#ratiin

[kits-ships]

may i offer u.... this?

#kyi's debut!! #chooqueuetrain #selfship art #self ship community #selfshipping #my art #ratiin

[dangraccoon]

What I Said

Tech x f!reader (she/her pronouns, otherwise undescribed)

Warnings: Reader is a civilian journalist, jealousy, misunderstandings, pining, Tech is autistic, Kaminoans were assholes, The Bad Batch was abused as children, Referenced Past Child Abuse, it gets a little whumpy but has a happy ending!

All Mando'a used is translated within the story!

Tech’s brow furrowed as you talked animatedly to Wrecker and Echo around the fire. He buried himself in his datapad again, hoping to tune out the nonsense spewing from you to his brothers’ delight. You were too busy telling them about the stories you had woven to notice his frustration, but Hunter certainly did. 

He got up, moving from his quiet spot at the edge of the clearing to sit next to his irritated brother. 

“Tech?” he questioned. 

“Yes, Hunter?”

“What’s wrong?”

Tech momentarily paused his scrolling. “It is of no importance,” he decided. 

Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “Tion’cuyir bic kaysh?” [Is it her?]

“Ibac cuyir dini’la,” Tech rolled his eyes. [That is mad.]

“Gar ru'kir cuyir or'atu irudayc at kaysh,” Hunter chuckled. “Gar ru'kir cuyir ori’jaytyc.” [You should be more friendly to her. She is very nice.]

“Vod, gar ganar noy'ganyc gar kov'nyn o'r te akaan. Ni cuy' ratiin irudayc.” [Brother, you have lost your head in the war. I am always friendly.]

“Ibac cuyir osik bal gar kar'taylir bic,” Crosshair drawled from behind them. [That is dung and you know it.]

Great, Tech thought, rolling his eyes. 

“O'r haa'keb, Ni mirdir kaysh guuror te dala ori’sol,” Crosshair smirked. [In fact, I think he likes the woman a lot.]

“Ibac cuyir ogir'olar,” Tech growled, a little too quickly, but breathed a quiet admission to himself, as well as Hunter. “Kaysh cuyir ori’mirdala, bal mesh'la.” [That is irrelevant. She is very clever, and beautiful.]

“Hey,” Wrecker shouted across the fire. “What’re you guys talkin’ about?”

Tech’s brow furrowed even more as he went back to his research on his datapad. He hoped that the light of the fire disguised the flush of his cheeks as you carefully observed the group. 

You could tell they were talking about you. The boys didn’t have full conversations in mando’a much, usually only utilizing a word or two. You felt your embarrassment heat your face, and you listened to Crosshair and Wrecker bicker about private conversations. Using the growing debate as cover, you rose from the rock you’d been perched on, quietly making your way back to the ship.

Once you were securely in your bunk room, you let out a long sigh. It seemed like the boys were bickering more and more lately and you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow your fault. 

A knock at your door shook you from your thoughts. 

“Who is it?” you called. 

“Echo,” he replied. 

You slid the door open, inviting him in. 

“What’s up?” you tried to ask nonchalantly. 

“Are you okay?”

That caught you off-guard. You’d been with the Bad Batch for almost 3 standard weeks. Sure, you got along fine with them - well most of them - but it wasn’t like you were particularly close. 

“Fine,” you shrugged. “Just got tired, I guess.”

“I’m sorry about the others,” he said abruptly.

You hummed a little. You didn’t think anyone needed to apologize, especially Echo, who didn’t get involved.

“Right, well- um, have a good night,” he mumbled, giving you a curt nod before retreating from the room, closing the door behind him. 

–––––

The next few days felt rocky, even though most of the squad seemed fine, one member was particularly snarky. Tech wasn’t happy with his brothers, and he made sure they knew. He acted no differently than he had before with you. Indifference seemed to seep off of him when you were near, but he’d leave the space when you joined it, if possible. 

By the third day of Tech’s snippiness, you’d had enough, and had begun avoiding him entirely. You were starting to feel irritated knowing that you caused whatever his issue was, but the rest of the squad was taking the brunt of Tech’s anger, and overhearing his conversation with Echo pushed you over the edge. You needed to end this.

Everyone else was out to restock supplies, leaving just you and Tech left on the ship as he worked on repairs. You sat quietly, working on your data pad, nerves starting to get the better of you.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Tech called your name from the cockpit.

“Y-yeah?” you stuttered.

“I could use an extra set of hands,” he replied easily.

When you entered the cockpit, Tech was sprawled out underneath the control panel, arms elbow deep in the inner workings of the Marauder.

“How can I help?” you asked.

“Well, you can start by getting down here; you’re of no use to me up there,” he said. He thought he said it jokingly. You thought he was snapping at you.

“There’s no call to be rude,” you muttered under your breath, but still plopped down on the floor next to Tech, who scowled at the misunderstanding.

“Now, I cannot let go of these wires here, so you need to take the shrink tubing and put it in place on the other end so that when I reconnect the wires, they will hold in place,” he explained.

You sighed quietly. You’d have to lay on the floor next to him. As you do so, you catch Tech watching you from the corner of his eye. Or at least you thought you did, the moment was so quick. You look under the panel, seeing the parts he was talking about. You picked a piece of shrink tubing up, placing it between your lips so you didn’t lose it. You had to scoot closer to Tech to reach the panel, damn his long arms. The top of your head was inches from his temple now as you scowled up into the machinery. You swear you felt his gaze on you as you worked in the panel. No doubt he had a criticism of your technique or a more efficient way of doing the simple task.

Tech’s mind was running. She agreed to help him, despite the cold shoulder you had recently been giving him. Did that mean you had forgiven him? Could you possibly feel for him as he did for you? No. He refused to let his hopes get the better of him. Yet, here he was, watching you assist him with repairs, laying so close to him, and he couldn’t help but think perhaps the two of you were on a better path. I can fix this, he thought. Perhaps I still have a chance with her.

“Okay, I’ve got the tubing in place. What now?” you asked. When the clone so close to you didn’t respond, you turned your head to meet his eye, almost jumping when you realized he was facing you as well. It took him a moment to come out of whatever stupor he’d found himself in.

Tech shook his head, kicking himself for missing a single word that fell from your lips, a slight blush threatening to creep up from his neck. “Apologies, could you repeat what you said?” 

You huffed a little before repeating your request for the next step. 

“Right,” Tech flustered, going back to working rather than daydreaming about you, feeling his ears go red. 

The two of you worked in tandem, Tech providing instruction on occasion. It was…nice. A little awkward, but nice. Being in such close proximity to a man you were sure hated you was starting to wear on your nerves, so as soon as the four-handed repair was finished, you quickly got up from your spot on the floor, brushing yourself off and beginning to walk away.

Tech panicked internally. “Where are you going?” he asked, sliding out from underneath the panel and sitting up to look at you.

You eyed him suspiciously. “I was going to go for a walk to stretch my legs a little.”

“I see,” he said, looking down at his datapad for a moment before looking back up. “The list of necessary repairs are finished, so I will accompany you.” His heart was pounding in his chest, and he silently thanked the stars for Hunter’s absence. 

“That’s…unnecessary,” you uttered, choosing your words carefully.

“Do not be ridiculous,” insisted Tech. “You are a civilian and this planet is unfamiliar. If you were to run into trouble, you may not be able to protect yourself. It is inadvisable to go alone.”

“Oh, am I ridiculous now?” you fumed. This was the straw that broke the eopie’s back. “And helpless? You’ll have to add those to your list.”

Tech felt like he was experiencing whiplash. “My list?”

“I heard you talking to Echo last night,” you barked. “When he asked you about me you told him that I’m ‘hard-headed’ and ‘inappropriate’. That I’m ‘nosy’, my ‘mind is too high in the clouds’.”

“That’s not- I did not mean-” Tech sputtered, realizing he was rapidly falling into a hole he wasn’t sure how to get out of. 

“‘Didn’t mean it’? Sure,” you spat, spinning on your heel and rushing out of the ship, begging that he couldn’t see the tears streaming from your eyes.

–––––

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?” Hunter demanded.

“She overheard part of my conversation with Echo last night,” Tech replied miserably. You were gone. He’d spent the last hour out searching for you in the jungle that surrounded the ship, but you had turned your comm off.

“The conversation we had last night? You told me you were in love with her,” Echo said, hoping to sooth his bespectacled brother. “Surely she couldn’t be angry about that?”

“She must have left before that,” lamented Tech. His leg was bouncing rapidly as he held his head in his hands. 

“Where are you going?” Echo asked as Hunter turned towards the ship’s door.

“To find the civilian journalist we’re supposed to be protecting,” he hummed, stepping out of the ship.

Hunter could see the traces of you as you’d hurried away from the protection of the Marauder; a few footsteps here, a trace of your scent there, recently broken branches and kicked up leaves. It didn’t take him long to find the small alcove you’d found in the side of a steep, rocky hill that overlooked a river.

He approached you wordlessly, making sure to allow his steps to be quite louder than he typically would - he didn’t want to frighten you, after all.

You didn’t acknowledge his presence, you simply stayed in the position in which he’d found you; your knees pulled up towards your chest, leaning against the cool rock, eyes staring blankly over the river. The two of you sat there in silence; you were replaying the last few days in your head on an endless repeat, he was attempting to find something, anything to say. 

After a few more beats of simple quiet, you both started to speak, breaking off mid-word to allow the other to talk first.

“We haven’t talked about ourselves much, have we? I mean our lives before the war.”

You shook your head. It had always seemed like a sensitive topic, so you’d never pushed it. 

“Our ‘childhood’,” he started, throwing up a set of air quotes. “If you could call it that, well, it wasn’t happy. You know we’re different from the other clones. Well, somehow, the regs didn’t take kindly to that. Most of them anyway. We were outcasts, and before Echo, it was just the four of us. That’s all we ever had, and all we ever needed.

“And then there were the Kaminoans. They were…diligent…in our training. Putting us through exercises the regs didn’t have to. They separated us a lot. I was the leader and they wouldn’t let me anywhere near my brothers during the tests. We were all treated terribly by the Kaminoans, but Tech, he had it the worst. He doesn’t sleep much because they used to keep him awake for days, poking at him, prodding him, pushing him to know more, do more, remember more. He never told us much about the tests. I think he didn’t want to worry us.

“One day he came back to the barracks covered in these little marks. His goggles were broken. He stayed in bed for hours, not moving, just staring at the wall. Then he finally got up, started moving around like a droid. Eventually, he came across a piece of chalk. He started writing on the walls. It was like he was in a trance.”

Hunter’s voice turned dark, his face showing an extreme mixture of disgust, anger, worry. “He was making a blueprint of the suit the Kaminoans were using to train him. It covered his full body with little bits of metal over his pressure points. It was wired to connect to his nervous system. They used it to monitor his emotions, mostly. When he would get excited, they would electrocute him. If he started to fall behind or fall asleep, or if he got overwhelmed. He was in that suit for nearly three days before he finally got sent back to the barracks.

“He refused to show any emotion, even after we graduated and were deployed into the field, for such a long time. If we were all talking, telling stories, laughing, he would just be sitting there. Eventually, the longer we were away from Kamino, he would show little hints that he was still human, like the tiniest bit of a smile. He’d crack jokes. He would get frustrated or angry more often than anything else, though. Those were easier, I guess.

“When Echo joined us, he came to me one night. He said there was something wrong with him, but he didn’t know what. He was shaking uncontrollably, flinching at small noises and his own words. By the time I finally figured out the cause, he was nearly unconscious, basically sleep talking. I don’t know if he really even remembers that night.”

You were stuck silent. 

“All that to say, he has trouble, more so than the rest of us. He still doesn’t know how to deal with emotions. It was bred out of him. He was scared when Echo joined us because he was worried that it would change the dynamic of our squad. He was worried that with Echo’s experience and scomp, he’d be replaced. It took a lot of time and a few missteps, but now they’re practically inseparable.. When you joined us, it was easier for him. You’re not meant to be a permanent fixture, so to him, it’s easier not to get attached. But he did.”

“He…got attached?” you gasped.

“I probably shouldn’t say, but he fell for you. Hard,” Hunter smirked. “The second you smiled at him the day we met you, heh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard his heart beat so loud.”

You felt your face flush and you swallowed hard.

“What I’m trying to ask of you is that you be patient with him. He’s still learning to feel, to act with more than his head.”

“That night…around the fire. What were you saying?”

“Hmm?”

“You were all talking in Mando’a. What were you saying?”

Hunter chuckled. “Well, I was trying to give him a push. He was jealous that you were talking to Wrecker and Echo, but didn’t understand why. ‘Course Crosshair had to start teasing him. That night, he told me ‘kaysh cuyir ori’mirdala, bal mesh'la’. Almost couldn’t believe he’d even actually said it.”

You looked at Hunter, confusion plain on your face. He grinned and shook his head. “He said you’re very clever,” he chuckled. “And beautiful’.”

“I’ve been so stupid,” you concluded after a few moments of sitting there, your cheeks flaming hot.

“You didn’t know and he’s still learning how to tell you. Just give him time, let him come to you.”

–––––

Hunter returned to the ship with you in tow just as the sun was beginning to set. Three of the squad started asking questions, arguing and teasing each other as you set foot in the ship once more. The presence of a certain set of eyes on you didn’t go unnoticed. 

With the rest of the squad distracted, you sat down near him at his place at the small table.

“Hi,” you nearly whispered, feeling like you were shrinking into the seat.

Tech’s eyes didn’t leave you, even as he said nothing.

“Hunter told me about- well, a little bit- I mean, I couldn’t have- I didn’t know-” you stumbled along trying to find what you were trying to say.

“I meant everything I said last night to Echo,” he asserted. “You are nosy, stubborn, and inappropriate.”

You stared at the table in front of you.

“But Echo helped me realize why you frustrate me so. You are curious, that’s why you seemed nosy. Your will is made of durasteel. You are colorful and wild. You are so similar to myself, yet so different,” he explained. “He helped me come to the logical conclusion after you’d stopped listening.”

“What is the logical conclusion?” you asked, finally looking back at him. His eyes were starry as he looked at you. Despite all knowledge, all fact, all reason, to him you had created the universe for him to explore.

He fidgeted a little, but never took his eyes from hers. “Ni copad kar’tayl gar darasuum, cyare, meh gar kelir duumir ni.”

The room fell silent, save for the loud and steady pounding of two hearts. His brothers watched him in awe, but he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“What does that mean?” you whispered as he inched closer to you.

“I wish to know you forever, beloved, if you will allow me,” he whispered back, eyes finally dropping from yours to take your hand between his. 

“Please, cyare, tell me you feel the same?” he pleaded. 

“Tech,” you smiled, using your free hand to cup his cheek. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Neither of you knew who closed the gap, but the kiss felt like a revelation. All the misunderstandings, the confusion, the pain, it was all a distant memory. Vaguely, you could hear the hoots and hollers of the brothers behind you, but that didn’t bother you. 

