Chapter Text
Pulling your face close, wanting the inmost
Show me I'm not afraid of you now.
I'm not afraid of you now.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The Great Clan Wars has come to a dramatic end, with Satine Kryze officially recognised as duchess and the Traditionalists exiled to Concordia. However, unarrested insurgents, such as the young Pre Vizsla, and his organised terrorist group, Death Watch, once more threatened the peace on Mandalore. As Sundari is once more attacked with a series of bombings, the Duchess is made to make an impossible choice, once more being forced to decide between love and duty.
The love for her son and her duty as Duchess of Mandalore.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It was a dark, blustery Coruscanti night, in which the sky hung heavy and bruised as a small ship quietly entered the atmosphere.
Through the streets and alleyways moved the barge; so silent and inconspicuous, it was as though it were a ghost. It did not have a name, place of origin, or any locator. To any security or other vehicles, it was simply a black dot of no consequence. The Diplomatic Barge slowly, inconspicuously, weaved through the maze that was Coruscant. The ship turned sharp corners and circled alleyways, all done to ensure it was not followed.
Finally, it came to a landing at an abandoned dock, one long ago forgotten and unused. A woman quickly descended down the ramp. Her boots hit the concrete with a sharp, echoing snap that betrayed a restless urgency. She wore a heavy cloak lined with water-resistant hide, the hood pulled low to shield her face from the biting wind, but her posture was rigid and watchful, her eyes scanning the shadows of the bay for any movement that didn't belong to the shifting dark. The man, however, walked halfway down from the ship before stopping.
His long, angular pale face was half concealed by shadows, unmoving as moonlight danced over his features like a restless creature. He took a step down from the ship’s ramp, heels clicking loudly in the quiet night. An angry gust of wind attacked the small port, yet neither figure let the sudden force sway them. His eyes, a rare amethyst in colours, narrowed as they met her icy blue ones. Both parties, stubborn and certain of their choices, stared the other down in a silent, yet violent, battle. Finally, the man dared to blink. He dared once more to step closer to the woman, turning to her ear so his message would be clear.
His tone was scrutinising and accompanied with the smirk of a haughty man. “Duchess, you were being unreasonable. This is the only way –"
“Don’t you dare talk to me as though I am a child, Almec!” Satine hissed, taking a step away from her advisor, cradling the bundle in her arms closer to her chest. The scene was silent, bar for the distant hum of traffic and the babe’s coos.
Almec inhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. A light sprinkling of rain began to intrude upon the space, the moonlight dramatically fading as the moon said its final goodbyes. After a few moments, Alamec finally dared to speak – his years of diplomatic experience fuelling his gentle, more appealing tone. The Duchess could tell his sudden switch was forced yet did not bother to comment on it.
“Satine, we have already agreed upon this; it is the only way to ensure his survival! Your boy will be well cared for, safely tucked away from the terrorists who wish nothing more than to do him harm! You, a child who was raised during a vicious war, understand it is no place for the youth!” He took a step closer, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, and for a moment, the Duchess felt the ghost of her father.
“Your father was murdered unjustly by those violent traditionalists. Your mother was killed in a bombing, her remains forever lost. And your sister, Bo-Katan—" He paused, carefully choosing his words before continuing, "suffered an even worse fate. Is that what you want for your son?”
“I am sure, once he is older, the Jedi –"
“You and I both know, Almec, Korkie will only learn of his true parentage once I am dead.”
This was vital to Satine. Once he was grown, the boy would be able to properly defend himself and choose which life he would wish to partake in. It would also protect another person and ensure he would fulfil what Satine believed to be his destiny. A Jedi Knight.
“You have decided he will be your heir, then?”
She made no reply, instead pushing the blanket out of the child’s face. He stared up at her with large, intelligent ocean-current blue eyes. His pale skin was slightly reddened by the cold, his thick auburn hair displaced from the rushed pace of Satine. Yet despite the harsh weather conditions and the arguing, he remained silent.
Korkie was every bit his father's son. And that fact made Satine want to both sob and smile – the two things she did when thinking of a certain Padawan.
Almec smiled briefly at the boy before speaking once more, “I understand, this is an impossible ask for anybody. But the incident with the nanny – it was clear the boy is force-sensitive-”
The memory quickly broke free. In the presence of his nursemaid, Korkie had made a small wooden horse float above him, with only a simple flick of his palm and a mischievous smile. The nanny had screamed of ghosts and spirits, and it had taken a lot of reassurance and money to calm and endure the woman’s silence.
“Yes, but –"
Suddenly, there was a strangled cry from behind the ship, and a series of bright yellow blaster shots came towards the pair. Satine ducked quickly, far more agile due to her recent journey with the Jedi. Ducking and dodging from all manner of attacks had become muscle memory for her. The Duchess's companion, however, was not so prepared, and he dropped to the ground, cradling his left shin.
Satine grimaced and pulled out the blaster in her boot, turning her body to protect her son while still having the weapon pointed towards their attacker. The rain, as though sensing the dramatics of the situation, began beating down on the scene more ferociously.
