This was originally going to be a whole ass chapter and then I was having difficulty with it and then realized this Ministry scene itself wasn't actually important, no matter whose POV I try to write it in... so I'm cutting it out entirely. BUT not before I gift you all with the raw version of whateverthefuck I was trying to write lol. So here ya go:
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It was Monday before Lyall heard about the results of the hearing, and only then by overhearing snatches of conversation on his way to his office.
He hadn't wanted to bother Auror Tonks by asking her on her days off, and no one else seemed to think that perhaps a man might want to know his son was still breathing. Occupational hazard, he supposed; most wizards would have pretended Remus had ceased to exist the moment those fangs had torn into his thigh. Easier to pretend their child had been eaten rather than simply othered.
Not that this was something to be proud of, as his son used to remind him: right, ta for doing the bare fucking minimum, Lyall. Always "Lyall," ever since the truth came out, and that's if Remus acknowledged him at all. His son had inherited his temper and Hope's propensity for grudges, and Lyall still didn't know whether to call that a blessing or a curse.
He picked up the photo of his wife, grinning wickedly at him as she made some wisecrack that Lyall couldn’t hear and never would again. Remus had inherited that, too.
“Word is that our son’s started quite a few fires,” he told her quietly, "so I nicked a copy of the Prophet off Donna in the Floo Office -- I know, I know; I wouldn’t need to nick it if I just took it at home. Only I’m hardly ever there these days.”
(Quiet office or quiet house, it didn’t matter.)
He unrolled the newspaper and showed it to her.
“Our boy made the front page, he did.”
The photo they’d used was the closest look Lyall had gotten at his son in fifteen years.
Dark shadows under his eyes; he hadn't slept, and no wonder given what he was facing. His hair was shorter than he used to keep it, but still longer than when he was a boy. Soft, golden-brown curls all shot through with silver, especially around the temples. He made it look dignified, even while he was bellowing up at someone out of frame.
“Last time I saw him properly, he was shouting at me like that,” Lyall mused. “Merlin knows I earned it -- he was never a shouter, our Remus. Not like I was.”
Apparently, Remus had publicly thrown his lot in with Sirius, and while the Ministry was letting the escaped convict have a retrial, they made sure everyone knew that the werewolf had sided with a mass murderer. (Alleged mass murderer, he corrected himself silently.) There was a whole three-page spread, detailing all the little things about Remus' life that Lyall had tried very hard to bury for him. All pulled from his filing cabinet, of course.
If Remus had just kept his head down -- but, no. He would never, not when one of those boys was involved; Remus would have died for any of them. Little Peter, who was always the first to help with the washing up. James with his heart of gold and his foot perpetually stuck in his mouth. Sirius, the boy with an eye to match his name and a wildfire grin that caught everyone around him.
The boy who, according to Remus, was innocent.
“I never understood why he did it. You always said he’d cut off his hand before he raised it against any of them, and you know what?” Lyall brandished the paper at his wife’s photograph. “I reckon you were right.”
Summary: The Mandalorian’s got a lot of things on his mind. Some are things he’s known for years, and others ... well, they’re much more recent discoveries.
Author’s note: This is my first attempt at writing something for a fandom that doesn’t involve a Ben Barnes character. I’ve been unable to stop thinking about The Mandalorian’s season finale since it aired ... and this is the result. I kept myself to a limited word count because I didn’t want to drag it out, but I overshot that by 700 words, so...
I have something else in the works for him, too... and I’m not limiting my word count on that one.
This takes place immediately (within a few hours) after the finale - and it contains spoilers from both seasons of The Mandalorian - so if you’re not caught up, you don’t want to read this.
Many thanks to @irishskyeomalley for pointing out that Din’s original pulse rifle wouldn’t exist at this point in the story - I appreciate you bringing that to my attention, and it’s been corrected.
(Got the gif from a google search, but I *think* it originally came from @/bestintheparsec)
He has nothing now.
Nothing but the endless expanse of space, stretching out as far as he can see.
No ship. No purpose. No task to complete. No real reason to choose a specific destination, set the coordinates, and wait for whatever happens next, his eyes on the stars.
But most of all, nothing means no quiet coos or sighs in the dark, no tiny hands grabbing for his cape or his helmet, no need to turn his head slightly to the right, one hand reaching out for the small sphere to slowly twist it back into place atop the threaded end of the Razor Crest’s shifter.
For the first time in years, The Mandalorian has nothing driving him forward and urging him into action - and it’s shaken him to his core.
