"Is this brown?" Nomen asked, indicating the meat in the skillet.

"You can't tell," Cant said.

"No, I can't," Nomen confirmed.  "I feel like it is, but I'm not certain."

Cant approached and took a look.  "It is."

Nomen removed it from the heat, cut it as instructed, and dished everything up.  He carried the plates out to the table where Parl, Torth, and Torvan waited.

Then Nomen stood by, filled with trepidation, as Parl took the first bite.  He chewed.  Swallowed.  Considered.  His sense gave away nothing.

"Not bad," he declared at last, and so encouraged, the other Mandalorians sampled their food.

"You've never cooked before," Torth said.

"Not really," Nomen replied.

"A good first attempt," Torvan said.  "A touch overdone, but not bad."

"I'm surprised it's edible at all," Torth said.  "No offense," he added to Nomen.

"None taken," Nomen replied.  "This is completely outside my experience."

"As I thought," Parl said.  "Then you see why we had to challenge you so."

Nomen shook his head.  "No, alor , I'm afraid I don't."

"You are to be a husband, Nomen," Parl said solemnly.  "And to be a husband among the Mando'ade is to be a father, more like than not.  You must be prepared to provide for your wife, for your children.  Not just to guard and protect them, not just teach them, but in all ways."  Parl took another bite.  "Even to literally place food before them."

Nomen nodded.  He could see it now, the necessity of sharing the burdens, of both – or all – spouses taking equal measures of work.  A plate of food or a clean refresher was no less important than a precise blaster shot, a sure lightsaber stroke, or the cleansing of an aura.

And now Nomen thought of children, of he and Yordis having children.  Would they adopt a Foundling?  He knew Miraluka and humans were genetically compatible, would Yordis bear them a child, or several?  Would they have a son or a daughter, or some of both?  Would their children see the universe through their mother's eyes, or their father's Force perception?

He thought of being responsible for another life, of bringing a new soul to its full within the galaxy and the Force.  Of teaching his child, or children, the Resol'nare and the discipline of the Jedi, perhaps even the ways of the Force.  He pictured a youngling in makeshift armor triumphantly nailing their first blaster shot or lightsaber velocity.  His pride and joy as his child first moved a small stone with the power of the Force, or studying ancient lore and history with Yordis.

It wasn't a vision of the future through the Force, just the daydream of a man contemplating the infinite joy and wonder his future might yet hold.

It was late afternoon when Nomen returned to Yordis' room, to find her already there.

"Well," Yordis said, humor concealing small relief.  "You seem intact.  Father wasn't too hard on you."

"Not really."

"What did he have you do?"

"First we dueled, mostly for his enjoyment, I think.  Then he had me cook."

Shock rippled from Yordis.  "He made you cook? "

"He said a Mandalorian must be able to provide for his family in all ways."

"That's true, but. . . how bad was it?"

Nomen sniffed with wounded pride.  "It was quite good for a blind man's first ever attempt."

Contrition and warmth flowed from Yordis.  "I'm sorry.  I should know by now not to underestimate you."

"So you should," Nomen replied, sitting next to her.  "After that, it was just talking, joking around, swapping stories.  Not that I had many interesting stories to share, though they liked the one where we first met.  Especially the part where I was unconscious for most of it.  What about you?"

Yordis shrugged.  "Netta had me forge a small helmet of regular durasteel, then I cooked for everyone, too.  Then, yeah, just chatting."  Yordis' sense turned mischievous.  "They also liked the parts where you were unconscious.  And Shin pried more about your. . . intimate talents."

"And?"

"I threatened to shoot her if she kept it up.  But I did say I found you more than satisfactory on every level."

Nomen chuckled.  "Well, glad to see I'm appreciated."

Yordis laughed lightly.  "Practice makes perfect. . . and there's still a few hours before supper."

Nomen smiled, and removed his helmet.

A Mandalorian marriage could be conducted quite quickly, and many Mandalorians were married in the minutes before a great battle, or rarely in the midst of one.  But when given time and resources, Mandalorians could be as given to pomp and ceremony as any other culture, even if they manifested it slightly differently.

The largest hall in the Covert was decorated for the occasion, symbols and treasures of Clan Cadera carefully placed.  On the left side, several artifacts and holos from Yordis' adventures had been placed.  On the right, for Nomen, what Jedi iconography the Clan maintained, reflecting his past, as well as items evocative of Foundlings reaching high status.  Furthermore, as many of the decorations on Nomen's side as possible were solid and tactile, able to be perceived by him despite his blindness.

