EXPOSED
Omera had never been the type of woman who made passes at men. It had always seemed unseemly and frankly kind of slutty, to her. In her marriage, she had learned—very quickly—how to be aggressive in bed, much to her husband's delight, but she had only expressed her sexuality within the bounds of that sacred union. Aside from some very old-fashioned views on the matter, she also had a daughter to raise, so she had to set a good example on morality. So it wasn't as though she could loosen the stays and hurl herself at a man she found attractive.
Not that she didn't want the Mandalorian any less. She hadn't felt this way since her marriage. She liked the way he looked at her, and she had caught him looking at her a lot, even when he was wearing his helmet, and now that he was recovering and more alert, she felt his gaze on her every time she went into the bedroom to check him and take him his meals. It made her heart flutter with excitement when he said her name in his sleep, and the aching she felt in her belly and her breasts was quite familiar, except that it was even stronger than what she had felt toward her husband.
Besides, she just liked him. His quiet, shy manners, and his surprisingly soft voice and his obvious devotion to his child were all quite endearing—he was fiercely protective (maybe a little overly so, but that was workable) of those he loved, and she knew that under that armor was a soft heart. Even his determination to keep to his credo was admirable, however much it seemed to impede his own happiness. He was a man to be respected immensely.
She sat by the bed, watching him sleep, gently touching his cheek and caressing him when he started having nightmares again, and her touch seemed to soothe him. She wondered, as his breathing slowed, how long it had been since anyone had touched his face. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
It was very late, with the moons both shining brightly, and she studied him more closely, rather liking how the light seemed to bathe him in silver. He was lean and hard, obviously very fit from a lifetime of constant motion and frequent violence, but he was also rather too thin, to her mind. His hair curled at the ends, which she found adorable, and his Roman nose gave his face character, and best of all, he didn't snore.
In cleaning him, she had taken her time as she had moved down the length of his body, and even though he didn't need to be toweled off and cleaned down there, she had done it anyway, because… well, because she wanted to—she was only human. If he ever found out, of course, he would probably be appalled.
Or maybe… aroused?
She hoped for the latter, particularly if he acted on his arousal. He was so closed off, so carefully controlled—what would he be like if he were exposed to someone he trusted? Better yet, what would he be like if he ever did put his reserve and inhibitions aside?
She sat back, thinking it over. Even her husband, for all his genuine kindness and warm humor, had had trouble saying what he felt, but he had shown his feelings very well. If he was angry, he was angry and would go out and chop wood until his anger ebbed away and he could come in the house again—even during a real fit of temper, he never had shouted at her, even once. If he was ever tense or upset… well, that had always led to sex, as a means of letting off steam, and afterward he could talk, stumbling through what he had to say. Following the applause, of course. She would listen and gently guide him toward a reasonable solution to whatever was troubling him. Omera could not remember a single quarrel with her husband, except for when he would insist she stop carrying around heavy baskets of krill, which would just make her roll her eyes, and that would only ever lead to a brief and fun wrestling match.
She had been married for only about six months, and she had learned a great deal about the care and feeding of men.
Men are different, she thought, laughing at herself a little. That hadn't come as a shock, necessarily—she had had her father and her brothers and uncles and cousins and other men around her all her life, but being intimate with one had been a completely different matter, and the differences between herself and her husband had been startling. Some of her more cynical friends seemed to view men as a race of inferior androids that only deserved to be destroyed, but she simply couldn't view a fellow human with such a cruel and heartless eye. People are people wherever you go, her father had told her, and she found that to be true, regardless of sex.
Things were basic, really—a man needed love and acceptance as much as any woman, though she knew a lot of men were rather unnerved by love and affection, but she also knew most men craved it—her husband had gotten rather spoiled to it! A man would definitely have a harder time expressing his feelings, because she knew that many men were raised to believe their emotions would be used against them. My deeds speak the words of my heart was an old Sorganian proverb, and it was absolutely true. If he couldn't say what he was feeling, his actions spoke volumes, and often had a larger and more profound impact.
She looked at the man sleeping in her bed—a heady thought—and thought that he was a prime example of what most men are like: carefully controlled, guarded with their feelings but deeply emotional, and if given half a chance, single-mindedly devoted to family and friends and capable of being an exceptional husband and father. Now that she knew what he looked like, she suspected she wouldn't have trouble determining what he was thinking even when he was wearing the helmet. His behavior and body language already spoke the deeds of his heart, but his face was remarkably expressive, and she hoped to finally see him smile one day.
Omera sighed and put her head back, her eyes tired from hours of sewing. She hadn't even really realized it—sewing was as instinctive as breathing to her—but she had started making him a shirt, mentally measuring his proportions and creating a nice dark cotton shirt that would be far more comfortable than the rough wool shirt he wore under his beskar. She looked at the shirt, flapping it out and checking the stitching carefully before she was satisified. Finally, she carefully threaded some silver silk and stitched her own initials into the collar—OC, for Omera Cassaleria.
The child was sleeping in the crib, breathing evenly, and she smiled at him. In the past few days, she had gotten to know the boy a lot better, and his devotion to his Papa was as touching as Mando's devotion to him—he had refused to budge from Mando's side at night, and frequently he would climb out and toddle over to touch the man's arm and babble at him. He was a charming, playful, sweet-tempered little thing who relished being outside playing with his friends and procuring rocks and leaves and little gee-gaws and trinkets to add to his growing collection of toys. Omera had seen him become quite agitated if taken too far away from his Papa's side. Not even Winta and the other children could convince him to move out of view of Omera's house, and if they tried to carry him too far away he would start howling until they put him down.
