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The dingy mist did nothing but boil words down to nothing. Hours. Days. At first the horizon was a smear of cloudy dust, a dizzying focus to address. But now that the precipitation had come to stay, all the grayish green sand had settled, returning to its birth of hard mud.
Omera watched and pretended not to.
It had become easy to predict this ever churning cycle, lulled by the soft pattering of rain against a newly restored roof, warm and dry beneath its shelter.
All thanks to him.
The days had gotten colder as the daylight waned but neither the chill nor the dampness had swayed her Mandalorian from his tasks.
The Village had affectionately taken to calling him hers.
(He is hers somehow and that sits well by all. The strength of his people is not unknown; even in such a remote hamlet as Sorgan.)
The fall of a metal cup jolted her. Mando had stood up abruptly, flustered and in a confusion that made her slightly sick. It was just water, but Din had gone utterly still. A shiver of concealed panic if none knew where to look. This man was not clumsy or awkward.
He did not advertise. This applied to all manner of things. And while he is not the first taciturn man she’d taken in— he is the most stubborn.
Codes for communication, signs for need. His sweat on her hands, holding him, making whatever it was better. His raspy voice, his scarred body, the armor was harder to remove than she’d thought.
Though he had abandoned it, it had not abandoned him.
The fascination of a Mandalorian without beskar becomes an endless source of gossip for the people—a position he takes in stride. Some days he is seen wearing it. Others, he is not.
No one asks questions.
He speaks nothing about what had spurred such a monumental change but it is something Omera vows never to touch.
However…
She has difficulty keeping her hands off him.
Not that she means to—but he speaks so little and she is a healer. Once she realizes that touching him is not the sin she’d imagined it to be, she learns to read him better. Falling into him night after night, curling into his embrace until his scent becomes so familiar, she can taste it when he is away.
The circumstances in which he had made himself a space into her life wasn’t ideal, and she knew she would never bind herself to him as she had her first man. He is transitory—a presence both sweet and bitter. Any day she could find him gone and the Child with him.
But for now it is clear that he needs her.
Not her home. Not her sanctuary. Not the promise of a full belly or the sweet arch of her slender body beside his.
Peace.
He’d stopped being a guest long ago.
The healer of Sorgan has never given herself absolutely to anyone before. Not even—if she speaks her soul— her child’s father.
But this man is different. This man who stares at the sky. Whose gaze goes faraway when the moons rise. Who whispers thanks to bloodstained metal.
At the farthest corner of her conscience, she knows there lingers the danger that he’ll leave again—so she holds him close while she can.
He has made himself more than useful.
The leaky roof, the complaining fence, the shaky foundations in the barn, the village watch— all meet his scrutiny in one way or another. There is always a fault to fix, a threat to silence, a foundation to fortify.
He trains with the tenacity of a constant soldier, wiping blood out of his eyes as though it were sweat. Barking orders. Toughening the soft bellies of her kinsmen. Under his watch, they grow. The Villagers are hungry for his teachings, learning how to safely grip a blaster or disarm a foe.
“Again.” He corrects one of the younger scouts, a teenager named Trint, straightening his arm and pushing his feet slightly apart to strengthen his stance.
If he is exasperated, he hides it well. The young ones don’t cower at his repeated instructions.
Every third turn of a cycle, he’ll vanish into the brush and return with fresh meat. The Mandalorian does not care for free hours. He prefers to be doing.
That too, must be part of his Way.
In rare moments she may catch him as he eats; the Child on his knee. Or carving a reed whistle for Winta to pester the day foreman with. He is never too tired when he returns to get down on the ground with the children, playing cap nut until it’s time to sleep.
She had once imagined his world to be as cold and unyielding as his armor—beskar steel impenetrable to all forces.
But when he sheds it by evening he is none of those things.
And there is little to find on Sorgan worth welding anyway.
The children must play indoors now. Winta minds the Child while she tends to the house and her visitors— ailing Villagers, her garden, the shallow krill nurseries, the dough proofing on the sill.
Lately, she has noticed something…off about him.
Perhaps it is the quality of his silence— weighted by more than fatigue; more than the unspoken thing that drives his gaze upward. At first, he just takes longer. Minute pauses in his routine. Sweat gleaming on his brow.
Once she catches him staring into the fire, blinking to clear his head at her quiet offer: “Hey. Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you.”
He’d tilted his head to the side slightly, and she’d shifted closer, putting out her hand gently…hopefully on his thigh. She’d stilled, waiting for him to accept but he’d only scoffed and cleared his throat.
“It would be good to take a break.” Hoping he’ll take the bait so they could both rest their bones. But her hand is brushed away.
“Later.” It sounds to her ears like an apology.
She’d barely had a chance to respond before he’d sauntered away again.
That had been a week ago.
The Village women have made up a song about him. She heard their voices one morning washing the linens in the river, high and playful like the sunlight flitting across the water’s surface.
You set out
To protect the one you love
To build something important, didn’t you?
You fought through storms
And survived gusts of wind
To get here, didn’t you?
