Weddings and Other Methods of Deadly Swamp Access

Jaster hasn’t been having a great day.

The official in charge only agreed to allow him into the city, which makes investigating tedious and slow.

His main witness of Death Watch activity is perhaps the flightiest teenager he’s ever met and clearly doesn’t care to talk to him.

His secondary witness is too busy making pining, mournful eyes whenever his main witness stops looking her way to come up with anything useful.

Unfortunately, he can’t just go investigate himself because the last time he did that he wound up three feet in a karking swamp.

Why Death Watch is hiding out here, stars know.

Jaster has very little faith in many of their organization’s traits but surely even they have enough self-preservation skills to know better than to camp out in what the locals he’s spoken to like to casually refer to as “The Death Swamp.”

Its official name is something much more mundane. Honestly, Jaster prefers “Death Swamp.”

It really sells the atmosphere.

The sigh he lets out as the young human gets distracted again is unfortunately audible through his vocoder.

She sighs, like he’s the worst adult she’s ever met.

Her companion doesn’t scowl, because she has some self-preservation, she looks like she wants to.

Teenlings.

“Listen,” She gives him a look. Jaster has no idea how teenlings manage to make everything sound so condescending. “It’s almost the festival. I don’t have time for this.”

And Jaster does?

“I only have three hours to get ready for the ceremony and Jen’i has been going around bragging about her outfit and saying she’ll be chosen this year and I won’t have it.”

“Festival.” Jaster feels like he was invited to that, the mayor had this look in his eye when he suggested Jaster attend.

“Yeah,” she sighs, all youthful romance. “It’s amazing.”

So… she has a date… to a local harvest festival or something.

Jaster can only pray he escapes some of this with Jango in a couple years.

“Alright.” He can’t imagine keeping her from her young love will get him answers. “Will you answer after the festival?”

She giggles, like he’s said something stupid.

“If I’m not chosen, sure.”

“Fine.”

“We’ll meet you at the central chronotower after the ceremony, it’s close and it thins out after the excitement dies down.”

“Very well.”

She waves him off, rambling excitedly to her companion about all the details she sewed into her dress this year.

“So, how’d it go?” Myles flickers in and out, the connection is bad.

“She said she’ll tell me after the festival ceremony tonight.” Jaster tries not to make his sigh obvious.

“Festival?” Myles tilts his head in question.

“Some harvest thing probably,” Jaster waves him off. “The mayor invited me.”

He can see where Myles’ mind goes.

“I don’t think it’s a trap.” He adds. “Death Watch might try something though, probably wise to watch the edges.”

“Of course, we’ll do that.” He nods. “Are you sure you don’t need backup?”

Jaster understands his concerns, respects them.

“I’d rather not get myself permanently kicked out of town for ignoring explicit instructions.”

Myles gives him quite the unimpressed look at that.

“It’d be near impossible for Death Watch to infiltrate from the outside.” Jaster sighs. “Even with this festival, they’d stick out like a Jedi in Keldabe. Our priority should be the edges, so long as those are secure I think backup can be dispensed with.”

“If you’re certain.” He concedes. “I’m letting you explain to your son.”

“Fine.” Jaster agrees and heads closer to the growing festivities as he does so.

He hasn’t heard much about the festival traditions in this sector and while it isn’t exactly his usual interest, Jaster won’t pass up the opportunity.

Jango isn't pleased, worried and unwilling to admit it but eventually accepts the delay as necessary.

Jaster settles in to wait, leaning up against a wall and watching the last frantic adjustments from a polite distance.

He can see any threats coming from his place looking out across the square.

Unless, apparently, they’re coming from the side.

Jaster doesn’t visibly startle at the sight of a tall human skirting around the edges of the pavilion and close to his position but it’s a very near thing.

He hadn’t noticed them at all.

That’s unusual.

They’re tall for a human but not shockingly so, there are few who would do an actual double take at their appearance.

They’re blonde, with light skin and clothes that mark them as an outsider just as Jaster’s armor does him.

The locals favor complex embroidery on the sleeves of everyday wear and across nearly everything at an event like this.

It’s part of the reason Jaster isn’t too concerned with infiltration. Their clothing is tailored and would look slightly off on a thief. Besides, given what he’s seen he suspects there’s a system to demonstrate family ties and perhaps social position or training in the designs.

It’s all very interesting.

Regardless, this one has nothing of the sort, clothes plain and vaguely spacer-looking.

The fact he didn’t see them coming closer sets Jaster on edge but not enough to do anything.

It isn’t long before a bright sheet of color has him distracted, blocking his view as the locals arrange the banner of bright blue.

By the time they’ve finished the other outsider is gone.

The festival itself is, unfortunately, like many of the others Jaster has attended throughout the galaxy. Not that that’s a bad thing! He’d just been interested to see what unique traditions this planet has developed.

So far, all he’s got is a lovely but frankly standard hot drink in his hands and some sort of sticky fried meat on a stick he can’t remember the name of.

There’s local handicrafts for sale and younglings games but Jaster finds himself content staying put, relaxed against a tree and comfortable watching the joyful celebrations.

The sun sets slowly in the distance beyond city limits.

“Mando!” Someone calls and he turns his helmet just enough to be an acknowledgement. “The ceremony’s starting! Come on! It’s open to outsiders! Maybe you’ll get lucky this year!”

Jaster just stares blankly, most people seem to find that intimidating enough to give up.

“Come on! We would love for you to attend.” The stranger urges.

Jaster sighs but follows after a moment. He would be lying if he said he isn’t a little interested in whatever this ceremony is, it’s amazing the diversity of traditions across the galaxy.

He stays to the outskirts of the ceremony grounds, not wanting to get in the way of what must be culturally if not religiously important.

A flash of yellow draws his attention to the blonde human, the other outsider welcomed to observe as well.

They turn as if they can sense Jaster’s attention and offer him an acknowledging smile.

“Friends!” The leader of the ceremony, unsurprisingly the mayor in nicer robes, begins. “The time is come! We are gathered once again to ask the Skies and the Waters to grant their blessings for the new year and choose those of us who will see themselves blessed by them!”

The crowd roars at this, loud and excited.

“As it is each year!” He continues. “I have read the signs of the Skies, the allowances of the Waters and they have spoken.”

The crowd clambers, whispering to one another.

“First! The choice of the Skies!”

A spotlight comes down, unerring.

The crowd murmurs, wondering what it could mean.

Jaster squints, hoping whoever this “chosen person” is moves out of the way quickly before he catches the content of the murmurs.

Oh, dear.

“Come! Come!” The mayor gestures and… yup, he’s definitely pointing at Jaster.

Kark.

“Um, well, you see…” He tries.

“You have been chosen!” The mayor insists. “Origin matters not to the skies! Their decision is not ours to question.”

Well, maybe not yours but surely Jaster can do a little questioning, right?

After all, he has his own religion and really looking at the origins it’s a…

One of the teenlings swallows their fear and takes his hand.

“Come on,” they insist. “You have to go up now, it’s how the ceremony works.”

“Congratulations,” they add, almost as an afterthought.

Jaster hasn’t been having a great day.

He doesn’t think it’s going to get any better with the absence of the sun.

Jaster hesitates under the spotlight a moment longer before starting forward.

He doesn’t think this is anything nefarious or dangerous but… well, he would like to know if he’s about to be sacrificed to the Death Swamp.

The mayor clasps his hands around Jaster’s wrist with hearty congratulations as he ascends to the main platform.

“Yes, right, if I could–” he starts to ask.

“And now! The choice of the Waters!” The mayor turns back to the crowd, leaving Jaster to shuffle awkwardly under all the attention.

The spotlight comes down again, on the blonde outsider this time.

The crowd’s murmurs grow, excited.

From what Jaster can catch, two outsiders in one ceremony is unheard of.

It really would be a shame if he had to fight his way out of being sacrificed to the Death Swamp while dragging some poor innocent spacer behind him.

“Come!” The mayor cries. “You have been chosen!”

The blonde looks about as uncomfortable as Jaster feels though they hide it surprisingly well.

“Now, now.” He fusses, greeting the human with as much enthusiasm as he greeted Jaster. He guides them to stand by Jaster’s side. “What are your names?”

Jaster slides a glance at the stranger, not exactly enthusiastic about announcing his name to the world.

His new companion in ceremonies answers quietly. “Feemor.”

“A good name!” The mayor praises. “From the next sector’s third moon?”

“Ah, yes.” They agree, visibly surprised at the recognition.

“And you, Sir Mandalorian?”

Jaster already told the mayor his name, it was on the agreement they struck to allow his people to search for Death Watch in the area, lying will do him no good here.

“Jaster.”

The mayor hums, considering, and announces to the crowd.

“Even their names fit together! As the Skies and Waters intended!”

Hold on now, fit together?

“This is a good omen indeed!” He pauses, milking the crowd until they start shouting, asking for the year’s fortune.

“Hmmm, yes, I see peace! Great peace! Not only for our people! But the galaxy at large! This is what the Skies and Waters tell us by bringing these ancient enemies together in sacred eternity and love.”

Wait, wait, wait.

Just one moment.

Ancient enemies?

Sacred eternity!?

Love!?!

“Lord Mayor,” Jaster whips his head around to Feemor. “I believe we talked about the importance of keeping my purpose here quiet.” Their voice doesn’t carry to the crowd, Jaster almost wonders if the mayor has heard them.

“Yes, yes.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No need to discuss your mission.”

“Sir.” Feemor pushes. “That includes my position.”

“Bah, I only said ancient enemies, Mandalorians have plenty of those.”

Well, yes.

Jaster isn’t going to pretend there isn’t plenty of bad blood with plenty of peoples but… Feemor is probably right to be concerned.

Beyond the obvious concern that "ancient enemies" alone may be enough to make Jaster a threat.

There is one ancient enemy in particular that Mandalorians themselves like to claim, regardless of the interest the other side has in maintaining that grudge.

There is one ancient enemy in particular that might include in its ranks a supposedly unremarkable spacer from the next sector's third moon, far from any war Mandalorians remember fighting in and with a mission that must be kept quiet.

Looking closer, it’s easy to miss the muscles well-hidden under Feemor’s nondescript outfit.

Jaster is more of a blaster-man himself but there are a few True Mandalorians who maintain skills in more up close and personal weapons.

He can makes guesses.

“What, exactly,” Jaster cuts in, refocusing on the issue at hand. “Have the Skies and the Waters chosen us to do?”

“Oh,” the mayor looks surprised for a moment before he rallies. “My apologies, we’re so used to locals.”

“The Skies and the Waters were once together,” he raises his voice and turns firmly back to the crowd. “Eternal in their love and care for one another.”

The people cheer for the story.

That isn’t what Jaster was asking.

“They were beloved by all and most of all by each other.” He continues. “The harvests were plentiful and the people at peace. Until, one day, the enemy set upon the people of the planet and the Waters and the Skies.”

The crowd boos.

“It was a great battle, horrible and bloody.” He gestures wide, showing the devastation. “The Skies and the Waters could fight no more, there was no hope.”

“Then, the Earth came to them, offered help if only they agreed to separate for their power diminished the Earth’s own.” The mayor shakes his head in sorrow. “Out of their great love for the people they agreed, never to come together again, lest the enemy return tenfold.”

Oh, Jaster has heard something similar about an enemy in one of his readings about a nearby sector. He wonders if this “enemy” is the same, some conquering force lost to time and remembered only in myth.

“However, all was not over.” He rallies. “For while they could never be together again, their love would never fade and each year the Skies and the Waters chose someone to represent their love for the other and bless us as the new year approaches.”

That’s lovely but what does this mean for Jaster?

“And so each year we hold this marriage ceremony.”

“Marriage?” Feemor does not quite hold on to their likely-Jedi calm.

Jaster would also like some clarification on that point, please.

“Don’t interrupt.” The mayor admonishes. “To celebrate their wisdom and care!”

The crowd goes wild, cheering what must be the end of the explanation.

The mayor nods, approving and proud, waiting for them to calm.

“Now, we haven’t had an outsider chosen in over a generation and I can’t recall there ever being two.” He says gravely. “We must remember the respect the Skies and the Waters show one another. The final ceremony will take place after the bonfires have gone down, to allow time to determine the best method of respect for our chosen ones’ traditions.”

He steps back from the stage, clapping Jaster and Feemor heartily on the back and taking their arms to guide them offstage.

“Alright, gentlemen.” He smiles, friendly, like he’s talking about the weather. “Tell me of your marriage traditions, we’ll do our best to accommodate of course, as the Skies and the Waters demand. Though please, do be aware that fighting, including as part of a ritual, is considered a bad omen and may anger the Skies and/or Waters.”

He nods with satisfaction before startling as if he’s just remembered something important.

“Goodness, you’re not married already are you? We can get the papers drawn up right away to deal with that if necessary, I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it before!”

Jaster looks to Feemor, hoping that his thoughts about his identity were wrong and the stranger is not a Jedi but rather a happily married man with several children and a spouse that will fight tooth and nail against any divorce.

“Well,” Feemor starts. “I’m not married, no, but you do understand,” he darts a cautious glance at Jaster before continuing. “My people don’t exactly… marry at all, as a rule.”

Stars, no luck.

Jaster suspects that won’t be an issue for these people.

