Mand'alor stood in the doorway to the room waiting for her eyes to adjust. On the advice of her Chief Medic they had dimmed the lights to help keep Torian comfortable while he healed. She really had no idea if he would even care about the light, but she'd be willing to do anything to help him at this point, even walk in the dark if she had to. It had been twelve days and he had not moved. She had pressed Andare on whether or not he was brain dead. She had not been very clear, explaining that they would not know for a while yet, but did say that it seemed like his body was still responsive to stimuli—a prick to the bottom of his foot…things of that nature, but that as of yet they were not getting very clear readings on the condition of his brain.

Of course, when they had read down the long list of his injuries that the scans revealed, none of them were sure that it was even worth the effort it was going to take to keep him alive, let alone whether or not he would ever even wake up. Mand'alor had told the lot of them to do whatever it took to give him every chance to recover—and then told them she would kill any of them slowly, painfully, in a skilled way that would draw it out over days, perhaps weeks, if they breathed a single syllable of what was taking place in that room to anyone. As far as the rest of the camp knew, she had sent Torian on a special solo mission.

She didn't so much feel guilty about what had happened with Torian, but she was sorry on a level that she didn't completely understand herself. She'd replayed the incident until she was nearly insane from it and knew there was nothing she could have really changed. It wasn't specifically that she felt she wasn't in the right to do what she did, but something was nagging at her, and she couldn't help but wish things had gone differently.

She walked into the room, skirting around the machines that he was hooked up to, the mid-sized space feeling very small with all of the technology keeping him alive—some of it shipped in from other worlds—costing a ridiculous amount of credits which she paid for out of her own funds. She avoided looking at Torian, she didn't like to see what she had done to him…what he had taunted her into do, and she stupidly fell right into—whether her own stubbornness or foolishness or some new somewhat negative force that drove her—she did exactly what he wanted. Nearly killed him before she realized that it was what he wanted.

She took a deep breath crossing past the bed to the medic standing in front of a row of machinery, intending to do her best to sound professional. She could at least do that, schooling her voice to remove any emotion from it.

"Update on Cadera, Andare," she leaned around the tiny woman who was her Chief Medical Officer trying to see the clipboard she was holding, towering over her. Trying not to smile when she felt Andare jump and then stiffen in response.

Andare grimaced after a tiny squeak issued from her, having not heard Mand'alor enter from the sounds of the ongoing buzzing and clicking of the machines.

She turned around awkwardly, pinned between Mand'alor and the equipment she was next to, trying to not break out into a sweat at her proximity to the woman, who was clearly not planning to move. She focused directly in front of her which was perfectly aligned with the gold ropes draped across her leader's chest.

Sweet force and all the things in it! Breathe. Just be calm!

Andare wanted to run and hide when something that could possibly be labeled a nervous giggle came out of her when she realized that Mand'alor was not going to step back. Lifting her arms, taking the clipboard above her head, she shuffled sideways, awkwardly, bumping the machines and Mand'alor both, attempting to squeeze between her and the other unit blocking her way, clearing her throat nervously.

She wasn't particularly graceful and her face was flaming hot when she made it past Mand'alor who seemed to be fixated on the machine she was standing in front of. Andare moved around Torian's bed and focused on the chart in her hands, unable to actually see anything.

Okay, you're okay, Andare…just calm down…she didn't…doesn't know….you're fine. You are fine.

Mand'alor shifted and looked back over her shoulder at her, "Andare?"

"Yes, of course," she couldn't even remember what was asked of her.

An update! Of course! Get it together woman!

She giggled again.

Are you kidding me? STOP THAT!

"Erm, umm…that is to say, he is the same, no changes. That is neither good nor bad, to be honest…just stable, which is probably the best we can hope for at this point."

She was pleased at how steady her voice was and chanced a glance up at Mand'alor who had moved closer to the bed, and was looking at the numbers on the machine responsible for Torian's breathing. She relaxed a little letting out a breath she was holding out of fear that she'd made a complete fool out of herself. She was still pretty sure she had, but at least Mand'alor wasn't planning to bring it up. She hoped.

Mand'alor nodded approvingly, looking up at her, "Protocol?"