His shoulders slump, though he isn’t wearing any of the armor he’s come to consider an extension of himself. His head hangs toward his chest, but it’s bare of the helmet that he’s kept on for the vast majority of his life. He can still feel those small fingers gently making contact with the skin against his jaw and cheek, though they’re replaced with his own now; bare and gloveless, as he cradles his own cheeks, as if keeping them there makes a difference.
It was the first time anyone - any thing had touched his face since he was a child, and the Mandalorian was barely able to keep it together while it happened on the light cruiser’s well-lit bridge.
Hours later? It’s impossible. He’s locked away in the cockpit of the small freighter he took from Moff Gideon’s light cruiser, hunched over in the pilot’s chair - and he is alone.
Cara won the argument over who got to take Gideon in; setting off toward Nevarro in the cruiser while Bo-Katan and Koska, Fennec and Fett went their separate ways. He doesn’t know - or care - who went where. The Mandalorian only concerned himself with replacing his helmet once the doors closed behind Grogu and the Jedi, the bridge as silent as could be as the man turned to face his allies - and Gideon.
From there, he set out to find a way off the ship, letting the others take care of the necessary arrangements. There was no reward to collect - Gideon’s capture, the destruction of the dark troopers, the seizure of a fully equipped light cruiser - all of those things should have been rewards in themselves, a bounty to turn in, credits and prestige to collect, a relief, but the Mandalorian felt nothing thinking of them, his thoughts consumed by feeling as though somehow, despite the fact that he was largely physically unharmed, he was on the losing end of the most important battle of his life.
For as long as he can remember, he’s always had a purpose; direction leading him to his next quarry, the next location - meaning to an otherwise disjointed and difficult existence. It’s one that he knows, and knows well.
In fact, it’s all he knows. The creation of structure from nothing. Foundling to full-fledged member of The Tribe. No one to a feared Guild bounty hunter. It is The Way, but it’s also his way - or at least it was.
He has nothing now, but that wasn’t always the case.
The Asset. The Child. The package. The Kid. Grogu. In such a short time, the Mandalorian’s entire worldview changed; expanding from the way of life he’d known and accepted to something different, something more.
Something meaningful.
It happened slowly at first; gratitude for the help with the Mudhorn. Frustration at the way his small, wide-eyed companion was so curious about everything, slowing him down - and at the same time, hurrying him; the prospect of such a large reward motivating the Mandalorian to return to Nevarro, turn in the quarry and continue on. Simple. Routine.
But unlike the hundreds of other assignments he was given, palm sized pucks passed over the smooth surface of the cantina tabletop, this quarry wasn’t simple.
He’ll never forgive himself for turning the tiny creature back over to The Client. Ever, even though he knows that he’s long been forgiven by the only person that matters. He’ll never understand how that’s possible - how, after nearly being responsible for a continued lifetime of torture and seclusion - and probably a slow and painful death - he had a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the Child - and, maybe in his own mind at the same time.
At first, he didn’t understand why he even took the chance, why he pushed his entire belief system to the side for that specific bounty and no others before it.
Gratitude and frustration slowly changed into concern and contemplation, the Mandalorian thinking only about ensuring the large egg-shaped carrier stayed with him no matter what, or making allowances to keep the Child safe and close by at all times, even to his own detriment - and in a few cases, immense danger for the both of them.
Trust takes time, but when you don’t have time, what option is there? He survived for years on pure instinct - an ability to think and act exactly when necessary, to get things done, to guess what was coming and prepare for it. Self preservation was key, but at some point, that need for self preservation shifted - the Mandalorian wasn’t only concerned for himself and his own well-being; he had to consider the Kid’s, too.
Mandalorians don’t have friends or attachments - at least he didn’t, but the insertion of the Child into his life changed that, too. It made the impossible seem possible, caused the silence and solitude of deep space to feel much less isolated. He wouldn’t admit it, but having a constant companion was something that the Mandalorian grew used to in the months that he cared for the Kid.
He feels dampness on his cheeks beneath his fingers. Whether he’s currently crying or it’s remnants from earlier, he’s not sure. He knows the Armorer and the rest of the Tribe would be outraged to see him - a shell of himself, devoid of the armor and prestige that he’s earned throughout the years as a Child of the Watch and a member of the Tribe and then the Guild. In this moment, he’s nothing more than a man, one of trillions in the galaxy.
Has he shown anyone his face? Yes. Has anyone ever removed his helmet? Yes. Because the Mandalorian is someone - and he removed it twice himself. Once, out of necessity - the other time at the wordless request of the only thing in the galaxy he’d ever value more than his own code of honor.
Grogu. Not the Asset. Not the Child. Not the package. Not the Kid. Grogu. His kin.
