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“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Obi-Wan whispered quietly, even that quiet noise echoing ominously in the space around them.
The shrine rose up in front of them, a tower of dark stone blocking out the stars. Obi-Wan tried to tell himself it was just the eeriness of night that was getting to him. The Force reverberated around the area, like light reflecting off mirrors around him, blinding him to whatever the real danger was.
“This is not the right time—” Satine whispered, “—for you to have a bad feeling about this place.”
Obi-Wan clenched his jaw. Because that wasn’t how this worked. He didn’t get to choose when he had bad feelings, and it wasn’t his fault when things went wrong, just because he’d voiced his concern. “We should move on. Find somewhere—“
Satine shook her head, pushing past him and toward the entrance that stood like a gaping mouth posed to swallow them up. “I’m not sleeping out in the desert again if I don’t have to.”
Because an abandoned shrine in the middle of the desert was a smart place for them to stay the night.
“Satine, I really think…”
“Obi-Wan, this is not the time,” Satine ordered, and this time she didn’t stop when he whispered a harsh warning.
She strode straight into the opening and Obi-Wan flinched, almost expecting something terrible to happen just for entering.
But nothing did.
And he could hardly leave Satine to fend for herself in whatever this… place was.
He stepped up to the shrine, murmuring a quiet apology, though he wasn’t sure who exactly he was apologizing too.
Perhaps the Force, for ignoring it’s warnings.
The building seemed larger on the inside than it had appeared on the outside, with a hall stretching out in front of them. Satine was already halfway down and Obi-Wan hurried to join her, the hall stretching out in front of them, a faint glow coming from the room at the end of the hall.
“See,” Satine told him, sounding incredibly pleased with herself. “There’s nothing wrong.”
“Famous last words,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself, but then raised his voice to address the next words to Satine. “Let’s just find somewhere to sleep. I want to be out of here by first light tomorrow.”
Satine made a displeased noise at that. She wasn’t a fan of his early morning wake up calls. But being on the run from Death Watch didn’t exactly give a lot of time for sleeping in. That and he wanted to spend as little time as necessary here.
They entered the room, and his eyes immediately went to the source of the light. He froze, eyes widening as he took in the sight in front of him.
There was some sort of altar, glowing a light silvery-blue. On the altar lay a man, perhaps five or six years older than Obi-Wan, with warm brown skin and dark, curly hair.
Obi-Wan found himself not quite breathing. The man was breathtaking.
“Oh,” Satine whispered behind him, sounding shocked.
Obi-Wan moved carefully forward. The man was breathing, his chest moving up in down in slow, even breaths. “Hello?” Obi-Wan asked, raising his voice carefully, even as part of him knew he wouldn't get a response. “Sir?”
He was not surprised when there was no reaction. He licked his lips nervously as he continued inching forward until he was just beside the altar.
“Obi-Wan, maybe you shouldn’t—“ Satine’s voice was quietly anxious.
Obi-Wan hesitated, hand inches away from touching the man’s skin. He could feel cold radiating from the man, like an icy windstorm, threatening to freeze Obi-Wan in place.
He swallowed, because Satine was probably right, he should most definitely not be doing this. He wasn’t even sure what this was.
Though it served her right that she would finally get to feel what it was like when someone ignored her very sound advice.
He reached out and touched the man, shaking him gently.
There was no reaction. He reached out in the Force, feeling for the man’s presence.
The world seemed to turn to ice, his vision growing fuzzy, the faint impression of a snow-covered land, the scent of cauterized flesh, blurs of blue and green, leaving a faint, familiar hum in his ears.
Grief and rage rushed through him, obliterating everything else and filling his lungs with ice as he screamed his devastation to the world, surging forward to wreck death on his enemies.
He wrenched himself out of the experience, stumbling away from the man and the altar he lay on.
“He’s trapped,” he whispered. “He’s trapped in… in some sort of nightmare.”
“I’ve heard about things like this,” Satine whispered, and Obi-Wan glanced back at her. The light from the altar was casting shadows on her face, making her look ethereal and haunting. “I thought they were legends.”
“What is it?” he asked quietly, gaze darting back to the sleeping man.
