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lothcatlothcat · 1 year

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blankets over barbed wire

Summary: A tale of Ailani Réillata’s parents and a story of the forest and the heavens.

Story Warnings: Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Complicated Relationships, Original Character(s),

Word Count: 1,751

AO3 Version

Authors Note: Thank you so much for all your love on ‘a creation myth’. All your support and kindness on that work completely inspired me to finish this piece I’ve been working on since February! Once again, thank you so much for inspiring me and uplifting me and enjoying my work! It means the world to me, thank you.

———

The Jedi cruiser had long left the atmosphere, but from the window, two figures watched where it had been as if they could still see it’s ghost.

These figures were more like shadows than people, more like masks than identities, more like titles than names, and so there they stood, like idols and altars, The Queen and the Mandalorian.

The Queen was as the Nabooian wilderness, strong and wise, with roots that saw all and knew more, a soul older than the body, a mind deeper than the depths of the endless lakes. In her gown of gold, she stood, with more grace and power than the planet's foundations, white makeup adorning her face and blood-red cosmetic staining a line down her lip.

She was silent.

The forest was always silent right before it was stained with red.

The Mandalorian beside her was as the heavens above, burning with a light rivaling the countless stars yet collapsing endlessly like the void that housed them. He stood with beskar lining his body, armor painted with markings and symbols of red and gold.

He was silent.

For there was no noise in the void of space.

Together, the forest and the heavens stood, pretending there was no sky of storm clouds and thunder between them.

The Queen spoke first, her face deadly calm and her deep brown eyes still staring beyond, “We will not be ridiculed by you.” She talked in the Queen’s voice, not the Wife’s or Lover’s, but the voice she wore like a golden crown and swung like a blood-stained sword, The Queen’s voice.

The Mandalorian did not need to turn his head nor gaze into her eyes to feel the frozen malice that lay in her heart. He did not react to its chill, and so, instead of the Lover or the Husband, he responded as a burning star, “As you wish, your Highness.”

The Queen flinched, just slightly, just enough, hardly noticeable under layers of royal gown and makeup. Always noticeable to The Mandalorian.

“Do not.” She said, still wearing the Queen’s voice.

“No,” The Mandalorian said, “Forgive me, I thought I was speaking with my wife.”

Behind his helmet, The Mandalorian wore a separate mask, a secret mask, a mask of the heart. This mask was known only to the Queen and only in moments like this. His secret mask was cruel, for it hid a wounded creature so broken and raw it had carved sharp teeth into its stab wounds.

And that is why she loved him, and that is why she had married him. For what is the wilderness without a deadly beast?

“Speaking is fine,” The Queen said, “Ridicule, we will not tolerate. We have earned better than ridicule.”

The Mandalorian displayed a different mask now, letting the cruel one show just slightly, just enough. He made a noise between a huff and a humorless laugh, the unnatural sound catching in the vocalizer in his helmet and dying in the stale air between them. “Earned? You have sacrificed our daughter. You have earned nothing from me.”

The Mandalorian liked to show his cards, though he did not show his heart along with them. His card was their daughter, who was now daughter no longer. She was his hidden card, his best play, his tell. And now she was his no longer.

Now she was Jetii.

“Don’t you dare.” The Queen said, and her voice cracked as if the card he had played had given her a paper-thin wound. The voice of The Mother glistened through, the voice no one ever fully heard, “This is no victory for me. I take no pleasure in this.” She was breaking faster than she could seal the cracks, and formality slipped from her tone and broke into pieces on the floor.

The Mandalorian walked on the shattered parts, “You could have fooled me.”

The Queen switched masks, turning the fragile shards into jagged knives, “I have given everything for her and for you.”

This was The Queen’s hand, her cards. Nabooian culture prized those who could give. Children can give their talents. Teenagers can give their open minds and creative ways to the twisted game of politics. Adults can give their young. Naboo to Naboo. Born from the planet to ash of the planet.

The Queen had given much, and now she had given her daughter. The final gift. She had given her daughter to the Jedi, the servants of the Republic—the last gift to Naboo. For she was old now, nearly twenty-eight, older than most Queens, older than most politicians, and The Queen wondered how much longer she would be allowed to carry the title that defined her. Perhaps if she gave more, the universe would let her. Perhaps if she gave more, gave everything, gave the very blood from her body, the universe would let her keep giving.