Andare made a point to look past her face at the wall behind her while she spoke, "three kolto shots a day right now, plus patches on the more severe bruising, intravessel liquids for hydration, compositional tinctures to help with the regeneration of bones, I've also got him on a fairly potent pain solution every two hours, and, of course, I have kept him completely sedated to keep him comfortable."

"Right…" Mand'alor looked over at Torian, her face washing with displeasure at the state of him, "…could that be related to him not waking up yet?"

Andare took the chance to study Mand'alor, noticing how tired she was and how her body was very rigid and tense. She wished she could give her some good news.

"No, the sedation is actually a fairly light one. He hasn't required more than a tenth of a vial each time. His body would at least respond to dreams if he were in the stages before waking, but he has not gone into any sleep cycles as far as the machines have sensed."

She shuffled her feet, reluctantly revealing more than she probably should, "the truth is the sedation is just to make me feel better."

She walked to the edge of the bed, looking down at her patient, her face full of emotion, frowning—her job was to heal and mend, not watch someone die, touching his hand gently, "I don't actually think he needs it."

Mand'alor's shoulders slumped, the smallest subtlest movement, but Andare did not miss it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it with all her heart.

I would heal all the wounds in the world, even yours, if I could. For you.

At that Mand'alor stood up straight, pulling up to her full height, squaring herself away, slapping on her leader persona, turning to leave the room, "don't be, you are doing good work here, thank you."

Andare was glad she was not facing the door as the blush that blossomed over her face was burning her alive under the praise.

"Thank you, just doing what I can," she tried to sound casual…did she sound casual?

Please let me sound casual.

"Oh, and Andare?" There was a tone in Mand'alor's voice that was unfamiliar.

She looked up then to see Manda'lore paused at the door, turned back to look at her, "y-yes?"

"You could have just asked me to move."

She wished the entire planet would just open up and swallow her completely, instead she just nodded, turning around to pretend she was doing something important to the machine behind her.

She could have sworn she heart Mand'alor laugh.

It must have been the machines.


Mand'alor shook her head as she smiled about the way that Andare had not asked her to move. She knew teasing her was inappropriate but it was worth it to see the blush on her porcelain face. She had been musing for a few weeks over this strange dance that had begun between them.

She knew she should stop harassing the poor girl and just be blunt with her, but this war, this chaos, just didn't seem like the right time for any kind of relationship, no matter how wonderful the idea might seem. Plus, she'd not been in a relationship in quite some time, and the Mando'ade she was with before—Dru…well, she had thought they would marry. It seemed like the real thing and she'd put all of herself into their bond. He had put all of himself into pretty much anything with complimentary parts.

Sometimes even without.

When she found out about his betrayal, he was already gone, knowing for sure that she would see him dead for it. The only consolation was that only a very small circle of the clan really knew about their relationship—they'd been very careful so there would not be any questions—and it had ended up being a huge relief since there wasn't any drama apart from what she dealt with internally.

It'd been several years and she had completely give up on romance or love or anything that presented a remote semblance of a connection with anyone other than professional. Not because she didn't believe in love or something crazy like that, even having experienced the harsh sting of lost love—no, rather among her people it was quite normal to be a very passionate kind—living every day in the shereshoy in order to seize all that life could possibly offer. That said, everything had changed in her life when she became Mand'alor. Where she once did what she wanted for her own satisfaction, now every decision did not just impact her own life but that of every one of the people in her House as well as the Clans as a whole. Given that much responsibility, no one in the universe held appeal enough to be worth the effort juggling her professional obligations along with the nuances of a personal relationship.

That was until they came to this planet. Until she met Adare.

Out in the field on a mission a few months before, she'd found herself taking a tumble off of a balcony, landing on a set of stairs and, then, in what could only be her own unique style, committed to making as grand of an effort as she could to hit every single step as she fell down them. It wasn't one of her best moments.

She'd ended up with a hairline fracture in her ankle and several other injuries—she and Fett had been holding back a squad of droids on the second level from gaining access to the adjacent hallway when one of the droids charged her, knocking her over the rail. Fett insisted on carrying her all the way back to the camp, despite threating to kill him for not letting her walk, and then went through the back entrance so others did not see her in the state she was in. He had summoned Andare to her in her private quarters, mostly to save her embarrassment—which she appreciated. The medic had responded almost immediately and came into the room in a flurry, brandishing her quick kit, setting up to assess her injuries and dispense any help that Mand'alor would allow her to.

