A/N: Y'know, in celebration, let's bring a certain Mandalorian fully back, eh?
"Great, just what we needed," Mira said, her hand already on her gun. "Mandalorians."
Trista's heartbeat in her ears just about drowned her out, and her muscles had long since turned to stone as her fingers stiffly curled around her lightsaber like a child might a favorite toy.
"Remain calm," the Handmaiden murmured. "Only one weapon is raised. I do not think they wish to fight."
"We can hear you," another voice said, and Trista glanced to the side. More Mandalorians. Frakking hell.
"We're surprised you got this far," the one with his gun on her said. Her jaw had clenched into her skull, and it felt like the jungle had rooted her in place so solidly she could never have moved again, and would rust away like the infantry droids they'd abandoned so long ago. "The jungle rarely lets its prey go that easily. What are you doing here?"
It took a moment for her to unhinge her jaw, and she cleared her throat. Even so, her voice came out as more of a harsh whisper than the stronger tone she'd wanted.
"What is it," she hissed, "with Mandalorians and this damned moon."
"Hah. We claimed this moon decades ago after Exar Kun's defeat, and some of us still call it home. So I'll ask again — why are you trespassing on it?"
She swallowed and shifted her jaw from side to side, trying to ease the rock-hard tension. "I was thinking of opening a Czerka office here. I sense a lot of untapped potential."
"Tris..." Mical hissed.
"That was a joke, right?" He chuckled behind his mask. "It'll be interesting to see how long you keep that sense of humor out here."
"You won't find out. We're leaving." She took a step forward, but he didn't budge.
"No, you aren't. We have orders to escort you to our camp — our leader wants to speak with you."
"I'm not interested."
He reached up and clicked something on his blaster. It was echoed as the others, all recruits if she remembered her armor colors, swung their weapons up as well. "You are coming with us, Jedi. I am supposed to escort you peacefully, but the alternative is quite acceptable.
"So you can either follow us as a guest, or get dragged there. Up to you."
Trista stood still for a moment, surely looking like she was weighing her options — but she wasn't. She was cursing the universe, the Force, the Jedi, the Mandalorians, Colonel Tobin, whatever the frak was happening on Onderon, Goto, the Sith, Peragus, Revan, Kreia... anything that might have landed her back here, on this moon, surrounded by Mandalorians, forced to decide when all she wanted was to return to the Ebon Hawk and lock herself in a room and never speak to anyone again.
"Well?" he prompted, and she felt through her rock-tense body as Mical touched her arm.
"Fine." Vitriol exploded in her tone, so much that she felt Mical flinch away. "Fine. I'm sure you want our weapons and comm links too, huh?"
He shrugged, lowering his rifle. "Don't care, to be honest. Come on."
Trista followed him, a decade's tension of simmering hatred making her movements stiff. Mical joined her, and she glanced back at the others. The Handmaiden looked more confused than anything; Mira looked only mildly more comfortable than she did.
"Are you all right?" Mical whispered, and Trista didn't respond. "Tris?"
"Fine," she said. "Won't say more given the company."
He nodded, but stayed where he was as the rest of the Mandalorian patrol fell in around them, firearms still in hand. Trista clenched her robes in her hands, fighting to still the shake in them. They hadn't taken their weapons, but they were clearly, barely a step above "prisoner." She knew how that worked out, and it wasn't helping her mood. She drew several deep breaths, reaching for the edge of that emptiness inside her where the Force glowed, and pulled it out like a needle drawing a string of thread. The warmth spread through her limbs, numbing the edge of the fear and releasing enough of the tension that she could move through the stiffness.
They walked up a twisting path for nearly an hour, long enough that she suspected they were attempting to conceal the correct location of the Mandalorian camp. It was silent, as well — many of the jungle's predators would stay away from a group this size, and they likely shied from the Mandalorians anyway. But soon the jungle opened, and the walls of a Mandalorian stronghold rose ahead of them.
And it was then she recognized, and then she knew where they'd landed and where they were being taken. And she swallowed back a wave of panic that fought to consume her, reaching out and grabbing Mical's arm as the first solid thing her hand could latch onto.
"Trista?"
She shook her head, straightened, and let go.
Their escort led them through a gap, sectioned off by tall, rounded pillars, into a fort built of staggered interior walls and buildings, coupled with pockets of grass- and leaf-thatched canvas homes. There were enough people here, most in armor, that she couldn't get a good read on their numbers. A few hundred? Just warriors, or were there families here too? If she could tell, that'd indicate how this visit was going to go. But at the moment, all she could see were crowds of armored figures, many watching them with what, she was sure, was the same trepidation she felt.