This harbor is a lovely place
The morning sunrise pretty
Some people settle here
Take some rest
Soothe your tired wings
But do you think you’ll be the same
Without losing anything at all
When you pass under the arch
And your prize comes into view?
People are weak
So very weak
It is midday. He is on break, leaning against the hulking frame of the power converter he’d started repurposing in the shed. His head must be bothering him, she watches as he runs slow circles into his temple.
She shares his fatigue—hours of turning sod will do—but he looks pinched; even a bit pale through the weak light filtering through the slatted window.
“All caught up?” She asks, hefting her morning’s haul.
“In a minute.” He sounds gruff and congested enough that she reaches into her basket.
“Slice a couple of these,” she drops two bulbs of into his lap, smirking at his frown. “Believe it or not, they’ll help.”
No work is beneath him.
Grunting as he shuffles from his seat, he sets them on the flat surface of the table.
“Head feels like a bantha tusk,” he mutters, fumbling for the knife at his belt. Her sympathetic eyes go unnoticed as he begins peeling away the papery skins. She watches him chop for a moment before setting down her basket, catching a whiff of the strong scent.
Slowly, she runs her hand down his back, trying to press out the tenseness gathered there. It’s a forbidden rush– feeling him unravel beneath her palm. He pauses in his task, groaning almost imperceptibly.
“Why don’t I help carry it?” Soft breath tickles the hair curling at the back of his neck. He freezes when she leans over to plant her lips there, spine going rigid.
She has had to start slow with him, she finds—Sorgan kisses are still foreign and leave him breathing unsteadily. She must not distract yet she yearns to find out. She knows without seeing that his chest is heaving faster, feels the noticeable rise and fall of his shoulders from behind.
Lips are most sensitive to temperature. Lips do not lie. Her instincts can easily gauge a fever when she suspects one.
No, she tells herself as she departs for the house. He isn’t too warm.
———————————————————————————-
His appetite is absent when they sit down to it. She made the broth rich with mashed roots and smoked meat but he is more intent on ensuring the food goes in Grogu’s mouth than his.
He had told her once he had dwelled for a time among the Tuskens–a savage, nomadic people that captured slaves and bartered them like objects. Yet for all their incivility, they held strict table manners. It was considered rude to refuse food another had prepared.
“Not hungry?” She pushes his bowl closer.
“Had a ration bar,” he says without looking back, focusing his impatience on the distracted child.
Grogu waggles his oversized ears, using his strange power to create tiny ripples on the surface of his soup, earning giggles from Winta.
Omera shakes her head, placing her spoon down. Ration bars an unshakable habit of his former life. They just meet the bare minimum for what his body requires on a good day.
“I like your soup.” His voice gentles though he never once looks at her. “I’ll…have it tomorrow.”
“Mr. Mandalorian?” Winta scrapes up the last dregs in her bowl. “Will you make me a new spinner when you get home?”
Visibly tired, he waves the girl away. “Sure.”
When he is fresh out of things to say, that is what he says.
She starts gathering the plates, balancing his untouched bowl in the crook of her arm on her way to the kitchen.
An ice block begins forming in her gut that, despite the gift of his touch, never thaws.
—————————————————————————-
The women add a new verse, treading clay at the bottom of the pond with their feet.
Don’t speak of your loved one’s future
With that distant look in your eye
Do you hear my voice?
Come to my room
Let me give you something sweet
Let me hold you
——————————————————————————
He’s been returning later and later. She misses the feel of his body settling next to hers at night. His solid frame keeps her close, his heat making her head dizzy like a sip of aged spotchka. These days, she is long asleep by the time he doffs his jacket and collapses into bed.
One night, she attempts to wait for him—forcing her weary eyes to stay open until he wandered in.
His breathing is rough.
She watches him remove his clothes, grunting softly as he unwinds, moving too carefully. Rolling his slumped shoulders, his joints protest as he bends to pick up a towel.
Watching him bare himself in the shadow of her room makes her breath stutter in her chest.
But he is unaware, padding noiselessly into the fresher; trained stealth to uphold courtesy. She lies frozen through the sound of rushing water and the scented steam wafting from behind the partition. She has half a mind to join him but–
He is drained. And startling a Mandalorian isn’t on her list of ways to die.
When at last he settles down beside her, she can feel the heaviness again. She turns in bed, draping her arm over his shoulders, pressing her cheek against his back. She says nothing, only wanting to show him how glad she is that he is where he belongs.
He sighs. Nothing more.
She waits too long for his breathing to slow and soften with sleep.
Something is wrong.
—————————————————————-
The cough surfaces shortly after.
What began as a constant swallow turns to an intermittent spasm, noticeable enough for her to brew a pot of tagot tea. This time the rain hadn’t called him back inside, she had.
She is familiar with this sickness—too much on too little.
“How by all the stars did you manage up there on the Rim?” She asks his drenched frame, hunched before the fire. Both of his hands stretch before the grate, trying to absorb the heat. She’d throw a blanket around his shoulders if she knew he wouldn't shake it off again.