The bond between the Mandalorian and the little green creature was incredibly strong, and it was clear that he was willing to lay down his own life for the boy. If that could be prevented, of course, while also allowing the child to grow up safe and happy, then all the better.
Din knew he had slept for at least three days straight, and when his mind cleared and all the gears were working again, Omera was there with a bowl of some kind of meat and vegetable soup and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. She scolded him for trying to get up, laid down the law again about staying off his feet for now, and left him alone to fume, ruminate and eat. It annoyed him somewhat that it didn't annoy him that a slim, soft woman he outweighed by about a hundred pounds could cow him into obedience, but he was always too tired to try to work himself into a lather about it. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Being sleepy and discombobulated had its benefits: he was actually feeling well-rested.
He told himself that he wasn't happy about this situation—Mandalorians don't do 'coddling', after all, and wound care among his people was rudimentary at best, but apparently people of Omera's ilk were made of stern stuff, too, because he suspected she would rip him a new one if he didn't follow orders. He knew that Omera wasn't even vaguely intimidated by him, and she would belabor him with a cooking pot if he didn't behave.
He was also a little confused about why he wasn't going into a full-blown temper tantrum over her having removed his helmet, and that he still wasn't wearing it. Or that he was still naked. But trying to stir up anger just made him tired, and after a while he just gave up and went back to sleep—the bed was too comfortable for fits of fury anyway. He would growl and grumble at Omera later. Either that, or he would just growl and kiss her all over and let her do whatever type of nursing she liked, and if it ended with her in the bed with him, well, he would just have to endure it.
He woke later to the sound of water splashing and women chattering, and that made him sit up, alarmed. Had Omera allowed all the other females in the village in to look at him? He looked around the room, but his helmet was nowhere in sight, and he had no clothes to put on—she had him beat again! That meant heading outside to throw a fit to express his outrage was not in the cards. 'Crazy naked man yelling' would only be fodder for gossip for months on Sorgan. He sighed and settled back on the pillows, but his head wasn't pounding any more and he was hungry.
As if to make it clear that he was happy to be on Sorgan again, the kid squealed at him and jumped up and down in the crib, then cooed happily when Din couldn't keep from smiling at him—he couldn't deny being glad to see the little nuisance—in fact, it made something in his chest swell to see him looking so happy. He reached over and pulled the crib a little closer, and gently stroked the boy's head, which got him a smile and chittering in response. He didn't seem to be terribly concerned that he wasn't wearing his helmet, or even really all that confused to see his face. Din figured the kid was able to connect dots fairly well on his own. 'Big scary man wearing helmet' apparently equalled 'tired-looking man who looks he might tip over at any moment' pretty easily for him.
"Mando, I've prepared your meal. Your boy needs to be fed, too."
He stretched out on the bed and quickly pulled the blanket back up to his chest, and tried to look grouchy. The kid wasn't buying it—he began laughing and rattling the crib, and Din couldn't hold his frown any longer. He grinned at the kid, who giggled, ears waggling back and forth in excitement.
So that's what happiness looks like, he thought, and resigned himself to being coddled and berated for the next few days.
"Come in," he called.
She came in bearing a cup of hot tea, which she set on the table by the bed, and if she thought he looked threatening, she didn't seem to buy his act at all. "I've also drawn a nice hot bath for you, and you can eat afterward, and then it's back to bed for more rest. No arguing. Whatever you might think, right now you're about as intimidating as a bag full of gartos." She sounded amused as she talked. "No armor, no helmet… no clothes, and I suspect I could knock you over with a feather. Oh, and here."
He was starting to rebut her statement with some salty language but yelped when his helmet suddenly landed in his lap.
"Thanks a lot!" he said, in a high falsetto, and that made her snicker.
"And I brought your armor, too—it was all terribly dirty and the helmet had blood inside it, so I gave it all a good cleaning and polish."
She didn't stay long. After clearing away dishes and gently tickling the boy, who squealed with laughter, she left him alone again. Once he was sure she was gone, he slowly got out of bed, wrapping the blanket around himself, and stood over the crib, inspecting his kid more closely. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and curious. "You're okay, little womp rat?" he asked.
The child smiled up at him, showing his tiny teeth, and Din sighed with relief. Stupid, he thought. As if Omera wouldn't take excellent care of him. He had probably even put on a non-amphibian based pound or two by now.
He didn't feel terribly dizzy, so he went into the little bathroom and lowered himself into the steaming hot water, yelping a couple of times before settling down to relax a bit and even doze off for a few moments.
He heard the bedroom door open and he was still, and he heard her moving around the room. "Don't let your supper get cold," she called, and the bedroom door closed again.
He washed up with unscented soap, taking his time—just to be annoying—and climbed out, feeling a lot better. After drying off, he found a pair of trousers and a shirt she had left next to the tub and pulled them on. They were a bit oversized on him, but he figured they had been her husband's, and it did not escape him that he was wearing the clothes of a man who had slept with Omera and had probably gleefully schtupped her senseless on a regular basis.
Lucky bastard.
He stepped out of the bathroom and was startled to see the bed had been stripped and new sheets and blankets had been put on it—how did anybody move that fast?!
