The man that crossed the distance in a rush had problems to steady himself and she thought it slightly comical to watch his approach. But she was grateful for the trivial distraction, it kept her mind from concentrating on how cold and wet she felt and from the pain of the sores.

The grating of metal against metal sounded painful in her ears, but she didn't have the strength to scold the green-blue warrior for treating her bike so carelessly. Only when she felt the soft jolts which resulted from his touch she couldn't keep back the sound from escaping her throat.

He was mumbling something she didn't get, her mind was a foggy swamp his voice couldn't reach through. What she instinctively got, was that his prodding was to help her to get to the warmer safety of the ship.

Even through the freezing, sodden clothing his hands felt warm. Warmth, she needed more warmth and the light escaping from the ship's open hull looked promising.

Her head swam when she was finally standing. The green-blue became blurred – just a few steps. She could make it. Since when had the small ramp of the shuttle become so steep? Where was the feeling in her legs?

The coloured blur came closer and there was again the soft murmur. No, it wasn't just next to her helmet, there was a dark rumble farther off, just before she felt losing her footing completely.

Where was the ground? Since when did she feel the squeeze of arms holding her against Beskar? The jostle hurt and pushed the air out of her lungs. But there was something to cling to, fabric which felt warm to her touch. Just a little warmth, she wouldn't let go of it.

Floating along felt nice, also the brighter getting light, as well as the increased warmth of circulating air. The strong grip was replaced by the softness of a mattress, if only it were warmer.

But it didn't get warmer, it got colder and colder. She could feel the hands working on her, on her armour, on her suit. Why couldn't they just let her be? Cover her up and let her be? Why did they have to make her feel even colder?

Her jaw hurt from the constant clenching of her facial muscles, but no matter how much she tried the waves kept coming and spread throughout her whole body. She couldn't hold against it anymore.

And then the pain set in and rattled through her even worse. She wanted to twist away, she couldn't. It drew all the breath she had left from her. Finally, they left her alone – no, not again.

She wanted to work against it, against the lifting of her hips. No, not more cold to bare skin. She tried to kick struggle, to kick out – too weak, too much trembling – too cold.

No, not again – her arms hurt, but at least the pain sent some warmth, until something cold was spread on them. But the pain along her legs distracted her – her brain short circuited, torn between the sensations.

Finally – no more added pain, no more added cold, just turning and curling up. Instinct – curl, make yourself small. Instinct – seek warmth.

There was a source of warmth in front of her, warmth for her legs. There was another source of warmth, even more – heat, heat for her back. And warmth for her hands, a firm warmth, a velvet yet slightly coarse warmth.

Finally – warmness!

'Today is just for us.'

The shuttle had set down on the sandy strap of beach. Bordered by high cliffs on either side the cover was cut off the world around it. But all this was not important. They had time to themselves.

The shallow waves were caressing her skin. The coolness of the water was broken by the warmth of his body floating with – under her.

The breeze of wind refreshing as the sun heated her skin. The tingle of the sand that trickled onto her chest and slipped off her as she turned to find the warm heat of his body.

She loved to caress him, to sense the rise of his chest as he inhaled deeply.

She loved to softly scrape his skin and feel his straining muscles.

She loved to count his increasing heartbeats.

She loved to run her fingers over the coils of muscles of his abdomen and the V-shaped muscles that led to his core.

She loved the feeling when he came to life in her hand and the way he would moan and coax her with jerks and rolls of his hips to make him …

"No … p-please … don't. I-I'm … I'm not Denx."

It echoed loudly in her ears and she was awake instantly. Without registering how and why – I'm not Denx – it had been enough for her to scamper away from the voice and source of warm firmness.

Wide-eyed she stared at the man she had been lying with. No, not only with but more or less lying on. It was the green-blue helmet with its blue visor. Not green and red. It had only been a dream.

She couldn't see his face or eyes, but she knew he was staring at her in bewilderment. She just knew from the way his chest heaved, he was barely able to get enough air into him.

She couldn't help but stare, slowly separating dream and reality. And the more she stared the stronger the feeling of bewilderment got. Until he broke away, turned away.

"I'm sorry that I'm not what you want and who long for."

She heard his breathlessness, she heard his coarseness. She was a mirror of the panic he felt. He was a mirror of the turmoil in herself. The feeling towered up in her, she had to break it, before it broke both of them.