“Of course, I understand.” The mayor nods enthusiastically. “No marriage traditions to accommodate then?”

“Well…” Jaster can see the cracks in Feemor’s Jedi calm start to deepen. “I suppose not but–”

“Wonderful!” Jaster wonders how much this ability to bowl over any opposition impacted his election. He wonders if this planet even has elections. “Jaster? What of your marriage traditions?”

“Uh…” Jaster is the Mand’alor, he’s dealt with frustrating politicians before, this shouldn’t be difficult. “Listen, Lord Mayor. I understand that this ceremony is… important… to your people but, well.”

“Ah, I see, you are feeling reluctant.” The mayor nods, politely understanding. “Perhaps you’d like to hear the alternatives.”

Jaster narrows his eyes behind his helmet, something tells him he won’t like the alternatives.

“Of course, it is a terrible omen for the ones chosen by the Waters and the Skies to refuse and so I’m afraid we will have to banish you both from the planet forever.”

Feemor actually blanches slightly at this.

“Normally,” the mayor continues. “We would only banish the person in question but as you’re both outsiders we will have to insist that your associates leave too.”

“What do you consider associates?” Feemor asks carefully.

“Well, fellow members of your Order I suppose, any children who join you would also be included but those need only be banished for a period of fifty years. The Waters and the Skies do not believe in grudges.”

“Lord Mayor.” Jaster cuts in, an impatient growl starting to come into his voice. “You intend to fight Death Watch off yourself?”

“As far as I can tell,” he returns, “these Death Watch people seem to be a Mandalorian problem. I will defend my people but so far these ‘Death Watch’ you claim are hiding have not bothered us.”

Jaster opens his mouth to protest, warn the fool what he’s risking when Feemor speaks up again.

“What if only one of us agrees?”

Oh, that is an interesting point, Jaster supposes he could help with whatever mission the Jedi is on if necessary. It’s also possible Feemor might be incentivized to deal with Death Watch though even a Jedi would likely have trouble alone.

“Absolutely not,” the mayor shakes his head. “Either you both leave immediately, taking your tagalongs with you or you marry after the bonfires fade.”

Jaster wracks his brain for something else, it isn’t that Feemor’s probably a Jedi or even particularly unattractive but surely…

“I agree.”

Really? That easy?

Jaster slides him an annoyed look that Feemor politely ignores.

“And you, Sir Jaster?”

The intel they have says this Death Watch sect is large, too large to risk letting be.

“Fine.” He grits out.

“Wonderful! The people will be pleased!” He nods. “Now, your marriage traditions.”

He looked expectantly at Jaster.

Stars, if this isn’t the strangest night of his life.

“We have vows.” He manages, careful to keep the frustration as absent from his voice as possible. “Mandalorian weddings are very simple, we exchange a piece of armor and say the vows and if possible have a feast after.”

“Sensible.” The mayor nods to himself. “Well, feasting is already part of the festival. Any sacred foods?”

“No.”

“Lovely! I suppose the vows are easy enough, we can just substitute our usual ones, we’ve done that on occasion.” He leans in like he’s telling Jaster some amusing secret. Jaster leans back in kind. “Some of the young ones get very enthusiastic in poetry class.”

“Armor, armor, armor.” He turns to examine Feemor’s clothes. “I don’t suppose you have any on you?”

“I have the Force.” Feemor says, like this is somehow a common question.

“Well, unfortunately I can’t see the Force.” The mayor insists.

“Car’i!” He shouts and a short, prim-looking human comes to his aid. “We need armor for that one.”

“Of course, a full set?” She’s already taking measurements, much to Feemor’s clear discomfort. “I’m afraid Mandalorian style may be difficult to reproduce accurately on such short notice.”

“Hmmm…” The mayor scrutinizes his frame and Feemor darts Jaster a look he thinks might be pleading.

“We, uh, we usually just do vambraces.” He offers.

“I suppose we can settle.” The mayor concedes.

This night seems never ending, stretching longer as the hours go on.

Feemor was whisked away for vambrace fitting before Jaster could actually manage a single word to him.

He’s marrying a man he’s never actually spoken to.

That isn’t likely to change, from what little Jaster’s picked up this culture has a thing about couples being left alone together on their wedding night before the vows have been spoken, something about bad luck upon the relationship.

Not only is he marrying a man he’s never actually spoken to, he’s marrying a Jedi.

Stars, what a day.

At least his “polishing armor” excuse worked.

It isn’t the end of the world or anything, really.

There are a few Mandalorians who don't believe in divorce but Jaster is not… quite that strict.

Honestly, the Republic would probably bend over backwards to make any proof of a Jedi marrying a Mandalorian disappear. To say nothing of a Jedi marrying Jaster, arguably Mand’alor, depending on who you ask.

They can certainly undo this, no harm, no foul.

Feemor goes back to whatever mission brought him here in the first place.

Jaster finally roots out the Death Watch base.

They part ways and go home, none the worse for the experience.

Truly, if the paperwork is kept to this planet and not filed anywhere else they needn’t even officially divorce.

The chime of his comm brings him out of his musing.

“Sitrep?” He asks.

“All quiet here, Mand’alor.” Myles returns. “No sign of Death Watch. When are you coming back? I would have thought you’d be back by now, Jango’s starting to fret.”

“I am not!” A tinny voice announces from the background.

“I appreciate your concern, Jan’ika.” Jaster soothes, he’s getting to that age. He’ll figure out his emotions aren’t out to get him one of these cycles.

“So, when are you getting back?” Myles refocuses the conversation.

Jaster hums, considering.

Really, would it be that bad if he just… didn’t say anything?

“Oh no, don’t even think about it.” Myles doesn’t quite snap. “I want a straight answer, Jaster.”

“I’m fine.” He starts. “Just… participating in the local affairs a little more than I’d like.”

“And what does that mean?”

“There’s a… ceremony… for the festival. The mayor has asked that I participate.”

“And you agreed?” Myles narrows his eyes, obviously catching on to Jaster’s reluctance.

“He threatened to have us expelled if I refused, with or without Death Watch intel.” Jaster can hear Jango start to pace and hurries to continue. “It’s nothing dangerous or risky, just a ceremony, I swear.”

There is a very obvious question here that he would prefer not to answer at the moment. He isn’t sure Jango would take it well, not quite understanding the sacrifices that must sometimes be made regardless of fairness.

And, of course, there’s the little detail that anyone married to Jaster is also technically his parent.

Well, a problem for future Jaster.

“I might not make it back before early morning but I promise I’ll call for backup the moment anything looks suspicious.”

“You’d better.” Myles orders.

“I will.” He promises. “Goodnight, Jan’ika.”

“Goodnight.” The comm barely picks up the grumble.

Jaster smiles.

“Are you prepared, Sir Jaster?” Car’i, if he remembers right, asks.

“I suppose I am.” Jaster agrees and follows her to the platform they’ve prepared for the marriage ceremony.

“Hand.” She holds hers out once they’ve reached the top of the platform. He obeys on instinct, almost surprised this night could get more baffling.

She ties a heavily embroidered ribbon to his wrist and pulls him along until her associate guiding Feemor meets them in the middle. Once they’re standing next to each other she guides their hands until Jaster is holding Feemor’s and ties the remaining ribbon to Feemor’s wrist, looking at them like they're both the worst kind of incompetent the entire time.

Jaster takes offense to that.

“Ah!” The mayor, rapidly becoming Jaster’s least favorite person on this planet, comes over with a wide smile. “Wonderful! You’re here, we can get started.”

He pats them both enthusiastically on the arm before turning to announce the proceedings to the crowd.

Jaster tunes him out and turns his attention to his… Feemor will work.

The Jedi is, at first glance, infuriatingly calm and unaffected by the strange fever dream of the last several hours.

However, Jaster’s good at reading body language, very good. It comes with hanging around people who spend most of their time in armor.

He’s as flustered and uncomfortable as Jaster, holding his hand as lightly as possible and angling his body away oh so subtly.

He’s nervous and maybe, if Jaster’s feeling mean, a little afraid.

After all, Jaster may not be afraid of a Jedi killing him in cold blood over a millennia's grudge but the feeling probably isn’t mutual.

Mandalorians are known for their long memories and determined vengeance.

Death Watch would have killed him hours ago, if they were feeling kind.

There is a part of Jaster that wants to reassure him, wants to soothe the tenseness of his shoulders.

There is a part of Jaster that almost wants to see him smile again.

He has a nice smile, for all the one he gave Jaster before was distant and polite.

Jaster realizes he’s missed whatever announcements started the ceremony as the mayor walks over to them, Car’i sets a microphone between them and then physically tugs them so they’re facing each other.

Their hands are still tied together.

He thinks Feemor’s ears might be slightly pink.

“Now,” the mayor leans in to share the mic. “Jaster, will you begin the vows or is a witness meant to lead?”

“No, it’s fine.” He exaggerates eye contact so Feemor can hopefully tell where he’s looking. “Just repeat after me.”

He waits for a nod.

“Mhi solus tome,” He goes slow for Feemor’s benefit and is surprised at how little he stumbles over the words. An absent thought has him repeating the vow in basic this time. “We are one when together.”

It is one thing for Jaster to commit to vows in his own language, regardless of whether he intends to follow them.

It is another thing for Feemor to commit to vows he can’t understand and has no way of comprehending.

Jaster recognizes the slight relief in his expression, Feemor may be planning to disregard these vows as much as Jaster. There is still a kindness to translating.

“Mhi solus dar'tome,” he continues. “We are one when parted.”

Feemor stumbles less now, catching on to the repeated sounds.

“Mhi me'dinui an.” Jaster slows again. “We will share all.”

Jaster takes a chance, hoping it won’t come across as threatening and squeezes his hand slightly in reassurance before starting the final lines. “Mhi ba'juri verde, we will raise warriors.”

Exchanging vambraces is exceptionally awkward one-handed, especially tied together as they are. Jaster barely pays attention to the look of his new one. They both fumble and Jaster mutters several curses under his breath trying to get them off.

Putting them on each other is even worse, Jaster has never had anything uncharitable to say about his people’s armor but really, did they need that fourth strap? Is it truly that important?

In the end, Feemor gives up after three straps, Jaster can hardly blame him.

He turns to indicate the vows and exchange are finished and the mayor dabs at his eyes with a cloth for a moment.

“Wonderful!” He announces, too close to the mic. “The Waters and the Skies will surely bring great blessings upon your marriage!”

He maneuvers the mic closer to the front of the stage and grins.

“Blessings upon all of us as the new year dawns! May peace spark across the galaxy!”

The crowd shouts their blessings back, a clear call and response.

Jaster realizes he’s still holding Feemor’s hand and considers dropping it but before he can actually commit to anything the mayor returns, all smiles.

“Thank you both so much for abiding by the will of the Waters and the Skies.” Jaster kindly doesn’t mutter under his breath about how much of a choice abiding really was. “Now, I’m sure you’re both tired.”

Feemor nods, jostling their hands in what is obviously a less than subtle sign he’d like the ribbon gone.

“I’ll get Car’i to show you to your room.”

“Room?” Jedi calm only goes so far apparently because Feemor nearly snaps.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” This mayor must be one of the most forgetful leaders Jaster has ever met. “The ceremony itself is only part of the blessings upon the chosen. You will be required to stay together in the blessed home of the chosen for at least one week or forfeit and be banished.”

“Why?” Now he just sounds tired.

“Well, not everyone chosen by the Waters and the Skies knows each other when they’re married.”

Obviously, it’s one of several things Jaster objects to in this stupid tradition.

“So, in order to allow time to…” he waggles his eyebrows meaningfully. “...get to know each other, so to speak, without interruptions we’ve prepared a residence for the purpose.”

Feemor’s expression goes from uncomfortable to upset to completely blank in moments.

Jaster squeezes his hand again, hoping that it comes off as comforting and not possessive or cruel.

“You can stay up to three months!” He offers, as if this is obviously what they’ll do. “But one week is the absolute minimum.”

“One week.” Jaster confirms.

“One week.” He nods.

Well, they’ve already gotten married.

He glances at Feemor, who takes a deep breath and nods.

What’s one week more in the grand scheme of things?

“Wonderful!” He calls his assistant over and she leads them through winding alleyways, past towering homes and businesses to the edge of the city.

One lone, small, building sits alone, separate and silent.

“Here you are.” She opens the door. Jaster almost expects a year’s worth of dust to kick up at the intrusion but instead it’s clean, impersonal, but obviously seen to recently.

The space is tiny, enough space for some personal items, a fresher, and a frankly huge bed but nothing else.

Car’i doesn’t cross the threshold, instead urging them inside and clearing her throat from the door.

“Supplies can be found in the top drawer for the safety and pleasure of most human and near-human configurations.” Right, sex, just what Jaster wants to be thinking about right now.

She tilts her head. “Other forms of birth control can be provided if necessary but be advised that any children born within the first year of your union are considered exceedingly blessed by the Waters and the Skies.”

Feemor makes a truly uncomfortable noise from Jaster’s side, he doesn’t look over.

“I-, uh, I don’t think that’s a concern.” Feemor manages.

“Very well.” She doesn’t look surprised by this. “Meals will be provided free of charge on the schedule listed by the fresher, please inform of any allergies by calling the provided comm code.”

Well, at least there’s free food.

Jaster may be grasping a little too desperately for a bright side.

