Archive of Our Own

Satine has been to the ocean again, Obi-Wan can smell it on her when she comes back, a little sandy, radiant, and Obi-Wan’s heart feels like it’s been scraped raw by coral when he thinks about what it must have been like, splashing through the waves, feeling the flow of the current, listening to the fish.

She’d found him, washed up on shore a week or so ago—now that he’s up here, Obi-Wan has trouble keeping track of the days—drying out, clumsy, silent. She was beautiful then, too, wrapping him in a cloak, bringing him into the compound, introducing him to her family as Ben, a name she’d chosen for him after running through a long, immeasurable list. He’d finally gone along with it, seeing the light flash in her eyes when she’d landed on it. Obi-Wan falls hard and fast, he always has, whether for a person or a story or a shining rock on the shore.

And it had been a gift, from her, this name, so even though it’s not right, it’s not true, and he only remembers to turn around for it half the time, and now it clangs painfully in his ears even though he’d once cherished the sound, he takes it all the same. He’d seen her when she arrived by boat, and she’d been stunning from afar, too, her smile so bright, her laughter like music as she talked with her sister, hanging over the side. Satine’s people spent a few days anchored in the cove before they were welcomed to shore, and Obi-Wan spent all his time listening, hoping to catch a glimpse.

They’re in the midst of negotiation, these Mandalorians, and as far as Obi-Wan can tell, there are actually three different groups of them. He’s chosen a rather complicated time to appear, and it hasn’t done him any favors, but he didn’t exactly choose the timing after he had run afoul of the sea witch.

Satine talked about her hopes for these negotiations, talked about a world full of peace, where everyone could live their lives free from violence and anger and strife, and it had sounded idealistic but anyone who believed that, hoped for that—maybe he could help her, he thought, and so maybe she could be the one to help him break his curse. And what a world it would be, where everyone on land and in the sea could feel safe.

They’d always thought there was only one kind of Mandalorian, the ones on ships who walked around dressed in a second skin, the hunters. He’d watched for them after their last attack, surfacing more often than was safe to try and find their base, their strategy. He’d always been curious about the surface anyway, indulged by the Jedi because it’s where he’d come from, where he was born. But it’s never been safe, and it’s even less safe here, where he’s crossing through the wrong territories, looking for trouble with the hunters. He’d eventually found this cove full of Mandalorians, their silver skin painted a riot of colors. They’re different; the hunters only ever had the same color paint, no personality at all. The colorful ones stay on land, they have no ships to hunt with. They fish, but for food, not sport. He had only seen one of them uncovered, out on a jetty, but he’d disappeared before Obi-Wan got too close.

The knowledge that not all of the land people were dangerous—that maybe more of them could be like Satine, or the colorful ones—maybe if he helped her negotiate with the hunters, his people would have protection from their raids. He could maybe explain to the Jedi that they weren’t all the same, that some of them could be kind. That maybe if the hunters were here, they could be reasoned with.

Obi-Wan is stubborn, always has been, and Quinlan had tried so hard to talk him out of going to the surface, especially because he kept crossing into the sea witch’s territory to get to the cove. They have a treaty with the sea witch, of a sort, but part of that treaty includes clear boundary lines. He’d been watching the shore, looking for Satine or the man from the jetty. He thought maybe he could figure out a way to communicate when he’d spotted a boat with a pair of the colorful Mandalorians in it moving through sea witch territory and heading toward Jedi territory. Obi-Wan, curious, had been trailing their approach when the sea witch appeared, flipping the boat and sending the pair into the water, sinking fast in their armor, the sea witch holding them tight, a long tentacle wrapped around each of them.

Obi-Wan hadn’t even thought about it, he burst forward right into the sea witch, getting him in the face with his tail and shocking him into letting go long enough that Obi-Wan could push the Mandalorians back into their boat, where they scrambled up and away as Obi-Wan entangled himself into the sea witch’s long, dark tentacles. The sea witch had been furious, had swung the currents and pulled him all the way to his lair, the dark, sinister cave in the cold waters.

He’d listened, as Obi-Wan had explained why he’d interfered, why he’d been there, the bridge he thought he could build between their people. That maybe the sea witch hadn’t realized these Mandalorians weren’t the hunters—but the sea witch had laughed, cruelly, at the very idea, making Obi-Wan feel sick, anxious, as he decided what to do. The curse had been swift, at least, and very clear—he’d have his chance to build the bridge, certainly, but with consequences for his failure.

Obi-Wan still isn’t sure whether he believes in either his potential for reward or consequence, but the curse itself is certainly real enough, and he’s lucky Quin had been hovering nearby when the sea witch was done with him, when he emerged from the lair unable to breathe, no tail to help him, panicked—Quinlan had gotten him to shore, had disappeared at the sound of Satine’s voice, and Obi-Wan hasn’t seen him since and he knew, he knew he might not see his family again when he received the curse, but the truth of it hurts almost more than he can bear.

And now, Satine is back from a morning at the beach, and it’s so easy for her to slide into the water, to come back out, while Obi-Wan watches from the window, afraid to even smell the air.

Obi-Wan hadn’t realized, when the sea witch had taken his voice, how important talking would be here on the surface. They talk in the ocean, of course, but not just with voices—with arms, with a flick of the tail, with the patterns that pulse along their skin, glowing different shades, full of meaning. The patterns that flicker over their skin in different colors until their tail settles as they grow and they earn their kyber. Obi-Wan’s had been a shining blue, the color of the sky on a clear day, lighter and brighter than most of the Jedi, who settle into colors that match the sea. Quinlan’s are green, the color of deep seaweed, Mace’s a purple like the color of the ocean when it’s dark and the light hits it just right.

