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kalevalakryze · 10 months

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Closing In

Warnings: panic attacks, mentions of anxiety, ptsd, claustrophobia

Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Ragnar Vizsla(mentioned)

Relationships: Bo-Katan Kryze/The Armorer

Notes: this definitely wasn’t meant to turn out like this, but my brain started to spin the idea and I just let it roll. It also, definitely wasn’t supposed to be so long. But I also missed writing for these two, and I’m trying to get back into the groove.

I started writing this wide awake, and by the time I got to the end I was falling asleep , so I apologize for any spelling errors

Ever since she was a child, Bo-Katan Kryze had trained her mind and body to handle nearly every situation with a cool head, could face some of the most gruesome scenes on a battlefield and walk away just fine, because she was strong, because she put years into developing a resistance to the world she found herself in. When in immediate danger, she could force her brain to analyze quickly before acting, the ‘fight or flight’ many had talked about around her had been unheard of.

But despite all her strength, the circumstances changed, and no amount of training could have prepared her for the way her body would start to react, how her fight mode would click over to freeze, and she hated it.

The panic hadn’t really hit her until she found herself alone on Kalevala, where the droid she’d kept around was the only one to help pull her out, when her fingers would clench around the arm of the throne and her teeth would grind together as she tried to rile up enough anger to phase out the feeling of dying, until she was angry enough at anything and everything to force her body to start moving again.

She’d thought that things would be better, after reclaiming Mandalore, that the walls that moved in time with her racing heart would stop, that her body could finally relax because she was safe, Mandalore was home again, but her brain and body seemed reluctant to acknowledge this.

Bo had been lucky enough that these ‘attacks’ never happened around others, where she could drop to the ground in her own ship or her own quarters, and try to claw the demonic bastard out of her. And where she would often lay frozen for hours until the rustle or mandalorian’s waking in the mornings pulled her out, forced her to prepare for the day, sleep be damned, she was the Mand’alor.

And it had stayed like that for some time, leaving the woman content with the new schedule (as comfortable as she could be, trying to find sleep in nights full of panic and grief), had figured out how to balance each attack and work her schedule to accommodate her alone time in those hours, until… she couldn’t. Until she wasn’t alone anymore.

The Armorer had called her to the Great Forge, a place the woman had not been in some time. And at first, it had been fine, because the younglings wanted to show her their work, and the apprentices under The Armorer’s command were excited to talk about their progress, and it was just so much easier to cloud the rising anxiety, to focus on their helmets or faces instead of the way the rock formations along the walls had started to breathe in sync with her.

Until the apprentices and younglings had departed for their dinner, until The Armorer was leading her further into the winding tunnels, to a room that had been furnished into an armory. The Armorer was talking, and attempting to show her a piece they’d finished, trying to show her the Beskar Plate that had been furnished by a young Ragnar, who’d lain the Kryze insignia into the metal and had painted it a combination of silver, teal, and black.

She didn’t notice the piece of armor that had been crafted for her though, the only thoughts she could entertain were the certainty that she was going to die here, the walls closed tighter around her with every breath, tagged in her throat and leaving her mouth dry. The Armorer was in front of her then, and she could assume from the distant timbre that something was being said, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t breathe!

The Mand’alor dropped to her knees, gloved fingers digging into the iron heart in her armor, pulling at the pieces that seemed too tight, too constricting, she just needed room, but everything was closing in, and she could barely see The Armorer right in front of her, but her skin prickled like fire under the heavy hand that rested against her back.

“Off, off,” she gasped finally, her armor starting to separate from the leather buckles that held it in place as she focused every ounce of waning strength into forcing the piece off her chest, trying to find the room to breathe in the constricting space. “Off-“ she spoke again, voice nearing a pathetic sound that she would never forgive herself for making in front of another living being.

And oh maker, how was she ever going to look at The Armorer after this? Was she going to be immediately usurped for the blatant weakness? Would they just kill her then and be done with her? The thoughts did nothing to quell the bone deep ache, of the hammering of her heart that was certain she was going to die if the armor wasn’t gone.

The other woman was still for just a moment, hands hovering as Bo continued to claw at her own chest, forcing the metal to move from the liner that kept the chest plates combined over the flight suit. Then, deft fingers were releasing the straps, much easier than Bo was trying to get them off, the plates dropping to the ground with a sharp clang, the long plate from her back also clattering at the release, until her upper body was free and she could start to breathe again.