“Can we leave?” Feemor asks, loud in the increasingly awkward silence.

“If you wish,” Car’i looks almost sympathetic for a moment before locking her expression back behind cool professionalism. “We only require that you sleep here. You may continue your mission during the day.”

“Thank you.”

Jaster doesn’t say anything, he isn’t feeling quite that charitable.

“Many happy returns.” She dips her head, shutting the door behind her and finally leaving them in peace.

Neither of them move for a very long moment.

Jaster sighs, long and exhausted.

Feemor startles minutely and drops their hands.

Jaster looks down to the ribbon, brings his hand closer to his face to examine the knot before realizing he’s dragging Feemor along with him.

He mutters an apology and starts fumbling for the small vibroblade he keeps… in the vambrace he gave Feemor.

Blast.

Well, there’s still the one in his boot.

He looks up to find Feemor half finished with the knot, brows furrowed with concentration.

They both let out a relieved breath when he finishes and Jaster looks away.

He is… tired.

He halfheartedly glances over as Feemor carefully folds the ribbon and sets it on the dresser.

It's a kinder treatment than Jaster would have given it.

They make eye contact, or, at least, Feemor tries. Jaster belatedly realizes he’s still wearing his helmet.

He takes it off, breathing in unfiltered air for the first time in hours.

Some of the tension in his muscles seems to melt away at the removal and his body suddenly remembers that he hasn’t taken his armor off in close to a full day cycle.

He’s halfway through taking his armor off when he registers the eyes.

Feemor darts his attention away when he glances up, looking nervous.

“Do you need help with the vambrace?” Jaster asks, they can be fiddly things at times.

Feemor takes a breath and shakes his head.

“Listen,” Jaster is… so tired. “Can we… talk? Tomorrow? I’m way too tired to deal with this right now.”

“Certainly,” Feemor nods and glances at the bed with obvious discomfort. “I could… sleep on the floor?”

Jaster pauses, hoping his incredulous look isn’t too exaggerated after an entire day in full armor.

“It’s big enough for both of us.” He says slowly. “I won’t do anything… untoward, if that’s what you're worried about. Unless, do Jedi have something about sleeping in close quarters?”

Feemor twitches just slightly at the word Jedi but doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“No, that won’t be an issue.”

“Great.” Jaster sighs and debates whether to take a sonic or not.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any spare clothes with him and he’s definitely not going without.

Whatever, he can deal with it in the morning.

He finishes with his armor and his boots and sets them in a corner.

Feemor carefully takes his vambrace and boots off but nothing else.

They both hesitate and Jaster wouldn’t be surprised if they’d both be more comfortable on the side closest to the door.

Jaster crawls across to the far end of the bed and sighs as he plops down under the covers.

It’s a nice bed, if nothing else.

Feemor takes the very edge of the side closest to the door and stares at the ceiling.

The lights are still on.

Neither of them move but after a moment Jaster hears the slight clicking of the switch and the room falls into darkness.

Jaster’s last thought before falling asleep is something about how, at least, if nothing else, he might get answers to a few of his many questions.

Feemor is having the weirdest karking week of his life.

And that is saying something.

Qui-Gon Jinn is not a master who attracts normal, untroubled missions.

Nor is he a master who solves unusual, troubling developments as most of the galaxy probably thinks Jedi do, with a calm and considering frown and maybe a little blaster redirection.

Well, that might be a bit unfair.

He’s certainly capable of it, there have been numerous perfectly normal missions where things were solved with a calm and considering frown. It’s just that Feemor has first hand experience that occasionally Qui-Gon Jinn follows the Force into a swamp and comes out covered in mud with a chunk missing from his robes solution in hand.

That’s to say nothing of the trouble Feemor has gotten himself into and out of since he left his master’s tutelage.

He isn’t so arrogant as to pretend he’s somehow immune to his lineage’s apparent tendency to get into trouble.

If it were any other mission, Feemor might have tried harder to get out of it, tried to negotiate his way into another solution. It isn’t as if Feemor’s terrible at negotiations.

There are children on the line.

Even the most traditional Jedi would marry for that.

He opens his eyes, greeting the morning light with a slight shiver.

He hasn’t moved much, in the hours since they went to bed, laying on the edge of the bed so as not to take up much space.

A Mandalorian.

Force preserve him.

He isn’t dead yet. There hasn’t been a single murder attempt on his person.

Feemor has decided to take that as a good sign.

Truly, while Jaster has been angry, and his frustration was at times intense enough to almost make Feemor wince. Feemor hasn’t sensed any resentment towards him.

At least his new spouse is reasonable enough to recognize that the difficult situation they’ve found themselves in is not Feemor’s fault.

He takes in a deep breath, lets it out again and rises to meet the day.

His new spouse is still fast asleep, sprawled across his side of the bed and breathing deeply.

There isn’t room for proper katas but Feemor does some stretches and settles down to meditate.

He feels much more settled, at peace as he comes out of his meditation a short time later.

The Force is with him, surprise ritual marriage or no.

Normally, he’d meditate longer but he needs to get on with the day.

A quiet knock on the door decides it for him and he answers with a polite nod.

It’s a young human, probably an older apprentice, with a selection of cold first meal foods.

They blush a little when he thanks them and quickly explain the small collapsible table he can set up so they can kneel on the floor and eat.

Jaster is still asleep and Feemor isn’t quite confident enough in their new relationship to try his luck at waking him.

He’s halfway through a delightful and unfamiliar piece of fruit when a comm starts blaring, shattering the morning silence.

Jaster groans and absently pats the side of the bed looking for it.

It’s attached to his vambrace, the one that isn’t currently sitting with Feemor’s few items, so he stands and rifles through the pile of armor in the corner and walks over to hand it to the bleary-eyed Mandalorian. Stars, he hopes that isn’t somehow offensive.

Well, he muses as Jaster works to recalibrate his mind enough to remember which button to press, if anyone’s allowed to touch Jaster’s armor it’s probably Feemor.

After all, they’re technically married now.

“What?” Jaster grumbles.

“Jaster Mereel!” Huh, he has a second name. Does that mean Feemor has a second name now? He really isn’t sure how he feels about Feemor Mereel.

Too many “e” and “r” sounds.

“I’ll comm you, Myles!” The caller complains, some of their words in Mando’a and some of them in basic. Feemor’s pretty sure he has the gist. “I’ll let you know if I need backup, Myles. I promise, Myles.”

Feemor winces. They sound like his crechemate, the one who went into healing.

Jaster manages half a syllable before Myles must realize they woke him up, Feemor can almost feel their expression narrowing as they take in what little must be visible of the background of the call.

That starts another tirade, none of which is in basic.

Feemor doesn’t even need the Force to understand that Jaster really should have checked in last night.

He can understand the reluctance.

Feemor would be dodging calls too, if he was getting calls in the first place.

Fortunately, his current mission is known to be sensitive and it’s hard to keep track of even the Shadows you know comm codes for sometimes.

He goes back to his fruit.

Feemor looks up at the soft thump as Jaster sits back and sighs.

“Want some?” He asks, instead of addressing the awkwardness of half-listening to his new spouse get berated for not checking in and then lectured by a clearly worried teenling.

Stars, does Feemor have a step-child now?

He can’t see that going well, teenlings resent step-parents on the best days, at least that’s what Feemor’s gathered from Sena’s drunken retellings of her favorite holodrama. Didn’t one of them try to kill the main character’s best friend in a bid to get her to leave their father?

Nope, Feemor isn’t going to think about that.

He especially isn’t going to think about how a Mandalorian teenling might react to a Jedi step-parent.

“You alright?” Jaster has, in the time Feemor was having a crisis over maybe technically having a step-child, moved to settle across from him on the floor.

“Fine.” Feemor gives him a tight-lipped smile. “How are you?”

“In trouble, apparently.” Jaster smiles wryly and reaches over to try some of the fruit on Feemor’s side of the tray. “I told them I might not make it till early morning, not that I wouldn’t make it back at all.”

“Ah,” Feemor nods and adds neutrally. “I can see why they’d be worried.”

They sit in silence for a few moments.

“For what it’s worth,” Jaster clears his throat awkwardly. “I really am sorry about all this.”

“It wasn't your fault.” Feemor reminds him. “I’m sorry too. I can’t leave this planet without completing my mission, I probably would have pushed if you’d said no.”

“Can I ask about your mission? We might be able to get out of here faster if we work together.”

“Inclined to divorce so soon?” Feemor muses absently before his mind catches up with his mouth and he blushes.

Jaster just laughs.

It’s a nice laugh.

What was the question?

Right.

“There are…” Feemor considers, he doesn’t think Jaster holds any great personal hatred for Jedi, at least not enough to come through so far. “Organizations.” He settles on the polite term. “That make their money trading children, Force Sensitives if they can manage it. I’ve tracked a significant amount of activity down to this planet and I believe there are sales on the horizon, though I haven’t figured out where or to whom yet.”

He pauses and adds. “They haven’t arrived yet. If I could find the buyers things would be much easier, but no one quite fits the bill. This is a textile and agricultural economy and even organized crime doesn’t have the money to think about purchasing.”

He looks up and finds Jaster looking intently at him but before he can regret his words the man speaks.

“We may be able to help each other then.” He takes a breath and explains. “I am hunting Death Watch, dar’manda scum seeking conquest and death at the cost of all that is good and honorable.”

Well, that certainly sounds unpleasant.

Feemor can’t say “Death Watch” is a spectacular name for an organization.

Perhaps branding that implies a horrible death cult sells better on Mandalore.

Feemor wouldn’t know.

“If you are looking for those who would buy Force Sensitive children, I would not put it past them.” The Force rings with truth, as far as Jaster is concerned, these people may be prime suspects. “They are the kinds of cowards who prey on the vulnerable in order to feel strong and… they certainly appear to have the resources for it.”

“Well,” Feemor breathes out slowly. “You may be right then, in that case.” He smiles as a thought strikes him. “At least this marriage comes with suspects.”

Feemor leaves the fresher feeling much cleaner than he’s been in several days, his ship’s sonic likes to act up and quit at odd times, to find Jaster staring quite intensely at the vambrace Feemor gave him.

“Is there something wrong?” He’d noticed that Mandalorian armor was painted and well, it’s a very calming activity so he’d asked Car’i if she’d find him some supplies in the interest of participating properly in his upcoming wedding.

It was almost meditative and Feemor can attest it helped immensely to calm his mind through the ordeal.

“You painted it?” Jaster asks, slightly strangled.

“Um, yes,” he confirms. “Was that alright? I’ve noticed Mandalorians often paint their armor. I hope that wasn’t rude or anything. You can repaint it if you’d like.”

“No,” Feemor can’t quite read what Jaster’s feeling but he thinks it might be something pleasant. “That’s alright. They’re meant to look different.”

He stares at it a moment longer before putting it on, much quicker than Feemor could manage.

“The color suits you, I think.” He nods decisively and looks up.

“Thank you?” Feemor doesn’t quite manage to turn it into a statement.

Jaster chuckles.

“I don’t know you, really.” He clarifies. “But Mandalorian colors have meanings attached to them. Not every Mandalorian follows them, mind you. I’ve known more than one person to wear black because they’re boring at heart.” He sobers a bit. “Blue means reliability, generally. You seem, and I hope I’m not overstepping or getting this horribly wrong, you seem like a reliable person.”

“Oh,” Feemor swallows and looks away. He really doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Can I ask about the pattern?” Jaster doesn’t let the moment turn awkward.

“Ah,” Feemor can feel his face growing hot. “I visited my home system and moon, when I was a padawan. We generally have the option to connect to our culture if we wish.” He clarifies.

“There’s a traditional system of patterns, usually sewn into collars, to designate affiliation and trade. I learned it and they helped me create one for my affiliation and trade.” The Jedi, he doesn’t say. “I tend to replicate it when I’m nervous.”

Jaster hums and tosses the vambrace he gave to Feemor over.

He’s not quite sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, just slips it on over his sleeve and fiddles with the straps.

“I have a witness to interview.” Jaster says as Feemor finishes with his shoes. “If you’d like we could meet up in the afternoon? See what we find?”

“Alright.” There are a few places Feemor has yet to investigate, though the Force gives little indication he will find success.

Jaster nods and hesitates for a bare moment before turning and heading deeper into the city.

Well, Feemor had better find something before the afternoon.

First, a trip to his ship for a change of clothes and an inquiry for information from the Temple on this “Death Watch.” The Force gave him no indication Jaster was lying but… if Madame Nu managed to impart anything at all on her beginning investigations’ students it was the importance of verifying and researching what you can.

Almost as an afterthought, he sends in a request for any information on a Mandalorian going by Jaster Mereel.

He probably won’t get anything but, as Madame Nu always said in those introductory courses, double check.

So, as it turns out, getting married publicly in a massive ceremony is not conducive to subtle investigations.

Feemor gives up after the third bar shouts their congratulations and starts inquiring about Mandalorian habits in bed.

Sleeping, and only sleeping, ideally. At least when Feemor is involved.

They don’t know he’s a Jedi, he must begrudgingly admit that the mayor was at least somewhat correct. Only Jaster seems to have picked up on which “ancient enemy” Feemor happens to be a part of.

It doesn’t matter what they know if all anyone wants to talk about is his spouse, his feelings for his spouse, how honored he must be feeling to have been chosen to have his spouse, etc.