“Stim shots to take the edge off,” he mumbles through blocked sinuses, accepting the mug she offers with a dip of his head. “I’d black out for a spell and call myself lucky when I woke up.”
“That’s it?” She blinks, agog.
“Bacta if I could…(haugggh)… spare the credits.” He looks rundown. The flesh beneath his eyes is smudged purple, deep rings standing out on his handsome face. His skin is sallow and pale. She reads the signs of his physical neglect, what pains he takes to conceal them.
But he can no longer hide behind his armor.
“Bacta?” She frowns at the strangely foreign word. “Never heard of it.”
“Heals in a matter of hours.”
“Sounds real cozy,” she crosses her arms. “All the plunders of the Empire and they can’t find a med stick for a cold?”
“‘Med sticks are vintage,” he takes a quiet sip from the cup. “No one uses them anymore.”
“What about plain and proper rest?”
“Sleep?” A short dry huff of a chuckle. “Best done in hyper drive,” his gaze drops. “Light years away from anything that can swipe your ignition code.”
She knows the answer but it bears asking—firmly.
“Are you going out again?”
He does not even deign to look at her directly when he responds.
“If I can stand, I can fight. That is the Way.”
She snorts.
“Then the Way is—“ she catches herself, thinking better of it. But his wet brown eyes are too tired; the way he deflates into the cup between his hands, —unable to smell much—but seeking the warmth.
He looks cold and somehow…lost.
“I suppose germs don’t answer to beskar," she murmurs as she rubs his shoulder, the contact bringing him back to himself.
Though he lacks energy, he manages a slight smile just for her. He drains the mug before cracking his stiff neck and shoulders. Deep brown eyes watch her as she draws nearer, set and determined.
There is no swaying him, she knows. All the same…
She is careful where she touches him this time, not wanting to cause a flinch. He stiffens when she brushes his bangs aside to palm his forehead.
She pulls back with a slight frown.
“You’re—“
She flinches when he abruptly gets to his feet, stepping quickly aside as he brushes by her on his way to the door.
“Don’t stay too late,” she pleads despite knowing how useless her words are. The district had asked his help repairing the drainage channels and he had vowed to see it done before the floods came. The setting sun paints his back as he disappears into the crowd.
It’s absurd, she thinks. If the suns can rest, why can’t he? Stoicism may stir desire when one is still basking in their prime but at his age…?
She scowls at her own rueful idling.
Perhaps, in some strange way, this is penance?
——————————————————
Days pass and she misses the way his body thrums with pleasure at her touch. The way he livens quickly when she grazes her lips against his scratchy cheek. The way he’d help braid her hair. He is too tired even to hunger for her.
It twinges her to watch him, moving stiffly about the barn as though his muscles do not ache, muffling the cough behind a gloved fist, pausing to catch his breath.
From the barn window she watches him lift his head from between his tightly grasped hands. Mind scattered and restless, blurring the danger with the setting red suns blare. He looks around, blinking rapidly as though coming back to himself. A brief shake and it is over.
But she has seen it.
She stops herself from running outside to him. It’s only a passing dizzy spell. She herself has had many after an endless day.
But the Mandalorian she knows never wavers. There must be exceptions to every rule, though. .
Or maybe her tea had finally settled in his veins?
She cannot tell.
Even the Child has begun to notice. Normally occupied with little more than shiny objects and a full belly, his enormous eyes follow his father’s movements more frequently, his fretful bleats go ignored.
“Not now, kid.” Exhausted, he places the baby in his pram and closes the lid.
This cannot continue.
————————————————————-
It’s been three turns of the sister moon.
And her Mandalorian has only gotten worse.
She stirs awake at the grinding cough from behind, his broad too-warm chest convulsing against her shoulder blade.
This morning he sounds worse. The irritation in his lungs distorted to an ugly thick wetness. It’s not going anywhere.
(Neither should he.)
Normally he would be desirous—seeking the warmth of her breast as he wakes, gentle nips against the hollow of her throat or the top of her shoulder; icy hands forcing a delicious shiver between her thighs.
But not today.
She raises herself on both arms, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He’d gone to bed feverish the night before, shivering despite their closeness. A graze of his hot cheek with her lips tells her the fever has settled for good.
Planting her toes on the icy floor, she moves to throw another chunk of kindling onto the grate, bare feet scurrying against the cold surface leading to the refresher. The white of her breath in the morning air wafts before her eyes when she lifts her skirt.
He is still asleep when she returns but at least the room is faintly warmer. Crawling back into bed, she kisses his cheek.
“Told you so.”
He rasps more than speaks—forced air pushed out in a broken wheeze. He’ll need an expectorant for sure. His second attempt to speak erupts into a full on fit and he rights himself quickly to ride it out, the sound painful enough to make her wince.
Weak sunlight slashes his tired face, sharpening his pallor and the stubble patching his cheeks. She gives him a few slaps between the shoulder blades to loosen him up.
