temptation's stalemate
Summary: Bo-Katan comes to Din's aid. She has some conflicting feelings. Completely in Bo-Katan's POV. This is my first time writing her, so I hope she's not too OOC. Inspired by the S3 trailers 🤩 (Is S3 here yet?!)
Word Count: ~2.9 K
Warnings: Blood, injury, rough field medicine (cautery of wound).
AO3 Story Link
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"Djarin?!" she shouts down the snarling mouth of the craggy passage. The echo of her own voice taunts her.
There's no sign of his shiny beskar ass. Did he fall down some old shaft, damage his jetpack and can't get out? Is he trapped in a collapsed tunnel?
Search and rescue wasn't part of the deal.
"Hey kid." She turns to the little cretin who'd boisterously summoned her from her ship. But the green runt is already passed out in his pram.
"Kid?" She briskly shakes the hovering half-orb. Gorgoo or whatever its name is, continues his slumber, blissfully unperturbed. Napping now? She glances him over for any apparent injury, but there's nothing from what she can tell, not that she knows anything about his species.
That's when she sees it: Blood.
She hadn't noticed it before. It's smeared on the opposite side of the pram - fresh, red, and clearly human. She's drawn the blood of enough species to know.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
Swiftly, she unholsters her blasters, peering down the ravenous throat of the mines.
"Djarin!" she yells at full-volume, upping her modulator to amplify at even higher decibels.
She adjusts her directional audio receiver to detect any reply, any indication of movement, any sound. There's something faint, perhaps a moan or shift in rocks - it's impossible to discern.
Dammit. Irritation from this inconvenience simmers her blood. This was just supposed to be a drop off! A simple shuttle to the entrance and rendezvous in one standard day's time. Ample opportunity for him to take a couple wrong turns, enjoy a nice long soak in some fabled puddle of what's now most likely radioactive runoff, and return to the surface a "reborn Mandalorian". Why had she decided to repair the exhaust manifold before taking off? It's fortunate for them she hadn't yet departed. Maker knew this whole "atonement" quest was a fool's errand, but Djarin, in his stubborn, bantha-headed, "This is The Way" way had convinced her of this favor. Or rather he promised her a fair public duel for the Darksaber in exchange. Fair is fair.
The zealot can't die…not yet anyway. Plus he has in his possession what she needs.
Steeling herself, she quickly syncs the pram to her vambrace to keep the napping runt in her vicinity. Whatever happened down here had really distressed the little guy - he'd been babbling nonsensical, hurried squeaks, frantically pointing this direction, essentially the only direction at this juncture.
The hairs on the nape of her neck stand on-end as she cautiously advances forward. No one she knew dared venture in these cursed tunnels, not even before The Purge - the mine had been bled dry of raw beskar numerous decades ago and subsequently abandoned. Stories cautioned of treacherous conditions, perhaps even blood-thirsty creatures.
Her visor keens across the glistening basalt, scanning for any signs of life. The pram floats close behind as her footsteps fall on the damp carved stone.
"Djarin?!" she shouts into the darkness.
Air moves as though the tunnels draw a deep, languid breath. She glances at the kid, still out cold.
Something in her gut tells her they're not alone, that Djarin wasn't the only living thing down here. Her fingers itch near the triggers - as if blaster bolts would even stop whatever lurks in the rotting bowels of Mandalore. If the stories are true, Manda save them all.
Her night vision enhances as they venture deeper, away from any natural lighting seeping its way into the forbidden space. The tunnel begins descending at a steeper grade. Old markings soon haunt the walls, chiseled hieroglyphs of Mando'a scarred into the flesh of this place. She can only make out bits and pieces, large areas eroded from centuries of water trickling, before Mandalore had become a barren wasteland. It's the words of her ancestors, the voice of a different time.
"Forgiveness...only the most worthy achieve rebirth." She chuckles dryly to herself.
Abruptly, she stops herself, boots mere centimeters from the precipice of a bottomless shaft. Her adrenaline kicks up and she gazes down the vertical drop.