Even thinking the name brings on a fresh pang in his battered chest. His skin is littered in bruises from the fight with the single dark trooper; it’s a miracle his helmet wasn’t crushed from the force of the repeated blows. His body aches from dueling Gideon, the sleepy little boy awaiting the final outcome from his perch on the bench in the other room, the Mandalorian doing everything in his power to keep him safe and secure while fighting for freedom - and for both of their lives.
But none of it matters; the wounds will heal, the bruising and scrapes will fade. They always do. But until they’re gone, they’ll remind the Mandalorian of what he had, what he fought for, and what he lost.
Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood.
He thought he understood what that meant - growing up the way he did, but the Mandalorian never truly knew what a connection with someone was before Grogu. It was more than wanting to look after him; it was the need to understand him, the desire to protect him, find him someone like him, someone that understood him and what he needed to take control of his power - at any cost. Following the Creed - his personal creed - but in a way that wasn’t only about justice or brute force.
Or so he thought.
He has nothing left, but it’s about more than having no current purpose, more than not having his ship. He can still hear the Armorer’s words, telling him that he is as the Child’s father, that their destinies are no longer separate.
A clan of two. He sees the signet on his pauldron now as it rests on the floor of the cockpit, glinting in the low light as he stares at it through his fingers. Each day, that declaration became more real to him. The bounties, the missions, the journeys - they were all leading somewhere, and even though the Mandalorian knew his given task, he’s willing to admit that part of him never really believed he’d find the other Mandalorians, let alone Jedi … or Grogu’s kind.
And, finally lifting his head slightly, the Mandalorian realizes that that same part of him didn’t want to. It goes against the Creed, it goes against his teachings, but it’s the truth - and if there’s one thing that he’s known for that has nothing to do with his reputation of never failing to bring in a bounty, it’s speaking the truth.
He told the truth to Greef and Cara. To Omera - even to Cobb and Peli, his voice always modulated but no less strong and certain. Only Grogu ever heard him waver, the Child teetering on the edge of sleep in the tiny compartment on the Crest as the Mandalorian prepared him for a new life with Ahsoka.
But the Jedi’s refusal to train him, her unwillingness to even try, despite Grogu’s obvious abilities gave the Mandalorian pause. What happened after is little more than a blur to him.
He remembers joking with Grogu about “Jedi things” as they climbed the Tython mountainside, remembers the fear he felt, deep in his chest at the initial glimpse of Fett’s ship, the anguish that began building with the appearance of the first assault ship and his inability to penetrate the force field that surrounded Grogu’s vulnerable body, no matter how many times he tried.
But none of it compared to the way it felt seeing his son clutched in the black arms of the dark troopers, speeding back up into the atmosphere. Throughout all of his years, the Mandalorian had never experienced that type of fear or devastation. By the time Mayfeld was on board with the plan, the Mandalorian was almost on autopilot; repeating that he wouldn’t be showing his face to save the boy, but knowing - deep down - that it would likely come to that.
And he didn’t hesitate, lifting his helmet in the presence of other living things for the first time in decades, getting the necessary information and then enduring what came next, heart beating a thunderous rhythm behind his ribs the entire time he was exposed. Sending the message to Gideon had made him feel better, but it still wasn’t enough. Using the man’s words against him felt good to the Mandalorian - it felt right. But words aren’t actions - and so he’d done what was necessary again before setting out for the cruiser.
Even those thoughts weren’t as clear in his mind as things became the first time he’d seen Grogu again - handcuffed and sitting on the bench in the hold, sleepy eyed and visibly exhausted - but perking up at the sight of him.
The Mandalorian couldn’t ever remember feeling such relief, the emotion growing as he gently lifted him to his chest and turned toward the door. Taking Gideon down hadn’t been about winning, it was about making the man pay for the singular most important crime that he’d committed: tearing the Mandalorian’s clan apart, even for a short time.
The first time, their parting was the Mandalorian’s choice. The second? His fault for being too slow by just a few seconds.
The third?
The Mandalorian’s cry of anguish fills the confined space, the man finally rising from the chair and lifting his right arm to strike the inside wall of the ship with his fist, bare knuckles instantly aching from contact with the metal. There’s no cushion from his gloves; no armor or padding on his arms to absorb any of the impact’s shock. The pain is there, adding to everything else, and it’s more than dull.
But he wants to feel it. He needs to feel it.
Because the third separation is the one that hurts the most - and yet it’s the one that needed to happen.