Tech was the first to break the kiss, standing, and pulling you with him.

“Where are you going?” one of the boys called after the pair of you.

“To make up for lost time,” Tech shouted back, closing the door to the cockpit after pulling you through.

Thanks for reading! - River

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[writerlyhabits]

Ni Ceta

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 5.7K

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 2 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 1 | Ch. 3

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – "I'm in grad school, I take forever to write things." This is the second part of a sister fic for my fic Courting a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! In this chapter, we get to see some new faces – or helmets, I should say – and I am here for what they have in store for us! Thanks for reading, we hope you enjoy 💛

This series is also on AO3, so you can read this chapter there too…

Translations:

Baar’ure: medics 

Gotabor(e): (approx) mechanic(s)

(Lit.) engineer(s)

Aruetii(se): outsider(s)

Me’bana?: What happened?

Copikla bal mirdala: cute and clever 

Copikla: meant to refer to babies and animals - never women unless you want your head ripped off

Could be considered a backhanded compliment or an insult

Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod:  (Approx) Don’t fuck with her, brother. 

(Lit.) Don't mess with her, brother. (extremely strong warning, likely to be followed by violence)

N'eparavu takisit, vod: (Approx) Sorry, brother. 

(Lit.) I eat my insult, brother

Me’dinui: share, give to one another 

Aliit: family

Solus mhi oyacyi: (Approx) United, we remain

Buy’ce: helmet

Ik’aad: baby, child under 3

Jatne vod: “sir” or “ma’am” 

Cabur(e): guard(s)

Kad: In reference to Kad Ha’rangir, destroyer god in the old Mandalorian pantheon

Utreekov: fool, idiot (lit: emptyhead)

Ni ceta: (Lit) I kneel, (approx.) I’m sorry 

Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin: I will always kneel for you

You feel the chill of the cave air settle around you as you rise from your slumber.

Opening your eyes, a soft glow leaks into your space from the room adjacent— signaling that Din is also awake. Not that he sleeps for very long anyway. Rather than immediately leaving the comfort of your sleeping mat to join him, you opt to spend a few extra minutes holding the little one close, hand on his back, as he continues to sleep soundly on your chest. Mornings like these are commonplace— cuddling with the Child until you feel ready enough to begin the day; making fresh caf for you and Din to share, feeding yourself and the little one, while enjoying the quiet company of one another in the cockpit. Perhaps our routine can stay somewhat the same, even here.

Mustering the strength to pull yourself from your warm cocoon of blankets, you slowly rise, trying to not disturb the Child. Two feet on the cold stone ground, and a blanket wrapped over your shoulders, you wander towards the common room. 

In the corner sits a short-legged table, the perfect height to tuck ones’ legs beneath while enjoying a meal, or in this case, the morning caf. Din sits beside it, his shoulders and head leaning against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him, and his hands interlaced across his abdomen. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was sleeping; but for the first time in a long time, Din is simply relaxing. 

His head turns slightly to look at you as you approach, his arms slowly extending upward for the morning trade-off of the Child. Din guides him to lie against his shoulder while you ease yourself down to the floor, sitting across from him. Getting to watch Din with the Child like this was rare— it wasn’t often Din was able to decompress, allowing his body a break from the constant weight of armor. With bounty hunters and Imperials searching for the three of you, danger lurked around every corner. Din had to be prepared to fight at any moment. Seeing him unarmored and at ease— getting to enjoy the simple action of cuddling with his Foundling— makes you feel more calm, despite how unsettled you had been the day before.

“Did you sleep well?” Din asks— his voice soft, to not stir the Child. 

“Yeah…” you nod, your fatigue causing you to trail off, leaving your thoughts incomplete. When Din shut out the lights before falling asleep, the pitch black  of the cave was not unlike the darkness in the Crest every night. Despite the sleeping mat not quite matching the feel of your bed on the ship, the familiarity of the darkness had been a comfort, allowing sleep to come easily. 

However, it wasn’t entirely refreshing— with the usual lag of being on a new planet, as well as the ever present nip of the air throughout the night. Feeling the chill of the bedrock beneath you, you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “...but it’s colder here than I expected.” 

He readjusts, shifting the child to his other shoulder before replying. “The temperature underground remains constant,” he tells you, not unkindly, “It’s best to dress warmly— prevents the stone from absorbing your body heat.” He taps his fingers on the ground to emphasize his point. You nod, and the three of you ease into a comfortable silence, Din continuing to lie against the wall as you pull the blanket tight around you once more, hunching forward to rest your arms on the table, and your head atop your arms. It’s almost too easy to doze off again, your grogginess coupled with Din’s calming presence. 

Before you’re able to drift back into a light sleep, he gently places his free hand on your arm, giving a light squeeze. His gruff voice just barely above a whisper, “I know you’re tired— but we won’t be out long… You’ll meet the baar’ure and the gotabore, and we’ll come back here.”  

Gotabore— that’s a new one. The mechs? 

Your eyes meet his visor again, and with a small sigh, you nod at him. “Let me get dressed… then I’ll make the caf.” Giving him a weak grin, he gently removes his hand from your arm, allowing you to stand back up and return to your sleeping area once again. While changing into a set of durable work-clothes, the time alone offers you the chance to reflect on the current arrangement— reiterating once more where you’ve come to, and why.

Recalling back to the discussion with the Alor the day prior— inquiring about some of your aptitudes and skill sets, tasking you with specific labor, and instructing Din the same. Being a guest in their home; shielding you from any dangers, being given a bed to sleep in and meals to eat— requesting that you earn your keep seems reasonable. But why did she ask— tell— Din to bring you here? When you first met, she did not deem you as a member of his clan, despite your… relationship with Din and your role as the other caretaker of the Child. Currently— the populace of this pseudokarst-hidden covert regard you as nothing but an outsider. An invader. A danger. A threat to their safety. An aruetii. 

And yet, no matter their levels of distrust, you are here, by the Alor’s request.

This is not the first time you have had to deal with unpleasant people— those that make the day seem unending or unyielding in its discomfort, or work with ones who question your intelligence or ability at every turn. The only surefire way to ease the inquietude of your cohorts is to employ the same tactics that you always have— by simply doing your best. With Din, this came naturally. As a pragmatic man, he values and trusts both competency and integrity. Showcasing both traits allowed him to ease his habitual suspicion of strangers and eventually, after enough time, foster a fond friendship between you. Perhaps utilizing the same tactic can render a twin outcome.

It can’t hurt to try, at least for Din’s sake.

You understand, at least to some degree, what the concept of clan and community mean to him. After the tragedy of Nevarro, you watched him silently mourn his many losses, not just of the individuals, but the purpose he held in providing for his people, his sense of worth intrinsically tied to the survival and prosperity of his tribe. Whilst those who are gone will never return, this new collective of Mando’ade could present Din with an opportunity to release his residual guilt and shame, resuming his role as a primary generator of income, sponsoring many Foundlings and adults alike for many years to come. In essence, Din could finally come home. 

Your place, for now it seems, is to make this arrangement with him, and them, work. To not instigate or incite any conflict, to not act out of turn or be discourteous. The way to the heart of your companion was through patience and compassion; and thus cooperation and communication is the way to solidarity with his comrades. Presenting yourself as an equal, as someone who has earned the respect and trust of one of their own can give them the freedom to do the same, without fear. And perhaps, one day, to care for you and about you just the same as Din does every day. 

—

The workshop is lively— abuzz and boisterous.   

The cavernous walls echo and amplify the clangs and thumps of the tools, muddling together with the chatter of the Mando’ade working together. In the mess of noise, you can distinctly make out their laughter, of all things— and with it, their camaraderie. At this moment, you can’t seem to recall a time in which you were that happy to be working on anything— undoubtedly, you’ve enjoyed some jobs and some people, but you can practically hear the smile in their voices hidden beneath their buy’ce. 

For a group of ‘fearsome, ruthless warriors’, this isn’t what I expected.

The workshop appears to double as a port for the strange variety of ships they have stored, ones they must have collected over time, perhaps as more Mando’ade arrived at this covert. Anything from speeders to small transports. Most of them don’t appear to be in the best condition— and by the looks of others, not entirely operational either. At the far end of the shop is the hangar door, which presumably leads to the outside, where two Mandos are working on a small ship— a CS fighter.  A small single-manned starfighter designed for combat, so customizable and versatile they’ve withstood the tests of time— most models still in existence are decades old. 

Another pre-Empire ship, I’m sensing a trend.

The two Mandos underneath the ship pay no mind to you and Din as you approach, instead focusing on trying to remove a part from the underbelly of the starfighter. Upon closer inspection, you take note of their appearances. One Mando adorned in armor painted a faded mauve— old paint, chipped on the thighs and chest piece; and the other a light blue, with gray accents detailing the armor throughout. The two of you watch them work for a minute before Din speaks, getting their attention. 

“Perhaps my friend could be of some aid.”

Their heads snap to you in unison, staring at you both for a moment. Mauve tilts her head, “Nice to see you too, Djarin.”

You give a slight chuckle at her response. Din can be the worst at introductions sometimes. You look back over to him, waiting for his own retort. Rather than greeting her, he nods his head once, and gestures towards the starfighter, “Me’bana? What’s wrong with it?” 

Mauve pulls herself out from underneath the ship, wiping the oil on her gloves on the unarmored sections of her pants, and leaning herself against the wing.“Engine keeps overheating— we don’t have enough parts to replace every cooling unit, and I haven’t figured out which ones are failing or why,” she says casually, crossing her arms. She nods at you, “What do you think?” 

You match her stance, crossing your arms, leaning your weight to one side, giving the question a moment of thought. “A ship as old as this? Check the ground conductors. The one’s on the Crest fry pretty often, especially with how manically he flies it.” In your peripherals you see Din turn his head to look at you, as if your jab at his pilotage genuinely offended him, but hearing a snicker from Mauve, he looks away.

Listening to your suggestion, Blue works to take apart the cooling unit they had already removed, working his way down towards the center. In less than a minute, he’s able to remove one of the culprits responsible for the malfunction— a very fried ground conductor. With a little, prideful smirk, you turn your head slightly to look back at Din, your eyes meeting his visor. He gives you a short nod, a silent approval of your correct assessment, his own unique way of telling you, Good work.  

Blue rises from his back to a seated position, setting down the tool he has in hand. He refuses to look at you, to address you— to even acknowledge you, instead staring at Din. “Copikla bal mirdala— I see why the Alor let you keep her.” 

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

If you’re dastard enough to undermine me, have the gall to do it in Basic, asshole. You want to conjure some sort of response to him, but ignoring his attempt at a crude remark may be the best course of action— to retaliate with your own insult will do nothing but escalate this dispute. As you have come to learn, anger is prone to rashness. And anger, whether it’s yours or Din’s— or both, is what he wants. And you won’t give him the satisfaction of having it. 

“Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod.” 

Din, however, gives in to the bait. His voice irate— a warning, a threat. For a brief moment, there’s a passing worry about the possibility of Din igniting the flames of his gauntlet, a favorite weapon of his when he’s provoked. If anything, a knife fight feels more likely. The silence between the four of you somehow drowns out every other noise in the shop. The two of them continue to glare, both waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Your eyes watch back and forth between the two of them, waiting with baited breath. When Blue slowly raises both his hands in a mock surrender,“N'eparavu takisit, vod—“, and Din finally looks away from him, you know things have settled… for now.

An uncomfortable silence returns for a few moments, and Din is still not at ease. Mauve finally quips, “You saw it for yourself, go find another conductor.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Blue to leave. He rises, walking towards the other ships in the center of the shop— “You too, Djarin, find some.” She adds, casting Din away in the same manner she did with the other gotabor.  

Din hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave your side— and looks to you, with a silent question. You nod at him, an unspoken It’s okay— with a sigh, he complies with her command. “Fine,” he swiftly turns around, leaving the two of you alone. 

You watch them descend further into the shop, until they disappear from your sight. You’re left with the sounds of the distant chatter of the other Mando’ade, continuing to echo as it did when you first arrived. 

Well, that could have gone worse. 

Of the six Mando’ade you’ve met, three of them have not been hostile. It’s a start.

Continuing to stare off, Mauve speaks once more to get your attention. “Come help me check the rest of them.” 

Her request brings you back to the present moment, turning around to see her lying underneath the ship again, hands deep in its underbelly, loosening some things and pulling others. You kneel down, until you’re able to lower yourself to the ground completely, lying next to her. She hands you the cooling units as she pulls them out, and the two of you work to take them apart, sitting beside one another. 

“Jado doesn’t like you. But pay him no mind.” She states, matter-of-factly. 

Yeah, he looks like a ‘Jado.’ 

This revelation of Jado’s discontempt is unsurprising— and not unexpected. “He doesn’t know me,” you say. Asking a question of why would be inane, you already know the answer.   

“Well… none of us do. You’re an aruetii.” That moniker makes your stomach churn, but her lack of malice allows you to diminish the feeling of dejection quickly. “But that’s not inherently a bad thing. We’ll all get to know you soon enough.” 

…What? 

She continues, nonchalantly, “Djarin and the Alor trust you; so that’s all that matters. Aruetii or not.” 

You continue to work, letting a short-lived silence settle between you, before she speaks again. “I’m Odona. Clan Drii. Unfortunately, Jado’s a part of it too. My little vod.” 

You listen as her spiel drags on, leaning in to signal she has your attention, “We both usually work on the ships here, but he’s still pretty new at it— and I haven’t worked with many Pre-Imperial ships. When I heard that you were coming, after being on Djarin’s ancient me’sen?” She raises both her hands dramatically, “Briikase tuur. Happy day.” 

Listening to this Mandalorian monologue feels like an oxymoron— given the usual disposition of your companion, and the general taciturn reputation that all Mandalorians seem to hold amongst the outsiders. Regardless, her comment and theatrical gestures make you grin.

“Don’t tell me you’re another ‘strong and silent’ type… Djarin’s sulking is enough for me.” That makes you laugh. 

He does sulk a little, doesn’t he?

Smiling, you finally respond, “No. I think I’ve just grown accustomed to the sulking.” 

Odona snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll get none of that from me. You’ll replace Jado for now, we’ll likely get more accomplished that way.” You’re not disappointed, the change of pace will be interesting— a new opportunity to learn a lot from. You feel a little prideful, knowing that she’s pleased with your knowledge and ability. 

Before Odona can begin another monologue— and perhaps to disprove her claim of yours and Din’s shared hobby of sulking— you seize the chance to ask a question of your own. “I’m surprised by how many ships are here— but why are so many of them stripped out?”

Her hands stop, a pause in her tinkering as she ponders your enquiry. With a tilt of her head, she finally answers. “Whenever we get a new ship, it gets…” she hesitates for a moment, attempting to better articulate herself, searching for the precise word; “...triaged.” 