Yet again, he was amazed by a woman. Most probably couldn't outdo him in combat, but they certainly could outdo him in making a home calm and comfortable, and that ability was a hell of a lot more useful than knowing how to pull a man's arms off. He had known several female warriors among the Mandalorians, but even they were good at being able to soothe away pain and worry and how to make her home a place of rest. Men didn't know diddly about that kind of thing—he remembered his adoptive father having not a single clue about where linens were stored or how to mend a shirt or prepare a meal. His mother had just snickered at him and affectionately referred to him as her mirdala al'verde.
It was then that he realized he was famished. Looking around, he saw the bowl of steaming-hot stew and a loaf of bread on the table by the fireplace. He took a cautious bite of the stew, and he found it still hot and quite delicious. He preceded to devour everything hungrily, sharing pieces of bread and meat with the kid, who didn't seem to like bread much, but he was clearly happy to just sit in his crib, chewing resolutely on the Mythosaur skull when he finished his meal.
After eating, he sat on the bed for some time, adjusting to a world that seemed somehow closer and disconcertingly intrusive without his armor, and picked up his helmet. He checked inside and noted that Omera had indeed given it a proper cleaning and a thorough polish, so that it was gleaming again. He inspected his armor and found that she done an excellent job with it as well.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache bearing down on him. IG-11 had been telling the truth when he'd said the bacta spray would heal his head wound within hours, but the effects of the concussion had definitely lasted longer—he knew they could cause trouble for days, in fact. He felt better now, but couldn't deny that he still had a way to go before he was full mobile again. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and entered into a staring contest with the kid, and was pleased to finally win. The kid reached for him and Din allowed him to pat his cheeks, burbling and saying 'Papa' several times.
He pretended that his eyes didn't mist over. He faked a cough and a sniff instead.
"It's buir," he told the child, who cooed, looking up at him, eyes bright and wondering. "Try and say it… boo-eer."
"Boo!" the kid burbled back, looking quite pleased with himself.
"That's what you say when you're sneaking up behind somebody to scare them out of their boots. It's boo-eer."
"Beer!"
"I might need one soon, actually," Din said, sighing. "We'll try again later. Gotta lay down."
He closed his eyes, the sunlight coming through the window making him sleepy, and pondered his situation. Omera had removed his helmet. And his clothes. He had never been naked in front of anyone before, and that made him feel a bit panicky. What really scared him, though, was that he didn't feel as upset as he thought he would. Or should. No living thing had seen his face since he had vowed the Creed, and yet Omera had seen his face and… well, the rest of him. Scars and scrapes and probably that little star-shaped birthmark on his hip and…
The kid rattled the crib.
"What?"
The kid squealed and held up his arms, asking to be picked up.
Din sighed and picked the boy up, then settled him down beside him on the bed. "A lot different from beskar, huh?" he asked. "And I know the helmet's a big improvement on my face, right?" The boy giggled and reached to touch his face, cooing softly, and said "buir" perfectly, as if he had been thinking about it.
Omera called, "Knock knock," and he reached for the helmet, but paused, feeling strange without the armor, but at least he was decently covered, and she had seen him. All of him. No going back from there, he knew. He would think about the consequences later, when he had complete control of his faculties again.
He sighed and left the helmet sitting on the bed. Oh well, she's probably still feeling ill, he thought gloomily, so looking at me again probably won't make any difference. Besides, she's too honest and kind to bring in a herd of people to look at me, and she's too polite to say I need put the damned helmet back on already.
"Come in."
She was carrying a basket of what looked like little toys and trinkets. "You've eaten?" She set the basket on the floor, and the kid scrabbled out of bed and made a beeline for it, ears up and squealing excitedly. The kid sat down and reached inside, pulling out each toy, one by one, examining them carefully and cooing happily. Soon he was whapping a wooden rattle on the floor, and Omera gently chided him. "Less noise, please, sweetheart. Your Papa has a headache, remember?" she said. The boy giggled and put the rattle aside and went for a soft, straw-filled little doll and started whapping it on the floor instead.
"Yes. Thank you. It was really good. I mean, the food was good. The bath was… er… much-needed."
"Indeed. You weren't exactly smelling great, though that was hardly your fault, and I only rinsed you off a bit. I made sure to put out some unscented soap—I rather doubt a Mandalorian should smell like flowers." Omera smiled and Din regretted not putting the helmet on, because he was admiring her figure again.
Unlike many of his fellow Mandalorians, he had always preferred feminine, softly curved women, not big, hard bruisers like the Armorer and Cara Dune. He had noted Cara's dark good looks, and she was his match in brute strength and skill, and he admired her for that, but she wasn't his type at all. Omera, however, met his personal requirements far too well.
He was leering at her, and he finally dragged his gaze away to look at the kid, who was sitting on the floor, babbling at the doll. If she knew what he had been thinking she would probably demand he leave Sorgan immediately.
"You're looking better. You were pretty banged up when you got here." She smiled at the child and picked him up, cuddling him warmly. "And you are just as naughty as ever, but you were so smart to come and get me, weren't you? It's hard to make him stay in one place, that's for sure, but I couldn't make him be quiet if we took him too far from your side—he came and got me himself when you landed. Anyway, he's been sleeping in here."
The kid screeched happily, clearly enjoying praise for a job well done.
"Keeping him in line is like herding lothcats."
Omera laughed out loud, and he wanted to just… good God, what did he want to do? He knew about those things in theory, but not in practice. His clan didn't allow for sex before marriage, but his adoptive parents had told him about the act in frank terms. He knew the mechanics of it fairly well, and he had certainly heard vulgar but intriguing talk amongst fellow bounty hunters (wearing a helmet was definitely useful then, because those stories always made him blush). Only a few Mandalorians that he knew had been married, and even fewer had children of their own.
