Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Former Duchess of Mandalore, Satine Kryze, stared at the invite with contempt.
Her world had fallen within the last week. She’d barely survived her encounter with the Sith Lord that now ruled her beloved home with tyranny. Her flat had frantically been cleared and deemed safe by Anakin and Obi-Wan at an ungodly hour that morning. Obi-Wan had slept on the couch and the Chancellor wanted to have a party.
Her arrival on Coruscant had been extremely low-profile. Herself and Obi-Wan had entered the atmosphere exhausted on the tiny, rickety ship they’d escaped Mandalore in. Not a word had been spoken the entire trip through hyperspace. Not a syllable said as he had cleaned her damages and wrapped her in Bacta. It was not until Obi-Wan had commed Anakin and asked him to clear a small landing platform that either made a sound. Only the Jedi Council was supposed to know of her presence here, though their approval of her rescue was still a pending matter. However, apparently, somewhere her discretion had been betrayed, and the Chancellor had been informed. Satine closed the datapad, and stood, walking across the room. Ben had told her to be wary of the windows and avoid being seen. A load of good this will do.
Satine was a stubborn woman by blood, and she felt the loss of her planet to her core -perhaps even deeper. She stood by the window, arms wrapping the brown robe closer to her shoulders, and she watched the sun rise. It had stained the Coruscanti sky a pale blue, first. Then purples and pinks graced the soft clouds. Yellow was soon to follow.
“Satine,” The familiar voice from the couch warned, gravely from sleep, “The window.”
“Ben,” Satine replied. She didn't need to say more. The morning light was still low enough that she wouldn't be seen from the outside. “Look at the sky,” She sighed. Years as a politician brought a scarcity to mornings for slow contemplation and only rare moments of complete peace in solitude. He would spare her the sky.
Behind her, the Jedi Master rolled onto his back. His lightsabre hadn’t left his hand the entire night. He’d asked Satine to sleep with her door open to optimise his protective abilities, but both had known the true reason. She’d brushed too closely to death, and neither wanted to admit the terror it had caused them both. The carefully applied bacta strips to her abdomen covered what would serve as a reminder for the rest of her life. Satine felt the guilt of Mandalore’s fall weigh down on her shoulders as the sky became brighter. So many lost. So many dead. So much war. Because of her failure.
“Satine,” The soft voice repeated. Satine turned, her shaking arms giving away her unsteady form. She would not cry. She would not scream. Satine looked over her shoulders, pulling the brown fabric closer as if the compression would smother her trembles. He was sitting, watching her. He was sparing her the sky.
Satine Kryze. Mand’alor the Pacifist. The Lilly of Peace. The Duchess. No more.
The clouds were becoming soft smears across the upper city now. The sun had broken over the skyline.
She would decide her future later. For now, she would… she would…
“Satine.” Obi-Wan was up and at her side in an instant, his hands steadying her, featherlight on her arms. Asking. Waiting for permission. She gave it.
Satine was immediately engulfed in him, warm around her, the only one in her life who was not missing or gone or who had betrayed her. He was here. He had her. She was safe. Against her spite, a tear slipped down Satine’s bruised cheek, quickly followed by another. “My dear, you are shivering,” Obi-Wan whispered. He ignored her tears. He knew better than to acknowledge them. He let go of her briefly to readjust the robe over her shoulders, wrapping it as tight as he could around her. A burial shroud for the person she used to be.
Satine knew that with her injuries and recent abdominal trauma, it was unwise to test her stamina by standing too long. She’d refused a medical exam the night before when the two of them had arrived, asking only for an escort to her flat, a shower, and to sleep. She hadn’t been granted the luxury of sleep during her imprisonment on Mandalore, and her exhaustion had finally given in as soon as Obi-Wan had told her he’d be staying the night.
“Satine,” He whispered as he held her. Her name on his lips was one she loved to hear, and she pressed her eyes closed, inhaling the smell of blaster smoke and ozone still on his clothes. His stolen red Beskar armour had been discarded on the floor before he’d slept in the black raglan and pants. The fabric was rough under her cheek.
“Obi,” She whispered back, her hands letting go of the robe and moving to wrap up around him. She trusted the pressure of their embrace to keep her modesty intact, her hands searching the planes of his back for the first steps of their well practised dance. She turned her head, chin tipped and she looked at him, his soft gaze still full of concern. The flicker of suggestion she was sure was in her eyes didn’t catch him off guard, but she didn’t need to be force-sensitive to catch the slight shift in his mood. She was sure her appearance was less than striking, her enervation apparent, with tangled hair and bruises painting the pale tones of her skin. Her eyes found his, inviting him in. The kiss was natural, easy, and he was soft. Perhaps too gentle as he handled her like glass, slow to react so not to break her. He was familiar, the balm to her woes, soothing the guilt she carried and the sorrow for the loss of her home.
He broke away first, eyes still closed, his hair unruly from sleep and the strands were falling into his face. Long ingrained habits willed her to brush it back, but her fingers found the clasps along the seams of his garments, undoing them with a sudden flurry of skill that came with practice. Though these were not the Jedi robes she was accustomed to, she took no less time to get her hands on his broad, scar-littered shoulders. “ Duchess, ” He warned, “We agreed not to-”
“I am no Duchess,” she stated without pause, pulling the fabric down his arms. He stayed lax, failing to halt her pursuits. “Let me have this,” She asked, “Please, Ben.”
“Your injuries are not healed enough for me to feel comfortable allowing you to pursue such activ-”
She hushed him with her mouth, his beard rough on her lips. His hands finally moved, one arm still supporting her from the back, the other finding her jaw, his thumb betraying his resolve, tracing her like an artist, wiping away the remaining tears. The change of stance left the robe around her shoulders free to fall, and his eyes flicked downward for the slightest moment. Her sheer, pale pink silk sleep gown left little to the imagination, and she ignored the ache in her abdomen. Perhaps if she could not entice him with words, she could entice him with other motivations. He may have been a famous negotiator, but he was prey to her desires more often than not.
She didn’t want to think of anything but him. Not of her planet. Not of her failure. Not of the damn party Palpatine had demanded her appearance at.
“The window,” He said again.
“Let them see,” She said, her cares dissolving into anger and pent up passion, years of restraint and secrecy to preserve both of their figures gone overnight. There was no point hiding.
“Your safety is not ensured-”
“Tomorrow is not ensured,” She replied. Their intellectual battlefield was a particular aspect of their oscillating affair which always left them both hungry for more.
“Precisely,” he instead kissed her forehead. Satine’s hands found victory, and she removed his shirt, her breath leaving her lungs as she drank him in. He was perfect.
“You are…” She wanted to finish her sentence, but words left her. The Jedi Robes he usually wore fell drastically short of hinting to the toned form underneath, and Satine was grateful for the much more physically flattering -borderline prurient- cut of the Mandalorian attire.
“My Dear,” He sighed softly. “Cyar’ika.”
The ancient Mandalorian term of beloved endearment snapped her gaze to his. He was right. The sun was up. Anyone watching her apartment could see them. The last thing she needed in the wake of the week was holonet gossip. But oh…
Oh, How she wanted him.
She straightened her shoulders, and pressed her mouth into a firm line. It was unreasonable to think she was ever going to be free enough to have him. Selfish, even. Selfish to think that he was not still bound to his Jedi Order, never free to have her as well.
With her intent forcibly subdued, Satine began mental preparation for the day. She parted from his tempting embrace, and covered herself once again. She had no formal clothing to wear. Nothing was stored permanently at this flat but sleep clothes and the occasional bathrobe in the ‘fresher. Despite her troubles, Obi-Wan’s surrendered Jedi cloak was insufficient for her daygoings, former Duchess or not.
“Anakin will be here soon to take me back to the Temple,” The man told her. “As an unofficial refugee, I cannot order clones to officially protect you, but as my personal guest of the Jedi, I can permit Cody to have a small squad posted here at their own discretion.” Obi-Wan pulled his garments back on, covering the glorious expanses of skin Satine so desperately wanted to explore. His hands stayed folded in front of him, and a flicker in Satine’s mind caused her to realise his efforts to hide his own desire were as futile as her own. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the seating in the middle of the room, leaned down to pick up her datapad once again, and begin drafting a reply to the Chancellor.
“Chancellor Palpatine has demanded I attend his Party of Peace,” Satine spat suddenly, the frustration that had been building in her mind finally escaping as she wrote her request for a formal meeting later that afternoon. “It is despicable for him to think me as willing to uptake such a cause to support his war.”
“You do not have to attend,” Obi-Wan told her. “I can advise the Chancellor myself to avoid such a statement from you.”
“No,” Satine frowned. “I shall respectfully decline his invitation in person. I refuse to appear as weak.”
“My Dear, There is no shame in being vulnerable in the company of your friends.” The Jedi Master never looked away from her.
“Yes… Friends, and nothing more.” Satine furrowed her brows.
“Are you sure you want to see him?” Obi-Wan asked her. She knew he was asking a deeper question. She didn’t know. She was falling into the expected routine of smothering personal needs in face of the needs of her people. But she had no people. Nothing about her attendance at this party would help them. Honestly, she didn’t know what she could do to even start to help them, though the duty ingrained into her very bones would never allow her to abandon them, rejected ruler or not.
Satine finished her meeting request, and she looked up at Ben, her eyes memorising the rare moment of solitude with him. In her lap, her datapad buzzed as an encrypted message was delivered. The code was Padmé’s, offering Satine her deepest condolences. “We have been invited to breakfast,” Satine told him, “-at Padmé’s.”
“Then I am sure Anakin will be in attendance,” Obi-Wan sighed. No doubt it was Anakin himself who gave the news to Padmé. The insightful Jedi Master was in tune with Satine’s reaction of slight annoyance. It wasn’t that she disliked Anakin. Satine was just aware enough of the boy’s unpredictability to know that any meeting with him was unlikely to go as expected. As powerful in the Force as Anakin was, he was not as… aware as Obi-Wan when it came to appropriate social conversation and reading the room.
As if their discussion had summoned the man, Obi-Wan’s comm beeped at him, and they were informed that Anakin had arrived. Satine was quick to secure the robe around her with something other than her hands, and the two made themselves more presentable when their former casual comfort abandoned them.
The entrance of the flat announced a visitor, and Satine buzzed the young man in. “General Skywalker,” Satine greeted.
Anakin stood at the door, a bag over his shoulder, his padawan nowhere in sight, a worried look in his eyes as he took in the view flat. Satine was very obviously wrapped in Obi-Wan’s robe and the Jedi was still in his Mandalorian attire. “I brought you some robes from the Temple, Master,” He slung the bag off his shoulder as he stepped in, setting it on the couch Obi-Wan had slept on the night before. Anakin smiled respectfully at Satine, “And Senator Amidala thought these might be of use to you, Duchess,” He nodded pointedly from his offerings to her current choice of clothing.
Satine opened the bag to find a simple dark purple gown inside -or simple at least by Padmé’s ornate standards. “Thank you, Master Jedi,” Satine smiled, disappearing into her room to change. Outside, she could hear Obi-Wan and Anakin speaking quickly as they exchanged news.
The dress was loose around her thinner form, her time in the Mandalorian prisons unkind to her body weight, and she felt to be swimming in the material. The colour was nice enough, and she liked the beading and stitching on the neckline. It was too short at the bottom, as the Mandalorian woman was quite a bit taller than her senator friend, but she was thankful to be in anything other than that now horrid blue two-piece she’d left her home world in. Satine emerged, and found Obi-Wan still dressing as he spoke with Anakin. She waited patiently, tying back her hair in an attempt to become presentable. As soon as Obi-Wan’s belt was buckled and in place with his lightsabre hanging, the three nodded to initiate their departure. Anakin left to prepare the speeder, and Obi-Wan stared at her. “You look lovely, Duchess.”
“Ben,” Satine indulged herself, and combed her fingers through his ginger hair, trying to tame it into something neater than her own. He caught her hand as it traced down to his beard, and pressed it to his lips.
“I mean it,” He whispered, and for the first time in a long while, Satine smiled.
The two Jedi and former Duchess were guided into Padmé’s flat, and upon first eye contact with the younger woman, Satine’s eyebrows raised slightly, but without the social cue that her companions were even slightly knowledgeable of Padmé’s secret, Satine quickly hid her surprise and feigned complete ignorance.
Padmé was a wonderful host, gracious and kind, and she provided light foods compliant with the traditions of Naboo. A part of Satine felt guilty to be enjoying the finery of fresh fruits and cheeses while her planet relied on rations, but Padmé’s insistence that Satine eat was not to be argued with. Obi-Wan’s warm presence beside her kept her grounded. No discussion of Mandalore was made, though Anakin looked as though he was ready to single-handedly attempt to win the planet back for the woman. The young man was so passionate and selfless that it would be unwise to discuss her concerns around him without possibly starting a self-imposed planetary rescue mission on her behalf.
The visit, though brief, drained Satine beyond what she expected. Though Padmé was a very good friend, something about the visit still felt like an appearance, a show. The younger woman was considerate, and had her tailor take Satine’s measurements to have some gowns made as a gift from a friend.
“You didn’t need to do this,” Satine told the senator as soon as the woman was gone.
“It is no bother,” Padmé smiled, “Rynthia was already coming to have me approve her design on my dress for the Chancellor's Peace Party.”
“Ah, yes,” Satine ground her teeth in frustration. The audacity of the man to demand her attendance was nothing if not a complete mockery of her loss and failure, and her anger had not left her thoughts the entire morning. It was probably better that she had eaten before she intended to speak personally with the chancellor, lest she say some less than respectful things.
“I can see by your reaction that the party does not sit well with you,” Padmé observed, and Obi-Wan’s face snapped to stare at Satine, gauging her reaction. Satine replied with a glance, it’s alright.
“I was sent only what I can call an unoptional invite.”
“Unoptional?” Padmé inquired. “With the current times?”
“I intend to personally decline his request this afternoon.”
“Satine, the party is tomorrow,” Padmé reminded her.
“I know,” The former Duchess of Mandalore stated calmly. Padmé’s eyes softened with worry.
“I will have Rynthia make you another dress, just in case.” The Nabooian Woman said in finality. “Let us hope you will not have to wear it.”
It was with Obi-Wan’s unwavering insistence that Satine finally did see a medical droid, which was horrified at her procrastination to receive any medical attention. With the secrecy of her presence on Coruscant vital, Obi-Wan had escorted her personally into the Halls of Healing at the Jedi Temple. The Droids there were the finest in the galaxy, and, as it appeared, the sassiest. The droid assigned to Satine’s case squabbled about the potential seriousness of her injuries, and declared her on medical watch until the trauma to her liver and intestines was healed. “You were extremely lucky,” Obi-Wan whispered, his eyes scanning the holo-report.
“But you saved me, and I am alright,” Satine reassured him.
“I never should have let Maul get that far in the first place. I should have stopped him sooner. I should have never let you get hur-”
“Ben.” Satine insisted. “Ni oyacyir bal haalur jorcu be gar,” She whispered. I live and breathe because of you. She let him fuss until the droid was done, and she accepted the instructions to change her Bacta every day for two weeks, the droid giving her a ten-day supply of strips.
As the droid continued with its work, addressing her injuries not as urgent as the abdominal trauma, Obi-Wan’s comm beeped, and he offered her a meaningful glance before taking his leave to receive the message in the hall.
Satine sat upon the gurney, waiting for her care to be complete, hoping that Palpatine would change his mind later. An idea formed within her mind, and she turned to the droid. “I’d like to request a copy of my medical care instructions,” She asked.
“Of course, Miss Kryze,” The Droid nodded, preparing the file, and producing the chip for her.
“Thank you,” Satine said, and within a few moments, Obi-Wan returned, a forced, neutral look upon his face, which Satine immediately knew meant he was worried. “Is everything alright?”
He sighed, and stroked his beard. “The logistics of my involvement with your rescue are complicated … politically.” He appeared more concentrated now, and Satine waited for him to continue. Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked momentarily to the far wall, and he sighed. Satine folded her hands in her lap, and the Droid left to retrieve supplies, leaving the two grateful for the brief, fortunately timed privacy. He chose his words carefully, and started, “Satine.” His gaze rested on the floor. “I was strictly instructed by the council not to get involved with your plea for help. But as you very well know, I did not adhere to that order.”
Satine frowned, worry pooling in her gut as she listened.
“I have been called in front of the council to explain my actions and give a full and concise report on exactly what happened,” He finally met her eyes, and they both knew why such an expectation would make him nervous. Obi-Wan’s dealings with Darth Maul in the Sundari Throne Room had been what the council would consider to be less than honourable. Though Obi-Wan hadn’t killed the Zabarak, he certainly wouldn’t have had mercy if not for his dedication to the code, yet the council would view even that as an emotional deviation from the Order.
“And you intend to tell them everything?” Satine implored.
Obi-Wan nodded solemnly, “What else is there to do?”
Satine nodded. “Do not worry about me. You assigned Cody to escort me, did you not?” She waited for him to nod. Satine straightened her back. “From what I have heard, he is a very capable man.”
“He is,” The Jedi Master agreed, though looking rather bereft that he couldn't be the one following her about.
“Then I shall see you tonight,” Satine released the poor man, and Obi-Wan gave her a slight bow before he took his leave. When the medical droid returned, it finalised the extent of her care, and released her from the Halls of Healing. A Clone in his standard issue white and orange armour greeted her at the door. “You must be Commander Cody,” Satine smiled.
“Yes, Duchess,” The man behind the helmet stood at attention, and Satine flinched.
“Just Satine. Satine Kryze,” She corrected more sharply than she intended.
“Of course, Miss Kryze,” Cody replied.
“Thank you for being so kind as to accompany me,” Satine slipped back into her performance persona, allowing the Clone to lead her out of the temple. “I have a meeting with the Chancellor this afternoon,” Satine told him.
“General Kenobi forwarded me a rough outline of your intended afternoon plans,” Commander Cody told her as they made their way outside. A pair of Clones stood at attention beside a parked speeder clearly reserved for Satine. “I have been instructed to take you to Senator Amidala’s for lunch.”
“I ate earlier, I have no appetite,” Satine furrowed her brows.
“Along with strict instructions to keep you alive, General Kenobi also made it very clear that we are to make sure you attend to your health,” He ignored her glare, “-and such includes the three-meal-a-day recommendation for human women.”
“Judging by your resolve, I contend that no argument may be made,” Satine huffed, taking Cody’s outstretched hand as he helped her into the speeder. The trip to Padmé’s flat was uneventful, thank the Force, and the Nabooian Senator was all smiles and joy as she welcomed Satine into her space just as she had earlier that morning.
“You are too kind to host me twice today,” Satine told her.
“The time I have to myself between Senate meetings is time I am honoured to spend with a friend,” Padmé told the older woman, and her gold coloured service droid brought the small lunches into the rooms.
“I see General Skywalker has taken his leave,” Satine observed pointedly. Padmé stammered, but regained composure within the same second. Years working with people leaves one with a certain skill of social discernment, and Satine forced a smile. “Worry not. You do not have to defend yourselves to me, of all people.”
“Duch- Satine!” Padmé’s hands froze in position as she lifted her glass towards her lips, “That is a bold assumption for a woman of your refinement!”
“Padmé do not jest with me,” Satine leaned back against the couch cushions, and looked up to the surrounding droids and to Cody and his men, “Leave us.” The machines and clones obeyed, but Padmé’s guards remained until the brunette flourished her hand and sent them out as well, leaving the two politicians alone in the room.
Padmé did not say anything at first, so Satine led. “Do not insult me; that you assume I would not see what others do not?” The blonde woman swirled her own drink. “Do not pretend that you do not have something I dearly longed for and made my peace with, then deny it to my face.”
“Satine, I-” Padmé looked shocked now.
“You are not the only woman in this galaxy burdened with love for a man she cannot publicly have,” Satine told her, feeling the same responsibility for Padmé that she had once felt for her own younger sister, Bo-Katan, upon recognizing that her rebellion was taking her too far. Padmé’s mouth formed a line, considering Satine words, but she continued. “I could see it the second I saw you. Padmé, do Master Skywalker and Master Kenobi know of your child?”
That took Padmé aback, and she straightened her shoulders, becoming defensive. “I don’t see how-”
“You have a family,” Satine said softly, “That is something precious.”
Padmé turned her head and looked out the window, her eyes watering slightly. Stine waited. If Senator Amidala wished to confide, she would. To keep the moment from becoming awkward, Satine continued to sip her drink, and pushed the last of her food around her plate.
“We have lost so much… So many friends,” Padmé mourned. “Anakin is anxious and stressed. With Ahsoka gone-”
“Padawan Tano is dead?” Satine asked in alarm. The girl had been a dear friend and she’d loved the young Jedi Padawan. The Galaxy would be a darker place without her.
Padmé aggressively shook her head. “No, no, no. Not dead. She left the Order. Rumours circulate. The latest say she is in the Mandalore System hunting a Sith Lord but-” The senator’s words dwindled in consideration of the woman she sat with, and Satine attempted to soften her words.
“Padmé. That is not why I worry for you,” Satine tried again. “I do not wish for what happened to me to happen to you. I was so swept up in dreams and hopes that I allowed myself to fall for a man I should have realised I could never ask to love me back.” Satine saw Padmé’s face change.
“We are married.”
“I know.”
“And you approve?”
Satine sighed again, “My approval is not a concern for you. What you need is to know just how much you already have. Do not waste it, but if it ends, do not hold to it as I did.” She tried to advise the younger woman. “Know your identity outside of him.”
Padmé didn’t respond. She didn't have to.
Satine reached out and put a hand on her friend’s, and they made eye contact. “When you are a mother, remember you have friends.” She tipped her head to the side meaningfully, “And they’ll have a friend in their Auntie Satine, if I have any say in it.”
Padmé laughed at that. “Auntie Satine it shall be, Force willing.”
With the atmosphere shifted back into a lighter spirit, Padmé commed for the return of the guards and C-3PO, who filed back into the room. Upon their return, The senator set down her glass and shook her head, “Here we are, wallowing in my sorrows in the wake of your own tragedy.”
Satine looked down at the floor. “I would prefer not to think of it right now.” Thinking about her home made her angry. It made her sad. It made her hate her failure. She preferred to try to solve the problems she had access to.
Padmé noticed the change of pace, and said, “I am also your friend, and the day you wish to begin serving your people again, I will help you,” She said, “But I have to agree with Master Kenobi; for now you should rest.”
“I wish I could rest, regain my strength, if it were not for your Chancellor's expectations of me,” The former Duchess stabbed at a piece of food on her plate.
Padmé frowned in concentration, “It is hard for me to believe that he would order you about with no consideration for personal turmoil.”
“I would want to think not, but Master Kenobi is seen by this government as a resource of the Republic, and although he is a free man, his actions saving me from a Separatist-backed terrorist organisation qualify not a a personal matter, but as a Republic expense. Thus making me -in conclusion- a spoil of war.”
“Surely that is not how the Chancellor views you!” Padmé appeared angry now as well. Her service droid informed the senator that she had less than thirty minutes before her next senate meeting began.
“I shall see for sure this afternoon.”
“Would you like for me to accompany you? The Chancellor and I are friends. Perhaps he will listen further to my reasoning,” Padmé offered as the two women sent their dishes back to the kitchens.
“Thank you, but I would like to make my decline as my own person,” Satine told her.
“Then at least allow me to accompany you to the Senate building,” Padmé walked with her to the door.
Satine glanced back at Cody, who shrugged. Though she didn’t want to think of the Commander as a glorified babysitter, it was practical and his protection was a welcome security. Ben would never have been comfortable had he known she was travelling all around Coruscant without protection of some sort, but Satine would never admit such a thing.
Padmé’s speeder was open air and smoother than the Jedi issue one Obi-Wan had borrowed for her. Cody and his two men were right behind them, providing as much security as they could from their speeder. Padmé told Satine about the recent bills she had been backing or fighting and about the war concerns she still worked on. Upon arrival at the Senate Building, her friend bid her good luck, and Satine thanked her again.
“May the Force be with you,” Padmé wished, and Satine stared at the daunting steps ahead of her which lead up into the building. The Brunette looked concerned, unsure what to offer. Satine took a deep breath of determination, and lifted her skirt when she heard her name called. “Satine!”