Andare knew better than to assume that Mand'alor would accept her assistance—the Mando'ade as a whole were sketchy on medical care from other clan members, even those specially trained and groomed early on in their lives for the skill. Still Andare was going to do her best to take care of the leader.

She had knelt on the floor, her hands trembling when she was preparing to touch the swollen ankle and Mand'alor really wanted to tell her to not worry about it, as she seemed so discombobulated and unnerved in front of her. She was thoroughly confused about why this girl was so clearly intimidated by her, she wasn't sure she had ever even seen this girl before, though it was hard to tell as her pale curly hair was loose and hung down to cover her face. She watched as the girl set up her materials, wondered at her closing her eyes for a moment, and then appearing to brace herself as she reached out to test the ankle.

The moment Andare's fingers touched her skin it was like a new world opened to Mand'alor. Her hands moved so softly, so gently, with such care. Not the way any other medic had ever tended to her injuries in the typical "be a warrior" kind of attitude that sometimes hurt worse than the actual injury—everything was a test—a challenge to be accepted and overcome in their world, including medical treatment. It was one of the reasons most Mando'ade routinely refused medical attention. There wasn't a lot of trust there.

But Andare was….unique…and despite not understanding, Mand'alor was unable to dismiss the odd sensation that was swimming through her veins like fiery tendrils of emotion wrapped in sparks, whipping through her body, a foreign feeling she had never experienced before. She had looked to the table beside her wondering what exactly Fett had put in the tihaar he brought her.

Mand'alor was thankful for the girl being so intent on splinting and wrapping her ankle so she could watch without censure. When Andare finished, she turned packing up her kit, and she really wanted to ask her how a girl her age had come to be so gifted in the healing arts. She was slow and deliberate. She tended to her like she was a royal princess of some vast planet. The question seemed too bold, so she stayed silent. Then Andare stood up, and the light cast across her form and her face and Mand'alor was stunned. What she had thought a young girl, was actually a woman, within ten moons of her own life pattern she guessed—she was lovely, her features delicate and her skin was so light and smooth looking—tinged with a touch of pink and just so very soft looking from all appearances—a woman indeed, just living in a childlike body. Not actually very childlike she noted as she studied the woman. No, she definitely wouldn't say that.

She couldn't make up an excuse for why her breath was caught in her throat, and her heartrate accelerated when Andare reached over to clasp her wrist and placed a meter on her.

Andare's eyes had widened when the numbers popped up on her screen, her eyes flashing straight into Mand'alor's for a moment and then quickly moving back to the numbers. She tapped the band a few times, trying to hide a small smile, "the meter must be faulty."

She snapped it off of Mand'alor's wrist and turned away from her, picking up the data tablet off the floor as she turned. Mand'alor remained silent…confused.

Andare's assistant had walked into the room then, flurrying past her to deliver the kolto patches for Mand'alor's arm—which he went straight to applying.

Mand'alor's eyes were studying the stance of Andare—her fingers tapping frantically on the pad in her hand. It would look to all the world like she was very intent on her work. It would be believable if Mand'alor hadn't watched her turn the unit off when she was packing up her supplies—and a reboot would have taken at least three minutes, and only one minute thirty-eight seconds had passed. If there was one thing Mand'alor didn't lack, it was skills of observation, time and spatial awareness—it is what had kept her alive this long.

"Ankle all taken care of?" the assistant asked.

Mand'alor wasn't sure why she couldn't just let this go. Let this girl walk out, not ask, not wonder, just another person walking into her life and right back out. Normal. Daily. But something was there…she couldn't put her finger on it, but she wanted to, finger, hands, anything…to get her questions answered and solve the puzzle, and this—that moment was the first time she had felt optimistic since she was a child.

The assistant cleared his throat, "Mand'alor? Is your ankle all taken care of?"

Snapped out of her musings, she turned to look at the boy who had now garnered the attention of Andare as well.

"I…yes, I'm sorry," she was stumbling over her words, feeling absolutely ridiculous.

For goodness sakes get ahold of yourself woman!

Andare spoke up then, her voice different from before, out of the business mode and what must be her normal voice, soft and tinkling, fitting her perfectly, like the sound of wind chimes, "she will be mended in a few days, the ankle was already responding to the treatment when I wrapped it."