Obi-Wan's patterns are gone, now, pulled from his skin and caught in his kyber and locked around his neck, but at least he can hold it, can feel it, and it’s the only reminder of home he can have. Here, they talk with their voices, including the True Mandalorians who live here, the ones who wear the colorful armor. They also talk with their bodies, their shoulders and arms, but their faces—they’re almost always covered, he can’t see their eyes, the lines of their smiles. Obi-Wan had only seen the one uncovered, from a distance, the tan-skinned man with dark curly hair, sitting on the edge of the jetty, casting his eyes to the sea.

He’d been called away but his image burned into Obi-Wan’s memory, and he had been searching for another glimpse of him the first time he saw Satine. Something about him swirled over Obi-Wan, made his patterns glow, made him want to see him again. He could be here, his people are hosting the negotiations, but if is, he’s just as covered as the rest. Their colorful armor, at least, reminds Obi-Wan of the patterns of light that spark along the Jedi’s skin, how each one is unique.

Satine’s group—New Mandalorians—doesn’t wear the armor, and it helps that he can see what they mean with their faces. The third group, Death Watch, wears the static armor of the dangerous ones, the hunters. And it’s so hard to tell if someone is telling the truth, without patterns or tail flicks. They all use their voices all the time, to argue and cajole and lie, and Obi-Wan can’t always tell what someone is thinking. It’s impossible to lie to a Jedi.

But the talking. These negotiations are scheduled talks, to solve disputes, to create agreements. They talk about their day and what the food tastes like and if they think the weather will do anything particularly interesting. Obi-Wan’s people rarely had trouble with neighbors, the other merfolk live so far away, and they are all cousins besides. Obi-Wan had been good at talking, and his people only ever argue with sharks and sea monsters—and, occasionally, the sea witch. The hunters—they’ve learned to stay away from, mostly. And here, Obi-Wan can’t talk at all, can’t use his tail, and his silence causes so much concern, interest, especially from Satine’s group.

People find out he can’t talk and they stare at him, wondering, or they ask him questions he can’t answer, getting louder and louder as though there is something wrong with his hearing. And Death Watch mock him, as though when he’d lost his voice he’d also lost his brain.

It’s finally Jango, one of the True Mandalorians, they call themselves the Haat’ade, who had stopped the questions, the talking. “Why does it matter,” he’d said, while they were on a break. “If I’m sick of hearing the questions, I’m sure he is too. He’s here, whoever he is. Maybe he is quiet because you all are so loud.”

Obi-Wan had looked at Jango, though he couldn’t see his eyes through the armor, and even though his tone had been gruff, annoyed—something in the set of his shoulders felt kind.

That had been the first day, when Obi-Wan had still been stumbling and clumsy, wearing ill-fitting clothes belonging to Satine’s father. The second day, Satine, though also a guest, had led him on a tour of the compound, though she had respected his reluctance to return to the ocean—they all seem to think he had been shipwrecked, and lost his memory, and Obi-Wan can’t tell them any different, and now it doesn’t matter—and shown him a small garden, instead, with a pond whose freshwater doesn’t hurt his soul.

He’d thought maybe then, sitting near the pond, eyes sparkling, she’d lean in—but she’d been called away by her sister, leaving Obi-Wan alone.

The third day, she’d taken him to a market, bustling and full of people, showing him different corners of the square, showing him where to find the food favored by the New Mandalorians. The food was bland and tasteless but she was laughing, and she had something on the corner of her cheek, and it was natural as a tail flick, to lean in, wipe it off, press his lips against hers—

But Obi-Wan, it turns out, is terrible at reading signals when he can’t use patterns or tails or words, and Satine had pulled back before their lips even touched, her eyes gentle in a way that felt like sea urchin spines running him through. “I’m sorry, Ben,” she’d said. “I didn’t realize you thought—I would never have led you on. But at the end of this, I hope to be Duchess, and I can’t, I have to do my duty. You are wonderful though, and kind, and I’m sure there is someone out there—”

Obi-Wan still feels broken, when he thinks about it. If Satine is supposed to be a Duchess, whatever that is, she needs someone who can talk and even though—even though if she kissed him, loved him, his voice would return, she doesn’t know that, and he’s not enough. He’s not her match, not as he is, and that had been a binding clause in the sea witch’s curse.

After she’d pulled away, he’d tapped his head, smiling, blaming it on his imagined mysterious head injury, and she had smiled, bright and warm, and that had been the end.

Obi-Wan had been given to the sea by his parents as a youngling, and not much is known about them, or why they made their choice. Just that they lived on the surface and must have had enough merfolk in them for him to sprout a tail once he’d hit the water, broadcasting his distress, and the Jedi who had witnessed it had rescued him, taken him in. He’s never gotten legs again, and none of the other Jedi have ever lived on land, would never even consider it. According to the sea witch, by birthright Obi-Wan could walk between worlds, an ability reflected and powered by his kyber.

It had never occurred to him, he’d never wanted to be on land, before this. The Jedi are his family. He’d never been interested in anyone else until the man on the jetty had piqued his interest and then—Satine. The thought that he could pass seamlessly between worlds is fascinating, and he wonders what he would look like, if he could make the choice to shift himself.

Because the sea witch’s curse has twisted that ability, corrupted his magic, landing him somewhere in between forms, kyber dulling to a muted blue-gray. If he succeeds, the curse disappears, and he will be able to return to the sea—or the land—whenever he wishes. But if he fails, he’s like this, silent and tailless and on the surface forever, his kyber and magic lost to the sea witch.

