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Kurishe Gota'tuur | Tu B'Shvat 2022/5782

Summary:

A month and twelve days after Nau'ule be'Cin'ciri, Keldabe celebrates the planting of the first trees after the Ha'ran.

Based on the holiday Tu B'Shvat, considered the birthday of trees.

Chapter 1: Night

Notes:

There's actually another draft of this with much more relationship drama than just what is hinted at in this version. Let me know if you'd like to see it and, if so, I'll but up the "B-Side" after the holiday is over.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Spar is still in curlers and worrying at the hem of their skirt, trying to get it to lay right so the delicate fabric won’t clash with the blacks that are showing in the space between the hem and their ankles when Boba comes barrelling into their fresher, holocomm in hand up until he plops it onto the cluttered counter.

“Hello Jango,” they say, rolling their eyes and dropping their hem so they can turn and help Boba with the fastenings of his tunic. They’re fiddly things, with how new it is and how tight the loops are still, but the embroidery matches their shirtwaist, and it’s the first time he’s getting clothes that aren’t Jango’s hand-me-downs. Finally their family is regrowing their roots here.

“Su cuy gar, tat’ka. It looks like a bomb went off in there.”

They turn slightly, scrunching up their nose at the flickering figure of their adopted older brother. “I clean up when you come home.”

“What will you do when I am back home permanently?”

Spar presses their forehead to Boba’s and rubs their noses together, making the boy laugh. “Where’s your comb? Go get it.” They swat his shoulder as he peels back out to find the implement. They sigh, energy dimming. “Is that ever going to happen?” they ask Jango, exhausted. “The war...”

“Will end. It will all be alright, ner akaani’ka. It will not last forever and I will be back home sooner than you think.” He sighs himself. “How long until nightfall?”

Boba clatters back in, handing his comb over to Spar so they can arrange his curls. “One hour. Spar says we have to be ready to ‘present ourselves’ early, or else their friends will start poking their noses in the house.”

“Hush,” they say, thwapping the boy on the forehead with the comb. “Forty-five minutes. Between getting credits, shoes, and a few knives, along with the fact I may change my skirt and I still need to get my hair out of the curlers—.”

“I wasn’t going to comment on that.”

“—We should be getting out of the house around two minutes before the sunset is over. My friends are already upset that I decided not to leave as soon as the sun started setting. What about you?”

“I’m on a venator with the 212th. If I had to be in space with anyone, I chose the man who has the good Mandalorian wines for me to rifle through.”

“Wouldn’t have to rifle through Kenobi’s stash if you would come home,” they tease him. They grab a bowl of hair wax and scoop some out, rubbing it between their fingers as they squat down to run it through Boba’s hair now that it’s all where they want it.

“Yeah!” the boy proclaims, eyeing the hair wax.

“Nayc,” they scold him before he reaches for it, pushing it back. “Are you going to start with us?” they ask.

“The drinking, at least. I’m looking forward to being home for the real festivities soon, though, Bo’ka.”

“You promise?” Boba asks his buir, shuffling forward to eye the holographic image of the man. Behind him, Spar gives Jango a look that probably comes out more devastated than they meant to leak out. “You’ll be home soon?”

“I’ll visit again soon,” Jango allows. “But once the war is done, and the other clones’ rights are secured, I’ll be home to live with you both again.”

“If Spar doesn’t get married and move away,” Boba complains.

Spar snickers. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” they tell him, hugging his shoulders tightly. “No, I am making you deal with me and whoever gets that honour in this house for the rest of our lives.” They look back up at Jango and smile.

“Are you excited for the night festival?” Jango finally asks Boba.

Spar tunes them out in favour of unwinding their hair from the curlers they set this morning, pinned into place so they could go about their day. They take one of their own combs, one they coat in hair wax before snapping a lid back over the bowl, and run through it, making sure it combs out exactly how they want, giving them a glamourous, thick curl that drops over their right eye, the ends curling back up and towards the crown of their head. The rest of their hair is already tight against their skull, braided and pinned tightly. When they take the braid out tomorrow night it will be fair more vividly curled than the careful statement they’re making tonight.

“What about you, Spar’ka?” Jango asks, and they turn back towards the camera of the holocomm. “Ah, there you are, tat’ka.” His dimples flash for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” they say after a moment. “Yeah, I’m excited.”

 

By the time Spar and Boba get out of the house, they’re only off from Spar’s estimate by about a minute. Spar’s skirt has been switched to a flowy wrap skirt the falls a bit below their knees and better matches the divergent colours of Boba’s tunic without clashing with the visible blacks or the slimmer fitting boots they only wear to festivals that they don’t wear their beskar’gam to. The crowds require more support than the slippers they tend to wear the other skirt with.