Satine shook her head. “It’s called the kara’nuhoyir.”
The star slumber, Obi-Wan translated.
“What is it?” Obi-Wan pressed.
“It’s a curse of Mand’alor’s. It’s meant to keep their enemies forever in their darkest state of defeat. To destroy their soul and keep them just separated from death, ensuring that their soulscan never be taken by the kara.”
The snow-covered land and burning flesh, the place where this man had faced his greatest, most painful defeat.
“Is there anything we can do for him?” he asked quietly.
Satine shook her head. “The legends say he has to be woken by true love’s kiss.”
“True love?” Obi-Wan asked. “We don’t even know how long this man has been here. Everyone he loves could be dead,” he protested. “Surely he wouldn’t just… be trapped here.”
Satine shrugged. “Look, it’s a legend.” Her voice had turned brisk again, the awe leaving her voice to be replaced by practicality.
He almost envied it, that she could so quickly move past the matter, to set it behind her with the acknowledgment that it was out of her control.
“It’s real,” Obi-Wan pointed out. This man was real, he wasn’t a legend to tell stories about, he was someone being tortured in his own mind.
Satine shook her head. “And it’s not our problem,” she reminded him. “He must have been here centuries. The kara’nuhoyir can only be cast by a Mand’alor, and there hasn’t been a true Mand’alor in centuries. Just warmongers trying to claim a dead title. There’s nothing we can do for him.”
The thought grated on him, no one should be trapped in that frozen world of death. No one should be trapped in such painful grief, such consuming rage.
“Come on, Obi-Wan,” Satine said, voice demanding his attention. “We need sleep.”
Obi-Wan stared at the man for a moment longer, but then nodded.
“All right,” he said quietly, turning away from the cursed man. Qui-Gon was always telling him that he needed to accept when there was nothing he could do, and this was clearly a prime example of that. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”
He led Satine away from the altar, taking one of the side hallways and setting them up there. He didn’t want to do any more investigating of this place. He’d already found enough to last him a lifetime.
It didn’t take Satine long to fall asleep, curled up in both of their cloaks. Obi-Wan lay on the ground, keeping his eyes obstinately closed, but he couldn’t rid himself of the sense memory of cold against his fingertips.
He opened his eyes, shifting to face the altar room. The silver-blue glow beckoned him closer.
Satine let out a quiet snore, fully asleep. Obi-Wan bit his lip.
“Don’t do it, Obi-Wan,” he told himself. “Don’t be an idiot. There’s nothing you can do.”
The words didn’t leave the impact they probably should have. He pushed himself to his feet, moving back down the hall to the altar room and the man fast asleep on the altar.
He hesitated, cursing himself quietly, before making his way back up to the altar. He could feel the ice brushing against his skin again.
“Look,” he told the man. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
There was no response, but then, he really wasn’t expecting one.
He leaned closer. “Please,” he whispered, not sure who to. To the man, to the force, to the Manda or the kara or whatever kept the man entranced. “I just don’t want to see him in pain.”
He leaned down the last few inches and pressed his lips gently against the man’s. Ice crept over him, down his throat and he let out a shocked, pained gasp that the ice stole away.
Force, he’d made a mistake.
He fell into the cold, a final, guttural gasp escaping him before everything was gone.
Death had become the whole of him. Not his death, but the death of his people. The cries as they fell to the ground, the scent of burning flesh.
Over and over he watched as Myles lunged into the air, only for an arc of green to slice him down. He watched as Ruusaan let out a scream of righteous rage, darting through the snow to reach the side of her cousin, only for blue fire to cut her down.
Commando after commando, one of his people after the other, they fell.
Rage was all he knew, powering his steps as he tore through Jedi after Jedi, vengeance for their thoughtless slaughter.
Over and over again the the memory played, until all Jango was was the icy death and crystal rage.
And then… then there was something new, something different.
The warmth was so foreign to him, that Jango almost didn’t recognize it, seeping into his body as though he’d swallowed sunlight.
Around him, the battlefield shimmered like a heatwave, the view of the haat’ade lying dead around him flickering in and out, the exultant Jedi that held the armor they’d stripped from him blinking in and out of view as the warmth continued to spread.