There’s no timeline, not really, but the curse had been clear otherwise. He has until these negotiations close, whenever that is. And he must help the one he loves win success, and the one he loves must love him back. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Obi-Wan thought it would be Satine, when he saw her face hovering over his on the beach, when her people were the ones he thought he could help. When he thought he could love her, for her ideals and her smile and her laugh. But he was wrong. He’s already failed, and now all he can do is try to make as much of a difference as he can, until it’s too late.

He’s not sure what else to do with his free time now, so he sits in the little garden room, staring at the pond. And he watches the negotiations, cataloging the differences in what the groups want, the way that Obi-Wan isn’t sure they’ll ever come to any kind of agreement ever, the tension rising with each passing day.

Satine’s New Mandalorians want peace and prosperity for Mandalore, they come from a city called Sundari, where no one wears armor, and violence is outlawed.

Death Watch scoffs at this, they want to push the borders of Mandalore ever outward, beyond the land and sea, and they have no trouble at all with violence.

The Haat’ade—this is their compound, they are all guests, and they want peace, too, but not at the cost of armor and everything they hold dear. They don’t feel the need to expand, but want to defend—

And it’s so much like the Jedi that Obi-Wan feels hollow inside, missing Mace and Quinlan and the rest. That they want peace amongst their people, prosperity and happiness and strength. And it strikes Obi-Wan, all of a sudden, that he’s beginning to think he was helping the wrong side, that Satine isn’t who he thought she was after all.

Death Watch has munitions and the New Mandalorians have ambitions and there are politics involved that Obi-Wan doesn’t understand. The Jedi have a council, and of course there are the other factions of merfolk out there, but they all leave each other alone, they’re not beholden to the whims of others who are far away. But here on the surface there are other groups, not Mandalorians, further away, and the New Mandalorians are talking about outside alliances with them, and the Haat’ade want to be left alone where they are.

Jango is among the leaders of the Haat’ade, though not the ruler. He’s related to the leader, Jaster, though he calls him something else. Obi-Wan emerged from the water able to understand Basic, like all Jedi do. But it seems to be the language of the New Mandalorians. The others, the Haat’ade especially, converse in Mando’a, the traditional language of Mandalore, another sticking point in these negotiations. Obi-Wan doesn’t understand Mando’a, and it’s not as though he needs to learn to speak it. He can’t write it, either, he’s never written the way they write on the surface, and he can’t understand the shapes of their words, no matter how hard they try.

Over the days of the negotiations, Obi-Wan begins to see Jango out of the corner of his eye, watching him, head tilted. Obi-Wan is busy watching Satine, who has spent the last two days talking to a pale, blond haired New Mandalorian that arrived with a second ship, smiling and blushing and casting down her eyes and cracking a line down Obi-Wan’s heart. He wonders if she’d held hands with this New Mandalorian before she’d left Sundari, if they’d kissed by the ocean.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

“Kind of a di’kut, if you ask me,” Obi-Wan hears from behind him. He turns his head, raising an eyebrow. “It means idiot,” Jango continues. “I think they deserve each other.”

Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose.

“No offense to your friend,” Jango says. “I guess I just don’t like her opinions much.”

Obi-Wan quirks a smile. That’s fair.

“Ben, right?” Jango asks. Obi-Wan nods. “I’m Jango. I don’t know that we’ve met, officially.” Jango holds a hand out, in a greeting that Obi-Wan is starting to recognize, so he reaches out in kind, Jango grasping his wrist in his. The armor is cool to the touch, painted mostly in blue, a color close enough to Obi-Wan’s kyber that it makes his heart flutter. He thinks he recognizes it, from the shore and maybe from—

“Would you like to come to the market, Ben?” Jango asks.

The market, where Satine had—where he had lost it all. He nods, anyway. Jango is being kind, and it would be nice to do something.

Jango knows everyone at the market, and they hold a hand over their hearts, bowing their heads as he walks by, and he twists a little, uncomfortable, every time it happens, though he always nods back. There’s a fountain in the center square, and Jango buys Obi-Wan a warm, spiced drink he calls shig, and is handed snacks from vendors that he gives over to Obi-Wan to try, smiling when Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose at the spice.

He’s spent most of his time eating the same food as the New Mandalorians, and it hadn’t been—bad, exactly, just bland, and he’s not used to it, and he’d eaten less and less as time had gone by.

But the food in the market is full of flavor and spice, nothing like what Satine had shown him, and it tastes good, warming him up in places that have been cold inside him since he came ashore.

Jango doesn’t eat anything, doesn’t remove his helmet, but watches him, head tilted, and Obi-Wan wants to learn the language of the shoulder shrugs and head tilts, the way Jango’s hands move. So similar and yet so different that what he is used to.

“I’d love to know what you think of the negotiations,” Jango says, leaning back on a bench.

Obi-Wan tilts his own head, trying it out.

Jango chuckles. “I know. But I can see you paying attention,” he says. “The three sides—sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get close to a treaty, to any kind of agreement, with how far apart we are.”

Obi-Wan wiggles his hand a little.

They continue on, that way, Jango making comments, watching for Obi-Wan’s reaction, and it’s a nice night, he thinks, the first time he feels like he’s had a conversation, not someone just talking to fill the silence, not someone wishing he could speak.

On the way back through the market, Jango shows him the vendor stalls, full of things that people make, and it reminds Obi-Wan of Adi, who can craft necklaces from shells, or Bant, who can make baskets from seagrass.

There’s a vendor with a blanket, the softest thing he’s ever touched, threaded through with blues and purples and greens, so much like the patterns Obi-Wan has seen every day for his entire life, that he can’t stop touching it, running his hands over it.