Boba has structured boots of his own that go with the light armour he wears while practicing for his verd’goten, and his eyes are wide as he looks around the crowd below their front steps as Spar locks up behind them.

Both of them have knives in their sleeves and tucked under their shirts at the back.

Spar prefers being prepared.

“Ready?” they ask once all of the locks are engaged and the gate is locked with the old key they keep on a necklace and tuck into their high collar.

Boba reaches out and they sigh, stepping down to the pavement so he can treat them like an eopie.

“You’re getting too big for this,” they gripe, adjusting their grip on him while he monkey-lizards onto their back. “Hup!” With that, they head into the fray, greeting neighbours as they go.

The streets of the keldab are lit with string lights that are hung between the trees, all in raised beds to keep them thriving in the dry climate, that also have had artificial leaves affixed to their branches, papery green that allows the light to stream through them in a mimicry of spring. As they move out into the main streets instead of the residential ones, the noise of the crowd grows.

Loud live music is streaming through the tinny speakers outside the restaurants. Most of the restaurateurs have set up in street stalls out front, calling out drinks and various kinds of dried fruit and nuts.

“We’re getting oranges,” Spar decides, willing to shell out a bit more for the fresh ones that have been brought up from those soulless cities of the south. “What else?”

Boba lists off a number of roasted nuts he prefers as they stop at a stall with a medley of dried fruits before heading to fulfill the list, Boba providing hand feeding in return for his eopie ride through the crowd.

“Mereel!” a familiar voice calls, and it’s only that and an equally familiar presence that keeps them from jumping out of their skin when an arm loops around their hips. Fenn Shysa beams at him, the look exciting his bland face.

“Your hair is getting shaggy,” they tell him flatly. “Don’t let Jaa see you like that. She’ll shave it all off right in the middle of the festival.”

Shysa winces. “Oh, come on. I’m trying something new! Don’t you like it?”

They roll their eyes. “I’d hold you down while she did it.”

He smirks at them and opens his mouth, then eyes Boba and decides better of whatever he was about to say, shutting it again. “Hey, that place you like. The sugar crusted meat?”

Spar hums, well familiar. The restaurant marinates the meat in intense spices, then do a sugar crust.

“Yeah they apparently did something similar to their roast nuts this year. Come on, I’ll buy some for you both.” He tugs them along by their hips through the crowd, filling the space between them with gossip about mutual friends until they arrive at the stall.

Spar gives the stall keeper in charge a gracious smile as they hand Boba the large flimsi bag of roast nuts.

“Shysa!” comes from the crowd. “Need some muscle here!”

“Osik,” Shysa curses. “I’ll meet you over by the dancing area, ‘lek?” He squeezes Spar’s hand briefly before disappearing back into the crowd.

Spar stares bemusedly after him.

“He’s not someone you’d marry, right?” Boba asks. “I guess he’s okay, but like.” He cuts himself off with an ehhh noise.

Spar laughs and heads off for one of the many people distributing wine, accepting a cup of white emblazoned with a bar name on it before manoeuvring themself and Boba to the seating area that surrounds the already lively dance ground. That Boba manages to climb back off of them without jostling their cup too much is a small miracle. Not a drop spills, though it sloshes a bit close to the rim for their comfort before they can settle down onto the bench seat next to him to sip at it.

They’re nearly done with the cup, and helping Boba get through a steady amount of their food—they’re actually peeling one of the few fresh oranges they purchased, doling out sections of the slightly sour fruit between the both of them—when Shysa returns.

He slings his arm around Spar’s shoulders, friendly and familiar, and they laugh at him when he slumps against them. “I need to stop letting people talk me into helping with things.”

They give him a smug look. “You just do not think to play to your strengths. If you did that, they would ask for help with things you’re actually good at. You are not good at everything, Fenn.” They laugh when he pouts at them. “You know it is true.”

“Nosy ba’vod’ad,” he groans. Then he smiles at them, bemusing them as he turns on the charm. “Dance with me?”

They look out at the spinning mass of people before them, pursing their lips. “You know I do not—.”

“Please, Yaa’ika,” he wheedles. “Just one round and then it’s the children’s dances for an hour.”

They finish their drink and toss the clay cup into the container with the others, the earthenware cracking hard. “Fine,” they say, annoyed. “Boba, do not go anywhere and scream if someone tries to take you.”