He sighs, hopefully Jaster is having more success.

Somehow, Feemor doubts it.

There’s still several hours before they agreed to meet up again so Feemor takes to walking the back alleys, letting the Force guide his path.

It’s a pleasant walk, tilting his head as he comes to turns and following the Force’s will.

There are many things Feemor finds don’t come naturally to him but listening has always been instinct.

It’s what got him found, after all.

His little toddler feet listening to the wind and carrying him to the stranger at the edge of town.

It caused a panic, he doesn’t remember it, but Master Tyvokka told him about it once.

Even the most Force Sensitive of toddlers don’t usually toddle their way out of locked homes and across multiple farmers’ fields to see what the Force is fussing about.

His abilities hadn’t been obvious until his parent’s found him happily hanging on a Jedi’s robes, oblivious to their concerns and perfectly content with his new friend.

Feemor turns another corner, ready to continue and stops.

There, sullen and annoyed as only a teenling can be, a human sitting on the steps and staring off into the distance. As if the dirty wall or the graffiti will give them answers.

“Hello,” he greets and slowly moves to sit on the step beside them.

“Hey,” they respond, uninterested.

“Are you alright?” He tries.

“Fine.” A weary sigh, like all the planet’s problems rest on their shoulders. It may not be the case but Feemor knows it feels like it, sometimes.

They sit in silence for a few moments before it becomes obvious he isn’t planning on leaving. They glance at him out of the corner of their eye and he can feel their attention focus on the vambrace he’s wearing.

“You…” They start, swallow, and continue. “You married that Mandalorian.”

“Yes.” Feemor inclines his head in agreement.

Their emotions roil with uncertainty for a few moments.

“Is he nice?” They ask.

Now, that is an interesting question.

“He has been nothing but kind to me.” Feemor decides, both because it’s true and because he knows that isn’t the same as the "nice" they’re inquiring about.

“Oh,” they slump, “that’s good.”

“What’s on your mind, young one?”

“Um, he’s looking for those other Mandalorians.” They start, then clarify. “The ones with all the black that look the same.”

Feemor hums, Jaster didn't mention Death Watch's appearance.

“I’m worried.” They admit. “Cal’i has been bragging about seeing them all week and he went to talk to her yesterday.”

Feemor says nothing, lets them say what they wish.

“She didn’t though. I did but she won’t admit it now cause she doesn’t want me to get hurt.” They rush out. “I’m scared, I don’t want her to get hurt because of me but I’m too much of a coward to face him. He’s going to figure it out eventually and I…” They bury their face in their knees.

They don’t cry, just hide away for a few moments.

Feemor lets them wallow.

“Would it help,” he starts, “if you could tell someone else? About what you saw, instead of the Mandalorian?”

They whip around, surprise obvious.

“We’re married now.” He reminds them. “I’m not afraid of him and I don’t need to tell him where I got the information from.”

“You’re sure?” They push.

“Yes.” Feemor doesn’t think that Jaster would hurt a teenling over this but there’s no need to risk it.

“Alright.” They agree. “There’s four main paths in the Death Swamp, the middle one that splits west goes the deepest. The far eastern one is where I like to pick berries, hardly anyone goes there. Anyways, while I was there a couple weeks ago I heard voices and these whooshing noises.”

“These Mandalorians were landing on one of the drier spots across the way.” They gesture with their arms. “With their… jetpacks? Yeah, jetpacks. They were all laughing and one of them shushed the others. I don’t think they saw me. They flew off towards the east after a few minutes. I think they have a base that way.”

They turn to look Feemor in the eye.

“You can’t get a speeder or ship out there, the trees are too thick and there’s no path you could walk but those jetpack things they’ve got could probably make it as long as the sap isn’t running and there’s gotta be some drier spots somewhere out there.”

Feemor hums, they’re probably right.

The coverage would hide them from most scrutiny from above and none of the locals would be able or inclined to reach them if they rely on jetpacks to travel.

The only real issue is how they get supplies in and out.

There’s fish in the water and berries in the bushes but not a lot else.

He hums for a moment. It’s possible this is only temporary, maybe even just in place long enough to meet with the slavers Feemor’s been tracking. That is, if Jaster’s theory is correct.

It could also be a set up they’ll prepare and abandon for a later emergency.

It’s a good hiding place.

“Thank you, you’ve been very brave.” He gives them a slight smile. “I’ll pass it along.”

“Cal’i will be alright?” They ask again.

“I will do my utmost to ensure she’s safe.” He agrees.

“Thank you.” They slump with relief.

Feemor lets his smile fade into something a little fond and goes to find Jaster.

“I hope you had more success than I did.” Is what Jaster starts with, as soon as he notices Feemor approaching. “I know so much about local teenling drama now.”

Feemor stifles a small smile.

“I did, in fact.” He replies, walking over to face Jaster where he’s leaning against a wall. “I have a very good idea as to the location of your problem, at least.”

“Really?” He tilts his head in an interested manner.

Feemor hums, considering.

“I’m afraid,” he clarifies. “You may have intimidated your best witnesses away.”

Jaster groans, tipping his head back and tapping it against the wall in frustration.

“I was nice!” He protests. “Patient even!”

Feemor darts a pointed glance at several of his more visible weapons and raises an eyebrow.

Jaster doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Look on the bright side,” Feemor smiles. “At least now you have an approachable and unintimidating spouse to help.”

“Approachable.” He grumbles. “Unintimidating. That’s my first thought when I think of a Jedi, right.”

“You think I’m intimidating?” Feemor smiles. He knows how he appears, approachable and unintimidating is useful in a Shadow. It takes work.

“Didn’t say that.” Jaster holds up a hand to object.

“I can be intimidating,” Feemor protests with a laugh.

“I’m sure.” Jaster slants a look over, seemingly judging how likely he thinks that might be.

Feemor can feel his interest though, bubbling under the feigned skepticism.

Leave it to a Mandalorian to believe Feemor is a threat, regardless of how he carries himself, leave it to this one to want to see it.

“Another time, perhaps.” He offers.

Jaster scoffs but it’s light.

“We should meet up with my people.” He suggests. “They have a decent map of the planet. We can figure out our next steps there.”

“Alright.” Feemor agrees. “Going to warn them?” He inquires casually, gesturing to Jaster’s new vambrace.

The man in question grimaces.

“I’m going to hope your intel is good.” He returns.

Well, Feemor thinks it’s good intel.

He just isn’t sure it’s distract your kid from your sudden marriage levels of good intel.

Teenlings can be such tenacious beings.

“I’ll trust your judgment.” By the look Jaster sends him, he isn’t quite able to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Feemor is, as he sometimes finds himself, correct.

The teenling who runs out to meet them has noticed and clocked their parent’s new look before they’ve even finished parking the speeder.

“Buir!” They shriek, utterly scandalized. Their voice cracks halfway through the second syllable.

Feemor hides a smile behind his hand, inadvertently drawing the teenling’s attention to the location of their parent’s former vambrace.

Jaster’s body language reads as sheepish, mostly.

Feemor almost mourns his ignorance of Mando’a.

The teenling is speechless for one long moment and is then rambling and ranting so quickly Feemor would have missed most of it even if he had some knowledge of the language.

Jaster tries his best to cut in, soothe his child.

Feemor is vaguely aware of several other Mandalorians coming over, attracted by the sounds of youthful outrage.

He tilts his head in acknowledgement, utterly unbothered by the situation he’s found himself in.

It was, after all, Jaster’s choice not to say anything.

One of the Mandalorians makes eye contact with him and has to stop a snort of amusement at whatever serene Jedi expression Feemor is wearing.

The Mandalorian next to them thumps them on the back as they choke and rolls their eyes.

Jaster is trying and failing to place a calming hand on his child’s head, the teenling isn’t having it.

Feemor dismounts with a little jump and walks over to the only Mandalorian he vaguely recognizes.

“Hello,” he smiles, as if there is not a thing of note going on. “I’m Feemor. You must be Myles.”

The Mandalorian startles, not physically, but his emotions jerk like this is unusual.

“Hello…” He settles on. “You’re… married?”

Feemor nods agreeably.

“...To Jaster?” He clarifies, just to make sure. As if there’s any other Mandalorian Feemor might be married to.

“It would appear so.”

Myles mouths Feemor’s words, almost disbelieving.

“Jaster!” He shouts and continues in basic, presumably for Feemor’s benefit, which is appreciated. “What does he mean ‘it would appear you’re married!?’ Did you accidentally say the vows? Trip over your own feet and lose a vambrace?”

“Didn’t you say something about him participating in local traditions this morning, Myles?” Another Mandalorian standing nearby mutters helpfully.

“You’re a local?” Myles turns back to Feemor.

“No more than any of you.” Feemor returns, not quite comfortable adding ‘Jedi spouse’ to either Jaster or his own problems at the moment. “The local government has… interesting ideas about blessings and whether or not they can be politely rejected.”

Myles hums, turning back to glance over at Jaster, who has managed in the time Feemor was distracted to pull his child into a grumpy side hug.

“Hello, I’m Feemor.” He waves to the teenling.

“I don’t like you.” The child informs him.

Feemor’s conceptions of step-children seem to be at least somewhat accurate.

He hears a very exasperated, “Jango, be nice.” from Jaster.

Jango, well, at least he has a name for his new step-child now.

“I understand.” He nods sagely.

This does not appear to be the reaction the teenling was looking for.

Jango glares harder.

It reminds Feemor very suddenly of possessive little padawans scowling over the breakfast table at their master’s “friend” who “slept over” because “their rooms are so far” and “it was late.”

He does his best not to smile at the image.

Jango wraps his arms around his father’s waist and scowls.

Jaster’s body language reads as pure delight and his emotions go all gooey for a moment.

Ah, getting “too old” for hugs.

“We have information on Death Watch.” Jaster announces, more of a peace offering than anything.

Myles gives him a look that says they’ll be talking later but acquiesces.

“Come on.” He sighs and leads them into what must be the temporary center of operations.

If Feemor were any less observant, he’d say Myles is the one in charge.

As it is, he suspects something of a bend more towards exasperated fealty.

That’s interesting.

Perhaps his inquiries into Jaster Mereel will yield results after all.

Jango does not, in fact, leave or let go of Jaster. This is decidedly not protested though he certainly glares like it might be.

Myles pulls up a planetary projection at the center of the room at Jaster’s nod and Feemor examines it carefully.

“According to my witness.” He begins. “The encampment you’re looking for is likely in this area.” He points the likely places out. “They’ve been avoiding most local detection using jetpacks and sticking to islands the locals can’t travel to.”

“Huh,” Myles says. “That would explain how hard they’ve been to find. How do you propose we proceed, Mand’alor?”

Mand’alor.

Now that is a word that Feemor recognizes.

Huh, he’ll have to deliver his report in person.

It is, after all, his sacred responsibility as Qui-Gon Jinn’s former padawan to cause a little trouble now and then.

He raises an eyebrow at Jaster.

“Wayii, you didn’t tell him.” Myles realizes.

“I’ve been… distracted.” Jaster tries. “It’s been a very long cycle.”

“I can see that.” Myles does not sound impressed.

Jaster sighs, like all the world’s against him.

“How long until the acid sap starts dripping again?”

Myles checks something on the projection and answers. “You’re about half an hour too late.”

“I don’t suppose you’re immune to acidic sap?” He turns to Feemor.

“The Force is generous,” Feemor replies. “But not that generous.”

Myles stops, stock still and looks back and forth between them. He opens his mouth, closes it and decides.

“Only you would have the luck to wind up married to what must be the only Jedi in the system.” Myles gripes.

Jango seems to reconsider his opinion of Feemor and find it even worse than before.

“I mean,” Feemor muses absently. “He is right. I am the only Jedi in the system.”

Jaster just sighs.

They have to head back eventually.

Feemor watches from the sidelines as Jaster very awkwardly explains why to a baffled Myles and visibly displeased Jango.

He politely says his goodbyes to his new acquaintances and Jango looks like he wants to bite him but doesn’t act on it so really Feemor would say he’s doing quite well.

Jaster takes off his armor once they’re back in their little room, piece by piece.

Feemor removes his new vambrace and pauses.

“Huh, I never asked.” he realizes.

Jaster makes an acknowledging noise.

“If blue’s reliability, what’s with the red and black?” He asks.

“Oh,” Jaster straightens up. “Well, red is usually honoring a parent.” He lifts a hand to adjust his helmet’s place on the dresser, something tight and worn in his heart. “Black is for justice.”

“Worthy representations.” Feemor hums and leaves it at that.

Jaster goes back to fiddling with his boots.

Late meal is… actually quite pleasant. Feemor has eaten many meals designed for many different needs and species in his years as a Jedi, perhaps it’s just his nearby origins but the taste is almost nostalgic.

Jaster seems to think it needs more spices but Feemor doesn’t let that affect him. Marriages are bound to come with disagreements.

“So, Mand’alor.” He settles on.

Jaster raises an eyebrow and takes another bite of his stew.

“Yes, disputed, technically.” He acknowledges.

“How’d that happen?” Feemor is usually better at conversation than this.

Feemor is also usually not married.

“I used to be a Journeyman Protector, a kind of lawkeeper on the edges of Mandalorian space, as best as it gets in some places.” He clarifies.