Andare had walked to her kit and then over to the side of the chair opposite her assistant, reaching out as if to touch Mand'alor's neck, "I just…need to put this on, it's for pain….ummm…" she gestured toward her, holding out the small square, "it's for the pain….it goes behind your ear…"

Smooth, Andare…real smooth.

Mand'alor straightened in the chair, keeping her arm accessible for the assistant to finish putting on the kolto, then used her free arm to gather her hair back and pull it to the side, leaning her head down and around to expose her neck and ear to Andare.

It seemed to her that the pain patch was being placed with something more of a caress than with intent, Andare's fingers lingering for a beat once the square was affixed. It was something between a shudder and a tremble that washed over Mand'alor's body as Andare's fingers drifted down the side of her neck and then landed on her shoulder.

Her assistant had finished up and was standing in front of the chair.

"I see…" he said lightly, Mand'alor's eyes cutting up to see his face which seemed to hold mirth, his eyebrows raised, looking at Andare.

She felt the absence of the warmth of Andare's hand the moment she lifted it, wanting nothing more than to ask her to come back, to bring the sun back even if just for a moment but she was too overwhelmed by her feelings to even speak.

She nodded her head and the two medics walked out. That was the first day she had thought of what love might look like to her again.

She'd mostly toyed with the idea of it being something other than just friends since that day—but wasn't even sure it would be responsible to entertain the idea, let alone pursue it. She had already had to admit that Andare was the only bright spot here. She'd found out after their meeting that Andare had been with their clan since she was a child but had been working closely with the Empire as per the prior Mand'alor's orders. Once he passed, she had returned to their house. She had been a name, but not a face to Mand'alor since then-as a footnote, not someone she had ever even really noticed…something she struggled with now. To be fair, it wasn't all her fault—Andare was very quiet and unassuming, lost in the rowdy chaos that is House Vizla. Clearly, inexperienced and too timid socially—to be surrounded by such bold, boisterous people. She was lost in the mix all the time, and now, Mand'alor felt like she was much the same. Lost in the mix—not sure what to do, or how to get from point a to point b.

Not to mention it wasn't too often Mand'alor had to see the medic for anything at all—but the last month had seen her coming to the med bay more often than she cared to admit visiting her injured warriors. She supposed that was better than visiting the burial mounds more often. The last few months had taken quite a toll on their clans. She had noticed that Andare would walk her through the bays personally each time she came to visit to check on an injury of one of the clan elders. It wasn't too long before she was hoping someone was injured. She was pretty ashamed of herself for the thought, and quit going after that.

That said she ended up working very closely with Andare over the last few weeks taking care of Torian. In general, she considered herself pretty intuitive, so she didn't think she was wrong about the idea that Nadare had some kind of attachment to her. She'd been trying to figure out exactly what kind of attachment it was but every day the answer was becoming more and more clear.

She shook her head as she turned the corner to the primary planning tent, pushing all of the thoughts of Andare aside to focus on what she needed to do now, plan their next advance on the droid factory. Reinforcements had arrived a few days before and they were going to need a new, more sound strategy if they were going to keep their clan alive.

She'd been at the planning table for several hours, the discussions deteriorating into the typical shouting match with threats, and all too often challenges that had to be taken outside which always seemed to happen when there were a few too many Mando'ade with just enough authority to feel powerful in one room together for more than a few minutes.

She was preparing to put a stop to all of the blustering nonsense when there was a commotion coming in through the doorway to the tent.

One of her younger guards was rushing backwards talking to someone in front of him, telling them they were not allowed to enter the tent without permission.

Mand'alor walked around the table and went to the other side of the room, placing her large desk between her and the doorway.

A Sith was walking through the tunnel into the room, sweeping across the ground like her feet were not even moving, and the air around her appearing to shift with each step she took. Mand'alor blinked trying to clear her eyes.

What's this new force trick?

The poor boy who was trying to stop the Sith and her companion had turned to Mand'alor with desperation in his eyes, clearly afraid the Sith was going to take his head off for trying to correct her. She signaled for him to leave.

The Sith had walked up to the other side of the table, looking for all intents and purposes as if she were bored out of her mind, glancing around the tent and then aligning her eyes with Mand'alor's.