“Come out!” She demanded, her voice emotionless and steady. Less than a year prior, she would not have been so confident. Her hands would have shaken, and her voice would be a pleading murmur. She may have even sobbed, Satine admitted embarrassingly.
That girl was gone. Long ago, killed alongside the rest of her family.
From behind the ship, a single figure started towards her. It was an elderly man, and there was an obvious limp in his step as he revealed himself. He had a dishevelled appearance, and long, deep frown lines patterned his face. However, what made him different from the multitude of other angry elderly men on the planet was the beskar’gam beneath his cloak. It was obviously old and not very well kept, yet in the centre was a familiar symbol.
“You’re of House Vizsla." She commented, the motive of his attack becoming clear, "You are a long way from home.”
“I could say the same about you, Duchess.” He snarled, mockingly using her title. He had his blaster still trained on her. “I recognised you when the specific ship landed, for the place suddenly began reeking of your pacifism, dar'manda—deals." You wish to murder Mandalorian culture, you filthy dar'manda—"
“Do you have anyone else with you?” Satine interrupted – she had heard his speech from many mouths more times than she could count.
“There are plenty of people on Coruscant who would like to see you dead.” He spat, his answer clear. He raised the blaster towards her forehead, light blue eyes soulless as he grinned, “Including me –"
The Duchess fired her blaster, a stun hitting him in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground, and Satine turned her attention back to Almac. The man had sat up, a look of annoyance rather than pain painted across his features.
A single teardrop escaped the woman’s eyes as she made her decision.
“I will take Korkie to the temple." She spoke, her voice barely above a murmur. “And you will head back to Mandalore.”
His brows furrowed. “Without y—please—Duchess, please—"
“You heard him; there are other traditionalists on the planet. It will be safer to head in opposite directions. You will go back to Mandalore, and in a few days, I will use public transport to get there.”
He sighed, yet made no retort, knowing the Duchess would not yield. He stood clumsily to his feet, and Satine helped him to the ramp of the ship.
“Be safe, Satine.” He spoke, before turning his gaze to Korkie, “Ret'urcye mhi, jate jate'kara.”
Satine nodded sharply, turning on her heel. She jogged briskly away from the ship, inhaling sharply as the engine started, and it ascended into the sky.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The woman's hood, a sliver of moonlight itself, concealed the two as she ducked under the concrete pillar. The rest of Coruscant buzzed with sound and life, yet the Jedi temple remained silent, stoic. She took a deep breath, praying to the stars above, and bolted to the concrete steps, going up them two at a time. The baby cooed as she sprinted, large blue eyes opening in confusion. The woman made it to the entrance, the large doors still shut tight.
Tears dropped down onto the child as she delicately kissed his forehead and ripped off her necklace to place it into his small, chubby hands. It was a simple accessory, a wooden pendant tied onto a piece of black string. Yet engraved onto the wood was the symbol of House Kryze, forever linking the child to his ancestors.
She placed the bay down onto the smooth concrete, grateful for the warm weather. A fat tear rolled down the child's cheek as the woman stood up once more.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Korkie," the woman murmured, finally tearing her eyes away from her son. Satine knew this was the only way to protect her child from the freshly raging Civil War; she promised herself she understood that. Yet as she stumbled away from her beautiful baby, her soul was violently torn from her body, leaving only the Duchess behind.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Flashing, vibrant neon and blue lights cast over the bar, changing at their won desire. Though it was an early hour in the morning, the place was filled with beings. Loud, repetitive music blasted from a singer in the corner of the room, who sang (or perhaps screeched) into the microphone in a dialect no one could quite comprehend. The tavern smelt thickly of beer and cold food.
In an old, bright red booth, two men sat. Discarded glasses sat on the opposite end of the table, brown robes concealing their identity from passersby.
One lazily rolled a ten-sided die onto the table, drumming his fingers expectantly as the die eventually came to a stop. His face erupted into a large smirk, dark coily braids shrinking as he shook his head slightly.
“Bad luck, Obes." His tone was not sorrowful, however, as he held out his palm expectantly. “That’ll be ten credits.”
His companion, whose head rested on the table, suddenly sat up quickly, his expression groggy. “What?”
“Ahh, forget it.” The other decided, clapping a hand onto his shoulder, “Think it's time we’ll be getting back.”
The Padawan rubbed at his eyes, grimacing. “I think you may be right.”
From the booth beside them, a curvy Twi’lek woman emerges, her skin as fluorescent as the pink lights above. She ran her hand slowly over the table, her mouth settling into a definite pout.
“You two aren't leaving so soon, are you?” She spoke with such a thick, unrecognisable accent Obi-Wan wondered if it was fake. Her gaze darted between Quinlan and Obi-Wan before eventually settling onto the latter. She cocked her head to the side, eyes wide.
“Yes, we are leaving,” Obi-Wan said. “Perhaps another time?” Though, they both knew it was a lie.