The blonde woman looked to the source, and she smiled. “Shouldn’t you be in a council meeting?”
Obi-Wan waved off his speeder, and came to her side, “I did tell you I do my own bidding, did I not?”
“Ben,” Satine smiled. “You did not have to come.”
“No,” He offered her his arm, “But I wanted to.” Satine took his outstretched forearm, and braced herself as she began the climb to the Senate building doors. “Are you sure you should be… exerting yourself so?” The Jedi Master asked under his breath.
Beside her, Senator Amidala smirked, and shot Satine a look.
“I will not allow my weakness to be used against me,” Satine replied, and made it to the top, where the Senate Building Guards asked to see her ID.
“This is Duchess Satine Kryze,” Padmé told them, “As I am sure your scans have informed you.”
One of the men held his datapad out. “Yes, but-”
“I have a meeting with the Chancellor,” The blonde woman told them. Her frustration with the chancellor heightened as she realised her request may have either been denied or ignored -neither of which she saw as acceptable for the chancellor of an entire Republic.
“I’m sorry, but we do not see your name on the list of approved entries for today,” The other guard told her. “Senator Amidala, Master Kenobi, you both are-”
“I will be escorting her the entire time,” Obi-Wan added. Satine shot him a look.
“Oh alright,” The guard sighed, allowing them to pass. The Senate building doors opened, a cavernous expanse ready to swallow her whole.
“What did I say abou-”
“It was simply a precaution, my dear,” Obi-Wan cut her off, his eyes begging her not to dispute him. The lift to the top of the senate building was quiet, and Obi-Wan didn’t look at her until they stood outside the Chancellor’s office. The armed guards shifted at the sight of the woman approaching the doors, but did not budge. Satine opened her mouth to speak, but the doors to the office swung open, and inside, Chancellor Palpatine stood behind his desk. “Ah! Duchess Kryze! I must apologise. Your meeting slipped my mind.” Chancellor Palpatine nodded, “And Master Kenobi, Welcome.”
Satine glanced briefly at Obi-Wan at her side, before entering the office. Mas Amedda watched the woman’s every step, and it was not until Palpatine took a seat and motioned for Satine to do the same that he relaxed his grip on his staff.
“Chancellor, I assume you are aware of the nature of my visit?” Satine began as soon as she was seated. Obi-Wan stood behind her, almost at attention. Palpatine narrowed his eyes, and waited for Satine to continue. “I wish to not only decline your… most gracious invitation to your gala, but also ask that the political turmoil of my home planet not be paraded as a spectacle for your guests, used as a motive for rallying their support. Not to mention, but my current state of health-“ Satine pushed the report chip across the desk as offered proof, “-is less than exceptional.”
Chancellor Palpatine looked between the chip, the Jedi, and the blonde woman in front of him. “Duchess Kryze-”
“I am no Duchess, and I ask that you do not address me as such.” Satine folded her hands in her lap, and tilted her head in meaning. “It is a mockery.”
“My greatest apologies, Miss Kryze.” Chancellor Palpatine smiled.
“Accepted,” Satine stated curtly. “Mandalore is -and will remain- a neutral entity in this war.”
“And you have the power to speak for them?”
“I will continue to advocate for their self-determination, with or without their support.” Satine told him. “Because of this, I must request that Mandalore not be a subject of your Party, and my attendance be disregarded. We both know that any sort of inclusion of myself -seen as a Mandalorian- at your party will publicly align my will with that of the Republic, thus opening Mandalore to invasion by the Separatists.”
Palpatine leaned forward, “You do not wish to advocate for peace at any given chance?”
“I think we both know that now is not the most opportune of times to make any sort of public appearance,” Satine countered.
“The political strife of your home world is indeed concerning, however it is not the reason we are speaking this afternoon.” Palpatine sighed.
“I would argue that that is precisely why we are meeting today,” Satine countered. “The needs of my people are not helped by my attendance.”
“Is Mandalore not in need of peace?”
“Yes, but-”
“I simply don’t understand, my dear,” Palpatine continued, “Your hope of bringing Peace to Mandalore can best be shown through your support.”
“But my planet is not in this political strife under their own choice! This is not something I can simply wait out, and hope my people vote me back into power.” Satine retorted, “They are under control of a Terrorist Organization led by a Sith Lord! I do not see how this does not worry you!”
“Miss Kryze, your actions to keep Mandalore neutral and out of Republic assistance has rendered me powerless to help your people.”
Satine gritted her teeth, “Was it not only a year ago when you were prepared to undermine my pleas and send troops of Republic soldiers to Mandalore?” She glared at him, “you say you cannot help my people, yet you demand my presence at a party with the promise that it will help. Something here does not add up.”
“Miss Kryze, I said you could help your people by attending, not myself.” Palpatine replied, and his tone of arrogance was irritating Satine more than she anticipated. Chancellor Palpatine turned his gaze. “Master Kenobi, during your foray to Mandalore, did you encounter separatist invaders?”
Satine knew what he was doing. The Chancellor would not let her go. He would be announcing her escape from Mandalore whether she liked it or not, but it was now up to her to be in attendance to defend herself, or to hide.
Obi-Wan shook his head, “Only Mandalorian defectors, Death Watch, and followers of Darth Maul.”
“And did you go at the behest of your Jedi Council?”
Obi-Wan spoke slowly, “I was on Mandalore entirely on a personal matter. The Duchess and I are friends.”
“So you interfered with internal political affairs based on a personal matter,” Palpatine raised an eyebrow. “Curious.”
Satine heard Obi-Wan’s voice deepen. “Chancellor. Please understand that I used no Republic expense but my own. They would have killed Satine.”
Palpatine folded his hands over his desk, “I have heard that such was the mandalorian way.”
“ Not anymore.” Satine argued.
“Yet you hope they will put this Darth Maul to death on their own, and reinstate you to power?” Palpatine questioned.
“That is not what I-” Satine tried not to raise her voice.
Mos Amedda interrupted her, “Mandalore is declared neutral by a Duchess removed from power, yet the people she formerly governed have rejected her ways in favour of another leader.”
“An off-worlder who rules with lies and terror!” Satine shot back.
“Since when has Mandalore not taken in off-worlders?” Mos Amedda asked.
“Do not change the subject,” Satine seethed.
Obi-Wan took a breath. “If I may, Chancellor?” Satine raised an eyebrow, and warned him with a single look. Chancellor Palpatine studied the interaction. The man nodded. Obi-Wan took a step forward. “It has been my experience that the people of Mandalore are of a stubborn and hardy breed,” He was careful with his words, trying to slip humour into the dire conversation. The Jedi Master stroked his beard thoughtfully. “They will not take well to the pressure of tyranny. No political sway of the Republic will change their resolve, and allowing for Separatist invasion at the feigned rescue from Republic occupation will only fan the flames of war. Satine is right. No public appearance of hers will directly help her people, and sometimes we must allow the dark shadow of tyranny to reveal itself in order for the people it covers to become enlightened.”
Satine took a deep breath, and looked to see the Chancellor’s reaction. She spoke up. “To distract my people from the tightening noose of corruption by parading me about will only delay their destruction.”
“But can you ensure Mandalore’s continued neutrality? Can you ensure they are not a threat?” Palpatine inquired smoothly.
Satine could not answer.
Chancellor Palpatine frowned, “then I am sorry, my dear. It is now up to you and you alone to defend yourself.”
Satine gripped her hands in anger.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Satine has a nightmare. Padme comes through in the wardrobe department. Satine and Obi-Wan attend Palpatine's Party, and Satine has a Panic Attack. Lucky for her, Obi-Wan is an excellent form of stress relief.
It is my headcanon that Obitine occasionally pregame their foreplay by dancing.
Notes:
Sorry, still no real plot in sight, just vibes (:
Also, I absolutely THRIVE off comments, even a couple emojis for me to know you’re there <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Satine grasped for air. Her throat was closed with the compression of an invisible power, and she reached for her neck, her hands futile to counter the Sith Magic. Her vision was leaving her with fuzzy distortions of light and dark. Obi-Wan knelt before the sith lord, debating him on the dangers of the dark side.
Fear grasped her heart, and for the first time, Satine truly realised she was going to die.
The sound of an abnormal blade igniting tore through her senses, then she was flying forward, and she felt nothing at first. Then white hot pain was flaring through her body, and she was falling. “Satine!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, the fear in his eyes melting into pure determination. With a sudden move, he knocked back the men holding him down, and broke free.
Before Satine hit the floor, she was caught by a single strong arm. Obi-Wan was now setting her carefully to the floor, his other arm outstretched. “Obi-!” Satine coughed. Her captor began clawing at his own neck.
The pain was more local now, but the cauterising effect of the weapon did not leave her bleeding. She watched as Obi-Wan stood, and something flew into his hand.
The Darksaber.
“The Light is more powerful than you will ever know,” Obi-Wan held Maul in the air, and Savage Opress and the DeathWatch warriors jumped to defend their leader. Satine watched in rapt horror as Obi-Wan disarmed each and every one in a mere second, occasionally taking limbs at the chinks in their beskar armour. He dropped Maul to the floor and gave the Zabrak just enough time to ignite his red blade before the Jedi lunged. The elegance of Obi-Wan’s usual style was replaced with forthright intent to end the threat. He was fast, faster than Satine’s could track, as he engaged Maul. It didn’t take him long to win his own blue lightsaber back, and he wielded both blades in tandem. Maul used one of his brother’s blades to defend himself, and Savage cheered him on. Satine’s heart ached at the sight, her sweet, gentle, brave Obi-Wan fought with such malice that he seemed to be toying with the sith- barely holding back from whatever his anger demanded he do.
Satine pulled herself up onto her hands, realising that Obi-Wan’s intervention with the Force had prevented her from receiving what otherwise would have been a much graver injury. Her pain was far enough to the left that she knew no major organs had been hurt.
With a war howl, Savage joined the duel. “Obi-Wan!” Satine cried, distracting him long enough for the dark brothers to pin him. Terror rushed through Satine as she feared her call might be the cause of his defeat, but instead Obi-Wan turned their blades against them, and with a shove of the force, beheaded the yellow Zabrak. Bile rose in Satine’s throat as the decapitated form fell at her feet.
Darth Maul wailed for his brother, but ordered his DeathWatch commandos to assist him. The remaining loyal soldiers drew vibroblades and prepared to fire their missiles at the Jedi. Satine crawled away, trying to separate herself from the violence. Loud exclamations of pain carried through the room, and the DeathWatch Commandos flew backward as an explosion of the force hit them in all directions. Maul raged at Obi-Wan, his lightsaber flashing as the three blades struck each other in faster and faster intervals.
Obi-Wan pushed the sith back, farther and farther til with one swift move, he sliced his opponents blade in half, leaving Maul defenceless. Obi-Wan’s sabres crossed, Maul kneeling on the ground.
“Kill me, you coward,” Maul spat.
Obi-Wan set his jaw into a firm expression, “I will not. Only those of the dark side kill unarmed beings,” he brought the blunt end of the sabres down, knocking the Zabrak unconscious. “Sleep,” He ordered, a power behind his words which Satine didn’t want to read into.
Shattering glass heralded the entrance of several Mandalorians on jet packs, their blasters blazing as they took care of the remaining surviving DeathWatch commandos. Obi-Wan did not join them, his work was finished. The sound of the lightsabers powering off was the only noise in the room Satine heard other than the explosions outside that lit up the massive windows and flashed light across the floors. The Jedi stood again, and held the darksaber a moment before throwing it, letting the weapon skitter across the tiles. Satine tried to pull herself upward again, but she felt her head become light and suddenly Obi-Wan was lifting her into his arms. Satine tried to speak, to say what she wanted to tell him, but he hushed her. “Shhhhh, Satine. We have to go.”
Flashes of her war-torn city, running and hijacking a ship with the help of the squad of Mandalorians stained her memory, including the sight of her sister, Bo-Katan, telling Ben to inform the Republic of the takeover, and that Mandalore will survive even with Republic invasion.
Satine tried to beg the war to stop. She tried to tell Obi-Wan to stay and help Bo. But nothing could drown out the accusatory realisation that it was her failure which resulted in this war.
As tears streamed down her cheeks, Satine watched as her beloved home burned.
Satine awoke dreadfully alone, soaked in sweat.
The windows of her flat were still closed for her protection, and Cody’s men were still posted in the reception room. The blonde woman turned over in bed, sighing and gritting her teeth as the ache set in from stretching her injured abdominal muscles. She enjoyed laying in the comfort of solace for a few more moments before she arose, and tried to get ready for the day.
Upon opening her bedchamber doors, Satine was greeted by Commander Cody, who informed her that there had been a delivery early in the morning, addressed to Satine, from the Senator of Naboo. Satine smiled, and asked to be shown the delivery.
Cody waved to a large parcel sitting by the door, and Satine thanked him. “We scanned it for any threats, and came up with no dangerous signatures, Miss Kryze,” The clone told her.
Satine was thankful to find several gowns inside, all within her preferred colours, and a note from Padme and Rynthia hoping that Satine liked the clothing.
There were seven units of attire all together. Three sets of two-pieces, two dresses, a set of loungewear, and at the bottom, a parcel wrapped carefully in tissue paper. Satine carefully unwrapped it to find folded, shimmering silk fabric which took her breath away. The deep blue hues shone slightly with violet and dark emerald tones when it was turned in the light. It was beautiful.
It was angering that such a beautiful gown would be wasted on such a distasteful evening.
Satine wondered if she would see Obi-Wan before the Gala. He’d promised he’d attend to provide her with support. He’d only left her alone with the knowledge that Cody and his men were stationed faithfully at her flat, and though he didn’t say it outright, Obi-Wan had alluded that the clones could not guard her forever. As much as they both hated it, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be around to shield her forever, and Satine would have to find her own means of protection. He’d suggested reaching out to Bo-Katan to begin organising a group of Mandalorians who still believed in Satine’s new ways, but the woman hadn’t replied.
Satine hadn’t had the bravery to tell Obi-Wan the truth.
Her last bargaining chips of influence on Mandalore had been spent on one, desperate plea. Those still loyal to Satine had been tasked with a single mission; get Korkie out and away from the danger. Satine had known that with such a decision, the chance of her survival would plummet, but it would be worth it to get the boy to safety.
Satine’s heart surged at the thought of her son.
She missed her boy with every fibre of her being. Her beautiful boy who looked so much like his father. He was brilliant, kind and brave. During her year on the run, in the midst of the Mandalorian Civil War, Satine had fallen in love with a man she knew she could never ask to love her back. Then when he’d left, she’d wondered if she’d made the right choice. Obi-Wan belonged to his order, to the duty he had to fulfil for the galaxy. But her heart ached with his absence, til she found herself a thief, guilty as she stood. Satine had unknowingly stolen a piece of her Jedi Protector, and she’d had no intention of giving it back.
Her son had been born in the middle of winter on Kalevala, the Moon’s harsh weather a perfect excuse to hide her swollen body. Korben, she’d named the boy. The Mando’a Verb “Kor” roughly translated to being forced to come to a decision . Satine had only realised after the boy’s naming ceremony that her hormone induced passion had caused an immense risk in his name. Anyone with a brain and knowledge of her nickname for the Jedi Padawan would be able to put the pieces together, so Korben became Korkie and her son became her nephew, passed off as the foundling child of her late, estranged elder brother.
Satine prayed to the ancestors that he was safe.
She wished she could reach out to him, make sure he was alright, but Satine knew that communication with the boy would only endanger him, no matter how much it would soothe her worries or not.
A part of Satine wished she could just disappear, never come back, just fade into the memory of the galaxy and never have to deal with these formalities ever again. Perhaps she could raise Korkie not as her nephew, but as her son. But Satine’s love for her people was something she’d never lose, no matter how much her heartbreak of her people’s betrayal hurt her. Palpatine’s promise that her appearance tonight would help them did not encourage her.
She would have to stand firm tonight. Satine was sure her motives would be in the best interest of her home, but tendrils of doubt laced their ways from the darkest parts of her mind, choking her hopes that she could make any real change.
With a firm set jaw, Satine squared her shoulders, and prepared for the challenges of the evening.
Satine entered the party by herself. Padme had arrived earlier with her entourage of senator friends, with General Skywalker shamelessly at her elbow. Satine meandered through the crowds with her head held high, avoiding the judgemental looks of those who kept up with Galactic news. She knew she looked different too- slimmer and less confident. No amount of makeup could cover the tiredness of her eyes, though the powder could obscure the last fading bruises.
Satine found herself a pillar to plant herself by, and watch the festivities, an attempt for a pleasant expression plastered on her face. Occasionally a socialite or politician would stop by and offer their condolences and empty promises for help, and Satine would robotically nod and thank them. She continually scanned the masses for the one person she truly wanted to see tonight. Then a flash of sandy robes and ginger hair caught her eye on the stairwell.
There he was. Satine let her eyes linger.
He’d trimmed his beard and combed his hair, and was dressed in his more formal Jedi Robes. As much as Satine did love him in Kryze colours, she had to admit that the clean tans and browns left him ridiculously attractive. He did love a chance to impress her.
Satine’s lips parted as heat rushed through her body and settled deep in her core. Immediately, Satine swore to herself she’d reconcile herself of her arousal before the night was spent. No doubt he’d give her plenty to think about.
His eyes met hers from across the room. Obi-Wan smiled at her, and began working his way through the crowd. Satine watched him weave through the mass of politicians, giving brief greetings in return to those who tried to stop and chat with him, but he didn’t lose sight of his goal until the man stood right before her. He smelled lovely.
“Good Evening, Master Kenobi,” Satine smiled sweetly.
“You, My Dear, look absolutely divine,” He said quietly. He was a gentleman through and through, his eyes not daring to look down at the skin her dress exposed. Her wardrobe as the Duchess of Mandalore had been modest yet elegant, nothing quite like this- meant purely to visually charm those around her, with its plunging décolleté and form-fitting sleeves.
“Are you incapable of resisting commenting on my beauty each time we meet?” Satine chided.
“Guilty as charged,” The Jedi Master reached behind her, where a droid was serving flutes of champagne. He took two, handing her the other. His eyes looked over the crowd, the huge hall full of politicians, businessmen, and other members of the social elite Chancellor Palpatine had invited. “Last time the Chancellor attended this large of a party, there was a plot against his life…” Obi-Wan remembered.
“When you were…” Satine raised an eyebrow, “Dead, if I recall?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan sighed, “A mission with relational consequences I deeply regret,” The man took a long sip of his champagne. Both knew his lack of an apology in person had been ‘regrettable’ but not his own choice. The Jedi Order was not an easy path to follow, and their regulations for attachments could seem harsh to others who didn’t understand the purpose of it.
Satine knew his unwavering dedication to the code left her with slim choices when it came to their working relationship. He would never come home to her at the end of the day. He could never fulfil the expectations of a husband. He would never be able to ensure her safety. These were things Satine had made peace with decades ago, but in the deepest corners of her heart, Satine could pretend that this was just a regular night out. Two people in love at a party, without years of history between them. Obi-Wan was fierce and loyal, but at the end of the day, he would always do his duty, even if he regretted what was done.
The loud droning chatter of the party guests was subdued as the shades lowered over the windows, lights dimmed, and music started. A slew of dancing performers emerged, floating on wires high above them. Satine watched as the dance began, the moves smooth and fast paced as they moved through the forms of their routine. The crowd gasped in unison as a particularly intricate set of flips were performed in perfect alignment, and Satine watched, impressed. When the lights began to pulse in colours to the cadence of the music, she felt a particular pang of sadness hit her.
This ballet was beautiful. It reminded her of the ballets she’d been forced to learn as a young Lady in her father’s court, back when things seemed so complicated, but she’d been so young, so hopeful that her rule would bring real change. The Duke Adonai Kryze had insisted that it would teach her and Bo-Katan to be light on their feet and give them elegance in the battlefield. Instead, Satine had viewed it as a torturous way to instil old values into new ideas.
The ballet ended with an impressive finale and applause from the onlookers. The lights came back on at half-power, keeping the attention of the audience that something was still to come.
Obi-wan shifted on his feet, avoiding just enough eye contact for Satine to feel an undercurrent of anxiety. She wasn’t a proud woman, but Satine certainly wasn't unaware that Ben did have a noticeable trend of focusing on her virtually non-stop each time they shared a space. He tried to throw her off by offering to accompany her to the dancefloor, and Satine accepted, but remained suspicious. Or maybe she was simply paranoid. Some people will become paranoid after recent trauma.
“You seem on edge, Master Kenobi,” Satine tried to converse as they walked through the crowd.
“Never better,” Obi-Wan answered nonchalantly, and he passed off their empty glasses to a service droid. He guided her to the edge of a large open space near a huge table of hor devours. He tried to mellow the mood again, asking, “Can I get you anything, My Dear?”
Satine frowned. He was being abnormally attentive and though she relished being the only person in the room to him, it wasn't like Obi-Wan to not be paying a single bit of attention to those around him. It was as if he would become lost in his head, then snap back to reality and over play his charm to make up for his absence. Obi-Wan tilted his head, “Are you alright, Satine?”
“I don’t know, Ben,” Satine hissed, “You just seem off.”
Before he could answer, a loud fanfare was played, and lights came on, illuminating a decorated balcony high above the huge hall, where Chancellor Palpatine stood. Cheers erupted from the crowd, subdued when the man lifted his arms to silence them. Holoscreens popped up on either side, showing the live image of the Chancellor for everyone to see. “Friends,” Palpatine greeted with a smile, “Welcome to the fifth annual Party of Peace!”
Cheers once again erupted from the crowds, and Palpatine charmed the people with his words, thanking the people for coming. “Wasn’t that ballet just lovely?” He added, and looked out over the people. “Such a beautiful metaphor for the fact that when everyone does their part, life becomes much more beautiful, don’t you think?” The Chancellor said.
Satine squinted as she tried to assess what the Chancellor was trying to build up to. Unfortunately, it was not too long before she found out.
“I would like to formally welcome all you Republic -and neutral systems- represented here tonight. Tonight we shall commune and host progressive conversation to help end the war we all have suffered the effects from. So many in this Galaxy have been touched by the strife of this conflict, and I cannot pretend to like the work we must do, even with the pride I feel at your most valiant efforts.” Chancellor Palpatine lifted up a glass of champagne, “As we raise awareness for current issues, I’d like to extend a most heartfelt condolence to a very special guest, Former Duchess Satine Kryze, who is here tonight, fighting for the continued neutrality of the Mandalore system. She has stood as an… inspiration to us all.”
Satine froze as a thousand eyes found her, staring her down with a plethora of opinions.
Palpatine lifted the glass higher, “To Peace!”
The entire hall repeated after him, “TO PEACE!”
A roaring in her ears caused the Blonde woman to wobble in her heels, and the people around her drank to the cheer, but all she saw was her vision tunnelling and the floor spinning. Her heartbeat echoed in her head, adding to the crashing waves and loud ringing. Obi-Wan looked to her with alarm, sensing her sudden rise in emotion.
Music was starting somewhere, and the blonde tried to tune it out. “Just keep face for now, Satine,” Obi-Wan encouraged her, and she felt him push against her back, suggesting she move to the edge of the crowd. His hand held her arm, steadying the woman and keeping her upright.
Suddenly it was too hot. Her dress felt like it was stuck to her very skin and everything was much too loud. Every breath was a struggle to intake and expel, and Obi-Wan was still behind her, the music carrying through the entire building. His hand was on her back, trying to keep her from falling over. People turned to stare, whispering amongst themselves about the disgraced duchess.
“I heard she misled her people to war.”
“Why is she still wearing her royal colours?”
“Can you believe her own sister led the rebellion against her?”
“Dar’Manda.”
The words hit Satine’s ears like fire. She’d never before allowed herself to be affected by holonet slanders or idle gossip or made up scandals before. But now, with everything, it was eating at her psyche like a disease, breaking down her hard-won barriers she’d built over years of practice.
“I can’t do this,” Satine stated between breaths as she made her way to the doors, “I can’t do this anymore.”
They broke out into a quiet hallway, where the cooler air hit her face. She forced air into her lungs, and the doors swung shut behind her. As soon as she didn’t feel the judgemental gaze of the crowds upon her back, Satine gasped for breath, her composure slipping.