The Queen did not know who she was without the giving.

“Given? You have taken from me, from her.” The Mandalorian bared the cruel mask fully, turning to The Queen with words sharper than beskar blades, “Do not forget, it is you who contacted the jetii. It is you who told them about her, about her powers. You have stolen from her. She will never have a choice again because of your selfishness.”

This was the whole hand from The Mandalorian. His daughter was his ace, his best card, yet these were all his cards; this was his hand. For much had been taken from him, and little had he wanted to give.

For this Mandalorian was a child of war, and all war does is take with bloody hands and credit-lined pockets. The Mandalorian knew not of giving rather, he only knew of theft, ravenous deeds, and greedy acts. He knew these things because he had been stripped bare by the universe, and he knew of a life that had been taken and taken and taken until not even the blood of his people had remained.

The Mandalorian was alone in the galaxy. Alone here on Naboo.

And he was tired of things being taken. And The Queen only knew how to give.

So two figures stood in front of the window, light years apart.

“Selfish.” The Queen spoke, almost in disbelief, “I set aside my youth for you. I gave my ambitions, my time, my body, my spirit. It is you who are selfish. You only came to Naboo out of necessity. You only supported my political agenda out of necessity. I gave. You settled.” Her voice was even and cold, like a frozen lake waiting for the ice to break and unknowing ones to drown.

But she was not the only one with a mask for war, “I could have gone home and fought. I could have left you.” The Mandalorian countered, “My people live amongst the stars, but I stayed here. My culture lives in hyperspace, and I stayed grounded. I stayed alone. For you. Because you wanted a life here because you had ambitions here, I stayed with you because I loved you.”

“Loved?” The mask momentarily fell from the Queen, revealing the nameless woman beneath. She was bare and alone. But only for a moment. It only took a moment to reload a blaster.

The Mandalorian stood tall and grounded, distant like the stars and ready for words and weapons, “You sent my love for you away with the jetii.”

The helmet on his face hid much, but it could not conceal the burning he felt now. The burning was not a lack of love, as he insisted; instead, the fire burned on love. The Queen saw it.

He liked to burn what he loved before it could be taken.

She liked to give. Give flame and give fire if it is what the heart desired.

“And whose fault is that? Yours.” The Queen lit a spark, “How do you know your ridiculous training and endless time in the wilderness did not fuel her power?”

“Don’t you-“ The flame took, and the beskar started to melt.

The Queen hit another spark, calmer and more deadly than the last, “The Force stems with your blood, not mine.” Another spark, “Her suffering, her nightmares that came from you.” A flame grew. “And instead of helping, instead of keeping her close, you gave her a knife and trained a warrior because of your selfish need.”

The star of The Mandalorian burned up and burned out, “Selfish? You live amongst plenty here. Your culture thrives and lives and grows and flourishes. I was there when my culture lay dying. I watched my people die. I watched my world die. You have plenty.” With each word, he pointed at the Queen with an accusation, as if she had laid waste and shed blood in the Mandalorian Civil Wars, as if she had personally slain him. It felt like she had. “Ailani was all I had. And I kept her close. You are the one who maintained distance. Do you even know her favorite toy? Her favorite stories and songs? Where were you after every nightmare? I helped our daughter. You were never around to see it.”

“I am Mother to an entire planet. I am Queen and Sovereign.” The Queen said this evenly, calmly, and clearly, reassuring her of the mask still on her heart, “My help, my actions, have achieved more than your war games ever would have. This will give Ailani the future she deserves. Do not blame me because I had the strength to give her up, and you do not.”

The Mandalorian had nothing left to give, so his words came out hollow, “I am strong enough for loss.”

“Yet you are not strong enough for love, and that is what this is love.” The Queen said, “In time, you will see that I am right.”

Then there was nothing left to say. All shards had been turned into weapons and twisted into pieces and broken hearts.

All that was left was two figures staring out a window.

“It is disgraceful.” The Mandalorian said after a moment, though his words seemed like listless blasted bolts with no targets. Stray warfare.

The Queen stared at The Mandalorian for a long while, eyes tracing the features of his helmet, memorizing every dent and scrape, every chip of paint, every marking. Only then, only after she had committed every flaw, every scar, every gleam, and glisten, did she speak, “Love makes fools of us all.”

#i’m like dragging myself up the bank of a rushing river coughing up water and blood after reading that #the parents #ailani réillata

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