"Djarin!"
She hopes he's not down there...
Seeing no signs of blood or struggle on her HUD, she decides it unlikely he'd be so careless and leaps over the opening. With a flick of her wrist, the pram jumps the gap, returning to her side. The green gremlin remains fast asleep and consequently of no guiding help whatsoever.
The glyphs continue, scrawled on the wall.
"Heart like beskar…," she translates out loud, somewhat intrigued. "Walk the path…you are both hunter and prey."
Kkssssshhhhtttttt. Her boot catches on something; metal shears against rock.
A pauldron.
It's not Djarin's, she realizes quickly enough. She holsters a blaster and retrieves it to study. The worn signet admist the scratched blue paint is all too familiar. It seems the tunnels had attracted those of more radical views. Not surprising. No one of logical mind would be galavanting down here. But what she notices next catches her offguard: Deep indentations, clear damage across the curvature of indestructible metal. Perhaps it wasn't pure beskar, she reasons, swallowing a growing lump in her throat.
This discovery does nothing to put her at ease. She discards the pauldron and promptly redraws her second blaster.
"Djarin!" she shouts again, searching for any sign of the cultist.
There's no reply except for the demanding echo of her own voice. Determinedly, she continues onward, deeper into the depths and farther from the entrance.
If he didn't carry the key to Mandalore, there's no way she'd be doing this. The Children of The Watch have clearly brainwashed their followers, asking them to endure such a ludicrous test of "faith". It was reckless. Asinine. Arbitrary. It's a wonder any have survived at all.
The passageway suddenly opens to a vast cavern. Massive stalactites loom overhead like bared, hungry fangs. She pans around the dark space.
"Djarin!" she shouts again, annoyance fueling her volume.
If she'd been smarter, she'd have planted a tracker on him just for this exact reason.
Something shifts directly ahead, hundreds of meters away. Stone shudders. Chips of rock fall all around from the intense vibration like rain drops. Suddenly, her screen is flooded with an undulating wall of red, orange, yellow. Then nothing.
What the?
The rumbling ceases.
She can't believe her HUD - it must have glitched. Whatever that was…it was far too large to be real, or anything living. A brief, technological failure is the only sane explanation.
Damn these kriffing mines.
Her visor then auto-focuses on a much, much smaller figure, sitting propped against a column about a hundred meters ahead at two o'clock.
"Djarin!"
She sprints over, holstering her weapons and deactivating night vision in favor of her helmet light.
"Hey!" She drops roughly on her knees, immediately assessing where he cradles his side. Short, labored breaths move his cuirass in a chaotic rhythm. Warm saccharin copper fills her nose. Even fully sealed in armor, he looks like death.
"What happened?!" She pries his arm out of the way so she can see. A horrendous gaping wound is revealed. His pious blood steadily swells from him with each faithful heartbeat. Blinking alerts on her HUD warn her he's in shock, his vitals are unstable. There's internal damage that requires attention, but blood loss is the main concern at hand.
"The beast," his raspy voice quakes with pain and spent adrenaline.
Her gut tightens like a vise. She scans down the cavern, drawing both her blasters.
"A beast?" she repeats. The rumors can't be true… is that the heat signature she had just seen?
"Retreated," he pants. "Massive. Hostile." His words are clipped, effortful. "G-get Grogu...out of here."
She can't make out anything in the bowels of his wretched place, the dense rock preventing full visuals. Whatever it is, it's no longer in sight.
For now.
Hastily, she plucks a blanket from the pram, and yet the kid barely stirs.
"I'm not leaving you," she pivots back. "You owe me a duel." Promptly, she presses the teal fabric into the deepest trench of the wound. His breath hitches and bloodied gloves clench into fists, creaking in vain to channel the pain. She can tell he's holding back cries of what she can only imagine is white-hot agony.
A gut-wrenching whimper finally escapes him. She almost feels bad. But he's the one who wanted to "atone for his transgressions" in these treacherous tunnels. There's a reason legend tells of many a Mandalorian venturing down here, never to be seen again. Now she has tangible evidence as to why.
