Chapter Text
There is a Mandalorian at Satine’s door. It’s isn’t rare, but it isn’t the common occurrence it once was – especially a Mandalorian in full armour. But they wear the regalia of an Armourer, and she has had time to recover and build back her faith. She might not have authorized Armourers in Sundari during her time, but she always held a deep respect for them. She lets them in, and stands to greet them, lightly bowing her head and bringing a fist to her chest.
“Satine Kryze”, the Armourer greets her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. I have been sent by the Council of the Threes to be its messenger.”
“The honour is mine”, she replies, motioning to a couch.
The weight of their beskar makes them sink into it, and it is obvious they don’t like that much.
“You have led Mandalore back to prosperity under your reign”, the Armourer states, “and held true to your beliefs, even when it threatened to take your life. I am pained that your purpose was thwarted by unscrupulous individuals, and you couldn’t rise to your full glory.”
She looks at them, and pours hot shig in a high cup, placing a straw within it. Any other Mandalorian would have removed their helmet by now, which means this is an orthodox; most likely a Child of the Watch.
“The Council of the Threes has decided to overturn the criminal Pre’s edicts. We cannot give you back your role has head of your clan and duchess of Kelevala, as those are matters from within your clan, but we would welcome you as Mandalorian again.”
“I have not sworn to the Resol’nare”, Satine replies. “I have renounced violence.”
“We might be a warrior people, that doesn’t mean violence is all there is to us. You, of all people, should know that.” They straighten. “We are entering an era of upheaval, as war is at our doors. Your vision of peace, your dedication and training in diplomacy will be most needed by our people.” Slowly, they reach out and take her hand, making her open it with her palm upwards. “It is better, Satine Kryze, to be a warrior in a garden, than a gardener on a war field. You have been trained, and as an Armourer, I am willing to work with you so we can find a way for your beliefs to coexist with Mandalorian traditions.”
Satine lowers her gaze to her own hands, and brings the extended one back, holding tight onto her own cup of shig. Being kept away from politics, from Mandalore, and unable to do a thing to aid her people is a wound deep within her soul.
“Would Mandalore even trust in me again?” she finally asks.
“You have allies, far more than you think”, the Armourer replies. “I think it is your trust in yourself that has been shaken, far more than the trust of Mandalorians in you.” They pause. “Satine, of Clan and House Kryze. Would you serve Mandalore?”
“I have given everything to the Mandalore I hoped to build”, Satine replies softly.
“And that is what Mandalore asks of you. No less than everything.” They reach out again demandingly, and she offers her hand as they put it – palm up. Leather gloves cradle her hand carefully and the Armourer lowers a pendent on a chain in it, closing her fingers over it. “Armour, education, language, self-defence, protection of the clan and to answer the Mand’alor’s call. These have always been our tenets, the very foundation of our identity. If you want your defence to be based on words rather than on fists, who are we to deny you? No Mand’alor worth their title would ask you to fight, but they would ask you to negotiate or to handle internal matters.”
Satine opens her fingers to look at the piece of jewellery they gave her. In her hand is a kar’ta beskar, though bigger than usual, and delicately engraved with her lilies. It is pure beskar, left bare, though the engravings are painted green – green, for duty.
“I do not wear armour”, she reminds the Armourer.
“This is not meant to be set in a beskar’gam, but worn as such, though I would advise you never wear it directly on bare skin.” They tilt their helmet. “This is an experimental device, a force-field projector encased in a piece of jewellery. It protects the wearer from high-velocity projectiles, like blaster-bolts or slugs, but not from, say, a fist to the face.” They pause again. “It protects from intents to kill, not intents to harm, and is only, and merely, a protective device. You can’t even use it as a bludgeon like a regular helmet.”
That casual mention does pull a chuckle out of her, because it is so very… Mandalorian. She closes her fingers around it again – a proof of care. Obi-Wan had once told her that to be loved to the point of invention was one of the greatest proofs of love, and yet here someone she has only met went through all this trouble… to bring her back to Mandalore.
“I am very thankful for your consideration, runi’gotal”, she finally says.
“As I said, this is an experimental piece. There was no one before that was so faithful to Mandalore, and yet so unwilling to cause violence, to prompt any of us to invent something else than beskar’gam for protection. I have only managed to extend the field to encase your head down to your collarbones, but if this is acceptable for you… I would work with you to create further pieces for your protection, like bracelets.”
