pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 7.2K

chapter summary: Marathel sings, bakes, and severs relationships.

warnings: angst, mention of incest, sexual abuse, inbreeding, and suicide, violence to women, English and Mando'a cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***

Marathel did not know how or what to feel. Her tears were of pain, of joy, of heartbreak … and of confusion most of all. She felt glad that she had finally spoken out loud her life on Unmanarall; now that she understood the wretched newly found truth of the culture there, she had felt compelled to unburden herself. Unfortunately, the only way Marathel knew of to unburden herself was to burden the man who professed love for her, which brought her sadness and regret.

Marathel didn't understand love, not in the sense of whatever it was that the Bounty Hunter felt for her. She had been told growing up that certain words meant love — sort of. Olba later told her, back when Marathel was still in the Hold and failing to fully change, that many Oldtalk words had changed meanings, that the true meanings were only spoken amongst the Diwhyns. For example, rwy'n di'rugar, the Oldtalk phrase for I love you, actually meant my heart breaks to keep you safe. This phrase was specifically meant for children … and even more specifically meant for the little girls, for the boys didn't need rwy'n di'rugar any more than they needed the protection of the Mothers that Went Before that twinkled in the night sky.

Ng'riad, which she had said to the Bounty Hunter when she uttered fi ng'riad, d'lwch fi, chi yd'w fi was a different word altogether. The Diwhyns told the changing girls that fi ng'riad meant love me, but it really didn't, according to , it meant ruin me. Not love me, hold me, I am yours, but I am yours to take and ruin. The point of saying it was to hand herself over to a man for his use. Love was not part of being a Whyn.

Again, I have lied to the Bounty Hunter. No matter how much I tell him, it is not enough. It will never be enough. Just like how I failed to become a Whyn, I will always fail the Bounty Hunter.

Marathel knew how to love Grogu, but not Din, and she tried to tell him so. She thought she loved him, but she felt certain that she had no concept of what loving a man actually meant. Din's love for her confused her. Frightened her. Excited her. Was it some kind of ownership, like being a Whyn? It seemed that way to her, somehow. Not in any way could she have explained, for Marathel didn't know the right words.

She was sitting on Cobb's lap, crying on his shoulder. Cobb had pulled her off the windowsill and onto his lap, into his strong arms, and then he … said he was sorry, which she did not understand. Din had walked out, which she had expected, which she had wanted him to do. She had wanted to drive him away. She wanted to drive all of them away from the monster that was Marathel. It was the only way she could protect them from her.

What kind of man is this Cobb, she wondered, that he is not disgusted by me?

But she was exhausted, emotionally spent, having vomited out all those words to explain her reason for existing. And Cobb's arms were strong. And warm. And gave her enough safety to allow her to fall apart for a moment. She had wept for some time before he had kissed her softly on the cheek, like he had the day they went to the market. Men didn't kiss on the cheek, they didn't kiss on the lips, they didn't kiss at all in her experience.

Cobb's kiss had comforted her like she was a child, yet it had also warmed her, thrilled her like Din's kiss had. Catching her breath, Marathel had then surprised herself by lifting her hand to run her fingers through Cobb's hair, silky and fine, like she recalled a Duke's hair to be, yet Cobb was taller than any Duke she'd ever known ... and then she had heard the quietest of moans from Cobb's throat, surprising her again, and then he dropped his lips to the exposed skin of her shoulder.

And behind her came the low, hostile voice of the Bounty Hunter: we leave tomorrow morning.

How long had he been there, watching her on Cobb's lap? Did it anger him to see her there? Did the kiss enrage him? Cobb's lips on her skin, the skin that the Bounty Hunter said he loved to touch, to caress? It certainly sounded that way. Marathel quickly turned, only seeing the Bounty Hunter's back from the corner of her eye as he left the room. And she felt shame at sitting on this man's lap, with his hands on her, his lips on her cheek. It may have been as innocent as anything, but for the moan from Cobb's throat … the same kind of moan she'd heard from Din when he was eating her bread, when his hands were on her skin, when he was deep inside her.

Oh, great Frith, what am I doing?

Marathel stood up and turned towards the door, towards Din's voice, but he was already gone.

What have I done?

"Marathel? Honey?"

I am a whore.

She felt Cobb's hands on her shoulders, turning her back towards him, and she closed her eyes tight.