Finally able to gather some air through the filters of her helmet, Bo managed to reach her hand up and yank the helmet off of her own head, letting it drop to the ground just as disrespectfully as the chest plates, because she was going to die, the armor didn’t matter because there was no one to pass it down to.

The redhead’s cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide as the pure and primal fear that had boiled in her veins started to simmer, as the fear of death was replaced by shame and embarrassment. She kept her eyes focused on the floor, on the way her muscles went rigid after she’d dropped, and on the way her chest expanded with every breath, free of the claustrophobia the metal on her chest had brought her.

Still, The Armorer did not leave her side, knelt down beside the Mand’alor like at prayer, though instead of her hands clasped in a steeple, the woman’s discarded helmet was held carefully in gloved hands.

They sat like that for minutes, the only sound the unrestricted noise of Bo’s labored breaths and the occasional shifting of what was left of her armor as she adjusted her weight on the floor. “Are you alright, Lady Bo-Katan?” The woman finally spoke, breaking the silence.

“I’m alright,” she answered too quickly, voice hoarse as she struggled to right herself, finally starting to push herself to get ready to stand when a hand had reached and stopped her ascent.

“Sit a moment, please,” and while she was asking, even at her worst, Bo follows the command, turning to sit beside The Armorer on the floor, the metal leg of the table pressing into her back as the other woman settled into an officially sitting position, Bo’s helmet held in her lap.

“If you’re trying to figure out how to tell me to get out, you can just say it, I can take it,” Bo spoke after several beats of silence. Even when that golden helmet turned again, and she could feel the eyes on her through the visor, she forced her gaze on the nearest wall in front of her, jaw tensing as her hands pulled into fists, preparing herself for it.

Again, a beat of silence, as The Armorer tried to process this. “Bo-Katan, Mandalore is your home, just as it is any other Mandalorians’. No one has any right to ask you to leave, unless it is of your own volition,”

The Mand’alor made like she was going to speak, but clamped her mouth shut when The Armorer spoke again. “We are a United people, stronger together, thanks to you, but even the strongest armor has it’s melting point, a weak spot. That is where the rest of the armor comes into play, to help protect that spot until it can be repaired,”

Her helmet was set down, and this time, she’d picked up Bo’s chest piece, claw marks pulling the paint away from the chrome around her iron heart, testament to her frantic scrambling. “You are not any less a Mandalorian because of this, nor any less the Mand’alor that has brought our people together at last.”

When the armor was set down once more, and a gloved hand moved to rest on Bo’s shoulder tentatively, the Mand’alor leaned into the strength provided, until her heated face was meeting the cool of red painted armor and the softness of the fur on her back.

“Together,” Bo echoed at last, as her legs tucked up close to her chest, as The Armorer’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, and the walls started to push out a bit, no longer as tight an constricting as they’d been feeling for weeks.

When she could finally take in slow and measured breaths again, and the last of the adrenaline burned from her body, Bo had finally stood, reaching to grasp an offered arm, bound in leather, to steady herself. “I apologize, for steering us so far away from our intended objective here,” she finally spoke as The Armorer picked up her discarded armor pieces and laid them against the table.

“The time is not important, as it will still be here when you are ready,” and then The Armorer was turning the piece so Bo could fully look at it. It was just the right breastplate, but it was clear that the craftsman took a great deal of time and effort into shaping the Beskar, inlaying clan Kryze’s crest into the metal, and from each paint stroke that colored the metal. She knew how important the colors of armor were to the children of the watch, how their paints were chosen carefully to express their duties to this life. The teal, a color she was seeing more and more in the Mandalorian’s that survived the purge symbolized healing, something Bo was certain they all needed a certain degree of.

The silver covered a large expanse of the plated piece, and while many could assume it plain, she was aware of the colors purpose, redemption, easy to paint to something new once a person redeemed themselves again.

Black paint lined the edges, close to where her scratched up iron heart would be if the piece had been complete. Justice, for Mandalore, for herself, for everything they’d been put through since the civil wars.

She had paused then, blinking at the piece, trying to figure out why her clan was emblazoned against the metal, and why The Armorer was presenting it early. “Ragnar created this piece, his first work, as a means to express the individuality and our combination as one people again. Your Owls seem too uniformed, and he’d hoped you would protect yourself with this Beskar, so the others would feel at ease changing their own pieces,” she explained, letting her glove trace the rim on the plate as Bo stared.