“One of my superiors was corrupt, I tried to get justice and well, that didn’t work so I killed him.” Jaster shrugs, as if this is a reasonable response. It might be. Feemor doesn’t know enough to judge. “I couldn't let him continue, not as cruel as he was. In the end, I got exiled and used some of my spare time to write a codex. I wanted… I thought we could be better, should be better. It resonated, I suppose.”

“People are loyal to me now, follow me.” Jaster’s expression shifts into a rueful smile. “I never intended for this, exactly, but I won’t run from my responsibilities.”

Feemor tips his head in acknowledgement, sips on his drink.

“I could send it to you, if you want.” Feemor almost smiles at how genuine he sounds, the way he lights up just a little at the possibility Feemor might be interested. “I have translations into basic.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll read it right away.” He warns. “But I won’t object, if nothing else, I’m sure the archives would like a copy.”

“The Jedi Archives?” Jaster asks, some part of him slightly awed and unable to hide it completely.

“Yes, I am a Jedi, Jaster.” He smiles.

“I would be honored.” Jaster says and leaves his meal behind to send the file in its original and translated versions to Feemor’s datapad.

The archives, he muses, have their admirers in even the most unlikely of places.

“Could I ask?” Jaster starts.

Feemor looks up at the question.

“Tarre Vizsla, do the Jedi know anything of him?”

“The Mandalorian Jedi?” Feemor clarifies.

“Yes.” Jaster nods. “We have… there are few known records of him on Mandalore. The Viszlas are headed by Tor and he likes to hold up the Darksaber as some kind of symbol of great Mand’alors but… Death Watch hate his past and say nothing of him other than his power.”

“You want to know about his actual beliefs.” Feemor states more than asks.

“Yes. The symbol is difficult to ignore, I can’t pretend Tor doesn’t have it but I can change what it means.” He pauses. “I don’t mean to imply I would lie, to change whatever intent Tarre may have left behind.”

“But if Tarre’s intentions were known, it might weaken the power.” Feemor leans back, considering. “I don’t know what we have, if anything, it may have been destroyed when the Darksaber was stolen. I can tell you, if Tarre was anything like a Jedi, he probably would have mourned for what his saber has become.”

He measures his words carefully before pulling his own lightsaber from its hiding place.

“Our lightsabers are our lives. That isn’t exactly literal, you can’t kill a Jedi just by destroying their lightsaber, more they’re a representation of our souls.” He pulls his saber apart and shows Jaster the glowing crystal inside for a moment before snapping it all back together in an instant.

“They sing in tune with us, to taint that with endless pursuit of power, an eternity of ambition, no matter how well intentioned in the beginning. A Jedi never would have wanted that, not for his crystal, his soul, not even for the bits of metal holding it together.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Jaster says, some measure of genuine sadness in his voice. “I had hoped he would not have been disappointed in what we’ve become.”

Feemor tilts his head in thought. He doesn’t know Tarre, that period was never an interest of his. He’s never pursued Mandalorian history in any great depth either.

“I think he knew what he was getting into.” He decides. “Jedi do not usually leave on whim alone, we are a thoughtful people.”

Jaster nods, still looking solemn and Feemor reaches out to briefly touch his arm in comfort.

“Chin up, Jaster. I hear there are flowers blooming in Sundari.”

He opens his mouth, perhaps to argue, perhaps to tell Feemor those aren’t his people.

Feemor meets his gaze with a pleasant smile.

It is precisely because they aren’t his people that Feemor brought it up.

The pursuit of healing will always be worthy, deserving of hope.

Feemor thinks Tarre would have agreed.

It has been thousands of years. Mandalore has changed, for the worse, certainly, in many ways but...

There are flowers where there was nothing.

There is someone fighting for the potential he sees in his people.

There are people who believe in something better.

Jaster closes his mouth.

The idea of sleeping in the same bed is much less daunting than it was the night before.

Jaster settles onto his half without hesitation and Feemor does the same.

There’s a chill in the air that was absent the night before and Feemor finds himself grateful for all the blankets they’ve been provided.

He pulls the blankets over himself and sighs.

Feemor flicks the light off and hardly notices drifting off.

Jaster wakes up warm.

Almost uncomfortably so and with a weight at his side.

He opens his eyes slowly, trying to orient himself.

There’s soft breathing at his side and he turns to find Feemor has moved in the night. Where they kept far from one another the first night, Jaster finds that now Feemor is pressed up against his side, loosely holding Jaster’s arm.

He breathes in the silence, taking comfort in how much trust it shows, even subconsciously.

Jaster almost wants to stay, rest in the comfort of gentleness.

He debates with himself for a few moments. This wasn’t a conscious action on either of their parts, he doesn’t want to take advantage.

He doesn’t quite come to a conclusion.

Feemor’s breathing changes, a deep breath that feels like awareness.

He pulls away and Jaster sits up.

“Good morning.” Jaster settles on after a moment.

Feemor hums, blinking up at him.

“Good morning.” He mumbles.

Something in Jaster’s heart clenches at the sight of him, vulnerable and trusting that Jaster won’t harm him for it.

“Myles says the sap should wait to come in until evening.” Jaster reminds him, instead of dwelling on the feeling.

Feemor hums again, stretching languidly for a moment.

“Scouting, after first meal?” He suggests.

“I’m not sure we have an extra jetpack.” Jaster warns and almost regrets it.

“Jedi, remember?” Feemor says around a yawn. “I think I’ll manage.”

That’s probably true.

“If you’re sure.” He says.

Feemor's responding smile is distinctly amused and when his eyes follow Jaster's movements to get ready there's contentment in his expression.

First meal is about as exciting as the previous day's offerings, light and heavy with fruits.

They sit across from each other and eat mostly in silence. Jaster is grateful for the quiet, calm and peaceful with none of the wrongness that would have him tensing for an ambush.

They make decent time, not rushing but not delaying either and set out for the True Mandalorian camp without issue.

Feemor meditates at the edge of the swamp while Jaster organizes small squads and assigns them areas to search.

Several are visibly distracted by the sight of a Jedi openly meditating but Jaster doesn’t see any hatred or violent intent, only curiosity and maybe a little bafflement.

Still, they can’t afford the distraction and Jaster ensures their places in other squads.

They’re taking a serious risk, doing things this way. Each squad is small, kept to an absolute minimum to focus on stealth.

If any of them are caught it’s likely they’ll be overrun and a rescue will be difficult if not impossible.

If Feemor’s slavers are indeed trading with Death Watch, they can’t risk going in blind.

There are children at stake.

Better to risk themselves than to put the younglings in needless danger.

Feemor opens his eyes when Jaster comes over, takes a deep breath.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Jaster signals for the other squads to head out, aiming for the islands to the far east and northeast.

Feemor stands, tilts his head slightly and looks back to Jaster and Myles.

“To the east, then.” He walks forward and places a steady hand on a tree.

Jaster moves to follow.

They reach the end of the path far faster than Jaster was expecting, he’d almost thought it would go deeper.

Myles fires up his jetpack and aims for a small island visible from the path heading slightly west.

Jaster follows and looks back.

Feemor meets his look with a small smile, a spark of mischief in his eyes, backs up a few steps and leaps across the space to meet them.

He does a flip halfway across and lands with a little flourish.

“You know,” Jaster starts, a smile hidden behind his helmet. “That felt unnecessary.”

“And what would you know about unnecessary?” He sniffs, Jaster thinks he might be imitating someone. “I’ll have you know that flip gave me essential lift. You wouldn’t want me to fall into the muck now, would you?”

“It just felt superfluous is all.” Jaster raises his hands in surrender.

“Oh Mandalorian of little faith.” Feemor turns his nose up just slightly, a suppressed smile on his face.

Jaster opens his mouth to reply.

“Manda preserve me.” Myles grumbles from his side.

Feemor exchanges an amused look with Jaster before making another jump, this time aiming for a tree and kicking off further into the swamp.

“You know, Mand’alor,” Myles grouches over their private comms. “I was expecting many things out of you marrying a Jedi, mostly that you weren’t going to. I didn’t expect you to make each other worse.”

Jaster laughs and works to catch up with Feemor, leaving Myles behind.

“I thought the island was this way?” Myles points.

Jaster just watches as Feemor takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He suspects that the Force disagrees.

“There.” He points, far from where Myles estimates the camp may be.

“What do you mean there?” Myles complains.

Feemor tilts his head from side to side in a slow motion.

“It’s there.” He repeats and makes a sign for quiet. “We’re closer than we think.”

Myles, to his credit, silences his external comms immediately.

Jaster takes his helmet off, words are much easier to modulate without it.

“Is it possible to get closer without alerting them?” He asks.

Feemor shakes his head, gaze going distant for a moment.

“Not you, the jetpacks make too much noise.”

Blast.

“I could make it and do some scouting but I’m afraid I don’t speak Mando’a.” He continues.

“Here,” Myles tosses a small recording device to him. “We can translate it when we get back.”

“You’re pacing.” Myles declares.

“I am not pacing.” Jaster denies.

He’s definitely pacing.

“Your Jedi will be fine.” Myles rolls his eyes.

Jaster doesn’t dignify that with a response, because he’s not worried.

He almost stops himself from jumping when Feemor lands.

The Jedi sends him a smile that says he definitely noticed.

“Found them?” Myles asks.

“Yes.” He replies, handing the recorder over. “Better, I think they only have one base.”

That will make it easier and harder.

If there is one base, the resistance will be more intense.

If they succeed there’s much less chance of yet another successful escape.

Jaster is tired of chasing dar’manda across the galaxy.

“It’s three!” Jaster insists.

“I have no idea how you’re hearing three.” Myles responds. “It’s seven.”

Feemor sips at the shig they handed out to keep him occupied.

Myles devolves into complaining about Kalevalan accents.

“Kalevalan?” Jaster protests. “How are you hearing Kalevalan in that mess?”

“It’s in the karking vowels! I can hear it!”

“What’s three in Mando’a?” Feemor interrupts.

“Ehn.”

“What’s seven?”

“E’tad.”

Feemor leans forward to replay the clip again.

“Huh, how did they manage that?” He wonders. “I can’t tell.”

“Right?”

Jaster flops down on a chair.

“Well, on the bright side.” Myles announces. “We know they have a meeting with slavers in either three or seven days. So, we can assume the slavers will likely make their way on planet as early as tomorrow, if they aren’t here already, seven days at the latest.”

Jaster and Feemor both nod.

“I think three.” Feemor pipes up.

“The Force?” Jaster asks, just to be sure.

Feemor nods from behind his shig.

“Great.”

Feemor must be missing his crèchemates and the tooka piles of their childhood more than he thought because he wakes up clinging to Jaster again.

It’s mutual this time.

Jaster has an arm splayed casually over Feemor’s side.

Huh, he’ll have to consider staying a bit after he delivers his report to the Council, Sena would be ecstatic.

Apparently he’s the best listener when it comes to holodrama recaps.

Jaster’s still asleep and Feemor can see his comm blinking with a new message from across the room.

He doesn’t want to move, as warm and comfortable as he is.

Alas, the life of a Jedi is one of sacrifice for the greater good.

He shuffles carefully away, replacing himself with a pillow that Jaster squeezes unconsciously.

It’s cute.

Feemor can feel his face heating up at the thought.

What was he doing again?

Right, comm.

He opens the message and finds his requested intel, reports on Death Watch activities, linked reports by Jedi who have interacted with the organization (mostly fights, they seem awfully trigger-happy), active connections the Jedi have established exist between leadership and criminal organizations, theories and evidence of how the structure of the organization may work, and a copy of a manifesto that Feemor skims through.

It’s very… Feemor is going to use the words “inherent sense of superiority and strength through conquest.”

That has… never been a worldview that has gone well for anyone, except maybe a couple powerful “inherently superior” beings. Well, actually, now that he thinks of it, they tend to die pretty young too.

Next is his requested information on Jaster Mereel, significantly less than Death Watch but there is some information on the True Mandalorians and Jaster’s status as disputed Mand’alor.

Feemor notes they don’t include the Codex, which means they don’t have it, which means Feemor will be making certain archivists very happy.

Finally, there’s another message, unrelated to his requests and sent out to all the Shadows in the surrounding sectors.

All two of them.

Feemor knows one of his fellows is working a weapons smuggling operation just inside Republic space four sectors down.

There are not many of them.

His heart clenches as he reads the message.

It is dangerous to be a Jedi.

It is hard for others to understand and power is so easy to covet.

A padawan has gone missing, their master found grievously injured by their mission partner.

It was supposed to be easy.

A simple, safe mission to oversee the once a decade renewal of a planetary treaty.

A wonderful mission for a padawan so unusually young.

The knight that accompanied them is searching, trying her best.

Feemor cannot abandon his mission.

He sends a response, promising assistance when his mission is finished.

He knows very well it may be too late then.

He knows very well it may be too late now.

Jaster stirs on the bed and Feemor does his best to settle.

He is only one Jedi.

The Force is a comfort, whispering promises he can’t quite comprehend, weaving around him with soon, soon, soon.

“Feemor?” Jaster mumbles.

He takes a few more breaths and opens his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Feemor doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“There is only so much I can do, only so many I can help.”

“A problem of many Jedi, I presume.” Jaster nods wisely.