The remaining drops of the setting sun pouring through the massive windows brightened up the whole area, giving a view of Upper Coruscant, -a drastic difference from the dimmed hall she’d left.
Satine tried to force air into her lungs, the heaving of her ribs bringing exploding pain to her middle, the Bacta strips under her dress tearing. She ignored it.
“Look at the sky, Cyar’ika,” Ben whispered.
“I can’t do this anymore!” Satine pressed her lips together, her dress still too hot and the music was still pouring in through the closed doors.
“Satine,” Obi-Wan said, softer this time. “The sky is beautiful, is it not?”
“Do not try to distract me with pleasantries!” Satine snapped at him, her hand flying out to push him away.
He silenced himself at that, and stood almost at attention, still on cautious display, though they were alone in the hall. Satine let two tears slip. One for her home, and one for her anger. Her body shook with her uneven breathing, and her healing wounds at the top of her abdominal cavity screamed at her. Satine’s hand flew back, grasping at the pain, and Obi-Wan flinched at the sight.
Satine tried to keep her jaw from shaking, and she leaned against the wall, doing her best to neutralise her face. Though her eyes were closed tightly, the bright sunset still stained her vision.
Satine finally looked.The clouds were beautiful, with bright swaths of pink and orange and purple against the flashing silver of the buildings. The sun was almost gone. They had precious few minutes of light left. There was an old trick to stop tears by looking at a bright light -such as the sky. It seemed to do the job well enough.
Once Satine was standing straight again, her hands folded themselves neatly in front of her out of habit. The music was still going inside, as it crescendoed through its finale. The finishing note was followed with applause, and Satine closed her eyes again, the memory of the jeering crowds of her homeworld haunting her. As soon as the thunderous cheering ended, a soft sound hummed through the clamour, and the first measures of a waltz began. Behind the woman, Obi-Wan addressed her. “Dance with me, Duchess?”
Satine whorled around to look at him. Her frustration dissipated as she looked at his hopeful gaze. The Jedi Master had one hand behind his back, the other outstretched in offering. He was so handsome in the dying light, causing his ginger hair to flash like fire. Satine parted her lips, unsure.
“Perhaps I should try again,” Obi-Wan shrugged, “Might I have this dance, Cyar’ika?”
Against her better knowledge, Satine looked down at the floor for a half second before meeting his eyes again, and she accepted. As soon as her hand found his, the two took mindful steps into the first forms of a well known waltz. Years ago, when they had been so young, their very first foundations of friendship had been built on the exchange of dance. Satine had taught him traditional Mandalorian line and folk dances and Obi-Wan had reciprocated with the various ceremonial dances he’d learned as a Youngling in the Temple in his Galactic Cultural classes. However they’d both enjoyed a good waltz. It had been refreshing as a young woman, tired of camping, to have a formality like dancing still be accessible to her. Her year on the run had lacked greatly in routine, so Satine had jumped on every chance to have some sense of decorum returned to her life. And on nights Master Jinn had deemed their safety sufficient, Satine had asked her Jedi Protector for a dance.
With his non-dominant hand slipped around her waist and planted in place, they began. It was a familiar set of steps. Synonymous footwork paired with flourishes of the hands and skirts. Satine let the Jedi lead, her hand in his, her other upon his shoulder. They made their first turn, Satine’s skirts flaring out dramatically. Obi-Wan turned and spun on his heel, mirroring her movements as he stepped backwards to let her lean forward, his arms raising her own in time with the music before he swung her around back into position. With the swell of the chords, Obi-Wan made a sudden swerve to the left, catching Satine off guard before she remembered, back when they’d danced on a ship too small to make a full pass, where their waltz had been squished into three small rotations instead of a single large cycle. Satine laughed at the memory, and she saw the same joy in his eyes at the thought. They made another quarter turn, and Satine found herself inches away from him before she was out and spinning, fast steps out around him, her skirts leaving a comet trail behind her in her half-orbit. A lock-step then natural spin, Satine remembered the steps, and her back was pressed against his chest, her arms held crossed before her, then he was releasing her, letting her unwind from his embrace, before she was back facing him again.
Back and forth, right then left, and another quarter turn and Satine was trying not to trip through the quick, small steps, relying on her residual muscle memory to carry her the rest of the way. “How lucky of me to get the most beautiful of dancers?” Obi-Wan teased into her ear.
“You should be mindful of where your words get you,” Satine breathed, “You may find yourself in a compromising situation,” She let him pause, and she wrapped her left leg around his own, before leaning back and allowing him to dip her low, her back arched into his arm. It was a move which had taken the two teenagers a couple weeks to master, their earliest attempts having left them in a pile on the ground with Master Qui-Gon laughing in the background. But they’d grown up. Obi-Wan was solid and Satine much more graceful with her balance, no longer pulling the two of them in the general direction of the floor. His breath was hot against her cheek, and he lifted her slowly -much more slowly than necessary, as if showing off. Her arm around his neck kept her close.
“Impressive, for a Jedi,” Satine teased back, her leg lightening it’s grip on his knee, letting him go and they sidestepped, their shadows growing longer and melting into the walls as the last of the sunlight disappeared. The purple and gold afterglow bathed the city in an unnatural light, teetering between day and night, blue twilight setting in.
“Do you still want to-”
“Yes,” Satine interrupted, and Obi-Wan accelerated the turns, building momentum with the rise in the music, until with a turn and a pivot of his heel, Obi-Wan’s hands found her waist, and he lifted her off the floor, spinning like when they were teenagers, laughing at his ability to lift her with confidence that grew with each try. Satine’s hair flew into her face, her skirts twisting around her legs when she landed, and they spun immediately into the other direction, finding their footing together. Lights from the city were becoming visible, their numerous glows reflecting off the glass windows and in Obi-Wan’s eyes. Gods, she was in love with him.
He must have sensed her shift in demeanour, because their last two forms of the dance made their way into more intimate placements until Satine was practically dancing against him rather than with him.
Through the second pass, when she was once again pressed against his chest with her arms crossed in front, The man softly nipped her ear and asked “Is this compromising enough for you, my dear?” Obi-Wan had perhaps gotten too confident in their solitude in the hall, as nobody had followed to check on Satine after her outburst. The music changed keys, and the two reached up, hands meeting as they made a full circle around each other in perfect sync.
“What was it you said about keeping face?” Satine countered, let him spin her out, then back against him, their faces inches apart.
“Well I seem to recall a certain ‘let them see’ from you,” He quoted her. They counted softly to the music under their breaths, right then left, back and forth towards the end of the second cycle. This time, when Obi-Wan dipped her, he caught her by surprise, and he reached down and lifted her leg by her thigh, pressing her close into a position reminiscent of more coital activities. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and kept her close enough to press a chaste kiss to her lips. As soon as Satine relaxed into the unexpected moment, he pulled away, baiting her.
Several steps more and Satine once again consented to the twirl, letting him lift her in the air before she found her footing, and he was so close…
Obi-Wan’s hands this time grasped her shoulders and spun her, breaking the well known pattern. Satine tried to follow, but his new sequence was not one she knew until it was apparent he was leading her into something closer to complete improvisation. She furrowed her brows in confusion, and proceeded to make her way after him. He wrapped one arm across her chest, swaying with the refrain. Satine leaned back, trying to memorise the moment.
Satine almost jumped when Obi-Wan’s beard tickled her skin, then he was kissing her neck, working downwards as his hands began to roam. He hummed in appreciation when his fingertips traced the plunging neckline of her dress. Excitement swelled within her chest, and she pressed one palm against his cheek, the music finding a lull as the combination of the strings and Obi-Wan’s tricks built anticipation. His very body was inviting her in, his warm hands playing her like an instrument in their study of her sternum.
Then he was gone.
“Bastard!” Satine accused under her breath, when the familiar rhythm of the waltz was restored. He led her through a Chassé Reverse, and caught her again.
“That’s no way to address a Jedi Master,” he beckoned her closer. The dance was almost over and the Music was working towards its height. His hands were hot against the bare back of her dress, and the cool strings of beads were rolling across her skin, countering the heat of his palms.
“And that’s no way to treat a lady,” Satine countered.
“And how would my lady like to be treated?” He feigned innocence, but the look in his eye was nothing but.
“You really are quite the ladies man, aren’t you, Master Kenobi?” Satine sighed in mock exasperation, and she closed her eyes as the music built up, the melody bringing them closer to the final steps. His wicked grin was torturing her. This time when he lifted her, Satine didn’t let him run, and she kissed her Jedi lover for all she was worth, her hands pulling his face down to meet her own.
Obi-Wan set her back down on her feet as the last notes sailed through the hall, and they broke the kiss breathlessly. Satine looked at him, searching his eyes for a flicker of his furthest intentions, but then he was kissing her again, backing her into the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, and she had her answer. The glass, chilled by the upper atmosphere, was cold against her back, and Satine suppressed a shiver, unsure if it originated from the chill or what Obi-Wan was doing with his hands.
Obi-Wan lifted one of her legs, her back hitting the glass again and he searched her body for anything he could get his hands on. Satine grabbed him by the seams of his tabard, and she reached out with her tongue, their breaths caught in excitement for what was to come. Satine was victorious when his mouth opened and she had access to whatever she could reach. His beard was rough on her chin, but she ignored it, and she found herself gasping for air when they did separate. Obi-Wan caught her off guard when he hiked her skirts up, and he squeezed her thigh before trailing his hand tantalisingly slow upwards to her sex. He stroked the inside of her thighs, eliciting a moan from her. He then slipped two fingers past her smallclothes, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves. She felt his smile against her lips when his fingers rendered her unstable, the expert motion of Obi-Wan’s digits sending waves of pleasure throughout her body.
“Are these pleasantries permissible for your distraction?” Obi-Wan trailed his hands further downward, breaking into a devilish grin when Satine stuttered. Obi-Wan instructed, “Use your words, Duchess.”
“Yes, Ben,” She finally gasped out. The thrill of the possibility of being seen caused Satine to feel fifteen years younger, and she bit back a moan as the Jedi teased her clit with his fingertips, slowly building pressure.
“You’re so wet for me, Cyar’ika,” Obi-Wan observed with a pur, and he worked carefully, monitoring her breathing as he drew circles around her. He teased, “Has my needy little Duchess been this desperate all night?” He already knew the answer.
Satine’s back against the window brought a sense of scandal and risk Satine would otherwise have avoided, but the way Obi-Wan was touching her, sending shocks of pleasure to her very bones erased all rationale. The fear of being caught instead turned her on further.
Satine tried to lean into his touch to increase the effect of his efforts, but found herself unable to move. In any other time, Satine would have loved his use of the Force to restrain her, but right now, it was too much like-
“Let me go,” Satine stated firmly, her hand gripping his wrist. Obi-Wan froze, and the invisible power released immediately. The atmosphere of the moment snapped, and suddenly Obi-Wan looked apologetic.
His hand stilled, and he winced at the realisation. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t even think-”
“Don’t do it again,” Satine told him, and Ben was hesitant to resume, as if the reminder of her injuries made him unsure about where this was headed. She closed her eyes, then attempted to encourage him. “But don’t work me up to nothing,” She tried to joke, and Obi-Wan caught her drift, continuing where he left off. When he finally, finally inserted a finger, Satine moaned loud enough that Obi-Wan shot her a look. “Oh please,” Satine huffed, “You like it when I-” She was cut off when he doubled his digits, hooking two fingers inside, his thumb still on her clit. Satine was biting down to keep an obscene noise from escaping her lips, and she noted the amusement on her lover’s face.
“You’re right,” Obi-Wan smirked, “I do.” Satine lightly smacked his arm. Obi-Wan snickered despite himself, “For a Pacifist, you sure take an unseemly pleasure in abusing me.”
“Masochist,” Satine tipped her chin at him.
“Idealist,” Obi-Wan shot back, retracting and replacing his digits at her preferred tempo.
“Jedi,” Satine trilled and rolled her eyes, biting her lip to avoid whimpering at the sensation that was building as her nervous system sent prickles up her arms when Obi-Wan hit the right spot inside her.
This time, Satine couldn't stay quiet, and she began freely expressing her pleasure verbally, and her Jedi didn’t attempt to stop her. The darkness of twilight had ushered in a dim glow from the city lights, and Satine hoped that at least if she were heard, they wouldn’t be seen. It didn’t take long for Satine to soon recognise the delicious shivvers that ran through her as Obi-Wan brought her to the cusp of release, and with an expert twist of his fingers, Satine came undone. She vaguely noticed the way she cried out his name, and she saw stars as her brain short circuited. Obi-Wan propped her up as her legs turned to jelly, and Satine gripped his biceps to attempt to not fall over at the overwhelming sensations washing over her.
Their sordid affair would not be secret for long if she kept making this much noise.
Satine saw stars, and as she came off her high, gasping and breathless. She finally forced her eyes open, and in the Dim light, she saw Obi-Wan watching her with an attentive gaze. He swallowed suddenly, and his hand retreated from her heat, allowing the skirts to fall back to the floor.
Suddenly, lights flashed, and fireworks erupted outside the window. The doors to the hall opened, and out poured the party-goers, vying for the best spot to watch the festivities from balconies and windows. Obi-Wan hastily cleaned his hands on his robe.
“We appear to have impeccable timing,” Obi-Wan whispered as the people continued to stream through the doors only seconds after he detached from her and Satine stepped away from the window. He looked between Satine and the fireworks. “That explains why this airspace sector was closed down.”
“Shall we take this somewhere else?” Satine tempted him, palming his growing erection through his pants. It was still dark enough that the placement of her hand would be hidden to anyone not looking at the couple.
“I’m worried about your health,” Obi-Wan pushed her hand away, now wary of the people who were swarming the windows to watch the show. He was standing straight again, his professionalism dawned once more.
“I’ve heard sex is an excellent form of stress relief,” Satine grinned. Obi-Wan didn’t take long to decide, and with a suggestive smile, Satine invited him to her flat.
Notes:
Next Chapter is pure smut... with a little angst thrown in because is it even Obitine without Angst
Chapter 3
Summary:
Satine and Obi-Wan get what they’ve been craving. Satine considers her relationship with Obi-Wan and their future. Obi-Wan is excellent at providing her with material for thought.
Chapter Text
His hands on her shoulders did no favours to her concentration as the Mandalorian woman fumbled with the keypad to her flat. She was just as desperate, but the way he was pressing his hardness into her rear and running his hands over her body had Satine struggling to recall the simple alphanumerics.
They barely made it through the door of her flat before Satine was tearing at his outer robes, kissing him ferociously, hard enough their teeth scraped together. Obi-Wan was just as fervent, his war-calloused hands roaming her skin, pressing her flush against him by his palms on her ass.
Satine gasped for breath, heat once again rushing through her core, “Will you tell me now?” The man didn’t answer, and ground his arousal against her. Satine squinted at him, but he avoided her gaze.
It took a few more kisses to coax the truth from him, “They're sending me to the Outer Rim Sieges, My dear,” Obi-Wan confessed. “Usually I’d be sent on Meditative retreat to reflect on my misdemeanour-,” He hummed silently when her fingernails scraped over his scalp and down the back of his neck. “-however with the state of the galaxy, I am deemed too valuable to waste,” He told her, his nose tracing her neck. Satine smiled in agreement.
“When do you leave?” Satine’s breath caught when he lightly nipped the base of her neck.
“Tomorrow morning. Anakin and I will be taking six whole Attack Cruisers to the Outer Rim,” He whispered the last bit. She pressed more of her weight onto him, and she pulled him down. Obi-Wan let her lead, pressing kisses into her neck and towards her shoulders.
Satine tilted her neck back, letting the Jedi Master access more of her skin, “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know,” He mumbled into her collarbone. Obi-Wan’s hands found their way to the side of her dress, where he began quickly unclasping it. It would be a lie if he didn’t admit he conscripted the assistance of the force in getting her bare before him.
Satine frowned, “Blazing Lightsabres do not slaughter bad ideas. Better ideas do.”
Obi-Wan chuckled, “if only all men had your determination for peaceful resolution,” he said.
“I believe all people have the capability to be brought to a place of reason.”
“As do I, but sadly, too many require motivations other than intellectual persuasion,” he argued.
Satine quirked a brow as she found the buckle of his belt. Only he would argue politics as he was undressed. “Do you view it as your Force-given duty to provide that persuasion?”
She curled a hand under the seam of his pants, pulling him closer. Obi-Wan fumbled with the clasps near her hips, fingers slipping over the lustrous silk fabric. He shook his head. “My duty is to the lives -every life- in this galaxy.”
“And your Jetii Council sees this war as the greatest use of your talents. A damn shame,” she sighed when his hands slipped under the dress, setting her skin aflame with his pursuits. “I’d much rather keep you here.”
“Then it is good thing that there are other talents of mine at your disposal,” Obi-Wan teased. Satine broke into a smile.
“Then fuck me like it’s our last night together.” Her own words surprised her, but she meant every one. “Undress me like you mean it.”
“As my Cyar’ika demands,” Obi-Wan breathed, and in one swift move, he peeled her resplendent dress from her body, allowing her to pull her arms from the sleeves. He slipped a finger past the band of her small clothes, and helped her step out of them. He seemed pleased she’d forgone any sort of bra. As soon as she stood without a thread on her, save her heels, Satine pushed Obi-Wan backwards with a single hand, and he gave way, stepping slowly, his eyes never leaving her’s. The Pride of the Jedi Order was pliable under her every touch. Her loving, anticipating gaze was reciprocated by the man, who was backed up till his ankles met the base of the couch. He sat down slowly, eyes raking over her nude body. Satine placed her hands on her hips, and with a slow movement, lifted one leg up, giving him a show of it. She lightly pressed her foot against his front, and Obi-Wan leaned back, his hands coming up to touch her calf. Satine gave him a mischievous smile, and Obi-Wan didn’t need further instruction, the pressure on his sternum evident of her intent. Take it off.
Obi-Wan licked his lips, and he began slowly undoing the straps of her heel, then slipped it off her foot, setting it to the side. He knew better than to toss expensive shoes. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her knee. Satine switched out, and once her other foot was free of its own heel, He repeated his former action, but this time pulled her forward. He began placing sloppy kisses up her legs, until Obi-Wan stilled his hands on her thighs to give her a squeeze. He looked up at her, and tilted his head upwards to admire her. He leaned forward to reach for her hand, offering his own. Satine knew her pace was tantalising, reasonably torturous for the poor man, as the blonde woman sank down so that she sat upon the Jedi. Satine straddled him, kissing him slowly, his hands exploring her hips and occasionally kneading the muscle. Obi-Wan reached to grip her ass, and pulled her closer.
“Round one here, then my bed,” Satine whispered, and softly spoke into his ear, “I need you, Ben.” She knew how much he liked to be at eye level with her tits, and she didn’t intend to disappoint.
Obi-Wan slowed his exploration of her skin, his fingers light upon the Bacta strips still wrapped around her. He was cautious. “Satine-”
“I will tell you if I feel any pain,” Satine assured him, and worked to rid him of the last of his own clothing, leaving him bare from the waist up and only the lower half in desperate need of removal.
“Well I certainly do not intend to cause you any pain tonight, Sat’ika,” Obi-Wan said. He followed his words by taking one of her breasts into his mouth, his hands firmly planted at her hips, gripping tightly as he forced her down, building tension between them. Satine gasped when his teeth scraped across her nipple, his tongue making soothing swirls over her.
Obi-Wan continued to grind her down upon his growing erection, and Satine took a certain pride in being the cause. She smiled to herself, her hands finally exploring his warrior’s body. The incredulous Mandalorian blood in her found great attraction in the amount of battle scars his skin bore, but the lover in her anguished over the thought of him being hurt, of being in pain. Her fingertips traced several marks, from deep lashes in his back to lightsabre burns on his shoulders and arms.
He’d told her little over the years about his injuries; Zygonian Slavers, a duel with Count Dooku, a wayward blaster shot or two, and more. Satine almost jumped when Obi-Wan’s right hand released her hip and made its way between her thighs. His fingers found her clit and began rubbing circles. The heat in her gut made itself known again, and Satine found herself moving to increase the friction. Obi-Wan’s current occupation with her breasts kept him from commenting on her attempt to get herself off, but at any other instance he would have made his recognition of her ventures known.
Satine wove her fingers through his hair, aware of how much he liked it when she was rough with the ginger locks. Satine pulled his head back, and Obi-Wan’s mouth detached from her breast, his eyes disappointed as they stared into hers, asking what the interruption was for. Satine resisted a giggle. He looked like a lothcat with those big eyes. Satine finally forced the words out. “You need to remove your pants, or we’ll stain them,” She warned. The city lights combined with the bright glow of two of Coruscant's four moons cast dramatic shadows through the dark room, and Satine admired her view as Obi-Wan complied. He lifted his hips, pulling down the fabric til he was in nothing, kicking the garments away, the two completely naked. His erection sprung free, and Satine bit her lip in anticipation.
“Better?” Obi-Wan asked, and Satine nodded in agreement. She meandered a hand down, taking her prize in her hand. Obi-Wan’s breath caught, and Satine worked him, finding the shudder of his body deeply arousing. She changed methods, and when he groaned, she knew she’d found something to make him ready.
“I want you Obi,” Satine was prepared to take him, but she had to make sure he was comfortable too.
Obi-wan’s stomach muscles tensed in an attempt to keep his hips from bucking. “My Dear,” Obi-Wan addressed, his voice suddenly deeper and more gravely, “If you keep touching me like this, I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
Satine wasn’t going to complain. She released him, and wandered her hands down his arms. “Are you ready?” Satine waited for his answer. The throb between her thighs was beginning to make her impatient.
“I think that was supposed be my question,” Obi-Wan joked, but nodded, and he placed his hands on her hips. “Do we need protection?” Obi-Wan suddenly asked.
Satine shook her head, “I have an implant,” she told him. Obi-Wan’s eyebrows furrowed in thought, as he clearly was wondering why she had gone to the trouble when their coital affairs were so few and far between. “There hasn’t been anyone else,” Satine reassured him, but refused to add the fact that her reasons for the semi-permanent birth control was not simply a casual mode of preventive measure, but because of her knowledge that they were most certainly compatible.
Obi-Wan was immediately distracted when Satine aligned them carefully, and she lowered herself down, allowing her body to adjust. She made a few thrusts before he was completely seated inside her. Absolutely perfect. They both let out a moan, and Obi-Wan looked at her with the most intense expression on his face. It was something he usually masked in his more mature years; a look of pure besottment that made Satine want to grab his face and kiss him.
So she did.
His hands squeezed her hips, bringing her down upon him. The two paused to breathe to let the adrenaline subside enough to concentrate, “Ben,” Satine said, biting her tongue to keep her thoughts straight, “Move.”
They started slow, building a rhythm that worked best for them both. She rolled her hips, relishing the hypnotic energy between them, the feverish combination of Force and passion leaving them both utterly intoxicated with the feel of the other. Satine fisted his hair, throwing her head back as a particular thrust left her keening. His constant massage of her clit kept her pleasure up til she was fully comfortable, then his lips rendered Satine insatiable, his talents spent where she craved his touch the most. “Obi…” She moaned his name, and his hands roamed across her back.
The feeling of him sheathed fully inside her left Satine with a sense of completeness she hadn’t allowed herself to crave in ages. Her years of forcing her own emotional needs down and away from necessity brought her to a teetering tension readily unlocked and released with every gracing touch Obi-Wan worshipped her with. Then again, he had that effect on her.
As the pleasure built, Satine’s focus left her in favour of intensely deliberate thrusts of her hips, the raw passion setting off the beginning of the chain reaction they both chased. “Stars, Satine,” Obi-Wan exclaimed. She clenched around him, and under her hands, Obi-Wan’s stomach muscles fluttered with the effort of staying in control. Satine felt her body practically singing with the unspoken plea for an explosion of pent-up desire to resolve their need.
“Just let go, Ben,” Satine told him, riding the euphoria to its peak, and suddenly Obi-Wan was chanting her name and Satine was holding on as if she’d disappear without him there to ground her. The Jedi came at her words, his release blooming with a heat inside her that sent the woman over the edge following suit, her interior muscles contracting around him. She screamed his name, and then it was Obi-Wan encouraging her through the height of surrender, ecstasy washed over them till there was nothing but the sound of their shared breaths and Satine’s mumblings of his name.