The teal fabric saturates quickly beneath her gloves. His helmet lolls to one side as his vitals plummet.
Dammit.
"Djarin, you still with me?"
Nothing.
"Djarin!"
She grabs the front of his helmet and jostles him.
"Djarin!" She firmly presses her fingers into his neck, searching for his damn pulse. It's abysmally weak, but there.
She presses the fabric deeper into his wound, hopefully compressing whatever larger vessels continue to ooze. It rouses him back, and a tepid moan fills her ears.
"Djarin, you with me?"
He groans, "Unfortunately."
"Stay awake." She prods him again for good measure, eliciting a pained grunt. "Your kid will kill me if you die."
That earns a weak chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.
"Grogu?" He attempts sitting more upright, looking for his son. It's noble really, almost warms her cold soul.
"He's safe, in his pram," she gestures with a nod. "Relax, hold still." She coaxes him to rest back against the stone, trying her best to maintain pressure on the terrible wound, but the bleeding isn't slowing.
She has to think! She has no medical supplies on her, not even a kriffing bacta pad. Not that that would do anything for his situation. He's losing too much blood.
Her mind races… how can she staunch the flow? Cautery? But with what? A flamethrower isn't precise enough, she'd merely roast him alive. She could heat up a hunk of stone, or beskar. But the heat control wouldn't be consistent enough…
Her eyes drop to the glinting angles of the weapon solidly in his grip.
"Give me the Darksaber," she urges.
The look through his visor is incredulous. She knows what he's thinking.
"Trust me." The words feel disingenuous on her tongue. What had she exactly done to earn any kind of trust? She wasn't exactly transparent with plans on Trask or Gideon's light cruiser, she hadn't bothered to veil the disdain she holds for his Creed and Tribe, she strategically leveraged help and information for what she wanted. But she needed him to cooperate. His life depended upon it.
"You're bleeding out." She surveilles the growing red-velvet puddle, nearly at her knees. "I need to cauterize the wound. Give me the Darksaber."
After a tense moment, a shaking hand offers the hilt with what looks like the final strength he has left in his body. She promptly reclaims the weapon.
It feels so good to have it back in her grip...
She activates the blade, briefly marveling at its power, and braces against him, bearing her forearm over his cuirass, pinning him against the column of limestone. Whatever caused this injury was powerful beyond what she knows. If she didn't know better, it looks as though a rancor the size of a Gozanti freighter had slashed him. The slightest line etched over his chest plate proves it. Something that can misshape beskar...
"Don't move," is all she says before removing the blanket and searing the weapon's broad edge as gently as she can manage against his bleeding, macerated flesh. The last thing she wanted was to inadvertently gut him farther.
She has to hand it to Djarin, he's really a tough son-of-a-kark. But even the toughest can break. She knows that all too well. She angles the blade to span more of the wound, ensuring none of it goes untouched.
A throat-tearing scream involuntarily breeches his helmet, echoing a nightmarish bellow in the dripping yawn of dark basalt. It's almost inhuman.
It gave her no pleasure. Her gut twists from his agony. The smell of his burning flesh is disgustingly charred umami.
That's enough. She withdraws the saber.
She checks her handiwork, palpating the angry blackened edges. The wound holds. It's sealed.
His chest heaves rapidly in pained, fevered breaths as his vitals blink to less alarming readings on her HUD.
She just watches him, like wounded prey.
Din Djarin. Look at him. Child of The Watch. The one who holds a claim to rule her people. Completely at her mercy.
Her eyes fall to the familiar weight in her grip, its eerie, ethereal glow begging her to...
She looks back at Din.
And for a fleeting moment she is tempted. She could strike him down here and now, reclaim what should have been hers. It'd be so easy to aim right for his most vital organs; she could make it quick, precise. Nearly painless. The internal scanner of her visor hones in on the stubbornly pumping silhouette in the center of his chest. It vigorously pounds from the blood loss and excruciating pain he'd just endured.