It doesn’t quite coax a smile out of Feemor but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Listening to the Force has always come naturally to Feemor, even when he can’t decipher its meaning, so when the whispers tug him away from his spouse and urge him on he listens.

“Feemor?”

He follows them along winding paths, down strange alleyways he could have sworn weren’t there moments ago, under slowly dripping eaves that seem to stare down at him with judgment.

The city seems so much darker than it was only minutes before.

The morning sun still shines in the sky.

The wind blows cold and urgent.

"Feemor?"

The guidance ends at a boarded up building, decrepit and abandoned if not for the soft crying Feemor can barely hear within.

“Here.” He says softly and reaches out.

Jaster shifts, a hand on his blaster.

Feemor opens the door cautiously, careful though he senses no enemies within.

There are children inside, filthy, terrified little children.

His eyes immediately catalogue the chains and little details of slavers’ work.

“Younglings.” He calls, carefully soft.

One of the little ones sniffles, turns with a jerk of pure fear.

“Peace, little ones. I am here to help.” He smiles gently and kneels, pulling his saber from its hiding place at his back.

Their eyes grow large, awed at the sight.

“You're a Jedi!” One of them declares.

He nods, counting four of them that he can see.

“I am, Jedi Knight Feemor at your service.” He bows as best he can from the ground.

Normalcy to calm them. A Jedi would not bow if things were so terrible.

“That is Jaster,” he introduces and smiles as the man immediately starts fussing with restraints. “He’s going to help me.”

He hears shuffling in the distance and feels the Force buzz with warning.

Time’s up.

He walks to the place their chains are attached and slices them with a flick of his blade.

“Are there more of you?” He asks, urgent but kind.

“N-not here, they took Nima and one of the little ones somewhere.” One stutters out, Feemor doesn’t want to consider what younglings this small consider a little one. “They said the talks with their partners were going well so they were a g-gift for tomorrow.”

He shuffles them all out the door just as the first of the slavers comes through the back.

“HEY!” Feemor deflects the first shot, it hits the human’s arm and makes them hiss with pain. He shuts the door and breaks the lock as best he can, it won’t hold them back long.

“I need you to run,” he tells them and points. “Towards the sun if you can.”

He glances up to Jaster and though he can’t see his face he can feel the determination.

“I’ll take care of them.” He says. “Good hunting, Feemor.”

Good hunting indeed.

Feemor turns back to the door as one of the slavers finally shoves their way through, another dashing around from the back door to face him.

“Now,” he starts. “I believe you’re in violation of several Republic laws on the treatment and sale of sentients.”

“Ha!” One fool grins, pointing his blaster at Feemor’s head. “We’re not in the Republic Jedi, there’s nothing you can-”

He fires.

Feemor deflects it back.

There are reasons people hate Jedi calm.

Feemor has found it unsettles many who don’t understand.

The blaster in the slaver’s hand explodes.

Feemor takes a step forward.

“I’m afraid.” He says, perfectly polite. “That crimes committed in the Republic do not stop being crimes when you have left Republic jurisdiction. Kidnapping Republic citizens is a serious offense.”

He takes another step forward.

The world seems to hold its breath.

“Besides, haven’t you ever heard of extradition? Surrender.”

Feemor moves, one of them slashes wildly at his side with a vibroblade and loses an arm for their trouble.

The others open fire but in their panic succeed only in hitting walls and one another.

It is almost frustratingly easy.

It so often is.

Those who prey on the vulnerable rarely stand strong when faced with any real opposition.

The galaxy is filled with beings like these.

Feemor leans down to meet the eyes of one of the groaning figures.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about an organization called Death Watch, would you?”

Their expression tells him everything he needs to know

Jaster gets the younglings away cleanly.

He suspects that none of the slavers managed to even attempt to follow.

For lack of another place he guides them all back to their temporary lodgings and sets them in a neat little row on the bed.

Technically, it is in the direction of the sun.

“Alright, is anyone in any pain? Shackles too tight?” He decides to start with injuries first.

Three of the little ones shake their heads. He suspects they're lying but knows enough not to push quite yet.

The probable eldest, a little zabrak, presents their wrists with shaking arms.

Jaster doesn’t acknowledge their fear, taking little hands in his own and calmly working the locks as best he can. It isn’t his best skill, and takes him far longer than some but in the end the breathless sigh of relief when they both hear the lock click open is the same.

“Well done,” he praises as he finishes gently wrapping their wrists.

The other younglings watch him carefully, like little hunters, and only agree to help for themselves once they’ve confirmed their companion unharmed.

They are all so brave.

“All well?” Jaster hears Feemor open the door.

“All well.” Jaster confirms, glancing at the little pile of younglings.

They’d waited, watching for deception, as he’d dressed their injuries and removed their shackles and coaxed them into eating.

They could only wait for so long.

He runs a gentle finger over the smallest human’s hair for a moment and pulls back, leaving the younglings to their nap.

Feemor lets out a breath, almost a full sigh of relief.

“We’re missing two.” Feemor reminds him.

“Only two?” Jaster asks.

“Only two.” He confirms. “They didn’t say much, with good reason, but they moved them somewhere closer to the swamp to make the transfer easier.”

“Good reason?” Jaster inquires, it’s an odd turn of phrase to include.

“They feared I would be angry.” He says and holds his comm up. “There’s a padawan missing, last seen a few sectors over.”

“A padawan?” Jaster blinks in surprise.

There have been many things whispered in warning about the folly of bringing Jedi on your head, about one of the easiest ways to draw their attention and ire and find your business ruined and yourself in too much trouble to even worry about the state of your business.

A grim nod.

“There are certainly many Force sensitive children in the galaxy.” Feemor says. “The odds of a missing padawan and a stolen Force sensitive child sharing a name and location within several sectors are… slim.”

“You think they are one and the same?” Jaster clarifies and isn’t surprised when Feemor only nods.

“Force sensitive children and a padawan.” He notes, contemplative. “They’re becoming ambitious.”

“Yes.” Feemor agrees, expression still grim. “Could your people keep them safe?” He gestures to the napping younglings.

Jaster hums.

It would be a risk, they’ll need most hands to challenge Death Watch and their camp location is likely known. They can’t easily leave them here and guarantee their safety either, it’s possible the remaining slavers will track them down.

“It would come with risks,” he warns, “but no more than leaving them here.”

Feemor takes a breath.

“Alright.”

The younglings grumble, fuss at having to abandon their nap but follow along without arguing.

Jaster takes it as a good sign that they are still able to grumble so readily even if they aren’t quite up to actually objecting yet.

Myles meets them at the edges and guides the children away to the most defensible area of the camp when they arrive.

“What now?” Jaster asks. They are in a delicate place as things stand. It is always possible that word of the other slavers' capture got out somehow. An emergency beacon they didn’t catch, a coward hiding as their fellows fought, a traitor among the planetary officials.

“Now, we meditate.” Feemor responds and walks out towards the edge of the swamp closest to the city.

Jedi.

Marriage has brought Jaster no closer to understanding.

Jaster prepares his people to scramble, just in case.

He’s right to.

Feemor comes to him halfway through final preparations.

“She’s not in the city.” He reports.

“I see…” Jaster pauses in his work.

“How likely are Death Watch to wait, once they have a padawan in their possession?” Is next.

There is a part of Jaster that desperately wants to be able to say even Death Watch, even the most twisted and dishonorable of his people are better than that.

“They won’t.” He can’t lie about this.

“As I thought.” Feemor breathes out and takes a long breath in, his eyes are blue and endless. “Follow or don’t.”

It’s final.

It’s harsh.

Jaster was always going to follow.

It was never in question.

Feemor is fast.

Jaster knew that.

It is different to see it.

Or, in their case, not see it.

He rallies his troops and catches not even a single glimpse of Feemor as they crash through the swamp in pursuit, not a thought spared for stealth this time.

They pause as the sound of a great cracking fills the stillness of the swamp, drowning out the noise of their own pursuit for a moment.

Jaster stumbles onto the edges of the island Death Watch has laid claim to, not an eye travels his way.

There in the center of the camp, two sobbing younglings at his back and lightsaber in hand, stands a Jedi.

There have been many things said, in Mandalorian folklore, about the consequences of putting a child in danger, about the lengths a good guardian will go to. There are many Mandalorian heroes of myth who slaughter for their children.

They have often focused on the anger, the fury of revenge like a whirlwind.

Jaster thinks, staring transfixed, that perhaps anger is not the only thing to be feared.

Feemor is angry.

Jaster would not insult him by claiming that Jedi feel nothing, that his actions have been driven by nothing but cold calculation.

That is not what stops Death Watch in their tracks.

The fury is something they know, something they can exploit.

They have faced whirlwinds before.

This is not a whirlwind.

This one place of calm.

This is the eye of a storm.

This one moment before the unfaceable destruction returns.

Feemor does not lose himself, not to his anger or any fear he may feel facing so many enemies.

“Huh,” he shifts into what Jaster absently recognizes as a ready stance and smiles.

It is a threat.

“I thought you wanted to kill a Jedi.”

There are no added flips when Feemor darts through the swamp this time.

The wind is at his back, slipping through the trees with almost as much urgency as he does.

The Force urges him on, whispering for swiftness and care.

He does not burst onto the scene, too well-trained for that.

A Jedi is no good to anyone dead out of mindless haste.

Instead, he crouches at the edges and steadies his breathing, reaches for calm.

He catalogs the missing slavers at the edges, rambling with excitement to the Mandalorian who must lead this operation.

They bleed greed and wicked anticipation.

There, towards the other end of the camp, is who Feemor is looking for.

One little padawan, too young for this, no lightsaber in hand.

She stands defensively with an even smaller child clinging to her torn robes. Her hands and lekku give away her fear, minute trembles at the edges.

So brave, to try to protect even in these odds.

There is a Mandalorian approaching them, bleeding bloodlust and joy.

There is no question in Feemor’s mind what he intends.

He doesn’t know much Mando’a, he hasn’t been around Mandalorians long enough.

He knows what “hunt” sounds like.

He can extrapolate “Jedi.”

Coward.

Feemor thinks Jaster would be proud of that assessment.

There is no enemy so terrible, no threat so great that killing a child is worthy of honor.

The angle is wrong, Feemor won’t be able to strike without risking the younglings.

He shifts, moving swiftly around the edges in a crouch.

The swamp waters almost seem to recede as he goes, urging him forward.

He is glad, for a moment, that this Mandalorian enjoys fear.

He removes a wicked-looking blade from its sheath as Feemor moves but instead of moving forward takes to shifting it this way and that, showing off the sharp edges and laughing when the younglings flinch.

It is a blade meant for pain.

Feemor reaches his goal right as the Mandalorian grows bored of terror.

He raises his voice in some comment that has his fellows chuckling and Feemor reaches out as he steps forward.

The crack is a terrible thing.

A combination of crunching bones and armor and the impact on the tree itself.

Cruel chuckling fades to confusion stutters into silence.

Feemor dashes out, lightsaber humming and takes his place between the younglings and their tormentors.

“Master.” The little padawan is nothing but relief, like he has already saved them.

He hasn’t.

Feemor is well aware of his limits.

This many Mandalorians is far, far beyond them.

“Huh,” he shifts with a smile. “I thought you wanted to kill a Jedi.”

It is a taunt and one no one rises to for one long moment.

They stare, frozen with shock.

Feemor’s eyes catch the one Mandalorian he’d very much like to see.

Jaster, at the edges and waiting.

He turns his eyes away and the moment ends.

Shatters, almost.

Feemor half expects the leader to move first, to charge from his position and start snapping orders to fire.

He does not.

Instead, the break comes from the side, grief and fury and hate.

Mismatched vambraces, subtle, with the standard pattern Death Watch seems to favor.

Feemor can guess well enough who they are and why they scream.

He doesn’t regret it, dodging the first strike and slamming his blade through a vulnerable gap in their armor, he is well aware that cruel beings may have those they love.

It’s enough to shake the rest into action.

It’s enough time that before Feemor’s finished redirecting the first scattered volley of shots his backup has arrived.

Feemor focuses just enough on the rapidly escalating battle to defend himself and his charges.

“Padawan?” He breathes between shots.

“Yes?” There’s steel in her voice, she’s ready.

“Can you carry them?” He asks and takes a half step forward to intercept a charging Death Watch member aiming for her head.

“Yes.” She confirms.

Feemor breathes, listens to the Force’s guidance for a moment and speaks.

“Left.” He waits the half second it takes her to register and obey.

They make it to the edge of the island without much trouble, Feemor takes his place guarding against anyone who might follow.

Death Watch isn’t paying any attention to them now.

Interesting, how their favored little victims become so unimportant.

“Can you make it to the next tree?” He asks.

He may need to return and assist but the younglings take priority over everything else.

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself and nods.

The little human on her back squeezes tight and whispers that they’re ready.

“I’ll be right behind you.” Feemor promises.

She jumps.

He follows.

Myles meets them halfway back to the swamp’s edge and Feemor hesitates for just a moment.

“Feemor!” He calls.

“Nima.” He pauses, considers whether or not to ask.

“You trust him?” Her voice is shaky, afraid.

Feemor hears an explosion in the distance.

“To keep you safe? Yes.” He has not met all of the True Mandalorians under Jaster’s leadership, can’t in good conscience leave his charges with just anyone. Myles is not a stranger.