The memory of Xi'an's determined efforts to get him to sleep with her came to him, and how he had only felt revulsion at the idea. She was... dirty and vulgar, aside from just being a raving homicidal psycho, and he couldn't stand women like that.
Omera was as far from that kind of woman as possible-she was sexy without being outrageous, and she had class, common sense and intelligence.
Warriors do not breed. He remembered one of the old clan members saying that, but… he was head of his own clan now, wasn't he? A clan of two? Did it have to stop at two? Clans have a head and a matriarch and offspring and hangers-on and offshoots and dependents and…
He could barely believe he was telling himself that, but it all come galloping up on him without warning, and it terrified him. He rubbed his face, realizing he needed to shave.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"You took off my helmet," he said, at a total loss.
Omera drew in her breath very slowly, so he stayed still, waiting, and she showed her mettle by facing him straight on.
"It was necessary. I meant no offense. You were injured and… "
"It's all right." Was he actually saying that? That it was okay? What the hell is wrong with you?! He forced himself to look at the pitcher by the bed, trying to draw up anger the way the sun drew water, but it just wouldn't come. He would have killed anyone else for removing his helmet, except the kid. But he couldn't get angry at Omera for doing what was right. Hell, he knew he couldn't get angry at her even if she spat in his face. Not that he could imagine her doing such a thing.
"… I had to check your wounds and see if there was any other wounds, and… um… there were just lots of scars and a few fresh scrapes… and you were in pretty bad shape. The blood loss was rather severe."
He swallowed, still refusing to let himself look at her. Was it really that easy to forego the Way? Fall helplessly in love with a woman and be able to remove the damned helmet and let her see what she was getting herself into? That is, if she wanted to be in his world at all, because it wasn't exactly a happy place.
Helplessly in love?!
Din batted the thought away. He was being maudlin, and his brain had been scrambled on Nevarro. Maybe IG-11 hadn't really been joking about damage to his central processing unit after all.
Wincing, he scratched the back of his neck. He knew he wasn't being maudlin. Truth was simply truth, even if it scared him. "It's okay, and yeah, I've had those moments come up, too—of doing what's necessary, that is," he said, casting about for words that made sense at all. "You'll probably be glad when I put it back on, anyway." But would he put it back on again in her presence? He looked around the room—her bedroom—and swallowed.
He had never even had a home since the day his parents had been murdered. This place could be his home, but it was frightening for him to step out of the world he knew. It would be just as terrifying as it had been when the Mandalorians had taken him to their covert. They had been kind, in their way, but it dawned on him that while that way of life had worked for him, was it fair to put the kid through it too? Hard training and sleeping on cold floors and eating uninspiring food and never getting to play and run around like a kid? He recalled some of the children at the covert on Nevarro being allowed to skitter about—in fact, it was rather nice to watch a little group of them gather in a huddle, call a play and head off in different directions to wreak a bit of merry havoc among their austere minders (who never got upset with them for acting like little zanies)—and he knew that was because the Armorer insisted on it.
He had been given a choice as a boy. The kid likely wouldn't be 'of age' for another two hundred years or so, and he deserved some options, didn't he? Would a life of peace be that bad? He was honest enough with himself to know that had the Purge not happened and his parents not been killed, he would have enjoyed a happy childhood and probably would never have even thought of becoming a warrior, much less a Mandalorian.
The other options for the kid's future was finding other Jedi or at least the kid's own species. He didn't even know where to start. What if finding them brought more danger to the kid? He knew Moff Gideon had nothing but evil intentions for the boy, but was it possible the Jedi wouldn't even be a better choice?
So why not just stay here? Why not give the kid this place as a home and use it as a sort of base of operations? Greef Karga wanted him back as a bounty hunter, and he supposed that would be a means of income, but it was such a dangerous job… could he risk that?
"I wouldn't say that," she said, interrupting his whirling thoughts. She began gathering up his clothes and carefully stacked his armor on the chair by the bed. "I remember my husband telling me about how all the buckles and snaps and buttons in his battle armor made bladder control imperative."
"I can't argue that point."
Omera smiled, and he realized he wearing nothing but trousers, a shirt and an anxious expression. "Of course, it was always fun to help him get out of his armor. It always resulted in him chasing me around." She glanced out the window. "That's how we got Winta."
He stared at her, bewildered, and her cheeks pinked prettily and she shrugged.
He struggled to find something to say, and finally lit on a safer subject. "Have you known any other warriors?"
"A few. I remember one—a worn out Rebel foot soldier—I think he served on Endor...?" Off his nod, she continued. "He retired here. Somewhere on the other side of this planet, that is. He said he no longer wished to study war. He lived alone. Not really a hermit, and he was actually a very gentle soul, and my father suspected the poor man had lost everything he held dear because of war, and had had enough of the whole business and was just done with people in general."
"Yeah. I suspect a lot of people are like that these days."
"Peace isn't just the absence of war, though, is it? It's achieved through strength and the other man being afraid to attack you, and really, strength has different forms. It can be weapons and fighting skills, but also it's communities and families willing to fight to protect themselves and each other." Omera picked up the basket of clothes and smiled at him before leaving the room, closing the door.
Immediately the boy headed for the door, his new toys forgotten and eager to go play with his friends. After putting his helmet back on, Din opened the door cautiously, as if expecting something awful to be out there. Like Moff Gideon or a battalion of stormtroopers or the remains of dozens of half-devoured frogs.