“That sounds worse,” her brows knit together. He is grimacing when he finally settles, one hand flat against his chest.
“It’s fine,” he turns his face away. Ignoring his gruffness, she sidles up beside him to press her lips against his temple, clammy despite the chill of the morning.
She must keep him in bed, no matter what.
Her fingers stay firm on his shoulders as she eases him back down on the mattress.She sinks down beside him, and just for a moment, the press of her warm body against his shivering one feels so good.
But that isn’t her intention.
“Be still.”
He nods, muscles tensing to receive as she drapes herself over his chest to listen. Right away, she can feel his overworked heart knock against her torso, belly rising and falling unevenly with his breathing. She hopes he’ll cough again, to give her a better picture.
He doesn’t disappoint. She can feel the grating pull from his lungs as he starts to spasm. This isn’t a cough that will clear up on its own.
“Mmm,” she hums, listening to the increased thud of his heart, picking up with the addition of her weight. She listens to it pound for a while, letting him recover a bit before speaking.
“You’re sick.”
A bruised look is what that earns. “So?”
Budging up slightly, she nudges her nose on his. “Stay.”
“Uh-uh.” He attempts to right himself but she pushes him back down onto the pillow, entangling her legs with his.
He sighs, chest rising beneath her as his arms enfold about her waist, fingers carded through the tangle of her hair. She shifts to slot her head beneath his chin, one ear pressed again over his sternum.
Even his beating heart sounds sick. Rapid and slightly irregular, perhaps from just having woken up. Closing her eyes, she turns her head to plant a kiss against his bare chest, hoping to comfort him.
“You sound as if you’re still wearing the helmet,” she murmurs into his hot skin.
His head lifts slightly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Feels like it.”
“You're off duty.”
His mouth tightens. “Scouts have drills.” The hoarseness in his voice tightens a thread of annoyance in her chest.
“Barka can manage without you,” she insists, feeling him groan above her head.
“You’re a better…(cough) better shot.” He grits out through a spasm.
“He needs the practice,” she deepens her voice, mouth against his neck. “You’re too capable.”
“That bad?” He sharply turns his face aside to avoid coughing on her. Clearing his throat, he pants to regain himself.
“I hear you’ve made quite the marksman out of young Nyoki.”
“She’s eleven.”
“She’ll still be eleven when you’re well.” She halts his protestation with her fingertip. “No.”
The bulk of him manages to wilt. “Can I at least get a caff?”
She snorts with a snap of her head, peeling herself up and off him. “Nothing but sage tea or water.”
He grouses, passing a hand across his weary face. Faint shuffles and a high-pitched giggle emerge from Winta’s room.
“Kids are up.”
“I know.” Tying her hair back, she hastily throws her shawl around her shoulders, already mentally rearranging her schedule around chores and his care.
She prods him again. “Well? Are you going to be much trouble today?”
Large hands fist tightly in the blankets. She can all but feel his face burn hotter as she waits for him to come to terms. Persuading Mandalorians is never simple. Fortunately, he doesn’t let her wait too long before hunkering deeper into the mattress.
She’ll take that as a no.
“Breakfast?”
The mound of blankets shudders slightly in disgust.
“No thanks.”
“Tough.”
He is still coughing when she crosses into the kitchen, intent on prepping food against his will. She anticipates more than one inquisitive knock on her door today—his absence will be noted.
————————————————————————
It’s easy enough to slip into routine once the oven gets going. She chops, strains, discards, boils. This soup happens to be her daughter’s favorite, fragrant with herbs and plenty of salt. It is an atypical breakfast but she doubts anyone will complain of it.
Her entire body freezes when she returns to the bedroom to find him gone.
“Dank ferrik!”
“Morning mom!” Her daughter’s voice chirps, holding the hungry Child in her arms. Omera whirls round with a stormy glare. Taking a breath to settle her nerves, she checks her voice .
“Where did he go?”
Winta jerks her thumb outside. “Out back.”
Dashing from the house, she finds him at the woodshed block, axe in hand, splitting logs for kindle. Hot breath clouds white in the chill air. She is relieved to find he’d had enough sense to at least find a scarf to fortify his rumpled bedclothes.
“What are you doing?” It is by an act of the Force itself she is not speaking words that would tar her dignity. The barn is no place for a sick man—dust particles, woodsmoke, and sawdust fly thick in the air; make it harder to breathe.
“My job,” he gestures to the pile of kindling on the ground.
“Before you came, it was mine,” her eyes harden to flint, boring straight into him. “You are running a fever. Get back to bed!”
There is something like pain mirrored in his brown eyes. What must her words mean to him? Her mind can only guess. His upbringing did not teach him to respect limitations. But the gnawing ache in his bones doesn't matter. The shivery fever doesn’t matter. The dizziness could all be an afterthought.
All he can see is her frustration and that makes the axe fall with a clatter.
“Fine.” He makes his way back to the house.
Even Mandalorians must give in. It cannot just be him. But he looks so defeated that she adds a hushed “thank you” as he lumbers past.
Who else but a Mandalorian?