“You like that?” Jango asks, peering over at him.

Obi-Wan strokes his hand over it, one more time, and pulls himself away. He doesn’t have credits, or whatever it is they use to barter here. Home, he would have collected empty shells and built a sculpture to trade, or taught someone’s child how to use their arm fins for defense. Here, he doesn’t understand the rules.

“Do you want to get it?” Jango asks.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, but he turns to look at it one more time before he leaves.

The ocean still hurts, the sand coarse beneath his feet, but it calls to him, more and more, even though he doesn’t dare go in, staying on the furthest edge of the beach, watching the way the waves roll over the shore. He can’t go in, he’s not sure what will happen, but the sea witch had warned him off the ocean, and he doesn’t want to test it out. Still the sound of it is soothing, when he closes his eyes, and he loses a little time listening to it before he goes back inside, the compound's high walls blocking out the sound.

He barely hears the negotiations that day, and it’s endless, going around in circles, so Obi-Wan leaves partway through, and finds himself in the little garden, looking at the pond. There are plants on the water, with broad green leaves, and Obi-Wan’s never seen anything quite like them before. He’s poking at them when he hears someone behind him.

It’s Jango. “Lily pads,” he says. “They’re real. My buir loves all kinds of plants and flowers. He’s learning about water plants, I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you all about them.”

Buir, Obi-Wan knows now, is the word Jango uses for Jaster, the Mand’alor. His parent. He would love to talk to Jaster about water plants.

“I wish I had left with you, this afternoon,” Jango says. He sits, frustrated. “There’s something building, I think.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, frowning. Death Watch are the hunters, sharks that hunt for the sake of hunting, not for anything else, ones that Obi-Wan has defended himself against before, mouths full of teeth that leave scars. He thinks Jango might be right. He’d hoped that maybe the hunters could be reasoned with, but it doesn’t seem that way.

He raises his head when he hears the light peal of Satine’s laughter, and she comes into the room with her New Mandalorian, Obi-Wan thinks his name might be Tal or Taz, holding his hand, a blush high on her cheeks. “Oh,” she says, looking between them. “I’m sorry Ben, Alor Fett.” She says Jango’s name like he’s just given her a face full of squid ink. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I didn’t know you knew each other.”

Obi-Wan is a tense line along Jango’s side, and even if he could speak, he doesn’t think he’d be able to.

“Did you need something, Lady Kryze?” Jango asks, using the same squid-ink tone.

“No,” she says, tugging Tad or maybe Tax back out of the room. “Ben, we’ll be having latemeal soon,” she says.

Obi-Wan nods, numb, feeling himself curling up like a sea star. Jango’s hand moves to his back.

“Do you want to try latemeal with us, Ben?” Jango asks, soft, kind, and Obi-Wan wants to roll into him, wants to hide beneath his armor, but he nods, instead.

It hadn’t occurred to Obi-Wan that in order to eat latemeal with the Haat’ade, he’d see them without their armor, and when he goes to their mess with Jango they’re loud, boisterous and full of joy. And they all look different, different skin colors and hair, some of them with long trailing braids and some with twisting horns. And it’s so much like being with the Jedi, who are all so different from each other that Obi-Wan's heart aches, pulls at him so hard he thinks he’ll end up in the ocean.

He likes them, likes the warmth he feels, but it’s a lot, and Jango steers him back to the hall after picking up a stack of containers from a person with blue skin. “Really, Jango?” the person says, and Jango just rolls his eyes, elbowing him before they leave.

He leads Obi-Wan back to a quieter area, a warm room with cushions sinking into the floor like sand, and a low table.

And then Jango hesitates, tilting his head at Obi-Wan before pulling his helmet off, and—

It’s him, the same one he saw at the jetty, the one he was drawn to, time and again, but never saw beyond the once. Dark curls, warm brown eyes, and Obi-Wan would love to know what color his patterns are, and he stares a little too long, because Jango’s head ducks, a flush rising to his face.

Obi-Wan tears his eyes away, instead going to sit at the table. Falling again, he thinks, and shakes himself out of it. He’s not sure he could handle having his heart broken a second time, and he knows better than to hope.

“I know, you haven’t seen any of us without armor,” Jango says. “It takes a little getting used to, when you’ve been with just the New Mandalorians. If it’s too much—”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, makes a grasping motion with his hand.

“You like it?” Jango says, doubtful. “I kind of thought you were a New Mandalorian at first, to be honest.”

Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose, takes a bite of something spicy, and wrinkles it again.

Jango laughs. It’s an even better sound, outside the armor. He’s about to speak again, when someone else enters the room.

It’s the Mand’alor himself, and he pulls off his own helmet, eyes delighted. “Ben, is it?”

Obi-Wan gives a little wave.

“Are you liking Keldabe?” he asks.

No one’s actually told him the name of this city. He nods.

Jaster sits down, taking one of the containers. “I told Jan’ika he should bring you by sometime,” he says.

“Buir,” Jango complains.

Jaster shrugs. “These negotiations are hard, it’s nice to at least meet one new person we like, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan can’t help a small smile, curling up the corner of his mouth.

“I still think we should send another envoy out,” Jaster begins, but Jango shoots a glance over at Obi-Wan.

“Buir,” he says again, stern this time.

“We’d have more luck with them than these groups,” Jaster says. “I don’t trust Vizsla or Kryze, and it’d be nice to have someone watching our shores, especially with those Kyr’tsad ships.”

“We tried that,” Jango warns. “You know how I feel about that.”

Obi-Wan looks between the two of them, confused.

Jango rolls his eyes. “Jaster has big dreams,” he says.