He knows this. Knows that it was his destiny to reunite Grogu with his own kind, people that can understand him, train him, help him become stronger. They can keep him safe. That’s their way, the Jedi way. He knows this, but it doesn’t make things any easier, or cause the still-blooming ache he feels to subside.
The Mandalorian straightens up and inhales as deeply as he can; chest expanding without the weight and shape of the beskar restricting it. He closes his eyes and remembers the last glimpse of Grogu; huge brown eyes peeking over a black-caped shoulder as the hold doors slid shut. That’s who you belong with.
He said the words, staring into those eyes and willing the tiny, warm thing in his hands to understand - he wasn’t giving him up or abandoning him. He wasn’t trying to pawn off his responsibilities. He didn’t want to say goodbye. No, he was doing exactly what he’d spent many previous decades avoiding - putting the needs and interests of someone else before his own for the greater good. Doing what was best for someone he loves.
As the Mandalorian looks through the front viewport of his temporary vessel, he takes another deep breath, letting it out in a shaky exhale. His fingers curl around the edge of the console, gripping it so tightly that his joints creak, but he doesn’t care. This is the Way.
Space is silent and dark. It’s endless and full of possibility. The Mandalorian knows that he knows almost nothing about the true extent of it. His bounties have limited him to the Outer Rim territories for most of his life, and it will likely stay that way.
If he were to tell anyone that he had nothing, they would disagree.
He’s got his life. He’s got his armor and weapons - beskar forged in capable hands, meant to last generations, his trusty blaster, and his newly acquired spear. He’s got people he can count on - Cara and Greef, Cobb Vanth and Fennec and Boba Fett. Peli - ornery to her core but her loyalty as certain as each day’s double sunrise on Tatooine.
He’s got newfound and unwanted responsibility; the hilt of the Darksaber hanging heavy at his hip. With Gideon out of the way, there’s no more running - no need to planet hop, never staying out of hyperspace for too long. He has freedom. That’s new for him, and something he hasn’t yet had the time to consider fully.
He’s got his memories, the feelings he let bubble to the surface during his time with Grogu unable to be shut away. The Mandalorian spent so long alone that it took time - too much time - to open up to the small creature, but now that he has? He won’t ever close himself off so wholly again. The Creed says that once a Mandalorian’s helmet is removed and his identity is no longer a secret, there’s no going back - but for this Mandalorian, that won’t be the case.
He can’t lie about it - and he won’t, if asked. Because the Mandalorian also has his word, and his word is his bond. The Mandalorian says what he means, and means what he says, no matter the situation. Eyes widening and lips parting, his right hand releases the console and reaches into his pocket, fingers curling around the small metal ball he carries there - the only physical remnant of the Razor Crest he has left.
He has nothing now, but there was a time when he had everything without ever realizing it - and that time will come again. He’s sure of it.
It only takes a few seconds to twist off the ridged knob on the shifter in front of the co-pilot’s seat, replacing it with the smooth, curved piece of durasteel. Glancing down at it, the Mandalorian’s lips twitch into a quick smile before his eyes close, and he gives a single nod to the empty space surrounding him.
“I promised.”
----
Tagging: (a few people that I thought might be interested based on responses to earlier posts; If you want to be added to future Mando stuff, please ask!)
With the King of Mandalore rising to power and the Empire in shambles, the New Republic reaches out to build a relationship- using Luke Skywalker as their proxy.
Read it on AO3 here!
Yavin was muggy. The thought had stuck with Luke ever since he'd set foot on the planet again, this time to search the ruins of what was left of the Great Temple. It had been used as a base of operations during the Rebellion and decimated soon after, and despite Luke's attempts to get information while he was a pilot, he'd come up short.
Like he was now.
Luke had hoped that he could remember his way, but Artoo couldn't fight through the brush and so Luke had gone it alone, tramping through the underbrush and ducking under branches. the temple, despite being nothing more than a pile of rubble for the most part still called to him, and Luke followed the faint ache and tug in his chest that only grew worse the closer he got. His robes stuck uncomfortably to his lower back, damp with sweat, and Luke cursed himself for not wearing something lighter. He’s still begrudging his poor foresight when he breaks through the purple treeline, stopping short at the sight of the carnage in front of him. Stones are strewn about, ten times his height and just as wide, jagged and scorched by whatever explosive wreaked havoc on the structure.
Luke feels the agony of the people who died here, the resounding sadness and confusion that clings to the stones as Luke carefully picks his way through the ruins in the hope of finding something left. A book, a scroll, even a holo recording or merely a painting would suffice. Anything that Luke could use, could draw inspiration from for his own idea of what his Jedi Order might be like. Luke shivers in the afternoon heat when something in the force cries out for him, drawing his attention to a hole in the ground that when Luke walks up, peering inside, shows the lower levels of the temple. Luke knew it ran deep into the ground, but he was hesitant to drop down into an unstable hole with no way out other than the hole which would surely collapse on him if he so much as sneezed wrong.