He couldn’t say how long it took, the warmth seeping through him inch by inch, making Jango painfully aware of the stiffness of his body, the ache of long unused muscles, the heaviness of exhaustion.
He clung to the warmth, to the liquid candlelight that poured through him, begging it silently to stay, to keep the cold away.
He clung to it, twisting it into his grip. If he lost it now, he thought, he might very well die.
It flickered, drifting away, leaving only a single flickering flame. A lone candle against the dark that would consume Jango whole once again, the ice and cold of Galidraan just beyond him, held at bay.
He forced his eyes open, blinking at the arched ceiling, black stone that seemed intent on absorbing the strange silvery blue light that filled the room.
The candlelight flickered in his chest.
He sat up slowly, his body moving slowly as though not sure how to obey the signals his mind was sending it.
His memories were hazy, faded, only Galidraan standing out sharp and clear in his mind. The candlelight in his chest flared and flickered, pushing past the icy memory.
He could picture it suddenly, Vizsla standing over him, declaring himself Mand’alor and telling Jango that he would never forget this pain.
The kara’nuhoyir.
A flash of anger ran through him. Vizsla should never have been able to curse him with the kara’nuhoyir, and it burned to think that he might have been considered Mand’alor enough for the curse to work.
He clenched his fists. Vizsla should have killed him.
If…
He swallowed. If Vizsla was even still alive.
How long had he laid there, trapped in the death of his people?
He turned his head, looking for whoever had woken him.
Perhaps a Haat’ade, if they could still manage to love him after what he had cost them on Galidraan.
For a moment he saw no one, before color caught the edge of his gaze.
He looked down.
Just beside the altar lay a man, his position clearly uncomfortable, as though he’d crumpled where he’d stood.
Right at Jango’s side.
So this was the man who had kissed Jango awake.
This was his Nau’ul. His candlelight.
In his chest the light danced and flickered, as though pleased to be acknowledged.
Jango, carefully, slowly moved from the altar, surprised to find his limbs moving almost agreeably.
How long had it been? The question haunted him.
He knelt beside the fallen man, reaching out carefully for his pulse. Part of him expected the man to be as warm as the flicker of candlelight inside of him, but his fingertips seemed to brush against ice.
The snows of Galidraan were inside him, now.
Jango searched his memory of the legends. This clearly had not been a kiss of true love, but whatever it had been, it had worked.
Partway.
It had woken Jango, but left this man to take his place.
That wouldn’t do.
He couldn’t leave his Nau’ul like this. Not his candlelight.
Jango sat there for a moment, examining the man.
For all intents and purposes, his mysterious love appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and breathing slow and even. He was pale, with dark bruises under his eyes, and a thin cut alongside his hairline. A strand of auburn hair stuck messily to his forehead.
He couldn’t be much younger than Jango was.
“What’s your name, ner nau’ul?” he asked quietly. “Who do I have to thank?”
He brushed the strand of hair away, trying to ignore the iciness of the man’s skin.
“You can’t stay this way,” Jango whispered quietly. “I feel you, flickering in my chest, ner nau’ul.”
The light danced again, warm and pleased, whispering for you, for you, I did this for you. I love you, love you, love you.
Had to have, if he’d woken Jango.
Perhaps… perhaps Jango could return the favor.
He could not say that he loved the man. Not on any sort of individual basis. All he knew was that this man was his nau’ul, that he was Jango’s, nestled into his chest where he kept the darkness at bay.
That had to be enough.
Jango considered the thought for a long moment, tracing the man’s too-thin, too-cold cheekbones.
His nau’ul.
Jango leaned down, kissing his nau’ul slowly. Focused on that thought. His. His.
The flame in his chest flickered, arcing through his body and it felt again like drinking sunlight.
He pulled back, waiting breathlessly. The light in his chest flickered, before startling brighter.
Beneath him, his nau’ul let out a quiet sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet Jango’s.
Jango reached out, catching the man's face in his hand—warm now, as though it had never been freezing to the touch—and kept his face steady so that when the man finally managed to open his eyes fully his gaze caught immediately on Jango’s.
