Chapter Text
Kalevala, 42 BBY
The sea was calm and silver today, just like it had been yesterday and the day before that. On the day that Lord Kryze left, it had been golden and furious. The day after, the waters roared with red sorrow, striking up on the surface in the wake of some creature’s death down below. Then the next day blue had come, and blessed the creature’s blood, whatever it had been, delivering it to the depths to rest eternally in the life that it would give to the larger creature whose blade-teeth had torn its heart out, to its young, and to the small fish that would gnaw on the bones, nourishing the green song that all the ocean survived on. But the sea hadn’t been green and full of joy since long before this moment, this day when the water’s surface was smooth and silver as Beskar, reflecting both the clouds and the grey-faced girl that waited atop the cliffs, watching the water’s moods, listening to the color of the ocean’s song, and dreaming of the sea gods that her father had told her about when she was a small child.
He did not speak much of the old sea gods anymore, now that Satine was older, and less mesmerized by magical tales of horned beasts and the ghosts of vengeful kings beneath the water’s surface. But she still looked on the water with awe, the colors of its creatures singing their stories to the waves even in death. She now found herself missing the old stories, in her silver vigil by the cold Beskar waves below. Perhaps, when her father returned, he could tell them again. Bo- Katan was a child of Kalevala too; she ought to hear the stories of the sea, the songs of her creatures, the colors of their lives and deaths and memories, and rarely to see the days when the waves were green and would dance with joy. But those days were rare, and now, more often than not, the sea shone Beskar-silver instead. When her father returned, she thought amid these desolate ruminations, she would ask him to tell her the tale of the green creatures beneath the sea again, for she feared that soon their song would only survive in his stories.
The waters were picking up now, as she sat mournfully on the cliff’s edge, blades of wind battling with the Beskar waves, clamoring upwards like a marching dirge. Usually, she found solace in watching the water, but now she just missed her father. The sea was less comforting when it was cold and loud like armor every day, encasing the creatures and their songs down below. She shivered and drew her knees up to her chest, regretting that she hadn’t worn her cloak. Helene was always badgering her about it, and of course, the more she nagged, the less Satine wanted to wear it. But now it was cold up on the cliff top, and she wished she had listened. But her pride and discomfort were not so great just yet that she was ready to return to the palace. These chilled moments of peace on the clifftops were all she could salvage these days, where she could sigh and lament and watch and dream, where she could wait, and not have to hide her restlessness.
Tomorrow would be the seventh day that it had been since Duke Adon Kryze had departed to Keldabe, the fourth day of Beskar-silver waves, and too many days since he should have come back.
It was supposed to be a quick journey; he only needed to help some of the Mandalorian provincial clans from the system’s outer sectors defend their citizenship case before the high council. As the duke of Kalevala, he held more standing than any of those clan leaders, who were often scorned and dismissed by the Mandalorian traditionalists. They were not proper Mandalorians, at least, this was what the traditionalists argued. But Duke Kryze stood by them and agreed to defend them at the capital should trouble arise.
Satine knew all this of course, because her father had told her. Helene had not agreed with his transparency. Satine was too young for politics, she argued: at thirteen a girl should not be concerning herself with such complicated and dangerous issues. But her dissent had proven futile, and Duke Kryze had pulled his daughter into his study later that night, and explained carefully why he was leaving, what he hoped to accomplish, and how very important it was. And even though she was only thirteen, and some of the politics were endlessly confusing and infuriating, she nodded and absorbed it all, tinkering over the information later and imagining endless avenues for either progress or disarray, of which there were many. But her father was kind, and clever, and wise, and he cared about his people, he would find a solution, no matter how puzzling the road to get there. So she smiled proudly as she hugged her father goodbye the next morning, inspired by his wisdom and leadership, confident that he would succeed in helping the provincial clans to secure Mandalorian citizenship, and yearning to follow in his footsteps.
But now her earlier pride was fading to fear, for tomorrow would be the seventh day, and the waves were still silver, and he should have come back long before.
The Beskar waves were rumbling now, a shadow from the sky disturbing their steel rhythms. Satine heeded the shadow’s call and looked up to the sky. And there it was- a ship tearing through the grey fog of Kalevala’s atmosphere, casting a misty shadow on the rough seas below.