Yordis went over the ceremony with Nomen again and again, drilling into him what the proper responses were and what to do and expect at every step.  She considered it unlikely there would be a challenge to their union, though it was a possibility, and depending on who issued the challenge and why there were proscribed ways to respond.  Yordis went through every case Nomen would need to know, and gave an overview of the ones she would have to handle.

Netta and her apprentices pulled in many more as assistant armorers.  Every beskar'gam in the Clan needed to be cleaned, polished, paint reapplied, some even needed minor repairs or catching up on deferred maintenance.  The Forge was busy around the clock.

It was days of intense bustle and activity in the Covert of Clan Cadera, but finally, all was in readiness.

The wedding day arrived.

Chapter Text

Nomen, Yordis, Shin, and Torvan waited in a medium-sized room near the hall.  Nomen fought the urge to pace.  He was nervous .

He had been nervous since he decided to ask Yordis to marry him, and had accepted it as a consequence of moving outside his experience.  But that it should grow as the wedding drew nearer, that it should now be a crushing, paralyzing weight on him, that made no sense to him.  There was no reason to be nervous.  He loved Yordis, he wanted to marry her, he wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together.  He should be feeling joy, instead he was terrified .  He should be happy, instead he was fighting panic.  His heart should feel full to bursting with love, instead it was hammering against his ribs as if seeking to burst through them and escape.

"Calm down, Nomen," Yordis said, sensing his fear through their bond.

"I'm trying," Nomen said.  He drew on the Force and his Jedi discipline, it didn't help.  He drew on his Mandalorian training, it failed him.  "I don't understand."

"You're about to be married," Torvan said.  "Natural to feel a little nervous."

"I'm terrified ," Nomen admitted.  "But that doesn't make sense," he hastily added to Yordis.  "I want this.  I want to marry you.  There's no reason I should feel like this.  I'm ready, I'm. . . I’m. . ."

"About to declare your love before the eyes of the whole Clan, be married in front of a horde of witnesses, officiated by the father of the woman whose life, health, and happiness you're about to take responsibility for?"  Shin's next words were heavy with sarcasm.  "Yeah, nothing scary about that at all ."

Put that way, Nomen's feelings did make sense, and identifying the source of them made it easier to set them aside.  They were still there , but he was able to focus on other feelings, especially his joy and love for the woman he was about to marry.

Yordis' confidence helped.  She was nervous, too, but when she took his hand and quietly said "We'll be fine ," Nomen believed her wholeheartedly.  They'd made a good team, become good friends, were great lovers.  Of course they'd be wonderful spouses.

The comlinks in their helmets flicked on.  "It's time," Parl's voice said.

Taking a deep breath, Nomen walked with Yordis out of the waiting room, and into the hall.

The whole Clan, save for those on critical duty elsewhere, were gathered.  As Nomen and Yordis entered, music began to play, a somehow solemn yet joyous Mandalorian march.  Torvan and Shin had their blaster rifles held to their chests in ready position, alert for any move against the potential bride and groom.

Parl stood at the end of the chamber on a raised platform, and Nomen and Yordis stepped up onto it, coming to a stop before him.  Shin and Torvan turned, looking out at the crowd, blasters still at the ready.

The music stopped.  Parl waited a moment, then spoke, his deep, authoritative voice filling the hall.

" Mando'ade , we gather to celebrate a joyous occasion.  Two have chosen to unite themselves as one, to form a new family within our Clan.  Yordis Cadera of Clan Cadera, Nomen Lok of Clan Cadera, you come before us to become husband and wife, mother and father."

"We do," they said simultaneously.

Parl nodded.  "It is a joy and burden, privilege and responsibility.  In so doing you become more than two, but a whole greater than each of you alone.  You strengthen each other, and so strengthen your family, which strengthens the Clan, which strengthens the Mandalorian people.  Do you understand your responsibility?"

"We do," they said again.

Parl looked at Yordis.  "Yordis Cadera.  You have chosen to claim Nomen Lok as your husband?"

"I have."

"You will honor and support him?"

"I will."

"You will guard and protect him?"

"I will."

"You will forge with him a family as strong and incorruptible as beskar ?"

"I will."

"This is the Way," Parl turned to Nomen.  "Nomen Lok, you have chosen to claim Yordis Cadera as your wife?"

"I have."

"You will honor and support her?"

"I will."

"You will guard and protect her?"

"I will."

"You will forge with her a family as strong and incorruptible as beskar ?"

"I will."

"This is the Way."  Parl looked out at the assembled Clan.  "Does any Mandalorian challenge this union?"

Torvan and Shin brought their blasters to firing position, sweeping the room..

No one spoke.