"Well, can't go too wrong, can it?" Luke's voice echoes far louder than he means, but nothing stirs around him, not even the predators that had trailed him since he'd landed the x-wing.
Luke takes a deep breath, steadying himself before slowly picking his way down, slipping down the collapsed floor that made a somewhat decent ramp. If Luke didn't know better he'd have thought someone made it themselves. Which, upon a second glance, someone definitely did. Luke draws his lightsaber, using the green blade as an uneasy light source as he pads through the room, careful of each step but curious nonetheless. There isn't much- these look like what were once living quarters; all of the valuables were on the higher levels, including the library, but Luke can hope and the force hasn't steered him wrong yet.
Luke takes his time searching the room, avoiding the dank stairway descending further into the ground in favor of shuffling smaller bits of rubble around. Searching this temple, after all it's been through is a long shot, one that Luke knows won't pay off, but seeing the rows and rows of beds, picking up an old tattered blanket and sweeping a finger over the stitching on the edge makes him feel closer to a heritage he was only given a crash course in. Luke keeps the blanket with him, as old and moth eaten as the one edge is, and Luke is nearly finished with his slow search of the great room when he spots a stack of books bound together and tucked neatly under a rotted bed frame.
He thinks he’s hallucinating for a minute, but when he crouches down, reaching out to slide them closer the leather bound books are as real as anything else. The leather strap binding them together disintegrates when Luke slips a finger underneath them, so he opts to use the blanket, wrapping them up tightly to keep the moisture from ruining the already delicate books. Luke presses the books close to his chest, scaling the ramp that led him down into the room and breaking out into the hazy light of mid afternoon. Now that he’s gotten the books the temple is silent, only the whispers of what happened singing to Luke as he makes his way back to the ship.
He wonders if leaving the temple behind to fade into obscurity is cruel.
Much like the Jedi of old, the temple is from a time when things were wildly different, and Luke knows that even if he were to come back, to rebuild, the memories and dreams of those who inhabited it before would only haunt him and whatever students he found. No, it was better this way, to finally let the temple rest, after all it had been through to bring Luke to this moment.
His walk through the jungle back to his x-wing is just as sweaty and annoying as the trek in, but Luke’s irritation is tempered by the books pressed to his chest, the chance at something more hidden within the crumbling pages. He wants nothing more than to plop himself down in the cockpit, to crack open the first one and read until the light of the day leaves him fumbling. Luke is sweating all over again by the time he catches sight of the faded red splashed along the hull of his ship, and the ladder lowers automatically, Artoo beeping a greeting as Luke hauls himself up into the open cockpit.
He leaves the blanket and the books in his seat while he shrugs out of his heavy robe, folding it and tucking it in the space behind his chair. It leaves him in only the black fatigues underneath, but the faint breeze that rustles through the clearing he landed in is blissful and Luke sinks down into the seat with a lazy sigh.
“I found books, Artoo! Not sure what they hold yet, but I’m going to-”
Artoo whistles, makes a whirring sound, and Luke scowls.
“What do you mean there’s a communication for me?”
Sure enough the small holo relay on his dash is blinking slowly with an incoming recording and Luke groans, leaning back in his seat and staring up at the stars. He’d requested one thing from them when he’d agreed to help. One thing, something that was easily given should they choose to do so. Luke sits there a moment more, debating on if he should ignore it when Artoo beeps inquisitively, offering to turn it on for him. Luke waves a hand dismissively, sitting up with a grunt and slapping the play button. Leia’s face shimmers into view immediately, kind but pinched with annoyance, and Luke squints. The slope of her shoulders hold an undeniable tension, a worry that betrays her calm demeanor.
“Luke, the Senate has a new task for you. Please rendezvous on Coruscant at your earliest convenience.” Leia pauses, glancing at something to her left before her shoulders slump as she turns back to face the camera. “You aren’t going to like it. I’ll hold them off as long as I can- take your time coming home.”