Interesting connotation.

 You suggest, “...As in, you decide whether to fix it, or scrap it for parts.”

“Exactly. We don’t have the resources to fix everything. It’s best to spend our time efficiently— focusing on the ones that will yield the greatest benefit in the long run.” The explanation is sound, yet Odona sees your underlying confusion still present. She asks you, “Why?”

Din would blow a fuse if someone tried to strip the Crest… again… Damn Jawas. 

You point in the direction Din and Jado wandered towards, “I can see why he landed the Crest over a mile away from here.” Odona chuckles at the light joke, and you continue, “But— people are… okay with their ship getting scrapped?” On the surface, the concept almost sounds absurd. For Din, the Crest is another home. Everything meticulously ordered, from his weapons to his food stocks. Despite the frequent abuse his ship endures, he works to ensure its continued functionality, it’s almost a second layer of armor, one he cares about greatly. 

“Well, no one has a personal ship— whenever any newcomers settle into the covert, any ships they once owned join the tribe’s fleet,” Odona explains. 

Your brows furrow. They just give away their ship to the covert?

She elaborates more. “I guess it could be difficult for someone outside of…” she gestures to your surroundings, “...this… to understand. We share things— me’dinui— do what we can to contribute to each other, to our community.” She shrugs, watching you, gauging your reaction. “A ship doesn’t mean anything… But supporting your aliit? Your family?” She pauses again, her voice passionate, “...It’s everything. All we truly have is each other.”

In a galaxy so wrought with selfishness, greed, and ‘survival of the fittest’— the thought of anyone doing anything for a collective good is almost inconceivable. And yet, hearing the emotion of her voice, listening to her speak of the tenets you see Din adhere to so unfailingly, the concept of unity seems more tangible, more apodictic.  

Setting down the tools you have in hand, you softly lament, “Sadly, I think I’ve become a little jaded to that idea...” you look at her, hoping to meet her eyes behind her visor, “...but I’m open to having my mind changed.”

You nod at her, and she does the same. In a familiar tone, Odona enounces, “Solus mhi oyacyi— this is the Way.” 

—

Upon Din’s and Jado’s return with the necessary parts, Din extends a hand to you to help you rise from the ground. 

As you stand, Odona quips “Making me do all the work with these?” 

And with Din’s reply— “We have other matters to attend to;” you make your way towards the exit, giving Odona a wave, and she returns with a nod. 

As you both close the heavy metal doors of the shop behind you, the hush of the cavern is jarring— the noise of the chaotic banter suddenly silenced. You’re only left with the sound of your blood whooshing in your head, and again, the persistent gelidity of the cave air forcing a chill up your spine. You exhale, removing your hands from the door, and slowly turn around to face Din. You stare at one another for a moment, before taking another breath. 

“Odona said you sulk too much,” you say, your voice light and soft, to break the quiet tension without dissettling the quiescent chamber.

He huffs at your teasing remark and tilts his head, “...It seemed like the two of you were getting along?” He matches your volume, inquiring gingerly.

There’s worry in his voice, you recognize. Lingering feelings of contrition for the unnecessary antagonism Jado had given you. It must be strange for him, you contemplate, this role reversal of sorts. Outside these walls, he’s a living embodiment of minatory. In his day-to-day, he has to make an effort to appear benign to sociable strangers— whilst you, on the other hand, are as regular as any other citizen in the galaxy— posing passivity is the goal, a fine balance between being amicable but guarded. But now, in his enclave, you have to think and behave as he does when he interacts with everyone else in the galaxy— an intriguing juxtaposition.  

You smile, “Yes, she’s interesting...she reminds me of Peli.” That’s not all he wants to know. It’s another tacit question, a chance to tell him how you feel without him having to ask. You take a step closer, letting your eyes meet his visor, “She also assured me that continuing to ignore her brother’s jibes is the best course of action.”

He sighs, and his shoulders drop. “I told him not to do it again.”

Din isn’t good with words. He’s curt, sometimes to the point of being tactless. On Sorgan, when faced with the obligation of informing the villagers of their predicament— Bad news, you can’t live here anymore— his delivery, at best, was uncouth. Nice bedside manner— Cara had told him, which earned a chuckle from you. He usually thrives more in one-on-one interactions; he can be amenable— kind, even. He ensures to give people thanks when necessary, listens to others without interruption; and attempts to be a calm presence, especially in times of turmoil.

Where he excels, however, are in his actions. Whether it’s the softer things— letting the Child grip his finger for comfort, a gentle hand to help you;  or the more intense things— fighting his way through an army of Imperials to ensure the safety of his aliit, Din shows his care through his actions. He didn’t protect you from the enmity of his cohort because he thought you were incapable of vying against another Mando’ade. He wasn’t attempting to patronize you— but rather displaying his respect, to not stand idly by when someone is attempting to ostracize you. 

His care is a reverent kind, one he conveys with both his body and his mind, a message given with nary a word spoken.

You stare into him once more, hoping to meet his eyes. You grin, and give a soft “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond, he simply nods.

You gaze at one another for a few moments, before you nod your head to the side, gesturing to him to start walking; just as he did to you the day prior. Together, you walk beside each other through the various halls and passageways— working to build a mental map of the cave system— until you reach the medbay. 

It’s a small room, one equipt to host only a few residents. Along the chamber walls are privacy shields— drawn to create different spaces for individual patients. Towards the back are tall shelves of med supplies— anything from syringes and needles, blood tubes, to disinfectants, gauze, and kits for intravenous fluids— supplies that would allow for basic blood tests, and treating minor to moderate wounds. Near the entrance sits another Mando, the baar’ur— their armor a deep green with teal sigils along the side of their buy’ce; holo pad in hand, seemingly deep in focus. 

The sounds of your footsteps pull her attention. “Ah, su cuy'gar, Djarin, it’s been a while. How’s your ik’aad?” 

He extends a hand for her to grasp, pulling her from the ground. “Fine. He’s with the other ade.”

She looks at you, “Jatne vod, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” 

“I hope I can assist.” You give her your name, she replies with her own; Mavis. 

She sighs, exasperated. She points to the first room, “One of the idiot cabure just showed up for the third time in two weeks, and…” She stops, and takes a deep breath, trying to ease her agitation, “... and I don’t want to deal with him again.” She holds the holopad out for you to take, “Can you handle this for me?”

Reading through her notes, you skim over some of the details.

G: He is in no apparent distress. He is alert and oriented

S: No open fracture or bony abnormality

E: Laceration to left shoulder, 15cm x 1 cm, simple, shallow

A simple laceration… “No sutures or staples?” You ask.

“No. Just use a tissue adhesive— I would have just made him do it himself; but he can’t reach it.” Her annoyance seeps through her voice again, “So, don’t waste any bacta on that,” she replies, pointedly. She mumbles under her breath, shaking her head, “Kad knows that utreekov will be back here next week.” She looks at Din, who gives her a sympathetic shrug. 

She must be the only medic here. 

You nod in understanding, “...I’ll take care of him, Mavis.” You turn around to walk towards the room, reading through the rest of her notes. Din and the baar’ur carry on in conversation as you approach the line of privacy shades.

Standing before the first room, you use the corner of the holo pad to tap upon the pole holding the curtain— a sound to alert the patient of your arrival, “Can I come in?” you ask.

A moment of silence greets you, before a deep voice answers “...Sure.”

Slowly drawing back the curtain just wide enough to allow you entry, you step in. 

A familiar Mando sits before you. The idiot cabur.

The same idiot cabur you met yesterday— the very one that glowered into your karking soul like he craved nothing more than to break you in half. The sight of him makes your stomach sink— dread coursing through your bones, your nerves firing to prepare for his inevitable attack— skin electric, heart racing, blood cold. 

You’re not safe.

You breathe, trying to will your voice to return once more. Taking a moment, your eyes scan up and down his form— assessing his position. He’s slouched, sitting atop the bed, one leg tucked underneath the other, a hand pressed against the injured shoulder. His pauldrons and chest piece sit beside him, his shirt half pulled over his form, revealing the nasty gash across his shoulder blade. Your eyes finally meet his visor— almost hoping to find his own beneath it, only to greet the same abyss that bore into you upon your first meeting. 

Breathe. You nod at him, feigning nonchalance, “What happened?”

He observes you in return, tilting his head. 

His gaze, though not predatory, reveals his intrigue. You’re enigmatic, oracular— he’s studying you, fixated on your features; searching for the apologues and adages that have sculpted your spirit— the flame of your psyche he yearns to succumb to. For a moment, he too is breathless, lost in the sea of your presence, desperate for a mast to secure himself to. He yields, finally looking away from you, to bring his attention to his injured shoulder.  

He considers his response, and answers your question; almost timid, but with an obvious lightness to his voice. “I— uh… bravely protected the covert from an invader.” 

You blink, and furrow your brows in confusion. You slowly shake your head at him. “No.” You reply, unconvinced. “Try again.”

He straightens his posture, looking at you once more. After another pause, he argues his second retelling of events. “Okay… again, I bravely rescued a Foundling lost in one of the Back Caves,” his voice less shy, but still chary.

His witticism begins to thaw the icy tension between you, reforming to liquescent diffidence— your pulse easing back to its restful tempo, the slight tremor of your hands gradually ceasing. You stride towards him, equanimous and assured, until you’re close enough to inspect his injury. A nasty gash, skin frayed along the edges, with smaller abrasions surrounding it— the beginnings of a bruise coloring the area. Dust and tiny shards of lava rock are settled on the skin throughout, peppering the wound. It looks painful.

Your eyes meet his hidden ones, desperate to conceal your amused grin he’s given you, “No,” you challenge, an insincere jest, “...last chance.”

He chortles, looking away again, almost bashful. “I fell,” he responds, resolute. “In the Back Caves… Lost my footing on an unsteady rock, and landed on a sharper one.” His coyish inflection shifting to one aflutter— in a moment of confidence, he returns his gaze to you, illuminated by your amused expression, having caught on to his jocular antics. 

You nod, and try to hide your simper, “That sounds right.” You gesture to his shoulder, “May I?”

“Please.” He moves slowly, turning slightly, allowing you easier access to his shoulder.  

With the wound in full view, you work to treat him.  

It only takes but a few minutes to clean the area, the two of you spend that time in silence. He fidgets, not in a way that indicates he’s in pain— but rather that he’s unnerved, nervous, even mousy. This massive Mando’ad sits beside you with such tension in his form, as though he’s bracing for an impact; on the precipice of the inchoate attack— waiting for the aruetii to spit their vitriol, to exploit his vulnerable position and leave him more scathed than when he arrived.  

With your hands gently pressing over his shoulder blade, sealing the adhesive in place; he releases a long held breath, the anticipated aggression absent. The tautness of his muscles gives way, highlighting their definition across his back as he decompresses. Stop looking. His heat radiating into your palms, a warmth you’ve been starved of since entering this frore catacomb, you’re reluctant to pull away— longing to linger in the intimacy of this untrodden amity that has just scarcely begun. 

Slowly, you will yourself to retreat, discarding the soiled gauze and removing your disposable gloves. “Does the brave cabur have any other battle wounds?” You tease, disrupting the prolonged silence.

“No, ma’am,” his tone reveleaving the alacarious smirk hidden behind his buy’ce. As you turn away, he maneuvers his arm back into his shirt. He continues, “...thank you. Vor entye.” 

You look back to him and nod, “Of course.” 

Just as the silence settles again, and you attempt to leave, he recommences. “Before you go…” He waits for you to stop, “I was hoping to speak with you?” His inflection returns to one of timidness again; but he sits straighter, his legs wide and relaxed, his hands resting over his thighs. Even without his armor, his broad form fills the space around him. Don’t ogle. “We didn’t get to talk much yesterday.”

Difficult to chat when you think you’re about to die. “No, we didn’t.”

His voice turns gentle, almost placating, as if he heard your thought. “I’m Ikarus, a guardsman for the covert. The other cabur was Sabe.” He breathes, tilts his head, fidgets like he’s considering every word before he says it. “It’s our duty… to ensure the safety of everyone here. Including you.”

You’re frozen in place, refusing to cross the threshold to him again, despite his words wanting you to ease yourself closer.

“I—” the words are trapped in his throat, “I failed that duty yesterday. I failed you.” 

He pauses, looking down to the floor, gathering his thoughts once more. “I’ve been here a long time. We’re very careful who we allow in here. Having a new Foundling and an outsider come in like this is unusual, to say the least.” 

He looks to your face, meeting your eyes, “But this… inordinate circumstance… doesn’t give me the right to scare you. Being leered at by a giant, armed, faceless stranger should not have been your first impression of us… of me.” 

His guilt bleeds into his speech, a sadness overcoming him. “I’m sorry.”  For a moment, Ikarus envisions you, the terror in your eyes upon your first meeting, your protectiveness of the Child, of Djarin shielding you from his ravening presence, keeping you away from him. “Ni ceta, I’m sorry.” 

You stare at him, speechless, in awe of his confession. 

Ni ceta. I kneel. 

A rare, groveling apology you had only heard once before— in an unfortunate situation with Din that left you both upset— he found the Basic phrase I’m sorry could not express his attrition wholly. He had explained the Mando’a words to you; their connotation, their significance. Kneeling, you learned, was one of the highest forms of respect to another Mando’ade— not only a display of humility, but reverence, obedience; and at certain times, even submission. Whilst his genuflect never came, his declaration was enough for you both to reconcile. 

But the person before you is not Din Djarin.

Having a man like him brought to his knees would be a sight to behold. 

In a moment of boldness, you slowly step towards him— soft on your feet— until you stand a mere meter apart, never looking away from where you presume his eyes to be. In a quiet, demulcent tone— barely above a whisper; before you can even think to reconsider your words, you ask him, “Are you going to kneel, Ikarus?”

Thence, he is in free fall. Your emollient voice and temerarious inquiry luring him into the vast unknown of you— succumbing to the pull of your orbit, the fire of your spirit. In an instant, his body relaxes— his eyes bore into yours, as he slowly rises from the medical bed to his full height, before bending the knee to kneel below you. After a moment, he extends his hand for you to grasp. Whence his hand grips yours, he answers your question in kind; “Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin.”

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

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#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #mando'a #original mandalorian characters #they're my favorites #i love them #shereshoy series #shereshoy sister fic #not my writing #i have permission to post this

[setaripendragon]

Sunlight by Hozier - in Mando'a

If you remember this post where I translated I See Fire into Sindarin, you probably won't be all that surprised by this. I've fallen head-first into the Star Wars fandom (admittedly second-hand, but still), and of course, being me, I went straight for the conlangs. Mando'a might not be the most fleshed out language of the GFFA, but it is the one with the most Culture, at least in the fandom, so it's the one I gravitated to. And honestly, I really like how... brisk it is? It drops unnecessary pronouns and verbs, barely bothers with tense at all, and contracts everything. It's so much fun to play with.