Her high dissipated, and Satine took a few deep breaths to let her body relax. Obi-Wan was messing with her hair, twirling the soft curls at the base of her neck. “So beautiful,” he said, eyes hazy with endorphins. She leaned against his chest, head on his shoulder. He turned his nose into her hair. The closeness of their embrace, the connection and comfort as he remained buried within her made the worry in her heart seem so far away. Satine simply sat, a dull soreness beginning to make itself known in her thighs, and she bit her tongue to jumpstart the return of feeling to her extremities.
“Good?” Obi-Wan asked, his fingers threaded in her hair.
Satine nodded into his neck, her eyebrows up as if to insinuate that it was an obvious answer. “Yes, My Dear.”
He held her for as long as she needed til he began to notice the chill setting in which Satine had been ignoring. The heat of sex had abandoned them, and the slight layer of sweat wasn’t doing either of them any favours. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, cautious around her bandages.
“Cyar’ika,” he whispered, “You’re going to get cold,” he warned.
“No,” Satine turned her head to look at him. “I have a big bantha heater right here.”
Obi-Wan laughed softly. “Come on, I know just the thing to warm you up.”
“No,” Satine frowned.
“You have a whole dozen bottles of Alderaan Whiskey back behind that cabinet.” he tempted her, “we could break one open.” She gave him a surprised expression at his knowledge. Obi-Wan shrugged, “Anakin always finds the alcohol in security sweeps,” he explained.
Satine gave him a lazy grin. She leaned back off him, the rush of cold air on her chest making her shiver. He slid out of her, and Satine rolled over so that she sat, naked as the day she was born, on the couch. They weren't teenagers anymore, no matter how much he brought the youthful spirit back to her, and they would need a moment -and maybe a drink- to recover before they engaged again.
Obi-Wan rose, and reached over to pick her dress off the floor, and Satine waited as he stepped behind her and draped it over her shoulders. “Real sexy of you, Ben,” Satine teased, but the welcome warmth was not to be rejected. How silly she must look, post lovemaking with an evening gown thrown over her shoulders. Satine leaned back in the corner of the armrest, lounging as she admired the view before her. His back was a beautiful sight to behold, sinew and muscle rippling under his marked skin. The pink, raised lash marks from the Zygonian slavers made her seethe deep in her heart, and she hoped he’d never have to endure such torture again.
Obi-Wan leaned over and kicked his discarded pants into his hands, and Satine watched as he pulled them back on. She made a playfully disappointed noise. “Not much point to that. You’ll just be taking them off within the hour,” she joked. Obi-Wan shook his head at her with an amused glance. The Jedi stepped over to the bar, and found the cabinet. He selected a bottle, inspected it, and looked back, waving it for her approval. Satine shrugged, and he selected two glasses, bringing it all over. He handed her an empty one. As soon as he was seated again, the woman waited patiently as Obi-Wan cracked the seal. He poured her a light glass first, and when he went to pour his own, Satine extended her leg and poked him in the thigh with her toes, tilting her glass back at him, “Little more, here?”
Obi-Wan sighed, and obliged. Satine took a sip with a smile. It wasn’t like the course Kalevalan moonshine which herself and Bo had snuck out to sample when they were teenagers, but the burn in her throat was just as familiar. The rush through her system was almost instantaneous.
Her Jedi tipped his glass back, and took a large swallow. He immediately gave a dry cough, which he smothered with a fist. “That is, uh, strong,” he observed, eyes watering slightly, much to the amusement of Satine, who laughed. Obi-Wan watched as she took a long swill, and she smirked. He shook his head, “I’ve forgotten how well you hold your alcohol now,” he said.
Satine scoffed, “‘now?’”
Obi-Wan tilted his head. “Oh please. The one time Master Qui-Gon let you try his liquor had you flushed all night.”
“I would argue it was not just the liquor that had me flushed,” Satine narrowed her eyes in challenge.
Obi-Wan took another sip. “You were a lightweight.”
“And yet it was you who seemed to lose all reason,” Satine remembered.
“You have that effect on me.” He told her. The rain on Draboon had been dreary, freezing them to the bone. Master Qui-Gon had offered the two teens sips from his stash of liquor for ‘medicinal purposes’, but as soon as he’d left to find more firewood, Obi-Wan had become, well, touchy. They’d been done by the time the Jedi Master returned, and never once told him the true reason behind their blushing cheeks and warmed up bones, though Qui-Gon admitted months later to have purposely made several extra trips around the perimeter of the cave than necessary.
“I seem to remember the uptight young lady who’d never done a scandalous thing in her life embarrassed to fuck a Jedi in a cave.” Obi-Wan countered.
“You know they used to call me a prude, and some still do.” Satine swirled her glass, watching the whisky revolve with the momentum. She reached out and poked him in the leg with a toe, “but that's just because they’ve never seen us go at it,” she added with a coy smile, sipping the whiskey in her glass, watching over the rim as he reddened at her words.
“Good to know I’ve single-handedly graduated the Prudish Satine Kryze to philanderer.” He gave her a mischievous grin. Satine’s mouth opened in shock.
“I am not!” This time, Satine kicked him pointedly once more in the thigh and he caught her by her ankle, his Jedi Reflexes faster than she expected, catching Satine off guard when he pulled her towards him. Her back slid across the cushions of the couch and she felt the dress slide off her shoulders. Satine set her empty glass on the floor, letting the man bring her closer. “I am no philanderer,” she spat. She knew he was just trying to get under her skin, but this was half the fun. “If anyone here is the philanderer, it is not me.” She reached out and poked his chest. “Perhaps we should be looking at the man who flirts for a living.”
“It’s called Negotiation. It’s not my fault it isn’t always aggressive.” Obi-Wan reached out and swung her legs up over onto his lap, settling her into his arms. The dress fell off her shoulders. He abandoned his glass, hands reaching up to cup her jaw. “Or would you prefer it always be aggressive?”
“I might make the smallest of exceptions it it keeps you all to myself.” They both knew she wasn’t serious, but the squint of her eyes revealed the hidden truth in her words.
He tipped her chin up towards his piercing gaze. “Oh, getting possessive now, are we? How very Mandalorian of you.”
“Do not patronise me for loving you,” Satine threw the words out carelessly, but there was a shift in the atmosphere of the room at her verbal exclamation. They were words rarely said, and never reciprocated. Perhaps it was the whiskey that made her so bold, or the knowledge that soon they would be parting ways, come morning.
“Loving me, huh?” Obi-Wan echoed her, a look in his eyes alluding to the emotional war he waged inside. Must it be said? His eyes seemed to beg. It was instantaneous when he snapped back to reality. He broke into a forced smile, “don’t you have a reputation to maintain?”
“Why don’t you come here and find out yourself?” Satine prompted. Both knew this was headed, it was just up to one to take initiative before the other.
“I think I might,” Obi-Wan whispered, and pulled her jaw upwards to slant his lips over hers, taking it slow. He held her close, the kisses sweet and intimate. Satine did what she could to commit the moment to memory, trying to forget that this was in many ways a goodbye. She brought herself towards him, shifting so that she sat on his lap. “You taste like Whiskey.” He said between languid kisses. She snuck a hand down to cup his returning erection, pleased to find her endeavours unwasted.
“There’s other things I could taste like,” Satine smirked under his mouth. She stroked him through the thick material he wore, “How about we take this sabre for another spin?”
“Please never, ever, call it that again,” Obi-Wan cringed, his cheeks flushing in a very boyish way.
She pressed her palms against his torso, her hands surveying the copper hairs which had filled out since his Palawan days, an almost entirely different person from the shy boy she’d directed about in a cave all those years ago. He was much more sure of himself as he kissed her.
Hot and heavy breaths mingled. “Bedroom, now.” Satine suggested. He didn’t need to be prompted further. Wrapping his strong arms around her, he hoisted Satine up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, letting him carry her into the dark room. With the shades down, the city glow was significantly diminished, save for the glowing glass headboard of her bed, not unlike her throne in her palace of Sundari.
He dropped her down on the mattress carefully, still aware of her injuries, leaving her legs hanging off the side. “Ben, what are you-” her words died in her throat as realisation dawned on her. Excitement swarmed in her belly. He knelt slowly down, his face between her thighs. “I want to taste you,” he said, stroking a finger up her thigh, finding the sensitive nerves in her warm flesh and making her tense. “I want to taste us.” His face found its destination, and an inhale of surprise made Satine bite her tongue. The utter licentiousness of his words made her powerless to protest. She loved it when his vocabulary turned filthy. Obi-Wan nipped the skin of her inner thigh playfully. “I want you to beg me to make you come.” He took each of her legs one after the other and hooked them over his shoulders so that he was pressed towards her heat. “I want to taste you as you come on my tongue.” He drew the tip of his nose through her folds, giving her a hint of what was to come. With careful thought he held her upper thighs down in place to keep her from arching her hips. “I want to hear you scream my name, Satine.”
His tongue darted out, quickly locating her clit. He playfully circled his tongue around the bud, and sucked. Her mouth parted as her chest heaved despite herself. “Oh, Ben!” She made a breathy moan, and Obi-Wan increased the friction, his tongue lapping at her folds without tire. Small gasps began to drop from Satine’s lips, and her eyes looked to the ceiling as she tried not to snap her hips into his face, but her thighs clamped down, and Obi-Wan hummed, the vibration making her eyes close with pleasure. “Obi-Wan!” She panted. She reached down and took hold of his hair, hungry for more contact. “Feels so good,” she told him. “Please!”
There was nothing dignified about the sounds coming out of her mouth, nothing even remotely duchess-like. But here, she was no duchess. Here, she was just Satine. She was just Satine, with the famed General of the Republic Army between her thighs. “Fuck! Obi!” She exclaimed when he made a particular swipe of his tongue. “I’m trying,” he smiled into her heat, making a wanton groan when her thighs tightened. He seemed pleased with himself, and the steady journey to her climax was one he knew second nature, like a route home well travelled. He was bringing her so close to release, and she was struggling to stay in control.
“Please. Ben, Please! Don’t stop. Fuck, yes!” Satine crashed into her orgasm, her muscled thighs digging her heels into his back. The breath was knocked out of her at the force of her break into bliss. Her body trembled with the strangled cry that flowed after his name, and she came on his tongue as instructed, repeated cries of his name permeating the space as the smell of sex hit her nose. She became aware suddenly of Obi-Wan lapping greedily at her like a man starved, and she basked in the delightful afterglow. She looked down at him when he lifted his face from her sex, his beard covered in the evidence of her climax.
She was enamoured by the sight of him messy with her orgasm dripping from the scruff of his beard. The dopey, obscene grin he gave her showed just how much he seemed to have enjoyed the sight of her begging for him. A horribly possessive part of her hoped it stained, so that every time he looked in the mirror, he’d be reminded of this night. Her parting gift, so to say.
“I need you inside me,” Satine told him breathlessly. “Now.” If she had any say in the matter, and she certainly did, their insatiable appetites would segue from one chapter to the next with no interruption, and he seemed to agree with her. “I told you we’d have those pants back off within the hour.” She grinned.
Obi-Wan pressed a line of kisses from her navel to her breasts, occasionally marking her skin with little nips of his teeth. He crawled over her, and gripped her knee tightly, parting her legs. “I want you, Satine. I want you so bad it hurts,” he mumbled into her chest as he aligned them. Satine licked her lips as the tip of him brushed against her folds, and she arched her hips to encourage him. Obi-Wan didn’t need to be told twice, and he buried himself in her with a single thrust. Satine moaned loud enough that if the clones had still been stationed, they would have heard her. Her hands trailed over him, and she found herself digging her nails into the flesh of his back. The Jedi pulled out far enough so that the tip of his length was still buried in velvet heat, and he slowly entered her again. Satine’s knuckles turned white from the strength of her grip on the skin of his back, pulling him down to her. The maroon sheets were soft on her back, better than the thick weave of the couch in the reception room. She’d have to remember next time to have softer couches if she ever refurbished this flat, and maybe a larger bed. And more closet space.
No, she must not think that way. Nothing was for certain, and she couldn’t let her thoughts drift to planning such impossible scenarios. A secret affair could be reasonably maintained. A secret marriage, if he even accepted? She wouldn’t -couldn’t- ask that of him, and she’d known that for years. But each time she found herself tangled in his arms and writhing under him, the thoughts were harder to push away, this game of pretend was walking a dangerous line between stupid dreams and self-inflicted emotional pain. Loving him was no toil, but to lose him would break her. She’d be lost, hypocritical to the advice she’d given Padmé.
Obi-Wan made a few thrusts to allow her body to fully accept him once again, his length disappearing into her depths in a enthralling vision of joint rapture as her body accommodated his presence.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Obi-Wan said, and he moved his hips in such a way that the pressure was almost mediocre and dull within her with the upwards, experimental thrusts, which didn’t do all that much for her, and almost irritated her injuries anyway. She shook her head. Obi-Wan noted her lack of reaction, and then tried a few more angled downward, which made her buck her hips to follow after him when he paused. Though the answer was apparent, he asked. “Which one was better for you?”
“The second,” Satine told him, and he continued on where he left off. She threw her head back into the pillows, keening. He drove her up the bed, and Satine fisted the rich sheets to keep herself in place. Her loose blonde hair fanned out around her head upon the pillows. She was soft and yielding under his touch, as if her very form could be shaped by his hands. Something about the way they fit together made her wonder if in another life they could have truly been one, their souls married in every way. They revealed in a shared ritual of indulged desire, sweet and carnal. As her cares evaporated under his adoring touches, Satine melted. No man had ever made her feel this way, and if she was sure of one thing in this life, it was that no other man ever would. She should have known, all those years ago, that no amount of time would ever erase the passion he’d etched into her very bones. The silhouette of his love was forever written on her heart. Her love for him was a burning fire no duration of absence could ever douse.
Everything felt so right, so perfect Satine wondered how such a unity could be wrong. She was his in every way, from her heart to her soul. She wondered what it was like on his end, singing in the Force, feeling everything about her, forever in tune with her desire. For him to see her in her darkest corners of her mind and still have the unwavering strength to love her still. The rise and fall of his hips slowed, and then he was kissing her. She could taste them both on his tongue.
She looked at him through her lashes, and he was staring at her, pupils blown wide in the moonlight. His blue eyes were dark with arousal, his hair falling into his face with the earlier cadence of their dance. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, and wrapped her legs up around him to pull him in deeper. “Don’t you ever stop, Ben.”
That was the good thing about fucking a Jedi; they have outstanding stamina.
Obi-Wan picked up the pace, and Satine felt him make hot, sloppy, open mouthed kisses across the valley of her chest. It was an ode to her very being, praise given for her returning health. He traced invisible patterns inside her with his length, finding every perfect corner. The feral lust of their youth had been replaced with a salacious determination to simply become one body building towards mutual intimacy. He kept up with her breathy moans with his own sounds of pleasure, overwhelming her senses on every front. Overstimulation seemed to affect him too as greedy growls reverberated through his chest under her hands. “Stars, I’m close, Satine,” he preserved the rolling rhythm as the Jedi balanced futilely between the intensity of their copulation and the ease of delicious ecstasy. “I’m so close.”
His carnal cries sent her over the edge, and Satine followed him. He fell into erratic thrusts, his length twitching inside her. He finished with a guttural grunt, coming with words she only dreamed to hear. Satine promised, “I’m yours, Ben. Always and completely.” She held him as the Jedi collapsed on top of her, his head upon her chest. As her heart rate settled, Satine carded her fingers through his hair. The words she’d always wanted to say fought their way to the surface, and Satine bit them back.
When Obi-Wan finally came to, he lifted himself off her with shaking arms, and pulled himself out, the cold air of the room washing over her sweat sheened skin. Satine eyes fluttered open and he rolled to lay beside her. He took stock of what was before him, observing the reddening fingerprints on her hips with concern, then down to the glazed skin of her thighs where their combined release was exuding from her. “We made quite the mess, didn’t we?”
“We have that habit,” Satine reminded him. She reached up, running her fingers through his sex wild hair, trying to tame it, but quickly changed her mind, tossling it to restore the scandalous appearance. She rather liked it that way. It was quite becoming on him.
Obi-wan’s gaze softened as he looked at her, “Did I hurt you?”
“Only in the good ways,” she winked, but he didn’t seem amused, checking her bacta strips, only satisfied once he’d fixed the corners that had pulled loose and was done with his inspection.
Obi-Wan stared at her, and he dragged his hand up to gently wipe a tear she didn’t know she’d shed. He didn’t seem to know what to say, but instead told her, “I’m going to go get a towel.” He did just that, returning quickly to clean the residue from himself and what he could from her. His hands were caring and soft, cleaning her with a gentleness that only came from genuine interest in her well-being.
The ache of their combined exhaustion began to make itself known, and Satine stretched her muscles as he laid down beside her. As soon as he was comfortable, Satine shimmied over to lay her head on his chest. He would be gone in the morning. She wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d stay, and she wouldn’t ask him to.
The Jedi set his arm around her, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Finally, Satine couldn’t take it anymore. She had suppressed herself too long, and if anything recent had taught her, she knew that not all good things lasted, and she would be damned if she was caught saying ‘someday’ till her life was spent without ever telling him. This was a known fact between them, but to say it aloud was to commit to something she couldn’t ensure. She knew he felt the same. He’d rearrange the stars to spell his love but could never say it aloud.
Satine pressed her eyes closed, and traced words of adoration in Mando’a into the scar littered angles of his chest. “Obi-Wan,” she whispered, and he angled his head to look into her eyes. She put the influx of promise into her words as she told him, “I’ve loved you always. I always will.”
He kissed his answer.
Notes:
I hope you all enjoyed this (:
As always, I don’t know what you want or like if you don’t’ tell me! Feel free to make comments or requests.
Chapter 4
Summary:
Satine gets to work saving her Home System in Obi-Wan's absence. Palpatine is a little shit. Satine meets a mysterious Mandalorian who is set on protecting her.
Notes:
[PLEASE READ - IMPORTANT]
As you can see, I have decided to expand this work into a Satine-centric, canon-divergent fic in which Satine survives into the Empire era. I will be revising the tags and title a few chapters from now so that there is no confusion. I will also be removing the last bit of Chapter three so that I can go into the events between it and Obi-Wan's missions to the outer rim after he leaves for deployment. (Don't worry, that scene will still happen, just a few chapters from now)
Note: though this is canon-divergent, I am trying to keep it plausible within canon while also throwing my own twist. This has been a labour of love.Notice: I have not completed the artwork for this chapter as of this time, but it will be uploaded later. I figured all you lovelies would prefer the chapter ASAP than to wait however long it takes me to finish it. I'm sorry this chapter is so short.
FOR FUTURE READERS: The title will have been changed from "Dance with me, Duchess" to "Dawn of the Empire"
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
(Two Weeks after events of The Party of Peace in Chapters 2 & 3)
Satine Kryze stared at the man sitting across from her at the desk. He had to be lying. In no way could the chancellor say he would not help her and say it seriously. “Was it not a year ago you readily undermined my position and attempted to send troops to my world?” She snapped at him. It was enough that she’d been politically cornered into attending that stupid peace party of his two weeks before, but for the most powerful man in the galaxy to figuratively spit in her face was, at best, distasteful. Though Mandalorians were a proverbially stubborn people, and Satine was in most considerations the most stubborn of them all, Palpatine seemed to be content allowing for the abuses her home system suffered to continue without any foreseeable assistance.
“Ah, dear Lady Kryze,” Palpatine lamented, “but those were different circumstances, as it was believed your own people called out for help.”
“And now I am here, asking for it!” She inwardly seethed when he folded his hands in indifference. Satine spat, “What is so different now?”
“I fear you simply have limited sway, considering your recent removal from power,” Chancellor Palpatine stated. “Your people have not asked for assistance, therefore your claim to the contrary is powerless.”
“Because their voices have been silenced!” Satine retorted. “They are fighting for their lives.”
The man sighed, the forced kindness in his eyes sending disgust through Satine. Palpatine leaned forward, “For now we must simply wait and-“
“Respectfully, Chancellor, if you cannot help, I shall petition the senate myself!” Satine interrupted, standing suddenly and slamming her palms onto the desk. Mas Amedda reacted instantly, his staff lowering and pointing directly at the face of the Mandalorian woman. Satine stared down the length of the weapon. What did she have to lose?
Palpatine refolded his hands, “Peace, woman.”
Satine raised an eyebrow. She waited until the Chagrian lowered the staff with the Chancellor’s instruction, and spun on a heel, turning her back to the desk of the most influential politician in the Republic.
“Lady Kryze, I hope you find satisfaction in your crusade,” Palpatine said as she walked to the door. “If not… I worry for the political potential of your… nephew, correct? A very insightful boy you have there.”
Satine paused, her hand hovering over the door sensor. She pressed her lips into a firm line as she set her jaw. “I will not dignify your implications with a response. Good day, Chancellor.”
When the door slid shut and the shamed former Mandalorian Duchess was far enough away, the Chancellor frowned. Mas Amedda relaxed. Palpatine turned to stare out the windows behind his desk, surveying the city planet. “I fear that woman will remain a problem as long as she lives.”
Mas Amedda smiled, fingers flourishing excitedly in thought as he offered, “Good thing you hired me to fix problems.”
Satine stormed down the halls of the Senate building, trying to make a list of those she knew who might be able to help her. As she walked, Satine formed a possible idea. It was certainly not the first, but it would hopefully be the last of this problem she needed to solve.
Perhaps if the republic would not listen to her alone, the backing of the Council of Neutral Systems would help her. It would certainly improve relations and validate her fragile position to plead her planet's case.
Turning around abruptly, Satine headed in the opposite direction, and with a little difficulty navigating the huge place, she eventually stood outside the doors to the embassy office for the representative of the Council of Neutral Systems.
In her absence, the place appeared not to have changed, but to the contrary, its management was significantly altered. Perhaps redecoration was finally not everyone’s priority during wartime, though she was less than impressed with the swift replacement of staff that had occurred after her loss of power. After her removal of position, Satine’s chair had been rapidly filled and a new leader elected. While a slow government was Satine’s preference, wartime was an exception she could excuse, much to her own hard earned understanding and self-checked chagrin. Though she disagreed with the views of the current chairholder, there was nothing she could do and she would be forced to swallow her pride for the time being.
Stepping forward, the blonde woman pushed the doors open and entered the office. A reception droid greeted her with some automated phrase, asking what it could do to assist her. Satine asked for the representative and took a seat in the small atrium-like space. Why an office required such a large reception room, she’d never quite grasped, having lived within the restrictive space of dome-cities most her adult life, but Coruscant was a luxury topped planet and she’d learned not to criticise too much that which was not part of her priorities. The droid she’d spoken with disappeared and returned several moments later with a young Pantoran male carrying a datapad. Satine stood and smiled a forcefully brief greeting to the stranger. “Hello?” Satine raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
“I am Representative Gulmin’s assistant. Is there a message I can put on the records for him to get back to you about?”
Satine’s mouth almost dropped open. “Do you know who I am?” Satine frowned. “I’d like to speak with the representative directly.”
The young man, probably an intern of some sort, typed quickly, prepping his entry and waiting patiently for Satine to give him said message. “Representative Gulmin is currently in a meeting. Is there a message I can put on the records for him to get back to you about?”
“I have a concern that is too urgent to be waitlisted.” Satine frowned.
“Everyone says that these days, miss,” the assistant deadpanned.
“I want this made very clear to me,” Satine lowered her voice, finding herself speaking in a manner she hadn’t utilised since she was twenty two years old and negotiating with clan leaders to finalise the loose threads of her own civil war… or telling Korben to quit throwing toys at his nannies. Either way, it seemed to make the desired effect as she said, “You are telling me, the former leader of the Council of Neutral systems, that I can leave a message for your representative here in the Galactic Embassy I ran by political extension for over four years?”
The Pantoran boy gulped and froze, eyes darting to the woman who towered over him and the door to the hall leading to the main office.