What if Gideon and his bloodthirsty gang of Imps showed up here? The very thought of that possibility made Din's heart start pounding. If anything happened to Omera, or her daughter or the people in the village, it would be his fault—he would have brought death to this place. If any of them were ever hurt, he knew he would go on a full-blown rampage, that was for sure. If anyone ever hurt Omera or the kid, he would not hesitate to kill anyone who harmed them. Nobody was going to even try to hurt his family—that was the whole point of being a Mandalorian.
He closed the door, which displeased the kid a lot, and looked around the room, realizing then that he was in Omera's own bedroom. No wonder the bed was comfortable, with warm sheets and a thick blanket (damn, but the nights on this planet were cold!). A rocking chair sat in one corner, and he could almost see her sitting there sewing or repairing a net—she always seemed busy, even when sitting still. Of course, his mind wandered back to the bed, and he imagined her lying there, looking up at him while he pulled on his trousers…
The kid whimpered, wanting to be released back into the wild. Din sighed and sat down on the bed again, pulling on his boots, then rose and opened the door again, letting the kid out, and the boy tripped on his little cloak, but was back on his feet in a flash and making a beeline to the front door.
You are as father to him, he remembered the Armorer saying. A father has to let his kids fall down sometimes or they'll never learn how stand up. Instead, they would grow up to be whiny, self-centered brats, unprepared for the world and shrieking whenever they came up against any kind of opposition to their fragile little egos. He had to let the kid find his own footing, but it still pained him to see the boy fall down. His first instinct was always to be overprotective, and he knew he was going to have to find a way to balance it all out and let the kid find his own Way. Even if the Way wasn't to be among the Mandalorians.
Din put on his helmet and followed him out into a comfortable room with a fireplace and several thick, comfortable-looking cushions on the floor. The next room was a warm and inviting kitchen, with stone-flagged flooring and an exposed timber ceiling, with pots and pans hanging from a beam above a large woodblock island, and a fireplace connecting the kitchen to the little sitting room. Up above the kitchen was a loft, accessible by a ladder, and he figured that was Winta's bedroom. Beyond the kitchen was another bathroom, and a door that opened into what looked like a sunny room for raising flowers and herbs.
This house was a home. A real, honest-to-God home, where peace reigned and its residents were warmed by more than just the fire. He had never been mistreated by the Mandalorians in any way, but he didn't recall warmth among them. Genuine care and protective and hell, even a variation on love and even compassion, but not warmth. Mandalorians were certainly not in for cuddling or soft beds and cushions and cheerful fireplaces and toys for the kids.
He glanced back at the bedroom and drew in his breath—where had Omera slept the past few days? It appalled him, then, to realize he had put her out of her own lodgings, and he knew he would have to make amends for that.
The good manners that the Mandalorians had drilled into him since the day he had arrived in the covert would never leave him. Not that his parents hadn't taught him good manners, but that had been a different set of manners for a different kind of life. In fact, he was glad for what his surrogate family had taught him—an attitude of gratefulness kept a man humble. Yes, no, please, thank you, sir, ma'am: the Mandalorians had been sticklers for that kind of thing. His birth parents had drilled him on that sort of thing, too, but it had been more of a matter of diplomacy than anything else.
The kid stood at the front door, looking at him expectantly, and Din opened it, letting in blinding sunlight and the sound of children laughing. He stood for a moment, uncertain and dazed by the brightness, and let the kid toddle over to the little mob of village children, who greeted him enthusiastically. Good, Din thought. He needs friends. He needs to socialize. If I had done that as a child, I might not be so…
So lonely.
Omera came around the corner then and saw him, and she looked amused as she approached him. "Already wanting outside to play?"
"More like 'sit in the sun for a while'," he said absently, still watching the kid, worrying he might get trampled. But the village children were all careful of his size and when they decided to move, in one noisy group to another part of the paddy, Winta picked him up and carried him with great care.
"Sounds like a good idea. My grandmother always said fresh air and sunshine are good for much of what ails you. Of course, she also said that when the birds fly in a zig-zag pattern, rain is coming, so we learned when to ignore her." She went back around the corner and returned with a chair, which she set down next to the door. "Go on, sit. You can keep an eye on the children while I hang out the washing, but I want to do a bit of sewing first, and I've already got a nice big grinjer ready for roasting on the fire, and we'll have broth for the little one. I think I got most of the blood out of the clothes under your armor, at least to the point where you can't see it."
"Thank you."
She nodded and rummaged through the basket of laundry and extracted his cape. "Really, you need a new, proper cape. This thing has holes in it."
"My birth-mother made it for me."
Omera stopped and studied him. "Oh. Perhaps I could sew the holes then?"
"Um… sure."
She could sense he didn't like changes to what was his last real connection to the woman who had borne him, and she sought to put him at ease. "I'll just patch the holes. I won't change anything else."
"It's okay. I'm sorry… I just… I've had it all my life. From birth, really. It used to be a kind of blood red color, but it's faded over the years and now it's more brown than anything else…"
"Blood red?" she asked, looking down at the worn fabric and then at him, brow furrowed. "Royal red, you mean?"
Din snorted. "Royal? Hardly. Just… "
"Blood red is a color for royalty and higher nobility—members of a ruling or high-ranking house, at least," she said. She examined the fabric more closely, holding it up to the sun and finally seeing a bit of red remaining along the hemlines.