"This way," their lead escort said, motioning them toward what was likely the fort's command center. Trista forced her mouth to stay even, despite its hardest attempts to dip into a frown. Just more placidity, more Jedi ambiguity. More nothing.
She could do nothing.
Their guide motioned for her to enter, and she did. The floor sloped down to the central area, met by a long ramp that rose to a closed blast door beyond. A few banks of computers, screens, and other technological supports were lit by flickering lights — all glinting off the silvered battle armor in front of the screens, back to them as they approached. The Mandalorian was sitting in a chair that looked to have seen better days, his feet propped up on a non-functional part of the panel in front of him. He did not turn as they approached.
"Manda'lor," their guide said, and something in Trista's heart stopped in one spine-chilling rush of adrenaline. Frak. If they'd gotten this organized around a Mandalore, this could be a terrible visit. "Olar cuy'te jetiise."
She hoped they didn't have advanced hearing in their helms, because she could feel her heart moving against her chest wall.
"Vor'e." Mandalore waved his hand. Their escort saluted and retreated to the door. "So, you're our intruder. Our sensors picked up your handiwork in space."
There was almost a disappointed tone to his voice, like he'd expected something else. Someone else?
"I am Mandalore, the leader of the Mandalorians."
Trista started to speak, but found her throat half-closed. She cleared it and started over.
"Thought we killed Mandalore during the war."
"Well, you got the last one. We picked a new one a few years back."
She released a slow breath through her nose. "And the surrender agreement?"
"Heh. You scattered us, sure, but we're still alive. Alive, and rebuilding."
"Even though most of the ones I've seen are blasters for hire?"
"Some have fallen from the path of honor, sure. But that is changing."
"Yes, I've seen a plethora of Mandalorians just rushing to the ass-end of Republic space for you."
That, to her surprise, earned a laugh. "I like you."
He stood and turned towards them. He was almost a head taller than her, at least two meters in height, and she drew another steadying breath through her nose as the familiar, ribbed, bronze-golden mask of Mandalore, integrated into his existing armor, turned toward her.
"Welcome to Dxun, Jedi. This," he motioned around them, "used to be the heart of the Mandalorian war effort. From this complex, we commanded an armada that had the Republic on the run. But, given your admirable effort to maintain your composure, you're familiar with that."
"Something like that," she replied after she unclenched her teeth. "Looks like this camp's seen better days."
"Covert camps aren't meant to attract attention. And, because we conquered them, the people of Onderon still hold a grudge against us. So... we keep our presence a secret."
"Why here? Why Dxun?" It was something she'd always wondered, but had never asked. He finally answered it.
"We have a rapport with the jungle. Every moment here is a struggle, all creatures gripped in a war for survival. The sole purpose of the weak is to feed the strong. We train here and learn that lesson from the environment. The beasts also help us keep our edge."
Trista was silent as he finished, and they stood in silence for another moment, two old enemies in a standoff where neither was sure if fighting was on the table. She did not want to ask for help. She would not ask for help. There was no way she would ever ask for help from a Mandalorian, least of all—
"I need transportation to Onderon," she said without thinking, and cringed. "It's where we were going when Tobin shot us out of space, and it's imperative we get there."
"Ah." Amusement. Godsdamn it. "So it's transportation you're after. Well." Mandalore leaned back on the terminal, crossing his arms. "It just so happens I have a shuttle that's more than capable of running the military blockade — I use it to make occasional trips for information and supplies. If you want to go with me, though, you're going to prove yourself."
Trista closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her hands once. "What do you mean," she said, her voice wavering, "that I have to 'prove myself?'"
"I don't travel with just anyone, you know. You look capable enough, but Iziz can be a dangerous place. If you want to travel on my shuttle, I want to make sure you aren't a liability."
"And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?"
He waved his hand. "Figure it out yourself. Ask around, see if you can make yourself useful. Or, do something that shows what you're made of. I'm not going to hold your hand."
"That's it? You can't think of anything?"
He motioned. "Well, before you fucked up my airspace, we were planting some remote detonators around a few supply caches. The activity forced us to stop. You could always take care of that. I'm sure you can handle flipping a switch."
Trista dug her nails into her palms. "Yes, that would not be a problem. Seems too easy."