When she got no answer but surprised stuttering, Satine dropped her more polite ploy and stepped around the assistant, striding towards the hall. If he refused to announce her presence, she’d do so herself.
“Wait! Ma’am!” The intern called after her, “I’m sure I could find you a meeting! Representative Gulmin doesn’t like to be interrupted!”
Satine was well aware. His temperament was less than polished.
She continued on, making it halfway down the hall before the boy desperately grabbed after her, and made extensive promises as Satine paused, and listened to the intern make a sudden call on his tablet, and on the other end, sudden anger came through. “I apologise for the inconvenience. Have a good day,” the intern said over the muffled angry shouting, and hung up. He hastily tapped on his screen and turned it around for the Mandalorian to see. “I have scheduled you a meeting -first thing in the morning. First slot!”
Satine raised an eyebrow. It would have to do. Her own temper was not worth pacifying in the satisfaction of bursting into Representative Gulmin’s office and giving him an earful about staffing before then asking for his assistance in senate affairs.
Satine looked over the appointment time and handed the tablet back to the boy with a curt nod. It was good enough. She made a mental note of the time and location before thanking the intern and seeing herself out.
As Satine exited the embassy, she found herself a private enough corner, and pulled out her Comlink. The code was one her thumb could type at muscle memory, not for the number of times she’d actually rang him, but for the number of hard nights at twenty years old when she’d sat in her rooms on sleepless hours staring at the code, considering putting it through before silently retreating back to solitude in self convinced victory that she’d managed not to complicate their lives further by reaching out when she knew it would only cause them both pain. She was glad such feelings were smothered by reconnection and new memories now, but the innate hesitation was also part of said muscle memory, and it took a few breaths before she eventually did punch in the code and com him.
The message fell through.
Satine huffed softly to herself, mildly unsurprised. The day had been a cesspool of bantha-shit and at this point, she wasn't surprised that the one comfort she could normally rely on was also denied to her.
Satine closed her eyes, collecting herself and her frustrations before stepping back into the Senate hall. One of the side exits was quickly found, and Satine looked forward to dinner with Padmé later in the hour. Satine called for a cab as soon as she was out. She wished to go home and put on something more casual before she visited her friend.
The speeder driver arrived in a timely manner and she stepped into the vehicle. “Senate residence building block M, level 784, please,” she directed, making herself comfortable for the short ride. Perhaps she would visit Padme for the late evening, and they could edit the Nabooian Senator’s most recent bills together, and Satine could feel at least somewhat productive for the first time today.
The driver was experienced in the hard-learned art of weaving through the traffic of the sky lanes, or perhaps it was simply talent, a gift for piloting much like Obi-Wan’s former padawan loved to boast so much about.
The lowering sun shone through the shaded windows of the Taxi, bathing Satine in an ethereal light. It was warm on her skin, but annoying to her eyes. She squinted down at the work she had perched in her lap. The beauty of the sky could wait til she had someone to share it with.
Satine preferred not to look out at the Coruscanti skyline, but focused at the small datapad she carried, reviewing the beginnings of her outline for her Senate petition. To brainstorm was to see progress, and to see progress was to relax. It was a strange thing, for sure, but it was how Satine operated and her overly analytical mind thrived when there was a task at hand, even as her eyes begged to close and her back ached from the long hours.
Satine wrote quickly, her stylus scratching the data pad surface as she took notes. This senate petition would not be her first, but it would be her first without Mandalore at her back. These days, when she watched the holoreports or sat in on senatorial war debates, she ached for her home system, her iron will rusting as she witnessed everything she’d worked so hard to build topple within just a few short weeks. The power of hunger and lies was a language Satine regretted to be well versed in, and ashamed to have been the losing player, though she felt worse that she had not been the true victim of the conflict.
Politicians were not the ones who were caught in battle or burned alongside their brothers, but the common people. Satine wanted to rage at Death Watch, expose their selfish lies and faultful words. She wished to bring peace once again to her people.
She wished she had seen it sooner. The deception. The lies. The hate. Satine wished she’d known how truly rampant the corruption in her government had run. She’d now have to live the rest of her life watching those mistakes run their course, and her people suffer for it.
The best she could do was fight for them with everything she had here.
“We are close, My Lady,” the driver announced, and a slight tip of the level taxi had Satine leaning to the left to counter the shift, and she looked up just in time to see a flash of light, followed by a sudden lurch in the very same fraction of a second.
The remaining momentum threw the former Duchess forward, and she gasped when her body made contact with the dividers in the vehicle.
It was at that moment she realised the driver was gone.
The taxi spun out of control, the noise of the hole blasted in the roof smothering the sounds of the choking engine and rattling motors, all under the rush of wind and Satine’s ringing ears. She lost hold of the data pad, the impact of the explosion having sent it somewhere, but she realised there was no one there to help her.
Everything seemed to be in slow motion, and in mere milliseconds as Satine threw herself forward over the seats and grasped the handles of the speeder controls, she saw the last of the driver fall screaming into the depths of Coruscant. The horror was smothered by adrenaline, and she felt herself attempt to right the spiralling, smoking trail the speeder made, her hands holding on for dear life so as not to be sucked out of the top of the vehicle herself. She just barely managed to right the burning speeder and avoid missing a building corner when a second blast took out the back right engine. Beside the doomed vehicle, a second, much smaller speeder dropped from a hiding perch on a towering sky scraper, falling into a parallel path beside her.
Someone was shooting at her.
Satine almost screamed when the taxi lurched with the second hit, and she pulled back on the controls, trying to regain control of the remaining engine. It was of little use, when she realised that nothing was going to stop this vehicle. Satine had a split second of fearing death before she resolved deep within her heart, I will not die today.
She took in her surroundings of spinning buildings and swerving drivers trying to avoid her. Another shot narrowly skimmed the front windshield: A blaster bolt aimed at her.
The lights of the dark Coruscanti city smeared across her impaired vision. The taxi was free falling into the depths of the city planet, where the sun was completely blocked out and the denizens lived in constant nocturne. The remaining ringing of her ears was fighting back as Satine timed her hitting of the break to catch the updraft on the exhaust from the power generators for the Senatorial district, and she felt the crashing speeder flip upwards, and the trajectory of the vehicle was now knocked towards the flat tops of the generators. Satine hoped that if she could jump from the speeder, she might survive with minimal injury past a few broken bones. The battle training of her youth kicked in, reminding her to roll when she hit the surface, but that didn’t remove the problem of whoever was shooting at her.
As the surface of the generators came closer and closer, Satine climbed onto the top of the burning taxi, her foot still tucked in place on the brakes to keep what she could of the controls locked in a counter thrust to slow her descent. It was at the last possible second that Satine threw herself from the crashing vehicle, her body going into autopilot but it took a second before the rush of air was halted by the thrust of a jetpack and a gloved, armoured hand grabbing Satine’s ankle.
The yank on her leg nearly tore her hip out of socket, and Satine yelped in pain when she was flung upwards.
“Duchess!!!” A voice yelled through a vocoder, and Satine continued falling, though slowed by the additional lift as she hung upside down by the right ankle. “You don’t want to touch those!”
It was perfectly timed to word as the taxi made contact with the surface of the generators, and was immediately incinerated by arcs of electricity that fried the entire vehicle, melting the metal of the sides and sending the remaining fuel up in flames.
Satine curled upwards, her still healing midsection screaming at the pull, reaching to grasp at the person who caught her. Were they with the shooter? Who was this? Her second question of the night was swiftly answered as the same bolts were fired at Satine yet again, the rescuer who bore her now swerving in place to dodge them. Behind them, the smaller speeder zipped towards them for a second pass, trying to avoid the arcing lightning around them. If it got too close, a circuit would be made and the assassin would die quickly.
The mandalorian and Satine were safe so long as the jetpack didn’t utilise any electronics, and they didn’t wait around to test their chances.
“I’m getting you out of here!” The vocoder distorted the sounds of the voice, but Satine knew quickly that it was a woman. The jetpack she wore was not equipped to carry two, and the mysterious warrior tightened her grip on Satine’s ankle, unceremoniously carrying her off as they flew towards a street down below.
“Who are you?” Satine managed to yell.
“I’ll answer all your questions as soon as you are safe,” the woman replied, and as they made it closer to the street, civilians were staring and screaming in shock. “Brace!”
The woman pulled Satine upwards as much as possible, and they rolled, the armoured woman taking a majority of the impact. The people on the streets had parted to make room for the women crashing into the roads, and they swarmed forward, but retreated when the same blaster bolts were fired towards Satine and her saviour once again. “Get up!” The woman reached down and hoisted the blonde to her feet, and an ache settled in her ribs and shoulders from when she rolled.
Satine was immediately grateful for whatever ancestor had sent this person, as they unholstered blasters of their own and began firing at the assailant. As much as Satine hated the violence, self defence was an exception even she took part in. She ran her hands over her head, settling the static that still clung to her hair.
The woman grabbed at Satine’s hand, pulling her into one of the side alleyways. “Come on!”
“Do you know who is firing at us?”
“Common bounty hunter.” The woman looked carefully around her at the streets illuminated by signs and advertisements. Satine tilted her head in question, and the woman continued, “I’ve been tasked by a Mandalorian resistance faction to keep tabs on you. When I caught a signal wiring money in exchange for your discreet disposal, I figured I’d tail you. I’m glad I did!”
“Who are you?” Satine gasped breathlessly.
“Ayma. Clan Hurr.” The woman gave a curt nod. “I know of a place. We will be safe there.” Ayma turned sharply to the left, both women’s warrior training alerting them of the danger still present.
Satine looked upwards to the clouds of smog, their undersides illuminated with an unearthly glow of light pollution. The alley they were in was wide enough and high enough for a speeder to pass through.“We are too exposed.”
“Indeed, Duchess.”
Satine frowned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Survive tonight, and I’ll make sure I have to again,” Ayma retorted, and grabbed Satine’s arm again, leading her down a side path.
Another flash of light illuminated the street, and Satine had just enough time to push Ayma out of the way before a warm sensation enveloped her body and she went dark.
“Respectfully, Duchess, you are an idiot! I had stun-resistant protection, you did NOT!” A woman was shouting. Satine’s eyes slowly opened, focusing on the lights around her. “You are lucky that was a stun. A powerful one, but a stun nonetheless.” Ayma was speaking, but her voice was clearer than Satine remembered.
Satine could register little past the immense headache that seemed to encompass her entire body, the throbbing in her eyes, and the warm tingling of her shoulder alerted Satine that she couldn’t feel her left arm. The electricity-based stun bolt had left the limb temporarily paralyzed.
“Where-“
“Spare senatorial apartments. I broke us in.” Ayma was standing at the foot of the bed Satine had been laid upon, with her hands on her hips and her helmet dropped at the foot of the bed. She was tall, with dark hair and eyes. A large tattoo ran across her neck and the side of her face. The senatorial apartment complex was a smart place to hide out, as the airspace was restricted and had perimetres set up which would alert local law enforcement to any unauthorised flying objects. And although such securities could be hacked over time or barriers bypassed, the assassin would have no clue which of the millions of apartments Satine might be hiding in.
Satine tried to roll over, the loss of the adrenaline making her soreness prevalent, and the light seemingly puncturing through her eyelids wasn't helping - especially with the headache.
There was so much sunlight.
Sunlight.
“How long was I asleep?” Satine tried to sit up suddenly.
“Woah there, Your Glorifullness - or whatever they call you - the stun is going to take a while to wear off. I’m surprised you even woke up this quickly.” Ayma huffed and offered no help when Satine quickly fell backwards, her back and arms refusing to support her. Ayma let out a small laugh. “It was a close-”
“How long-” Satine pressed her eyes closed, the headache making thinking difficult, “-was I out?”
Ayma shrugged, a motion Satine could hear due to the Beskar’gam she wore. “Ugh, nine, ten standard hours?”
Satine managed to reach the comm on her wrist, opening it to find hundreds of messages from Padmé, worrying that she’d never shown up for dinner.
Then she saw the time.
Satine’s heart sank, and the anger rushed through her chest. She’d missed her morning slot to meet with the representative. Representative Gulmin was not a man of patience, and Satine knew the chances of him making an exception for a duchess removed from power who missed their scheduled meeting were slim to none. Satine suspected not even an assassination attempt would have swayed his mercy. Whatever attempt at a reschedule would take days if not weeks, and Satine knew that every hour republic forces were on Mandalore, her people faced the consequences.
The following few days are an agonising combination of hiding from the public and working alongside Padmé on their bills together. Satine found herself enjoying the younger woman’s company more and more, and Padmé became more relaxed in Satine’s presence, to the point of small discussions being had of the Senator’s pregnancy and various personal matters.
They made progress in the matters of diplomacy, and Satine watched the holoreports every night, and Ayma made encrypted calls with her fellow clan members, who rejoiced that they were alive.
One evening, after Padmé insisted that Satine reside with her instead of an unused senate apartment, Ayma left the Naboo senator’s balcony to come inside. She held a small holo in her hand. “Duchess,” Ayma tipped her head at Satine. “They would like to see your face.”
“Excuse me?” Satine’s eyebrows scrunched with confusion, looking at the female commando with uncertainty.
“Would you speak with them?” Ayma asked. “It might do them good.”
“How many people am I speaking to?” Satine asked with a hushed voice.
“My clan -what is left of it.” Ayma carefully handed the holo over to the blonde, and Satine looked down at the person in frame. Through the audio, collective gasps were heard out of frame.
“Su cuy'gar, Clan Hurr,” Satine started slowly. The sound of a small rumble of voices reciprocating the greeting came through the holocall.
“I am Mina Hurr,” The person in the frame said. ‘My buir,’ Ayma mouthed to Satine for context. Satine nodded, acknowledging the leader of the clan. The woman in full beskar’gam went on, “those of us on Concordia still loyal to House Kryze have been on the run from DeathWatch. Their reign of terror has come at great cost, but we Mandalorians are nothing if not tough to kill. We are relieved to know you fall under that.”
“I wish I could speak to you in person, however I am unable to leave Coruscant at this time. The Republic is at odds with their relations to our system.” Satine offered as much explanation as she could, the guilt that she was not with her people rising in her heart. But so long as the Senate permitted Republic forces to be present on Mandalore, compromising their self determination, she had to counter it.
Ayma stepped forward, speaking with her mother, “I am prepared to escort the Duchess back to Mandalore if needed, but at the moment, I am her only guard detail. The bounty hunter I engaged last week was paid by someone within the senate, so we now know someone in the Republic Government stands to gain from her death and the power vacuum which would result on Mandalore.”
“I fear the news is not good on our end either,” Mina Hurr reported. “Rumours fly; some are more believable than others, but none are hopeful.” She added, “We have contacts stationed throughout the system, and their reports are as discouraging as mine.”
“You have… contacts?” Satine blinked.
The leader of Clan Hurr tilted her head, “We do.”
Someone else came into frame beside Ayma’s mother. He addressed Satine, “Though Clan Hurr has openly stated its loyalty to your house, I fear the general populace has mixed decisions. DeathWatch has promised freedom and food, and in panic, most have submitted to them to survive. Gar Saxon allegedly carries the Darksabre, thus the cult clans have followed him as Mand’Alor, including DeathWatch.” Satine clearly looked surprised at that. She remembered that fateful night in the Grand Salon, when Obi-Wan had fought Maul, Savage, and members of DeathWatch. Gar Saxon had been present, but Obi-Wan had in technicality won the Darksabre, not Gar Saxon. The only explanation was that Saxon had hid from the Jedi’s anger, then snuck back to retrieve the weapon where Obi-Wan had left it on the floor, then declared himself publicly as Mand’Alor under the lie of victory.
Satine registered the new information, and nodded for the man to continue.
The man shifted on his feet before telling her, “However despite DeathWatch’s assurance of food and freedom, my commandos report that DeathWatch does not have the means to feed Sundari, much less a planetary system, and have been forcing all the ablebodied to serve in exchange for limited food and safety…” At this he glared, “Some rumours say they have conscripted children as young as seven.”
Satine froze. If she allowed things to run their course, and DeathWatch proved itself to be the terrorist organisation it was, then she could wait to let their unsustainability speak for itself, and eventually make her reinstatement to power much easier. But to do that would be to allow more people to die. “What of Prime Minister Almec? Though he was a corrupt traitor, he surely has seen the seriousness of the situation and provided war rations to the people, right?”
The man and Mina Hurr exchanged a look. “Prime Minister Almec is dead. Some say he was killed by Gar Saxon.”
At that, Satine was surprised. What little she knew of Gar Saxon past his bloody reputation and involvement with terrorism was that he was a self-declared ‘True Mandalorian’ and had actually been in an alliance with both DeathWatch, Darth Maul, and former Prime Minister Almec at the time of her dethronement and framing.
Satine almost asked if there was any news on Korkie, but she bit it back. The blonde woman instead said, “Information is powerful, and it is a valuable asset, when wielded for more than fear,” She frowned with thought. “What is the possibility of your clan reporting to me?”
“Are you back in the game, Duchess?” Ayma smirked beside her.
“I would hardly call it a game when lives are at stake,” Satine said with concern, and she raised an eyebrow. “But if I know what is happening at home, I can more effectively protect it.”
“You are still hoping to bring us peace again?” Mina Hurr asked with hope in her eyes.
Satine squared her jaw. “I am,” She heard the reaction across the stars as Clan Hurr thanked her in Mando’a. Satine resolved, “Or I will die trying.”
Beside her, Ayma folded her arms, “I’m here to prevent that, Duchess.”
“Then I will do what I must to expose these lies.” She looked down at the holo, and wished once more she could see everyone’s faces. “Ret'urcye mhi, Clan Hurr,” She said, handing the holocomm back to Ayma, who made her final addresses, and ended the call.
Satine took a deep breath, stepping back towards the balcony of Padme’s apartment. She stared out across the city sky, and folded her hands behind her back.
“Word of your survival and intention to take back the throne will travel fast,” Ayma warned, “Are you prepared?”
Satine’s eyebrows met in firm resolve. “For Mandalore and for peace, I am prepared to do anything.”
Notes:
Author's note: I hope you all like Ayma Hurr so far! I enjoyed making her up, lol.
Mando'a Translations:
Su cuy'gar - "Hello" (Literally "You still exist!")
Buir - Parent (genderless "Mother/Father")
Ret'urcye mhi - "goodbye" (literally "Continue existing")
Chapter 5
Summary:
So begins the ROTS we all know and love... with a little Obitine twist.
Satine shares a secret with Padme, and later reunites with Obi-Wan. And with a night to themselves, things go her way.
Notes:
this is your smut warning.
you have been warned.
Chapter Text
(four days after the events of Chapter four)
Satine stared in horror at the reports. This was bad. Very bad.
It appeared she was trapped on Coruscant for the foreseeable future. The Separatist blockade was a worrying factor indeed, but the kidnapping of the Chancellor was much more intense. With all eyes firmly set on the situation, Mandalore would have to wait. The senate would be much too occupied with this issue to assess her own. Her petition was postponed, and the Government shutdown would prove to cause more problems than it solved. Politicians were in hiding, and she was ashamed to say she was among them.
Ayma had acquainted herself well with Padmé’s guard detail over the last few days, including Captain Pananka, and had stationed herself alongside them during this siege. Padmé’s protectors seemed to be visibly uncomfortable to have a Mandalorian in their temporary ranks, and given Senator Amidala’s past, Satine did not blame them. But Satine trusted Ayma. She didn’t know why, but she did.
Ayma’s presence seemed to have deterred the bounty hunter that had attacked her that night, and even with the discreet sleuthing that her self-proclaimed guard had performed, it had been impossible to trace the bounty hunter’s employer, and the identity of the person working against her remained a mystery. All they knew was that it had not been someone from Mandalore, as DeathWatch would have sent one of their own, not a common sellsword.
In the half week Satine had worked with Clan Hurr, she had gathered enough reliable information to have finished her Petition, but it would be another week before she would be allowed to present it. As it was before the attack on Coruscant, the Republic Senate was completely swamped with bills and pleas for help and war related decisions to be made, and Satine considered herself lucky to have landed the time slot so soon, and that enough neutral system sympathisers had voted to permit her to speak in the hall at all. She had Padmé to thank for that, who had rallied support from those in her circle of influence to sway the vote in Mandalore’s favour.
Satine sat in her friend’s locked down office, quietly watching the reports, her hand covering that of the worried brunette woman beside her.
“They’ve called back Anakin.” Padmé whispered softly. “He told me over our secure line this morning.”
Satine understood the young woman’s unspoken update. Obi-Wan is coming home.
She hadn’t seen him in just over three weeks. Not since he woke her up before dawn to bid her farewell, which had touched Satine deeply as he bypassed his usual tradition of sneaking from her rooms in the earliest hour to avoid waking her.
Their intimacies that early morning had been rushed yet tender, with fleeting touches and kisses seeped with ritualistic promises she hoped he would not have to keep. He’d left her, quiet and complacent on her silk sheets with the sun to kiss her in his absence and the faint scent of him on the pillows.
Perhaps Satine understood Padmé’s situation better than most. The former Duchess felt responsible, in a way, for the young politician. Padmé’s hand snaked down to rest by her own ever-growing belly, and Satine’s eyes flicked momentarily to catch the moment. Pregnant by her Jedi lover, mirroring Satine at the young age of mere twenty, when her own hands had once shielded her greatest treasure.
Satine softly asked, “Are you feeling alright?”
“I still get sick in the late of the morning. They say it should be gone by now.” Padmé’s eyes never left the reports.
Satine pressed her eyes closed. Those were rough days she didn’t like to remember. She sighed and forced a hopeful smile. “It will pass.”
“That’s what the medical droid says.”
“That’s what a fellow mother says.” Satine replied. It was only fair. There was no chance on the Manda that Padmé didn’t feel alone. Satine hoped a companion whose past offered a similar experience might soothe her worry.
Padmé frowned as she processed Satine’s words. Satine took another breath. Here went nothing; “I had a son, Padmé,” Satine firmly stated, and Padmé’s face snapped to stare in shock. “-and I do not wish for you to suffer the way we did,” Satine told her finally. Her own hindrance to tell Obi-Wan of Korkie’s parentage had never sat right with her, but she knew it was the only way both could fulfil their best potential to serve the galaxy. Korkie was her nephew to everyone but herself, and now Padmé.
“You… you had a son?” Padmé echoed softly. Her face betrayed her. She guessed, “Your nephew?”
Satine nodded.
Padmé blinked a few times. “I… I admit to having been suspicious of his, shall I say, close resemblance. ”
Satine nodded again, leaning back on the couch. “He is safe, at the expense of everything I could muster against Maul, but Master Kenobi was always meant to be the Jedi Master he has become, and it would have been cruel of me to divide him from his beloved Order.”
“I feel the same.” Padmé avoided eye contact. There were plenty of Jedi bastards running around the galaxy. Sometimes in stressful situations or after being saved, things happened between Jedi and civilians -or in some cases other Jedi- and inevitably children were occasionally created from these controversial unions. Padmé understood this. But she also understood the unfortunate expectation for the Jedi at fault if they were discovered to have not engaged in relations for comfort or stress relief, but for love and lust. Whether Anakin and Padmé had intended to conceive or not, their relationship, and by proxy, Anakin’s standing within the order, would be scrutinised and investigated. And anyone with eyes would know the council would not rule favourably when it came to Anakin’s affections for the Nabooian Senator.
Satine knew just as well that though she knew that her son had been an unintentional blessing, others might have viewed it differently. Satine knew that the person most likely to have done so would have been Obi-Wan himself, who would have dropped everything he’d worked so hard to achieve to raise his son. Thus, when Korkie had been born, the young Duchess had taken careful measures to hide the truth from the two people who deserved it the most - both father and son. Delicacy of the situation had been the key.
Perhaps it was why Satine felt so concerned for her younger friend. Satine was too mature for petty jealousy over the fact that Padmé had a supporting husband and a family on the way to share with him freely. Satine was instead concerned about the reality of Padmé’s dreams. Children are difficult. They demand much more time than an expecting mother initially believes, during the time when she may nap when she pleases and never fear that her child might be choking on some force-forsaken trinket or attempting to climb upon a table.