Not daring to waste even a second more, she turned from the clifftop and ran, racing the shadow-ship above her, down the slippery, mist-coated grass, not caring that her clothes were becoming streaked with mud.
The ship’s wings were closing in, preparing to slow their descent through Kalevala’s mists. She ran faster than she ever had before, but she was still no match for the ship’s engines. She saw it dive down, like a seabird swooping into the waves for fish- but unlike a sea bird, it did not rise up again into the sky, but stayed down, and that was how she knew it had reached the landing field.
She finally reached the landing field, many minutes after the ship touched down, her clothes and face streaked with mud and hair thick with salt and tangled from the wind. She had fallen and slipped one too many times in her rush to get home and was certain that she would later regret the bruises on her knees and the knots in her hair, and Helene would scold her for the mess. But none of that mattered now. Her father was home, and soon the sea would be green again.
Helene was already on her way from the palace, carefully tiptoeing down the path with little Bo balanced on her hip, tiny fingers clutching the dark folds of her cloak. Her copper hair was neatly braided, somehow still managing to hold its shape, despite every effort from the wind to unravel it, a stark contrast to Satine’s own tangled mess of murky-gold curls.
She stopped when she saw Satine, glancing her up and down only once, a clear scowl of disapproval on her face. She was saved a scolding though by Bo Katan’s excited giggle, lifting her sleepy face from her mother’s shoulder to grin at her disheveled sister.
“Tinesa, Tinesaaaa!”
“Good morning little Bo!” she replied, lifting her chin proudly just to spite Helene. “Buir’s home now, aren’t you excited to see him?”
As Bo chirped happily, Helene glowered. “Now Satine, are you really going to welcome your father home looking like a washed-up sea-bird?”
It was not the appropriate response, but Satine couldn’t help it. She squawked, the image of herself as a bedraggled gull extremely hilarious in this particular moment. Bo chittered along with her, her bright toddler’s laugh adding to Satin’s mock gull-song.
“Girls, this is very inappropriate,” Helene shook her head, scowl deepening even more and marring her otherwise, infuriatingly perfect face. “Now come Satine, we mustn’t keep Lord Kryze waiting.”
Laughter now banished, she shuffled along beside her, comforted by Bo’s still innocent gurgling as she burrowed into Helene’s cloak as the wind picked up, pushing them up the path toward the landing field entrance.
But she could tell as soon as they stepped onto the platform that something was wrong. Bo ceased her quiet cooing, and Helene’s permanent scowl softened into something resembling trepidation. The ship’s hatch was opening slowly, like the open beak of a gull, that same bird which had brought her so much amusement merely seconds before, but now was making her shiver with unease. Satine wondered if this was how that little fish felt when it was about to be scooped up into that much-larger creature’s mouth, about to be carried away into the cold sky, never to sing beneath green water ever again.
And then a byre was borne down the ship’s ramp, flanked by six blue, beskar-clad warriors, 3 on either side, heads bent forward, steps hard and heavy, striking a dirge into the ground.
Satine’s breath hitched in her chest, as the wind stopped and the cold air settled deep into her bones.
The procession halted before them, their heavy beskar-dirge ceasing with their still feet and leaving a suffocating void in the cold, windless mist.
And there, on the byre, lay Adon Kryze, eyes closed, still in his armor, face ice-still and wraith-pale.
Helene wailed, and fell to her knees, and Bo-Katan cried, and Satine ran.
She fled back up the path, away from the spectre of the ship, and her father’s lifeless face, Helene’s tormented cry and Bo-Katan’s tiny, devastating sobs. The mud beneath her feet had been soft, and slippery, but it hardened as she ran, bearing her toward the sea. The wind wept so fiercely that she couldn’t tell whether it was her tears or the salt-mist that stung her face.
She halted violently as soon as she felt the crash of the waves against the cruel cliff’s edge, vibrating up through the earth and tearing her down to her knees. She screamed at the sea, at the gulls and the fish, her tears hardening the ground and trickling down the cliff to join the mournful silver waves below.
It was then that Satine knew, deep in her heart, that thereafter, Kalevala’s sea would be forever hardened to Beskar, never to sing of green again.