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The sounds of sparring echo throughout the wide training hall of the Fighting Corps, the ringing of assaulted beskar amplified. Multiple matches were happening at once, all the circular mats spaced out, not all of them occupied. Weapon lockers lined the far wall, stone benches protruding from the wall opposite. The southeastern corner was reserved for sparring bags and close-range practice targets. The Concordia training hall wasn't as grand as the one down on Mandalore, but it served its purpose.
Mature Mandalorians idly patrolled the room, keeping an eye on the cadets. A few of the older ones sit along the southern wall, watching the younger ones spar with feigned interest. Even though all of them have yet to swear the Creed, most of the older cadets wear their buy'ces, if only to take pride in their near-graduation to apprenticeship. Older Mandalorians have begun to pay them more attention, interested in their potential. The cadets talk excitedly amongst themselves, quietly discussing who they hoped would pick them as an apprentice.
One of the cadets was not paying any mind to the conversation. At only sixteen, Paz Vizsla was largely built. Broad shoulders, muscled legs, tall frame. He was almost guaranteed a place in Heavy Infantry. Which, if anyone asked, is the reason he would give for not listening to the others' chatter. The black of his visor was trained intensely across the room.
"Paz?"
The unknowing victim of Paz's unwavering stare was a foundling clad in maroon and grey, and the polar opposite of Paz. The boy's figure was small, the painted pieces of beskar'gam dwarfing his body. There was no buy'ce on his head, leaving soft curls and dark eyes on display. Slender hands wrap medical tape over the skin of his palms in familiar practiced movements. He's preparing for a sparring match, his partner standing a short distance away; a girl about his age, speaking quietly to him with a small smile.
Din Djarin. The boy, not the girl. A promising young foundling that had been brought in close to four years ago. Three years Paz's junior and nearly a foot shorter, precise with a blade and even better with a blaster, aloof and quiet. He’s quick on his feet and one of the best fighters in the Fighting Corps.
Paz hated him.
"Paz."
The boy only hums in acknowledgment, hidden gaze never leaving Din as the other boy finishes his prep and grabs a blade from one of the weapon lockers. Paz is in the middle of following Din’s steps over to an unoccupied match circle when the back of his helm is smacked, his head snapping forwards. Paz turns on his attacker, irritated. “What?”
He’s met with the amused tilt of Airi’s buy’ce. The polished bronze-colored helm was a clear indicator that the Armorer had already chosen the girl as his apprentice, and Airi wore it with pride. She, and all the others, stare at him silently, considering. The blank visors make him squirm, uneasiness prickling along his arms and neck.
“What?” he says again, looking between the cadets. Most of them giggle, turning away and resuming their previous conversation. Airi continues to watch him thoughtfully before turning her visor across the room. Paz of course can’t tell for sure, but it almost seems like her eyes immediately find Din. Paz can feel his shoulders rise in an automatic defense, in defense of what, Paz doesn’t know, it’s not like he’s done anything wrong.
Paz glances back over at Din. The foundling is in the middle of his match, currently stuck in a headlock, the girl behind him holding on tight. It won’t be a surprise if, in a few years time, she too gets assigned to Heavy Infantry. Din struggles in her grasp, hands pulling at her arm in a vain attempt at loosening her grip. Paz ignores the ugly feeling curling in his gut at the sight of the boy being detained by the girl. He tells himself it’s his dislike for the other cadet, not something as childish as jealousy.
Paz doesn’t see any way for Din to get out of the headlock. Apparently, Din doesn’t share Paz’s doubts. The small boy hooks the toe of his boot around the back of the girl’s ankle, kicking forwards roughly. The move sends both of the cadets tumbling backwards to the ground. As the breath is knocked from the girl’s lungs and her arms fall, Din rolls, moving to straddle her waist. Knees pressed to the mat on either side of her, Din presses his blade to her throat.
Throat suddenly dry, Paz swallows thickly. He blinks as Din’s partner yields and they both stand, the girl laughing and clapping him on the back. Airi’s voice startles Paz out of his daze. “The beroya has been watching him. We may not need to worry about being left without one.”