He snorted derisively. "My parents weren't anything like that. They were… just people. I was wearing red on the day my village was attacked… and they were, too, so I figure the attack must have happened on Life Day, but then I don't remember anyone else wearing red, so… but they weren't royalty. I'm sure of that. It was just washed too often while I was growing up…" He paused, trying to remember how it had gone from red to brown. The women in his clan had been sticklers for cleanliness, that was for sure, and didn't like bright colors at all. Bright colors made wearers stand out and become targets.
Omera suspected he was quite wrong. Scarlet red was for Life Day. Blood red was forbidden for anyone not belonging to a noble house.
"Nobles are people, too. Just better fed. I've even met one or two, and they could be quite nice if you gave them a chance and didn't just assume they were snobs." Omera smiled at him. "Anyway, I'll see it's washed properly and I'll patch the holes with similar fabric. Will that be all right?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Would you like me to dye it red?"
"Uh… no. I don't think so. That's impractical now."
Omera nodded and put the cape back into her basket. "Do you remember where you were born?"
Din was at a loss. There were so many missing pieces of his early childhood that he wasn't sure what went where any more. "I don't recall. It was desert sort of place… I think… there were green places, I mean, and… we had… a fountain in a courtyard in the middle of the house…?" He was dismayed, then, to realize that he really couldn't remember much about his life before his parents' death. He remembered his father's cheerful personality, and his mother's warm, gentle ways and that she always smelled like flowers, and that her laughter could be heard from any part of the house and even a few blocks away. Other than that, so many pieces were missing from before the droids came blasting into the village and killed everyone.
IG-11 had changed his general view of droids somewhat, but the sight of one still made his fingers twitch and his heart start pounding with rage… and fear.
"Did you live in a small house or a large house?"
"It was large, I think."
Omera didn't feel it to be her place to press him on the matter. Besides, she could tell it was upsetting him a little. Her mother's words blared in her head: mind your own business and keep your hands to yourself. She glanced at him, thinking—not for the first time—that she wouldn't mind terribly if he didn't keep his own hands to himself.
"Did you have siblings?"
"No." He vaguely recalled a few other children, but he knew they weren't his siblings. Some of them even wore the same blood red cloaks. He suspected they were all dead, and that made something in his chest hurt. He looked across the paddys and observed the kid following yet another frog, squealing at it as it hopped out of reach and into the water.
She smiled. "I have two brothers and a sister, and dozens of cousins. My father always called a group of little boys a 'debris', and a group of little girls was a 'giggle'," she said with a fond laugh. "Didn't you have a bunch of friends to run around with?"
He shook his head, and she felt terribly sad for him. Mandalorians were known for their austerity, but surely they allowed the stays to slip a little sometimes.
"We were all free to run about and play when our chores and lessons were done. On Sargon, it's hard to have an unhappy childhood. We work, we play, we marry and have children and grow old and are buried in the fields beyond the forest. We don't tend to overcomplicate things." At his silence, she smiled ruefully. "I suppose you must think we're quite backward."
"Hardly. The rest of the world is backward, Omera."
She smiled softly, loving the way he said her name, and began sewing a hole in one of Winta's shirts. He was silent again, and Omera chanced a good look at him. His muscles had relaxed, and she realized he was asleep. Her eyebrows went up, wondering, and was about to get up when he gasped and sat up straight.
"I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. That was very rude."
"Hardly. You're tired, and my prattle can be very wearying."
"No! Not at all. I don't mind. I like… I mean, I… it's good to listen to somebody talk. The kid babbles and plays with switches in the cockpit—before he came along, I didn't even talk to myself. Not that I mind him getting into everything, really, except for the time he got hold of the controls, but it's nice to… to listen… to… you." His embarrassment was palpable, and she wasn't about to make it worse.
"I understand. I love Winta's chatter, but I like talking to adults." She looked down at her sewing. "Oh… and you and the boy can eat together in the house this evening. I have to attend a village council meeting."
"What's discussed at that type of thing?"
"Krill," she said with a laugh. "Frankly, krill has little scope for the imagination, but we have to determine which paddys are producing the most per season and go from there—we don't do collective farming—we'd all starve to death if we went that way. Depending on the year's tally, we set aside portions for leaner years—that kind of thing. But also discuss the drainage works we're doing next summer, so we can do a bit of planting, too. And we're discussing starting up a village militia."
"You'll need some weapons then."
"Well, we do have slingshots and sharp sticks."
He snickered and she laughed.
Dear God, he loved listening to her laugh. He sat up straight then, aware of how he was responding to her and not having a clue what to do about it. Anyone else would grab her and drag her inside and just… what? He couldn't keep his hands from clenching in frustration—he had zero experience with seduction and romance or just scratching the proverbial itch. And once scratch would never be enough.
She was speaking again, and he had to drag his brain out of its haze of bewilderment and desire and pay attention.
"I'll be sure to have your supper ready before I go."
"Thank you. You're very considerate." He was silent for a moment, and she patched another hole in his cape. "I… I was wondering if you could give me some pointers, actually."
"Pointers? On what?"
"Parenthood. I have to admit, I don't have a clue, and he's… my kid, for all intents and purposes."
"Oh. I see. Well… " Omera sat back in her chair, thinking, while she searched in her sewing basket for a larger needle. She watched the children playing 'hide and seek' with the child, who was being assisted in his search by Winta. "So far as I can tell, you're doing a good job with him." She smiled at him. "Well, I can honestly say there are only a few very hard and fast rules on childrearing. One is that no two children are alike, so never expect them to react the same way to anything. With Winta, I just have to give her a look and she knows to stop doing something I don't want her doing, though we've had our battles, but another child might require a firm spanking. As she's gotten older I don't need to resort to corporal punishment much at all. You can be sure that if I had another child, he or she wouldn't be like Winta at all, and your other children won't be like your boy."