I am an inbred incestuous whore cunt freak.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking that."

Whore cunt.

"You hear me?" Cobb gave her a little shake, and her eyes flew open.

I'm a whore who has broken the heart of the first man who was ever good to me.

"Honey? Talk to me, honey." Cobb's voice was sounding distressed.

"Let me go," whispered Marathel, and Cobb released her immediately. Her shaking hands went to her face.

"Marathel …" said Cobb, gently touching her arm. She shied away. "You're … you've suffered so damn much. Now, your mind is addled, like you said, and you're not thinking straight. And Din … listen to me, honey, please … it's a lot for him to take in …"

"He hates me. As he should," said Marathel, wiping her cheeks. "It will be easier for him to leave me there."

"You don't have to go back there!"

"This is the …"

Cobb grabbed her by the upper arms again, roughly this time, and she felt anger in his hands as they clutched at her. "I swear, if you kriffing say this is the way …"

Marathel drew in a sharp breath at Cobb's hands on her once more. If I need to make them hate me to let me go, then that's what I'll do. Her eyes dropped down to his chest. "Hit me if you want, but you will not make me change my mind." Cobb lessened his grip, looking shocked and dismayed at even the thought of striking her. Marathel's face softened as she suddenly felt a sense of deep calm. Or perhaps it was the sense of nothingness. "Thank you for being my friend," she said quietly as she slipped out of his grasp and walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen.

As Marathel entered, Silnima straightened up from the sink, where she had been washing her face, red and puffy from prolonged weeping. She went over to the Headwoman and took her in her arms, comforting her, whispering, "Don't pity me, Silnima, I'm all right."

"Oh, Marathel, I'm so sorry," whimpered Silnima. Why? wondered Marathel. Why do they pity me? I do not deserve their pity. "I've never heard of such horrible things, and I was here when Jabba the Hutt ran the palace," said Silnima as she drew back, holding Marathel's face in her hands, yet Marathel refused to look her in the eye. "My dear, why do you feel you have to leave? No one wants that for you. Stay here, with us, let us help you."

"I can't, Silnima. I can't be trapped in a kitchen anymore."

"You don't have to be in this kitchen. You don't have to be on this planet, even. You can be anywhere. Anywhere but that horrible place you came from," Silnima pleaded.

"It will be all right, Silnima."

"No, no it won't, Marathel! And what will you do back there? Those men will come for you!"

"She's right, you know," said a voice at the doorway. Marathel turned to see Fennec. "They'll kill you as sure as they killed the women who helped you."

Marathel sighed. "I won't … I won't go near the Hold. I plan to just collect what I can carry at the hut, and then … just walk. Walk until I'm far enough away. Away from them. Away from everyone."

Fennec put her hand to her forehead in frustration. "If you want to be a recluse, you have a million planets to choose from! Even kriffing Jakuu would be better! Why does it have to be there?"

"Because it's the only place where I'm not afraid all the time," said Marathel with such a sense of detachment that Fennec worried even more for Marathel's state of mind. "It's the only place I understand. It's the only place I think I'll be safe from everyone." And you'll be safe from me.

"Safe, she says. In a place where you've actively tried to kill yourself. A place where you've almost been killed," scoffed Fennec.

Marathel shrugged. "I'd rather die somewhere familiar. Wouldn't you?"

Fennec glared at Marathel. "After all we've done to help you, practically bringing you back from the dead …"

"I asked none of you to do that for me. Least of all the Bounty Hunter." Fennec's face dropped into shock and anger. Marathel took a breath. "I am grateful, truly I am. But this is the only way to set things right."

Fennec was at a loss. "Marathel … this is what you want?"

What I want has no bearing on what must be, thought Marathel.

This is the way.

Marathel finally replied, "What I want … is to make bread. I can think of no other way to repay your kindness. I will be using your ingredients, unfortunately, but …"

Fennec held up her hands, frustrated beyond belief. "Make bread, Marathel. If that's what you think will … settle things in your mind, make all the damn bread you want."

"Thank you, Fennec," replied Marathel, so flat and emotionless that Fennec wanted to smack her and scream at her to wake up! It was as if Marathel, once she had released all her pain to them, had transformed into a droid.

Silnima stepped up and fired the gas jets on the large ovens. "I'll help you, Marathel."