Sunlight isn't the first song I started translating into it (that would be Born For This from the Spiderverse movie), but it is the first one I've finished, because matching Mando'a to English scansion is hell. It struck me as a very Codywan song, which is why I picked it to translate (yes, I do imagine Obi-wan composing/singing it in honour of Cody pretty much every time I listen to it).

I did have to make up a couple of words because the dictionary I use didn't have even a near-equivalent to the concept I was looking for, and those will be marked with a * and I'll add the 'etymology' of them at the end. (If anyone knows any other Mando'dictionaries, throwing me a link will win you my undying gratitude.) I also had to get creative with my interpreations of the meaning of certain lines, since, just to pick the most obvious example, Mandalorians probably don't have the myth of Icarus like we do.

Any feedback, advice, or just general linguistics flailing is always welcome. Now, without further ado, here it is:

Tran'nau* (Sunlight)

Ni ru'nevor nau (I shunned the light) Ru'medinui naak be ca'tra (I shared in the peace of night) Ni nu'mirdi ba'slanar (I wouldn't think to leave) Par tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Tion'ad karta nu'redal (Whose heart doesn't dance) Dar'shekemi tra be ca'tra (Wouldn't abandon the stars of night) Sha solyc hettyc haa'it (At first burning vision) Be tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Ni r'echoyla ba'gar, tran'nau (I was lost to you, sunlight) Ru'miy sa kisen* ba'gar, tran'nau (Flew like a moth to you, sunlight) Ner tran'nau (My sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gehat'ik arasuum (The tale remains the same) Ru'rejor bal ven'rejor (Told before and told again) Runi ru'got* lo ciryc pitat (The soul that's born in the cold rain) Kar'mir tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Mar'e lis dinuir gai (At last I can give a name) Ba tracin haaranovyc (To a hidden flame) Sa kar'tayli darasuum (As love/knowing forever) Ner tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (My sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

An tengaana ba'ni, tran'nau (All that's displayed to me, sunlight) Ratiin kar'mir ba'ni, tran'nau (Is always known to me, sunlight) Ner tran'nau (My sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Tran'nau (Sunlight)

An ner alii'gai* lo gar gaan solus (All that I am is in your hands) Ke'juri ni ulyc, ner tran'nau (Carry me carefully, my sunlight) An ner alii'gai* lo gar gaan solus (All that I am is in your hands) Ke'juri ni ulyc, ner tran'nau (Carry me carefully, my sunlight)

Antuur* mhi cuy tome (Everyday we exist together) Kar'mir gar ner shereshoy (Know that you're my reason for living) Ner oya bal kyr slati* gar (My life and death belong to you) Ner tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (My sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Narbatir* sen'tra (Wearing a jetpack) Kyr'nayl'gam* briikasyc (I'm death-trap clad happily) Galar carud ni trattokor (Spilling smoke I fall) Chur tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Gar kar'tayli tran'nau (Your love is sunlight) Gar kar'tayli tran'nau, tran'nau, tran'nau (Your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

Tran'nau (Sunlight) Tran'nau (Sunlight) Tran'nau (Sunlight) Tran'nau (Sunlight) Tran'nau (Sunlight)

[*tran'nau = tra (star field)/tranyc (sunny) + nau (light)] [*kisen (moth) = kih (small) + senaar (bird)] [*ru'got (born) = ru- (past prefix) + goten (birth)] [*alii'gai (identity) = aliit (clan)/aliik (sigil/symbol) + gai (name). This is technically already a word that means 'colours', but I took that to mean specifcally the colours one wears on their armour, the 'face' they show the world, i.e. their identity.] [*antuur (everyday) = anay (every) + tuur (day)] [*slatir (to belong to) = slanar (to go) + ti (with). I took the inspiration for this from the etymology of the word 'belong' in English.] [*narbatir (to wear/to put on) = narir (to put) + bat (on)] [*kyr'nayl'gam (death-trap-skinned) = kyr (end/death) + gaanaylir (to trap) + 'gam (skin). Since beskar'gam is literally 'metal-skin' and the word for skin literally translates to 'soft-skin', I figured it could also be poetically used to mean 'clad in']

#Mando'a #Star Wars #Codywan #song lyrics #translation #conlanging #Mandalorians #back on my linguistics bullshit #why yes I did deliberately not-quite parallel mandalorian wedding vows in this #and I figure the mandalorian version of 'wings made of wax' would be like a shitty jetpack or something #this is just what I do when I have writers block #and I've had a lot of writers block this last couple of years #I have SO MANY half-translated songs on my hard drive #so many

[foreverchangingfandomsao3]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: Love Letters, Cody's writing a love letter to Obi-Wan, Drabble, CC-2224 | Cody Loves Obi-Wan Kenobi, Not Beta'd, Soft CC-2224 | Cody, Cody's first love letter, No Plot/Plotless, It is literally just a letter from Cody to Obi-Wan Summary:

A quick love letter from Cody to Obi-Wan for Valentine's Day!

#Codywan #My writing #I think this is the shortest thing I've ever written and that alone is impressive #Essentially Cody telling Obi-Wan why he loves him

[galacticgraffiti]

⋞ The War of Life and Death III ⋟

An Eya & Fives story. Huge thanks to @pinkiemme for loving me and letting me borrow Fives art for my little header!

Rating: Mature (for some gore and heavy themes) Wordcount: 5.1k Warnings: angst, fighting, gore, general violence, panic attack/ptsd, hurt/no comfort Summary: The match ensues... everything goes well and everybody is happy forever (I am lying).

Part I ✧ Part II ✧ Part III

━━━━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━━━━

Part III: A Dance with Death

Coruscant, Ramikadyc Dojo. 19 BBY.

Eya feels the tension of Fives’s body more than they see it. That is the first lesson they were taught, just a small tadpole in the créche of their youth, only learning how to walk after their legs had grown in. And they soaked up the knowledge that was given to them: A true warrior relies on all their senses. Sight is never the most important thing, especially for a Nautolan.

They can practically hear their buir’s voice when they sidestep Fives charging at them, a memory tugging at the edge of their mind.

“Isiri abiik, Ne’kho. Aala agol be aru’e. Ori’jate, ad’ika!”

Fives’s teeth are clenched, his lips curled into an ugly snarl, and Eya realises this fight means something to him. He thinks he has something to prove – if not to himself then to them. This might have started as friendly sparring, might even be a way to get the tension out of Fives’s body, but it’s become more than that to him. Whether it is out of frustration or because their talk has stirred some ambition inside him – Fives wants to win this fight desperately.

Too bad he won’t.

“Udesii, vod!” they call out to him, dancing around the mat as they gauge his movements, trying to assess whether his rage runs deep enough to be dangerous. “This is a fight between friends, no? Doesn’t matter who wins in the end.”

The way Fives growls at that is almost enough to make them pity him. He will not come out of this a happy man, not with this… this need he has, this desperation to win. Eya even considers letting him win only for a split second, but – no. He asked for this, not for special treatment. Fives will bloody well learn what it means to fight Kyreya.

“Stop mocking me,” Fives grits out. Anger hangs in the air, sudden and acidic, so much so that Eya can taste it even though their tendrils remain safely knotted behind their head.

“I am not mocking you,” they say, their hands raised as if to calm a wild animal as they mirror Fives’s steps. “You want to… let it all out. You want to throw your anger at me, that’s fine. Do your worst, and I will take it. Vode ratiin, nayc? Get angry. Go loud. Just… don’t get angry at me. It was you who wanted to fight in the first place. Let yourself feel, and then use that anger. Don’t lose yourself in it.”

Fives crumples up his nose, then gives a sharp nod.

“Vode ratiin, Kyr’eya.”

“Jate.”

Eya relaxes their posture for a moment, shaking out their arms before they drop back into their fighting stance, fists raised in front of their face. Fives shifts on his feet, and Eya can feel it coming – that eruption of tension; they can see the lunge before he takes a step, see it in the way his muscles tense and how he ducks his head to go low. Still, he nearly gets them, missing only by an inch when they twirl out of the way.

Fives is fast – faster than they had anticipated. It was to be expected that he would be well-trained- he is not only a soldier, he is an ARC-Trooper and despite the army’s preference for meaningless chest candy, ARC does actually mean something among their ranks. And he is Mando’ad, trained in the ways of battle, even if the approach was… less traditional than Eya’s upbringing.

Eya grins at the obvious frustration pouring off of Fives in waves. Riling him up might not be the wisest thing to do in his current state… but gods, is it ever fun.

“Come on then, verd’ika, come at me. I thought you wanted to fight.”

Fives spits out a curse, but he doesn’t attack again, keeps his distance as they both prance around the other, sizing up their respective opponent. Eya is heavier, but that also makes them slower, no matter how hard they train, no matter how good their reflexes. Fives is lighter, less muscle which means less force. Even when – even if – he does hit, he will have to hit a lot harder than Eya to make them waiver. They don’t doubt for a second that he can, and that he will. They just need to make him angry enough to charge.

The taste of battle is familiar on their tongue, settling heavy over them. It’s the smell of sweat, of fear and anger, of blood and the dirty ground beneath their steady feet. Eya’s eye whirs in its socket as they regard Fives, the heaving of his chest, the flame of his eyes.

And Eya pounces.

A quick shift of weight, a mean left hook, aimed right at Fives’s chin- and they miss. He moves, faster than even their cybernetic can follow, a shadow slipping out of reach. Eya laughs.

“Ah, there we go!”

Their laughter turns a little mean as they follow Fives’s retreat with a giant leap, ducking out of his way the same moment they have solid ground beneath their feet and he throws his small fists at them in rapid succession. None of the blows land, but Fives nearly loses his balance from his own momentum, too sure he would hit solid muscle, and Eya uses that.

One of their feet hooks between Fives’s legs and he stumbles to the ground, reaching out to pull Eya with him, barely just managing to throw them off kilter enough for them to fall. They land in a pile, Eya rolling over quickly with Fives straddling their chest, his wrists in the death grip of their left hand, his foot on their right arm, pressing it to the ground.

“You fight dirty,” Fives grunts, but those are all the words he can get out before Eya lets go of his hands to land a brutal blow, punching the air from his lungs. He gasps like a fish out of water, but recovers quicker than should be possible, bending down without regard for his own safety and knocking his head against Eya’s, hard. The surprise is enough to give Fives time to twist out of their grasp and back away from them, spitting onto the ground as he stalks around the circle of the mat.

“Maybe you should fight dirty too,” Eya suggests, pushing themself up from the ground as casually as they can manage, just to stoke the fire of rage in Fives’s chest. “I thought you wanted to beat me.”

“In a fair match!” Fives exclaims, sounding equally out of breath and angry.

“Is it not fair if we both fight dirty?” Eya cocks their head. “I said, come on. Throw all you’ve got at me, be bitter and angry and unfair. Use every trick in the book, and then use those never written down. I am Mandalorian, I can take it. You won’t hurt me, ad’ika.”

“I. am not. little.” Fives spits the words out like bile, and Eya gurgles.

“To me, almost everyone is. So make good use of it. Be smart about it. Don’t just try to hit me, vod. Make it count, make it hurt.”

Fives’s face softens for a moment when he regards them with serious eyes.

“You sound almost like you want to be hit.”

“And what if I do?” Eya hums. “It’s been ages since I have felt the remnants of a truly good fight, and you… you have the makings of a worthy opponent. Try your hardest to make me bleed and see if you can manage.”

“I…” Fives shakes his head for a moment. “I don’t want to actually hurt you, Kyreya, cyare.”

“I know.” Eya shakes their head. “It’s not about that, not about me. Forget that it is me for a moment. Picture everything, picture everyone you have ever wanted to destroy. Think of them when you aim your blows, I promise I won’t break.”

Fives squares up his shoulders at their words, the flame in his eyes back with a vengeance. He sees a chance to win and he won’t back down. Which is exactly what Eya wanted. His voice, hesitant at first, is stronger now.

“If you say you are fine with it…”

“I am,” Eya confirms. They are itching for the fight now- for the taste of blood on their tongue, for the aches and scars and bruises that come with battle. It’s too late to turn back. They need this fight just as much as Fives did earlier. Maybe even more.

When a good soldier tastes blood, they don’t back away. They look for the source and then they apply pressure until the pain stops or death ends it all. Eya is a good soldier. Eya is the best soldier.

Fives shifts from one foot to another, contemplating where to best put his weight. Eya mirrors him as they watch, ready to counteract any attack thrown at them. The muscles in Fives’s calf contract, and just as Eya steps forward, so does Fives.

They collide in the middle, in a tangle of limbs and fists. A quick sequence of exchanged blows, barely any of them landing- the rattle of Fives’s laughter- the tight knot of Eya’s tendrils squirming in an attempt to taste like they usually do: The air smells like sweat and anticipation, and it makes Eya’s skin tingle.

Yes, they want to scream. Yes, this is battle. Give me all you have, make it hurt.

Their fist hits Fives’s side and he groans, stumbling backwards and gasping for air. Rough curses fall from his lips as he eyes Eya up and down, and they smile their gleaming beskar smile.

Fives’s fist hits them square in the mouth and they can feel their lip split, but the sharp pain only spurns them on. The taste of seaweed blood replaced the taste of beskar in their mouth when they wipe their face, smearing the blood all over.

The next hook Fives throws is easily countered, one of Eya’s taped knuckles crashing into his cheekbone with a sickening crack. Fives howls but doesn't retreat. His movements grow frantic, but Eya still meets him on equal footing, just as fast and with more force than before.

The soles Eya’s feet scrape against the ground, cold and hard and unforgiving, just as Fives’s fingers dig into their bicep, pulling at them. Eya stumbles for just a moment, and Fives’s knee is jammed into their crotch. They thank the heavens that they have no vital organs there - none that have deigned to show themselves today, anyways - and grin in the face of Fives’s confusion.

“Fuck’s sake, not fair,” he groans.

Eya doesn't respond. Fives is still beautifully distracted, and when they lean back and kick their foot against his chest with dangerous force, he tips over backwards.

Fives roars when his back meets the ground, his spine against violent duracrete. He curls in on himself like a child for just a second. Eya watches, panting from exertion. They have not enjoyed themself like this in ages.

Fives’s saliva is bloody, dripping down his chin when he stands up, anger distorting his usually so beautiful face.

The world goes quiet.

There is the soft exhale of air, and the thumping of their heartbeats in their ears. With one step, one move, the fire of battle crackles again. Fives throws himself at Eya, sinuous and so small compared to them. His foot kicks upward, aiming at the softness of their stomach this time, and while Eya is distracted deflecting the blow, a clenched fist connects with their jaw.

Eya’s kyram’edeem clack together audibly, metal biting into bone, their lip cracking at the force of the blow.