“I heard from Obi-Wan that Armourers first train as jewellers, before they even start to strike beskar. Is that true?”
The vocoder translates a soft laugh.
“The pendent is as small as I could make it, if that is where you meant to go. We do learn jewellery, but this is not mere jewellery.”
“That was not what I meant to say… you make armour, but your also make jewels. Your field of skills is not entirely geared for war.”
“Satine”, the Armourer replies, sounding both amused and fond. “We forge souls, long before we forge armour. The way of the Armourer is one of dedication and protection, to Mandalore and its children. It has often found us on the path to war, as we devise armour and weapons, but it is just as much a protection of our stories, our legends, our beliefs and our values. We are the soul of Mandalore.”
She clenches her fist around the modified bes’kar’ta, thoughtful. The soul of Mandalore. Has she wanted anything less than they did? Protection for her people, peace, education, food… happiness.
“Thank you”, she finally says. “I had come to believe my soul was the only one longing for a Mandalore at peace.”
Gauntleted hands cradle hers very gently.
“You are far from alone, Satine. It is merely that for many, there can be no peace without war. They do not understand yet that it is not war that makes us grand, but our ability to change, and overcome any challenge thrown at us. That is the soul of Mandalore, to overcome the temptations of Arasuum, but it does not mean destruction is always the answer.”
Satine lifts an eyebrow at them.
“That almost sounds heretical, you know.”
The Armourer shrugs.
“The Taungs worshipped the god of Destruction, and then turned to worship war itself as divine. Who is to say our beliefs can’t shift like theirs did, as our society evolves and adapts in a galaxy that keeps on shifting? That line of thinking nearly brought us to our own destruction. It is time for change, Satine Kryze. It is time for us to remind our people of what makes us Mandalorians.”
Satine brings her closed fist, holding the pendent, to her lips, closing her eyes as she thinks. As she prays, in the silence of her soul, for guidance, even though she doesn’t know who to ask, who to turn to. She lets the Armourer’s words and actions work, and fan the embers of her soul, until it is the burning fire it once was, the burning fire that lays within all Mandalorian.
“I accept your offer”, she says. “Ba'jur bal beskar'gam, Ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a bal Mand'alor — An vencuyan mhi”, she recites, the rhyme still familiar on her tongue even though it has been such a long time since she last had cause to pronounce it. She smiles, as the oath she never took settles in her heart, not official yet, but she can feel…
“Tion’gar dinui gar ori’haat, bah ka’ra bal Mando’ade?” is what the Armourer asks in answer – do you make that oath, to the stars and to the children of Mandalore? – the traditional question usually given before the tenets are recited, but when has she ever done things traditionally?
“Elek. Ibic ner ori’haat”, she replies firmly, though her hand shakes.
There is no backing down, now. No going back. She has made it her oath, has sworn herself to Mandalore, and she finally feels like she’s back in her place. Like she has a purpose once more.
“Vercopa gar kemi sa’ti ka’ra, Satine, be’Mando’ade, be’Kryze”, the Armourer blesses her, and she lowers her head, letting out a trembling breath.
“How may I be of service?” she asks after a moment of gathering her wits.
“We will be in contact soon, as things change by the minute. Mandalore might not be at war yet, but it is only a matter of days, when our people has become so enmeshed with the Jedi. I, personally, would like you to sit on the Mand’alor’s council to advise him, and voice peace and reconciliations efforts for us.”
“We have a Mand’alor?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“The Council chose one, to lead us while this war rages, and step down once peace is achieved”, the Armourer replies. “You will know everything you need to in time”, they assure her. “Would you like me to make an appointment with the Artist for you?”
“I’d appreciate it”, she replies, standing up as the Armourer does. “Thank you for your visit, and for your consideration, runi’gotal.”
She gets a slight tilt of the helmet, and the Armourer is gone just as they arrived. She opens her hand, and looks onto her soul. She tries no to cry, and fails spectacularly.
*
Aayla doesn’t want to move. She knows she will have to, but she really doesn’t want to – not when her head is pillowed on her lover’s chest and she still feels the sweat cooling on her skin from their lovemaking. She feels, like a punch in the gut, like a noose tightening in her belly, that these moments could be their lasts. War has started and the Jedi are being drafted into it – not as individuals, they still have that freedom at least, but as a whole. The Order will see its members become generals on the battlefield, leading genetically modified clones into battle with machines, to protect the Republic. To save the lives the Separatists have already begun to lay down.