"Thank you, Silnima," replied Marathel as she began to seek out the large pans the palace used for bread-making. Silnima brought out the things Marathel requested: certain size cups, specifically shaped bowls, particular ingredients. Fennec pitched in; she'd put aside trying to convince Marathel to change her mind for the moment. Marathel wanted - or perhaps needed - to bake bread, something that at least was in the direction of positive.

Marathel washed her hands, put on an apron, and began setting the cups and bowls into a precise and complicated arrangement on the massive worktable. She then noticed that Boba and Cobb had come in and were watching her. "Baking bread was fun in the Hold. The only song made it fun, and we each would make 12 loaves of bread."

"Is that important?" asked Boba. "The number of loaves?"

"It is. When you have 12, they can break off into 66 possible pairs. Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again. That's very important."

"Now why is that?" asked Cobb.

"Gyll'wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff."

"Meaning?"

Marathel turned back to her lines of cups and bowls. "'You can break us apart, but we will grow back together.'" Marathel pulled the kettle off the fire and began pouring the hot water into the cups. "Now, I haven't done this in … thirty-some years, apparently." The others looked at her with surprise. Marathel frowned and paused her water pouring. "I just found that out too. I forgot to mention that to the Bounty Hunter. Still not quite sure what a year is, but … forgive me if I suddenly falter." She tested the water. "Still too hot."

"Marathel," called Cobb. She looked over to see him holding up a small holopad. "Say again why the number 12 is so important."

He's … what's the word? Making a record of me in that little device, so that even when I leave, he'll still have a piece of me. Typical man. Can't let me have all of myself to myself. Take take take, like a little boy. Like a Cyilogg. Like a Bwrrdyr. Like an Elder.

Shaking herself back to the present, Marathel tossed some sweet into the oven, which didn't melt, but it was close."Four of us would each make twelve loaves at a time. One type for the men and boys. One type for the women and girls. It would have been better if twelve of us could make the bread, but we didn't have enough cups and bowls. Well, we might have if we didn't keep breaking them. Clumsy cunts, we were," she said with a dry chuckle. "We had to use the cups and bowls because the loaves had to be a specific size and weight. Perfection in bread form. It was considered an honor to be one of the four making bread. I was taken off bread-making shortly before I left the Hold. I had one of my fainting spells, and I pulled several of the men's loaves down to the floor with me, and they couldn't be salvaged. The head kitchen Diwhyn would have stripped my hands, but I cut myself badly enough on a broken bowl to nearly sever my little finger."

Marathel looked at the thick scar at the base of that finger, mostly obscured by the metal splint. "I had forgotten all about that until now. Hmm." After studying the scar for a while longer, Marathel looked up, blinking at the line of cups, as if trying to remember where she was and what she was doing. "But you were asking about the number twelve. When you have 12 women, they can break off into 66 possible pairs. Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again. Gyll'wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff, we said amongst ourselves — just the women, that is — which means 'you can break us apart, but we will grow back together.' Now the water is almost right."

Marathel picked up a bowl that held dry leavening. She sifted it with a spoon, and then measured a spoonful of the stuff in the palm of her hand. She did the same with a small bowl of sugar. She placed both bowls in the crook of her arm and gripped the spoon in the other. She took a breath, and sang:

"Cowyn bach o wd'dr gymwsh,

Arn'erygg anyl fyd'dwsh,

Mewn iddi eidiwsh nach oery

Byddhi'n anad'wl'u,

Gadewsh iddi hi'n ei bywyd

Anad'wl'u ei ni bywyd."

As she sang, Marathel went down the line of cups, adding leavening and a tiny bit of sugar to each cup of water, then stirring briskly. She repeated the last two lines until she finished the last cup. Humming, she went back to the first cup and frowned. "Your leavening breathes a little slower, I think. It's breathing nicely though. Oh, what I said was:

Little cup of water, take this gift

Breathe life into her

Do not burn or chill

Let her breathe her life

She will breathe her life into us.

Now I must get the dry ingredients mixed while the leavening continues to breathe."

As Marathel spooned flour and salt into the bowls, she sang, "Ash'yd a flw'ad, pinsywd a holyn," in a rhythmic manner. "Cup of flour, pinch of salt." Stirring the dry ingredients with her hands, she chanted, "Flw'ad, holyn, cwsan, cwsan!"

"Flour and salt, stir, stir'?" asked Cobb.