“Oh, they’re all allowed to change their armor, absolutely,” The warrior rubbed at her face, before finally reaching out with her hand. “And, I accept, if he, and you, are sure,”

Carefully, The Armorer removed the old breastplate from the fabric that kept them conjoined, and with a little work, the black marred beskar was replaced with the new, gleaming piece. “May I?” She asked finally, and Bo nodded her head slowly.

She was still rigid under The Armorer’s fingers, as the armor was pulled on over her flight suit once more, as she tried to expand her chest with each buckle done, preparing herself for the crushing feeling that would not come. When each piece of her armor had been reattached, Bo’s gaze was caught on the different colors against her chest, hand raising to trace against the many different colors.

“Thank you,” The Mand’alor spoke quietly, letting The Armorer linger behind her, and when strong arms started to wrap around her from behind, Bo let herself sink into the wert retreat, allowing herself to lean against The armored for strength as she focused her breathing, ensuring that unless she found herself in this position, her armor would not still be as compressed as it had been against her skin.

#bo katan kryze #the armorer #bo katan x the armorer #bo katan needs a hug #bo katan gets a hug #the armorer is a rock #the mandalorian #nitearmor #star wars #take off your helmet #it was supposed to be a small Drabble #because my brain was literally just #clawing at the beskar heart #struggling to breathe #and this is what happened #this is why we cant have nice things

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kalevalakryze · 7 months

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It's Over, Isn't It?

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV) Pairings: Bo-Katan Kryze /The Armorer Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Din Djarin, Axe Woves, Koska Reeves, Moff Gideon Warnings: Broken Bones, Injury, Violence, Character Death, Blood and Injury, Notes: For @whumptober 2023 Day 5. Time Period for Night of a thousand tears to skip to reclaiming Mandalore Prompt: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.” Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.” Word Count: 2,317 AO3 Link: Here!

She should have felt more, as she watched Korkie fall at the hands of Moff Gideon, as the same blade that had killed her sister now took the life of the last of her blood line; the last piece of existence that proved the only son of Clan Kryze had ever existed was felled.

Stormtroopers held her back with bodies pressing her into a crumbling wall, electro-staffs readied just centimeters away from her abdomen as she writhed against their hold. “Tell me, Lady Kryze,” The Moff’s voice dripped with venom as Bo-Katan bared her teeth at him. “What will your ancestors remember of this day?”

She sprung forward then, shaking the hands from her own as she surged into the staff of arcing electricity. Her gauntlet managed one short lived jet of fire before the paralyzing pain became too much, as bodies all pounced on the Mandalorian at once.

Pinned to the ground with Stormtroopers each taking one of her limbs, Bo-Katan was only able to spit a mouthful of blood onto his boots as he approached, the warbling of the darksaber like nails on a chalkboard in her ears. “You better pray I don’t get up this time around,”

The darksaber disengaged as Gideon crouched down to her level, pressing the ignition end of the hilt just under her chin as he twisted his lips into something like pity. “I’m counting on it, Mand’alor.”

As Imperials hauled her back to her feet, the Mandalorian struggled in their arms. “We had a deal!” She shouted to no avail, teeth bared as she cursed the man in every language her tongue could formulate.

The bones in her hand were splintering under the enhanced strength that Gideon was given by his Beskar alloyed armor, mechanics whirring as bone and beskar were broken under his grip. She couldn’t shout, only her face twisting beneath the helmet as the darksaber was raised high in the air, blade flickering and sputtering as the Kyber was shattered in its casing.

Bo-Katan was forced to her knees under his grip, pain shooting up to her shoulder as she watched the ancient blade crumble. The saber was forced from her hand as he threw it to the ground, finally releasing her as it clattered to the ground. Her breaths came hard as she cradled her hand in front of her, on her knees before Moff Gideon once again.

Her helmet was forcibly ripped from her head and tossed to the side near the broken remains of Tarre Vizsla’s saber; The woman’s lips pulled into a snarl as she glared up at him once more, the same aching feeling that told her the fight is lost flooding through her veins once again.

“The darksaber is gone,” He announced haughtily through the vocoder of his helmet, slamming the staff into her abdomen and throwing her back.

When she caught herself, her weight landed on the shattered remains of her hand enough to have her breathing through her teeth as her body cashed into the durasteel platform.