————————-
The remainder of the morning passes quickly, between one task and the next. The washing, the baking, the curious knocks at her door. Winta’s schooling. Feeding the Child.
Only once more she catches him out of bed, though he’d at least had the good sense to stay in the bedroom. Cross-legged on the floor, inspecting the barrel of his pulse rifle. Cleaning tools laid out in an array—rags, rods and grease pots. His cauterizer and whetting stone.
She clears her throat but he doesn’t even blink at being caught.
“That’s not the bed.” She grinds her fist into her hip, framed squarely in the doorway.
“Weapons are my religion,” he sets the rifle down beside him. “It’s considered a sin to neglect them.”
It is mysterious to her—what parts of the Way he chooses to cling to and which he does not. The helmet is already contentious.
“Your body needs rest,” she sighs with the futility of it.
“I’ll go back to bed when I’m done.” He picks up the blade, barely stifling another grind in his chest.
“When will that be?”
He doesn’t answer. So she leaves him to it.
Some battles are not worth fighting.
———————————————————————
The healer of Sorgan knows what to pick and what to leave alone.
Male children in the village begin foraging strictly under the tutelage of their grandparents as per tradition. Bragi permitted girls with any desire to learn the ancient ways and Omera had proven herself a swift rival to her male cousins.
Which leaf when boiled will kill a man when the same one steamed will clear up his gout.
Which plants served old women and which served those of childbearing years.
What bodies of water to look for and which never to approach.
She hadn’t earned her reputation by accident.
She mashes a poultice; glad the rains hadn’t yet drowned her entire hurjt crop. The flat brown leaves had already begun to curl with the cold. The oil stored in its pulp releases a scent when heated—potent enough to loosen phlegm.
“What’s that?” His forehead wrinkles at the tray in her hands. He’s in bed again, at least, sitting upright. His face is a bit blotchy, shining with sweat.
“Witchcraft,” She turns the covers down. “Loosen your shirt.”
He obeys, surprisingly calm as she spreads the thick substance beneath his throat, coating the fine hair on his chest. The mixture melts instantly, creating a slow heat and redness where it touches.
“S’it supposed to burn like that?” He winces when the stringent oil begins to penetrate his skin. It's an irritant, reviled by young children, but it works.
“Yes. Hold still.”
When she is through, she wraps his chest in linen strips to prevent mess and to let the poultice do its work.
“How does it feel?”
“Smells like exhaust manifold.”
“So you can smell?”
“Surprisingly.” He sniffs through his blocked head,
“That means it’s working.” She turns to pick up the smaller bowl. “Drink this.”
He doesn’t ask this time but tips it back, grimacing at the bitterness.
“Next time I’ll add syrup,” she apologizes. “But additives lessen the potency.”
He wipes his mouth, suppressing a full body shudder.
“Gauh! The Tuskens made something like this.”
“It works,” she shrugs.
A brief pause later he frowns, placing a palm on his chest.
“You alright?”
“My heart…” he mumbles. “It’s–”
“It’ll wear off in a few minutes. Expect to cough a lot more, that’s what it does.”
He looks plainly miserable. She drags the covers back up over his chest, placing the back of her fingers on his forehead before moving to his cheek.
Finding his skin still hot, she moves to retrieve one of the rags left to cool in the basin. He cringes when the first chill shocks his overheated skin but her touch is gentle on his brow and his eyes drift closed. She runs her fingers through his unruly hair.
“Get some rest.”
If she is lucky, she can break his fever by noon and the chunk of ice that has taken up residence in her belly can finally melt.
————————————————-------------------------
When sleep finally does take him, it is not kind. The blankets soon wind up a damp tangle on the ground, thrown aside. He shivers with cold despite the fire.if he is no better, she would like to think he is at least, no worse.
His body is at war with itself.
She wakes him periodically for water, once with the additive of a sleep draught to keep him under. She cannot convince him to eat either way so she figures he is better off asleep.
However, by sunset he is awake again, sweating and slightly disoriented. She takes this as a hopeful sign though he shies away when she attempts to help him bathe.
She leaves him the bucket, wash rag and privacy. That he can do on his own. The relentless coughing saps his strength, makes his ribs ache.
The children are curious, drawn by the candle light she never blew out at bedtime. Winta jounces the Child on her shoulder as she peers into the bedroom.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” She is so tired, she can barely see straight.
“He wants his Dad.” Her daughter’s face is solemn, shushing the baby with fruitless pats.
“Not now, Winta.”
“Guh-gotta get him…out…” the sick man gasps before he is overtaken by another fit. The baby stretches out his small arm, whimpering.
“Put him to bed!!” Weariness makes the word sharper than she intends. But the girl obeys.
She can see her mother’s drawn face, the unkempt hair tangled down her back. The Mandalorian shivering on the pallet, struggling for a full breath. The scent of herbs. The rank odor of sweat.
It is a scene she is already familiar with. A place that lives in her now.
—————————————-
Night falls.
