Chapter Text
Djarin, after his initial storming off, slowly came to terms that Nivera honestly thought he was ka’ad and he would be at this cozy homestead for whatever matter of time was deemed necessary to prepare him for the world. This would include ‘force training’ and physical training, as well as – per Myles’ perpetually outgoing buire – getting to know the aliit and settling in.
It took a week for Myles and Djarin to fall into a new routine – they would first start the day with a combination of Myles’ buire and ba’buire, given who was up and who was home. They would eat then head out to a rotating list of physical training. They would switch between, or combine elements of, weight training, cardio, weapons training, and melee and vibroblade forms.
After, Myles would be put to work with the livestock and Nivera would be given control of Djarin’s other training. Which was to say, she would attempt to teach him something about the force and Djarin would fail to understand, or feel, what she was talking about. It ended up coming to a head nearly two weeks in, when Djarin was finally the one to lose patience.
“This is dumb. Everything you’re trying to get me to do, it’s all… it’s pretending.” He scowled, slumping out of his kneel and irritably stretching his legs before she give permission; he may pay a price for that, but he was fed up with this.
In turn, Nivera simply opened her eyes and looked at him shrewdly, taking her time and letting Djarin cool off. He crossed his arms in return, ready to wait her out and willing to be stubborn. She tilted her head, “And who’s fault would that be, Djarin?”
Djarin stood his ground and set his jaw, “The force’s. It lied to you because I don’t have it.”
Nivera sighed, just a slightly heavier exhale, and he both exulted in making her lose her composure and cringed back because of what repercussions that may bring; he kept, even after all this time, forgetting that he was just an ad, and the protections and self accountability that he had as an adult were no longer afforded to him. He was expected to listen and do as he was told, and punishments were allowed to be doled out should he not.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have pushed her too far, yet. “The fault still lies you in, Djarin, and you do need to accept that the concept of the force lying is a false one. One can twist the force to show twisted futures with only a passing possibility or to present a fact or feeling they themselves feel is true, but the force itself is incapable of lies.”
“Now,” she continued, locking eye contact and not looking away, “the larger issue in this is that you will not confide in me about how these lessons are working. You will not explain what you are feeling, what you have seen, or how the force presents itself to you at all. I can not help if you do not at least reach out a hand, ad.”
Finally, Djarin was compelled to look away, the stubbornness fading even as he wanted to keep hold and use it as a shield. She was right, he was not working with her, but that’s because it was stupid. She seemed to take a mental step back after a moment and tried a different track, “Lets pretend, for a moment, that you a ka’ad, yes?” He nodded, disgruntled, “Good. When we practice to hear the force, what do you feel? How does it come across to you?”
He opened his mouth to retort, not even fully sure what he wanted to say, but Nivera cut him off, “We are, if you recall, presuming that the ‘stupid feelings’ are signs of the force. Indulge me. What does it feel like?”
He huffed and took a moment to think about it, tossing out an irritated, “Bad,” and then froze. First, because that was the truth, and second, because he mouthed off to Myles’ ba’buir, an ex-Nightsister who was head of her own clan. However, she took his lip in stride and asked him to keep explaining what he meant by ‘bad’.
Sufficiently cowed by his own fear, he swallowed and actually put effort into his answer. “It’s… bad. Like, anxiety?” Do kids know what anxiety is? Nivera didn’t seem offput, so he continued, “Like I’m wasting time that would be better used anywhere else, instead of just sitting down… feeling.”
She nodded, obviously thinking, “Were you corrected for expressing leaps of logic or intuition while you were with the training corps?”
This was a fantastic question which Djarin would be happy to disavow, however… he suddenly couldn’t recall. He still knew he had been part of the training corps, that they made him who he was today, or at least would be in several decades, but the details were gone. It was like trying to remember growing up Aq Vetina; the shape of the memory was there, but fogged over and mostly missing.
Now, he had a choice: he could try to lie or bend the truth and steer the conversation into a direction he wanted; however, that would both be dishonest, which he tried to avoid, and had a possibility of backfiring if that wizard osik told her somehow. He could also try… slipping in the truth. A little. Part of him wanted to extend some trust to her; perhaps not about the time traveling and de-aging, that would be very hard to swallow, but at least about the memories. That part of him also felt like fear, remembering the times that trust, the hand out, had been broken and used against him.
Well, he decided, life as mando’ad was to be lived courageously. After a false start, he was finally able to admit, “I don’t remember.” He saw Nivera gearing up to ask more and cut her off, starting intently at the ground between his splayed legs, “I remember everything after waking up in the forest on Korda, and all the events since then. But my life before then is… almost gone.”
He glanced up at her, after an initial pause, to gauge her reaction. She looked… contemplative. Also concerned, but he would be more off put had she not. “When did you first start noticing the memory issues?” She asked, tone very to-the-point.