Marriage also becomes difficult. Satine recalled the stories of warning a particular handmaiden had shared with her, all about how something simply shifts when a marriage is no longer two people in love, but two sleep deprived know-nothings with a tiny demon that won’t stop screaming. Never even mentioning the postpartum stress and hormonal changes, but that discussion with Padmé could be saved for another day. They had time.
She turned to the brunette. “And do you believe you are capable of the balance?” Satine asked.
“Ani and I have an understanding of the demands on our own lives.” Padmé looked back to the reports. The Republic ships were struggling to take formation. “Some days, I worry about the complexities this child will inevitably bring upon our arraignment.”
Satine was relieved to know Padmé had at least considered that. Satine brought a hand to her jaw, leaning forward to watch the zipping spacecrafts and fighter drones engage. The reporter shouted updates on the battle in Galactic Basic.
Padmé gulped. “Was your pregnancy hard?”
Satine shrugged. She’d never really discussed it with anyone, between the select, very few guards and handmaidens who knew, it had been well kept under wraps, pun intended. “Korkie was a small baby. Perhaps I was also small boned in my younger years, but I hid him well. The early sickness was a struggle. I missed my Mother.”
Padmé froze again. “I miss my mother too. I wish…” she trailed off. A million ways that sentence could have ended. A million wishes Satine knew just as well.
“I understand.” Satine interjected.
The women sat in equal grounds of trust. The room was quiet save the HoloReports. Another few hours into the battle, and three Republic Cruisers dropped out of Hyperspace, fresh from the Outer Rim sieges. Added commentary from the reporters informed their rapt audience that two Jedi star fighters had been seen.
Obi-Wan was home.
Satine waited in the small crowd on the terrace of the Senate Building, apprehensive as all the rest who watched for any sign of the returning Jedi. News anchors and journalists shoved their competitors about, and Satine stood silently. She had managed to successfully sneak away from Ayma’s watchful gaze, and enjoyed the independence that came with it. She waited along the edge of the crowd, her cloak pulled over her shoulders and face to avoid a fuss. Senators were notorious for gossip, and she had no intention of making her presence open for discussion between them, much less the media. The politicians around her buzzed with the latest updates, paying her little heed in the face of the much more interesting stories that were flying.
The Chancellor, safely retrieved, had been rushed away to safety. The Jedi, however, had not yet been spotted. As soon as Padmé had seen the news of the cruiser's impending arrivals, she’d bid Satine an apprehensive ‘ good day, my friend, ’ and disappeared into the forest of pillars to meet with her husband.
The transport shuttle finally arrived, news of the Republic victory sending a surge of excitement. Just like them, Satine had watched with concern the reports from the battle that raged just above the atmosphere. Dogfights had been dotting the skies with explosions for three days, but everything changed with the kidnapping for the Chancellor. It would be untruthful for Satine to say she hadn't been indifferent to Palpatine’s chances of freedom, but to hear that The Hero Without Fear and the Negotiator had been set on the case of his rescue had given Satine a certain partiality to his survival, if not purely for the unfortunate consequences that would otherwise have blown back on Obi-Wan and Anakin should the contrary have occurred.
Satine selfishly hoped this excursion of his had since opened the Chancellor’s eyes to the terror of war, and the unrest the common folk felt. She hoped it would aid her case, if little else. The news of Count Dooku’s death was still sending waves through the Galaxy and set the people of Coruscant abuzz.
Even with the neutral grounds Satine still held, she had confided in Padmé that any progress on the war was good progress, so long as Mandalore remained free of its consequences.
However in the meantime, she had a reunion to celebrate.
The doors of the transport opened, and the two Jedi exited the air-taxi and stepped onto the platform. Respectful exchanges were made, the onlookers keeping their distance until the Jedi bid each other farewell and went their own ways. Anakin immediately received the crowd of media handlers and politicians waiting to gracefully thank him for rescuing their Chancellor. Obi-Wan paused in his steps, and his eyes flicked to the crowd, then the corner of his lips pulled into a small smile. He knew. Satine watched as he lowered his head, and disappeared into the throng of people.
Satine smiled.
She made their signature route. Two second lefts and a right down the nearest corridor. As she entered the hallway, Satine pulled her cloak closer to her body and kept a watchful eye about. She heard him before she saw him, his Jedi training be damned if she didn’t know when someone was sneaking about nearby.
Arms wrapped around her waist and Satine spun in the welcome embrace. He pulled her backward to hide them behind the columns of the structures, then kissed her, the warm weight of his body setting her ablaze. His hands were hot as they held her, his body pressing her into the cool durasteel, effectively pinning her.
“I missed you,” Satine moaned into his mouth. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Obi-Wan took a minute to answer, his hands pulling her closer and bringing her flush against him. He smelled of smoke and ozone and leather.
Satine leaned back against the column, her hands cupping his jaw and the pads of her thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I saw the holoreports.”
“You really shouldn’t watch those.”
Satine smiled, “and miss out on the heroic deeds of my shining Jedi knight?” She tipped her chin and quickly kissed him again. “I think not.”
Obi-Wan pressed his forehead to hers. “I thought you disagreed with such quests of honour and valour.” He seemed so distracted with studying her with roaming hands that he either missed or chose to ignore her poignant snort of disapproval.
She huffed, “I do. However your holonews image occasionally makes a better companion than the original.”
He feigned insult.
She teased him. “Anyway, if you intend on dying again perhaps it should be an event of which I am aware of, instead of one shrouded in mystery. Hmmmm, Ben?”
“Give me a moment to enjoy this before you go insulting me, perhaps, My Dear?” He smiled. The month they’d been apart clearly hadn’t dampened his concern for her. Satine knew he hid it very well, but her observation of how quickly this more passionate side of him was unveiling itself made her wonder how hard his last deployment had really been.
“Are you expected back soon?” Satine lowered her voice, taking note of the rare solitude and she angled her hips to press herself forward enough to make her implications crystal clear. Why did the Jedi have to wear so many damned layers?
Obi-Wan’s entire body seemed to huff and his grip on her fell lax. He was tempted and she knew it. He sighed, “I have a Council Debrief within the hour.”
“We can be quick.”
He tilted his head at her. She knew what he was telling her. He changed the topic. ‘ Later,’ he really meant. “I fear my heroic deeds were in reality supplied by Anakin. He engaged Count Dooku, saved the Chancellor and myself.”
“You will have to tell me all of that later.” She reached up to tuck a wayward lock of hair back into place. Satine burst into an amused smile when she asked, “Did you fix your hair on the transport?” She laughed.
Obi-Wan grinned with similar amusement. “Regrettably- a ship crash transforms one’s appearance into that of a static ridden Loth-cat.”
“I’d argue your Padawan cut met the same standard,” she retorted.
“I have no control over the Padawan uniform at the temple.”
“-Which you must return to,” Satine finished. She’d known him long enough to follow his vocational leadings. ObiWan nodded.
“I will see you tonight.”
Satine paused only a moment, her hand gripping his forearm. She could say it. She could say it now and have it out.
No. Best not.
Obi-Wan disappeared down the row of columns, and Satine counted to forty before exiting down the opposite. She looked forward to their debrief.
Knowing Obi-Wan was home safe, Satine was relieved to find her temperament for the afternoon to be much more pleasant, even with the worry she held concerning her impending Senate Petition. If Ayma noticed she was in better spirits, she didn't comment, and was instead happy to make idle talk.
Padmé was busy, and had not answered any of Satine’s messages since the young senator had met with General Skywalker. It was no surprise, really, that she would be occupied. The senate had begun accelerating its decision making, as it seemed that Chancellor’s excursion had inspired more than just him. The senators of the republic seemed to have realised that if even their leader was not safe, then nothing was preventing their own capture and swift downfall. Though Satine viewed such sudden action as rooted in deep self interest and selfish ambition, at least it was action. Though she was thankful for the fast tracking of bills and flurry of decision making had moved her petition much closer on the calendar, it did worry the former duchess.
Haste in wartime, with the desire to save lives, was vital. However haste in wartime to push self-serving agendas was another. When it came time for her to request that the Republic pull out of Mandalore, would too quick of decision harm Mandalore more than it would help? Would the senators refuse to consider the facts that were being presented by the system’s former ruler and instead only look to Republic gain instead of the lives of her people?
If she were a Jedi, she’d tell herself to trust in the force. But such was not the way of things.
Her petition in the morning might just very well be the most fateful moment of her life. The senators she’d had private audiences with and the small system councils she’d spoken with throughout the week had seemed to back her claim, though they all reminded her that such a petition from a powerless former leader held little weight. She’d have to rely on her reputation, eloquent speech, and her truth of fact to carry her petition for her.
When Satine had sent him the simple comm “done with politics for the evening” she hadn’t quite expected the Jedi Master to wrap up his day so quickly, especially with such little warning.
With Padmé preparing for bed, and a certain young Jedi already in the apartment for a visit, Satine was quite happy to have a reason to leave for the evening, and she was sure Padme and Anakin were happy she would be gone as well.
With Ayma under the belief that she was still at Padmé’s and thus perfectly safe, Satine was once again able to meet with Obi-Wan, who discreetly picked her up directly from Padmé’s balcony into a Jedi speeder with the claims that he’d borrowed it for the evening.
“I have a proposition for you, My Dear,” Obi-Wan had said as he reached his hand to help her off the balcony railing she’d climbed over to get into the open air speeder -as if they were still teenagers hiding from Qui-Gon and not from Obi-Wan’s former padawan (who by all probability had no reason to speak himself). The Jedi smiled fondly at her, “We can either go about this properly, or-” He tilted his head.
“-Or what?” Satine asked with a similar smile, allowing him to place both hands on her waist and lower her into the speeder. “Do tell me, Cyar,” She hummed, her arms thrown over his shoulders for just a moment before she let him release her.
Obi-Wan shook his head, “Do you want a formal dinner, or take out?”
“Were you planning a proper date for once?” She grinned, stepping across the middle controls to take the passenger seat as Obi-Wan leapt back into the driver’s side. She sat with effortless grace, and waited for him to take the controls. She ran a hand through her hair which she’d recently taken down from the updo she’d had all day, watching him pull the speeder away from their friend’s residence, and into the Coruscanti night.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “While I would love to court you properly before we sample dessert, I happen to know you better.”
“You’d rather not end up in a bathroom somewhere?” She teased back.
“Patience is not your virtue, Cyar .” He replied.
Satine mock scoffed. “Is this offer for the sake of my dress or for your back?”
“It is a rather nice dress,” He looked briefly from the traffic lanes to steal a glance. Her red gown wasn’t overtly fancy, but the shimmering maroon and wine red crewelled brocade was quite nice. One of the things Satine found endearing about Obi-Wan’s affections for her was the way he seemed to find her wildly attractive no matter what she was wearing - whether it be a ceremonial garment, that scandalous pthalo dress, her dressing gown, or nothing at all. But this was a rather nice dress; with a high collar, long sleeves, and trimmed waist. Modest and elegant was her usual choice, and she found Obi-Wan didn’t care either way so long as it was him taking it off her by the end of the day.
“How were council meetings?” She asked, not caring where he was taking her and letting the night air blow through her hair. Soft curls had formed in the strands which had been twisted back earlier, and she had been too distracted by the prospect of going out with Obi-Wan that she’d forgotten to tame it into anything sort of presentable. It wasn’t as if both of them knew it would be mussed within the evening anyway.
“We had a long day with long conversations,” Obi-Wan answered, his eyes fixed on the traffic. “And you? How are your political obligations treating you?”
“It was a long day with many long conversations,” Satine echoed. Neither of them wished to discuss it. She looked over at him, smiling softly, “Perhaps it will do us some good to put aside such responsibilities for a single evening.” He didn’t meet her eyes, but the small simper in response was enough.
Though the ride wasn't long, Satine eventually recognised his chosen route. “Dex’s?” She rolled her eyes.
“You never chose, so I chose for us,” Obi-Wan shrugged. He parked the speeder out front, and waved his hand when she leaned forward to stand. “You can stay, I won’t be long,” He told her, hopping out and sauntering inside. She resisted rolling her eyes again. This old tradition between the two of heightened chivalry and maybe a little play-pretending at normality was at best humouring, at worst reminiscent of what they’d sacrificed. For the price of their hearts, they’d inherited a future in constant limbo of duty and love.
Obi-Wan hadn’t lied, and within moments he was passing her two packaged take-out meals and restarting the speeder. “Is that everything?” Satine asked, holding the food bags carefully, pawing through them to see what he’d ordered for them.
Obi-Wan humorously shrugged, “Ah well, I figured I’d take you to some sleazy bar, get you drunk enough to tolerate me, and finally have an evening without argument.”
“It doesn't take a little alcohol for me to tolerate you, Ben,” She joked back and winked, “Just a barrel of Corellian whiskey.”
“You wound me, My Dear,” He pulled the tiny speeder out into the traffic, taking them back up the few levels they’d descended from in order to reach Dex’s. Even with the night, Coruscant was bright with light, and they found a corner where Obi-Wan parked them. It was near the main spaceport for this sector, where the incoming and leaving ships could be seen for miles.
Obi-Wan set the speeder down on the outcropping of some building, where the view was quite pretty, and the Jedi Temple could be seen triangled between the Spaceport and Senate building. “I used to come up here for a little semblance of quiet,” Obi-Wan told her.
Satine nodded, sorting through the fast food and dividing it up between them. There were two nerfburgers, one large drink to share, and some little fried crunchy things to nibble on. She lightheartedly turned her body, throwing her feet over the centre console and into his lap as she handed him his nerf burger. “It’s nice,” She said. Quiet? Not so much. But the noise was at least different .
“I figured you’d like to jest at the ships coming in and out with me,” He set a hand down on her ankle, and Satine arranged her food in her lap.
“And critique them for unnecessary splendour?” She scoffed. “I thought we were here to have fun.”
“Oh we used to,” He tilted his head, unwrapping his food. “-have fun, I mean. You’d make up stories for all the people in those ships.”
“That was years ago,” Satine huffed, and took a bite out of her nerfburger.
“And you’re different now?” He asked, and before them, a huge passenger transport took off, its bellowing engines humming through the air as it moved like a whale to the atmosphere. As it ascended into the clouds, Satine sighed, but Obi-Wan seemed to wait for her to say something.
“Nostalgia’s nice,” Satine looked at him, “Sadly reality demands my attention instead.”
“I thought we were leaving personal responsibilities behind tonight,” He replied, and Satine noticed he was already halfway done with his own nerfburger, even as she was only two bites in. Military habits, she decided, but it was just another reminder.
“I think we’re both quite different,” She told them. “We got older. Wiser. We grew up.”
Obi-Wan didn't answer, his eyes caught on some sleek royal vessel descending to the port, with shiny sides that reflected the city lights. “You really think so?”
“Look at us, Obi-Wan,” Satine scoffed. “Mid-Thirties, responsible for more than we ever bargained for. We have people who look up to us and whole planets that look to us for guidance.” You have a knighted apprentice and I raised our son. She took a sip of whatever drink he’d ordered, banishing that last bit. “Of course we’re different.”
He seemed to think for a moment. “And yet you tolerate me still,” Obi-Wan gently squeezed her calf.
“Oh Ben,” She smiled softly at him, “I do much more than tolerate you.” She wished he knew how deeply she meant it, and deep down, she wanted to believe he did.
The war had changed them both. The perpetual exhaustion and stress had worn them down, and she was sometimes surprised at the face that stared her back in the mirror, with tired eyes and hair already thinning. She could see it on him too, with the beginnings of grey at his temples and crows feet at his eyes, though she was absolutely sure she liked the look on him much more than he did. It was no use being vain, to chase the ease of their youth.
It was quiet conversation that followed, little snippets of jokes and exchanges of their thoughts in the moment. Ships came and went, but she didn't make up stories and he didn’t add fantastical details or make any challenging remarks. This was easy, being two people enjoying the brief freedom from reality, though both knew dwelling in nostalgia is never sustainable.
“You have your senate petition tomorrow?” He asked.
“I do,” Satine answered, “And I have to say, I should probably either relax or get some sleep beforehand.”
“Is that a challenge, Cyar?” He slowly replied, and through the fabric of her dress skirt, his hand was hot on her calf.
“I thought we’d enjoy each other’s company first…” She raised a single eyebrow at him, her eyes half lidded. “I still have that whiskey if we think it’s needed.”
He looked unsure, “Don’t you have someone stationed at your flat?”
“Ayma Hurr.” Satine nodded. “She’s off for the evening. I can only imagine she’s enjoying herself at that ‘sleazy bar’ you promised me ,” Satine replied.
“Ayma?” He repeated, “I’ll have to thank her for keeping you safe in my absence.”
“The risks of the job,” Satine shrugged.
“I’m still glad you were unharmed.” He said, “When I heard of the attack… I was worried.”
“You worry too much,” Satine reached across, taking his face in her hand, letting her thumb stroke his cheek. He slowly looked up at her, his eyes meeting her’s. A challenge. An invitation. His look was a double edged sword and she was prepared to entertain either side.
“I think I worry the appropriate amount for a friend,” He turned his face into her hand, kissing her palm softly as if she could keep it. Even with the slight chill of the wind, Satine’s cheeks were hot.
“A friend…” Satine tilted her head, their eyes never breaking contact. Now that was a challenge, and they both knew it.
“Yes,” He replied, and his hand finally tightened on her calf. Satine uncrossed her ankles, reaching across to take the back of his seat in her hand and brace herself as she set herself down to straddle him. Her eyes stared into his, and her hands thrown over his shoulders were slow as she tempted him. His hands were eager to settle at her hips. She didn't miss the pressure he applied.
She brought her face close enough to entice him, and just before their lips met, she cocked her head the slightest bit. “What interesting friends you have, Master Kenobi,” She challenged back. “Might make me jealous for your attention.”
He didn't answer verbally, but he did lean forward and close the gap, kissing her with tender exegesis. The second she broke away, he was chasing her, his fingers threaded into her hair to tilt her head, his beard scratching her cheek as he traced a line of kisses up to her ear lightly.
It was sudden and soft when he flipped them, laying her down across the seats, his knee parting her legs as he kissed her, the tension growing with every passing second. His face is hovering over hers, meeting her surprise with a smirk of mischief, and he’s back to exploring her neck again. The wrappers from their finished food were knocked to the floor, but neither cared, and Satine found herself pulling him down, and she kicked off her shoes and hooked an ankle around his legs, an invitation and challenge of her own.
His hand pushed the hem of her skirts up, finding the ivory skin of her thighs. She gasped when a delicious pressure was made known between her legs, and she angled her head, mouth finding his neck and she sucked, intent on marking him just under the line of his collar. If he’s going to insist on wearing so many layers, she’ll give him a reason to.
“Cyar …” He warns, his voice low.
“Would you rather me work my magic elsewhere?” She purred in response, knowing she’s just won this round fair and square. He’s hard under his pants and she so desperately wants him to take her right here.
“If you mean somewhere not on full display to all of Coruscant, that might be best,” He stilled, seemingly suddenly reminded of their exposure.
“Not quite what I was suggesting, but I presume that's the wise decision,” Satine huffed in theatrical disappointment. She narrowed her eyes at him, “And here I thought you were chasing nostalgia.”
“That business you engaged in on Nevaro was in no way wise,” He responded. “There were people just down the hall of that tavern but you insisted-”
“-Business I engaged in?” Satine gasped under him, rolling her hips to satiate the throbbing beginning to contribute to the heat already rushing through her. She lowered her voice, “I seem to remember that business worked out in your favour.”
“Well if you intend to render me an accomplice in such business , I’d rather not have a planet for an audience.” He tilted his head again, and reached down to kiss her again. “Your flat, then?”
“If you take too long getting there-” Satine squinted at him as he rolled off her, not even bothering to fix her dress or his clothes before starting up the speeder.
“-Yes, I know,” Obi-Wan snuck another glance at her, “You’ll finish the job yourself and make me watch.”
Satine snorted, amused at the way he was red in the face and just as impassioned as she was. To remind him what was owed, as soon as he had them en route to her flat, she began pulling up the hem of her dress, reminding him that him wanting to play it safe would cost him.
It was probably for the best of both their reputations that Obi-Wan parked the speeder many levels down from her floor, saving any senator or politician at their window the sight of the former Duchess of Mandalore in the seat beside her Jedi affair, her fingers tantalisingly close to satisfying her want, soft hums dropping from her lips, quiet enough only he could hear.
He’d practically lifted her from the speeder, his hand on her arm encouraging her to scan her ID and get access to the building quicker. Her smirk was wiped off her face the second he’d checked for life forms and found them alone, determined to reoccupy her mouth.
On the lift, Obi-Wan’s hands made their way to her hips, turning her so that her body was close to his, dark and desiring eyes searching hers for the permission before he dove in and took her lips within his own, kissing her with a passion she was not used to him exhibiting so quickly in their endeavours. She nipped at his lip, “Really hoping for this were you, my dear?”
“Always,” He managed, the elegant lilt of his Coruscanti accent curling his Mando’a words into sensual promises.
They separate before the door to her floor opens, as if nothing happened behind it. He knew the way, but upon noticing there was no one occupying the space, he wove their fingers together, and he led her to her flat, their hands clasped tightly as if they’d lose each other in the short venture.
Once the hall was navigated, Obi-Wan swiped the keytab to her flat, the door giving way behind his back when he spun her into the space. Just as their lips were about to touch, he reached past her, hitting the panel on the wall, the apartment door panels sliding shut and locking with a force-pushed click of the mechs.
"Kiss me." She said.
"With pleasure," he answered, but she's the one who backed him up against the door, kissing him hard. It feels as though it's been a long time, a very long time… but there would be time to readjust, time to relearn, and anyway; the first thing they ever learned about each other is how much they both love a good hard fuck up against a wall.
With another wave of his hand, the shades on the windows drop, and they are left alone in the flat. "Is that the Jedi equivalent of putting a sock on the doorknob?" she asked, and he straightened, facing her. As soon as they were out of sight of any possible witnesses, he began unhooking the back of her dress, searching out her smooth skin underneath.
"Republic Military labour regulations mandate that Jedi may have uninterrupted private hours," he told her, straight-faced. He pushed the sleeves of her dress aside to get to the sphere of her shoulder, nipping lightly with his teeth before returning to her neck, quick words of want pleaded into her ears. She dared not point it out lest he cease, as she loved it.
His kisses were desperate, and she found him making sounds she’d rarely heard before, loudly moaning into her mouth, down her face and neck, and to the lines of her clavicles. Obi-Wan was backing her slowly in any direction without aim, hoping to eventually meet with any available surface for their use.
Satine found the buckle of his belt, unclipping it with coy fingers which quickly undid his obi and outer tabards. “I want you,” She said breathlessly, resolving that she would make up for the time they’d missed since the last time they’d brushed shoulders but quickly separated.
“I find myself wanting you as well, my dear, more than I’d pride my knighthood to admit,” He was pushing the collar of her dress off her other shoulder now, reaching warm hands into the space against her skin under the fabric. This well practised dance of theirs was no difficult venture, and they slipped quickly into the exchange of affections and satisfied needs. She almost tripped over his outer layers which had been piled haphazardly on the floor, quickly allowing her dress to join it. “Were you anticipating me as well?” Obi-Wan asked with a low laugh when he discovered her lack of undergarments.
“Perhaps I was a bit apprehensive that I might miss you again,” She admitted, getting him down to the base layers of his tunics. No sound but the rustling of undone layers and heavy breaths filled the small apartment, and Satine was glad that Ayma was off duty and the night was theirs alone.
With his chest exposed, she was quick to press them together, the warmth of his body inviting. She knew him well, like a home one does not need sight to navigate.
Her back met with the low bar counter, and the sudden curve in her form had the Jedi Master leaning over her, humming when she curled a leg around his own. The budge in his pants told her he was more than ready, but he was taking his time despite his want.
Obi-Wan’s worshipful, calloused hands explored her skin, teasing her as he was slowly undressed by her nimble fingers in exchange. The textured weave of his Jedi robes is soft under her touch but she doesn’t linger, discarding them with haste. Satine’s hands scrambled up and down his scar-littered back, tempting him even closer, her teeth snagging again on his bottom lip.