Parl nodded again.  "Then, by the assent of Clan and Creed, I know you as husband and wife.  Yordis, remove your husband's helmet."

Yordis gently lifted Nomen's helmet from his head.

"Nomen, remove your wife's helmet."

Nomen gripped Yordis' helmet and raised it up and off.

"Seal your union with a kiss," Parl said.

Nomen and Yordis leaned forward, touched their lips together.  Their kiss was warm, gentle, loving, tender.

The Clan cheered.

Netta came up to them, and applied new paint to the left pauldrons of their armor.  A blue and white checkerboard pattern, the maalraas signet they'd earned so long ago standing in relief above the colors.  Announcing to all who understood – and could see – Mandalorian color meanings that Yordis and Nomen were married.

Nomen and Yordis, with Torvan and Shin still covering them with their blaster rifles, made their way back down the row and out of the hall.  The wedding guests followed, the newlywed couple symbolically leading them.

They went to the mess hall, where a celebratory feast had been laid out.  The cooks had churned out delicacies fit for the wedding of the Clan leader's daughter, and at the center was the great cake, baked by Yordis and Nomen together, symbolic of their bond, commitment to each other, and their ability and willingness to allow their bond to nurture the Clan.

People ate, talked, laughed.  The mood was high.  The eating had notably slowed when someone shouted "Entertainment!"  Another roared "Amuse us!" in agreement.  A third shouted "Show us what you've got!"  A chant began.

Nomen turned his head to Yordis, she smiled back.  "They want us to do something to amuse them."

Nomen grinned.  "Shall we spar?"

Delight danced in Yordis' sense.  "I think that's a wonderful idea."  The new husband and wife made their way to an open space, as all in attendance watched, going quiet as Yordis drew her blasters and adjusted the power settings, and Nomen flicked his wrist, his lightsaber shooting into his hand.

They stood facing each other.  The room was silent in anticipation.  The Force flowed between them.

Yordis snapped her blasters up and fired, sting bolts streaking at Nomen's chest.  His arm moved, with a snap-hiss his lightsaber activated and intercepted the bolts, ricocheting them into the ceiling.

Yordis gave Nomen a few deceptively easy sprays, letting him deflect them with style and flourish, before sending a deadly serious stream of blasterfire his way.

A flicker through their bond was her only warning as Nomen sent four of the bolts flying back at her.  She dove and rolled to the side, coming up into a crouch and firing from a new angle.  Nomen adjusted, lightsaber buzzing angrily as it knocked the sting blasts aside.

They both agreed in an instant on how to appropriately end this demonstration.

Nomen batted aside more blasterfire, then his off hand stretched out at Yordis.  Her blasters were yanked from her slightly loosened grip, sailing towards Nomen.  She barreled after them, running full tilt.  Nomen let her weapons drop, they skidded across the floor as Nomen swept his blade at her.  She ducked under it, grabbing his arm and twisting.  The lightsaber flew from his grip, the blade sputtering out as the weapon arced through the air.  Nomen went with Yordis' motion, spinning her about and yanking her to him.  Her back slammed into him as his arm snaked around her throat.

She raised her arms, palms out.  "I yield."  Nomen released her.

The Clan was silent for a time, before erupting into cheers and acclaim.  Yordis accepted thanks and congratulations as she stooped to retrieve her blasters, Nomen did the same as he extended his hand and his lightsaber flew back to it.

The Clan was awestruck, the ancient stories of Jedi versus Mandalorian having just played out once again for their amusement.

There were gifts as the celebration wore on, tokens from the whole Clan to recognize the union.  A new set of historical reference datacards for Yordis, a gorgeous sculpture made by one of the Clan for Nomen, among others.

Eventually, the newlyweds retired to their quarters, to privately and very enthusiastically celebrate their union.

Nomen awoke feeling simultaneously much as he had, and completely different.  It was hardly now an unusual experience, waking in Yordis' room, in Yordis' bed, with Yordis wrapped comfortably in his arms.  But now this was their room, now they were married .

"Good morning," Yordis said, stretching in his arms and turning to caress his cheek.  "How do you feel?"

"Perfect," Nomen replied, kissing her.

The kiss was deepening and promising an encore of the night's exertions when a strident beep sounded from Yordis' computer.

Yordis groaned in strangled frustration as she extricated herself from Nomen's embrace – him steadfastly refusing to assist the process – and punched up her computer.  "Subspace message from one of my contacts," she said absently as she opened the text message.  "He's got a lead on an artifact I've been trying to find for some time.  The Argent Bolt, Taman Mereel's favored weapon.  Legend has it it was rebuilt into a blaster rifle from some strange energy weapon wielded by an unknown alien."