He shrugged, thinking. “I think only a few days after I found the camp, on Korda. I started to forget my family from before and those memories are mainly gone, now.”
She was now very visibly concerned. “And you didn’t let anyone know about this?”
Djarin looked away again, uncomfortable, “With everything else happening, and knowing what the future was going to bring, it seemed less important. I also didn’t know how I could bring it up without sounding insane, or like I was lying.”
Nivera breathed deeply in through her nose, something he had picked up as a calming technique of hers. She let out the breath after a short count and seemingly made a decision. “I would like for you to write down what you remember.” She looked him over, eyes softening by whatever it was she found, “This will not be for my eyes. In fact, I can get you paper and pen, so that they will not be accessible by anyone remotely. These memories, and what remain of them, are yours and should be protected, even if they are only yours to remember second hand in writing.”
“If,” she continued, “You would like to share them in the future, that will be your choice and we will listen. None of your training, in any capacity, will rely on your sharing of these, are we understood?” Djarin nodded hesitantly and she moved along, taking him for his word. “I think, ad, that you have given me much to think on today. What I would like for you to do, is to continue to focus on these feelings that may or may not be the force.”
She looked calm and collected, as always, but he could tell that she was skeptical about the force not influencing him; for now, after all the luck he had already pushed with her, he would let it go. He wasn’t sure how he would even go about ‘focusing on the force’ if all he was doing was listening to anxiety, but he would try.
And he would definitely be taking her up on her offer of pen and paper.
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It was well into the night that Nivera found herself in the kitchen, staring into a cleaned pot drying on the stove from lastmeal. What had initially felt like a simple matter of meeting a new nad’dar before he was fully incorporated into her clan had turned into a pile of steaming osik that she was digging into and finding only bones and trauma.
She had done her best, after all of her mistakes had come to light, to give her family, her Mandalorian bound aliit, a life to be proud of. To show the courage to continue on in the face of her doubts and fears, to build up her ad, her children, her reasons for leaving, to make them into the strong beings she knew they could, and would, be. To give them the strength and training needed to face a world that would see them fail, to face that world and succeed in happiness.
A gnarled hand slowly grasped her shoulder, slowly rubbing from one side to the next. “Ni’cyare, you have been bothered. What’s happened?” Sadist asked, voice rough but sweet, and everything she coveted and nearly destroyed decades ago. She reached up and snagged his hand in hers, leaning into his comfort.
She chewed on her thoughts and, as always, Sadist waited and let her take her time. “The adiik, Din Djarin. He has much surrounding him, more than even he is aware.” She sighed, allowing herself to lean back into her riduur for support. “Even though I have forsaken the force and it rarely speaks to me, I can see feel its currents around him. He himself is so troubled that I can feel him clearly even at a distance.”
Sadist was steady behind her, fully supporting her weight, solid in a way that she could only hope to be, work to be, over the years. “He is angry, Sadist, he hides it very well, but I can feel it in the force. He’s very angry, very hurt, and used. Without tempering, he could very easily become worse than I ever was.”
They stood silently for a time, taking comfort in each other as they mulled over the situation. Finally, Sadist broke the air, his voice rumbling through her chest, “You need to speak to him, then. The adiik and Myles both. The advantage of age is to share your experiences to the next generations, ni’cyare.” His free arm wrapped around her middle, bringing her in close with a rare hug. “I will be there with you; there is no shame in needing support with this.”
She breathed with him, knowing he was correct and not willing to even fight him on principle; she could save that play for lighter subjects. She would need to work up her courage, again, and she would need to take the reigns; Sadist would freely take the bulk of the conversation, should she let him, as he had in the past when it was necessary, but the meat of the story was on her shoulders and set upon her reasoning.
“I will need a few days,” she admitted softly, turning in his arms to finally look up at him. She reached to trace the wrinkles around his eyes, skirting around the tattoo that had been applied to him as a child, a mark of ownership that she would never be able to safely remove. They were thin and elegant around the eyes and nose, with thicker blocks around the forehead and cheeks; she hated them, on her bad days, on the days she looked upon him and only saw the Nightsisters and their clawing ownership branded upon her property, the zabrak that she took for herself, that she claimed and bred and kept.
On the good days, the days that far outnumbered the bad, she cherished him and the marks of the hardships he overcame, the subjugation he rose above, the visible marks of the life he’s bled for and loved through and rose so much higher than would have been allowed on Dathomir. She saw her riduur of 9 decades, the father of her children, the man who stayed by her side as she brought them to the Mandalorian culture and adopted their ways. He was, in most ways, far stronger than her and she would do her upmost to be worthy of him.
For tonight, though, she let him lead her to bed.