AN: I am very slowly making way through the comments, last few weeks have exhausting. Just know that each and every bit of feedback on this story helps me get through the day.
Thank you, Muffin!
Chapter 7 - Superstition
They didn't end up having much time to talk about the High Council's strange response to remarks about the Sith because they weren't travelling as Jedi.
No, Master Tahl had them going undercover, and Obi-Wan wondered if it was merely to force him to drop her title.
He wouldn't put it past her.
"What do you sense?" she asked as they wandered the streets of Corellia.
"Trouble," he grumbled.
Because two vagabonds, one a young boy with bright hair and his guardian, a blind woman tapping the sidewalk with a cane, was an open invitation to 'Please come mug us.'
"We go where the Force wills us," she said sagely.
"How can you even hear it?" he asked. "It is so clouded."
She smiled down at him, "The Cosmic Force is clouded, not the Living Force."
"The Force leads us not where we wish to be but to where we ought to be."
"Are we not going to Jedha?"
"That is the intention," she mused.
"But we will not arrive there?"
"What does the Force tell you?"
"I—" He took a breath and let his mind go to the eddies of the Force. "It seems… apologetic."
She smiled, "I think it would be wise if we stocked up on some bacta and water filters, don't you?"
He felt a pulse in the Force.
"Yes," he agreed, a little awed about what a direct answer the Force had just given him.
She squeezed his elbow, "The Force is with us."
He had the pressing sense that this didn't mean they couldn't or wouldn't come to harm.
However, Obi-Wan had never met a Jedi who could listen nor interpret so clearly to what path the Force asked of them.
His buir was much more practised in the Cosmic Force than the Living Force.
Tahl's pure connection was humbling as she moved through the galaxy with confidence.
Not confidence that she was safe, but confidence that the Force would lead her where she was needed most.
Where they were both needed.
oOo
Jaster was pretty certain he was going to strangle Mij and Myles who kept giving him those sideways looks.
Finally, he growled at them in Mando'a, "What is it?"
Mij sighed, putting down his datapad that he had been using to organise supplies. "We didn't think you were superstitious, Alor."
Jaster huffed, running a hand through his peppered hair. He felt so fidgety without his armour and it did nothing to improve his mood.
Jango was hiding something about his dreams. It had been weeks, and instead of explaining, Jango had opted to do everything in his power to avoid him.
Namely, spending all his time with the Kryze girls. Both princesses adored his son, for very different reasons.
The eldest, Satine, was clearly smitten, while the younger, Bo-Katan was enamoured by Jango treating her with such respect and maturity.
The latter was to be expected, not because Bo-Katan had the most obviously Stewjoni heritage—as the Duke believed—but because she seemed to be the only person in her clan interested in self-defence and Mandalore's real history.
"Force sensitivity is a curse," Jaster said coolly to his medic.
Mij frowned at him, "Would it have prevented you from adopting him?"
"Of course not," Jaster snarled. "Jango is mine."
"Then maybe stop glowering at him as if he's about to sprout a second head that you intend to lob off," Myles suggested almost cheerfully.
Jaster huffed, "I would never raise a hand against him."
"Why are you so angry?" Mij asked.
"Oh, I don't know," Jaster mused. "Maybe because my ad is now a walking target."
Mij sighed, "No one knows but us, Alor. Jango didn't even know. The Jetiiese aren't going to bother us."
"The Sith might," Jaster muttered.
"The Sith are extinct," Mij said.
"So long as there are Jedi, there are Sith," Jaster stated.
"And where did you learn that?" Myles asked, exasperated.
"This isn't a joke," Jaster snapped.
Mij crossed his arms, "We are trying to understand you, Alor. It's not like you to be so aggravated. Given what Jan'ika is learning about the Stewjoni and their prejudices against ade born with the Ka'ra, you cannot blame us for being leery of your recent behaviour. If nothing else, how Jango is interrupting your behaviour toward him."
Jaster sighed, the Stewjoni were damn near perfect for what an armourless Mando should aim to be.
Except when it came to the Ka'ra touched, whom they often left those infants to die in the wilderness or drown them outright.
"I would never harm my ad," Jaster reemphasized.