"Are you in charge here?" Her voice, clipped, regal, something at first resembling the typical Imperial accent, but not exactly, something unique in her cadence, pronunciation, a different kind of tone—not Imperial, not anything she had ever really heard before, which was quite fitting since her appearance was anything other than typical as well.

Rattataki Sith. Now I've seen everything.

Her skin was an odd shade of gray and purple, her eyes nearly white but not quite with a shimmer of blue in them, she was completely bald, but covered in intricate tattoos in a dark purple ink and what seemed at first glance to be mixed with some kind of white or silver iridescent ink as well, the tattoos themselves somehow raised with a texture she couldn't describe. A silver braided decoration crowned her head with pink pearly shapes intricately inset into it. She was dressed in what appeared to be very sturdy armor that was gray and pink, her form tall and slender.

Mand'alor wanted to laugh at her for wearing pink the battlefield but the truth was whereas most could never pull that kind of thing off, this woman could. It fit her, it made her look ethereal and seemed like it was made to accent her alien features. She thought she was actually very unique and wondered if Andare had ever seen someone of this species before.

Unique? Haar'chak! Woman get your head together, that's a Sith standing there.

The man behind the Sith said something Mand'alor couldn't make out and the Sith turned her head to answer him, a knowing look passing between the two, then turned back around to Mand'alor and leaned her hands on the table, rolling her eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Do you speak basic?" Her tone was more like a dripping, oozing bottle of sarcasm—slow and drawn out like she was talking to a child who had been dropped on their head.

"Yes." Mand'alor was more than a little put out by a Sith who thought she could come into her camp, into her house and act like she was owed some kind of respect for just living.

Haran nu draar.

"Listen," Mand'alor began to talk but was quickly cut off.

"That's all I wanted to know, I don't want a conversation," at that the Sith closed her eyes, her face melting into a serene expression, her hands coming up to her waist, clasping lightly, stilled completely, and Mand'alor looked back at the group of men across the room as if to say "what the haran even?"

They all shrugged.

If you aren't here for me or my people what are you doing here?

She wanted to ask it, but felt like she was too angry to say it in a way that wouldn't result in what would probably be her untimely death right here in the kriffing planning tent. She started counting to calm herself down.

1, 2, 3, 4…

"I'm not here for you," the Sith seemed to answer the question she was thinking.

What the….

The man behind the Sith walked forward, his voice gravelly and gruff, deep and somehow strangely alluring, taking in his appearance it certainly suited him…he was a bulky, but fit man, quite muscular, rough hands, probably her age—his face was covered with some kind of dark tattoos that looked like slashes across his face, making his bright blue eyes stand out like jewels. Factoring in the body language between the two visitors, they were clearly in a relationship.

"Listen," he leaned forward onto the table, looking for all the world that he was completely relaxed, "this can be easy—easy for you—easy for my Sith here—which means easy for me. I like easy."

He looked around the room, clearly taking inventory of how many people there were and undoubtedly calculating how fast they could kill them all.

Well, you just try!

"Or…" he looked back at her, his eyes fixed, "we can sure do this the hard way, which admittedly, I guess I like that way too. Let's be honest, that would mean a pretty big cleanup for your crew outside, and since it's clear you have plenty of other business to attend to out there, I think we should just all simmer down and let my Sith do what she came here to do."

Mand'alor's eye brows shot up, doing her best to stealthily twist her hip forward to put her blaster closer to grab in case she had to…she noted that the movement did not go unnoticed by the man who tilted his head slightly, his expression changing to one of wonder. It looked to her like he was actually asking her if she really wanted to do that. A warning, maybe a challenge too, and…really, amusement?

"Which is?"

The Sith's bright eyes popped open looking past Mand'alor to the doorway behind her, "I found him, he's back there." The man turned to her, she gestured to the hallway behind Mand'alor, and then he looked back at the doorway asking if she was sure.

Him? Who? The only person back there is….Torian? Why would she be here for him? I don't need the complications that will no doubt happen if these people find out that Torian is practically dead and not actually out on a mission. Haar'chak!

Mand'alor slammed her hands down on the table. She could hear her crew shuffling, no doubt itching for a fight, but the two in front of her didn't even move, just continued to talk like she wasn't even there.

"Look," Mand'alor's voice was dripping with acid, needing to show her people that she wasn't going to be pushed around by a Sith even if it meant that they would find out her secret, "you aren't getting down that hallway until you explain to me what exactly you are doing here."