When he curled up and still shivers ran along his back something made her reach out. Something made her seek contact although it made him jerk violently. Something felt right as she kept the contact, it helped him, he slowly relaxed. It broke the dark tower that threatened him and her.

The wall of desolation that had towered in her weakened as she inched back, closer to the back that was turned to her.

The tower of self-inflicted isolation that had incarcerated her dimmed as she rested her forehead between his shoulder blades.

For the first time in a decade she felt like she might be able to dominate the feeling of devastation and replace it with something that was not going to destroy her.

With time she might be able to empty her inner self and let it be refilled with something new.

"Time. Give me time."

With each inhale of his scent she knew that duty and loyalty might be the new colours in her life. They were willing to give her the time she needed, no matter how long it would take. "When it is the time, I'll be there. No matter when or how long. I'll be there. Just let me know, gedet'ye"

It was enough for her to tighten her grasp on his hand, to let the warmth of his skin trickle into her temple and cheek as she pressed her head against his back, to slowly calm down her breathing.

She smiled as she realized that they both had found the same slow rhythm of breathing. The warmth he radiated felt inviting, but she needed to make sure before she inched closer: "May I?"

For the time of a long breath there was silence, then she heard his smiled: "Gladly."

When they woke up again there was no frantic scrambling away. She had snuggled up against his back. Their hands were still entangled, though her arm had slipped over his side and she could feel his body rise and lower in his relaxed breathing.

It transported a calmness into her. Shortly her eyes widened in understanding: Through victory you gain harmony.

He must have sensed that she was awake, because she felt his hand softly squeezing hers: "Rested?"

She hummed in agreement, feeling too lazy to actually answer.

"Shall I get my sister to look at your bruises?"

"Hmmpf no, can do myself." Her nose brushed over his back as she shook her head and he giggled softly at the tickling sensation.

But he sobered rather quickly: "Would you let me help?"

She felt the calmness lift to give way to a soft nervousness until she nodded against his back again.

When he had slipped off the bed and helped her to sit up, it felt normal that he took his place next to her, it felt comfortable to feel his warm hands with the cool ointment on her skin.

He was calm and reverent in his demeanour. Something had changed in him she noted. A new spark seemed to burn in him. His hands never shook and the visor was firmly gazing on those parts of her body he treated.

He lidded the jar and then he sat in silence at her side, waiting for the salve to be absorbed by her skin. When she turned her head he met her gaze. She felt his fingertips ghost over the back of her hand – I'll be there – and a smile started to play along her lips – let me know, please.

Arching her palm she edged her hand upwards The heat of his hand spread instantly on her skin as he accepted her invitation of contact. His exhale came with a hum in which she could hear his smile.

When it was time he quietly offered to help her to get dressed. Shortly she hesitated before she told him to get a fresh set from the locker, but then she remembered, he had seen the armours already, back when she had needed his solid form to stabilize herself again, back when they had shared this very bed for the first time.

He went outside and opened shuttle. It looked messy, the puddles of water had turned a sick shade of reddish brown as the carcass had bled out. At least that wouldn't have to be done now. He pulled the dead animal out, glad for the strong piece of wood which he could use to hang it up upside down.

With the sharp drop-point blade skinning the animal was easy work. He inspected the rawhide and decided to keep and work on it later. Building a frame to scrape it of the rests of texture and tanning it would require more of his time. Right now it was important to preserve the meat.

The maroon warrior, who joined him in his task of deboning, was of great help. They had worked in complete silence for some time, when he stopped and watched the obviously experienced man. So far he didn't know much about him and his partner.

He didn't know how long they would stay, how much longer they would need to find a proper place to have the tiny tribe settled. And until it was time to depart he want some sense of team spirit to develop.

He cleared his throat to catch the man's attention. He noted his nod although the dark visor preferred not to look at him directly: "Besides not removing the helmet what else are taboos? Would hate to overstep out of ignorance."

The visor quickly swivelled to gaze at him for a second before the gaze was broken again: "Not sure. Our life seems quite different to yours. Our normal is not yours."

This was as evasive an answer as he could get: "True, how about I just ask and you tell me?"

A shrug expressing uncertainty was followed by silence. He waited until the visor gave him another quick glance.