"We know that," Mij said. "But why are you so convinced Jango will be endangered by this? It was one dream, nothing before and nothing after. He's not a Jetii."
Jaster shook his head. He doubted very much it was just one dream, and if it was, he doubted it would be the last.
He did his best to try to explain, but more often than not wisdom from one clan did not carry on into a new one.
Jaster wanted something more for his people, for them to remember both their successes and their losses.
And understand why each had been so.
For what felt like the dozenth time this month, this week, he tried to explain, "You don't understand. My clan has a long memory, as do the Journeymen. We never forgot our history. How the Jetiiese nearly hunted our people into extinction and how the Sith used us as pawns against them."
Mij frowned at him, Mij, who was born and raised on Manda'yaim not on one of her moons.
The natives of Mandalore had a different view of the Sith, the Sith who supposedly saved them from the Jedi.
Jaster had been raised with the stories that if a trained Force sensitive didn't kill, it is because they intended to enslave.
Unlike Death Watch who hunted the Jetiiese, courting their own destruction, Jaster had been taught to leave them the kark alone.
And if the Ka'ra chose to bestow its 'gifts' to one of your ade, then you hid them. Because if the Jetiiese found them they would either take them or end them.
Peacekeepers his shebs, they were merely imperialists with the veneer of serenity. The Jedi did not share their knowledge, their power, or their gifts with any but themselves. What they were to the Republic was merely a threat to keep the systems obedient to their so-called 'Democracy'.
Jango was already a powerful warrior, he would be a match for any Jetii, Ka'ra or no Ka'ra.
But now that Jaster knew he had it, it would only be a matter of when—not if—he encountered a Jetii or Sith.
Jaster knew this in his bones.
"Mand'alor," Myles said, calling him from his thoughts. "There is nothing wrong with Jan'ika, he is strong and capable."
Jaster shook his head, "That isn't good enough."
Mij exchanged a look with Myles, before scoffing, "You cannot be serious. That boy would do anything for you. How dare you even think to mistreat him?"
"Mistreat him?" Jaster echoed. "No, I will ensure he is the best, when I am gone he will still be able to protect himself."
"I am our clan's baar'ur and I will tell you when you go too far," Mij said. "And if you do not listen, I will drag you to the forge, before our goran for misconduct. Jango has only recently settled in among us, you will not uproot him. He is unchanged."
"As of yet," Jaster said. "He is unmarked, but when that changes, Jango must be prepared to free himself."
"Unmarked?" Mij asked, dubious.
"The Ka'ra is unique to Mandalore, like kyber, beskar has its own relationship with the stars. Likewise, the Ka'ra treats us differently. Before the Sith, before the Jedi, the marks were sacred. Two people marked as kindred spirits through the Ka'ra, reborn to change the fate of the Mandalorian system. But when the Jedi came, many found the marks shared with outsiders. Largely, the Jedi ignored them, killing their ka'raavod without hesitation. But the Sith, the Sith took them. Took Mandalorian warriors, young and old, and tortured them into insanity, forcing them to serve them. It was a bondage not just of the body or mind, but of the spirit. I will start a war with the Republic before I let Jango endure that."
His vode stared at him, "You really believe that could happen?"
Jaster growled knowing that his clan thought his passion for history and cultural practices was over the top, but some things were meant to be remembered.
"Those who forget their history, are doomed to repeat it."
oOo
Jango had thought, rather unwisely, that not wearing his armour would mean his buir would go softer on him. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Nothing could have prepared him for the ferocity his buir unleashed on him as they wrestled in the large but not-large-enough suite.
The stone floors were not forgiving, and though his buir was careful to never break bone or skin, Jango found himself bruised and battered each morning before the sun rose and at random intervals in the night after supper.
On one hand, this made sitting through political talks a bit easier.
Jango was fifteen with endurance and energy that could rival almost any of his contemporaries, but with how hard his buir was pushing his training, just sitting was damn near pleasant.
Jango wasn't sleeping well, not with his buir's routine and randomized nightly ambushes. He was more on edge here, in the halls of the pacifists than he had been on any campaign, hunt, or battle he had ever been a part of.
So it was on the other hand, that Jango was starting to worry. Starting to worry that he was no longer enough for his buir who rarely seemed to smile anymore, much less at Jango.