Luke sits there mulling over the words as the holo with his sister’s face fades out. He isn’t going to like it? The thought brings with a strange pang of anxiety, curling in his gut and making his heart kick up a notch. If he’s not going to like it and Leia is willing to hold the Senate off then Luke is going to take his damn time getting back to Coruscant. As much as he wants to call it home, to let himself have a place to stop, to settle, Coruscant isn’t it. Leia is as close to home as he thinks he’ll ever get- his one constant, someone who won’t back down just because of who he is. She’s strong and smart, but where he shirks political messes, half because of the Jedi Code and half his own disinterest, Leia rises to the challenge. Blossoms with each situation she maneuvers through. The fact that she seemed so much like a wilting flower, petals all but ready to fall betrays just how badly she hates what is going to be asked of him.
“Artoo, bring us back to Coruscant. Slow and steady.” Artoo whistles merrily, bringing the cockpit down around Luke and sealing him inside. Luke slips his helmet on and straps himself in, intent to do a bit of reading before they make it to the technocity. Artoo’s ascent through the atmosphere is a bit choppy, but Luke is used to that, bracing his feet along the bottom of the ship and tensing the muscles in his stomach. He hardly moves, and only once they’re in the vacuum of space, moving toward Coruscant does he open the first book.
The spine creaks eerily in protest at being opened, and most of the ink is faded or obscured. What Luke does manage to read is mostly journal entries, from a padawan by the looks of it. The entries are sporadic, messy, but Luke follows them as best he can.
They have us lifting stones. Stones! I can crumple an entire army of people under fist and they have us lifting pebbles. I tried to tell them, to show them just what I could do, but they urged patience. That’s all they ever go on about! “Be patient, be calm, the Force guides in all ways.” Well, if this is the Force guiding me, what was guiding me before? What called me to this cursed moon to sit with stuffy old men in scratchy robes who ignore my skill level and train me with children?
Luke feels his own earlier training mirror the thoughts of whoever owned this journal before, and Luke can’t help but remember his masters. They’d been right in almost every way, in the way they were training, but Luke, like this person, was too blind to see. Luke was too blinded by emotion, by worry for his sister and his friends and everything to care. Luke still feels like it will choke him now sometimes, but he can never let the feeling quite catch up to him. He tucks the journal away for now, knowing that he isn’t going to get anything analytical from that particular volume. The next one that Luke cracks open is smaller, denser, and the ink on the paper is dark, as if fresh. The pages are crumbling at the edges, deteriorating with age, so the fact that everything else is holding up is intriguing.
Luke loses himself within the pages.
Pages upon pages of Jedi training, rituals and rites of passage- all that Luke has ever dreamed of knowing is here, in this book. His heart soars with the implications, the knowledge he holds in his hand, and he reads greedily. There are entire passages on things he can do with the force, from growing plants to healing to reading someone’s mind- Luke had already been finely attuned to feelings, but the thought that he could read thoughts? That opened a can of worms he wasn’t sure he was ready to tell anyone about. Granted, the thought of invading someone’s privacy like that leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but the thought of all that Jedi were able to do, able to specialize in, makes him giddy, flushed with anticipation and nervous all over again.
It’s almost enough to distract from the fact that whatever the Senate is about to have Luke do is dangerous and potentially life threatening. Luke flips through the rest of the book, skimming more so than reading, until Artoo whistles and chirps, alerting him that they’re about to break through hyperspace and into the artificial atmosphere around Coruscant. Luke braces himself for the descent and the flashing lights of the city, letting Artoo communicate with the tower as he brings them down to a private landing pad reserved specifically for Luke. He hardly uses it, more content to be off-world than among the smog and people who bother him for pictures and stories from the rebellion. He takes his time gathering his things and shrugging back into his robe, figuring he’ll be here long enough to at least go home. Luke wants to take his time walking to the Senate building, but he feels Leia before he sees her, and he drops from the cockpit nearly into her lap.
“Leia-” He hardly has time to steady his feet before Leia is hugging him tight, arms squeezing around his ribs and cheek pressed to his chest. There’s no hesitation in Luke’s response as his arms go around her, Luke pressing his nose into her hair and closing his eyes. He holds her there as she shakes in his arms, fingers digging into his back. “Leia…”
Leia finally pulls back, dashes her hands across her cheeks and smiling weakly. The smile doesn’t light up her eyes like it normally does and Luke pulls her into another hug, this time letting her arms go around his neck as he squeezes her. He feels her shudder again, and finally she speaks when Luke sets her down, chucking her gently under the chin.
“I don’t like what they’re doing to you, Luke. Haven’t you done enough?” Luke doesn’t let his own anxiety bleed into Leia’s, instead merely raising a brow.
“I’m the last Jedi, Leia. There are things they have to ask of me.”