“Fuck, you hit harder than I would’ve given you credit for, verd’ika,” they spit, but there is a grin on their face. Finally, the taste of blood, the taste of a good fight, of a worthy opponent.

“You should know better,” Fives calls out. “Come on, you can hit me harder than that!” 

Fives is grinning at Eya with bloodied teeth. When he wipes his face with the back of his hand, their eyes focus on the way his knuckles are ripped open by the force of his blows against their unwavering chest.

“You don’t want me to, soldier,” they snarl through gritted fangs. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Careful is my middle name.” Fived chuckles.

“It really, really isn’t,” Eya growls. Fives only laughs in agreement, and starts circling them again, waiting for another opportunity to attack. Eya doesn’t give him much time.

They leap forward, their fists raised, pushing at Fives’s hasty defence in a craze, thrashing and pushing, pulling none of their punches. Fives ducks and counters. His fists are quick, and he lands one – two – three blows in rapid succession, sweet pain blooming in the wake of his hands. 

Eya curls their lip in disappointment. For a moment, they step back to gather themself. They need to be faster, they can’t keep underestimating Fives. He’s good – not good enough, but better than they had anticipated. His blows barely hurt, years of rigid training and practise have rid Eya of that pesky feeling, but still – if they let Fives get any more hits in, he’ll get cocky.

A deep breath. The stench of sweat stains Eya’s tongue, combined with the faintest whiff of blood – Fives’s metallic and red, Eya’s tangy and deep blue. And the fight starts again.

Fists and faces collide in an explosion of ecstatic violence. Eya’s breath is cold on Fives’s face, his hot in theirs. Their tendrils fight to unwind, to taste him, to help them, but Eya keeps them under control.

They block and attack, almost as if taking turns, as if both of them had agreed to draw the fight out as long as they can. Eya savours it, this perfect anger that rises in their chest.

They could end him in a heartbeat – the longer they fight, the more certain Eya becomes. Fives has weaknesses that are glaringly obvious: He leaves his left side wide open whenever he attacks. One good hit to his kidney, and he would be on the ground and at their mercy. His face is precious and he tries his best to protect it, so Eya makes it their mission to hit him as often as they can: A fist to his jaw, then his nose.

While the blows to his chest and sides make Fives stumble backwards, Eya puts less force into their assaults on his face. They would like to keep Fives intact and conscious for as long as they can. This is only just starting to become fun.

“You’re pulling your punches, Kyreya,” Fives snarls when they connect again, his fist crashing against Eya’s clavicle in a move that has them suck in a wheezing breath through their teeth.

That one hurt.

“Hmm, would you rather I break your pretty little face in half?” Eya hisses, their tone much meaner than their actual intention. They never want to hurt him, as much as they need to hurt someone.

“Don’t you worry about my pretty little face.” Fives laughs when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of Eya’s trousers and, in a move that seems almost erotic, pulls them closer. “I’d be more worried about your own nose, cyare. Seems that’s about the only part of your face that’s still intact.”

It’s a mean comment, and Eya shouldn’t let it get to them. They growl, one of their hands wrapping around Fives’s throat, moving so fast not even he can counter it. Their fingers close, and just like that, Fives is lifted- lifted from the ground, into the air.

It’s so easy. He would be so easy to snap in half.

He claws at Eya’s hand – they always become so desperate so quickly – but finds no leverage. Eya stares at him coldly, cocking their head, their arm not even shaking from holding up his weight.

“Gar serim, vod’ika. I am the one who should be worried.” Sarcasm drips off their voice like poison. They squeeze just a little tighter, Fives’s head dark red as he gasps for air and is granted no reprieve.

In a desperate attempt, he stretches out his arm, legs kicking until Eya lets go of him.

“It would have been so easy for me to destroy you,” they jeer, the cruelty of their words bitter on their own tongue. A small voice in the back of their mind tells them they are being mean, tells them they should stop, tells them they should check in with Fives. They ignore it.

“Why don’t you, then?” Fives’s voice is impossibly hard, anger soaking the air between them, anger that makes Eya’s vision swim red at the edges when they taste it. “Why don’t you, hm, Kyreya? Have you gone soft in your time here? You, who pretends to be such a great warrior, lost their edge? Stayed out of the fight too long, huh, hut’uun?”

The word comes unexpected, the insult drifting through the air and burying its hooks deep inside Eya’s hearts. They narrow their eyes, rage boiling in their blood like molten fire.

“Nu hut’uun, haar chak! Gar nakar’mi meg gar sirbu.” They spit out the words like they burn on their tongue. “You don’t know the ways of old, vod’ika. How dare you insult me like this? Especially after losing to me in battle, how dare you-”

“I haven’t lost yet,” Fives whispers, and even before the words have left this tongue, he is on them again, clawing at their side until Eya doubles over, sharp nails burying into their skin. Fives uses the opportunity, wrapping his own body around theirs until he’s hanging from their back. Eya roars and twists, but they can’t reach him, not like this.

Fives howls triumphantly, fingers digging into the meat of Eya’s shoulder. His legs wrap around their middle, his arm snaking around Eya’s throat until he has the leverage he needs to block their air supply.

Eya’s vision starts to swim, wheezing breaths wrenching themselves from their dry lungs. Their gills flutter uselessly, tendrils coiling tight with the taste of Fives’s premature triumph.

There is only one way out, and it’s dangerous. Eya makes it work. They stumble forward, one step – two steps, to where soft mats cover the ground. And let themself fall backwards.

Fives is crushed beneath their weight, his victorious howl fading into a wheeze, breath rattling in his throat. His arm drops, nails clawing at Eya, at the hardness of them, the muscle of their shoulder, the bone of their jaw, until they find something soft.

Fives’s fingers press into Eya’s eye sockets, and then, all they see is red.

The world fades, and it’s all them and that pain, that unbearable pain and their eye- gone- they can’t see, there is only darkness, darkness and the shiver of impact, the crack of bone beneath them. Their fists curl up as Eya twists, their movements more muscle memory than conscious decision. The eye whirs in their skull, strange and hateful, and something presses down harder, throbbing in their skull.

It’s like blacking out, only worse. Eya’s ears are ringing, their hearts pounding in their chest as they try to find whatever is hurting them like this- find it and get rid of it, destroy it, annihilate it, crush it until this pain- this fucking pain- until it stops, it stops, it needs to STOP.

Bone snaps beneath their palm when they punch down, but they still can’t see, can’t see, can’t see CAN’T SEE.

Their head is swimming with disorientation, their gills contracting with dry air instead of water, and Eya floats. Blood is dripping down their cheek, but it tastes… wrong, tastes like metal instead of the sea, is thinner, is sweeter than their own.

Someone is groaning, and Eya’s fist shoots out in the direction of the noise. There is that sickening crunch of bone again, their fist connecting with a soft nose. Everything smells like blood, like sweaty fear. Finally, the pressure fades from their eyes, and Eya tries to open their eyes. Only one does, the other stuck somewhere between past and present.

Eya is met with the image of Fives below them, their hands wrapped around his neck, his face blooming with bruises, his nose broken. He is covered in blood, red and blue mixing on his tan skin in patterns of horrible beauty. Eya stares and stares and doesn’t see, their hands still squeezing, their breath still sharp, their hearts still out of rhythm. Their left eye whirrs in its socket, comes back to life, but Eya can’t see anything but the lifeless form below them, chest moving shallowly, legs still twitching. Their mind is unwilling to comprehend what their eyes are telling them: The dance with death is over.

It ends with Fives’s red grin as he spits blood in Eya’s face, with his smaller hands clawing on their larger ones, until they recognise his face under all that blood. Until their hands slowly unfurl from his delicate neck to let him breathe, his chest heaving when he gasps for air, his eyes unsteady, flicking back and forth.

“Oya, vod.” He hunches over, holding his knees tight, trying desperately to catch his breath. “I thought you were about to kill me just then.”

Eya is panting hard, their tendrils curling in the air as they taste the familiarity of Fives, trying to ground themself, trying to find their way back to the here and now, to this sweaty dojo and to their brother, who is alive, alive, though the look in his eyes is different than it was before the fight.

They did this. It’s their fault – he is afraid. They scared him, they-

Fives… Eya stretches out a tendril and he leans back a little, away from them in a weak attempt to hide his feelings. Eya can still taste it in the air though; not even a clone soldier can hide the stench of mortal fear.

They crouch down next to him, fingers knotted in their lap, eyes swimming. Eya stares at Fives’s bloodied face, at his broken nose and his split lip, the missing tooth and the gash through his brow, at his hair that’s matted with blood. And they realise they did that. This is all their fault – they hurt him when they promised they wouldn’t, they took him and broke him. He almost died by their hand, right here, when all it was supposed to be was a bit of fun.

Eya lost control, and they nearly destroyed him. Their vod, who trusted them with his life, and they took it and crushed it until he nearly bled out right next to them.

“I’m sorry.” Eya’s voice doesn’t sound like their own. So, they repeat it, over and over and over again until the words feel more familiar on their heavy tongue. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Fives’s terror still hangs in the air like a shroud, and still, his small hands find their way around Eya’s, holding them tight and bathing them in something new- something soft and lovely and warm- love.

Eya shudders and tries to pull away, but Fives keeps them steady.

“Ne tok’kad,” he says firmly. “Stay with me, Kyreya. Look at me.”

Eya can’t bear it – can’t bear the soft affection lacing his voice, dripping from his skin, can’t bear the forgiveness he is showing them for no reason at all, can’t bear that he is here and alive when he was so close to dying for the stupid choice of trusting them.

They should have never agreed to fight him, should have never said yes, should have never-

Memories come crashing in, cruel and uninvited, dark shadows on the doorstep of their mind.

And they remember it all: The war, the fight, the death. A pale blue hand slipping from their grasp, the terrified sound of their buir in the face of an explosion that should never have happened, that Eya was the cause of. The look in Healas’s eyes dancing across the room, spotting them- The cries of the children left for dead, and the taste of pure dread that choked them all those years ago- the searing pain of their missing limb, the taste of burnt flesh on their tongue… and then, the witch, and the millions of souls living inside her, screaming and screaming and screaming and tugging at Eya, tugging them down to where everyone they had ever killed was waiting for their turn, pulling them from their own body. A voice, familiar and loved… until Eya hears the words it says.

Gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kyr, gar ner, ner kad ner kyr ner oya, Ne’kho- 

“Kyr’eya!” There is another voice, steady and serious, almost angry, nagging at the back of their mind, a voice that is familiar but not of old. “Gar be’chaaj, verd’ika. Ke yaimpa at ni. Jii.”

Hands shake at them insistently, pulling at their real body, pulling them back from where they went, back to where they are tethered to the real world, where their arm aches and their knuckles burn, where the air smells of blood but not of death, of desperation but not of terror anymore.

“Eya, love.” The voice is right next to them, accompanied by the warm sweetness of affection that seeps into them. “Eya, I’m here. You’re here, and you’re okay. I’m okay.”

Eya turns their head, and the missing weight of their tendril weighs so heavy that they think they will tip over for a moment, and their eye isn’t right- isn’t right isn’t right, it’s so loud-

Finally, they focus, and reality comes flooding back. A small hand is patting their cheek, Fives nearly seated in their lap in order to get close enough to touch them. Fives. He looks so small, his lip trembling, his eyes large as he regards them.

“Eya?”

“Yeah.” Eya’s voice is rough, their throat dry and they can’t seem to swallow down the taste of metal on their tongue.

“You good?” Fives sounds like he doesn’t even expect a serious answer, and Eya isn’t about to give him one. There is nothing they could say that could make this better.

“Aye, I’m good. Don’t worry about me, vod.” Eya shakes their head, tendrils unravelling from the tight knot that has formed behind their head, trying to absorb all the smells that fill the air. “I was… my mind was far away. It happens after a fight, sometimes. I’m good, I promise.”

“Hmm.” Fives stares at them with dark eyes. “I- Don’t get mad, Eya. But… I don’t think you are.”

Eya opens their mouth to object, but Fives raises his hands as if to stop them.

“We don’t- we don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to, and… not to me. But maybe you should talk to… I don’t know. To someone. I don’t… I don’t think that is normal. I don’t think this is supposed to happen- gods, the way you were screaming-”

Screaming? Eya furrows their brow. Nobody has ever said anything about them screaming during an episode before.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” They shrug, their mind going a mile a minute. Screaming… it’s getting worse. But still- the way Fives is looking at them; somehow it’s worse than before. Pity has always been so much worse than fear.

Fives shakes his head, then flinches at his own movement. Dark bruises are blooming around his neck, the shape and size of Eya’s hands. Guilt rises in their chest like bile, bitter and rotten.

“It’s not about that,” Fives mumbles. “I just- I don’t think you’re well, Eya.”

“I’ve been fine until now,” Eya snarls, a sudden anger overtaking them at Fives’s insistence. They push his small body away to stand up from the ground. “I’m… fine. I’ve been managing, this was just… a mishap. I should not have agreed to fight you, I should have known better.”

“Known better?” Fives stares at them. “You mean- this has happened before?”

Eya shrugs and turns away, Fives’s gaze burning a hole into their back as they walk towards the lockers. This was just… a bad day. Just a bad day. They’re fine, they’ll be fine. Next time they’ll know- next time they won’t fight someone who means something to them, next time-

“Like I said,” they mumble, pulling their shirt over their head carefully, “I’ve been fine until now. Just… leave me be. I’ll take care of it.”

“Will you?” Fives’s voice is quiet and closer than they expected it to be. “I hope so… Gods, Kyreya. I hope so.”

Eya grunts noncommittally and turns to face Fives, who is staring up at them with a more serious expression on his face than they have ever seen him wear.

“I’ll see to it,” they repeat, though there is no real force behind their words. They are not sure they mean them just yet.

Fives eyes them a moment longer, mistrust shimmering golden in his eyes. Then, he nods slowly.

“If you say so.”

Quietly, they get dressed. When they walk out, Fives hugs Eya goodbye as he always does. Their tendrils curl around him softly, smoothing over his skin, covered in fresh bruises and old scars. It hurts to feel the love he still has for them, even after all this. He should hate them, but he has so much love to give.

Next time. They’ll talk about it next time. Tell him everything that happened, tell him who they are. He deserves to know. He deserves to know it wasn’t his fault that they hurt him, that it was all them- that they won’t do it again. He deserves to know that his love won’t be wasted on them. That they are trying to be better.

Next time. Eya’s tendrils curl around Fives’s arm for a moment before they let him go. He tastes like family, and when he smiles up at them, their hearts finally find their rhythm again.

It ends like this: With Fives walking away from them, kicking a pile of dirt in his way. With Fives turning around to wave at them, a small smile on his lips, and with Eya’s heart aching as they wonder where exactly they went wrong, and how to fix it all because if there ever was someone who deserves it, it’s this man with his soft heart and his sunshine smile.