"What about names are they shared, spoken when there are no aruetii?" He knew what Tharam had told him, but he was a beroya and often outside the tribe. He wondered what it was like when they were among themselves.

"Would you mind me sharing mine with you?"

The man took his time thinking over how he would feel with that knowledge. Then his visor trailed towards his face again and stayed, a short forward nudge told him to continue: "Dargak Kryban."

He perceived the slow, rather deep nod of appreciation. He detected in the slow and quiet voice how unused the marron warrior was in sharing this personal information: "Bril Rull."

He also nodded his respect: "Good name. Strong name."

He watched the man straighten subconsciously. He didn't even have to ask him if he shared the names of the others. He would have to ask each and every one by one. But Bril was a start. He liked the competent way of the warrior.

"You were the scout when we arrived at the ship?" He needed the nod only as confirmation. "You were good, well hidden. Only a tiny glint exposed you. Guess it came from the visor."

The head tilted and he had to smile. The same tilt when Tharam was unsure or about to ask, a tribal trait he decided.

"How did you know where and what for to look?" He had his curiosity, a good start to work with.

"Experience. Been a beroya." The visor rose shortly in acknowledgment. He was sure the maroon warrior would commit the hint to memory.

They continued and finished their work in silence. Together they brought the usable parts inside. He would dispose of the rest away from the ship. When he stepped out again he had his axe with him. Picking a tree and the branches he needed to strap the hide to was his next intention.

With four suitable lengths of wood he came back and set up the frame. Carefully he punched the holes along the edge of the hide with the thorn-shaped reverse side of the axe, the sinews served as thread to stretch the hide.

He had just finished his task when he felt the presence in his back. His mouth twitched in resentment, the infamous heavy infantry had exited the ship and he hadn't heard or seen it. The air of authority wavering off the dull blue armour should have been hard to miss.

He rose and turned, maybe more fluent than actually needed, but some small intimidation was never out of place. He let his scowl rest where he knew to find the other man's eyes and waited.

The healer's instruction, or better, order had been to not fight inside. Now they were outside and it was time to settle their dispute. For him it wasn't about who would give the orders. For him it was clear that it was not his place to himself above their set up hierarchy.

But he refused to be belittled and ordered about by the heavy infantry. And if this meant to dominate him in a fight to make that clear he was willing to give his best try. He was realistic when he admitted to himself that he would try.

The sparring with Tharam had shown him not to underestimate the members of the Nevarro tribe. He would have to be careful of the man's strength and agility. He had already seen both present in the man before him.

He knew he was watched closely as he started to loosen the straps of his holsters on his thighs. The dark visor followed his very movements of stripping off the utility belt and unsheathing the various knives from their plain in sight and hidden places.

A small arsenal was slowly forming a heap and he had a hard time to conceal his mirth behind a mask of scowl as the helmet followed with tiny movements. He could imagine the incredulous look. Of course he had geared up to the fullest, just like back then, in the good old times of bounty hunting.

Last came his vambraces and at the curious tilt of the helmet he explained by activating the retractable vamblade. A grunt which he interpreted as approval emanated from the blue helmet and a pair of blue vambraces where placed next to his.

Under the scrutinizing gaze he gathered his dreadlocks and secured them with the strip of cloth before he pushed them beneath his flight suit. With his neck scarf wrapped tightly he was finished with his clothing. Last came the helmet which he had taken outside with him.

He was sure that the different mechanism was closely inspected as he donned and closed the helmet round his face. He knew that it was fastened tightly, but just for the show he gave it several testing pulls. It was only fair that the heavy infantry shouldn't be given any false hopes of ridding him off his helmet.

He stepped out with purpose. After all, he knew where he had laid out their circle of combat. Not too far off for convenience but neither too close to disturb those who preferred to stay away from their – he had to remind himself – sparring.

He entered the ring and positioned himself in the middle before he turned around. The steps which had closely followed had fallen silent just as they were accompanied by another more rushed fall of steps.

The healer had followed them and a wide smile played round his lips as he saw that she had brought a quite large bag with her. Very likely with contents of medical treatment. She was talking with a hushed but urgent voice. More instructions for the heavy infantry.

Shakes and nods of the blue helmet told him of agreement and opposition to her suggestions, or whatever it was she told him. He just waited passively until his opponent was ready to enter the ring himself.