“Not this. When is enough enough?” Luke feels Leia’s anger surge in her like a rising storm, but it’s tempered by her own confusion and heartache, and Luke reaches to take her hand. Leia stares down at his gloved hand, taking a deep breath before her shoulders square again, and this time when Luke looks at her, really looks, he sees the same hot-headed, determined Princess he saw on the Death Star so many years ago.
“Let’s go see what they have to say.”
Luke allows Leia to keep hold of his hand while they slip into the city, Artoo following along dutifully even as they hop from speeder to speeder. Luke’s landing pad and apartment are about as far from the Senate building as he can get without them throwing a fit, and Luke needs that distance. Craves it. Luke doesn’t miss being in the city, even with the cool breeze that’s so unlike the humidity of Yavin IV. The smog and din of people milling around him, of holorecorders snapping pictures as he moves through the crowd makes his skin crawl, and he fights the urge to pull his hood up. They’ve already gotten half a dozen pictures and headlines by now, Luke is estimating, so what’s a dozen more?
What’s one more moment stolen from him in the grand scheme of all the ones stolen before?
The Senate building looms like all the other buildings, built of twisting steel and glass and overwrought opulence. Half of the budget that went to the building could have fed planets of people, but Luke tries not to see the waste in it. Tries to pretend that stepping foot into the building doesn’t make his stomach clench with untold anxiety. Leia is a steady presence beside him, having recovered from the landing pad, and she straightens her clothes and brushes a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. Once her armor is once again set in place she squares her shoulders, pushing into the main meeting room and ignoring the way that silence falls around her.
Luke slips in behind her, hoping not to be noticed as she takes her seat. It doesn’t work, never has before, and Luke descends onto the floor as the desks of the senate rise above him in a slow wave, a sea of faces staring back. Luke folds his hands in front of him, aware that he is in no way in trouble, and projects serenity as strongly as he can manage. He sees the front row of senators relax, and knows he’s doing something right at least.
“Master Skywalker, it’s good of you to join us.”
“I’m sorry I couldn't come sooner, I was preoccupied on Yavin IV.” Luke inclines his head toward the body of the Senate, hiding the scowl that wants to furrow his brow.
“Did you find anything of import?” The question is innocent enough, curious even, but Luke can hear the double edged blade he’s balancing on, and he straightens up, giving a careful, bored shrug of his shoulders.
“The ruins of the temple were in far worse shape than I thought. It will take quite a few visits to search through the whole thing.”
“We can have a team sent, if it would ease your struggles, Master Skywalker.”
Luke smiles, easy and warm, and shakes his head at the man who has deigned to do most of the speaking. “The temple is in poor shape, and I fear sending someone nor versed in the Force would only cause it’s gradual collapse to speed up.”
“A good point. Well…” Luke watches the way the crowd shifts, all at once glancing toward Leia before glancing back at the man asking the questions. Luke has dealt with him before, many times, but for the life of him he cannot remember his name. “We have a task for you, if you are willing to undertake it.”
“I believe the Senate gave me leave to resume my search for Jedi artifacts.” Luke points out, trying not to let his irritation rise when the man nods, fake sympathy etched into the wrinkles around his mouth.
“That was… Before this newest problem had arisen.” Luke’s hands clench in front of him, fingers curling around each other, and he eases back with his right hand, careful not to crush his other fingers. Luke dips his head in a motion meant to tell them to go on, and to his annoyance and relief, they do. “There is a new king on Mandalore.”
“The glass planet? I thought it was inhospitable.”
“It was under the Empire’s control for quite some time.” The man agrees, steepling his fingers against his chin as he leans back in his chair. “But a mandalorian has claimed the Darksaber from Moff Gideon, and by extension, risen to power.”
“And what am I to do about it? Mandalore is a ghost planet, a myth more than anything else. Why bother them?”
“Mandalorians are by far the greatest warriors this galaxy has ever seen.” Luke’s eyes widen marginally, flicking to Leia only to find hers steely with resolve. Growing horror mounts within Luke, gnawing at his heart and scraping across his ribs. “They despise the Empire and Imperials nearly as much as we, but we cannot risk them doing something out of desperation.”
“So reach out to them.”
Smiles among the Senate turn sharklike and Luke feels like a piece of bait lobbied into a sarlacc pit. Waiting with resigned dread to be eaten alive. “We have. We have offered the help of our greatest asset and commander of the Rebellion to aid their fight in retaking and rebuilding their planet.”
“You aren’t seriously thinking of sending Leia with me.”
“No, Master Skywalker.” Relief floods Luke, making his knees go weak, but it’s drowned out by the sudden rushing in his ears. “We’re only sending you.”