She waited for him to lead further, and against her lower belly, his erection pressed against her flesh, but despite his fervent hands, he was slow with progressing their well versed forbidden ritual. They exchanged kisses and until he pulls a full-blown moan from her, little happens. He wanted her too, but he was stalling. “Take me,” Satine breathed, rocking her hips against him. “Make me yours.” She wondered if this delay was a consequence of her teasing him in the speeder.
Nevertheless, he was diligent to mind the pink scar rimmed in red that had formed under her left ribs, where the bacta had done its work but her body was still healing. His self-indulgent mapping of her skin dipped lower. He cupped the curve of her ass, and with a sudden move, lifted her up, setting the Mandalorian woman down upon the counter. He deposited her in one neat move, pushing her up against him. If she hadn't wanted to be sitting, she wouldn't be, but when it's like this, when they both want it, it's a dance, not a fight. They're better together, better when they agree, when they can seek out each other’s souls, each other’s desires, forming something completely unstoppable.
Even when they disagree and their passion turns fiery and hot, when they take it out on each other, they are better together. He was the perfect opposite to her. He was everything she longed for, everything she needed.
Even with his desperation he was tender when he touched her, as if reigning something in, or striving to preserve this memory as a sweet thing to recall someday. He was only like this when he was nervous. She’d seen it when they were young after Master Qui-Gon’s passing, and she’d seen it after the start of the war.
She didn’t dare ask now. Whatever he was worried about, they had decided to leave it in the speeder. Whatever called his attention now could wait. Tonight was theirs. Even with every hour of the day when they attended to whatever required their regard, the Republic could not touch them tonight. This time was theirs alone.
He traced the scar on her knee he caused all those years ago when he dropped her on Draboon, and slanted his face to kiss her thoroughly. He pushed her knees open, standing between them. His face was red with restraint and his pupils were blown wide, the blue of his irises stained dark with desire. Perhaps it was the scandal of it which always left her wanting, how he was so recklessly hers yet bound to duty that everything in her heart ached that they would not have to always be themselves, and yet maybe in some other life, things were so.
Obi-Wan looked at her and hummed, “Bid mesh’la.” So Beautiful .
He traced a path down over her chest where it skimmed across her hardened nipple, causing her to inhale sharply, right before he cupped her breast and rolled the firm peak between his fingers. She arched into his touch, and pulled away from the kiss to gasp for breath. Her voice was a high, breathy murmur in his ear, encouraging him. “Yes, Ben.”
Satine’s breath stilled when his teeth nipped softly at her neck, holding her close. Satine wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him with the same force. He was careful with her hip, and set to kissing her before his hand traced her thighs, and she nodded profusely in answer to his silent ask for permission. His fingers were fluid as they found her hot and wet, waiting for him, made ready by her efforts in the speeder. He pushed a finger inside while his thumb pressed against her clit, and along with his mouth's ministrations on her breasts, it wasn't long until she approached the point of no return.
He was perhaps gentler than she’d have liked at this time, his desire to make this enjoyable for her overcoming his biological want to take her for himself, to leave her breathless and satiated, and let his body meet her’s in mutual fulfilment of pleasure. She buried her face against his shoulder, muffling her cries of pleasure when her climax hit. Her entire body shook, and if she’d been standing, her legs surely would have given way before Obi-Wan held her close and helped her ride the waves of her orgasm. He smirked against her sweaty, flushed skin.
His attention to her clit is only halted when she pants “Inside, Ben.”
Obi-Wan pauses and looks over her face, waiting for confirmation before taking himself in his hands and aligning them. He pushed forward, his hand bracing on the countertop, his other guiding him into her. That familiar feeling of him sheathed within her is just as intoxicating as the first time they’d properly made love, sequestered away in the safety of that rickety old ship they’d narrowly escaped Phindar in. At the time, the young duchess was so thankful to be alive, she’d been ready to spend hours with that endearing, terribly agitating Padawan who’d risked his life to save her, even though he’d dropped her, all things considered. Satine was so lost in remembering the days when she’d kiss him just to get him to stop talking and argue just to see if he’d pin her that she partially missed the few seconds in which Obi-Wan thrusted slowly to make her comfortable. He rests a moment to let her accommodate him, the two of them gasping at the feeling they’ve been building towards makes its eminence known. His hand between them is flat against her belly, middle and fourth fingers holding her open to him and the base of his palm pressing down. He has her gasping with the first thrust, the added pressure making everything that more intense. Obi-Wan began rolling his hips, setting a pace comfortable for them both. “Stars,” He gasps, “You feel so good.” When he moves; she feels every thrust, pulse and twitch of him and it's wholly intoxicating. When he tilts her hips, she forgets every coherent thought ever known to man and he hits that sacred spot repeatedly inside her. There was no resistance.
He's hard and throbbing, and Satine glances down briefly, past her breasts, and he’s disappearing again and again, coated and shining with her arousal, swallowed by her hot, warm and now thoroughly dripping sex. The Jedi’s hand wandered from her heat, gliding across her skin, but she shakes her head, she barely manages to pant “put it back, now,” at him, and she’s back to star rimmed vision and ecstasy.
“Trying to balance you,” He forces out, but his hand braced on the counter cant support the small of her back, so he prompts her to throw her other leg around him, angling herself so that she would not slip should she buck her hips - a preventative action which reminded Satine just how well he knew her, how versed he was in how she let herself go around him. Her hands on his back gripped at his skin, finding clefts in the muscle to hold to and prevent her nails from clawing at him.
She tightened her leg thrown over his waist, pulling him deeper into her. She’d missed this. She’d missed them. She looked up and watched him gritting his teeth, his head thrown back in obvious pleasure as he fought the intensity of being surrounded by her.
The tension in the air is broken only by his moans and her sighs, which soon turn to brief, clipped sentences, and then into broken half-names that neither of them can really say, but the sentiments are understood.
He knows her, and the list of people who can say that is something that Satine guards jealously. She had not been born for casual affection, but her heart had been made for soul crushing devotion, no matter how torn. When he repeats her name like a prayer, she finds that her lungs cannot keep up with the moans he draws from her, and everything is so perfect, she is left wondering once more why they hadn’t just taken that step all those years ago. ‘Passion is a coin with two sides,’ she was told once by a Jedi Master gently trying to explain the danger of Jedi attachment, ‘love and hate indistinguishable in their strength of feeling, only a fine line and chance deciding which one ends up on top.’
She wondered if it is the fear of loss which drives such reckless abandon of morals. She had briefly seen it, had briefly tasted the death that followed such fear and hate when Obi-Wan had slaughtered those working for Maul. They both had known, without speaking of it, that it had been a step into something neither ever wanted to experience again.
"Thank the Manda you didn't die out there," she said out of the blue, and he would have chuckled if it weren't for their history with death.
Obi-Wan pushed into her deeper, his grip on her thighs tightening. His hair was sticking upwards in some places, but the locks of ginger strands that had fallen around his face swayed with the pace of his hips. "You just couldn't stand the thought that you might not get to spite me again?"
"You like it when I’m spiteful," Satine said, knowing her approval was clear even when she's panting, her eyes shut tight. "It’s practically our preferred proposition method."
He laughed, kissing her. She was so close again, and the way he is moving, he’s right there too. He still knows her so well, knows her body, the way she reacts, the way she looks the moment she gives it up. She gasps, opening her eyes, looking straight at him. “Finish inside,” she begged, and not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Obi-Wan lifted her up, holding her steady above him, and began a rhythmic, decent pace with Satine’s thigh pressed just above his hip to open her to him, still tight and slick post-orgasm. “Ben -fuck you’re amazing.” She breathed to him in awe of his control as he thrusted wildly into her, desperate to make her climax one more time. Just seeing him work so hard and feeling him pumping inside of her like that had her falling over the edge quickly. She clenched deliberately, her inner walls drawing him into her, absorbed in bringing him to orgasm as well.
“C’mon, cyar,” Obi-Wan’s voice was low, breath hot against her neck, the strained timbre of his desire laden voice almost sending her over the edge. Satine arched impossibly into him; the change in angle giving him more depth. His skin was hot to the touch, and if asked, he probably couldn't describe the way she looked, like she's shocked and satisfied, so satisfied. He mostly can't describe it because he can't last under the weight of that look, and he buried his face in her shoulder, thrusting in erratically. When she tightens around him, he barely lasts another three thrusts before he finishes deep inside of her, totally spent. His release is hot, blooming erotically through her. Everything is so sensitive, and Satine whined at the feeling of him bottoming out. Her second orgasm is softer, a warm glow that settles over her skin and steals her breath. All the tension Satine had flowed out of her. She sagged against him, shivering with a few last aftershocks of orgasm.
Her Jedi is also struggling to regain breath, his hips shaking but neither want to separate. The shivers still travelling through her body extend her orgasm, her vision slowly returning.
The ritual is over, but she knows what happens next.
She sat there for a couple of moments just listening to him breathe, relaxing in his arms before she tried to move. But as soon as she starts to pull away, his grip tightens, keeping her pinned as he too recovered. She thought she knew what happens next; they would pull apart and pretend they didn’t just engage in more self destructive behaviour.
Right now, though, she's not moving, and Obi-Wan isn't trying to make her. That's in the future. This is the present. “Ben,” she sighs, and his arms tighten around her in silent plea.
“Give me a minute to hold you,” He asks, his voice so full of wonton love she can’t deny him. He traces his fingertips up her spine, and she shivers, pressing against him. The future can wait.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Summary:
Satine makes her case to the Senate, and receives news about Korkie. A visit with Padmé sets her mind straight. (Kind of)
Also, Satine joins the rebellion (:
Chapter Text
It was not even late morning before Satine was standing in Mandalore’s deactivated Senate pod, reviewing her notes for perhaps the hundredth time. She knew her words well, and should they fail, she had her testimony. If the senate would not bend for logic, perhaps they would bend for loss.
All is fair in love and war, and she was prepared to play her ace.
“Is that Lady Satine Kryze?” The sudden voice prompted Satine to glance behind her.
“Senator Orn Fre Ta?” Satine greeted back, remaining pleasant despite the stress that sat low in her core. “It is so relieving to see you here.”
The large Twi’lek stepped into the floating structure, and reached for her hand. Satine granted it, and he pressed his other hand above her own, looking at her, “I am deeply sorry for your struggles.” He sighed, “This galaxy has lost all order and reason.”
Satine nodded in agreement, and when he let go, she folded her hands behind her back. “I appreciate your attendance. So many politicians abandon their senatorial posts nowadays when their planet’s gain is not of topic.” She did what she could not to sound passive aggressive, as she was too short on allies to reject a Senators’s support based purely on her personal beliefs concerning their loyalty to democracy… or their ostentatious corruption.
“You of all people know that a singular system’s security is not ensured by one man working against a sea of voices,” He replied. “But yours is one I find welcoming.”
“Thank you for your support, Senator Fre Ta, however I fear my petition is not one for light ears or light hearts,” Satine glanced back at her notes. “I worry for my system’s very survival.”
“If anyone can negotiate with the galaxy, I do believe it would be you, Lady Kryze,” Orn smiled. The lights of the Senate chamber began to illuminate the massive space, and pods re-arranged themselves as conversors separated and took their place. “I must go, your grace.”
“Of course,” Satine smiled, and bid him farewell. Her new bodyguard cleared the rest of the pod, and Satine listened as the rumbling voices of the politicians in attendance began to dull as the chancellor’s centre bench rose to the spotlight. Ayma stood near the back of Mandalore’s pod, shrouded in shadows to allow Satine to be seen when her time came. She was no Mandalorian Protector, but Satine was thankful for her service nonetheless.
Satine’s petition would be the second of the morning session, following a resources dispute between the Army of the Republic and the system which supplied a large majority of their eco supplies and element protection kits. The system producing and supplying the portable shelter materials was arguing that their Planetary taxes should be diminished, saying that their exports should be counted as tribute, so that their money could be used to support the people working in the factories. Satine had to say she agreed with the people.
The Republic had issued bonds to these planets years ago, promising tax-free periods afterward in return for the supplies. But with demand growing, many of these working class systems were feeling cheated out of their labour and resources, worried that the post-war fallout would leave them and their promised rewards forgotten. It was a long time coming that these planets would feel the strain and wear of the war. Holoimage bonds do not feed starving people and promises do not supply hope to those who have lost it.
Satine watched the plea meet deaf ears, her heart sinking more and more. Justice and honour had abandoned these politicians years ago. She could see that now. As the committee begged for assurance and for their bonds to be recognized, the Republic turned them down, ignoring the reminders that quotas had increased and no results seen.
“We are asking to enact our bonds!” Senator Kharrus clarified for a third time, only to be met with the same excuses that had been reiterated twice in the last ten minutes that the Army of the Grant Republic required these supplies if the war was to be won.
“And what will a victory do for us?!?” The same senator asked, “the people on Kinyen and the systems who agree with us have been not only taxed but have been supplying your armies for almost four years!” He called, “The taxes you ask of us are then used to ‘pay’ us for our own supplies! In the end, we have earned nothing and you have only gained. Thus, we wish to enact our bonds so our people may be able to at the very least afford the food which you have so heavily taxed us for as well. With no temporal designation in our contracts, the Republic is free to delay our payment as long as it wishes through the Reconstruction we will certainly have to wait for, but by then my people will have starved!”
A rumble through the senate was heard as senators realised many of them were feeling the same. Reconstruction would take funds, and the Republic would tax them continuously to justify it after the war was over to sponsor its work. There was no assurance in writing anywhere that taxes would be lowered after the war, and suddenly the people felt divided.
Chancellor Palpatine began speaking, “it is with unified effort that this war will be won. To grant unfair treatment is to divide this galaxy further. I will not see inequity be the cost of your governments failing to feed your people.”
The Sacorrian Senator suddenly made their voice known, and the cam-bots swarmed to capture his image as he spoke. The senator made a prissy face, and Satine resisted the urge to roll her eyes when he dramatically challenged, “Have you not made grand purchases of your own with this money you claim to be cheated out of? And did this money not go to the enemy? You claim to be servants of the republic while you schemed with the Separatists!”
Senator Kharrus squinted, not loosing a second to backing down, “if you mean the fleet of used trade cruisers we purchased at discount from the Trade Federation scrap yards, Chancellor, let me lay out our situation.” The senator raised his head high. He was young, with pale pink green skin and three alarming yet intelligent green eyes. Satine listened as he pleaded his case. “Eighteen months ago, the Republic put in a tripled order for the already increased quotas to be met. However the rubber used on these kits must be grown and harvested over a two cycle period. Figuratively, the Republic asked us to employ nine females to produce a child in a month.” The jest did not go unappreciated, and Satine found herself among the politicians who smiled and lightly laughed at the joke.
“This was an impossible order to fill at the time, and we were forced to over-farm our sister planet, Ujj to keep up with those unsustainable demands. But as our own cargo ships fell into disrepair, too many mechanics had become farmers that our fleets failed. We searched for a new fleet, but those of the transport trade have been busy making gunships for your crusades, leaving us to look elsewhere after we were turned down on every Republic construction port.”
“That does not excuse endorsement of the enemy!” The accusatory pod flew out. The Sacorrian Senator was red in the face. Satine realised the planet was from the Core worlds, which was incidentally in the Corellian Sector, and thus a shipbuilding company hub. Despite its agricultural presence, they were most likely guilty for turning these people away as well.
“We purchased from who was selling,” the Kinyenite stated firmly. “Would you rather have us deliver your precious ecokits late?”
That stunned the crowd. Satine leaned forward in her chair.
Mas Amedda coughed slowly. “The Senate does NOT recognize the senator of Sacorria!” He stamped his staff into the floor, and the sound echoed through the senate chamber, putting the Sacorrian in his place, who grumbled as his pod returned to it’s port.
Amedda turned, “but he brings up an interesting point. You ask for money, while financial records show your planet has given funds to the enemy. That does not solidify your case.”
The young senator gripped the sides of his pod’s podium. “You claim wartime need is an excuse to permit the starvation of my people, but when desperation is at our throats, the actions taken to survive are suddenly unforgivable?”
Amedda huffed, “you inflate your propaganda too much.”
“No!” The senator from Kinyen retorted, “you diminish the problem at your convenience!”
“I shall then call for a vote for the senate,” Chancellor Palpatine raised his hand, exasperated with the exchanges (or perhaps worried the quick witted senator would reveal more of the Republic’s corruption, in Satine’s opinion). Palpatine pressed at the computer screen before him. “As always there are three ballot boxes; the first is a vote to permit special allowances to be made for the system of Kinyen regarding taxation of their respective provinces, the second is to postpone all bond transfers until after the war is won per contract, and the third is vote abstention.”
Mas Amedda beat his staff, and announced, “the vote shall commence now!”
A humming rumble was made as the senators began making a decision, and Ayma stepped forward, tapping Satine on the arm. “Aren’t they supposed to wait at minimum two hours between proposals and ballot casting?” She whispered through her vocoder.
Satine nodded, “one of the executive decisions made by the chancellor has allowed for rapid decision making to become the norm. There is no longer any such thing as a slow government.”
“Will you vote?” Ayma asked.
Satine shook her head. “This is a Republic matter. Mandalore has not declared itself to either side, so in a technicality, we are still Neutral.”
Ayma nodded her head, and stepped back.
Satine leaned back, folding her arms. She had not appreciated the wording the Chancellor had used, with manipulative remarks to communicate his position on the issue. As a leader, he could guide, but the openly derogatory tone had been out of line when the true victims were clear.
Three minutes passed as all the votes came in. Satine’s heart sank as she watched the numbers fail her hopes. Seven thousand three hundred votes for an exception to be made, Fifteen thousand, six hundred and forty-ish votes for no change, and over nine thousand abstentions.
“The Republic is truly lost.” Satine whispered under her breath as Mas Amedda announced the results and closed the ballot officially.
The senator from Kinyen finally broke, tears pouring down his cheeks as he ragefully muttered the same words Satine had. The only difference was that he had still been on mic.
As the pods returned to port, Mas Amedda finished out the case for records, the decision officially at a close. Palpatine made some remarks, thanking Kinyen for their continued support, saying the treason of collaborating with the enemy would be overlooked in exchange for a continued supply of ecokits.
Satine shifted her feet as she sat, a sour feeling arising in her stomach. Physical apprehension hadn’t plagued her since her first year as Duchess, but the fear that was pooling in her now was excruciating.
“We shall take a ten minute break. Please return promptly for the resumption of this session.” Amedda announced, and the lights came back on brightly.
Satine wrung her hands, setting her heart to a stern resolution. She would not fail her people. Impulsively, Satine rushed out of Mandalore's pod, taking Ayma by surprise, who fumbled to catch up with her charge.
Satine wove through the crowded halls as senators mingled to discuss their thoughts, visit their offices, take a breather off camera, or seek out a restroom. Kinyen’s system representation office was a few floors above, and Satine took the lift, Ayma falling in behind her. The lift was slow, but Satine managed to get out onto the correct floor with just enough time to catch the senator.
He was still crying, his own guard detail awkward as those in alliance with Kinyen tried to comfort him.
“Senator Kharrus!” Satine addressed.
The young politician looked up briefly at her, but returned to his tears.
“You were very brave,” Satine said. “I am sorry the Republic has failed you. Had I known of your blight, I would have been happy to arrange business for your system with the shipbuilders of Kalevala,” she regretted. At that, the young senator glanced back up.
“You’re of Mandalore, right?” He asked, his mind running on autopilot.
“Yes,” Satine confirmed. “I too have faced the challenges that the Republic feels is ‘necessary’ and perfectly ‘reasonable’ .” She frowned, “please allow me to offer whatever aid on the front of excess farmable resources you may have for export.”
“You wish to strike a deal for the exports we cannot sell?” Kharrus scoffed. “With what planetary power?”
At that, Satine stalled. She blinked at the senator, taken aback. Then she frowned, “surely your planet has other exports, as you stated you were struggling financially. Would a trade agreement not be beneficial to you?”
“You don’t even have the power to make such an arrangement,” Kharrus’s demeanour turned hostile, “So don't mock me. I won’t waste my time on beggars.”
Satine’s mouth almost fell open. “Excuse me,” she said as calmly as she could, “I’d like you to clarify that statement so there is no misunderstanding.”
Senator Kharrus had dried his tears, “I shouldn’t have to explain politics to the likes of you,” he spat, turning away.
“This agreement would not be an attempt at swindling you at my benefit!”
“But you thought bringing in resources would bribe the Mandalorians back into your control, hoping I was too desperate to see the unfair advantage you had?”
Satine almost turned red with anger, but kept her cool, “the Republic failed me too, and it was used by my enemies for a coup,” Satine narrowed her eyes.
Kharrus scoffed, “the Republic is failing all of us; even those that stood with the chancellor in high seats.” He rolled his eyes, “but not all of us lost to our own.”
Satine was prepared to verbally rip the senator to shreds, but a tap on her shoulder from Ayma informed her that she had two minutes to return to her pod. Instead, Satine straightened her back, and did not let his words outwardly affect her. “If that is your opinion, so be it.” Satine said coldly. “Good day, Senator Kharrus. I too have a war to fight.”
With that, she turned away, regretting ever feeling bad for the Senator himself. She tried to tell herself that the Senator was just lashing out in response to his disappointment, but the verbal abuse had been uncalled for. A compromise of decorum is no excuse for declining an opportunity to genuinely make a good trade.
Granted, he was in some ways correct. Satine didn’t have control of Mandalore, but the exports of medicine and lumber she knew were also grown in the forest mountains of Kinyen would have been helpful when she rebuilt Sundari.
Because she would rebuild.
She’d done it once, and she’d do it again.
Satine was back at her pod with a minute to spare, and she returned to her notes. They were a relief in her hands, and she took a deep breath when the lights lowered once more.
Mas Amedda clanked his staff, bringing the senate to attention again.
“We are here to welcome and recognize Lady Satine Kryze to the Senate,” Mas Amedda sighed, and Satine could have sworn he seemed displeased to announce her name. “She speaks today on the matters of the Active Mandalorian Relief Efforts.”
Satine glanced briefly towards the Nabooian senate pod, where Padmé sat, watching her with calm confidence. So Satine chose the same. Driving her pod out into the centre of the massive senate chamber, Satine felt the camera droids centre in on her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw her holoimage show up on the screens of every pod.
Satine Kryze folded her arms behind her back, and began. “Senators!” She addressed, “I am Satine Kryze. Former Duchess and only official political representative Mandalore has at this time. I would first like to politely correct the esteemed Mas Amedda’s wording to the ‘Active Mandalorian Invasion’ .” Behind her, Ayma shifted, clearly still taking in such a large space. Satine’s voice did not falter as she stated, “My system has suffered greatly under the pressure this war has caused. Though we are neutral, we too have felt the claws of corruption grip us. It was not the failing of our government which caused the collapse of our democracy, but an internal attack that was interrupted by the Republic, thus handing Mandalore over to the terrorist network in the progress. If the people had been permitted to see the truth before the Republic complicated, then denied to them, I truly believe that Mandalore would already be free on this day.”
She felt her fingers go numb from gripping her podium too tightly. “It was Republic intervention which prevented any swift recovery from taking place. We are a people not unaccustomed to rebound, but the Republic stands in the way of those with the independence to do so.”
Mas Amedda interrupted, “I call for Senate clarification!”
Satine narrowed her eyes, “confirmed.”
Amedda sighed, “the capital city of Sundari was taken over by the occupants of their moon, Concordia, which we have evidence was aligned with members of the separatist forces.”
Satine retorted, “Separatist invasion or not, we did not ask for your assistance. We could have handled this ourselves.”
“ Could you? ” Another voice came out of the array of politicians, “Rumour says you called a Jedi to assist you. I do believe that counts as Republic assistance!”
Satine had prepared for this question. “It is true I called upon an old friend for help. However he came of his own free will at no Republic expense. A terrorist organisation known as Death Watch had taken over our capital city, Sundari, and held me in less than desirable conditions.”
“You called for Jedi assistance because your pillows were not fluffed enough?” The contradictor mocked. She read the name of the system on his pod; Atrisia- and the fact that it was a luxury planet with more unoccupied vacation complexes and retired bureaucrats than working class citizens told her enough about who she was up to argue against.