It ends like this: With Fives fading into the grey of the city, and never coming back.

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Fin.

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Mando'a:

Isiri abiik, Ne’kho. Aala agol be aru’e. Ori’jate, ad’ika! - Smell the air, Ne'kho. Feel the moving flesh of your enemy. Very good, child! Udesii, vod! - Chill, bro. Vode ratiin, nayc? - Brothers forever, right? Jate. - Good. Gar serim, vod'ika. - You are right, little brother. hut'uun - Coward (atrocious insult to Mandalorians, the worst thing they can possibly be called) Nu hut’uun, haar chak! Gar nakar’mi meg gar sirbu. - I am not a coward, dammit. You don't know what you are saying. Gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kyr, gar ner, ner kad ner kyr ner oya, Ne’kho- You are the sword, you're the sword and the death, you are mine, my sword my death and my life, Ne'kho. Gar be’chaaj, verd’ika. Ke yaimpa at ni. Jii. - You are far away, soldier. Come back to me. Now.

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I'm sorry (I'm not). If you liked the angst, please leave a comment and a reblog! Always much appreciated.

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#ocs #oc eya #neyOCs #nautolan oc #mandalorian oc #fives #arc trooper fives #ct 5555 #neyo writes #eya's adventures

[alas-poor-cesario]

Fandom: Pacific Rim

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb

Characters: Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler

Additional Tags: gratuitous use of conlangs, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Mando'a Pet Names (Star Wars), Lang Belta, Belter Creole (The Expanse)

Summary: Hermann wakes after the events of Pacific Rim 1, looking for Newt. A small interlude between our favourite nerds.</p><p>Written as a Valentine's Day present for one of my favourite nerds.

#pacific rim #newmann #hermann gottlieb #newton geiszler #newt geiszler #newt x hermann #ao3 #mando'a #mandoa #lang belta

[candlebreak]

Aarayi Ade [Suffer the Children]

I translated Mercedes Lackey's song 'Suffer the Children' from her Valdemar series into Mando'a and recorded it. This may be the nerdiest thing I have ever put out into the internet, and almost certainly the most niche.

Full translation, Mando'a glossary & explanation of terms, and comparison to original English lyrics available on AO3

Recording: archive.org/details/aarayi-ade | download link

Original Song arr. Cecilia Eng, guit. Greg Shaver, perf. Leslie Fish

VERSE 1: Ibic’ner gaane meg juri kad [These are my hands that wield a sword] Ti kar’tayl bajur’yc [With trained knowledge] Ibic’ner gaane, ibic’ner mir [These are my hands, this is my mind] Bal kad’la bal kel kotyc [Both sharp and fortified and strong] Kyr’am ner vod bal tal ner bora [Death is my comrade and blood is my job] Akaan ner narser bal tsad [War is my purpose and tribe] Bid su ibic balyc gaane [Yet these are also the hands] Copaani taylir ad [That want to hold a child]

CHORUS: aarayi, aarayi, ade [They suffer, they suffer, the children] ka’ra, ner kar’ta echoyli [By the stars, my heart grieves] vurel bal ratiin haar ade [Ever and always the children (emphatic)] Kadale de buire tratyc [Are made casualties by failing parents]

VERSE 2: Ade kar’tayli serim ni burc’ya [The children rightly know that I’m a friend] Ni alaa o’r sur'haaise [I feel it in their eyes] Ade kar’tayli ner baat’yc kar’ta [The children know my heart is caring] Bid evaar’la bid mir’ne [So young, so very wise] Ibic’ner gaane kyr'amu adenn [These my hands kill mercilessly] Al ade nu draar ulu [But children never care/notice] Shi kar’tayli ner gaane kotyc [They only know my hands are strong] Bal udese gotal'u [And they build a restful place]

[CHORUS]

VERSE 3: Kih’mayen ni lise cabu [There is barely anything I can do to protect] Haar ade teh aaray [the children from pain] Nu vaal dar’buire jarile, ash’amu [Not while their not-deserving-to-be-parents lay waste, die] Par gayiylir chakaare [for greed, those petty low-lifes] Shi ni lise baati ade [I can only care for the children] Bal kebbu bajuurir [And try to teach] Luubid kar’tayl darasuum [Enough of my knowledge-slash-love] Ga’taaylir oyaycir [To help them stay alive]

[CHORUS]

#mando'a #conlanging #suffer the children #star wars #fandom #my art

[meltherebel22]

Mandalorian Translation Challenge!

This is a kinda of huge but not major spoiler for my story TLH, so read at your own risk! This is a conversation between our local insane toddler Fives and our local honeybun Echo.

Please keep in mind that some words in Mando have more than one meaning! So you will not only try to translate it back to English but figure out which word it is out of the ones that have more than one meaning.

Tagging: @thestarwarslesbian @cloneloverrrrr @bitchyblazebeliever @itsalexis22universe @mistress-of-the-empire @hellhound5925 @jules-1999 (Still can’t tag you for some reason, sorry Jules)

"Cyare?," Fives asked in a hushed tone.

"Vaabir mirdir Jes'ika . . . . jate?" I asked softly and quietly. We use our language when we are speaking in private in front of patients and their families.

"Baar'ur utreyar kaysh," Fives spoke, I could feel the shrug in that sentence.

"Baatir?" He asked gently.

"Elek," I spoke slightly louder than our shushed tones finally turning to look at him.

"Baar'ur cuyir nakar'mir? Jes'ika jahaal eyaytir baar'ur? Nu draar, baar'ur ratiin kar'tayl," Fives smirked.

"Lek," I quietly mumbled in agreement with him. Fives smile fell.

"Copaanir at slanar haa'taylir meh Jes'ika jahaala?" Fives asked in a hushed tone.

"Ni hukaatir gar norac akay gar olaror norac, suvarir," Fives stated lowly with a smile as he pushed me slightly with a elbow.

"Jate olar?" I asked quietly.

"Elek!" Fives stated loudly rolling his eyes.

"Ulyc val liser epar gar oyayc, meh gar dinuir laam. . . jair, a shi meh gar liser," I smirked as I stood up from my chair as Fives started howling out in laughter gaining the waiting rooms attention.

[panther-os]

I just saw your Rex phone background and it’s amazing!! I was wondering if I could commission one? I would want it with Cody’s sunburst and a quote about glory (from the fanon idea that Cody comes from the Mando’a Kote which means glory). If the quote could be in stylized Mando’a instead of Latin/Aurebesh, that would be a lovely bonus, but is absolutely not necessary. I totally understand if you can’t/don’t want to - either way, please know that I thought the Rex background was awesome!!!

I don't currently take commissions bc the terms of my government benefits means I lose them all if I price my art correctly, BUT

I do answer requests if I have the time and energy, so here's something I did for Cody.

translation:

oya kote ratiin, a partaylir: kote sol'yc an o'r tuur de tuur getal burcyane, kote sol'yc an o'r akaan getal jaro kyr'am

"seek glory always, but remember: glory first of all in the day-to-day makes comaradery, glory first of all in battle makes a stupid death"

my thought process is glory as in excellence for the first half, i.e., being an excellent brother. vs glory as in fame for the second, i.e., showing off and being reckless in a way that gets yourself and others killed

once again, this is free to use, please just give me a reblog if you do!

[Rex] | [Fives] | [Wolffe]

#/incoherent noises/ #star wars the clone wars #commander cody #fanart #wallpaper #hope you like it!

[kits-ships]

UGH I JUST WANNA SAY UR FANKIDS ARE THE MOST PRECIOUS ANGELS!!!! hope ur well and have a nice day, u can also totally use this ask to answer any questions u havent for that one ask game

- @bloomingbodies

thank you so much!! im so sorry i took so long to get to this hehe &lt;3

ill answer these for kyi and boba's kids - heph and ikka!

💡: if your child is adopted, tell us a bit about how you came across them! how did you and your f/o know they were the one?

heph is kyi and boba's first child and their only foundling! she's a little, twi'lek girl they found on tatooine. she was stealing from vendors and trying to beat up anyone who chased her, so the daimyo had to check it out :/

they were originally going to find another home for her, but din's influence on them urged them to adopt her!! plus it didn't feel right to leave a female twi'lek on her own knowing that they're so sexualized.

🤲: how did your child react when they met you and your f/o's friends? are they shy?

ikka is terrified. he loves his mommy and daddy so he treats everyone else as a hostile. fennec? he screams. din? he screams louder. shiny man is not to be trusted.

heph, though, loves them. she constantly wants to duel din and kicks the shit out of his armor. she's also been trying to get fennec to teach her how to do parkour, but who would teach a nine year old how to parkour???

🪁: does your child enjoy learning about their parents' hobbies, or do they prefer to find their own?

ikka is a little too young for hobbies. his only interests include sitting with boba on the throne and being held by his parents.

heph loves being a mandalorian. when she's out playing with other kids, she'll take "bounties.". some guy took your jerky yesterday? heph will beat him up if you give her some rock candy. someone's bullying you? she can scare him into leaving you alone for a jug of water.

🌈: if applicable, who (from your f/o's source) would you make your child's godparents? who (out of your friends) would you make their godparents?

i know its obvious but din and fennec <3 if they had to be split up, ikka would go with fennec and heph with din. heph might be mad about leaving ikka, though.

#thank you so much!!!! #ratiin #fk: heph #fk: ikka #chooqueuetrain

[ursa-majora]

Maii Ratiin At Arueti is finally getting it's rewrites for the like 2 people who subscribed, it's going to be a lot darker I'm thinking I might up the rating because it's going to be very game of thrones inspired

 I'll leave the original fic up and I'll start posting the new one when I get about 2/3 of the way done

Here is the Og fic if you feel like reading it or if you're interested in the rewrites at alll

#anakin skywalker #thrawn #starwars #starwars fanfiction #starwars fanfic

[thebisexualmandalorian]

Ni liser draar nuhoy ner miai at jaryr jorcu ner katyra'hbitida purtuor ratiin jaha ni staabi laam Bal a'yao va ru'du ner otahyu'aor ganar cuyir whittled be'chaaj Ni nynir a karja'na ti ner gayi'kaab DJ Ni sirbur Ni ganar emuurir ibic laar at cuyir jaal solus, kaysh sirbur "Ni malyasa'yr emuurir at tomad na tomad na emuurir at gaa'tayl gar, ad'ika!" Kaysh sirbur at mirdir munit marsi'r armuhya bal Ibac an ashi ganar sarnu'a u'a tas Kaysh sirbur nayr baryatr na malyasa'yr srabida butule be'sa'oa val ganar gotal'ur be etie oyacyir! Pas Kanareh. D.J., Ni mirdir gar sirbur mhi ganar a koor Ni mirdir gar sirbur," Gar hraya ner norac bal Ni malyasa'yr hraya gar nadilyra" Bal Ni mirdir gar sirbur mhi ganar a koor!

I'm deeply impressed that you translated They Might Be Giants into Mando'a. Good job!

[foreverchangingfandomsao3]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Dooku | Darth Tyranus, Mace Windu, Yoda (Star Wars), Vokara Che, Clone Trooper Crys (Star Wars), Plo Koon, Quinlan Vos, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Ahsoka Tano, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, I'm really not sure if it's whump or angst territory, Happy Ending, Sleeping Beauty Elements, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Character Death, Look it's the expected character death, I'm not putting Palpatine in a fic and having him survive, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Hug, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Break, Obi-wan Kenobi Needs Sleep, He gets quite a lot of that in this fic, CC-2224 | Cody Gets A Hug, Protective Dooku (Star Wars), Also sort of but not quite Dooku redemption Series: Part 3 of Sleep bingo Summary:

Obi-Wan falls to a Force power and ends up in a sleep that he cannot be awoken from, except by the Force itself once the Sith are gone. Featuring a hurt Cody, some very good friends, Anakin wanting to make good choices and a happy ending.

My third fill for @codywansleepbingo​ with sleeping beauty, dirty sheets, separate beds and flannel sheets. Also my second bingo! The bingo card is below the cut!

#codywansleepbingo2023 #Codywan #My writing #I did not anticipate how hard it would be to get bingo on sleep things #Anyway that's me done for the day and now I'm going to get some sleep

[emperor-palpaminty]

omg omg here's lovey lyrics from 'sunrise'/in the heights (the whole song has me yearning):

'and how do you say "kiss me?"' 'bésame' 'and how do you say "always?"' 'para siempre...'

with literally any clone tbh...im a big clone simp. omg im on a wolffe and crosshair kick right now though...imagine this prompt but with mando'a aiubckabsduahdku

kiss prompt 68???

ANYWAYS LOVE YOUR WRITING <3

CROSSHAIR BABEY, BECAUSE WE STAN MURDER TOOTHPICK BEING SOFT

Also did you have to make me remember that song and cry. I had to go find a translator so if this is wrong please come kick me, I couldn't find the EXACT words I wanted so I had to improvise

Prompts found here!

Crosshair was visiting the medbay more often. You found yourself scheduling private appointments with him, and this particular time you were looking into his burned body, soul scorched. You had finished scraping off the burned skin, laying bacta pads on him.

You glanced back at the Kaminoian who had opened the door. "I am here to check on the healing progress of CT-99-404." He folded his lengthy hands, insectoid eyes skimming Crosshiar, laying back on his bed.

"He's fine. Progress is normal." You frowned. "Please, let me do my work." You turned away, leaning over crosshair, fingers tender, pausing as the trooper inhaled sharply.

"See if you can increase the bacta concentration." The Kaminoian vocalized, voice echoing as he stalked out, the door sliding shut. "The sooner CT-99-404 is healed, the better."

You frowned openly now, smoothing your hand over Crosshair's bacta pad sitting on his eye. "Take your time, Crosshair."

"They left me." He hissed, quiet.

Your fingers hesitated, before moving up and stroking through the pale curls on his head. "I know." You settled on the bed, tugging him to you. "But not everyone has left you." You leaned him gently on your arm, stroking his hair. "I haven't." The clone was quiet, eyes closed. You sighed, softly, tugging him gently to you. "I won't," you added, quietly, promising to yourself and to Crosshair, though he may or may not have been asleep.

The lights stayed bright, only dimming as the allotted nighttime hour approached. In the dark, Crosshair spoke quietly. "You've been good to me, Doc." You felt him shift, breath warm against your shoulder. You scratched his curls again, feeling his face settle in your chest and bandaged arm wrapping around your wrist. "You... you're not going to leave."

It wasn't a question, but you felt the weight of it lingering in the air. "I won't, I'm not planning on it." You hummed, allowing Crosshair to nestle closer. "You know Mandalorian, right?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

"I'm trying to change the subject." You mumbled. "We don't have to-"

"No, no." His words were soft, uncharacteristically gentle. "I know a little."

"Can you say 'always'?"

There was a moment of pause, a pulse, where the clone sifted through his memories, trying to recover the correct translation. "Ratiin."

"I'll be here ratiin."