“Well, you’ll thank me if we have more allies ready when Kyr’tsad stabs us in the back,” Jaster says, pointing a skewer at Jango.

Jango brings him more places around the compound, places Satine hadn’t shown him, and he’s fascinated by the training grounds, watching the Haat’ade practice fighting with each other. Land fighting is so different from fighting in the sea, and Jango shows him a few moves even though he’s clumsy and keeps trying to use the arm fins that don’t exist anymore. Jango smiles and watches as the fighters correct his stances or help him up, and Obi-Wan feels exhilarated when they leave, breathing hard but feeling almost happy.

They go to the garden after, and Jango’s brought him his favorite kind of Mandalorian food so far—a pastry stuffed with fruit and nuts, sweet and savory all at the same time, the warm spices tickling his tongue.

“Your name isn’t really Ben, is it?” Jango asks.

Obi-Wan freezes, the last bite of pastry halfway to his mouth.

“You just don’t really look like a Ben,” Jango says. His head is tilted, considering, curious.

Obi-Wan lifts a shoulder. He is Ben, here. It doesn’t matter.

“I wish you could tell us what happened,” Jango says, wistful.

The food suddenly tastes like sand in his mouth, dry and tasteless.

“No—it’s not about the talking, I’m sorry, Ben. I don’t care if you can’t talk. But—even though we hadn’t heard about any shipwrecks, and Jaster did send out a patrol, to see if there were any other survivors.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. Just him, foolish and headstrong as always.

“Do you know what happened? They said you might not remember, but I think you do. And there must be someone out there, looking for you,” Jango says, brow furrowed.

Quin will have told them where he went. His family is lost to him. He grips his kyber pendant, shaking his head again. Obi-Wan breathes out loudly through his nose, the only sound he can make. Even clicking his tongue produces silence.

Jango gets the hint. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says.

Obi-Wan waves him off, but for the first time the silence feels awkward between them, so quiet Obi-Wan can hear the call of the ocean in his ears.

And later, when he finally can't stand it anymore he goes out to the rock jetty and sits, clutching his kyber pendant, singing with his soul, knowing no one can hear him, the tears running down his cheeks.

It’s like the cresting of a wave, once he goes to the water the first time, though never in it, wary of incurring the sea witch’s wrath. He spends his days sitting amongst the Mandalorians as the talks break down, as Satine starts bringing Tag—or is it Tank— to the negotiations, asking his opinion on things, as Jango’s head tilts increase and his shoulders tense under the armor. Death Watch have grown more and more restless.

The more Obi-Wan listens, the more he thinks the Haat’ade have the right of it, and even if he did have a voice, even if Satine did love him back—he doesn’t want her side to gain control of the proceedings, to cut off the spines Mandalore uses to defend itself.

He spends his nights on the jetty, now, and one night he thinks he sees the flash of Quinlan’s tail so he goes back again and again, hoping to see a glimpse. It’s the opposite of how he’d been in the water, eyes pointed toward the shore, waiting for a glimpse of a person underneath their armored shell.

Jango finds him there, the third—or maybe the fourth—night, the sky dark, the wind picking up, the water splashing back at him, scraping his skin. “Ben?” he asks. “The sentries said someone’s been sitting out here—”

Obi-Wan doesn’t turn around, and Jango picks his way closer.

Jango peers over the edge. “You should be careful,” he says. “The merfolk—”

That does get Obi-Wan to turn around, anxious for a moment.

“Don’t believe me?” he asks. “I’ve seen one, out in the distance. Just a flip of a tail. I’ve looked again, but it was just the once. Myles and I went out to treat with them, as an envoy, just at the start of these negotiations, but they flipped our boat. They almost drowned us, until we got away. I swear I saw one in the water. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what happened to you.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, frowning. They did see a Jedi, they saw him, but it had been the sea witch who flipped their boat, and Obi-Wan had paid for his interference, dearly.

“It's what happened,” Jango says.

Obi-Wan shakes his head again, breathing out angrily through his nose.

“All right, shonar’ika, I get it. Will you come inside?” Jango asks. “It’s looking like it might storm.”

Obi-Wan turns his head back to the sea.

Jango sighs. “All right, shonar’ika,” he says again, and leaves him in peace.

The very next day, the talks are over. Death Watch brings something—something terrible, something that explodes, heat and fire rippling through the room, bringing down a portion of the ceiling, filling the room with smoke.

Obi-Wan lurches to cover Satine, because Tak or Tab is cowering under a table, and he’s blown back several feet, but she comes out of it unscathed aside from a scratch on her arm, and she strokes the side of his face in thanks. It’s funny how all of a sudden, he doesn’t want her touch on him. When he’d thought she was the one he could be in love with, the one who would help him bring stability for his people along with hers—now he casts his eyes around, looking for Jango instead.

Jango is in armor, Jango is fine. But Jaster declares an end to the negotiations—he thinks someone of the New Mandalorian contingent had been helping Death Watch—and has decided that the way forward for the Haat’ade is not negotiating peace, not right now. He’s willing to give the New Mandalorians one standard day to return to their city while he musters the Haat’ade to figure out their next steps.

It does storm, then, and Obi-Wan stands at the edge of the jetty, because this storm feels familiar, he can taste the magic. It’s calling him forward, like seaweed wrapped around his legs.

Satine had asked him if he wanted to return to Sundari with them and the thought makes skin crawl, being on a boat, sailing far away, because at least this cove is near his family. He's not sure he can leave but doesn't know if he can stay, either.

He tucks his arms tighter around him, watching the storm, feeling the rain on his face.

“You're nearly out of time, little Jedi.”