She made no comment, instead turning back to her booth. The two Padawans exited the bar in silence, agile as they weaved through the crowds like shadows.
As they finally stepped back onto the quieting streets of Coruscant, Obi-Wan finally released a deep breath. The somewhat cool air ran through his hair, dull moonlight above casting a low glow over the empty street. As it was such a late hour (or, more accurately, early hour), only the low hum of a distant speeder and the landing of a barge on a close platform filled the space. Though they were surrounded by millions of lives, it was peaceful.
That was, until Quinlan opened his mouth.
“That Twi’lek from early…” He began, the pair slowly walking towards the Jedi Temple. Its point was just visible between two skyscrapers, a beacon in the night.
“What about her?” Obi-Wan prompted, tucking his hands deep inside his pockets.
“She clearly liked you and was quite beautiful. Why didn’t you—"
He shot his companion a look, eyebrows raised at what he was suggesting. Quinlan had the audacity to pointedly glare back at him, eyes twinkling with mischief like stars. The two engaged in a silent, yet violent, war of will before Obi-Wan finally sighed, staring poutingly at the spots his shoes met the concrete.
“In case you didn't know, Vos, I am a Jedi Padawan. My focus is on the force.”
Quinlan narrowed his eyes, the yellow band moving up his face as he crinkled his nose. “While that is correct, I doubt that is the reason you ignored her obvious advances.”
“Then, tell me, what is the reason?”
“Satine Kryze. Your Duchess.”
His rhythmic step faltered into a stumble the moment her name was voiced. His chest tightened painfully as his lungs refused to move. A faint, high-pitched ringing polluted the air, and his emotions began shifting violently.
Shock
Grief
Bitterness
Anger.
They were the first to invade his usually unbreakable shields. But then, as quickly as they came, the emotions were replaced by more painful, deeper feelings. Ones written only in a hidden diary are experienced only in the dead of night.
Remorse
Ache
Longing
Affection
Love.
Though they were emotions intended to be left behind, forgotten, by the Jedi, the mere thought of Satine Kryze made Obi-Wan feel each one deeply and painfully. And, perhaps, the most horrible part was
He was willing to feel each one for her.
Since returning from his extended mission on Mandalore, eleven months prior, Obi-Wan had thrown himself, wholehearted, into his training. He meditated for hours each day, only using the other hours to train. Adjusting back to temple life, smothering his yearning for her, had not been easy. Admittedly, it was one of the hardest experiences he had ever had to go through.
However, it had made him a better Jedi. They had both given up love for duty, and the Padawan intended to fulfil his promise of becoming a Jedi Knight.
There is no emotion; there is peace.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is-
“Obi-Wan?” Quinlan’s concerned voice grounded him, sharply returning his consciousness to the present.
He hadn’t realised the pair had been standing still for minutes. Blinking quickly, he began his pace once more.
“Sorry, I was just…” His sentence slowly died upon realising he had no excuse.
Quinlan merely raised a brow but stayed silent as they continued walking. They had gotten quite far, the temple finally coming into view before Obi-Wan spoke again.
“You were right.”
His companion, being a good friend (when needed), stayed silent, allowing a non-judgemental space. His sudden wave of emotions eased, the loud drumming of his heart in his head slowly fading. The Temple, as a thick whirlpool of the force, encouraged him to speak his mind.
“The Duchess…” He began, using formalities, for the alternative was too painful to bear: “She still occupies my thoughts. Every day, every hour, admittedly. I often debate whether or not I made the right decision, leaving her in Mandalore. Though I'm sure with my moping around, you’ve been able to figure that out.”
Quinlan merely offered a small smile and a clipped nod of his head. He felt lighter finally voicing his thoughts after far too long, engrossed in them. Qui-Gon had attempted to speak with him on the matter on a number of occasions, but each time the Padawan had brushed him off. He felt the need to more thoroughly work through his feelings and his thoughts before discussing them with his master.
Though he had a small suspicion the man knew more about his emotions, why he had undergone such thick mental turmoil, than he had suggested.
“I am still progressing on releasing my emotions into the force. And I believe I will be a better Jedi once this is over.”
They had reached the start of the seemingly endless temple steps, and the stars twinkled happily high above as Quinlan cupped a hand over his friend’s shoulder.
“It’s brave to admit that, Obi-Wan. Remember, I am always here for you. And Bant and Siri too, but I’m your favourite.” They both laughed as they finally ascended up the stairs, limbs growing heavier with each movement.
“I can’t wait to sleep.” Quinlan announced wearily, stretching his arms high above his head.
“Promise me you won't convince me to stay out so late again.” Obi-Wan grumbled.
As they approached the large temple doors, yawning slightly too loudly and bickering about the exact time, for the first time in a long year, Obi-Wan felt truly at peace.
At peace with his decision to stay with the order and to leave Mandalore. Still with remorse, of course, but slowly accepting.
That was, until, like shattering glass, the cry of a baby scraping against the quiet of the night interrupted his serenity.