Luke freezes at that, head emptying, stomach dropping away from him all at once. He feels hollowed out, dizzy with disbelief, and he can’t breathe standing under the lights and hungry gazes of the Senate. Luke does the only thing he can think to do: he turns on his heel, robe flaring out behind him as he turns and slips from the room, letting the door close with a final, resounding click.
He’s running after that- thoughts a blur and faces passing him by in messy smears of colors and concern. Their feelings flood in him in waves of curiosity, awe, admiration that he doesn’t deserve, and by the time Luke makes it over and down to his apartment his heart is beating from his chest. He can’t go to Mandalore- it’s a death wish, certain and swift. Luke locks himself away in his apartment, moving through the dark of the living room without needing sight, ignoring the lights and Artoo’s quiet beeping. He has to think- there has to be a way to say no, to tell them in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t feel like dying on a planet no one has set foot on in decades. On a planet so steeped in agony and death and betrayal that Luke feels sick just at the mention of it.
He knows Mandalore’s history, knows it and does not want to see it.
Luke is sitting on the floor in the living room, legs folded and eyes closed when the lock on his door beeps before the door itself slides open. There are only two people with access to the apartment, so Luke isn’t surprised when Leia’s aura brushes against his, watery and weak with sorrow as she sits across from him. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the way she slips into her own meditative state, breathing in and out in time with Luke to calm the raging of her heart and her emotions. Luke allows his own power to brush against hers, to gauge the way she’s feeling and offer his own steady calm in the absence of hers.
“You don’t have to go.” She whispers, voice shaking in the dark of the room.
Luke sits there for a moment, throat tight, before he answers. “You know that isn’t true. If they don’t send me, they’ll send you. And when you don’t come back they’ll send me anyway.”
“They wouldn’t hurt me. Not with the strength the New Republic holds.”
“You don’t know that.” Luke hears Leia’s mouth open to protest, but she stops short, unable to say anything truthfully and aware that if she lies Luke will feel it. “How long have they been planning this?”
“I don’t know. The rise of the new king was abrupt- one moment Mandalore was a barren planet, and the next? An old Imperial Remnant was blasting each and every Empire base into obscurity.”
“Moff Gideon’s ship.” Luke parses that much from the little the Senate gave him, and Leia makes a noise of affirmation. “How quickly did they take the planet back?”
“A matter of hours. They took out the air bases first: all the tie fighters, their best military outposts. It was a textbook take over. I doubt we could have done anything better.”
Luke huffs out something resembling a laugh. Even in the face of the unknown Leia finds something to learn from, and Luke loves her more for it. “Why me?”
“You’re a status symbol. A mark of the New Republic’s power. For you to willingly step foot on the planet, to go and talk to their king? It’s-”
“Monumental. A moment in history.” Luke finishes, words twisted and bitter on his tongue. As if he hasn’t had a lifetime of making history. Of bleeding and bleeding and bleeding for a cause.
“I tried to fight against it.” Leia says softly, voice full of iron. “You’re one man, surely they could find a contingent of people to represent us. But once your name was suggested no one listened to anything else.”
“It’s okay.” He says, even though it’s far from okay. This is the path that he’s been placed on, and there’s no way he can get out of it. He knows deep in his heart, in the very core of him that this is inevitable- like the rising and falling of the tides, Luke is on a direct course toward whatever destiny is in store for him, and he’s only holding on in the desperate hope he makes it out relatively unscathed. “Go, Leia, tell them that I’ve decided.”
“What have you decided?” Luke smiles, leaning forward to nudge Leia’s knee with a hand and shoo her up to her feet.
“You’ll hear in the morning, when I tell the council.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
New chapter of my fic is up! Go check it out :DDD
Chapter Summary: She was pale, with dark hair and red lips. Her small frame was hidden by heavy robes of crimson and delicate gold, her hair braided elegantly down her back. Upon first glance, it was visibly clear to Din that this woman was a senator.
But the way she carried herself—shoulders back, chin raised, arm steady—was more akin to a fierce warrior than that of a politician. There was a glint in her dark eyes, one that spoke of promised violence should he make the wrong move.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
New chapter, everyone! It’s nearly 5k words and I’m super proud of it. Go check it out!
Chapter Summary: It was a beautiful planet. A layer of gray clouds obscured large parts of the verdant green land and hid sections of the deep blue oceans. Rivers of lava could be seen as well, flowing across the surface in bright, burning veins. Delicate planetary rings circled the celestial body, giving the entire planet an ethereal look.
It was more alluring from space than it was in atmosphere. Upon entry, Din was greeted with sheets of rain and loud claps of thunder, the already lush landscape saturated with water.