Obi-Wan stumbles back on the rocks, surprised.

“You've failed. The negotiations are over, and she doesn't want you.”

It's the sea witch. Obi-Wan can't see him, but he clutches his kyber, searching the sea.

“Just like your parents never wanted you.”

It's an old wound, but it aches all the same.

“You have until sunrise, Obi-Wan. And then you and your kyber are mine.”

There, a short distance away, Obi-Wan can just make out his face, the rippling of his tentacles. Obi-Wan shudders, watching him approach.

“I had conditions, remember.”

Obi-Wan nods, heartsick. He knows.

“Then I'll see you at sunrise, little Jedi.”

“Ben? Shonar’ika? Is that you?”

Obi-Wan whips his head around, squinting through the rain. It's Jango, at the other end of the jetty, shielding his face with his hand. Obi-Wan turns to look back at the sea witch, but he's vanished beneath the waves. He makes his way back to the shore.

“Was someone else here? I thought I heard a voice,” Jango says.

Obi-Wan glances back out at the sea, and shakes his head. He shivers.

“Let's get you warmed up,” Jango says, laying an arm on Obi-Wan's shoulders and guiding him towards the compound, straight to the room they’d had latemeal in before. Jango’s own quarters.

Jango is warm and solid, and Obi-Wan leans into the touch. He can't stop shaking, not even when Jango presses a mug of shig into his hands.

“I wish you wouldn't go out there,” Jango tells him.

Obi-Wan shrugs.

Jango sighs, and settles something over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

It’s the blanket he saw in the market, the one with the patterns, and he holds it to his face, breathing it in, meeting Jango’s eyes.

“I know you liked it,” Jango says. “It’s for you.”

Obi-Wan feels his heart uncurling as he runs his fingers over the blanket.

Jango continues. “I was hoping that tomorrow, when the New Mandalorians leave—I was hoping you might want to stay.”

Obi-Wan freezes, clutching the blanket around him, feeling his pulse quicken, his heart pound.

“I like having you here, shonar’ika,” Jango says, voice soft. “I think you’re funny, and kind, and sensible. I want to teach you how to fight. And if you want—I’d help you find your people.” He holds his hands out.

Obi-Wan tilts his head, thinking. Jango’s eyes have been on him since he got here. Jango has been welcoming, accepting, caring. Jango, he remembers, is the one his patterns flashed for first, the one who made him curious, the one who’s made him feel warm and heard. Jango doesn’t like merfolk, but he must be willing to listen. Obi-Wan leans in, and takes Jango’s hands.

The storm outside has died down with the disappearance of the sea witch, but Obi-Wan knows he’s not far, will know if Obi-Wan goes into the water, so he takes Jango over to the boat, the one he’d seen him and Myles in at the start of all this.

“You want to go for a boat ride?” Jango says. “It’s dark—I got the impression you were avoiding the water.”

Obi-Wan grimaces, tugging Jango’s hands harder, untying the boat from its mooring.

“Wait, wait, let me do it, you’ll send it off without us,” Jango relents, and helps Obi-Wan into the boat, casting them off from the dock. “Where are you hoping to go?” he asks, and Obi-Wan points. “That’s where the merfolk are,” Jango says. “I told you—”

Obi-Wan takes Jango’s hand, squeezing, staring into his eyes, trying to convey how important it is. If he can get Jango to the Jedi, they can start talking, and maybe his failure won’t be for nothing.

“All right, shonar’ika,” Jango says. “You win. We’ll head that way. I trust you.”

Obi-Wan leans into him in relief. He wonders what Jango keeps calling him—the warmth in it, he likes it so much more than Ben.

Jango tucks an arm around him, and Obi-Wan rests his head on his shoulder, watching as they get closer to Jedi territory, holding his breath as they cross over the sea witch’s waters.

It doesn’t take long before Obi-Wan squeezes Jango’s arm and he stops the craft, waiting. “I wish you could explain,” he says, rueful.

Obi-Wan tilts his head, and reaches over the side of the boat, hitting the water three times, like a tail slap.

“What are you doing,” Jango says, lunching across, pulling Obi-Wan’s hand back up. “You’ll bring them right—”

“Boy, you sure know how to make a mess of things, Obes.”

Obi-Wan feels the smile bloom over his face as Quinlan’s dark hair emerges from the water, green patterns flashing a greeting over his arms.

“Wayii–” Jango starts, and scoots back to the edge of the boat.

Obi-Wan clutches his kyber, pointing back down to the sea, willing Quinlan to understand him. Quin’s brow furrows, and he nods. “Be right back,” he says, and disappears beneath the waves.

“Who—what was that?” Jango asks. “Did you know—was that a mer? Did you know him?”

Obi-Wan nods, slowly, hand still gripping the pendant around his neck.

“Do you know how dangerous this is?” Jango hisses.

Obi-Wan shrugs. Quin is only dangerous to the wrong people. He lets go of his kyber and takes Jango’s hand again instead, pulling it over his heart, hoping he understands.

“I know. I know. I said I would trust you. But I told you what happened,” Jango says. “They’re dangerous.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, blowing out through his nose.

“We weren’t the ones who flipped your boat.”

Obi-Wan relaxes all over again at the sound of Mace’s familiar voice. He peers over the edge of the boat, smiling when Mace’s patterns flash their own greeting. He holds his hand out, and Mace squeezes it once before letting go.

“Ka’ra,” Jango breathes out. “There’s two of them.”

“There are more than that,” Quinlan rises again, cheerful.

“Why were you here that day?” Mace ignores Quinlan, looking past Jango to assess Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan exhales, relieved. Mace is always so quick.