It was a fight to raise her arm off the ground and keep her hand hovering as she struggled to rise. “You’ve lost everything,” Pushing off the ground and onto her knees, Bo glared at him through a veil of sweaty hair. “Mandalorian’s are weak, once they lose their trinkets.”

Inhaling slowly as he approached, Bo-Katan was able to school her expression, holding her hand back just enough so if and when he struck the next blow, she could save her agonized arm some trouble. “Mandalorians are stronger together.” She spat, working a muscle in her jaw as she raised her chin up at him; if she were to join the Manda today, it would be in a way honorable to her ancestors, than wasting away on Kalevala.

As the stolen fleet’s capital ship ignited the world around them, and as she slid in to use her shield to cover Grogu, Bo-Katan watched with abject satisfaction as Moff Gideon was swallowed alive in an inferno. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?

Evacuating the survivors from the smoldering carnage had been hard work; harder so with only one working hand, though on her fifth trip back to the surface, a gloved hand had stopped the Niteowl’s mechanical rescue mission. Someone took the Mandalorian from her side as she finally managed to raise her gaze from the worn down path in front of her.

The screaming pain in her hand had dulled into a bone deep ache hours ago, easy enough to ignore once she was in the routine of pulling survivors from the carnage or dragging the dead someplace more respectful than where they’d fallen. She could even argue that the pain was gone, had The Armorer not stopped her mid-mission.

She could feel the judgemental gaze beneath the darkened visor, and yet, it did not ignite the fire in her blood that it may have once had. Her hand was gentle when she reached to touch the Niteowl’s arm, and only then was she reminded of the agonizing pain, of the bones in her hand that sat shattered in their sleeve of flesh and torn tissue.

Something childish deep inside wanted to drop to her knees with the pain, to ask for the help she knew she needed, and to sleep; Krif, she just wanted to sleep. Korkie was avenged, Mandalore was reclaimed, and the weapon that took her family away was demolished, so why was she still here? Hadn’t she done enough? Was there more to atone for, after all this time?

Her nose twitched in response to the pain; she was a Mandalorian, she had to be a Mandalorian, if she showed these people she was anything less, then it would all be for nothing, after all that time chasing away the looming demand of ‘dar’manda’ in her dreams, she could not settle to slip up and ruin this now, not if she would not be granted the glory in death.

“What?” Bo-Katan croaked dumbly, growing anxious under the continued scrutiny. This was it, after all that; no one would argue with The Armorer if she were to throw Bo-Katan out. She would be done.

“You appear to be injured,” The Armorer stated, as if Bo-Katan did not feel the damage to her abdomen or the splintered bone in her hand with each passing second.

“I’m fine,” She shot back too quickly, biting her tongue as she forced her hand down from the cradled position against her armor, biting back the winces into her tongue until the metallic taste of blood was flooding her mouth. “I need to get the others,” Her departure was stopped by a hand on her bicep, squeezing just enough against inflamed nerves to have her crying out, spots flashing through her vision and knees trembling to keep herself up as her hand was brought back to her chest.

“You need the med bay.” Again, a simple answer, a simple answer that could lead to the end of Bo-Katan’s very short reign as Mand’alor.

The Armorer released her hand and started walking, clearly expecting to be followed. Refusing to hang her head in defeat, Bo-Katan squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and followed paces behind the woman to the overflowing medical tents.

Mandalorians were stuffed into the tents to the brim, curtains pulled to offer the children of the watch some form of privacy as they were treated for burns and injuries from the mountains of debris. The Armorer stopped Bo-Katan at the entrance to the tent with a hand on her chest, disappearing into the throngs of people to get… whatever the krif she was looking for.

She could feel eyes on her as others shuffled in and out, though she didn’t spare anyone a glance, even as Din passed with a hand on her shoulder and Grogu reached out towards her; couldn’t bear to look at them if this went how she thought it would.

The Armorer returned after what felt like hours, with the line of their injured moving sluggishly past her. The pain in her hand went numb once more, at least. The Armorer moved past Bo-Katan smoothly, only offering her an acknowledgment when the woman didn’t follow, prompting her to fall into step at her side once more.

They walked for miles, back into the destruction of Sundari, through caverns and tunnels, and into the caves of the Living Waters. “Sit,” The Armorer commander, and she did, dropping herself heavily into the dirt in front of the inscripted pillar, pebbles scratching at her armor and falling between her beskar plates and flight suit.