"You asked what you could do, and I gave you an option. Nothing is this jungle is as simple as it seems." He checked a screen. "That said, your ship's far enough you'd never make it before nightfall, and the jungle's not safe at night — especially after we pulled patrols back. Looks like you're stuck here for a few hours, Jedi."
Fantastic.
"I'll let Kex know you check out, he'll trade if you need supplies. In the morning you can set out and do... whatever you're planning on doing. The more dangerous beasts have been cleared from the area, but what's left might still be too much for you."
That was a challenge, and she knew it.
"Yeah, we'll see." She frowned. "So that's it? We're stuck here?"
"Just for the night." He motioned behind the command center. "We've got an empty vheh'yaim back there you're welcome to use."
"...thank you for the hospitality." It almost pained her to say that.
"You're not prisoners. You ever want to see a drexl up close, you're free to leave. Probably won't make it back to t—your ship alive, though."
"Noted." Trista forced her hands to unclench. "If we are free to leave, I'd like to discuss our next steps with my team."
Mandalore waved his hand. "Outside the camp, you're on your own. Inside, as long as you show us the respect we deserve, you'll be fine."
She responded with a tight-lipped smile. "We will keep our heads down, don't worry."
Mandalore frowned behind his mask as the Jedi and her companions exited, her back still stiffer than the barrel of one of their blasters. A few minutes later, the same blue-armored recruit appeared next to him, as if from thin air.
"What's your opinion?" he asked.
"Hm." That was the only answer he received for a moment. "She is familiar."
"What's her name?"
"Trista Morace."
His frown deepened. "Sounds familiar."
"Judging by her age," Taylire said, "she is a former Revanchist. Her posture as the patrol confronted her confirmed it. She is—"
"Very uncomfortable," he finished. "Doesn't take anything special to see."
"No, but she hides her discomfort poorly for a Jedi."
"So did Revan."
"Revan was a special case."
"In many ways."
"Meet her halfway." Taylire headed for the command center's entrance. "I suspect you have much in common." In the doorway, she paused and turned back. "A bet, Mandalore."
He smirked. "Yeah?"
"That our guest shares a blood relationship with Revan."
"Her? Jedi don't have families."
"Relatives sometimes come to the Jedi. It is a possibility."
"You're not working on information you know but I don't, verd'ika?"
She responded with a disdainful growl. "I would not sully a bet like that."
"How many credits?"
"Five hundred?"
"So sure of yourself. You're on."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Trista glanced at Mical from where she was pacing around the border of the vheh'yaim. "Fine. Just tense."
"We can tell." Visas' voice was quiet, and not reproachful.
"Yeah." Trista scrubbed at her forehead. "I led the fight on this moon." Led the fight, and everyone died. "Not to mention Malachor. And now I'm surrounded by Mandalorians that would want me dead if they knew that."
"Then we do not tell them." The Handmaiden was too matter-of-fact as she checked over her electrostaff. "Mandalore didn't even ask for your name, so he cannot be too concerned."
"I hope not." She sighed. "All right, so, he can get us to Onderon — provided they don't put my head on a stake tonight or something — but we have to impress him. Are we comfortable splitting up to see what needs done?"
"I am comfortable, if you are," Mical said. "I know enough about the Mandalorians to be sensitive."
"I will be fine as well."
"Yeah, I'll manage."
Trista looked at Visas.
"I am better at observing. If that is acceptable, I will do so."
"Whatever works. Let's meet back up in an hour — I don't know that I want us to be apart longer than that."
She'd never admit it, but she knew the fear was irrational. Mandalorians were rough, warlike, and brash, but they were also casual and respectful. As long as they were respectful in return, even if some of the clan were hotheaded enough to challenge them, being "guests" of Mandalore should be enough to protect them.
"I admit," she said, "that I'm not sure how useful I'll be right now. I'm sorry."
"The Sith have hounded you since Peragus without stopping." Mical's voice was just as gentle, and non-reproachful, as his words. "You have more than earned an hour of uselessness. We are more than capable of doing this."
"Thanks." She tried to smile, but she was certain her tension was palpable. "Seriously, thank you."
"We'll get to work. C'mon." Mira stood, nudging Mical with the toe of her boot, even though he was almost on his feet. "Let's get it over with."
Trista watched them leave and sank down on one of the building's light stools with her head in her hands. She wasn't sure how long she sat there before the restlessness that always ate at her pushed her to her feet and out of the tent.