She curls up beside him, cradled beneath the warm weight of his arm, bristling each time his chest seizes. She rubs her hand along his side to quiet him. It takes longer than usual for his heartbeat to slow, a lingering effect of the medicinal balm.
He is not restful so neither is she—he tossing and turning while she bears the brunt. After the fourth elbow prod to her spine, she gives up. She props him higher on the pillow, tugging up the weight of his sleep-heavy body. He lists to the side, half aware in his feverish haze, murmuring the words of his people.
“Well,” she mutters to the candle burning on the shelf. “Guess we’re both on this ride.”
It occurs to her that maybe his body is not familiar with Sorgan remedies. That perhaps Mandalorians were so used to bacta infusions and other military grade treatments that they did not respond to cures found below the Earth.
Her mind starts to drift in the flickering candlelight, drowsiness dragging her kids down. She snaps herself back to attention, fights to stay awake; alert.
He is still sleeping.
Has he ever had someone care for him? All alone in the wild vastness of the Outer Rim, drifting from port to port, how has he ever known vigilance? Care?
It is not a case for Bragi, she thinks, as she sinks wearily down onto the chair beside their bed. The milky-eyed shaman would not even entertain the thought. People went to her to bargain with the Path, steer their loved ones away if they strayed too close—as she had once done for her husband.
She stares down at him—at his strong cheekbones now darkly flushed, strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
No, she decides resolutely, he is nowhere near that.
——————-
The air is too tense.
The candles have long died into wells of congealed wax. Creaking outside make her stir. Slow shuffles, the heave of animal breath too close. The snort of a predator scenting.
Whatever it is, it is approaching steadily. Whatever it is, it is large. A heavy galumphing gait, slowly circling the house, searching out a path to the barn.
Omera starts to find his feverish heat no longer beside her. Shaking off sleep, adrenaline bolts her spine upright, pulling the covers aside.
“Din?”
He doesn’t respond.
She can just make out the vague outline of his back in the inky darkness, tugging on a shirt. She watches his calm movements about the room, clipping his cuirass across his chest with a soft click. Finally, he reaches to heft his rifle onto his shoulder.
“Din!” She hisses, eyes wide in the darkness. They speak what her tongue cannot. He must not go out. Let the village watch handle it. No, he must not—
He must hear her thoughts out loud.
“Stay quiet,” he murmurs, crouching down as he slowly pushes his hand against the door. He doesn’t turn to look at her as he slips silently outside into the cold night.
She draws her shivering knees up to her chest, hoping to draw in body heat and calm her trembling skin. She can feel her heart pounding. She prays the children are still asleep.
She cannot stop shaking.
A clench of fear pulls at her belly. He should not be out of bed. He is not well! He cannot—
She silently berates herself. He has a reputation as an elite hunter even among his own people, she knows whatever the danger, he will return.
Her mind conjures a thousand dreads despite itself. By any grace of the Force, it is just one of the docile water bison broken loose from its pen, wandering the storage huts in search of an extra bite.
Worse, it could be a roaming Yalut—enormous shaggy furred beasts in search of meat with claws the size of her hand.
In their mating time, the hulking creatures have been known to roam too close. Stirrings from outside ebb and flow in intensity. His quiet footsteps receded into the tall grass. Hushed whispers from roused villagers. More feet rushing to join his.
A sudden guttural roar makes her blood freeze. The blast of a weapon discharged. Shouting.
She chews her lip to keep from screaming.
Her first instinct is to run to the children but then she remembers Grogu is with her daughter—the Child can protect her.
The violence outside intensifies with the thrash of a struggle. An enraged, bloodthirsty snarl. The shove of bodies. She can hear the gentle lowhorn in her own barn squealing in fear.
Her chest pangs and she throws off the covers. She cannot stay hidden.
Slipping barefoot onto the frost-speckled grass outside, she nearly yelps at the cold.
The chill sends ripples down her spine as the biting wind whips past her face. But she feels overwhelmingly hot, clammy even. Sweat prickles her brow, eyes darting frantically through the flurry of rushing bodies; searching for him. She stutters to a halt as men whip past, clasping her hands together white-knuckled to keep them from trembling.
More villagers race in the direction of the commotion, scouts armed with stun blasters and rakes. Lights glow from the windows, soft beacons breaking the darkness.
Her eyes search the gathering crowd ahead. Now she can hear Barka calling for volunteers to the long pen.
Omera’s breath clouds with her rapid breath, waiting for him to appear. There are too many voices, too many people, too much confusion. She just needs him to materialize, to be there.
Then she sees him.
He lumbers silently through the throng of rattled villagers, his hulking frame smeared with a reddish substance, movements stilted with the weight of his tired bones. His rifle hangs across his back, smoking faintly.
Without thinking, Omera races into his arms, nearly knocking him over flat. She buries her face into his neck. The stiff posture and careful way he holds himself tell her he is hiding some hurt but she does not care. The blood staining his clothes does not belong to him. That is all that matters. Breathing hard, his shaking arms encircle her, smearing blood into her nightdress.