Paz understands what she means. The current beroya was almost as aloof as Din was, always away, doing what he did best and providing for the Tribe. Though the man was well-respected, it was a common worry that he would inevitably pass in battle and leave the Tribe without having ever taken an apprentice, the next beroya.
This logic doesn’t stop Paz from protesting. “But he’s too young!”
“Right now, yes,” Airi agrees, visor still facing forwards, gaze no doubt glued to Din. “But in a couple of years, he’ll be of age, ready to swear the Creed.”
“But-” Paz opens his mouth to protest, unsure as to what he’s about to say. The sharp turn of Airi’s buy’ce causes any words he might’ve had to die on his tongue.
“You don’t believe the beroya should take an apprentice?”
“No! No, of course not,” Paz hurries to assure her, correcting the misunderstanding. The line of Airi’s tense shoulders relax. Paz gestures toward the small cadet across the hall. “Just- why him? There are plenty of other eligible cadets.”
The girl regards him carefully, buy’ce cocked in such a way that suggests she’s trying to solve something puzzling. Paz feels heat start to bloom on his face before Airi even speaks. “You have a strange fascination with that foundling.” She says it like it's a fact, not a ridiculous connotation.
The cadet splutters intelligently, shifting backwards until he’s sitting straight up. “A fascination-- I hate him!”
Airi stares.
“I do!” Paz insists, fighting the urge to look back over at Din. “He’s quiet all the time, he never interacts with anyone in the Tribe unless they speak with him first, and then he just shows off! It’s like he thinks he’s better than everyone.”
The silence grows uncomfortable as the future Armorer does nothing but watch Paz squirm where he sits. When her unyielding stare becomes too much, the Vizsla heir looks away. He’s suddenly very glad for the helmet that covers his face, ashamed of the deep blush that spreads from his cheeks to his ears. To Paz’s everlasting frustration, his glare lands right back on Din.
The boy is leaving, his blaster now in hand, his partner at his heel. They must be headed to the shooting range. Paz is on his feet before his brain has time to catch up. When it does, his limbs freeze mid-rush, half stumbling. He casts an embarrassed glance back at Airi, expecting some sort of rebuke. None comes. Instead, Airi stands with much more grace than Paz had, visor angled to look up at him. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, as if approaching a newly orphaned foundling. “Perhaps there’s another reason you don’t like the idea of Din Djarin becoming beroya.”
Paz stares right back despite the crawl of his skin, not backing down. His silence is damning. Din Djarin; Mandalorian foundling, smaller and younger than Paz, deadly with any weapon, one of the best of them. Paz hated him. Keyword there being ‘hated’. He had hated him. Up until a couple of months ago, when Paz had recognized his feelings for what they were and reacted in nothing short of panic.
Despite having argued with himself repeatedly over having a ludicrous crush on the younger cadet, it didn’t make the squeezing of his heart in his chest go away, nor the swoop of his stomach whenever Din so much as looked in Paz’s direction. It was pathetic. But at least it wasn’t hopeless. Paz could still watch the boy and dream, imagine some sort of future where colors were exchanged and the riduurok was whispered. Alright, perhaps it was a bit more than a crush.
None of it mattered, though, if Din became the next beroya. Required to be away from the Tribe for days to months at a time, constantly moving and providing for the rest of them, the beroya couldn’t be restrained by any aliit ties. Whether it was a riduur or ade, the beroya could have neither, not while they were active at least. If the beroya took Din as an apprentice, Paz would never get a chance to say anything. To at least see if maybe Din felt the same way.
It was a desperate hope, pointless. Besides, Din was only fourteen, it would be another two years before the beroya could take him as an apprentice, if the man did. By then, if things go Paz’s way, his feelings will have long faded.
Much too late, Paz squares his shoulders, standing taller. “There is no other reason. It’ll be good for the Tribe if he becomes beroya. He’ll make a good one.” Then, as an afterthought, “This is the Way.”
“This is the Way,” Airi echoes quietly. Gathering himself, Paz nods once decisively, turning and marching his way out of the training hall. When he comes to the cross path, he goes left, away from the shooting range, steely determination in his steps.