His eyes lingered intently on every movement when the heavy infantry walked up to him, an arm's length distance was left before he stopped. He needed to assess correctly if he wanted their upcoming wordless communication to work in his favour.

Draw them into moving and learn about their way to move – he started his prowl.

Same as his – right side was his the strong side. Step's stride slightly uneven – he was used to have his left leg in the front, his right as support in the back.

Quick reflexes and trained muscle memory – he hadn't gained any advantage in changing the direction of his circling other than that Walking Wall had decided to initiate act two.

The strikes and jabs came quick and he returned them. Neither man gave an inch, act two was about who could land the first hit.

He took a punch into his lower ribs which made him stagger sidewise. He was followed immediately, Walking Wall wanted to end it quickly. It cost him to break the momentum and reverse it.

He was glad for the killing instinct that made Walking Wall rush after him. He grabbed the wrist that was stretched out to grab him and ducked below him. Using the rush of motion the bulky man was still in he loaded him up.

He didn't completely straighten, not with such a weight on his shoulders. But he retraced his way with a wide step as he pulled at the wrist, his other hand on the man's thigh shoved.

He barely made it out as Walking Wall became a wall crashing down to the ground. Stumbling back he held his side. He panted and each single one hurt. The Wall scrambled back to his feet, the fall had made him pant too.

But he had to give him that, the Nevarro brave came back right away. Wary now, more careful, yet still relentless in the raw power he put behind his strikes and hooks.

Too late he identified the intention of Walking Wall, hooks and crosses had drawn him closer in. Less weight was his disadvantage. And it was used against him. His block was countered, his wrist grabbed.

He struggled against getting pulled. When the hand let go of his wrist, the arm slid along his and his throat was caught in the crook of the elbow. Massive muscles of the arm tensed crushingly. Walking Wall had him in a chokehold.

A single panicking thought flared up – he clasps his hands and you are done – he heard the metal of the plates, his back the others front, clank at the impact.

He wouldn't have been able to answer in hindsight, but what the healer saw was that his hands reached back, clutched the blue helmet, pulled it onto his shoulder and then he let himself fall - down and forward.

He had wanted to make Walking Wall roll over him, but he was too heavy. He just came down on him and the impact shattered him.

The Beskar bore into his shoulder. Something shattered in him. It was loud enough for both men to hear even over their grunts. He heard the other man's and his own, even more pained one.

At least the hold had broken too. Both thick arms were placed on either side of his arms as he let himself fall completely. More distance, he needed more distance for his long limbs. He punched upwards, jabbing against the hovering collarbones.

His punch tore an aggrieved bellow from him. Moving his left arm hurt, the impact hurt, grabbing the fabric of the suit hurt. But he needed the right angle as he rolled his lower body up. His legs scissored beneath the blue helmet, ankles crossed.

He wouldn't let go now, no matter how much the hands tore at his legs. He was lifted halfway and brought down on – of course his shoulder. His scream deafened him and in the blinding flare of pain he tensed even more. His ankle hit the ground hard – the Nevarro warrior tried to roll himself out and away from the hold.

More pain – of course he had come to lie on his shoulder. It was on fire and he feverishly prayed for the other to finally give up. Rolling off his shoulder meant lessening his hold, giving it up. He wouldn't be able to avert another onslaught. He would lose.

He slowly rolled off his shoulder. He felt the taps on his thigh, two in quick succession, just as his hold broke, and everything went slack in him. His legs were untangled as the Nevarro warrior struggled to come to a sitting position.

He just kept lying and panting. It cost all his will to rise his head to watch the heaving blue bulk. Before his helmet thumped back against the ground he saw the red healer approaching.

With certainty he knew that he was the loser in this fight. He had not been able to best the other or dominate the fight. The only thing he didn't know was why the heavy infantry had tapped off. Had he really been that close to passing out or …. The thought lingered.

When the woman had finally reached them he could hear her irritation: "Are you finally done now? Can I come to mend the left-overs now?"

He just rolled his head to get her into the line of his visor. His chuckle was weak: "I'm not a dish."

The roar of laughter coming from Walking Wall was hoarse, but definitely much stronger. Yet, he was beyond caring. He had got to know the other man through combat. A kind of communication every Mandalorian understood. With their nonverbal communication over an actually verbal one might follow now.

Mando'a

gedet'ye: please
aruetii: stranger
beroya: bounty hunter