She doesn’t like it, but she is able-bodied and of a sound mind, and she couldn’t let civilians die for her morals, nor for her cowardice. She can’t let the clones bear that price alone either, even less knowing the Vod’ike as she does. Kit shares her thoughts, but he hasn’t been as vocal as she has been. Maybe it is the experience speaking – he is a Master, and she is a Knight, and a young one, at that. She twitches her hand, and Kit lightly lays his own over it, his fingertips lightly stroking over the scars of her missing fingers. He traces what could be saved of her third phalanxes, and she looks at him and sees they are thinking the same thing: there will be losses. Of limbs, of lives.
It has already started, and they are right in the thick of it. She opens her mouth, swallows, and then tries again.
“I’m scared”, she finally manages to say, and Kit brushes his hand over her cheekbone and down her lekku, his own headtails converging towards her empathetically.
“No matter what”, he murmurs to her, “the Force is with us, and we are one with the Force. Even if Death parts us, we will find each other in the Force. Have faith, Aaylas’ecura, freykaa. ”
She takes his hand and kisses his palm, raising herself slightly.
“I’m not afraid of what might happen to us. We are Jedi, we could die on any mission. That is the life we chose, knowingly, and I don’t fear physical pain.” She touches her maimed hand to illustrate her words. “Keela, what I fear is the choices we will have to face. We are peacekeepers, not warriors. I fear that we might never be the same again, and the Darkness I feel, that threatens us.”
In Kit’s wide, dark eyes, she finds no answers. Infinite love, yes, but no answer to her fears. He presses a kiss to her brow.
“There is Darkness ahead of us”, he acknowledges. “So we will do what the Jedi have always done, be what we have always been: candles in the night. We will cling to the Light, and keep on giving our own to guide the galaxy past these troubled times, and into the future.” His fingers trace down her lekku. “For all that we are luminous beings, we still inhabit flesh. There are trials ahead of us. Don’t let them frighten you, freykaa. There is no fear, there is the Force.”
Aayla closes her eyes, and nods. Her comm chimes on the side of Kit’s bed – not large enough for them both, but more than enough for them to say their goodbyes to each other. She breathes out.
“I really need to go. This is the third time in half and hour, I am late already as it is.”
They dress back in silence, wrapping themselves back into their layers, and she looks at Kit when he gives her her lightsaber, his fingers trailing over it, over her soul. He helps her re-wrap her lekku, and she stands, ready and yet…
“May the Force be with you, Knight Secura”, he murmurs to her. “I hope you travel safely on its eddies.”
“And with you, Master Fisto”, she replies just as softly. “Ryma’allesh, keela .”
Kit bends over her lips once more, before Aayla steps out the door without looking back. She makes her way to the Temple, and to one of the new gunships that will deliver her to her cruiser – a Venator, they have called it. Hers bears the name “Liberty”, and on board will be her battalion, the 327th Star Corps. Her second in command there will be Marshall Commander CC-5052, and she doesn’t know what to think of it – what to think of them. She fought, briefly, at the side of clones, but it wasn’t enough to really get a feel from them, although she was able to see they were really good at what they were made for: war.
She takes a breath as she climbs down her gunship and makes it onto the Liberty, clones snapping to attention as she passes, until there is one, bearing coloured markers on his armour, that comes to her.
“General Secura, sir”, he says. “Welcome aboard. I am Marshall Commander CC-5052, Bly, at your service.”
Bly. He has a name, and that simple thing makes her smile as she bows in greeting.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Commander Bly”, she replies, sending her presence to prod gently at him and take his measure.
Solid, dependable. Strong and self-assured, but not arrogant – and currently a bit intimidated and awed by her, and apparently trying desperately not to look at her bared skin and failing miserably, for all that his face is hidden by his helmet. She thinks about how the troopers were sheltered, in a way, knowing only each other’s faces, and how alien she must seem to him – not only a woman, but a Jedi and a Twi’lek.
“We have our mission orders, but I would like to speak to my command team first”, she says. “We both know you have more experience with war than I do, and I want to hear your thoughts about our mission and how to achieve it before I greenlight or veto any course of action.”
“Yessir”, Bly replies, snapping to attention.
At least, it has distracted him from her stomach. She thinks to herself that Kit would be very amused, if he knew, and nearly snorts at the thought of her beloved causing the same kind of stir to his own troopers. She takes a breath. She has a mission to do, and men under her command. She cannot fail.