They are going to mess everything up if they say his name! How in the world do they even know Torian is here?

Her hand had come to rest on the blaster on her hip, and she had managed to flip the switch on her wrist torch at the same time she drew her hand down.

"My goodness," the Sith held her hands up while she shrugged then dropped them to her side, "no wonder you people don't have any friends—you clearly don't appreciate help when it shows up and stands right in front of you. I am here for…oh…ohhhh, you…could we talk privately?"

Mand'alor stood still trying to read the Sith, who was holding eye contact, trying to figure out what the angle was but not really getting it.

"You have two minutes, after that, if I am not back out here these troops will bring our entire house down on you."

The Sith didn't even acknowledge the threat had been made, just walked across the room into the hallway, her companion following closely behind.

Mand'alor turned to her people and told them to follow up in two minutes if she wasn't back. They nodded and sent others out to rally the camp.

She walked to the middle of the hall where the Sith was standing.

"Go on then?"

"I'm here for the boy," she gestured down the hallway to the side of the compound Torian was being treated, "I came to help your medics heal him."

"…but you're Sith?"

The woman's eyes widened, and then narrowed into a glare, her jaw twitching, the man crossed his arms, shifting his weight as if he were getting comfortable to watch a very entertaining spectacle.

"Mandalorians, as a collective, have generally relied far too much on their own preconceived notions," she gestured around her, "we live in a vast universe filled with people of all kinds, of all species, of all means of being—and you think you understand something about me? About what I am capable of or what I willingly do because all you see when you look at me is 'Sith'? Did I get that right?"

Mand'alor struggled to find something to say, feeling like a small child being scolded, and resenting the way she felt about it.

The Sith shifted, clearly growing impatient, "that's quite a show of xenophobia you are nursing there, it would serve you better to disregard any ideas you may or may not have about who I am and what I am capable of—and even more importantly than that-it would be good for your lifespan to understand that I will not leave here until I have healed that boy."

Mand'alor was positively dumbfounded, "how do you know him?"

At this the Sith's eyes narrowed even further, and she stepped closer to Mand'alor, "does it matter?"

Mand'alor struggled to figure out how to reign in this clusterbomb of a confrontation.

"I know you are lying to your people, so honestly, right now I have more credibility than you do-they think he is away on a mission—I'm not clear on what has happened here or why. What I am crystal clear on is that you don't want those people out there to know the boy is here in this compound, nor that he is dying," she gestured to the room they had just left, "out of respect for you, I did not reveal the deception. I would hope that you would show me the same level of respect. We are wasting time; every second we waste he is growing weaker."

Mand'alor was weighing her options in her head as quickly as she could, pushing aside her questions about how this Sith knew so much and wondering if she had a traitor under her roof. She reluctantly admitted she understood the Sith had a choice to reveal what she was hiding but didn't—it was anyone's guess as to how that may or may not play into the Sith's plans, but for now it didn't really matter, "how do I know you aren't here to kill him?"

A tinkling laugh came out of the Sith, a noise that seemed in direct conflict to the aura of strength and well harnessed power that rolled off of her in the confined space of the hallway, the man behind her grunted as if he was amused as well, which caused the Sith to turn and smile at him.

It had seemed like a fair question to her.

"Why, I wonder, do you think that I would be here to kill him?" One of her eyebrows raised up in amusement, but it still made her expression look threatening.

Mand'alor really didn't have any reason but that nagging over protective feeling she'd had since she had her scope trained on him to kill him was swelling up inside of her again.

For the love of Manda this is a Sith wanting to HEAL him? Why would she do that? I can't let her kill him, not after all of this we have done to keep him alive.

"I'm not going to kill him," the Sith shrugged her shoulders, stepping back outside of the bubble around Mand'alor, the air instantly easier to breath, "I didn't travel all the way here to this abhorrent planet of such insufferable desolation that it makes Tatooine look like Drummond Kaas' ugly twin sister, to do something as asinine as killing a boy who has not yet made his mark on the world. The number of people who would know he was gone is so small it is fairly laughable—that said—the ones who would know are the reason I am here."

She started to walk down the hallway, slowly as if she were giving Mand'alor the chance to stop her.