"Chasing another artifact?  Hardly the way to spend our honeymoon."

"Actually, I can't think of a more perfect way to spend it."

Nomen smiled.  Yordis, as always, was right.  And it did seem appropriate, now that he thought about it.

Nomen settled in next to Yordis, plugged his datapad into her computer, and read the information she pulled up.  Soon, they would be off on another adventure, their first as husband and wife.

But not their last.  Through the Force, Nomen saw their future.  Not in any great detail, no specific events, but an endless tide of possibilities, anchored to the certainty of them being together.  There would be difficulty and danger, strife and discord, but nothing they couldn't overcome.  They were bound through love and the Force, and against that, Empires could not stand.

Chapter Text

The Kom'rk -class fighter-transport descended through the harsh, polluted air of the Taris slums.

"Are you sure they're here?" the man in the copilot seat asked, his voice filtered by the helmet he wore.

"They're here," the woman piloting the vessel replied.  Her helmet sat on the console next to her.  "It'd take a Death Star to get Clan Cadera to move."

"Then you don't have high hopes of our success."

"Not really," she replied as she set the ship down on a rickety landing platform.  "But I still have to try."

"This is the Way," the man agreed.

The woman slid her helmet on her head as they made for the ship’s ramp.  Once down in the slums, they scanned for signs.  They were difficult to see through the decay and neglect, but unmistakable if you knew what to look for.

"This way," the woman said, setting off.  The man followed.

The slum rats gave them a wide berth, but didn’t pay them much attention otherwise.  Clearly, they were used to seeing Mandalorians coming and going in these parts.

They reached the entrance to the Covert.  "If what you say is true, these people are more like mine than yours," the man said.  "Let me do the talking."

The woman’s helmet inclined to her right.  "You?  Talking?"

"Yes."

"Think you can manage full sentences?"

The man stared at her in silence, then turned and pulled the door open.

They stepped into a small room.  The door closed behind them.  From a port in the right-hand wall, the muzzle of a blaster rifle emerged.

" Tion'cuy! " a voice barked.

The man stepped forward.  "I am Din Djarin, Child of the Watch, repres-"

The blaster shot struck square in the center of Din's chest plate, knocking him flat on his back.  The woman noted it had still been a warning shot – if they'd been serious, at that range the blaster bolt could have punched clean through even beskar .

"Let you do the talking, huh?" she observed wryly, then turned to the blaster muzzle.  "I am Bo-Katan Kryze, Mandalore the Unifier, and I request an audience with your Clan leader."

There was silence – likely a hushed helmet comlink call to deeper in the Covert – and finally a door on the wall opposite the firing port opened, revealing two Mandalorians in armor and helmets, blasters at the ready.

"Follow," one of them said, and Bo-Katan and Din, the latter still trying to catch his breath, followed him through the winding tunnels of the Covert.

It had, indeed, been here a long time, Din noted.  The warrens were filled with cover positions and winding tunnels that could cause invaders to get lost or be led into ambushes by those who knew the terrain.  More than those signs of buildup, there was a sense of wear, a familiarity between people and place.

Din envied them that.

Finally they came to an office deep in the Covert.  Behind the desk sat a man in armor, fur decorating the shoulders.  Even the armor and his seated posture couldn't conceal his impressive height and build, which gave him an intimidating air.  But more than that, he radiated confidence and leadership.

Behind him stood a man and a woman, their armor bare, gleaming beskar save for purple highlights and a blue-white checkerboard pattern on left pauldrons, the signet of an unfamiliar but imposing animal breaching the faded colors.  A husband and wife, the leader's advisors.  And children?

The man behind the desk regarded them coolly through his helmet before speaking.  "I am Parl, alor of Clan Cadera.  This is my daughter, Yordis, and my son, Nomen.  I know you by reputation, Bo-Katan Kryze, and it is not a flattering one.  Three times have you claimed to fight for the future of Mandalore, and three times have you failed, each more spectacularly than the last.  It is either boldness or idiocy by which you lay claim to the title of Mandalore.  Whichever trait it is, you possess it to excess."

"I have made mistakes," Bo-Katan admitted.  "And I have learned from them."

"Costly, your lessons are."

"We both know this is far from the first time our people have been scattered to the corners of the galaxy, forced to claw and scrape among those who barely tolerate our presence.  I would see us home again, on Mandalore, building a better future for all who would claim themselves Mandalorian."

"Mandalore is conquered.  Lost."

"It has been retaken.  It is being rebuilt."

Parl looked at Nomen.  Nomen nodded, though didn't precisely turn to look at the man.  Bo-Katan watched closely.

