A sense of apprehensive peace settled over the encampment on the surface of Mandalore, but Axe was too far removed to appreciate it, sitting on the top of a sharp cliff overlooking camp. Not that he minded. He had spent months constantly surrounded by others- first his squad of Nite Owls and then the noisy but standoffish clan from Nevarro- so he relished the opportunity for some time alone whenever it presented itself.

Well, almost alone.

His gaze shifted to the hulking man sitting silently on the rock next to him, his visored gaze sweeping over the terrain in a gesture of constant vigilance. Axe's ribs and head still ached from the clobbering he had received from Paz Vizsla over a board game on the survivors' barge, but at least now he had some battle injuries to add to the pain and make him feel like less of a wuss. Looking back it had been stupid to get into such a fracas over a silly game, but he found it was easy - too easy- to let the generational animosity between their two groups take over his rational thinking and give in to any excuse for a fight.

Munit tome'tayl, skotah iisa. He stifled a chuckle at that. Yep, that was him.

And apparently, also the giant sitting beside him.

Funny how the crucible of battle made differences like that seem so insignificant. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or something like that. He had felt like a coward jetting away from the group after they were ambushed by Gideon's troopers, but it was either that or they all got cut down. He had made it far enough into the atmosphere to get off a message with the situation and his location to the group above, and within moments a ship dropped low enough to dispatch a second team. They made it back to the fissure leading down to the forge just as Vizsla emerged on a crippled Rising Phoenix, barely fitting through the gap, and informed them of what happened. Only the basics- Gideon was down there, he captured Din Djarin, and Vizsla had been separated from the group. It wasn't until after, when the Imp had been put down once and for all and his fortress blown to oblivion that the rest of the group filled in the gaps that it had been the gunner who held off the troopers long enough for the rest to escape.

He pulled a small flask from his pocket. The vessel held spiced wine, a rare treat he hadn't enjoyed for many years. It had been easy enough to swipe it from the leftover supplies from their stay on Plazir-15 before he made his retreat to the cliff, but he hadn't expected the gunner to appear behind him mere moments later. He asked no permission nor waited for an invitation; he only sat next to Axe with a quiet grunt.

He took a sip of the drink, allowing the flavors to mingle across his tongue. It was good, but nothing compared to the luxurious taste of their own Concordian-grown fruit. What he wouldn't give for a good glass of tihaar. His grandfather had been a master distiller, and had taught all the Woves men: Axe's father, uncles, cousins, and even Axe himself. Perhaps once they had control of their homeworld again he could get back to it- if he still remembered how.

He held out the flask to Vizsla. The other man made no move to take it, only turned a look that somehow read incredulous even under the helmet towards him. "Right." The helmet. His hand remained outstretched but he turned his face away. "I swear, I won't look." Several seconds passed and he wondered if the burly man would even take it. But finally the bottle lifted from his hand and he heard the slight hiss of a helmet being lifted. There were a few quiet swallows then the soft click of the cover being lowered back in place.

"Not bad." He passed the flask back. "But I would prefer a good shot of-"

" Tihaar, " they said in unison. A chuckle slipped from both of them and Axe capped and pocketed the flask after one more swig. His gaze wandered to Vizsla's left hand, which turned a small silver object between his fingers.

"What's that?"

He held up the piece - a silver coin, about three inches in diameter with a blue jai'galaar painted in the center. "A token from my son."

The revelation shocked Axe. Of all people, he never would have expected the heavy gunner built like a mountain to be the fatherly type. "You have a kid?"

"Ragnar." His voice turned fond. "We rescued him from slavers a year ago. I adopted him as my own, and I gave this to him the day it was official. He gave it back to me before we left- 'for protection', he said." He flipped the piece into the air, the hazy light of the setting sun catching on the polished surface, caught it in his palm then slipped it into his pocket. "Maker knows we needed all the help we could get down there."

"Indeed." Beskar-clad commando troopers were the last thing any of them expected to encounter below the surface, and for the first time since the Purge, Axe had felt fear- true, rampant, limb-numbing fear- race through him at the realization that they might not make it out alive, that their crusade to take back their homeworld could be wiped out on day one. He might have his problems with the strict codes of the Children of the Watch, but even he had to admit they were impressive fighters and the Nite Owls wouldn't have stood a chance on their own.

That small concession, even unspoken, was bitter on his tongue, but he knew deep inside that the animosity between the clans and tribes of their people was the biggest threat to their survival.

Ba'jur, beskar'gam, ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a, Mand'alor . The strong voice of his departed buir whispered through his mind, training him in his recitation of their Resol'nare as a boy on Kalevala. They were Mandalorians; nothing else mattered but those six things- and it was well past time they remembered it.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. Axe could feel Vizsla's steely look of disbelief lock onto him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet the other man's gaze, visored though it was. "I assumed the worst about you, about your covert, and for that, I ask your forgiveness."

The gunner said nothing for a long time, but Axe felt his eyes on him, so serious he wouldn't have been surprised if he burned a hole through Axe's flight suit with the intensity of his gaze alone.

"How do those words taste coming out of your mouth?"

"Like krayt bile." Vizsla chuckled heartily at that, and Axe smiled but his humor quickly evaporated.

"You all put your lives on the line for us today, even though we've treated you with nothing but disdain since we joined you." He cleared his throat from the sudden lump of emotion that lodged there and forced himself to look at Paz. "We need each other- all of us- more than we realize. Without the unity of our people we are nothing. I am willing to put aside our differences for the sake of the future." He reached out his hand again, this time palm empty and open in a gesture of friendship. "Truce?"

Paz stared at his hand, his helmet disguising the thoughts surely racing through his head, then in a flash his beefy gloved hand snapped up and clamped around Axe's forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "Truce." There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice, and Axe allowed a shadow of a grin to slip through as his hand tightened around Paz's forearm.

The gunner's hand dropped away a moment later, and with one last nod to the Nite Owl pushed to his feet and lumbered away, leaving him truly on his own. Axe's gaze returned to the scene below him, pulling out the flask once more and indulging in a few more sips. There was no guarantee that the two men's ceasefire would make a difference to the rest of their respective groups, but it was a start. And if Axe was honest with himself, he was tired of carrying around so much hatred and anger: hatred for the Empire, anger towards his brethren, and maybe even a little bit of bitterness toward their previous leaders who had allowed and even perpetrated the divisions among them. Mandalorians truly were stronger when they were united. Maybe the events of the day had been the much-needed catalyst to make the fact clear to all of them.

Only time would tell.