"Verburyc ratiin." Crosshair mumbled. "You'll be loyal. Remain. Always."

You smiled, still scratching his head. "Ver-ber-yuck ratiin."

"Terrible."

"I'll work on it," you whined, trying to bite down your smile. "Give me credit for trying."

Crosshair shifted, and he smiled against your skin, but small. "Minimal credit."

You chuckled, smoothing back his hair. "Can... how do you say 'kiss me'?"

Crosshair mumbled against your stark medical uniform. "Mureyca ni."

You licked your lips, softly, before whispering, "Mureyca ni?" He shifted, chin tilting up at you. "Please?" You mumbled, voice hoarse.

Crsshair exhaled, tugging on you, sliding you down to be even with him. "Only because you pronounced it well."

His lips met yours, his bandaged arm shifting to be more comfortable, and you held his face gently. He sighed against you, fingers resting on your back, allowing you to cradle him as you pressed your lips softly to his, again and again. Between the movements of your lips, in breaks, he mumbled, "Mureyca ni, mureyca ni," his desire to not be alone taking over. Crosshair sighed and hugged you to him, breaking the kiss to press his face into your neck.

You kissed his head, rocking him gently, mumbling, like a mantra, a hymn, a promise, "Ratiin, ratiin."

Always, always.

#crosshair x reader #bad batch reader insert #bad batch crosshair x reader #bad batch #crosshair #minty writes

[cinlat]

Blood in the Breeze: Ch 14 (Masquerade)

Parts one and two of this series linked.

Read every chapter on FFN or Ao3.

Summary: A spy and the Outlander walk into a party....then Arcann crashes it. Jorgan faces a demon from the past, and Fynta makes a bold move that everyone will hate.  

Chapter Word Count: 5,928 Chapter Rating: T   Characters in Chapter: Fynta Wolfe, Aric Jorgan, Theron Shan, Arcann, Zolah Holran, Bey’wan Aygo, Felix Iresso, Torian Cadera.

Author’s Note: Whole chapter under the cut. Better formatting on Ao3.

Zakuul The Endless Swamp

Valkorion's words echoed in the back of Fynta's mind. Strike my daughter down, and this empire will be yours to command. They crawled over her subconscious, leaving an oily trail of corruption that soured her stomach. Any time Fynta demanded to know why Valkorion wanted her to inherit his throne, the hut'uun smiled and faded away. The unshakeable chill that those encounters cut Fynta to the bone.

"Damn." Theron's voice broke through Fynta's musing. He held up the stolen Zakuulan Knight's armor and grimaced. "It's heavier than I expected."

Fynta shook away the remnants of her daydream and tugged on her boots. She hated the garish gold that washed out her complexion, but she supposed that it didn't matter as long as her helmet stayed in place. The woman who Fynta had divested of her armor had been smaller, but the fit would do for the short time that she had to wear it. Standing, Fynta twisted to test the joints. "Stop bitching and put on your armor. It's about time you walked into a fight with something more than terrible taste."

"Rude," Theron muttered as he shucked the red jacket that Fynta eyed and draped it over the chair. The spy heaved a sigh in one last effort to gain sympathy, then set about attaching the plates with some direction from Felix.

Once the armor was secure, Felix slapped the helmet over Theron's head. There was some teasing followed by a light chuckle when the spy twisted his faceplate into place. Then, Theron's shoulders slumped. "I can't see a thing in this damn thing."

"You'll figure it out." A flirty response about Theron still being pretty rattled through the back of Fynta's mind, but she didn't chase it through her lips. Too many other concerns occupied the space normally reserved for bad behavior.

"Listen up, everyone." Zolah called from beside the complicated setup of monitors wired into the shuttle's main system. Without looking up, she pointed down the open ramp. "If you want to make the shift change, I suggest you shut up and start running. Fifteen minutes to the rendezvous."

Fynta admired the way that the Chiss agent set aside personal attachments when a mission started. That was something that Fynta had never managed. Even before Aric, she'd rushed in when her comrades were in danger, whereas Zolah accessed the risks and acted accordingly. For the moment, Theron wasn't her lover, but an asset that needed to play his part.

"Right, wish us luck." Theron thumped down the ramp, unperturbed by Zolah's abrupt dismissal. They'd worked together for years while Fynta slept in carbonite. By the time she'd been revived, the two were already settled into a comfortable relationship, with his budding romance with Vector on the horizon.

As Fynta started to follow, Torian grabbed her arm. "Parjir."

"Ni ratiin narir." Fynta's modulated voice sounded more sure of her victory than she felt, but it was enough to convince the chieftain. Torian stepped away with a nod, then closed the hatch behind her. Fynta walked into the swamp confident that if the worst happened, the men aboard that ship would have her back.

Theron started complaining about the weight of his suit less than a klick into their trek, and Fynta's threats to his person began shortly after that. Finally, when the Spire came into view, Fynta felt relief instead of the trepidation of what they were about to attempt. She affected the stiff gate of a Zakuulan Knight, and passed beneath the watchful eyes of half a dozen cameras.

Theron's voice came through Fynta's speakers once they'd cleared the main entry. "Okay, take a left at the next corner, but steer clear of the Horizon Guard. They'll see right through these disguises."

Fynta imagined Theron with his face scrunched in concentration while he worked the unfamiliar HUD inside his helmet. His hand lifted, then dropped back to his side. "Yeah, okay, I'm getting the hang of this. Indo Zal should be waiting for us in that supply closet."

"A supply closet," Fynta drawled. "Really?"

"I didn't set this meeting up," Theron countered. There were few less obvious places to hold a clandestine meeting, but this could be the Alliance's only chance to strike Vaylin while she was weak.

As promised, Zal waited on the inside of the catering room; it wasn't a closet by any stretch of the imagination. While it held tables, food, and cleaning supplies for the party, Fynta could have parked a starship inside of it. She listened to the man's plan while servers and custodians moved around them, carrying on in their duties with the precision of trained staff. Not a single one appeared interested in Indo's meeting with two Zakuulan Knights.

According to the Indo Zal, his people had grown tired of Vaylin's cruelty and wished to fight alongside anyone who could dethrone her, regardless of past...sins. He stuttered over the part about the Valkorion's assassination. Fynta wanted to tell the man that Valkorion wasn't dead, no matter how much she wished that he was, but it was a moot point. She was the Outlander, a curse on Zakuul, instead of the vaulted savior of the galaxy. But, they would work with her, for now.

After leaving Indo to his work, Fynta and Theron carried on with their part of the plan. "Almost—there." He was crouched next to a control panel with half his body shoved inside. One hand waved toward Fynta, and she dropped an ion charge into the waiting palm.

Once it was in place, Theron stood and dusted off his pants. His gloves clanked against the armored plating, drawing the attention of a team of passing guards. They paused, then fell back into step together. Fynta almost didn't stop herself from smacking the back of Theron's helmet. His posture still tensed, Theron whispered over their comms. "My bad."

"Di'kut," Fynta muttered. "Maybe you should have gone to the party with Vector while I brought Quinn."

"Hey, speaking of which." Theron jogged a couple of steps to catch up to Fynta, then fell into stride. "Is it just me, or does that guy look at me weird?"

Fynta turned the next corner and stopped at the lift. "How long have you been waiting for an opportunity to bring that up?"

The doors opened without a sound. Theron didn't speak until they were inside. "A while, but I'm right, aren't I?"

Fynta lifted one shoulder while she checked their timing. If no one stopped the lift, then they'd make it to the promenade with five minutes to spare. "Well, your mom killed his dad," she answered, distracted by her calculations. "Not to mention, he and Vector became pals while you were running around Iokath, so—"

"My what?" Theron stammered, his entire body going rigid as he whipped around to look at where Fynta's face was hidden behind her helmet. "How—when?"

Fynta could almost see the raised brows and dropped chin that Theron wore in the few times that something had truly startled him. Fynta kicked him for good measure, and the spy fell back into character. Not that it mattered if anyone happened to be watching that particular security feed. "No idea, you can ask Zolah later. Now, shut up."

Silence settled between Fynta and Theron with only the low hum of music to drown out the sound of their breathing. Finally, Theron couldn't stop himself. "Exactly how well did they get to know each other?"

Fynta rolled her eyes and snagged Theron by the collar when the doors opened. "Come on, we've got hostages to recruit. Settle up with your people later."

Zakuul Skydeck Gardens

Arcann kept to the shadows of his kingdom, lurking like the vagrants that held out hands to those who passed. He'd never been to this part of Zakuul, not personally. He hadn't known of the debauchery taking place in the Old World, but Vaylin did.

It had taken a long time to decide to return home. Once Arcann had awakened from the hysteria that drove him from Voss, there had been a lot to consider. Senya, his mother, had been chief among them. Arcann still couldn't untangle his feelings about the woman. She had abandoned them to a cruel father when he was young, or so the story went. Then, she spent the rest of her life attempting to atone for the mistake. She had risked herself to save him, and been fired on by her allies.

A rush of irritation swelled inside of Arcann. He had only hazy memories of the escape shuttle, only the pleading in his mother's voice as she begged for clemency. Then, alarms when the Outlander rendered her judgment. It would have been a swift death if the Force had not been with them that day.

Two merchants passed Arcann, offering only a cursory glance in his direction. He'd traded his royal garb for something more suitable for a middle-class businessman, and without the mask that his subjects knew, their eyes slid politely across his scarred face and didn't return. Arcann, once emperor of Zakuul, was now just another ghost in his kingdom.

Flexing his fingers to work out the pent up energy, Arcann stepped onto the promenade. Nothing else mattered while the Outlander was on Zakuul. He could sense his father's arrogance and knew where to find them, but was hesitant to intervene without knowing the scope of their plan, or who had concocted it. Vaylin had planned a grand party to prove that she wasn't worried about the army set against her. It was a foolish choice, to underestimate their foe; her foe.

In his research, Arcann had learned that Colonel Fynta Wolfe had led an interesting life. She was Mandalorian, a stubborn group of people that Arcann was far too familiar with. She had been a spy, then a soldier who commanded the most elite squad in the Republic. According to her records, the woman had no connection to the Force, yet Valkorion wielded her like a weapon. Or did he? Arcann had yet to work out the relationship between the woman and the Immortal Emperor.

Discovering that his father resided in Fynta Wolfe's mind on Asylum had been enough of a shock to give her the upper hand in battle. Arcann had counted it as a fluke until she bested him on the ship. He needed to tread carefully around this woman. She was as unpredictable as Vaylin, and driven by duty, rather than madness.

The closer Arcann traveled to the promenade, the brighter the decorations became. People milled around the main floor in their finery, excitement rolling off them in equal waves with apprehension. Arcann knew better than to stay too long. More than one of these guests might recognize his face. When the crowd continued straight, Arcann turned for the gardens. He would bide his time in solitude and wait for the Outlander to make her move.

While he waited, Arcann used the quiet moment to observe his kingdom. Lights glittered as far as the eye could see while his subjects, people who had worshiped his father, carried on with life as it had always been. Though he had never been spoiled, Arcann had somehow managed more emotion connected to the passing of a ruler. While Vaylin railed against the Alliance, she received little more than a passing glance from the common Zakuulan. If he survived this chapter of his life, Arcann planned to study the working class for a better understanding of how a kingdom truly worked.

The sounds of battle erupted not long after Vaylin's speech began. The ache in Arcann's chest when he saw the rebels sentenced to death was quickly overcome by the surprise of the Outlander's appearance in Vaylin's broadcast. Things had devolved quickly after that.

Arcann was ready when the fighting spilled into the gardens. He positioned himself at the Outlander's back when she was cornered, grunting when her elbow connected with his ribs. He managed a growled peace reclamation before Vaylin's knights advanced, stealing his attention. His spine tingled with the expectation of a blaster bolt punching into it, but all he felt was the cool press of armor when Fynta was driven back a step.

"Fierfek." Fynta's weight increased enough to push Arcann forward, and he glanced over one shoulder to see that Vaylin had shoved her way onto the platform. Arcann dug in his heels and put his will into becoming immovable. Another growled curse tore from Fynta's lips, followed by a furious scream. The pressure released so suddenly that Arcann fell backward and would have hit the ground had the Outlander not caught his arm. When Arcann glanced up, his sister was gone.

Fynta's grip on Arcann's arm released almost before he'd regained his balance. She rushed to the balcony, and her shouted curses died in the wind. Without their Empress to command them, the knights halted their attack. Gilded helmets turned towards one another, then Arcann, before taking a knee. For her part, Fynta didn't seem to care that her enemies were now defenseless. She spun with fury on her tongue, stalking towards Arcann to jab a finger into his chest.

"You fierfeking idiot." Arcann's brows lifted. He'd never been spoken to so crassly, nor handled so casually. When the Outlander stomped a few feet away, she punched her hands onto her hips. "I had her. It could have been over."

Another man jogged up before Arcann could argue the woman's claim. He recognized the man's face, but had never been able to put a name to it. Arcann knew that the man was a part of the Alliance, so it came as no surprise when he stopped next to the Outlander and gestured at Arcann. "At least we can stop looking for him." Neither made mention of the still kneeling soldiers encircling them.

Heaving a breath, Fynta let it out in a single gush, then faced Arcann. "Are you going to make yourself useful? Or do I have to waste more time chasing your ass all over the galaxy?"

Hard, blue eyes glared at Arcann from beneath a sweat matted mess of blonde hair. He deactivated his weapon and took one knee with the knights. The act tugged at his pride, but Arcann forced himself to lower his gaze. "Would you accept my offer of aid, if I were to give it?"

The derisive snort wasn't the reaction Arcann expected, nor was the sharp jerk on his collar that pulled him awkwardly onto his feet. "Stop that, you look like an idiot." Arcann blinked at the woman. When he reached through the Force, there was no fear, only annoyance. Fynta looked out over Zakuul, her attention parsecs away. Finally, she deflated. "I can't take your sister alone, neither can you. We have no choice but to work together."

At last, Arcann saw what his father must have: Fynta Wolfe's stubborn resilience. Though lacking the Force, she faced the task of removing Vaylin as a threat without being daunted. Arcann nodded, projecting his respect into his body language. "I stand with you, Outlander."

The Petulant Bitch  Galley

Fynta paced the galley, gaze glued to the man in the far corner. The rest of the ship's inhabitants had either made themselves scarce or were positioned in areas of weakness to act as guards. Fynta was the only one in the room with Arcann, and he watched her with a vague curiosity that made her want to punch him.

The decision to accept Arcann's treaty had been rash, but not spontaneous. Lana had brought forth the idea of allying with the young Emperor, should they ever find him, not only to secure Senya's loyalty but because he might come in handy. Fynta hadn't expected the man to drop into her lap with the same proposal.

Arcann's eyes drifted shut, and he sighed. "I can sense him."