Jango glances at Obi-Wan, who grips his hand, nodding. Jango clears his throat. “My buir—Jaster, the Mand’alor, he has always believed our two peoples could acknowledge each other. Coexist. Help each other. We worry about encroachment from the Kyr’tsad warships. He thinks they hunt you. We could offer each other protection. We sought to make an introduction, but we were attacked.”

“You were not attacked by us,” Mace says, solemn. “You were in the territory of the sea witch, and offended him either by your presence or your purpose. You were saved by one of our own, who paid a price for their interference.” He flicks his gaze back to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan flushes, but nods, confirming Mace’s supposition.

Jango glances between Obi-Wan and the two Jedi. “How do you know them?” he asks.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, breathing out hard through his nose when Quinlan opens his mouth.

“I am the leader of the Jedi, the merfolk of these waters,” Mace says. “If your Mand’alor is sincere, I would be willing to engage with him on the topic of an alliance.”

“Oh, he’s very sincere,” Jango mutters. Obi-Wan smiles, wrinkling his nose.

Quinlan’s eyes haven’t left Obi-Wan’s face. He nods. “Obes says it’s a go,” he tells Mace.

“Is that your name?” Jango asks, bewildered. “Obes?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, wrinkling his nose again.

“His name is Obi-Wan,” Mace says. “And—” he stops. “Someday, I hope he can tell us all his story.”

Obi-Wan clutches his kyber. Deal or not, negotiations or not, he’s running out of time. He cares for Jango, and he’s certain Jango cares for him, but he’s already lost. He tugs his kyber from around his neck, dangling it over the boat until Quinlan takes it.

“Obes,” he starts, but Obi-Wan shakes his head. The sea witch may be able to take his voice and tail—but he won’t let him have the kyber.

“Why are you giving him that?” Jango asks, eyes going to the matching stones Mace and Quinlan wear. “Are you—are you one of them?”

Obi-Wan pins his eyes to the floor of the boat, feeling a chill. He shrugs, wiggles a hand, and finally nods. What does it matter, anyway.

“Ka’ra,” Jango says.

Obi-Wan feels Jango’s hand on his chin, gently tilting it up. He feels a tear slide down his cheek.

“It’s okay, shonar’ika. I should have guessed.” Jango smiles. “No wonder you were mad at me when I told you the merfolk were dangerous. Obi-Wan. It’s much better.”

Obi-Wan smiles, barely daring to hope, and then there’s a crackle of lightning, a rumble.

“You’d better get back,” Mace warns.

Obi-Wan glances at the sky, nodding.

“We’ll be in touch,” Mace says. “And Obi-Wan. No matter what, we’ll come for you.”

Obi-Wan feels his breath leave him, heart tugging. Mace can’t possibly know how to fix this, but he nods anyway.

“Quinlan will guide you back,” Mace continues. Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine, Obes,” Quinlan says.

Jango gets the boat moving again, still keeping Obi-Wan pressed along his side, but Obi-Wan feels himself start shaking, searching the seas, watching Quinlan’s patterns glow as he glides along with the boat.

It’s not long before he feels a bump, the bow of the boat popping out of the sea. And another, this time to the side. The third knocks Obi-Wan and Jango right into the water, the cold feel of it shocking, the salt soaking into his skin. He feels the sudden shift of his legs into fins again and he can breathe so he doesn’t waste time and darts toward Jango, tugging him to the surface.

Jango gasps for breath when they break. “Obi-Wan?” he says. “Are you—” he stops, staring at Obi-Wan’s tail.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to speak, but he still doesn’t have his voice. He glances down, confused, and sees his patterns are still gone, too, tail a muted blue gray. He looks around, panicked, and feels the curl of a tentacle around his tail. He shoves Jango away from him, towards Quinlan, as he feels the tug of the sea witch pulling him closer.

“Obi-Wan?” Jango calls.

Obi-Wan slaps the surface of the sea, staring at Quinlan as the sea witch pulls at him.

Quinlan wraps an arm around Jango, tugging him up, holding him steady. “Obes—”

“I gave you a chance,” the sea witch says, surfacing behind Obi-Wan, another tentacle wrapping around his arm. “And your failure meant that your magic was mine, little Jedi.”

Obi-Wan slaps the sea again, before that hand is pinned too and he’s wrapped up tight, pulled up against the sea witch’s chest.

“What is going on?” Jango asks. “What—is—”

The sea witch waves a tentacle, and Jango and Quinlan drift closer. Obi-Wan twists, trying to draw his attention away.

“You are a meddling, miserable failure,” the sea witch says. “I tried to eliminate this human once, and you—” he stops. “Well. The members of Kyr’tsad promised me they’d have a wonderful home for you. A nice tank where you’ll have all sorts of visitors on land. You did miss being in this form, didn’t you, little Jedi? Perhaps when I gain my new form, I’ll have a chance to visit, too.”

“Kyr’tsad?” Jango asks. “You had a deal with—it was you?”

“They have ambition,” the sea witch said. “I grew weary of my small territory. The hunters are willing to do what the Haat’ade are not and eliminate the merfolk. But why stop there, when I can use this one’s magic to go on land?” he tugs Obi-Wan tighter.

Quinlan has Obi-Wan’s kyber. He has to hope that will be enough. Obi-Wan slams his head against the sea witch’s chin, but he still can’t get free.

Obi-Wan breathes out loudly through his nose, meets Quinlan’s eyes again.

Quinlan hesitates, but starts pulling Jango toward the shore. “Fine. I’ll take care of your human, Obes. But I’m coming back for you.”