Parl looked back at her.  "And by what right do you lay claim to the title of Mandalore?"

"The Darksaber was taken from me during the fall of Mandalore.  Din Djarin bested Moff Gideon in combat, making the Darksaber his by right.  He was then bested by a cyborg creature in the mines of Mandalore, I defeated that creature, making the Darksaber mine by right of combat.  It was destroyed by Moff Gideon, but in the battle which saw his ultimate defeat.  Gideon had built a base on Mandalore where he was cloning abominations for troops, outfitting them in beskar and making a mockery of our people.  We defeated his forces and destroyed his project, the beskar is now going to outfit Mandalorians.  I bathed in the Living Waters beneath the mines, to rescue my companion who had fallen in.  I saw the mythosaur lurking there.  I was accepted by the Children of the Watch, then anointed by their Armorer, their alor , as one who walks in both worlds, able to reunite the scattered Mandalorian people.  I have been a Night Owl, I have been of Clan Kryze, I have been a Child of the Watch.  And yes, I have been Death Watch.  I have seen our people at their best and at their worst, and I want us to come home, to restore ourselves, so the galaxy may once more speak the name Mandalorian with respect and awe, not pity and scorn."

Parl again looked to Nomen.  Nomen again nodded in reply.  Bo-Katan again watched the exchange with interest.

"An interesting story. . . Mandalore," Parl said.  "What do you demand of Clan Cadera?"

Bo-Katan shook her head.  "Nothing.  I only offer an invitation.  You can return to Mandalore, either your whole Clan, or a small envoy if you wish to investigate for yourselves.  I only want you to know Clan Cadera is welcome on Mandalore, now and. . ." Bo-Katan trailed off, thinking.  "Now, and for as long in the future as I can realistically promise."

Again, Parl and Nomen exchanged a look and a nod.

"Most gracious," Parl said.  "Thank you, Mandalore.  We shall consider your invitation, and be in touch."

"Thank you for seeing us," Din said.

Bo-Katan didn't move, looking at Nomen.

"Something else, Mandalore?" Parl asked.

"Tell me, Parl," Bo-Katan said.  "Does Clan Cadera boast many Jedi in its ranks?"

The three on the other side of the desk froze, though only a keen student of armored Mandalorian body language would notice.

"I don't know what you mean," Parl said at last.  "There are no Jedi here."

"Please," Bo-Katan said, waving at Nomen.  "I fought in the Clone Wars.  I fought Jedi, and I fought alongside them.  Even shrouded in beskar , I know one when I see him."

Nomen shook his head.  "I am no Jedi.  Whatever I might have been once, I am Mandalorian now."

"As are all Foundlings who come to the Creed," Yordis said.

"This is the Way," Parl said.

"This is the Way," Din agreed, though he was looking at Nomen with renewed interest.

Bo-Katan nodded.  "Very well," she said, letting the matter drop.  Truthfully, she should be angry that Parl had a Jedi, or ex-Jedi, sitting in on their meeting, probing her mind to determine her honesty and intent.  But really, roles reversed, she would have done the same.

"Then, if we're finished?" Parl asked.

"The Jedi are rising once more," Din said to Nomen.  "I've met them, been to their world."

"I'm aware," Nomen replied.  "But my destiny lies along a different path from theirs."

"If you ever visit Navarro," Din added.  "I have someone I believe you'd be interested in meeting."

"Perhaps," Nomen said.

The five stared at each other.

"Then I hope to see you on Mandalore someday," Bo-Katan said.

"We shall see," Parl said.  "Good luck. . . Mandalore."

Din Djarin and Bo-Katan Kryze turned, exited the Covert, and went back to their ship.

As they left, a ten-year-old girl in youngling's armor entered the office.  Beneath her helmet, her eyes barely worked, able only to detect light and its absence.  But like her father, she could perceive the Force.

"Rhamala," Nomen said, seeing her.  "Listening at the door again?"

"No," the girl answered.  It was true, she hadn't been listening at the door.  She'd been sensing through the Force from three rooms over.

"Come in, child," Parl said.

"She should be getting to her lessons with Netta," Yordis said sternly.

"Those can wait," Parl replied.  "She should learn about the intricacies of Mandalorian politics sooner or later.  Come in, granddaughter, have a seat.  We have much to discuss."

"This is the Way," Rhamala said, taking a seat.

"This is the Way," Nomen agreed.

"This is the Way," Yordis assented.

There is emotion, and within peace.

There is ignorance, and within knowledge.

There is passion, and within serenity.

There is chaos, and within harmony.

There is death, and within the Force.

This Is The Way.