So vulnerable…so easy…
His visor meets hers, daring her.
Claim victory. Her hand tightens on the hilt, holding the blade ominously over him.
He's far too weak to do anything meaningful to stop her. She could get back everything that was supposed to be hers. This was her second chance...
.
.
.
No!
She deactivates the blade, swallowing down the unsightly, intrusive, impulsive thoughts. Besides, this doesn't make for a good story. She needs that story to prove her worthiness. She needs witnesses to regale her prowess, her deservingness to rule. It wouldn't work any other way, as impatient as she is. She must wait.
She concedes to her usurper, shoving the symbol of power, of hope, back into the hand of the one who had stolen away from her her only opportunity of defeating Moff Gideon. As angry as she is with him, she's honestly more angry with herself. Din Djarin, the sheltered, no-name devotee of a cultist sect is perhaps more worthy of such responsibility. At least he knows honor. Deep down, she knows this to be true, as bitter of a pill it is to swallow. But she was obsessed. She couldn't quell or ignore the gnawing desire to want it back, another chance. Just one more chance...
His glove grazes hers as he grips the hilt. He gives a stiff nod.
"Thank you."
She honestly can't believe he's still conscious. Children of The Watch are…resilient. She'll give him that.
"Grogu," Djarin's gaze affixes on the nearby pram in which the kid still snoozes. She doesn't understand the affinity he holds for the green, seemingly helpless runt, but perhaps she's too cruel to ever understand such fondness, such love.
A rumbling starts up, from deep within the belly of the cave. The ground trembles, rattling her beskar - fine rocky debris showers down.
An unfathomable, hellish sound pierces the stale cavern air. It sounds like a light cruiser is being slowly torn in half, twisted metal screeching and crunching.
Booming footsteps quake the floor beneath them. Her visor sees it.
It can't be...she can't believe her eyes. She's momentarily frozen by the massive beast awaiting in the distance. The beast of legends.
"We have to go, now!" She scoops her arm around his torso and hefts him up to his feet. Involuntary, pained gasps and grunts sputter from his helmet.
They limp their way forward, they just have to make it to the tunnel. There's no way it can fit in there.
She carries most of his weight as he stumbles, the thunderous footsteps behind gain on them. But she doesn't dare look back. The tunnel is just a few dozen feet away.
"Hold on," she grits. She activates her jetpack to propel them forward. Anything to hasten their speed. She just hopes they're fast enough, or neither will lie claim to the throne.
Djarin lassos the pram with his grappling wire and they take off, hurtling toward the small opening.
The beast is right behind them.
Just a few more meters...
They make it at the last possible second, roughly tumbling through the opening as the creature violently rakes its massive claws against the entry.
Rock starts falling overhead, threatening collapse.
She hefts Djarin back up, who's still attached to Gorgu, his pod now sealed. She forces them forward.
"Come on!" Adrenaline pulses hotly through her and she re-engages her jetpack, throttling them forward through falling debris. The rancid scream of the frustrated beast cries out behind them. It's haunting, ear-splitting, funneled by the passageway.
"Djarin, you still with me?" she shouts as they gain distance.
"Yes," he replies, voice drained of its normal vigor.
"Good, because you owe me one hell of a duel!" She's not going to let him forget it for a second.
She sees the light.
They're going to make it.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading!! Yes a Mythosaur 😱 and the teal blanket was from Omera 🥰 he now needs to stop by Sorgan for a new one!
I don't think I'll write a second chapter, but Bo-Katan will ensure Din receives the absolute best medical care she can find - if Grogu doesn't wake up and lend a healing hand first 😉 She needs Din in fighting shape 😭 Thank you again for reading! 🙏 S3 will be here before we know it ❤️
Epic story! Such a greedy, practical take on Bo. I enjoyed the palpable apprehension of venturing into a dangerous place for someone she didn't like. Sounds like you're excited to see Din gutted in season 3! ❤️