Nima steels herself, tips her chin up as he comes closer.

“Protect them?” He asks, feeling her reach out to assess his intentions.

“Of course.” Myles is nothing but sincerity, no anger at being asked to turn back. “Might give Jango something to do so he doesn’t go stir crazy.” He jokes.

Feemor tilts his head in agreement, he could see that being a concern.

He waits until Nima nods and starts to follow Myles. She doesn’t take him up on the offer to relieve her of her little burden but she does thank him for the offer.

They’ll be alright.

Feemor trusts that they will be safe.

“May the Force be with you, padawan.” He turns and smiles as she wishes the same to him.

He takes a breath.

Now, for an end to those who would dare.

Jaster holds.

He registers the arrival of the squads he had following behind him and their halt at his gesture to wait.

Assesses the situation.

Notes the leader hesitating near the ship that could only be Tor.

Watches Feemor take down the first Death Watch member with enough guts to charge.

Calculates the moment and orders the charge just as Death Watch begins to shake the initial surprise off.

Gives them something else to focus on.

Jaster is well aware they likely know of the True Mandalorian presence in the area.

A Jedi, especially one like Feemor, is a shock.

A Jedi working with Jaster’s party, not an enemy but a trusted ally, is supposed to be an impossibility.

Jaster is happy to exploit that for all it’s worth.

The True Mandalorians settle into the fight with a confidence that Death Watch can’t manage.

Some part of Jaster is briefly very smug about that fact.

The element of surprise should not have scattered them this badly.

He shouts an order to the squad closest to the ships and watches the flames grow with grim satisfaction.

So much for Tor’s favorite disappearing trick.

He hadn’t expected, after so many false rumors and last minute escapes, to actually find his rival here.

It’s been a long journey.

“Tor!” He shouts, gives him a chance really.

There is still time for Tor to choose to fight honorably.

Tor catches his eye, turns to the burning ships that would have seen him free of this responsibility and growls with frustration.

Jaster charges.

Tor meets him with a snarl and an almost familiar sound.

Kark.

He backpedals.

The darksaber misses Jaster’s neck by inches.

He can almost hear the triumph in Tor’s voice as he laughs.

Well, no one’s ever accused Tor Vizsla of playing fair.

Jaster keeps out of range for a few moments and reevaluates the situation.

Tor postures, swinging the darksaber back and forth with a flourish instead of pressing his advantage.

Both Death Watch and the True Mandalorians are steering clear of them. Not stopping, no one trusts enough to stop for a proper duel but… it's about as respectful of Jaster and Tor’s respective claims as they will probably ever manage.

Jaster doesn’t have a blade, not one long enough to truly hold his own, nothing of beskar or cortosis to make it worth the effort regardless.

“What’s wrong, Mereel?” Tor taunts. “Scared?”

Jaster doesn’t bother to rise to it, readjusts his grip on his blaster instead.

Tor may have a lightsaber but having isn’t everything.

A Jedi would be able to deflect blaster bolts.

Tor would be insulted by even the comparison to beings so weak.

Jaster feints left and Tor over-corrects, expecting weight a lightsaber doesn’t have.

It’s enough.

Mandalorians are very familiar with the weaknesses of their armor.

His shot hits home.

Even the best armor must include space for the joints.

Tor does not crumple, Jaster must not have hit his knee quite head on.

He makes a truly furious noise and charges.

Jaster prepares to dodge the wild slash coming straight for him.

He’s never heard the sound lightsabers make when they clash before.

This might be an odd thought to have, given the circumstances.

It’s the only one he has as he stumbles back.

“Jedi.” Tor spits the word like a curse.

“I’m afraid so.” Feemor hums, eyes narrow and focused.

“This is Mandalorian business.” Tor continues.

Feemor tilts his head, disengages with enough force that Tor is forced to take a half-step back.

“Well, I do apologize for overstepping, it’s just, I’m afraid padawans happen to be Jedi business.” He returns, perfectly polite and, Jaster is certain, infuriating.

Tor strikes again, probably hoping to win by sheer brute force.

Feemor meets him without flinching.

Jaster notes the tilt of Tor’s helmet, the focus of his body language all directed at Feemor, and shifts a half-step to the side.

It’s not fast, not sudden, Tor makes no indication he’s noticed the movement.

Huh.

And here Jaster thought their rivalry was important to Tor.

“Then go deal with your padawan.” Tor snarls and Jaster can tell his attention is starting to drift back his way. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Someone off to the side chokes, something startled and Feemor sends Tor stumbling back again.

He’s clearly better trained, it’s obvious but Jaster knows well enough that it only takes one poorly executed move in the right direction for none of that to matter.

“Nothing to do with me?” Feemor half wonders.

Tor’s attention is firmly back on the Jedi, furious and…

Well, Jaster would have thought he would have noticed the vambrace long before they got to this point.

To Tor’s credit he doesn’t let it sway him, doesn’t even pause to take the implications in. This is a mistake.

Tor charges, fast and determined.

Jaster is almost where he needs to be.

Feemor meets him as he did before. Tor snarls, frustrated, shifts and instead of disengaging or trying to force his way through the block twists his blade in a move Jaster can see Feemor isn’t expecting. It’s stupid, it leaves his entire side completely vulnerable. Jaster is certain no Jedi past their first week of training would try it. If Feemor were aiming to kill him it would be over before Tor even realized exactly how stupid it was.

As it is, he can’t get back quite fast enough, it’s an awkward angle past his guard and it takes every bit of experience in Jaster to keep moving towards his goal and not make some sort of noise.

Jaster reaches his goal, steadies his grip, aims.

The angle is just enough that he can read the surprise on Feemor’s face.

The darksaber’s blade sings against beskar.

“Mhi me'dinui an, right?” Feemor shifts to grin and doesn’t look at Jaster.

Jaster takes the shot.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Tor doesn’t see him coming.

Feemor shoves the darksaber’s blade away with the vambrace that saved his life and catches the hilt with the Force before it can hit the muddy ground.

Jaster doesn’t move for a long moment.

Which is stupid, probably.

Somehow, he can’t bring himself to look away.

Feemor meets his gaze with a smile that might be a little relieved.

It’s enough.

He lets out a long, tired breath.

Looks over the battlefield.

Surveys the horrified survivors and disbelieving victors.

It doesn’t seem real.

The fighting’s over, shocked to a stop by Jaster’s blaster bolts.

It’s over.

Tor Viszla is dead.

They are not.

It’s finally, finally over.

Feemor takes a breath.

The air is filled with pain, fear, anger, all volatile and all encompassing.

Jaster is sheer relief.

The heady joy of survival.

He looks at him and through the helmet Feemor imagines a smile.

Then Jaster turns, takes in the battlefield.

It is a long moment.

Feemor tucks the darksaber away.

Jaster breaks the silence, shouting something Feemor doesn’t understand.

Some of the True Mandalorians move, if Feemor had to guess he’d say to secure prisoners.

Jaster steps down and speaks with a Mandalorian Feemor doesn’t recognize.

It’s enough for Feemor to shudder out a long breath.

He didn’t kill Tor Vizsla.

He would be looking at a very complicated political situation if he had, probably.

Jedi are, regardless of motive, generally discouraged from assassinating even the disputed leaders of non-Republic systems.

Slavers or not.

He takes a few steps back.

He needs to check in with the younglings, reassure Nima.

Jaster’s helmet turns his way and he says something to the Mandalorian next to him.

Feemor pauses and waits for him to walk over, watches him hesitate, doesn’t move when he reaches out.

Jaster settles his hand on Feemor’s shoulder, looks at him for a moment and lets out a breath loud enough that it’s audible through his vocoder.

Feemor takes a breath and doesn’t move when Jaster’s hand shifts to the back of his head and pulls him forward.

It hurts, just a bit, to meet a Mandalorian helmet with his own head.

He stifles a sound of surprise.

“Thank you.” Jaster breathes.

Feemor doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. Helping track Death Watch down? Saving him? Surviving himself? Does it matter?

Jaster is all relief and a little joy.

Feemor doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull back.

This, it’s important, somehow.

Feemor doesn’t know the context, can’t quite get a read on why several bystanders feel shocked and maybe a bit scandalized.

Jaster pulls back, something a little sheepish in his body language.

Feemor blinks.

“I’m going to check on the younglings.” He says.

“Good.” Jaster breathes out and goes back to organizing the aftermath.

“Master!” Nima calls from a pile of younglings.

She doesn’t leave them but reaches out in an obvious request for Feemor to come closer.

He obliges with a small smile, darting a polite look to their loyal guard for permission.

Jango scowls at him.

He’ll take it.

“Doing alright?” He asks.

She thinks about it, considers with a small frown.

“I think I will be.”

He slowly crouches and coaxes the younglings into letting him into the center of their pile. He’s a much better choice for stability's sake if nothing else. Nima is still so small.

The younglings reform their mess of bodies and limbs with Feemor at the center. He curls an arm around Nima’s shoulder and helps shield them all from the chaos and commotion of the camp.

There’s no threat here but… it can be difficult so far from home and untrained.

Feemor is not a crèchemaster, hasn’t spent much time with younglings lately but… he breathes out.

The slavers were guilty of many things, false advertising was not one of them.

He’ll have to look into wherever they’ve been getting their intel from. It’s also possible they’re only acting as go-betweens for the actual sources.

Six Force sensitive younglings is an almost unheard of number to have all at once and a padawan included.

Nima makes a noise of slight discomfort and Feemor breathes out carefully, rubs a thumb absently over her arm in apology.

Thoughts for the future.

She asks his name as the little ones settle.

“I’m Knight Feemor.” He answers. “I’d bow but…”

She giggles, a little hysterical with still waning stress.

“Padawan Nima Tar,” she leans closer.

Jaster finds him a while later, half-meditating and almost stiff with the stillness.

“They’re alright?” He asks.

Feemor doesn’t open his eyes but hums an agreeable note.

He hears shuffling and a sigh as Jaster settles in front of him.

“All well?” It should be, the Force has been buzzing with nothing but comfort since he joined the younglings.

“Better than we thought possible.” Jaster returns. “We turned your missing slavers over to join the others. Well, the ones that didn’t catch a stray shot anyway.”

“Good.” Feemor opens his eyes. He'll have to question them later, see if he can track down their funding sources. Slaver rings do not typically start with hunting Force sensitives, it’s something they work up to.

Jaster looks worn, exhausted, but settled sitting on the ground. Something in Feemor eases at the sight of him uninjured.

He watches idly as Jango finishes his conversation with Myles and darts over to join them, shoving his way under Jaster’s arm and pointedly glaring at anyone who might comment.

Feemor honestly doesn’t think anyone would, least of all Jaster, who just squeezes him tight for a moment.

“You have the darksaber?” Jaster asks.

Feemor nods and manages to adjust enough to take it out without disturbing the children.

He sets it floating with the Force between them.

Jango is, despite his best efforts, visibly interested.

Jaster doesn’t bother hiding his fascination.

“It’s an opinionated thing.” Feemor comments absently, the crystal likes him well enough and is happy in Jedi possession but… Feemor isn’t quite what it’s looking for.

“They have opinions?” He knew Jaster would ask.

Feemor hums, considers how to explain.

“They’re not… sentient, quite. I’m not sure opinion is exactly right but…”

He doesn’t know how to tell a kyber crystal that it probably isn’t going to find what it’s looking for. It’s not quite sentient enough to understand that Tarre isn’t coming back, knows he’s gone, knows he would have hated what it was used for, but not quite aware that sentients don’t usually live as long as it might expect.

“It’s happy to have been found by a Jedi.” He decides. “I’m not the one it’s looking for though, it wants to find Tarre again.”

“They’re that specific?” Jaster asks and Feemor remembers telling him that the crystals are something of a representation of the Jedi who wield them.

“Sometimes,” he goes with. “Some crystals sing for only one Jedi, others may sing for several, still others may sing for a fallen master’s padawan and no one else.”

He can’t separate the Darksaber into components with the Force like he can with his own, it’s too unfamiliar and probably sticky with age.

“It’s been a long time for this crystal.” He settles on.

“What do you mean sing?” Jaster opens his mouth to ask something more but Jango blurts before he can start. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Well,” Feemor leans back as much as he can with so many younglings leaning on him.

He’s never had a padawan before but Jedi are teachers at heart.

“You know how ships hum, right?”

“Yes.” Jango scowls.

Feemor smiles and settles in to explain.

There is something calming about sitting, talking about everything that isn’t the political implications of the last day.

Jaster will need to take action, consult with his people, notify those who oppose his leadership, those who still stand back and refrain themselves from taking a side.

Soon.

Tor Vizsla is dead.

They’ve caught at least two candidates to succeed him and a third has joined him in death.

Death Watch is in shambles.

It’s almost difficult to comprehend, so much time, so much lost.

It’s over.

He holds Jango close and sits across from Feemor and the rescued younglings and talks.

They’re quiet, not wanting to disturb the little ones, speaking of youth and experiences and little cultural quirks.

Jango stops contributing eventually but he doesn’t leave, doesn’t shuffle away out of sight to spar with his friends.

He never saw the battle, never came close but there is still a part of Jaster that is terribly grateful to have him leaning into his side.

The conversation doesn’t shift, doesn’t touch the obviously neglected subject until Jango finally complains about feeling stiff and stands to leave.