Marathel turned slightly pink. "Flour and salt … kiss, kiss." She went back up the line, digging a small divot in each bowl of dry flour, singing, "Bidd cladd'ia," at each one. "Dig a little grave," she clarified. "We bring the leavening to life and then we bury her alive." She glanced at the four pensive-looking people sitting on the kitchen table, watching her. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill her," she said with a small smile, continuing her task and humming. The others looked at each other, all worried about her mental state. Nonplussed, Marathel picked up a wooden paddle and poured the leavening mixture into the first bowl's flour divot.

"Claff'wsh hi i lawr,

Claff'wsh hi yn d'fawr,

tall'wsh ei hawyr i t'wr!"

Marathel pulled the bowl into the crook of her arm and vigorously stirred, chanting, "Doffeg ar y de'wyth, doffeg ar y che'wyth!" Flour flew up in a little cloud as she stirred, and Marathel slung the first bowl back to the table, leaving it spinning while she moved to the next bowl and repeated the process with the same chants. By the time she was halfway down the table, the others were chanting with her, making Marathel smile, even though their pronunciation was terrible. She'd forgotten she missed this part of Hold life. The next bowl she chanted in Basic. "Bury her down, bury her deep, cut off her air! Twelve to the left, twelve to the right…"

"Punch up, slap down, fight fight fight!" said Cobb, and the others gave him an odd look. "Well, obviously none of you went to the local murderball matches when you were kids."

Marathel laughed, surprising them all. "No sitting down in the kitchen!" she said, and she continued down the line. The last six bowls she added honey, singing,

"My'el wsh ef, my'el wsh ef,

dagon i by'dio an ny'dio,

oher bywyd yn llonydd.

Pace an ny'dio,

bywyd yn llonydd."

Marathel sobered again when she'd finished pouring the honey, thinking about how the words she'd just sung translated from Oldtalk to Newtalk. Finally, she sang,

"Sweeten him, sweeten him,

enough to not hurt us,

for we will be still.

Please don't hurt us,

for we will be still.

This bread is for the men. They get honey in their bread." She sighed deeply and chanted again, "Doffeg ar y de'wyth, doffeg ar y che'wyth," while she stirred the mixtures in the remaining bowls together. This job done, she tossed another small handful of flour on the tops of each bowl and saying "Cws'yl, cws'yl," in a little song-song voice as she went up the line.

"What did that mean, Marathel?" asked Cobb.

"Oh … cloud, cloud, like a little poof of flour." Marathel dumped out the first bowl on the table, scraping the bowl clean with the wooden paddle. "Silnima! I forgot to grease the pans! And I need oil!" Silnima hurried over, setting the oil bottle next to Marathel's elbow, and then she went to grease the pans as directed. Marathel, meanwhile, attacked the first ball of dough, singing:

"Gyd'wsh ei, lop'wsh ei, treb'wysh ei,

Duegyn iddi gusfydd hel ei!

Dygsu bwth yn gusfyyd, gws'wsh hully eto ei!

Tachga'le, machcy'le, gwlly nyt'twsh ei!

Neu'gwny Belwhyn honi, onsah gusfydd ei!"

Marathel kneaded the dough in syncopation with the words twice through, finishing with coating the loaf with oil, and then throwing the dough with great force into the pan on the final word. As she continued down the line, her singing and kneading took on a more frenetic quality. By the time Marathel had finished the sixth loaf, she was singing at the tops of her lungs, and kneading and flipping the dough almost haphazardly. After throwing the loaf into the greased pan, she stepped back from the worktable, breathing hard, her hands trembling at her sides. Marathel said,

"Grab her, flip her, slap her,

Make her learn her place!

She will never learn, so do it again!

Harder, faster, pull her hair!

Or make a Belwhyn out of her, if she won't learn!"

Marathel stood silently for several moments before turning over the next ball of dough on the table. She went back to kneading, but sang quietly, under her breath. The last six dough balls were oiled and returned to their bowls. "The honey loaves are braided." Marathel took a loaf and shaped it some before deftly cutting it into four even pieces. "It is a braid with four strands. It represents … the four ways …" Marathel's voice crackled. "The four ways … a Whyn is … taken.

Whyn, ben'wy, as'whyn, tw'ylo.

Mhynd ma'dy sot maen a ei."

Again, Marathel moved in beat with her words. She took each lobe of dough and twirled it once before deftly braiding the loaf and placing it in the oiled pan.