“What?” Jango shouts. “No–shonar’ika—”

But whatever else he has to say is lost to Obi-Wan as the sea witch pulls him under.

Obi-Wan wakes in a corner of the sea witch’s lair, his angry face looming. Obi-Wan tries to pull away, but he feels paralyzed, unable to move like he’s been stung. It’s not something he knew the sea witch to be capable of, but he can believe it.

“Where is it?” the sea witch is shouting.

Obi-Wan bares his teeth in a silent hiss. It had never been a fair chance. The sea witch had been working with Death Watch the whole time—even if the New Mandalorians had prevailed, even if Satine loved him—they wouldn’t have been successful in the end. Death Watch was always going to sabotage. He hadn’t had much of a choice in this deal, and has no compunctions about playing fair.

“I’ll get rid of you first,” the sea witch says, grabbing him around the chest again, taking him from the lair. “And when I find your miserable people, I will find your crystal and the source of your magic.”

The sea witch is able to move swiftly through the water, faster than the quickest Jedi, and it’s not long before they are reappearing in the cove again. Obi-Wan feels his body sparking as the feeling comes back, and he flexes his tail in the sea witch’s hold. Obi-Wan’s not sure what his heart does when he sees Jango standing at the edge of the water, pointing a weapon at the sea witch, a motionless hunter on the sand next to him. There’s a glass case toppled over on its side, and more Haat’ade including Jaster beyond, holding more of Kyr’tsad at bay. Obi-wan shudders at the sight of the case, at the thought of being put inside it in this strange in-between form, and he twists again, sinking his teeth into a tentacle until it releases him and he shoots away, as close to the surface as he can get.

“You’re all right, shonar’ika,” Jango says, relieved. Obi-Wan hits the water with his tail. “Good. Your mer friend told me about your curse.” His eyes don’t leave the sea witch. “The Haat’ade have overtaken Kyr’tsad. The negotiations were aggressive, but successful.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the sea witch spits. He lifts a tentacle and the waves grow stronger, flinging Obi-Wan onto the sandy shore. Jango tries to step toward him, but the wind picks up, making it nearly impossible. Obi-Wan lifts himself up on his arms, but he can’t get any further before he loses his strength, falling back to the sand. The wind blows over him, drying his skin and his tail.

“Sea Witch,” Mace calls from behind him. “Our treaty is through. Your entrapment of a Jedi—”

“Your Jedi swam through my waters more than once, and interfered with my business,” the sea witch snaps, without turning his head. “He had his chance, and failed. He knew what he was getting into.”

“Not that you were going to give him to Kyr’tsad,” Jango spits.

Obi-Wan can see more of the Jedi rise up out of the water, glowing weapons aloft, patterns gleaming. They’re beautiful, and they came for him, and he feels the tears come to his eyes just as he sees Jango’s face enter his vision, the sea witch distracted.

“You’re okay, shonar’ika,” Jango says. “Let’s get you back to the water.”

Obi-Wan grips Jango’s wrist.

”It’s all right,” Jango says. “Your friend Quinlan told me about the other part of the curse, too. That someone had to love you as you are, elek? Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner shonar’ika. With or without a tail, with or without a voice.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what the words mean, but he can feel them in his heart, winding through him, and he smiles, raising a hand to Jango’s face, tugging it closer to press their lips together, to share his air.

Jango smiles into it before pulling back. “Into the water with you, shonar’ika,” he says. “Your family has the sea witch well in hand, I think.”

And they do, Obi-Wan can see them winning the battle, can feel the curse leeching from him, see the bright blue returning to his tail. He smiles again, takes a breath. “What—does—it—mean?” he asks, voice rusty, but his.

Jango’s smile widens, eyes lighting. “There you are,” he says. “It means that I love you, my little wave,” he says. He pulls back, looking at Obi-Wan’s tail. “I knew it. It was your tail I saw that time. I have been looking for you, even though I didn’t know why.”

”Saw—you—too,” Obi-Wan says, nosing into Jango’s neck and Jango pulls him back toward the water, standing in it so he doesn’t have to let go of Obi-Wan. “Saw you first,” Obi-Wan adds, and Jango kisses him again.

He can feel it when the sea witch loses the battle, when the storm dies down and the sky lightens again as Quinlan approaches holding his kyber pendant, slipping it around his neck.

He can feel it when his kyber glows, the patterns returning to his skin, glowing a greeting to Jango and Quinlan and Mace, when he swims over, embracing him. He thought he’d never see them again, that this was the end, and he feels warm all over, at home.

Quinlan nudges him, looking back at Jango, who’s standing back on the shore, dripping wet. “Go ahead, Obes. Give it a try.” Jango waves a blanket, the one he’d given Obi-Wan from the market. Mace gives him a little shove and he swims back to the shore, emerging onto the sandy beach with two legs as Jango grins, wrapping the blanket around him.

He still has his patterns this time, and they glow, the way they did the first time Obi-Wan saw him, warming him through. Jango traces a finger over them. “It may take some getting used to,” he murmurs.

Obi-Wan laughs, raspy, and Jango looks delighted at the sound as Jaster steps closer to the beach.

“Mand’alor,” Mace calls from the water. “I hear you’re interested in an alliance.”

Jaster glances at Obi-Wan, then at Mace, and at Jango, and laughs himself. “You heard right,” he says.

“I think they’ll get along just fine,” Jango says, tugging Obi-Wan closer. “Will you tell me what this means?” Jango’s still running his hands over the patterns.

Obi-Wan’s patterns glow brighter with each touch, flashing a shade of blue that matches Jango’s armor. He leans up, nudges along Jango’s chin. “It means, I love you too,” he says.