"I am going to heal him," she turned and looked back at Mand'alor, "I will. You are welcome to watch, you are welcome to take this," she pulled her lightsaber out of the belt on her hip, thrusting it forward—Mand'alor instinctively drew her weapon, and in the same moment, the man behind the Sith had his weapon drawn and targeted, it was so fast Mand'alor's eyes went wide with surprise—the red light steady on her forehead.

The Sith sighed a long suffering kind of sigh, "Andronikos." She said the name like a caress, intimate.

The man didn't move, didn't even appear to be breathing. After a few moments a noise came out of him that seemed to be a question.

"Please."

The man loosened his stance, putting his gun back in its holster in a swift fluid movement. In another time Mand'alor would be interested in studying this man's technique—perhaps get some tips from him—but this was certainly not shaping up to be a visit of that kind.

The Sith cleared her throat, drawing Mand'alor's attention back to her hand, gesturing the hilt of the saber out to her again, tilting her head in invitation for her to take her weapon.

"You don't have to possess that to be lethal," Mand'alor stared the Sith down, her eyes narrowed in distrust, "I know your kind, and I don't need to be force sensitive to see your aura actually disturbing the air around you. It would take a fool to not realize you are the weapon."

At this the Sith smiled, a real smile for all appearances, her face was lit up and she seemed genuinely happy, her features softening, taking her saber and putting it back in the clip on the belt, "then we know where we stand with each other, don't we?"

Mand'alor studied the woman for a moment, not sure how to take any of this. Sith were not gifted in the healing arts, they were not altruistic, they were murderous, hate-hungry, ambitious power hungry, back-stabbing dominators. Not that she considered that a completely bad thing—there was a reason her clans had aligned with the Empire and more specifically the Sith—and hard to admit or not, a lot of those words could be used to describe her own house some of the time. That said, there was not a single redeemable value from the whole lot of Sith, yet this one wanted her to believe she was here to apparently heal Torian with no ulterior motive.

Not likely. Such a Sith has never existed. Every one of them is only out for what power they can take for their own ascension to authority.

The Sith studied Mand'alor, with an expression that looked like understanding, her stance relaxing as if she were trying to change the atmosphere around them, and then she spoke, her voice very gentle, almost apologetic, "you've never seen anything like me before."

The Sith turned and started walking down the hall, if it could be called walking, gliding then, the man following her, his body still alert and guarded despite the relaxed state of the woman he followed. Mand'alor stood there with her blaster still drawn staring after them.

"If you need me, I'll be in here—" the Sith looked back at Mand'alor, "doing what I came to do."

Mand'alor waited until they had entered the room Torian was in to inform the soldiers to stand down, completely confused about what had just happened, but for some reason feeling at ease with the entire situation—which didn't exactly make sense in respect to how everything just went down. Once she had ushered the rest of the Mando'ade out of the tent and pulled the front flap closed, she rushed to Torian's room—sincerely hoping that Andare wasn't too shaken up about a Sith walking in—and of course, hoping that the promises that the Sith had made about healing Torian were going to be reality.

A girl can dream.


Notes:

I am so very humbled by all of the kindness and love and thoughts you have all shown me for this story! This is a work of passion and I was really hoping that my story for these precious souls would resonate with others as much as it was for me!

Your kudos, reviews, and even the counter clicking as you read makes me absolutely beyond thrilled. THANK YOU.

tihaar [TEE-har] alcoholic drink - strong clear spirit made from fruit, like eau de vie

shereshoy [sheh-REYSH-oy] lust for life and much more - uniquely Mandalorian word, meaning the enjoyment of each day and the determination to seek and grab every possible experience, as well as surviving to see the next day - hanging onto life and relishing it. An understandable state of mind/ emotion for a warrior people. Closely related to the words for live-oyacyir [oy-YAH-sheer], hunt-oya'karir [OY-yah-KAR-eer], and stay safe-K'oyacyi! [Koy-AH-shee!] - and, of course *oya*. All from the same root.

Haar'chak! [HAR-chak] Damn it!

haran [HAH-rahn] hell - literally, destruction, cosmic annihilation

Nu draar [Noo DRAR] No way. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. Not on your life. (Emphatic disagreement and doubt. Lit: Not never. Mandos use double negatives for emphasis.)

IE used as "Hell no!" in the story-literally "Hell not never!"