"Cunt, hands, ass, mouth.

This is how he takes her."

Quietly, Marathel said, "I said that the only song made the bread baking fun, didn't I? I suppose … I never thought about the words," as she began working on the next ball of dough. "I suppose I was still when I made bread in the Hold. But now, when I come to think of it, I don't make the loaves for men anymore. Well … why would I, once I left the Hold?" She picked a piece of dough out from under a splint on her finger. "I couldn't eat the men's food, so why would I make it for myself? And I never sang the only song after I left the Hold. I haven't made the men's or the women's bread for … I guess … thirty years. However long that is, I don't know. I only make simple crusty rounds, now." Marathel silently prepared the last of the braided loaves, and then tossed some sweetener into the oven. The sweet melted. "Would you please put these in, Silnima? I just need to slash the women's loaves." Silnima began sliding in the bread pans, and Marathel picked up a sharp knife, slashing the unbraided loaves deeply from the center to one edge.

"Bywyd, bywyd, fwl'ono dy,

Huetor'dyl yn y gwr'wsh ei,

Rhony'dwl nildy fywy mw'an inni bywyd,

Bywyd, bywyd, fwl'ono dy.

Breathe, breathe your last,

Let her bask in the heat,

Give us your life that we may breathe,

Breathe, breathe your last."

Marathel's brow was deeply furrowed, and her lip trembled as she placed the remaining pans in the oven, and then tossed some water into the oven as well, creating steam. Collecting all the bowls and cups, Marathel said, "I'll wash these, and when I'm done, so will be the bread."

Silnima began, "I can wash those …"

"If I wash them, then the bread will be done when I am." Marathel found the soap and a dish brush and set to scrubbing. "We usually did an egg-white wash on those loaves; Silnima, I forgot the eggs." Silnima nodded and prepared the egg wash as the kitchen became redolent with the smell of the bread.

Fennec sat with her hands over her mouth and her eyes full of tears. There was not a single aspect of this poor woman's life that was not filled with torture. Even the act of baking bread, such a simple and innocuous thing — something Marathel enjoyed — was defiled by the males of the Hold and their disgusting treatment of the women and girls. She got up and went to Marathel at the scullery sink. "Marathel … please, please don't go back. I beg you, please, we all beg you …"

"Don't," said Marathel, not looking up from her task. "There's no point."

"Din isn't going to take you back there. He won't take you back."

"He will."

Fennec grimaced. "No, he won't, Marathel, not if he ..."

"He will," said Marathel firmly as she looked in the oven. "Almost done." Marathel finished up the last of the cups as Fennec stepped back. Using the long wide paddle, Marathel pulled the braided bread out of the oven, turning the loaves out of the pans. Silnima brushed them with the egg wash. The loaves were perfect, all matching in size and shape. Marathel and Silnima did the same with the unbraided loaves, the "women's" loaves, with their asymmetrically slashed tops. Cobb wondered — they all did, save Marathel — if that was by design, as the slashed top, to them, could resemble … well, a woman's area.

"The bread is … beautiful, Marathel," said Cobb.

Marathel stood still, staring at the twelve loaves. "It will be a while before it is ready to eat. It continues to bake as it cools. I think … I think I'll make small round loaves now. I think I'm done making Hold bread. I think I'm … finished with that now." She shut her eyes tight, hugged herself hard, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Silnima came over and took Marathel's hand. "What do you need, Marathel?"

Marathel took a deep breath. "Heavy flat pans. Perhaps round ones, too … May I also make cake? I make good cake. And cookies, if there's time …"

Silnima squeezed her hand. "We'll make whatever you want." Silnima went to find the pans Marathel asked for, while Marathel began searching through the spice rack, opening each jar and sniffing to find the herbs and spices she wanted. She made a little collection and brought them back to the table and began the process of proofing more leavening.

Looking over at the table at the others, Marathel said, "You don't have to stay."

Fennec, who had returned to sitting on the table, said sadly, "I'll keep watching, if you don't mind." Boba said nothing but put his arm around Fennec.

Cobb shook his head. "I ain't leaving, either. I'm recording this for … posterity." For Din. For myself. To remind myself that a woman like you existed.