“You’re safe,” she whimpers into the hard plate of his sticky cuirass. She can feel how hot he is through the armor—-still feverish. He is intact at least if not altogether whole. Yalut have been known to rend limbs clean off.
After a while, he reaches up a sopping hand to cradle the back of her head. His muscles are twitching with unspent adrenaline, breath sharp and ragged. His heart pounds hard against her cheek. But it is beating. He is with her now.
“Was it a Yalut?”
A nod. “Yes.”
“Oh Maker!” She breathes, pressing herself closer. He holds her for another beat before speaking:
“Tried to get at one of Fenter’s calves.”
She shudders at the thought. “Are you hurt?
“No.”
As he says this a sudden wave of vertigo overtakes him and he stumbles, bearing more weight against her with a pained grunt. She gasps, startled momentarily before her instincts take over.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Slinging his arm about her shoulders, she half helps and half drags him back to the house.
Many eyes follow Omera as she helps her Mandalorian hobble his way back. But to her, they don’t exist.
The warmth feels like a blessing as she helps him shed his blood soaked tunic and breeches before tugging off his boots. The cedar tub which held water heating for the morning bath would have to be used early.
Neither of them have a thought for his nakedness as he lowers himself into the deep tub, its transparent surface swirling pink. His body goes lax as he sinks beneath the veil of steam, grateful for the heat soaking into his frozen limbs.
She passes a kelp compress over his chest, tossing in a handful of crushed oolak berries to numb the pain. He grimaces as she washes away the grime to reveal a shallow scrape just below his throat. It is superficial—only needing ointment. The kelp is already quieting the inflammation.
More worrisome is his breathing. A ripple of pain shudders through him as her exploring fingers prod his ribs. There is swelling present but that can be from his injuries, not the infection.
Now that the struggle is over, his adrenaline is fading. Exhaustion creeps in with the warmth of the water and her fingers. But she cannot let him sleep yet, she needs him to be alert.
“Stay awake,” she urges, praying he isn’t concealing any further hurt somewhere. “Were you thrown?”
“When I charged it.” He grunts his discomfort. She scans his rib cage, spying a mottled red and purple splotch darkening on his side. It isn’t too large to her relief.
Wait… charged a full grown Yalut?
“You knew better,” she chides. His chest hitches, mirth accompanied by a twinge.
“Aren’t you glad I cleaned my gun?”
She is too tired to rebuke him. He’s tried her nerves enough this week
“I don’t think it’s funny,” she flicks him, wiping away the last smear of dried blood off his cheek.
“No more talking,” she takes his wrist to shut him up.
He settles back, eyes fluttering closed. His pulse thumps beneath her fingertips; another concern she can put away. He is weak; dizzy from exertion but his breathing is steady and his heartbeat is strong. The fever is back but then again, it never really went anywhere.
“Bed,” he says at last.
Bracing his weight against the rim of the tub, he starts to rise. Quickly, she moves in, ignoring the way his wet skin soaks her as she helps him rise.
Slowly, mindful of his injuries, she walks him back to the bed and seats him on the edge.
“Easy,” wrapping him up in a towel, she gestures for the mattress. “I have to check your breathing.”
“Have at it,” he wheezes, pulling on a dry set of trousers while she drags out her equipment. He straightens his back for her as she unwinds her auscultation unit, placing the disc in his chest below the bruise.
“Deep as you can.”
She fully expects what she hears. His chest hitches sharply with the first attempt, failing to draw in a complete breath. That would mean bruising at the least.
The next try makes him cough and she withdraws her disc, waiting for him to recover a moment before listening again. His third breath sounds cleaner and although his heartbeat is rapid, she does not detect the grate of broken bones or rales. Briga’s teachings have trained her how to listen first; to detect abnormalities —long having forsaken the tool of sight. She can recognize the alarming gurgle of liquid—blood or sputum—the wheeze of inflammation.
But that is not what she hears this time.
Mild bruising at most but his ribs seem intact. With gentle fingers she palpates his chest, searching for fine breaks or tears. She doesn’t want to drag out the bio scanner to confirm.
He remains still and untroubled enough as she examines him. Though he has a talent for concealing pain, he cannot hide from her touch. She watches his face as her fingers treble over his ribs, the hard muscles of his belly. He does not flinch or grimace.
She puts away the device.
“Nothing broken,” she meets his eyes with sincerity. “You’re lucky.”
Her hand plunks beneath the water to find his, so large in comparison to her own. So large, they can cup the entirety of her face when he kisses her.
His palms are calloused, the solid bone stretched smoothly over skin tanned like hers. He closed his fingers around her slender ones to warm them.
“I know,” his voice deepens to a husk, the tips of his ears reddening.
An absent finger finds its way into her hair, twirling into a soft strand.
“You had me scared to death!” She does little to conceal the tremble in her voice. She needs him to hear. Her eyes burn, heavy with tears. “If you’d-“
“You’re wearing that oil I like.” He cuts her off.
She blinks, confused. “What?”