Fynta paused mid-step and turned slowly to face the man. Without his mask, he looked more like a boy than he had before. Arcann was at least ten years her junior even without the time in carbonite. The math on whether or not to include stasis still bothered her.

Closing the gap, Fynta leaned against the table. "And?"

Those clear, blue eyes opened to pin Fynta with a look that likely cleared the throne room in Arcann's past life. Fynta found her gaze drawn to his scars, wondering if they hurt as much as hers did, then down to the metal fingers resting on the table. She didn't have to wonder about those. "My father was right to recognize your strength." Fynta's attention snapped back to the man's face. He wet his lips. "But, are you in control, or does he pull the strings?"

Fynta hissed and shoved away from the table. "Your hut'uun of a father has no control over me." She stalked away from him in an effort to release some of her anger. With her temper in check, Fynta turned back to the fallen emperor. "Valkorion might have forced his way into my head, but my choices belong to me."

"Impressive." That single word vibrated through the air in an octave deeper than one of Aric's growls. Arcann's scarred brow raised, even though no hair grew there to display the action. "That resolve may be what Zakuul needs."

Fynta snorted a laugh that hurt her sinuses. "Right. You'd stand aside while an outsider takes your throne?" When Arcann's shoulders rose, Fynta grew annoyed again. "Look, I don't want the shabbing chair. I just want Vaylin, and you, and you're fierfeking dad, to stop trashing my galaxy."

Silence followed Fynta's outburst until Arcann's head lowered. His fingers flexed under the intensity of his stare. When he spoke, the words were quiet and calm. "My hands are stained by the blood of thousands. My family's legacy is dripping with it." He raised his head, and for the first time, Fynta saw real remorse in his eyes. Arcann's hands lifted towards her, palms up in a sign of peace. "It's time for a worthy emperor to take our place."

Fynta lowered herself into the chair across from Arcann. "You actually mean it, don't you?" Again, the man shrugged. Fynta's answering chuckle made Arcann's scars pull deeper into a frown. She leaned back and shook her head. "You know, we could have saved each other a lot of trouble if we'd had this conversation a year ago."

The corner of Arcann's mouth twitched, then fell again. "Too long has revenge consumed me. I want to serve my people, as I should have done all along. Vaylin must be stopped before she destroys everything."

Fynta tapped her fingers on the table and watched Arcann. The man was solid as a rock, not just physically, but mentally. He didn't squirm under her scrutiny. Whatever psychosis had overcome him on Voss seemed to have burned itself out before he returned to Zakuul.

Finally, Fynta was forced to admit that she didn't have a better option. It was unlikely that she could kill Arcann unless he wanted her to, and he would be a handy ally. If Fynta could hold together the ruse that he didn't scare the osik out of her, maybe he wouldn't feel the need to test her authority.

"I can't absolve you of your past sins." Arcann started to speak, but Fynta held up one hand. "Nor do I think you should try. My people don't believe in dwelling on things of the past, we move forward, always forward. There will be members of the Alliance who don't hold to my beliefs. Every single person is there because of you."

Again, Arcann's lips parted, then shut at Fynta's glare. "Some might try to hurt you. I suggest you let them."

This time, both of Arcann's brows lifted. Fynta shook her head. "Not permanently, not lethally. Let a man punch you, the only damage will be to your ego. Let the mother whose children died in one of Vaylin's slaughters slap your face. Let them work out their grief and anger, then, when you no longer appear as a threat, they will work with you. It's the only way you can be accepted as a member of the Alliance."

"That is your offer?" Arcann asked. His voice held only mild amusement. "Corporal punishment?"

"No." Fynta leaned forward, lifting herself from the chair with both palms flat against the table. "That is reality. I'm not tying you up in the square for the public's amusement. I'm letting them sort through the betrayal they will feel when you walk off this shuttle. I'm holding this fierfeking alliance together long enough to defeat Vaylin and kill your father. Do we have a deal?"

Arcann stared at Fynta for a long moment. She could see the calculations: had he thrown his lot in with another tyrant? Was she as mad as his baby sister? Or maybe, she was something worse, a martyr for a galaxy full of talented killers to fall behind. Whatever conclusion Arcann reached, he answered with a simple nod. "We do."

Fynta turned to find Felix standing behind her. His normally pleasant features were hard while he looked at Arcann, but softened to almost sympathy when he found her. He opened his hand to display a comm. "It's not my place to tell you what to do, sir." Felix dropped the comm into Fynta's hand. "But, you might want to give him a heads up."

"Fierfek." Fynta had used that word a lot today. She thumped Felix on the shoulder and stepped out into the hallway to dial the frequency. A thousand greetings flitted through her mind until Aric answered. Fynta forced a smile. "Hey riduur, are you sitting down?"

Odessen Military Wing

Jorgan sat at a desk in a tiny back room that was shared by all the commanding officers. It was a hastily erected lean-to, made of spare pieces left over from the construction of the mountain base. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, wincing when he put too much pressure on the damaged one. It would take time to get used to new tender spots on his body. Some healed faster than others.

A knock on the door, a plain, wooden slab on hinges, pulled Jorgan's attention from the report. "Enter." He didn't look up, and calling admittance was more formality than necessity, anyway. Fynta had banished most of that when she took command, preferring the open door policy like in their Havoc days.

A throat cleared, bringing Jorgan's gaze upward. A blue Twi'lek stood at attention in front of the rickety desk. Jorgan's blood ran cold with recognition before his temper ignited. "Help you?" He ground out, having done well to avoid any such interactions with this particular individual. Visions of the man darting away from his wife's door, shirt in hand instead of on his body where it belonged, clouded Aric's vision.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" The Imperial accent surprised Jorgan enough to assent to the man taking a seat. He watched while the Twi'lek folded onto the equally lousy chair. Jorgan signed the final datapad and set it aside, folding his hands and glaring with impatience.

"I wanted to apologize," the Twi'lek began, shifting awkwardly. Jorgan waited in silence, pinning the younger male with a stare that used to make soldiers quake. If this man was Imperial, he'd likely seen more terrifying things than an aging Cathar with only one good eye.

Jorgan's gaze flicked to the name patch. "For what, Lieutenant Lo?"

The Twi'lek swallowed, then found his spine. "I'd prefer not to pretend that you don't know who I am, sir." Jorgan's brow lifted. "You can't hide that kind of hatred."

Jorgan leaned back in his chair, careful not to unbalance it. "And you assumed confronting me in person was the best option." He looked pointedly at the closed door. "Alone?"

"So, she told you." Jorgan didn't answer. He was a lousy liar and couldn't bring himself to confess to this soldier that he'd only learned of the dalliance with Fynta because of the security camera outside her room. Old anger rose, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint.

Lo took Jorgan's silence as permission to continue. "I didn't know that she was married, sir. Otherwise, I'd never have accepted the invitation. Think what you will of Imperial soldiers, but we don't tread on another man's territory, if you take my meaning."

Aric's jaw worked to release the tension of his clenched teeth before speaking. "How did a Twi'lek ascend to the rank of lieutenant in an Imperial military?"

The question didn't appear to take the man by surprise. "The Empire's not stupid. There are alien regiments that can go where some completely human ones can't. Planets where we're viewed as less of a threat."

Aric nodded. It made sense, and the Republic had expected as much. A few alien units were harder to pinpoint in a galactic-sized war. Sitting forward, Jorgan tented his fingers on the desk. "What makes you think that I'm interested in your apology?"

"Because I know how seriously Cathar take their vows." Lo held Jorgan's gaze while he spoke. "It's not just for you, sir. I've been transferred into your unit to replace the numbers lost on Voss. I thought it best to clear the air early."

"You think being an alien makes you an expert on Cathar?" Jorgan barely held his anger in check, envisioning the feel of Lo's windpipe breaking beneath his thumbs.

Lo shook his head, lekku quivering with the weight of the tension filling the room. "My commanding officer was Cathar, sir. A widower. He explained things to us when we tried to set him up on a blind date. Not a pleasant conversation, that." Jorgan's anger dissipated only enough to clear the murderous thoughts from his mind. "There's a lot that I don't understand, but I felt it important that you knew my side of things before we began working together."

Before you get me killed, Lo didn't say.

The lieutenant stood to leave, but Jorgan stopped him. Those parting words sat wrong with him, and he couldn't let the man go believing that he'd been manipulated by an unfaithful woman. "Sit."

Lo obeyed, shoulders tight but hands away from his weapon. Jorgan rubbed his scalp with a growl of frustration. "Carbonite poisoning presents in many ways, one of which being memory loss." They'd rehearsed the lies enough that he could stumble his way through convincingly so long as it was mostly true. Lo wasn't the only one to notice the vast difference in the Fynta from before, to the woman who led them now. "She'd lost the last ten years of her memory."

"So," the Twi'lek paused, eyes narrowed while he worked through the information. "She didn't know that she was married?"

Jorgan shook his head, and the Twi'lek released a hollow laugh. "Thank you, sir."

"For what?" Jorgan expected that he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the man say it. He needed to know that this matter was closed.

Lo licked his lips, then scooted to the edge of his seat. "I couldn't make the stories of the woman that drew my regiment here, a woman who united warring factions and called for peace, fit with someone who would marry a Cathar, then fu—sleep with another man."

The Twi'lek turned an unhealthy shade of blue. "I mean—not that we." He stumbled over another attempt to correct his mistake while Jorgan watched. Lo blanched. "I don't know any more about your wife than the other men in the training room."

Jorgan's brow shot up, more amused than irritated, now. He wondered if this was how Fynta had seen him all those years ago. A soldier hopelessly tangled in her presence. Finally, Lo slumped. "I'd like to stop talking now—sir."

"I think that would be best for both of us." Jorgan swallowed a smirk and waved the man away. "You're dismissed. But, Lieutenant, this information is privileged. Rumors of the commander's diminished mental facilities will not help anyone."

Lo nodded and stood to leave, then stopped before his hand touched the knob. "Did she remember, sir?"

"She does," Jorgan answered, pleased that he was able to keep the fear out of his voice. Every morning he woke up wondering who shared his bed. He didn't know how long that would last. "Two months ago."

The Twi'lek smiled, transforming his features from alien into handsome. "I'm glad to hear it, sir." The man slipped through the door, leaving Jorgan to ponder how many others saw through the hastily crafted lies that the council had formed. Valkorion had changed Fynta enough that even those who barely knew her could tell a difference. Eventually, the truth would have to come out, or she might lose the trust of the people who followed her.

Deciding that he'd completed enough paperwork for one day, Jorgan pushed away from the desk and started home. His comm vibrated with a message from Shillet that she would be helping in the kitchens tonight. Jorgan suspected it had less to do with her desire for community service than with the fact that most of the youth hung out there under the guise of working. He hoped that a boy wasn't involved, then banished the thought before it could make him more irritable.

Jorgan sighed, turning left instead of heading home. He didn't want to sit in an empty apartment at the moment. A sharp pain shot through Jorgan's eye and he paused to put pressure above and below it. It didn't satisfy the need to rub, but gave him something else to focus on, at least.

"It could be worse." The voice rumbled so deep that Jorgan felt it in his chest and inner ear. Opening his eyes, Jorgan found himself in front of Admiral Aygo's office, the older man inspecting him through the open door. Aygo gestured at the empty chair, and Jorgan accepted.

When Jorgan sat, the Bothan offered a wolfish grin. "Could've lost both eyes."

Jorgan snorted, wishing that he could get away from people asking about his damn eyesight. "Hard to be a sniper with one eye."

Bey'wan propped his elbow on the desk and pointed at Jorgan's eyepatch. "Isn't that what the fancy do-dad is for?"

"It's a learning process," Jorgan admitted, though he stopped short of mentioning that he hadn't been to the range yet to try it out. The hope of being able to shoot meant more to him at the moment than the potential of failure if the interface didn't work. He made excuses, and let himself believe that simply having the technology was enough.

Aygo chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "It's hard for old soldiers like us to learn new tricks. But, don't ever admit that in front of the recruits. Enter."

A petty officer from the Imperial Navy stuck his head in after a quick knock on the wall. "Sir, we've got a problem."

Aric's comm vibrated a moment later, and he fished it out while Aygo accepted a datapad. When Jorgan answered, the tension in his chest released at the sight of Fynta's grin until he noticed how tight it looked. "Hey riduur, are you sitting down?"

Aygo glanced up, then dismissed the officer, motioning for the man to close the door. Jorgan waited until they were alone, then answered. "Just sitting here with Aygo telling old war stories."

"Good, he should hear this too." Aric's chest squeezed until he had to remind himself to breathe. Leaning forward, he set the comm on Aygo's desk. Fynta gave up on sounding chipper and sighed. "I need you to trust me. Arcann is with us. He's coming to Odessen."

"In shock cuffs?" Aric asked before he could stop himself. Aygo leaned over, and Aric heard the creak of a drawer opening.

Fynta shook her head. "As an ally. We...have a plan, of sorts."

Jorgan's lips pulled back in a snarl. "Are you fucking insane?"

"Yes," Fynta laughed, but it was airy and strained. She rubbed her face. "He's the only one strong enough to fight Vaylin. I don't like the chakaar anymore than you do, but we need him. The enemy of my enemy and all that." She waved her hand in the air, then sank into a crouch against the wall. "I need you in my corner on this one. A lot of people are going to be pissed."

Aric tried to hold on to his anger, but Fynta looked exhausted. She hadn't slept well in weeks, muttering or cursing in her sleep. Though she hadn't gone for her weapon in a while, Aric knew that the nightmares had returned. He swallowed the bitter words his heart felt and leaned back. "Okay, but we need to make preparations."

A sense of relief loosened Fynta's shoulders. "I was hoping you and Cormac could talk to some of our mystical allies. Maybe they can come up with a plan to restrain him if things go to the Void, again."

"I'll handle it. How long until you're home?" Somehow, voicing the question lifted a weight from Jorgan. Just the ability to ask his wife when she would be back in his arms warmed him after years of lonely nights.

"Twelve hours." Fynta checked her chrono. "And thirty-seven minutes. You'll be there?"

Jorgan nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Thanks, riduur." Fynta's smile looked more genuine this time, and she yawned. "I'm going to crash for a few hours. I'll see you soon." The comm went black, leaving Aric staring at the device separating him and Aygo. Fynta never said goodbye, and Aric appreciated it now more than ever. He never wanted to receive another farewell message from her again.

Bey'wan clinked two glasses onto the desk and poured each half full with a rich smelling liquid. The decanter sloshed as he placed it back into a drawer and shut it. Finally, Aygo pushed one of the glasses closer to Jorgan. "Here, son, you're going to need this."

#blood in the breeze #series: meet me on the battlefield #fynta wolfe #aric jorgan #theron shan #arcann #agent: zolah holran #bey'wan aygo #felix iresso #torian cadera #slowly moving forward #crashing parties #freeing prisoners #and making unwanted allies #it's fine #this is fine