Marathel shrugged, and began to measure her dry ingredients, using her hands, adding her chosen herbs. She didn't sing but she hummed, occasionally whispering a word or two of the only song as she worked. When she got to the kneading stage, her movements remained calm as she flipped and stretched the dough, working it deftly with her splinted hands. Leaving the batch to rise, Marathel began mixing batter for spiced cake. Her soft humming continued, putting Fennec in the mind of a lullaby. Marathel was sugaring the sides and bottom of a greased cake pan when Fennec said, "Marathel, you said that you left the Hold thirty or so years ago. Did the Reconstructionists give you an idea of how old you are?"

Marathel nodded. "As far as they could figure, I have lived somewhere between forty-five and fifty Basic years. I'm not sure what that means, precisely … I don't understand time. Not the way you do." Marathel poured the batter in the prepared pans and put them in the oven. As she went back to working with the risen bread dough, she said, "I understand what I can get done while those cakes bake. I can track when Mist will come, or when the Dahls will rise to mate, by counting the moonrises and watching where the sun rolls through the sky. If there is rain, I know when the fairy light insects will come. If it is dry, I know when the hoppers will swarm. But years, minutes, hours … I don't understand these things." Marathel began placing rounded balls of dough on a prepared sheet pan. "I understand when the bread dough will rise. I understand how much yarn I can spin from a handful of creek fattails. I thought I understood how people are supposed to be, supposed to act." She cut diagonal slashes into the small round loaves and put the pans in the oven.

"Well, hell, Marathel, I don't understand people at all, so don't let that bring you down," said Cobb. "And you and I are next door neighbors in the age game; same street, anyhow."

Fennec snorted. "Are you one of those people who says that age is a social construct?"

"Nah, I'm one of those people who doesn't give a shit." Fennec and Cobb laughed, and Marathel took another look at Cobb. He had some wrinkles in his face and some white in his hair and beard, but he was not dour and cross like the men in the Hold who appeared like him. However, the Hold made terrible people who didn't laugh and joke like Cobb … or who were fair and honest, like Boba Fett. The Hold certainly didn't create women who would fight to the bitter end, like Fennec, or even Silnima … Marathel knew she didn't want to be on her wrong side.

I will miss them. So much. As much as the Bounty Hunter and his boy. She wondered just how old the Bounty Hunter was. She had heard his not-youthful joints creak, seen his not-youthful hands, but his voice had a youthful sound, as if he wasn't accustomed to using it much. But then she supposed it didn't matter. There was no point in wondering.

Marathel went back to kneading dough and shaping larger loaves. The small rounds were almost ready. The oven needed to cool down a small amount for the cake to stay moist. Silnima was asking if she could slice the first loaves to pass around. Marathel told her that it should be fine, and Silnima cut a loaf into thick slices and slathered it with a sweet cream spread for the others to try.

Cobb tore his slice in half and brought it over for Marathel. "The master baker should enjoy her efforts," he said.

Marathel gave him a wan smile, but then looked down at the slice. It was from the braided loaf, the bread that was meant for the men. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't."

"Why not?"

She kept backing up until she bumped into the worktable. "That's the men's bread!"

Cobb's eyes narrowed in frustration. "You're not in the Hold, Marathel. You can eat what you please." He tried to grab to hand, to force her to take the bread, but she kept breaking free of his grasp.

"I can't, I can't … please, don't make me," she pleaded before escaping to the oven to pull out the small rounds and put in the larger loaves. "The cake is almost finished."

"Honey …"

"You will never understand, there are things I cannot do! I can't eat the men's food. I can't wear shoes. I can't cut my hair …"

"Can't cut your hair? …"

"… and I can't stay here. I can't be anywhere other than where I came from."

Irritated, Cobb kept trying to capture her hands. "Honey …"

"And no more honey! Or your… hands, touching me! No more! There's no point, Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Freetown. Just … no more." Cobb dropped his hands. Marathel turned back to the oven and began pulling out the cake. "Excuse me," she said, shouldering him out of the way to put the cake pans on the table to cool. A pan slipped in her hand, and she burned her fingers. She hissed and went to put her fingers in her mouth, but Cobb seized her hand and put it under the cold tap at the sink, even as she kept struggling against him.

Looking at her, Cobb said, "And you can keep trying to push me away, push Din away — all of us away. But it's not going to work, honey."

"You're a man, you may think what you wish."

Cobb's grip on her wrist tightened. "Don't you do that, Marathel, that kind of game is beneath you."

"I don't know what you mean," muttered Marathel, finally pulling her hand out of Cobb's grasp.