It wasn't night yet, but the sun was setting behind Onderon and bathing the jungle in a, dare she say, beautiful twilight. She let her feet choose the path and found herself atop the wall, her arms crossed as her robe brushed her legs in the breeze. Trista stared out into the jungle, trying to not let her thoughts wander back to the war. To the dark smoke billowing from Mandalorian and Republic firebombs and downed ships and mines, the shouts and screaming of soldiers as they died, the pain of the burns on her feet that lasted for a week after she'd left—
"Looks like you need this." A bottle slapped into her chest, and she nearly dropped it. Mandalore leaned on the wall next to her, studying the jungle.
"I hope you aren't trying to kill me."
"If I was trying to kill you, that'd be narcolethe."
Trista frowned and uncapped the bottle and sniffed. "Ne'tra gal?"
He looked at her, barely tilting his mask in her direction. "I've got narcolethe, if you want to test your luck."
"I've done that enough for one day." She raised the bottle and drank a good bit of the sweet, thick alcohol in one swallow. "Should I ask why you're up here?"
"I walk the camp around now," he said. "Lets me see what we need to do tomorrow."
"Mm." Trista took another drink, and they stood in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
"You look like you've been here before."
She stared off into the jungle. "Yeah."
"So was I."
"Given you knew this place was here, I'd assumed."
"Mm. I don't remember you, so I don't believe our paths crossed."
"I'm amazed I would be so memorable."
"I remember most of the Jedi I faced. Your kind weren't common enough to forget." Another few moments of silence passed, as Trista wondered why the hell Mandalore was up here trying to make the sort of small talk only a Mandalorian could with her. "Where'd you fight?"
She hesitated, probably for longer than she should have.
"That hill," she said, motioning to it. It was the same winding path they'd come up, lined with turrets and mines and snipers... and still with no way around it. The least impenetrable side of this entire complex... and somehow, the only one.
"Ah," was his answer. "I remember that charge. We'd never seen that sort of fight from the Republic."
She bit back an immediate incrimination that it was his people's fault they'd had to see it, and instead drowned it with some more ne'tra gal.
"I was also in the rear command post you firebombed."
To her surprise, he responded with a throaty chuckle. "We nearly crossed paths that day."
"That was you?"
"Originally. Mandalore pulled my group back and sent another in. If it's any consolation... we were just going to shoot you."
Despite herself, she almost smiled. "That would have been preferable to the firebombs."
They stood in silence again.
"You all almost got all three of us that day." She took another sip of the ale. "You firebombed the post just before Revan and Malak were recalled. They were still there when the bombs hit."
"Huh." He straightened. "Now I wish I'd gotten the chance. Walk with me."
He started down the wall, and Trista stared at the bottle for a moment. It didn't have the bite of an order, so she didn't have to do it. But a bottle of ale — admittedly, she hadn't had it since the war and had forgotten the taste she'd once had for it — and some light conversation about heavy topics wasn't enough to open her up to him.
But... she was trying to get him to take her to Onderon. She could, at least, be polite.
Trista caught up to him a few steps later, and they traced the perimeter of the wall. Outside, the jungle settled into a cacophony of insects, night-birds, and the distant screams of hunting predators. At first they walked in silence, serenaded by singing in the camp below.
"I guess that's why your name sounds familiar."
Trista almost choked on her drink. "I thought I was just 'Jedi.'"
"One of my scouts followed you from your ship. She passed it on." Trista scowled. "But there's only one old Revanchist who'd refer to Revan and Malak as 'us.'"
Damn it.
"Is that going to be a problem?"
To her shock, he shook his head. "Your people put up an admirable fight on Dxun." Mandalore motioned to the camp to their left. "Some of them bear a grudge against the Jedi, sure, and you can't blame them. I don't."
"Blame them, or hold a grudge?"
"Both." Trista finished her drink, half out of shock. "We're a people of conflict, Jedi. The Wars? You beat us. I won't call it fair... but I won't hold a grudge for it."
She nodded and fell quiet for a moment as they continued around the perimeter.
"Why not? I thought Malachor..." Trista trailed off, and Mandalore was quiet for a moment.
"Why did you fight alongside Revan and Malak?"
"I..." She frowned. "They were the only Jedi that realized the threat the — that you posed. The others... the Council was too afraid, but I don't know why. We didn't stop to ask."