It takes him longer to get to that point than Jaster ever would have expected and he doesn’t complain when Jaster squeezes him closer into his side before letting him go.

“So…” Feemor’s eyes are weighty things. “What now, Mand’alor?”

The title is said like a challenge, like something that must be faced.

Jaster supposes it is.

“Now…” he shifts, adjusts his knee to a more comfortable position. “Well, we stay, first of all, until the week is up.”

Feemor nods, the Jedi probably have more interest in remaining on good terms with the planetary government than Jaster does. But really, even if no Mandalorian sets foot on this planet again in his lifetime, it would be unfortunate if some Mand’alor in a hundred years finds themself short of an ally or a resting place just because Jaster couldn’t be bothered to see the week through.

“The darksaber…” he says aloud, there is a lot of weight to it.

There hasn’t always been, Vizsla is mostly responsible for it, the loudest voice crying that it represents the Mand’alor. That doesn’t mean Vizsla is the only clan that believes. There is power to the symbol.

“It is very difficult to keep track of these things in the chaos of battle.” He says absently.

Feemor hums, a raised eyebrow telling Jaster he wasn’t the only one to see Feemor pick it up.

“And even if it were removed by someone, House Vizsla has lost their claim. The Mand’alor can do as he pleases with it.”

“Including giving it to a Jedi?” He asks, clearly catching Jaster’s intent.

“Including as a wedding present.” Jaster clarifies. “Where my spouse puts it is his own business. Mhi me'dinui an, right?” He smiles, turning Feemor’s words back on him.

Jaster sobers after a moment, thinking of endless dreams of power and conquest. “I think, if what you’ve said is true, it is time for the darksaber to rest.”

Feemor tilts his head, assessing and careful but not wary that Jaster can tell.

“The Mand’alor has a spouse?” He asks.

Ah, that is a good point.

“At the moment.” He decides and meets Feemor’s eyes, a good time to settle things. “Actually come to think of it, legally speaking on Mandalore we are…” he searches for the word in basic. “Married but not…” He struggles, trying to find the right words until Feemor’s eyes light with understanding.

“A common law marriage?” He suggests.

“Yes!” Jaster agrees, perking up. “We have married, yes, the vows and the vambraces exchanged but Mandalore has records. There was no witness, no Mandalorian can swear to have seen us married. It is not official and will not be unless the flimsiwork is done.”

“Huh,” Feemor says. “That certainly makes things easier.”

Feemor shifts with a small sigh, successful in his efforts not to disturb the children still hanging on him. “This planet isn’t part of the Republic, so no filings there either.”

There is a part of Jaster that is relieved at that. There’s nothing to fix, no divorce to make happen. Their marriage only exists in the records of one backwater swamp planet that probably won’t agree to divorce them no matter what they say.

There is a part of Jaster that almost doesn’t want his vambrace back.

He’s doing his best not to dwell on that part right now.

“Makes things simpler.” He says, instead of anything else.

Feemor hums, an agreement and a content smile on his lips.

Jaster sends out the necessary notifications, informing the True Mandalorians and New Mandalorians and neutral clans and Death Watch loyalists in turn.

Tor Vizsla is dead and there is no one left to seriously challenge his claim.

The New Mandalorians may take the development in several ways, Jaster isn’t sure which they’ll settle on.

They can have Kalevala, if that’s what it takes.

Myles expects most of the neutral clans to bend quickly, he’s probably right.

Death Watch will be trickier, some may swear quickly but Tor was their leader. There was loyalty there, no matter how twisted. There will be some stragglers.

He tells himself it will all fall into place.

There is time now and the testimonies of the survivors will likely aid his cause.

That Death Watch was attempting to fund itself on the backs of children stolen and sold away for a profit will not sit well with many. That the True Mandalorians found the flimsi notes detailing their future plans will settle even worse.

It is an efficient thing, Jaster will give them that, to sell off the failed recruits stolen from their homes and people.

It is a terrible thing to have even considered it.

Jaster is almost relieved to see the sun starting to set.

He’s tired.

The day has been long.

He wants to go back to that horrible little building he has to spend his nights that’s mostly a giant bed and fall asleep and wake up in the morning curled around Feemor again.

It’s a wonderful plan.

In the end, Feemor finds him, right before he sets out to track him down.

Jaster doesn’t bother with surprise.

Jedi, he is finding, seem to do that.

He’s left the younglings behind and mutters something about Nima wanting to stay and keep them safe.

It’s fond and Jaster wonders that anyone manages to see coldness as Feemor smiles and recounts her bravery.

He reaches out and takes Feemor’s hand to help him onto the speeder and pretends that’s the only reason he does it.

They head back to the place that won’t be home for much longer.

Feemor wakes up almost on top of Jaster and sighs.

He doesn’t move, just settles for a moment.

They’re going to have to talk about this.

Force.

He doesn’t want to.

He really, really doesn’t.

They’re married, legal technicalities or no.

They’ve talked about the darksaber and the political ramifications of Tor Vizsla’s death and even the legal status of their marriage.

They haven’t talked about the other things.

The fact that Feemor can feel Jaster’s reluctance to say goodbye and his conflicting feelings and knows that Jaster isn’t sure he wants it all to be a meaningless episode retold mostly as a funny happening on a strange and alien planet.

The fact that Feemor isn’t sure he wants that either.

He’s never wanted to be married, it’s never appealed to him.

He’s never tried to make a romantic relationship work, the very concept of a sexual one is vaguely upsetting but… he doesn’t think Jaster’s hesitating because he wants that.

He closes his eyes.

They’ve known each other for a week.

There’s no way without regret except forward and forward means a conversation.

Force, Feemor is a Shadow.

He’s good at undercover and going unnoticed and investigating and listening to the Force.

This? Talking about a marriage he didn’t want with the other person who didn’t want it and now maybe wants something? Is not any of those things.

He lets himself wallow for a few moments and listens to Jaster breathe.

They’ll figure it out.

The Force is with him.

Jaster shifts, finds Feemor on top of him and absently curls an arm around him and pulls him closer.

Feemor doesn’t hate it.

“Vaar'tuur,” Jaster mumbles.

Feemor hums, doesn’t move away.

They stay like that, just for a bit.

“We should talk.” Feemor probably should have eased into things.

“Yeah.” Jaster sighs and lets him go.

Feemor settles across from him, legs crossed and expression probably uncomfortable.

Jaster feels nervous, which is not helping.

He has no idea how to start this conversation.

“So, we’re…” he hesitates. “legally…”

“About as close to not married as is probably realistic.” Jaster finishes.

He’s smiling, despite it all.

“Yes.” Feemor breathes out, letting some of the tension go with it.

Jaster hesitates, visibly. He feels conflicted, like he’s trying to word things right in his mind.

“Empaths.” He settles on, a little self-deprecating smile on his face as he tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling for a moment. “How do you feel about this?”

Feemor shifts, giving himself a moment to consider.

“Marriage isn’t important to me.” He decides, measuring his words. “Jedi don’t marry, some certainly struggle with that. I never really have. It’s–, marriage isn’t something I need or think about, I suppose.”

Jaster considers him, something serious in his expression.

“I’m not sure I would have married.” He admits. “If it hadn’t been for this.”

Feemor tips his head in acknowledgement.

“You don’t regret it.” He points out and there’s no spike of emotion to hide away or try to deny it.

“Well, maybe some of the circumstances.” Jaster grins, wry, for a moment. “No, I don’t regret marrying you.”

“I’m not sure I regret it either.” Feemor admits, and it feels like change.

It’s true.

He doesn’t need to be married, doesn’t even really want it.

Jaster’s emotions twist into something joyful at the admission.

He definitely doesn’t want to be the spouse of the Mand’alor, with all the responsibilities and complications such a position would bring. He chose the life of a Jedi a long time ago, he is no less certain of it now.

He takes a breath.

They’ve known each other for a week.

A week is almost nothing, in the grand scheme of the galaxy.

A week can change a lot, if they let it.

“I can’t be your spouse.” He says. “I won’t leave my people.”

Jaster's expression is a little sad but there’s no surprise in it.

“I figured as much.” Jaster replies and then adds. “It is a difficult role to play.”

The silence settles, considering but not oppressive.

“Will you keep the vambrace?” Jaster asks, quiet, as if the silence is something important.

“Would you like me to?” Feemor counters.

He knows enough to understand at least some of the symbol it represents.

“If you’re willing.” Jaster answers, something vulnerable in his eyes.

Feemor shifts back just a bit, tips his head to the side.

It is a sign of acceptance and something about it must be important to Jaster.

“You would settle for durasteel?” He asks, curious.

This planet has nothing close to beskar and he suspects even the durasteel they used to forge the vambrace he gave Jaster is lower than standard quality.

Jaster just nods and doesn’t waver though there is some tightness to his expression that tells Feemor the material isn’t ideal.

“I may not wear it everywhere.” Feemor warns, may not wear it at all in truth. “I will keep it with me.”

Jaster smiles and some part of Feemor wants to smile back, wants to see the crinkles around his eyes deepen and remain.

“Vor entye.” He breathes out and translates after a moment. “Thank you.”

After a moment Jaster’s smile shifts into something lighter.

“You’ll have to keep track of how often it saves your life.”

Feemor tips his nose up, just a bit, the way Xanatos likes to do in his most insufferable moments.

“All is as the Force wills, even a vambrace has its uses.” He counters.

Jaster scoffs, light.

Feemor can feel the atmosphere shift, something he can’t quite name in it.

He opens his mouth to say… He isn’t sure what.

A knock on the door.

The moment fades.

Jaster groans and makes his way to the door, politely accepting the tray with the day’s first meal and bringing it in.

Feemor sighs and starts to set the little table up as Jaster stands above him with the tray.

It strikes him suddenly.

He’s used to this.

They’ve known each other for a week.

Jaster sets the tray down with ease and turns it so that Feemor’s preferred fruit is in front of him.

He takes a piece and meets Jaster’s smile with an almost startled look of his own.

“Are you alright?” His smile slips just slightly.

“Yes,” it isn’t his most convincing answer.

Jaster doesn’t push.

The children are a distraction.

A welcome one, of course.

They tug at his clothes and whisper their thoughts in his ears, still a little too shy to loudly blurt out their opinions on the treats they’ve been given or retell the funny thing this one Mandalorian did to the entire camp.

Nima is one of their favorite people in the entire galaxy.

Feemor is fairly certain the littlest one will object to leaving her when the time comes.

All of the younglings will be coming with him to the Temple, most of them to stay, their families wanting to say goodbye but thoroughly frightened by the experience of losing them.

He doesn’t blame them for their fear.

They are right when they say their children would not be safe with them.

Not when the news of their existence and identities has spread among criminal circles.

One couple has sent word they will be moving to another sector, they’ve already found employment.

The little zabrak eagerly awaiting that reunion gently headbutts his side.

Feemor smiles and pokes one of their horns lightly in retaliation.

“Jedi.”

“Jango.” Feemor turns, fighting to keep his expression serious.

The teenling glares, a sight effectively ruined by a little human lighting up and dashing over to beg to be picked up as soon as they’ve spotted him.

Jango doesn’t break eye contact with Feemor as he picks them up.

Feemor doesn’t smile. It is a challenge.

Now even more intimidating with a child half his size on his hip Jango plants his feet and takes a breath.

“Buir says you're keeping his vambrace.” He says, disgust only a teenling could manage on his face.

Feemor nods.

“I still don’t like you.” Jango insists.

Feemor nods again.

“You better not make him sad.” He concludes, embarrassment seemingly overshadowed by righteous determination.

Feemor tilts his head a bit, considers telling Jango that sadness is inevitable. That it is one of life’s many experiences, that Feemor cannot dedicate himself to Jaster’s happiness the way Jango thinks he deserves. Jango is old enough to understand and it isn’t what he needs.

“I will do my best.” Feemor meets Jango’s eyes.

“Good.” Jango nods back and lets the little one on his hip distract him into speed walking away to find them treats.

“You have everything?” Jaster asks.

Feemor turns, takes in the slight unconscious fidget to Jaster’s hands.

He shoos the little ones off to bother Nima. She won’t mind and this isn’t a conversation for them.

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

Jaster blows out his breath in a long sigh.

Feemor can relate.

Who knew any of this would happen?

The Force moves in strange and interesting ways.

They have each other's comm codes.

They’ve talked about what they can.

It doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

Even if it’s temporary.

“We’ll see each other again.” Feemor offers.

“The Force?” Jaster asks.

He smiles. “I have a good feeling, that’s all.”

Jaster hums, looks off to the side for a moment and steps forward to offer Feemor an arm to clasp.

He takes it.

Jaster grips the arm still clad with his vambrace firmly before letting go and stepping back again towards the ship’s exit.

Feemor smiles and watches him leave.

The Mandalorian turns once he reaches the bottom of the walkway and tilts his head with a smile.

“May your Force be with you, Feemor.”

He feels his smile grow as he bows slightly, doesn’t correct him.

“And also with you, Jaster.”

Jaster settles his helmet over his head as the door closes and starts his return to his people.

Feemor turns back to the final preparations for the journey to Coruscant, takes a deep breath.

They’ll see each other again.

One day.

There is no doubt.

Feemor has a very good feeling about it.