He thought the galaxy of his Mand'alor, his buir, but he had thought the Stewjoni were saints as well only to learn they killed their ik'aade who were Ka'ra touched.
Silas trotted up beside him, bumping his shoulder with hers.
Jango winced.
Silas's smile fell, "Are you really that bruised?"
He ignored her, keeping his stride long, forcing Silas to trot to keep up with him.
"Jaster is going too far."
"I'm improving," Jango retorted, defensive.
"He's abusing you."
"He isn't."
"Jango—"
He halted and spun on her, his friend who had been orphaned the same bloody way he had been. "He is teaching me to defend myself. The bruising is just conditioning. I'm fine and I won't hear a word against my buir in my presence again."
Silas glowered at him, "You were already the best."
"That doesn't mean I can't improve."
"Are you even sleeping?"
"Yes," he answered, voice clipped as he turned away from her.
"Are you sleeping well enough to dream?" she asked as he slowed to match her stride.
He didn't answer.
"Jango—"
"Alor'ad Fett," Satine greeted as they rounded a corner. "I was just looking for you."
Jango was often not relieved to see the blond, but if it meant escaping this Manda-forsaken conversation that was stoking his own doubts, he would take it.
He offered her his arm, the less bruised one, "Lady Satine."
Satine didn't greet Silas, and Jango thought less of her for it.
He was Silas's friend, if he wanted to be a di'kut to her when she was trying to stand up for him, well, their friendship would survive it.
But Satine was being petty, or classist. For a woman as intelligent as she was, it was the type of blunder that spoke to her gap in experience.
It was a rather large gap, more of a chasm really, where all her idealism would be sucked in to parish when exposed to reality.
"You seem upset," Satine noted as they walked.
Jango had no idea where he was taking them, but he figured she would take charge soon.
Satine wasn't much of a follower, which was one thing he actually liked about her.
"I'm just missing my armour," he said. Which wasn't untrue.
But the truer statement would have been he missed life before ever setting foot in this palace.
He missed his buir before he looked at him as if he were about to be taken any moment by the Watch.
Jaster Mereel was afraid when Jango had once believed him afraid of nothing.
"Give it time," she encouraged, taking his hand, and leading him down a hall he hadn't even known existed. "You may find you prefer it here."
He swallowed a retort, knowing too well any argument with Satine Kyrze was a waste of breath.
She was all Mando'ad when it came to stubbornness. The thing about her that convinced him that yes, the New Mandalorians were bonkers.
But they were still of the same populace.
She came to a stop before two double doors, "This is my room."
It was an innocent statement. Yet her tone was anything but.
Jango couldn't very well stop his gaze from flowing the hand she pulled from his arm, as she smoothed her dress over her supple curves and elegant figure.
She leaned in against him.
"It's late," he murmured. "I should get to bed."
"Or you could stay."
He ached too much for even his hormones to be interested. Nor with the itching sensation that his buir might track him down and jump scare him.
Somehow, Jango didn't think his buir would be impressed or deterred by the princess's presence.
He caught her hand and laid a gentle kiss on the back of it, "I have drills to do."
She pouted at him, "You are safe here, Jango."
He shook his head, stepping away from her.
Satine was beautiful, but delusional.
As delusional as Jango had been as a child when he thought he would continue to grow the farm as his buire dreamed.
Nowhere was safe.
As dark as his mood was turning, he nearly broke Jaster's jaw when he was prodded out of his fitful sleep later that night.
For once, Jango didn't apologise.
And for once, Jaster spared him a half smile, grimacing as his battered jaw stretched to accommodate it.
And no, the relief from just that simple praise did not crash on to him like being bneath during a demolition.
Jaster promised to let him sleep in the next day. Perhaps he shouldn't have, but Jango took his buir at his word as exhaustion pulled him under into the blackness of a dreamless sleep.
oOo
Mij laughed his shebs off when Jaster arrived, asking for a bacta pack.
Jango had well and truly rung Jaster's bell, his swelling jaw and split lip proof of that.
"Not a word," Jaster warned.
Mij's continued laughter said all he needed to, no words necessary.
oOo
AN: Thoughts, trash-pandas, or feedback, pretty please?