"I sort of doubt I'll end up with another kid," he said.
"You don't know that. Isn't life what happens to you when you've made other plans? I can see you with a whole herd of wild children some day."
"An insomniac with a pounding headache, too," he said, sounding a little amused.
"Possibly. Another important thing is that you must be firm about important things, but not so rigid as to seem unreasonable and unsympathetic—children should be allowed to be children, so running about and playing is perfectly fine, but I always prefer that be done outdoors, and only after they'd done their chores and finished with the day's lessons. When he's little, bedtime is strict—if not, you'll never get any rest yourself! At his age, a nap in the afternoon, after second meal, is a good idea. Also, do your best to not lose your temper with him—easier said than done, I know, because any child can be positively infuriating, but it's best to try." She smiled at him. "And don't try to overexplain things. Let your yes be yes and your no be no, and be consistent."
"I should write this down," he said, and she gave him a look that made him grin and wish he wasn't wearing the damned helmet. She probably thought he never smiled.
She laughed and continued sewing as she spoke. "My mother would warn me: if I did something she didn't like, she would tell me what would happen to me if I did it again. If I did it again, what she said would happen would happen. Immediately, without rancor. Just swift, painful justice—five or six swats on the butt did not damage me whatsover. Still, when the punishment is over, it's over, and you should never bring up a past mistake to use a weapon. My father was of the opinion that if you don't love your children enough to discipline them, you can be sure someone who doesn't love them will discipline them for you. But you should always remember to be fair."
He nodded. The Mandalorians had been firm disciplinarians, too, but they had also been fair.
"Really, though, the two things that got me in trouble was willful disobedience and backtalk. Those never resulted in punishment following a warning—if I backtalked or just willfully disobeyed, the punishment was immediate and unpleasant. Parents should be in charge, not children, and the child should know Mama and Papa are not liars, and are in control: parents should run a sort of benign dictatorship, and be united—never let the child play his parents against each other. Put a child in charge, you've got a tyrant and every disagreement will be a bloody battle. Don't risk it. Take charge, be calm, mete out fair punishment to fit the crime, be merciful, and don't watch too closely, because if you do, he'll scare you. And remember to play with him, and laugh with him and be silly with him, and let him be silly and have fun, because once childhood is over, being silly just gets you labelled as the village nutter. Not that that's a bad thing, really. I have to admit—here on Sorgan, we're kind of proud of our crazy people. We bring out and show them off." She cut a piece of thread with her teeth and expertly rethreaded her needle.
The helmet covered his amusement.
"Oh, and never be afraid to apologize if you've done something wrong. That shocks them into total silence, believe me!" She laughed. "I also find that if Winta is misbehaving, when I lean in and whisper what I'm going to do to her if she doesn't cut it out, it gets her attention and she knows I mean business." Omera thought for a moment. "Oh, and in public places, never let him on the floor. He'll be gone in a flash. He can sit beside you and learn to be relatively quiet, but remember to be reasonable—little boys can't be still, but they can behave; I know it's awfully old-fashioned of me to say it, but girls can sit and be quiet a good bit better most of the time." She shook her head. "Boys and girls are different, that's for sure, and I'm glad of it—build on that difference and encourage it, and let him be comfortable in his own skin. Anyway, if he drops something while in a public place, that's just tough. Don't retrieve what he's dropped, either, or he'll just throw it down again and make you get it, as a means of entertainment: I made that mistake with Winta and my knees still hurt from crawling around to retrieve her toys. Really, what children need is to know there's boundaries and that you'll protect them from anything that comes in from outside the boundaries. They like to be secure in their little worlds, but they will test you to make sure those boundaries are still there… so be ready! I was told to follow my own instincts, of course and to listen to advice from experienced mothers. So far, I think I've been successful… I hope."
He took in her advice and watched Winta carry his kid across a bridge. "You have been. He already scares me."
"Oh?"
"He can move things with his mind. He… he saved me from a mudhorn. Picked it up off the ground by… I don't know… holding his hand up." He raised his own hand, curving his index and middle finger and moving his thumb inwards into a pincer shape. "And he headed a man's wounds and poisoning by touching him, and he threw fire back on a stormtrooper on Nevarro."
Omera stared at him, eyes wide—what on earth had this father-son duo gone through? "He has the Force?"
"The what?"
"The Force. Haven't you heard of that?"
"Nary a clue," but he leaned forward and she could feel his eyes on her, which made her shiver a little. "What is it?"
"I don't know much about it, either, but I've heard of it. The Jedi were masters of it, or so I'm told."
"Wait… are they a race or… ?"
"Not a race. Anyone can be a Jedi—just like anyone can be a Mandalorian, under certain circumstances, right? I think anyone can have the Force—be born with it, I guess, which would lead to them being a Jedi—I suppose you could say they're souped-up knights." She frowned, trying to recall all her husband had said about the Jedi. "But I'm not sure if just anyone with the Force can be a Jedi. Maybe there's different kinds. I admit I don't know much about it—my husband told me a little about it, but the Empire seems to have killed or scattered so many people, and last I heard, there were very, very few Jedi left, if any at all." She hazarded a look at him and saw he was stiff and was practically oozing worry. "I do know the Force is not something that can bought or sold." She accidentally poked her finger with her needle and yelped. "If the child has the Force, he's something to be reckoned with if he can already pick up a mudhorn with his mind and throw back fire and heal people." She looked at the signet on his pauldron. "So that's where that came from?"