"The hell you don't." Cobb felt anger rising, which alarmed him; he rarely got angry anymore, there was no point in anger, especially at a woman who deserved so much better.

"No, I don't, Cobb Vanth. I am only a stupid cunt."

"Stop calling yourself that!"hissed Cobb.

"It is what I am. A stupid, whore cunt." Cobb suddenly slapped her across the face. Fennec and Silnima gasped. Silence filled the room. Fennec put her face into her hands, and Boba held her tight. Fennec sobbed quietly; Cobb had finally done what she herself had wanted to do for days and given Marathel a smack ... a desire that now she regretted terribly once that cracking noise reached her ears.

Marathel took a step back, her face blank, her eyes down, her hands going up her sleeves. Quietly, she said, "You hit me, but I still did not change my mind."

Cobb's face, filled with shock and dismay at what he had done to her, done to a woman, began to crumple. Whispering, "I'm so sorry," he stepped back, and then stalked out of the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he was certain he saw Din lurking in the shadows, but Cobb didn't want to deal with his shit as well, so he continued in the opposite direction.

Two down, three to go, thought Marathel as she gathered the pans to clean them. She sensed movement from the table and looked over to see that Fennec and Boba had finally left.

Silnima quietly joined Marathel at the scullery sink, and they did the task together. "What do you want to make next, Marathel?" asked Silnima.

"Perhaps more of the small rounds … and maybe some sweet bread, if you have dried fruit." Silnima nodded. "Maybe, Silnima, you can teach me how you make a sweet bread."

"I know a good one that uses a local squash, and needs no leavening," said Silnima.

"That sounds good. Can we?" Silnima nodded again, and they cleaned the pans in silence, occasionally bumping elbows. Marathel sensed a familiarity between the two of them, and it wasn't just about kitchen work and bread making. "It's just us, now."

Silnima nodded. "Yes, it is."

After a few more minutes of silence, Marathel asked, "Who was this Jabba the Hutt?"

"A most disgusting creature. He was the crime lord for this area. He had … peculiar tastes. Boba knew him back then. I was here too … but as a slave … and a woman of pleasure." Marathel could hear the disgust in Silnima's voice. "That foul fat worm made me do the most horrendous things. Not unlike those Elders where you came from."

"But he is now dead?"

Silnima nodded. "Killed by members of the Rebel Alliance. A princess turned soldier strangled him with the very chain he used to imprison her."

"Good for her."

"It was hard for a while, once I was freed. I kept running back to what I knew – which was easy - rather than crawling forward to learn new skills, which was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And now my life is infinitely better." Silnima sighed and began drying the clean pans. "You hear what I'm saying, Marathel?"

"I do."

"But are you listening to me?"

"I am. Can we start on that squash bread of yours now?"

Silnima pursed her mouth. If Marathel was listening, she was not going to be deterred, which made Silnima's heart ache. She finished scrubbing a pan and gently placed a hand on Marathel's shoulder. "I've felt like you do now. Defeated, lost, that you're worth less than nothing because of what theydid to you, that you deserved what they did to you ... thinking they're right … whomever they are. And people like Cobb and Fennec and Boba … they don't get it, do they? Fennec comes as close as she can, trying to help people like me. And you.

"It's like being at the bottom in of the deepest, darkest pit, with only a tiny bit of sky visible above you, and no matter how hard and far you climb, that little patch of light doesn't seem to get any bigger … but as long as there's sky up there, you have something to climb up towards, right?" Marathel sighed. The deep dark pit, she understood perfectly. But there was no patch of sky, no light above her; only more darkness. No ladder to climb out with. And she felt that she still had further down to go. Silnima drew Marathel into her arms, held her tight, and stroked her hair. "I promise you, Marathel, as sure as the Maker made little black melons, that it will get better." Marathel didn't believe that at all. Nothing was so bad that it couldn't get worse. And she didn't know who this Maker was; if the Maker was anything like Frith, the Maker was certainly another tymffod, so she just remained silent.

Silnima released Marathel, and they went back to baking. For hours they baked bread, cakes, sweet breads, small hand-held pies containing minced fruit, soft cookies with sweet icing, hard nutty biscuits for dunking in caf ... only speaking when necessary for the task at hand. Eventually, Silnima was so exhausted she left Marathel alone with another plea to reconsider leaving Tatooine. Marathel only responded with a kiss on Silnima's cheek before she went back to scrubbing the pans yet again.