Slowly he rubs the strand between his fingers, as though imprinting its silk into his skin. He does this for a measured beat, letting the silence hang before speaking. He is skilled with silences.
“The stuff you put in your hair. At the ends.” He hesitates, struggling through his drowsiness to choose proper words. “That scent…reminds me of a Tajin summer.”
Flowery words, of all the impossible absurdities! She swallows a sharp retort.
“I haven’t washed it,” she averts her gaze, tight-lipped. “And I’ve never been to Tajin.”
“It’s an oasis on Tattoine, one of the few. Green. Full of life. People make songs about it.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps he means to disarm her? Catch her in her moment of weakness? All she knows is that her limbs are too weary and her heart is too full.
His eyes are a paradox—gentle, soft. Just moments ago these same eyes had gored a fearsome beast.
All she wants—with all her heart—is to keep him safe.
His gaze fixes on hers. “I’m sorry.” A breathless pause. “… I’ve been difficult.”
Despite her weariness, she finds herself caving. Wanting his lips anywhere on her skin. She wants to pull his head forward, seal her mouth on his and drag the air from his lungs so that he, too, can struggle.
Drawn in and helpless, the shudder of his breath grazes her cheek. Her fingers bury themselves in his unruly hair.
But her brain races ahead of her lips.
“Wait…you can smell?”
His eyed snap open. Before he can summon words, an urgent knocking makes them both jump.
“That’ll be the Watch,” she says with a pang of regret.
“Tell Barka he can keep the pelt.” He calls after her, stiffly folding his hands behind his head in his vain attempt to relax.
Knotting her evening shift closed, she rushes to the door to find Barka flanked by two junior scouts.
“How is the Mandalorian?” Barka demands.”He took the beast down all by himself!” As one, the scouts corroborate this enthusiastically. A few are slightly pale, having not yet seen so much blood spilled at one time. Omera responds to their satisfaction, intent on getting them gone.
“His vitals are stable and he is uninjured. He is resting now.” She cannot keep the edge from her voice. “As well you should be.”
“We owe him our thanks,” pipes the herder, Darud, eyes wide. “That monster was about to devour grandfather’s entire flock!”
“Well that he has chosen to house with our best Healer,” Barka chuckles. “Valor does not occur every day in Sorgan!”
“Blessed be the Force it does not,” Omera agrees. “Now good night to you all.”
She cannot close the door fast enough.
———————————————————------------------------------------------------------------
“You aren’t moving for a full turn of the sister moon, Din Djarin.”
Wrapping his ribs will keep them still, lessen the pain from the cough . He grits his teeth anyway, hissing at her skilled touch as she winds the medicated linen around his midsection.
“How does that feel?” She asks as she tugs off the end of the fabric strip. He takes an experimental breath.
He exhales slowly as she secures the bandage in place.
“Better.” She takes another listen to his back and agrees.
“Your witchcraft worked,” he acknowledges. “I can breathe.”
“Sleep Is what you need.” She takes his face in both hands. “Works wonders I hear.”
“Sleep…” he repeats.
He surges up to press his mouth on hers—softly, intending to be chaste. But she drags him closer to take more. She forgets gentleness, he has never needed handling.
She kisses him until she tastes nothing but his salt. A shuddering breath. The sweetness of relief.
“Your hands are trembling,” he breathes.
“Stop. Talking.” She commands.
He is pliant beneath her, ignorant of pain. He is only here and now and completely hers. His touch now is unbearable; satisfaction of a long delayed need. She can’t help but suppress a moan when his hand parts her thighs. Wet. Heat. A sweet ache.
Weapons are not the only things he whispers grateful words to.
At last when they fall silent. At last when she is allowed to think and the honey like haze in her brain sharpens to clarity. She falls back, drowsy and spent, his chest rising and falling beside her. She presses one hand against his sternum, just to feel him breathe.
In and out. In and out.
She withdraws her hand.
At first she dares not touch him again.
Eventually, she shifts, turning over towards him. The line of her body molds to the side of his and she pillows her head on his shoulder, tucked beneath the edge of his chin as if she was made to fit there. He curls his arm around her, hand at rest on her waist. His fingers stroke the raised edge of an old birth scar and she edges closer, draping a knee over his thigh. The heat of his air wafts gently across her temples. She feels safe.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against his collar. Her breathing gradually evening into the slow rhythm of sleep, and the tension melts from her muscles, leaving her a warm, soft weight in his arms.
Tomorrow the morning would come, gauzy with a sunrise that demanded nothing. The thought faded as she faced the knowledge that Din didn't share that privilege. Of safety. Of being found. She wondered, while she squeezed him as tightly as she dared, when he would next run in the direction of danger for others. For duty. For his creed.
But a Creed cannot touch. It cannot mend. It cannot soothe a hurt or close a wound. For so long it had been enough.
What is left, now?
The man in her arms can leave. Pack up.. Take himself and the Child to the farthest corner of the galaxy and never return.
Tears prick her eyes, blotting out the pale rays of sunlight.
Who would be there to bring him back the next time he fell?