Boba gives them a little salute and they allow Shysa to draw them into the dance.

“You don’t have to worry about him, no one around here is going to take him,” Shysa tells them after a minute, hands warm on their waist.

They shake their head. “Like I did not have to worry about anyone taking me?” they ask.

He shuts his mouth and lifts them with the music. “It’s fine now, though. Your ori’vod drove them all out of Keldabe.”

“But Jango is on Coruscant.” It’s a lie, tonight, but much of the time it isn’t. Still, they let him swirl them around, their skirt flying high up their legs before he tugs them to his chest. “Safety is not certain, Fenn.”

“If you’d just let me—.”

The song grinds to an end and many of the couples and groups burst back into loud conversation and laughter, cutting him off. Spar flees back to the bench, nearly tackling Boba with a hug as they sit, much to his groaning.

“He didn’t do anything, right?” Boba grumbles.

They laugh. “No, Bo’ka. No he didn’t. You should trust my friends a little more.”

Boba grumbles as Shysa finally catches back up.

“The children’s dances are about to start,” Shysa tells him, successfully drawing his attention away and sending him running with many of the other children onto the packed down earth to group up. To Spar, he says, “I’ll get our spring cups of wine.”

Parja Bralor descends on them the moment he’s out of sight. “Was that Shysa? What the hell is he thinking with that hair?”

“’Something new,’” they quote drolly, smiling at her. “Hello Jaa.”

“Hello Yaa.” The woman drops a kiss on her cheek. “Boba dancing?”

“’Lek.”

She’s not the last one to come over, a couple buire of Boba’s friends dragging another bench over. All of them watch the children as Shysa and a few others bring over cups of wine, Shysa rolling his eyes when Parja takes his with a smug smirk, but allowing it and going back for another.

“What have you heard from your ori’vod?” one togruta asks them, sipping her wine.

They chew their lip. “Not much. More than he’s probably allowed too, but still not much.” That he’s on a venator with a High General of the Republic instead of in the Coruscant office, especially one as high profile as Kenobi, means they could find where he is, soon. Find where they need a man who is both bounty hunter and general. They don’t want to. “He still thinks the war will not last long.”

“What is long to him, though?” the togruta’s riduur asks, scowling. She’s still not used to reconciling how long it would be for her people to be considered such and how long it is for Mandalorians, and she tends to be mean about it.

“Five years, maximum,” Spar allows. “We are a year in. Knowing him, well.” There’s a lot of pain in war, for him. For many Mandalorians, yes, but... “Two more years.”

“And what will happen when whoever comes out on top?” a devaronian asks from the fringes.

Spar sips their wine and lets him talk.

“If the Confederates win, they’ll side with Kyr’tsad,” he continues. “If the Republic wins, they’ll side with the Duchy. And where is Keldabe? Jango Fett trained the Republic’s soldiers—he’s given them a look at our weaknesses, just with that.”

“He trained one hundred of them,” Spar retorts, startling him. “And of that one hundred, only about eighty are involved in this war. And that is if they have all been taken out of cryostasis. Eighty ori’ramikade. Another hundred thousand, trained by others, but twenty-five thousand were not trained by Mando’ade. The curriculum and flash training for the other clones is lacking in comparison, though it is good enough to win for the Republic if the commanding officers are smart in how they distribute them.” They knock back their wine, then, hardly savouring the mix of white wine with some red.

“You blame Jango Fett for our troubles in front of his vod’ika,” the togruta who had asked how long the war would be jeers at the devaronian. “To his vod’ika.”

He bumbles and stumbles off.

Spar sighs. “How uncommon are his thoughts?” they ask dryly.

Bralor nods after him. “Not common, but not kept to just him,” she says with dismay and a little guilt.

“I know that we did not want to upset you,” the togurta’s riduur says. “I am sure it is much the same. They are all wrong, I have been assured. I do not know enough to form my own opinion.” She sniffs haughtily.

The rest of them laugh.

“Thank you,” Spar says genuinely. It’s probably not just them—it’s certainly something the other keld’alore would have heard gossip about and chosen to keep from them. Nosy, protective. Whatever you want to call it.

A few of the group gather up the empty cups, disposing of them with a sustained clatter, before they bring back more. Shysa stands behind Parja and Spar, letting them both lean against him.

“We’re going to go get drinks for the children,” one of the other buire sets tell them all—a triad—then vanish back into the crowd. They come back just in time for Boba and his friends to come tumbling back into the group, climbing on laps and onto backs, content to be children instead of preteens for at least a little longer after the first breaks the frigidity. Boba, hair wild from dancing despite the hair wax, throws himself onto Spar’s lap.