He nodded and looked across the way at the kid, who was chasing another frog now, while being watched over by the ever-attentive Winta. "Do you have an idea what species he is?"
"Nary a clue. Have you named him?"
"I… um… no. I haven't."
"You should name him. He needs a name, silly! What is your name?"
"Din Djarin."
Omera was silent for several seconds. Djarin. She had heard that name. He was from Kartli'i, or was of Kartli'ian lineage. Djarin was an extinct Kartli'ian noble house, if she recalled correctly, that had been known to be charitable and good-natured. If he was a member of that house, he was likely its last male representative, and the poor man couldn't even remember his family! She had heard of Kartli'i's decimation during the Great Purge, but that lately they had started to rebuild under the protection of the New Republic. The planet was famous for its crystal-clear lakes and beautiful green fields and forests, plus arid deserts and snowy mountains. It also had a glorious ocean teeming with fish. She had a friend who had visited the planet some years ago, and Omera made a note to ask her about it.
She briefly considered telling him about it, but something made her decide to hold her tongue for now. He was intelligent enough to figure it out on his own, if he wanted to.
Maybe he had blocked it out? Omera sensed that the deaths of his parents, followed by being taken in by the austere Mandalorians—a fierce tribe, she knew—had to have been traumatic, and children were fortunate to have an internal cushion that helped them cope with such earth-shattering loss. She knew he wanted no pity now, and would angrily rebuff it, but… had any of the Mandalorians just cuddled him and let him cry and mourn for his parents and the world he had lost?
"Well, Din Djarin, he'll also be a Djarin, but a name of his own will be required," she finally said. "Do you remember your father's name?"
"Kelso. His name was Kelso."
That sounded vaguely familiar, too, but she was not going to press him on the matter. "His name was Kelso? That's a good name. And your mother?"
"Kerala."
Omera smiled. "What a beautiful name! When you have a daughter, you can name her for your mother—that's how the Mandalorian's remember those who have passed, right? To name a child in their honor?"
He nodded, but he was looking straight ahead, and she knew this conversation was paining him. She wanted to caress his cheek and tell him that everything was going to be okay. She gave him a reassuring smile.
"And Kelso is a tough man's name. We have a similar name on Sargon, and it basically means 'swift'—Keel'so."
She had a sudden, painful image of him as a child, terrified and suddenly alone, an orphan. She looked at the child and understood now why he was so devoted to him. They were both orphans. Kindred spirits.
"I think I'll consider myself lucky if I can just get this kid to his own people. To… whatever species he is, or to other Jedi. I was told they're sorcerers."
"That's not exactly the right term for the Jedi," she said. "They don't practice magic. It's something else. I've only ever heard stories. Right now, you need to pick a name for your son, Din Djarin."
"I don't know. You pick something."
She thought a moment. "Haran—how does that sound?"
"Eh… "
"Okay… " she laughed. "That's out!"
"What was your father's name?"
"Stellan."
She waited, knowing he was trying to be tactful, and when he finally exhaled, at a loss, she laughed.
"I know. It's not a good name for him. A name has to fit its bearer." Omera lifted her hand, gesturing for Winta to come to her, and she gestured at the child as well. The girl picked up the child and carried him over. The boy reached for Din, cooing happily as the Mandalorian settled him on his lap and began bouncing him on his knee.
"What do you think we should name the boy, Winta?" Din asked, startling the girl a bit, who wasn't necessarily afraid of him, but she did find him intimidating.
Winta chewed on her lip, thinking, then brightened. "Teilo?"
Omera looked at Din, who sat up straight. She was not going to tell him that Teilo was the name of Winta's long-lost imaginary friend.
"Teilo Djarin. It does sound good, and he won't have trouble saying it. Good job, Winta. Thank you."
The girl preened happily, and little Teilo Djarin started sucking on the little steel skull again. Winta went inside to wash up for dinner, and Omera stood, gently picking up the child. "This little fellow needs to clean up for dinner, too, whether he has a name or not. I'll get him ready—oh, my, you do need a bath, you little stinker! I've got to get ready for the meeting, so you two can eat your dinner after I go. Winta, go on to the council house and wait for me."
The girl dashed away.
"Thank you, Omera. I appreciate it."
She smiled, briefly resting her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb on the mudhorn signet. "You're quite welcome, Din. Always."
He settled back against the wall again, his breathing slowing, and she leaned closer, speaking softly and nudging him out of a hazy doze.
"What were you like when you were a child, Din?"
"I was shorter."
CHAPTER NOTES
mirdala al'verde = dear commander
buir = father
I found the name "Teilo" in one of those "Star Wars" character name generators. If and when we find out what The Child's name is in the series, I'll pop in and correct it.
Kelso (1957-1983, sired by Your Host out of Maid of Flight, by Count Fleet) was a famous racehorse from the 1960's (look him up-he was a hard-knocking campaigner who gave no quarter). Kerala (1958-1984, sired by My Babu out of Blade of Time, by Sickle) was an influential broodmare-her son Damascus was an excellent racehorse and sire. I'm a racing fan and a pedigree geek, and some racehorse names can be really useful in naming fictional characters sometimes.
Oh, and Omera's last name is another racehorse: Cassaleria (1979-1993), a useful and consistent runner despite having lost one eye as a foal!
Alas, the only horse I ever found named 'Mandalorian' wasn't a successful runner.