The other woman was much more graceful when she took her place in front of Bo-Katan, kneeling steadily in front of her as the redhead kept her gaze turned on the water. “What are you convinced is going to happen, Lady Kryze?”

“Like you don’t know,”

“I don’t, may I see your hand?” Laying out the supplies she’d grabbed from the tents, The Armorer grabbed her hand when Bo-Katan offered the shaking extremity, gentle as she removed the woman’s gauntlet and pushed back the sleeve of her flight suit.

Silence hung thick in the air, only broken by the sharp sounds of pain as her glove was slowly cut away, revealing the swollen mess of bones and bruises that had become her dominant hand. “Karabast,” The redhead’s nose twitched, swallowing dry air thickly as The Armorer settled her hand in her lap.

“Lady Kryze?” The Armorer prodded once more as she dug through her supplies, head turning to watch as the woman studied her hand.

“I assume…” Her lips turned into a scowl. This was like the forge on Nevarro all over again; being asked to make herself vulnerable, being asked to take the step that she knew had others declared dar’manda by the Children of the Watch. “That my time is done..” It sounded like a question, like prodding The Armorer to offer that blanket of security that she had then, too. Instead, the woman’s head turned to stare at her.

“Do you want it to be done?” She finally questioned as she readied a stimshot at Bo-Katan’s wrist.

“No, of course not, ah-!” The pain from the stimshot was soothed by the warm tingle of the medicine getting to work. “I served my purpose,” Bo-Katan pushed on, talking to fill the silence, staring at the low-light reflected in the golden helmet as she felt the woman ready the bio-cast and prepare to snap her bones back into place. “Satine and Korkie are avenged, Mandalore belongs to Mandalorians again, and Gideon is dead. That’s… well, it’s all I’ve-” She was cut off by the pressure and the delayed pain from bones being slipped back into place with a sick sound, her head dropping back against the stone as her other hand shot out to fist into The Armorer’s fur cape.

Strong hands settled on her elbows to steady her once the cast was secured, anchoring her back down as darkness ebbed at her vision. “Fuck!” She shouted, voice echoing off the cavern walls once she could breathe again. “Do you not wish to be Mand’alor?” The Armorer questioned, taking Bo-Katan’s attention away from the pain as she injected half of the contents of a stim shot into her hand, soothing some of her pain.

“No,” A tired blink as she looked down at the casing around her hand- still bruised and swollen, but now the bones clearly sat where they were meant to be as the cast continued to press and shift her hand back in place. The expressionless stare she was leveled with urged her to continue. “When I joined the Death Watch, it was because I didn’t agree with my sister, The Duchess Satine; I didn’t think her ideas were right for our people… I still don’t, entirely; But there was a lot she was right about that I never wanted to see, I blinded myself for Pre Vizsla, thought he was the best of us,”

Bo-Katan scoffed, not realizing The Armorer was cradling her hand in one of her own, and still holding her elbow with the other.

“Everything went downhill when he enrolled us with the Separatists, betrayed them, and then found two dar’jetti to enlist into our cause; Darth Maul and his brother Savage.” The woman’s good hand raised to rub at the column of her throat. “Maul won the darksaber and killed Pre- finally opened my eyes. From there, it was a fight to return Mandalore to our people; one that we’ve never truly been able to accomplish until today.”

“Without you, do you believe we would have?”

“Yes. Somehow, someway. I never saw it happening in my life, but I swore not to die until I saw these things through to the end.”

“And now that you have, are you ready to die?”

Bo-Katan’s eyes flickered to the waters, thinking of the great beast hidden in the depths. “No.”

The leather on her face was warm, soft in places, though calloused much like she imagined the hands beneath to be. The Armorer’s hand radiated warmth as she cupped the redhead’s face, thumb stroking across her dirt smeared cheekbone in a moment of weakness. “Then nobody has the right to ask you to leave your home or your people; and we will protect your right to stay and to rule, so long as you find yourself capable of doing so.”

Bo’s head turned, catching the pad of the other woman’s thumb on her lips, breathing in the smell of gunpowder, fire, and plasma with each measured breath. “Thank you,” It was all she could say, the only way she could fill in the words of a lifetime of fears and doubts, forged by war after war, both of her own design, and someone else's.

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