The first night is spent meditating, projecting calm into the force and trying to ignore how loud these men are. You can hear every step, every sharp bark of laughter, every word of murmured mando’a. You can feel their intent. There’s a grim sort of camaraderie that permeates the ship.
It feels like family - like belonging, similar but not quite the same to the temple’s home-sense. Stubborn, more possessive, but that lingering home-sense is thick and heady. You wonder how long they've been a team. From the feeling of it, years. Echoes of them remain in the force, lingering like a blown-out candle, stuck to the walls and ceiling and vents.
If the captain - Price, he tells you, narrows his eyes and puffs it around his cigarra - thinks anything about the fact just you haven’t moved from the stool in the past ten hours, he doesn’t say anything. Merely mutters something about shabu'jetii and drops a mug of tea down in front of you.
You take it appreciatively. Offer him a smile and gesture for him to sit in one of the stools beside you, the baby in your other hand. He does with a groan.
“Swear to the stars, they get more uncomfortable each time I sit.” He mutters, lips pressing thin when his gaze flits back to you and realizes what you’re doing. Admittedly, it’s a superfluous use of the force to float your mug up to your mouth, but you’ve got your hands full of exhausted youngling and tea only stays good when it’s hot. Maybe you should stop. You don’t.
“Have you had the ship for long?”
It’s a polite question - you know he’s had it for years, the pervading home-sense is indication enough of that, but you’re eager to divert his attention away from disapproval and discomfort. You’re here. You’re a Jedi. You’re going to use the force, whether he personally approves of it or not.
“Almost ten years,” He grumbles, chewing on his cigarra, setting warm eyes beyond you. “Been flying her longer than I’ve been in the current mand'alor's service.”
Your brows quirk, hum softly.
“Rare for a mandalorian to be running missions for the republic.” You say, a question but not. Give him space to decide whether he wants to answer or not. The force in the ship is strange - thick with tension, edged with copper and spice and life that feels so alien compared to the serene blanket of the temple. It feels too rich, too vibrant, almost spicy.
You drink your tea. Let the flavors soak your tongue sharp and acrid, pull you out before you sink back into the meditative state.
"Rare for the child of a senator to end up on the battlefield of a civil war," He counters, brow quirking in what feels like another accusation. "Millions of parsecs from coruscant. That not curious to you, jed’ika?"
Of course it’s curious to you. There are countless bad actors that could be attributed to the kidnapping of a force sensitive baby, countless bad actors that could be attributed to the child of a senator, but together? It’s implausible. Strange. Something out of a shab holonovel, not reality.
You don’t voice that.
“You don’t think it’s your…” You trail off, pinch your brows. Search for the word that he’s said before and fail to grasp it, the shapes of mando’a not quite familiar enough to hold.
“Kyr’tsad. Death Watch. No. S'not Kyr'tsad. Would've killed her."
Your eyes go wide at how casually he says it, at the ease of it, and instinctively, you grasp the child closer, brows pinching. You've seen your fair share of suffering - as a watchman, you go where the force feels you're needed, and you're often needed where people are suffering, but..
But the way he says it is too settled. Like he's seen worse. Like he doesn't have any faith in the enemy, like he's seen things firsthand. He probably has. You fight the urge to soothe the stress away in the force, instead wrapping yourself and the child up in a blanket of calm, weave it nice and warm and watertight against the sluice of dread that fills the air.
"Could be one've your dar'jetii," Quips a voice as the handsome one - Gaz, his name is Gaz - approaches, dropping heavily into the space beside Price, loosely clutching a cup of caf in his hand. Once again, his bucket is off, and his face is schooled into neutrality, "No reason to think it's one of ours."
"It's not."
"How d'you know?" Gaz leans forwards, eyebrow quirked, takes a sip of his caf and narrows his eyes.
"Because it's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible, love." Price this time, his gaze still glued to the baby. The anxiety that twists your stomach at his implication is displeasing, and you begin to thumb at the baby's swaddle, realizing there's embroidery across it.
"This is," You say, voice flat, unamused, thumb running over the letters, the aurebesh crisp and fresh, trying to figure it out from touch alone. Mikha, maybe - mern-isk-kreath-aurek - though that doesn't feel right. "We would know if it was the sith. We'd feel it. It's not possible."
Mikha doesn't feel accurate. Micha (mern-isk-cherek-aurek) or Mika (mern-isk-krill-aurek) or something like it. The third letter is strange, the cursive aurebesh almost too vague for you to gauge on touch alone. You ignore the anxiety that tightens your core at the idea of the sith.
You'd know. You'd know.
"You'd feel it?"
You try not to bristle at the incredulity, tell yourself it's not meant to offend, that mandalorians are intense and passionate and unschooled, that they're not held to the same culture of passivity and serenity that you are, but it's difficult when the captain looks at you with pity and condescension. Like you're some child, hopeful and pitiful and naive.
Like you're a fool.
You are definitively not a fool. There's nothing naive about the knowledge that you'd know if the sith were still around - they're all but extinct now, a child's tale to keep crechelings from misbehaving. Kark it, you're a jedi, for force's sake. Clever and encompassing and wise beyond your years.
And yet, the men before you look at you with that same doubt, and you're the first to break the staring contest, glancing down.
Mira. Mern-isk-resk-aurek. A sweet name for a sweet baby.