“You’re awake,” the man whispered, voice quiet and hoarse.
“You woke me, ner nau’ul,” he murmured quietly, heart fluttering a little at the words. “Do you have a habit of falling in love with strangers?”
“I’m… I didn’t.” A hint of cheek entered the man’s too pale cheeks. “I’m not in love with you. I just… I couldn’t leave you there.”
“Ah,” Jango said, a flicker of understanding. “Compassion, then.”
It was why it had worked part way. Compassion was love, and a true one, in it’s own way. Though it certainly hadn’t been compassion that had allowed Jango to wake the man in return.
“I… I suppose,” the man whispered.
“What’s your name, ner nau’ul.”
The man’s brow furrowed, and Jango watched him mouth the words. “Candlelight?” he asked, clearly confused.
Jango huffed a laugh. “That might be my name for you, but I expect you don’t want that to be the only thing I call you.”
A hint of pink entered the man’s too pale cheeks.
“My name is Obi-Wan.”
“Well met,” Jango murmured.
“Who are you?” Obi-Wan asked. “How long have you been here?”
“My name is Jango Fett, as for how long… You’ll have to tell me. What year is it?”
Obi-Wan frowned, and he looked almost as though he didn’t want to answer the question, as though he was afraid of what the answer might mean for Jango. The candlelight in his chest flickered, like a flame in the wind. “It’s 7938 according to the Hosnian Reckoning,” Obi-Wan answered finally.
7938 CRC. Jango let out a hoarse laugh.
It’d been five years.
It could have been an eternity for all it had felt, but it had only been five years.
“Five years,” he whispered. “I’ve been here five years.”
Relief filled Obi-Wan’s face, before it was replaced by confusion.
“Five years? But Satine said you could only be cursed by a Mand’alor, that there hadn’t been a true Mand’alor in centuries.”
Jango felt rage flash through him. “I assume she’s either auretii scum or a hu’tuun New Mandalorian.”
Obi-Wan looked away nervously, and Jango realized that if Obi-Wan had believed those lies, than he likely fell into one of those two groups as well.
The candlelight in his chest flickered warily and he shored it up, guarding it from the rage that threatened to blow it out.
He wouldn’t abandon his nau’ul.
“She’s New Mandalorian.”
Jango nodded, unsurprised. “There were two Mand’alors,” he whispered quietly. “And there are two again.”
Something like understanding crossed Obi-Wan’s face.
“Jango Fett,” he whispered, as though Jango’s name meant something to him, now that he had proper context.
“Yes.”
Fear flickered in Obi-Wan’s eyes.
Jango pressed his hand against Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Don’t be afraid, nau’ul. I know what you are—“ Born some New Mandalorian hu’tuun, but who was so much more than that. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Obi-Wan’s mouth parted slightly in a silent oh as he met Jango’s gaze.
Jango slowly pushed up and to his feet, reaching a hand down to Obi-Wan. He didn’t quite have the strength to pull Obi-Wan to his feet, but Obi-Wan thankfully didn’t need it.
“We should go,” Jango said quietly. “There are things we need to do.”
“I can’t, there’s Satine. I need to—“
Jango stepped forward, interrupting Obi-Wan by pulling him into a kiss. The flame in his chest went sharp and bright and so warm.
He pulled back, and Obi-Wan blinked slowly, words stolen for the moment.
“Come with me, Obi-Wan,” Jango said quietly. “I need you, ner nau’ul.”
It had only been five years. There were two Mand’alors.
Jango intended to make sure there was only the one.
And then… then perhaps he would put down his title—
Obi-Wan who was still looking at him, a stunned look in his eyes. No. No, he couldn’t leave Mandalore. Not now. Not now that he’d found Obi-Wan.
There were too many threats, Death Watch, the Jedi, threats that had to be put down before they could take anything more from Jango.
Before they could take Obi-Wan from Jango, the way they’d taken everything from him on Galidraan.
The candlelight in his chest flickered, almost blowing out by the cold winds of Galidraan’s memory, but it held fast, a steady burn.
After years of darkness, Jango could think of nothing more vital than possessing his nau’ul burning in his chest. Nothing more important than keeping Obi-Wan beside him.