"We had never faced Jedi before." Mandalore was almost thoughtful as he spoke. "We only knew what we had seen in holovids, and from our experience with Exar Kun. Things that are common knowledge to you remain rumors and stories to the rest of the galaxy. We believed we would easily triumph over such noble and compassionate leaders." Even though there was a note of condemnation, it didn't quite edge into disgust. "Those were weaknesses we had exploited in the past.
"What did you think of us, Jedi?"
Trista weighed her words like she was rolling them across her tongue before speaking. "I could find no fault in your strength, or your enthusiasm."
"Fair enough." He paused, turning to face her. "That is how we thought of you — those of you that joined Revan and Malak to fight against us. You turned a demoralized, defeated mess into a coordinated army. You brought tactics, backbone, and above all else, victory, to them."
"But you were still a menace that had to be stopped."
"That so?" He chuckled.
"The massacre at Cathar, the attack on Serrocco, half the fights of the Wars were against civilians."
"War breeds butchers on both sides, Jedi. You know that better than anyone." Trista looked away and, almost unconsciously, began walking again. Mandalore joined her, matching her pace. "We were just better at it than anyone the Jedi had ever faced.
"If we had won... the Sith would have been nothing but a border skirmish against the might of the clans. We would have brought a new age of strength and expansion to the Republic, with the wealth of the Core worlds providing arms and warships to fuel our growth. Instead, you — the Republic — 'won.' I ask you this — is the galaxy better off for the Republic's victory?"
"That isn't an argument I wish to have, Mandalore."
Almost to her surprise, he seemed to respect that, and they walked halfway around the camp before she spoke again.
"I have a question for you, but I recognize you may not know."
"Go ahead."
She hesitated. How much information was she comfortable giving? I'm looking for my horrible, conniving, perfidious asshole of a sister who's fled known space and disappeared into the Unknown Regions, and she was last seen with a Mandalorian. Is there any way you know the guy? Oh, yeah, she's also General-slash-Darth Frakking Revan.
Yeah, no. That wouldn't be the right approach.
"I'm looking for a Mandalorian."
"You've found an entire camp of them."
Trista grumbled under her breath. "A specific one. Do you have a mix of clans here?"
Mandalore, to her surprise, paused for a moment. "About half of us are Ordo. Rest are a mix — Vizla, Fett, Varad, Lok, Spar, Deshra, off the top of my head. Few Cadera."
Ordo. Convenient. She fought not to frown. "Is it inappropriate to ask which one you're from?"
He paused again. "Yes."
"Fine." She sighed. "He's Ordo."
They made it another several paces down the wall before he replied.
"You looking for Canderous?"
"How in the frakking hell—" Trista ran her hand over her hair. "Yes, I'm looking for Canderous. You probably know why, too."
"I can guess. I'll see if I can track him down. He's been here a few times — haven't seen him in a month or so."
"Figures. Thanks, I guess."
They finished their circuit, and he stopped walking again.
"Listen," Mandalore said, and Trista nodded, "I understand your misgivings."
Trista blinked. Did he, though? Did he know why she was so uncomfortable here? Or had he just assumed it was being around Mandalorians?
"You fought us in the Mandalorian Wars, and that has left its mark. It would be wrong to assume the same did not happen to us." He motioned back to the camp. "Many of us here lost family, blood or otherwise, to the Republic. Many of us stood against the Republic at Malachor, and scattered. And many in the Republic view us as little more than wild, violent kinrath, barely better than hired guns. Even I was a mercenary for some time following the war, far longer than I should have been. But now, after many years, a new Mandalore has returned and, hopefully, brought a fighting chance of survival back to my people.
"We do not need to be enemies again. The clans have a long tradition of honor toward our allies, and those who give us aid. It's a tradition that those we war against are quick to forget. After you've dealt with... whatever's going on..."
He motioned. "Then perhaps you turn your attention to us. Or, maybe, we can forge an alliance of our own. Our next campaign need not be against your Republic. Eventually, the enemy will find us and, if I assemble the clans, we could turn the tide of that battle." His helmet tilted, a question even though he didn't voice it.
Trista nodded. "I understand."
"Consider what I have said." He stepped past her, starting back down the steps.
"Mandalore." His acknowledgment was stopping his path down the stairs. "Mandalores always have a title. The one we faced was Mandalore the Ultimate. What are you?"
He was silent for a moment, until she thought he wouldn't answer.
"Te Taylir Mand'alor."
And with that, he continued down the steps. Trista's Mando'a was rusty, and it took her a moment to translate.
The Preserver.