An hour or two before dawn, Marathel was sitting alone in the nearly dark kitchen, elbows on the table, hands clasped together against her mouth as she considered the enormous array of baked goods on the worktable. She heard Din's voice, flat, uninflected, saying, "You're done?"

Marathel sighed. "We ran out of flour."

"I should think so, looking at all that," he said, sitting down at the other end of the table, mimicking her pose. He sighed as well. "I could hear you singing your only song from my room. I hated it."

Marathel shrugged. "I hate it now, too. The bread-making part, at least."

"I hate your Hold, and what was done to you there." Marathel's throat filled with tears, so she only nodded. "I hate that Cobb struck you. If I were in here, I would have..."

Marathel quickly said, "No! It was nothing, nothing of consequence. He was angry with me, and the fault is mine." They were silent for a few moments. "Is it time to go?"

"Not yet." Din took a deep breath, then said, "Marathel, please, don't make me ..."

"I am not discussing this further. There is no point."

"Why are you making me take you back to the Hold?"

Marathel's brow furrowed. "You're not taking me back to the Hold, just to Unmanarall."

Din turned to her. "Why does the bite mark burn when you say, 'there's no point'? Why does it burn when I dream that I've ... when I dream about you? What are you doing to me?"

She shook her head, confused. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm doing nothing to you!"

With a swift and silent motion, Din stood and swept Marathel off the bench and into the deep shadows at the back of the kitchen, where she could not see at all, and he pinned her fully against the wall. Her hands trembled against his cuirass, but she did not struggle, because she knew there would be no point; her strength was no match for his. The Bounty Hunter could snap her neck as easily as a chook leg bone. "You marked me with that bite, Marathel, as sure as a Dahl marks her mate, like you said to Fennec. But I was yours before you did that. I was yours when I saw you smile at Grogu. I was yours when you invited me into your home. And I'm so sorry, mesh'la, I'm so sorry I didn't save you. I'm so sorry I didn't take you away before you ever entered that Hold. The coins were worth nothing, not if it meant I had to lose you. And I'm sorry for tonight, I'm sorry I rejected you after you told me the horrible things that were done to you, the appalling life you've had to endure. I'm sorry I misunderstood Cobb comforting you; he was only doing what I should have done! I'm weak, I'm a coward, I couldn't bear it, I thought only of myself, and I am so sorry. I will spend the rest of my life begging for your forgiveness, if you will let me ... but please, please don't make me take you back to that place. Don't make me let you go, please! And don't you dare say 'there's no point'!" Din undid the catches that held on his cuirass, and he tossed it to the floor. He undid the top of his flight jacket, grabbed her hand and placed it on his bare skin, over the bite she had left on him. Marathel gasped; his skin was hot to the touch.

"Din, no, you must have an infection ..."

"No, it's not infected ... well, it was, but Grogu healed me, it's better now ..."

"You're raving, Din, you must have a fever!"

"I'm not sick, Marathel! You bit me, Rodanthe told me to love you, you told me to leave my weapons behind and to be still! You have control of me through this bite mark!"

Marathel burst into tears. She tried to pull her hand off Din's bare skin, but he captured her hand in his. "You're not making any sense, Din ..."

"I don't understand it either, mesh'la, ner kar'ta, ma'mwsh ha'laa..." Marathel could hear the tears in Din's voice, even with the voice modulator in his helmet. She hated to do this to him, to this good man, but there was no other way.

There is only this way.

"Stop it, Din! Don't you see? My madness, my sickness, I'm infecting you with whatever disease that I am! I'm dragging you down with me and I cannot let that happen to you! This is why you must take me back!" cried Marathel.

"You'll kill yourself when I take you back! I know you will!"

"If that's what will save both you and Grogu, then YES! And GLADLY! Now, LET ME GO!" Marathel managed to twist halfway out of his grasp, but Din held her fast. She cried, "If you think I can control you through that bite mark, then you will do as I say! LET ME GO!"

The bite mark flared with heat on Din's chest, making him gasp, and his hold on Marathel faltered. She broke loose and ran from the kitchen. Din yelled at her retreating figure, "Haar'chak, Marathel, DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!"

At her door, Marathel turned, and said, "I'll be ready to go when you are," before shutting the door and locking it.