“What’s with the wine?” Boba finally asks, sipping his water and stealing the last of the spice-and-sugar nuts. “You and Buir were both talking about it, and Buir would always do it on Kamino.”

Spar hums and sips their red-with-some-white. “The cup of white wine is for the winter we are leaving. White with some red is for the coming spring. The red and white,” they raise their cup, “is to signify early summer. And the final cup of red is for summer. It’s also our growing season, in a way.”

Boba’s mouth takes an O form. “Buir would drink the cups and then we’d both tend the orange tree.”

The tree that has been planted in the side garden, outside the kitchen door. It gives fruit, even though it’s still tiny, though not much. They’re very sweet, and they’ve been Boba’s favourite treats in the last year.

They all chat further, but the children are all fading. Boba even drops off to sleep.

“Orange tree?” Parja asks Spar, reaching over to ruffle Boba’s mussed hair. “Just the easiest thing to keep on Kamino?”

“Hmm. Not exactly.” They shrug. “Concord Dawn has traditions for Kurishe Gota’tuur too, different ones. Mandalore was glassed, Concord Dawn—well. You know how we were effected.” Part of the planet is slowly turning into an asteroid belt. “To stem to breakaway and erosion of the area affected, we plant things with deep, deep roots. The root systems tie the pieces of crust together, more, and they keep the topsoil from eroding away. It makes it all well anchored. And, well. We’re an agricultural planet—not as many cities as Mandalore even now—so we pick things that will last long and be dual purpose. Some of the largest orchards on Concord Dawn are around the crater.”

“That sounds much nicer than here,” Shysa says, appearing once again with the final cups of wine.

“The plants here are different,” Spar argues as they take their cup and sip at it, “But they are still useful. It is a different scar that we are healing. There’s quite a difference between glass filled air and sand and parts of the planet falling into the atmosphere.”

“But the fruit is useful,” he points out. “We could use more food being grown, especially right now with the Duchess starving us.”

“We’d have needed to start it a long time ago,” Parja points out. “And in Keldabe, we have it easier than the Duchess’s sycophants. We have the farms further to the north. Concord Dawn still speaks to us. And besides, who of us want to eat glass?”

A number of the other adults grumble their agreement.

Shysa holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. That’s true. Perhaps it is that I hate paying so much for an orange in this season.”

A few of the others laugh at that, and even Spar smiles.

Shysa smiles back at them.

“You want to help, but you don’t always think things through,” Parja snips at him, sticking her tongue out at him and getting even more laughs. “A strong heart but an empty bucket.”

“Love you too, Parj.”

Spar finishes their last cup of wine, feeling quite warm and a bit buzzed. “Fenn, can you help me with Boba.”

“Time for everyone to turn in,” the togruta agrees.

Shysa picks the boy up so that Spar can stand and get feeling back in their legs. “I can carry him home for you, Parya.”

Spar laughs. “It’s fine. You know the house does not like you and it is easier to carry him the entire way than risk jostling him and waking him up on the steps.” They turn around, letting Shysa get Boba wrapped around their back, making sure to get their arms around his little legs.

“You don’t have to do everything by yourself,” Shysa reminds them as they turn back around, Boba’s face smooshed against their neck.

“Good night, Fenn Shysa,” they say, “I will see you after the sun has risen.”

They can feel his eyes on them long after they disappear back into the crowd.

Notes:

Glossary (my worldbuilding in []):
Kurishe Gota'tuur : [The Trees' Birthday]
su cuy gar : so you're still alive, Mando greeting
tat'ka : younger sibling, beloved sibling (Concordian dialect)
ner : my
akaani'ka : little fight or spar (Concordian dialect; Mandalore dialect - akaan'ika)
nayc : no
((nick)name)'ka : Concordian dialect diminutive
beskar'gam : Mandalorian armor
verd'goten : coming of age rite when the child turns 13 and earns the right to wear beskar'gam
keldab : fortress [an individual neighborhood in Keldabe City]
osik : shit
ba'vod'ad : cousin [refers to younger leaders of individual keldabe in Keldabe City]
ori'vod : older sibling (Mandalore dialect)
riduur : spouse
Kyr'tsad : Death Watch
ori'ramikade : supercommandos
Mando'ade : Mandalorians
vod'ika : younger sibling (Mandalore dialect)
keld'alore : [fortress leaders/generals, formal]
buir(e) : parent(s)