Satine did not humour him with offence. “That was a polite euphemism for my torture, and intended public execution, ” She stated firmly, turning back to the senate. “Though my people were deceived, there was little time for the truth to be unveiled before Republic forces attacked.”
“They were chasing a fugitive from prison,” Mas Amedda tried to clarify again, “A Dathomirian criminal allied with the Separatists.”
“Which was no reason to send a battalion of Republic Attack Cruisers for!” Satine said.
“Were you not personally harmed in this conflict?” Mas Amedda sighed, “Then you know how dangerous he was.”
“It is true I was injured,” Satine confirmed, “however, the only danger I have come to fight is the danger of corruption.” Satine answered. “It was corruption that led the terrorist organisation DeathWatch to attack innocent people, and corruption that led my people to be attacked by your army!”
“And what proof of this do you even have?”
“I have a witness,” Satine said firmly, “Ayma Hurr of Concordia heard of the plans to capture Sundari, as alliances were made with Separatist originating crime syndicates who later attacked our ports, then theatrically thwarted by Death Watch members.”
Ayma stepped forward, “Members of the Senate,” she addressed, her voice shaking only slightly, “of my own free will, I confirm Lady’s Kryze’s summary of my attestation.”
Mas Amedda huffed, “you’d believe a citizen of your enemy moon?”
Satine did not hesitate, “Concordia is not our enemy. As I stated, it was an internal affair.”
The other senator, the one from Atrisia who spoke earlier, sighed, “you should be thankful that Republic forces are there trying to protect your people!”
“So long as your military vindicates their resistance, they will fight back!” Satine argued. “You have enabled a terrorist organisation to play themselves as the heroes fighting Republic Occupation, while innocents are caught in the crossfire, prey to hunger-driven lies and corruption!”
“There are innocents no matter where you look,” the Atrisian representative scoffed, “by your argument, we should be handing supplies to the Separatists so they can at least kill us with full bellies!”
Satine grit her teeth at the nasty reply that almost left her mouth. She regained her composure, and said calmly, “Mandalore is neutral, and has declared itself such alongside a thousand other worlds.” She tipped her chin upwards, “Republic invasion proved your government has no respect for the self determination of a people.” She narrowed her eyes, and formed her accusation carefully. “To permit such ordinance to occur is to say that you agree that freedom of choice is irrelevant. If the Republic is willing to invade a neutral system, then what will stand in the way when the Republic invades your own world when you do not abide by its wishes? If you do not stand up now, then who will stand up for you when you are on the other side of the blaster? Who will-!”
“Lady Kryze!” Mas Amedda snapped, interrupting her. “You are suggesting the Republic would turn on its own!”
Satine didn’t let her eyes lower or her stature shrink. Firmly, and with a determined voice, she affirmed. “Yes. I am.”
The second of astonished silence did not last and the senate broke out into a ringing clamour of arguing politicians. Her play on the earlier issue of the day, hitting the chinks in every senators armour had been successful. She needed them angry. If they were not angry, they would not see the truth.
Amedda’s staff clanged so many times in an attempt to silence the people that Satine was briefly reminded of the war drums of old Mandalore. It was irony at play and she knew it.
“Senate!” The representative of Atrisia called out, and the pod was swarmed by cambots that vied for a good angle at the senator who dared address the senate.
The rumbling settled as their attention was caught, and The Chancellor recognized Atrisia. With the approval, the politician grinned for a second, and Satine stared daggers at them. “Senate please,” They began, “You would really permit yourselves question the sovrinity of the Republic and the success of the Chancellor which has so faithfully guided us through this war… by a political reject ?”
Satine ground her teeth to keep from snapping a response. She had pleaded her case. She had presented all the facts.
“This… woman, has come here to beg us to abandon and leave her people vulnerable so she may again take power after her own people deposed her!” They scoffed, “After she killed the man who prevented the invasion of crime syndicates!”
“I did not kill Pre Vizla,” Satine growled. How had DeathWath's lies made it even here?
“She claims the attack was all a ruse, but brings forth another exile to ‘testify’ for her!”
“I am no exile!” Ayma spat. “I am the scion of Clan Hurr!”
“ So she says… ” The Atrisian Representative sighed, “And the fascinating fact I have discovered with minimal research - and you have failed to mention - is that it was your own sister, Lady Kryze, who called upon the Republic for Military assistance! Thus I put forth the motion-”
“You have no right to call such a vote!” Satine cut him off.
“Then I shall,” Mas Amedda huffed, “As always there are three ballot boxes; the first is a vote to recall the On-ground troops protecting the Mandalorian citizens during this political ‘scuffle’ and leave them to deal with the Dathomirian Criminal themselves, the second is to allow Mandalorians themselves to decide when they are safe, and the third is vote abstention.”
Satine’s face tightened. This was bad. Very bad. “I object!”
“You have no position from which to do so, Lady Kryze,” The Chancellor said apathetically. He nodded, “Forward the vote.”
A rushing in her ears was all Satine heard as her vision tunnelled, and she could feel her world ending. Ayma placed a hand on Satine’s shoulder, steadying her. Her gut sank further and further as the numbers rolled in, and the Chagrian read them aloud. The votes were not in her favour.
Almost split in perfect thirds, Satine watched as legislation to permit further occupation was made, winning by just a couple hundred votes.
“This Republic is a puppet show,” Satine whispered in horrified awe, “And their masters are money and greed.”
From a nearby pod, Padmé Amidala watched her friend mourn.
As soon as she saw her friend, Satine stated her decision.
“I am headed to Mandalore.”
After her disastrous senate petition, Satine had headed to the closest safe place, where Padmé also was resting after the day’s Senate meetings. Padmé did not answer, but folded her arms where she sat at her desk. She waited for the blonde woman to continue. Her black dress was adorned with obsidian jewels, but her hair was loose and hung in beautiful curls around her face.
Satine took to pacing. She muttered, “The reports say that Sundari has fallen. Republic aide has been present on-planet for almost a full month. My contacts say Almec is dead. There is a rumour…”
Padmé raised an eyebrow, noticing the way Satine paused. Padmé finished, “Ahsoka is still on Mandalore.”
“And my sister. They say they are working together to capture Maul,” The former ruler of Mandalore spat the name like a disease, then stood taller, “I can stop the fighting. They have to know I am alive.”
Padmé frowned. “There will be a media lockdown around the system. It is possible your survival is not news which has reached their ears.”
Satine glared at the floor, “it has been seven weeks. A Month. They will listen to me.”
Padmé’s face twisted in concern. Satine hated the pity of friends, but Padmé could be a voice of reason in the dark, and right now Satine wasn’t sure what she thought, other than that she had to do something. Padmé slowly placed a hand on Satine’s arm, and she stopped pacing. “But will they?”
The words of doubt were not new. They had been plaguing Satine’s mind since she left Mandalore. But she felt she had no other option.
She straightened her back. “And what else am I to do?”
“Stay here,” Padmé said with no hesitation. “You are still healing.” Satine this time raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. “You wish to negotiate with them? Satine… you will be killed the second you enter the system-”
Satine opened her mouth to speak. “I must-”
Padmé interjected before she could argue, “-and the ashes of your martyrdom will do nothing but make momentary sparks in their sky, invisible from the burning cities.”
“You are poetically graphic,” Satine spat.
Padmé rolled her eyes, “I am right, and you know it.” She softened her voice, “you must remember that Mandalore still has no formal representation here on Coruscant. They need you here, fighting for those who have no voice. You are still of use here, Satine, so what is this really about?”
My people. My son, Korkie. My sister, Bo.
Satine glared, “Your government has proved that I am of no use here. They openly rejected my plea to end the violence they so clearly endorse.”
“And without your work the senate would have overlooked this without care. You have started something here, Satine, and I know you of all people can finish it.” Padmé added, “Not all of the senate agreed with how that vote was handled.”
Satine glared, “I must end the violence.”
Padmé sighed, “I’m sorry, but I think this is not an army you may negotiate with. The people Ahsoka and Lady Kryze and her legions are battling will be blind to your efforts.”
Satine resumed pacing, “The violence must cease! My people are dying!”
“Anakin and Master Kenobi were on Mandalore when it happened.” Padmé suddenly confessed.
Satine froze. Obi-Wan had returned to Mandalore, and had not told her?
Padmé added, “they met with Ahsoka, who is still trying to free your planet, just before they returned to Coruscant.” She tried another appeal and Satine smelled it a parsec away. “Would Master Kenobi want you to put yourself in danger with such little chance of difference to be presently made?”
The worst part was, it worked. But only for a moment. “Master Kenobi does not change my intentions.” She paused, hurt forming in her heart that he had not told her, “I can make a difference!”
“Stay on Coruscant, Satine. You can do real work here.” Padmé pleaded.
Satine frowned. She was right. She had support from the few who knew she was alive, and her contacts were either dedicated to their duty protecting Korkie, or they were operating to feed her information, and the information told Satine that her people were terrified and leaderless.
“I cannot abandon my people. Those in control are extremists, and I will deal with them. I’ve done it once before. I ended one war. I can just as easily end a second.”
Padmé’s eyes filled with worry. “Satine… you have no army. You have minimal influence. It is chaos there.”
“Which is precisely why I have to be in Sundari! War is when loyalty is tested and allegiances sworn. There is a power vacuum in my absence now that Almec is dead and Vizla and Maul disposed of. The factions I once unified are fighting. I can stop it, I know it!”
“Satine!” Padmé suddenly raised her voice. “Do you hear yourself?”
The blonde glared at her friend.
She was right. Satine had no army, and right now their language was violence and fear. Neither were options Satine wished to taste. She may have to play the long game here. She knew the clans well enough that whichever one came out on top would be opposed by another and fall quickly. Tradition alone could not hold the peace. Satine would have to wait until Republic forces had withdrawn before she could begin making her moves.
“There is one more thing I need you to know,” Padmé sighed, and she shifted uncomfortably where she sat, rubbing at her swollen belly.
Satine turned briefly. “What is it?”
“Remember what I said about a portion of the senate disagreeing with the recent… way of things?”
“I do.”
“Something happened today which backed up some concerns I have about the Chancellor’s overdue powers,” She said, “I believe Chancellor Palpatine had grown much too powerful, and with the impending motion to vote him even more, I and many senators are not the only ones suspicious,” Padmé stated.
Satine raised an eyebrow.
“The Jedi Council is actively investigating him as well,” She told her friend, “They have asked Anakin to report on the Chancellor’s actions.”
“I heard of his promotion…” Satine pieced together the things unsaid. “I’m sure that did not go over well.”
“It did not.” Padmé sighed, “I worry for the hasty choices that are being made on whim with no concern for our future or lessons from our history,” The brunette frowned, “I’d like to invite you to join our small council.”
“You have a council of senators who oppose the overstretch of Palpatine’s influence?”
“We do,” Padmé said, “We are organising the bills as we speak.”
Satine glanced to the floor, then back up at her dearest friend.
“Then please, consider me a part of this plot.”
“My lady,” Ayma stepped back into the main space of the familiar office, coming away from the large windows where she’d been making calls on her comm. Satine was now pouring over the new bills Padmé had shown her, and considering what might be the best way to support them. Padme had left for her flat, saying Satine could stay as long as she needed in the office to review the works in progress. There were writings from Senators Satine knew well, and held in very high regard. Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, Meena Tills and many more had already signed the petition, and they were climbing in numbers towards the double thousands.
If Padmé could do this in such a short time, then there was hope for her case as well.
She couldn't give up. If she could just call for another vote and convince enough vote abstainers to vote in her favour, perhaps she could still save her home.
“Your Worshipfulness!” Ayma tried to get her attention again, and it worked.
“Yes, Hurr?” Satine didn’t look up.
“I have contacted some members of my clan who are working relief in Sundari,” She said, “And I have good news.”
Satine looked up, desperate for anything.
Ayma smiled and offered, “One of their team members has located your nephew,” Ayma said.
Satine blinked. “Korkie?” She said hopefully.
Ayma nodded, “He was smuggled out into the wastelands with a small team of Mandalorian Protectors. Apparently they were briefly captured while headed north to the home of one of his fellow cadets.”
“Captured by who?”
“Members of the Maul’s remaining loyalists, rescued by those in the Mandalorian Rebellion, a small group who call themselves the NiteOwls.”
Satine tilted her head. Korben’s school friends were with him? Of course they were. She shook her head. Of course her son wouldn’t leave anyone behind. Satine asked, “Did you get the names of the other youths?”
Ayma shook her head, “No. Only that there were two girls and two boys - one being your nephew.”
“Lagos, Soniee, and Amis, I’ll venture to guess,” She whispered to herself. If she remembered correctly, Lagos was from a Northern Clan with an Inhabited Establishment exceptionally loyal to House Kryze. It would make sense for the children to have attempted to flee to what they believed to be a safe compound. “Who are the NiteOwls.”
“Just a rebel group fighting the renegade DeathWatch members,” Ayma dismissed. “But it took a little convincing before the Mandalorian Protectors allowed my team to take your nephew.”
Satine’s face shot up, “Take him where, precisely?”
“Don’t worry, my Lady,” Ayma put her hands out, looking surprised at Satine’s intense concern, “They took him to a safe place.”
“Where, exactly?”
“The team believes that he will be more inconspicuous in a place no one would expect him to go.”
“Where, Ayma? Where?”
“Concordia.” Ayma said flatly, and Satine’s jaw clenched.
“You… They took him to Concordia?!?!”
“Trust me.” Ayma reached out again, trying to placate her, “He’s in disguise.”
“Disguise?” Satine squinted at her.
“They told me he now wears Beskar'gam, and his hair has been bleached.” Ayma told her, “He will be hidden in plain sight until Maul’s renegade forces are no longer a threat to his safety. My scouts have said they are still searching Kalevala for him, believing he would have fled home to Castle Kryze.”
Satine’s anger about not having been included in the decision making concerning her heir made her hair stand up, but she had to admit the plan was clever. And perhaps because it's exactly what neither she nor Korkie would choose would be exactly why it had a chance at working at all.
“I’ll forgive you when he’s standing in front of me, not a hair on his head harmed.”
“So long as you don’t consider a little bleach a crime, do you?” Ayma tried to jest, but all she got was a glare.
Satine stood up, pacing suddenly. “I need to go to my flat. I am exhausted. Please call a speeder.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Ayma smiled, and left Satine to do as asked. As soon as the commando was gone, Satine broke down into tears.
She’d held her own in the senate, and she’d held it together during her time with Padme, and she’d held it together over the last several hours.
But for some reason, to hear that her son had been forced away from the people she’d given everything to in order to ensure his escape during the Fall of Sundari, those Mandalorian Protectors she trusted most, who would have laid down their lives for her boy, terrified her more. Korkie was a gentle spirit, with a selflessness that was equally his greatest strength and his greatest weakness - just like his father.
To be captured and separated from his trusted guards and his friends by strangers must have been excruciating. She hoped he was smart about it. If she lost Korben, Satine was sure her life would become meaningless.
A beep from her comm on her wrist from Ayma informed Satine her ride was ready.
Satine exited the grand hall, passing the last straggling dignitaries and diplomats leaving the senate building at similarly late hours who ambled through the halls of the senate building, the blonde making it from Padmé’s office to the Senate Building doors. The transport that would take her back to her flat would be parked ready for her.
“My Lady!” Ayma called from the landing pad where Satine looked up to see a taxi waiting for her. Forcing the tears away, Satine stepped out of the flat and into the speeder. The driver was one of the official senatorial transporters she’d met before; a gentle man named Pen-Tor. “My flat, Building M, please,” she asked, and Pen-Tor pulled the taxi out into a traffic lane as soon as the doors closed.
Seated beside her, Ayma folded her arms over her chest, her own Beskar’gam clanking with the movement.
“Why do you support me?” Satine asked suddenly in the quiet. “Why is your clan, a Concordian Clan, sworn to House Kryze?”
“It should be obvious,” Ayma stated firmly.
“Humour me,” Satine answered.
“My name,” the commando said, “I was a foundling on Concordia, adopted during the rule of Duke Adoni Kryze,” Ayma nodded. “My mother gave me my name. Ayma.”
“A peace name,” Satine smiled when she realised. “Like mine,” She recalled the Ancient Mandalorian tradition of giving children names which may be easily shouted in battle. These names were short, typically with one syllable, with strong consonants to avoid confusion. It was a tradition Satine’s grandfather had broken when he’d named his son -her father- Adoni. A name not so easily shouted, and Adoni had done the same with his eldest daughter.
‘Peace names’ this broken line of names was referred to, as such were meant to be said in times of peace, when the speaker is relaxed and can emphasise its beauty. The compromise had come with the birth and naming of the second daughter, ‘Bo-Katan’, and anyone knew her name was not a peace name. Easily shortened to ‘Bo’, Satine’s younger sister bore a regal warrior’s name.
Perhaps it had been a cruel trick of fate that the two daughters went down the paths that they had, with actions reflecting their classification as delegate and warrior. Life was not without irony when it came to matters of destiny.
Satine wasn’t blind when she’d named her son. Korkie had not received a peace name, as Korben was easily shortened to its first syllable and was thus a warrior's name. At the time, Satine had believed it was simply a way she could honour the love she’d lost, but Satine had never expected his name to ever truly befit the warrior she was fearing he would become. Korkie had fought for her escape and harmed guards during his and the fellow cadet’s attempt to break her out of prison.
Ayma smiled, “My mother said that the Kryze House truly wished for our survival. It was why I swore loyalty with the rest of my clan.”
“Your loyalty was misplaced. I have failed you, and thus I am unworthy of it now,” Satine turned away.
“Only the fair king is cut by the throne he sits upon,” Ayma quoted. “Only the fair Duchess is cut by the throne she sits upon,” She adapted it to the circumstance.
“Then I am unworthy beyond repair,” Satine huffed.
Ayma rolled her eyes. “The wonderful thing about wisdom is that it defies the change of the ages.”
Satine frowned, “I fear the turmoil this galaxy is currently facing is a whole new challenge, and the old ways will not prevail.”
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Summary:
Revenge of the Sith continues...
Notes:
Notice: Some dialogue is taken directly from the movie.
Chapter Text
(That night)
The holo was shaky to connect, and when it did, Satine was confused to see only his shoulders and face. “Obi?”
“Satine! I’m so sorry, I was unable to make our designated rendezvous tonight.”
“I noticed…” Satine stretched dramatically, “Considering I’m sleeping alone,” She resisted pulling her lips into a smile. She needed to gauge his emotional state before she passed on the good news to him. “Where are you?” Satine held the comm-holoprojector in her hand, letting him get a good look at her.
“I have been dispatched to Utapau.” Obi-Wan frowned in thought, “the mission was urgent. I apologise. General Grievous is on the planet and I am to deal with him.”
“Oh…” Satine blinked. “Grievous… you’re facing him?”
“I was the only Master not on previous assignment.” ObiWan’s hologram showed streaks of light shining across his skin. “I am in hyperspace now.”
“I figured…” Satine said, her eyes excited despite their heavy feeling from having woken up not that long ago.
“What else did you call about?” Obi-Wan asked, “I can almost feel your emotions all the way out here.”
“Maul has been captured,” Satine said before she could think. “Ahsoka and my sister have him in confined transport off planet to the nearest Republic prison.”
Ayma had awoken her only minutes ago with the news, only seconds old off the military reports. It had been a rush of relief and joy that had overwhelmed her, a welcome difference than the worry she’d had recently.
Obi-Wan was silent, clearly with more to say than he dared.
Satine added, “I expect that with his capture, the Republic will no longer be able to justify its occupation.”
“That is good news,” Obi-Wan said.
It was. With Republic forces gone, it was only a matter of time before Satine would be able to return and fix everything. It was open for her to save her people. The woman looked at the holo of her lover, and scrunched her eyebrows. “I wish you were here.”
“I do too…” Obi-Wan mussed, “But if I can dispose of Grievous…”
“The war will be over,” Satine took a deep breath. She had dreamed of the day those words could have been said with certainty. Then she smiled smugly, “What ever will you do with all that free time?”
Obi-Wan managed to smile, “I have some promises to keep.”
“Oh you do?” Satine smiled. “Like what?”
“Well, I’m sure the council will have plenty of domestic disputes for me to take care of, but there's this girl…”
“A girl, huh?”
“Yes. She needs a vacation and I’ll be there to enforce it.”
Satine laughed. What a galaxy it would be if she could simply be looking forward to a weekend in the Kalevalan hills alone with Obi-Wan Kenobi at her side to explore them with. “What a lovely dream,” She shook her head. She wondered again if that cabin was still standing.
There were a few beats of silence. “I was serious.”
It was Satine’s turn to be quiet. “You are?”
“I am.”
They remained on call until Satine’s exhaustion outlasted her elation at the good news. When she fell asleep, Obi-Wan watched her with a concerned look in his eyes, until the outline of Utapau came into his sights when he pulled out of hyperspace.
With a loving glance and a few words of care to the sleeping form of Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan shut off his com, and descended upon the planet.
He was laughing.
Satine brushed her hair over her shoulder. It was longer than the short cut she’d had in the more recent years, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, spinning her to face him. He smiled, leaning forward to plant a kiss on her lips. “Bid Mesh’la,” he murmured, “So beautiful.”
For all of the Galaxy knew, they were two friends estranged by time and circumstance, but he was here and he was hers. “Ben,” she whispered his name, and she ran a hand over his chest. The Mandalorian attire was handsome on him, and she wondered why she hadn’t dressed him up sooner. Also, it helped that he'd rid himself of that beard. She returned the kiss.
“How fare my two favourite people in the Universe?” He asked, snaking a hand down to rest it on her swollen belly.
She huffed quietly when a movement not her own made the little life known to her. “Better with you around,” Satine answered. He smiled when the child pushed back against his hand. Satine studied his face. She told him, “they like the sound of your voice.”
“Oh do they, now?” He softly laughed. “And what else do they like?” He swayed slightly with her, the sunlight flashing across his ginger hair, dancing to some imaginary music only they could hear.
Satine breathed in the smell of him, ozone and leather. She hummed to herself. “They like waking me up four times a night for the ‘fresher,” she began. “They like making me hungry at all hours of the day,” she smiled as his fingers danced over her skin. “They like when I sing.”
“When you sing?” He echoed. “How do you know that?”
“They cease to play competitive blitzball with my internal organs,” she let him trace his hands over her body, warm and safe.
“I haven’t heard you sing since I was a Padawan.”
Satine scoffed, “and if it’s up to me, you’ll never hear it again.”
“A shame…” he kissed her on the forehead, “maybe we could have a duet.”
Satine laid in her bed, the quiet of the room invaded by the noise of the new traffic lane that ran near her flat. No amount of soundproofing seemed to help and the shades failed to cancel out the headlights of so many passing vehicles. Suddenly cold, the Mandalorian woman pulled the covers closer to her chin, and curled so that she could wrap her arms around her knees. That was a bittersweet dream. Maybe another life where she’d asked him to stay? The genre was one which she hadn’t entertained since she was much younger -and much stupider.
She hadn’t dealt much with the loss of the potential other life she never had since she was barely twenty, slowly coming to terms with the fact that the royal life was a lonely one. Sure, she could have friends and she could have the occasional, strictly professional comfort fuck, but any marriage she would have entered into would have undoubtedly been based entirely on political convenience, and true intimacy would evade her, not to mention privacy. Her one chance at the traditional life had left the day she kept her mouth shut as the one man she’d ever truly loved walked up the ramp of a starship destined for the Jedi Temple, ignorant to the fact he’d left her with far more than they ever bargained for.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Satine stretched, the emptiness of the room feeling suddenly very lonely. Beside her, her holocomm was sitting amongst the blankets, deactivated. She set it aside. Satine rolled over, and closed her eyes, taking slow breaths to force her body to relax. The shallow rumble of the atmo controls was familiar and she let herself become lost in the lull of returning drowsiness.
Satine had only been asleep once more for a short time before a hum she was not familiar with woke her. She knew instinctively upon opening her eyes that something was horribly wrong.
Satine leapt up, the sheet wrapped around her body as she realised the hum was not something she was hearing, but something she was feeling. Satine felt her face twist and her stomach contort, the discomfort spreading to her chest. Yes, something was wrong, but not with her.
Satine looked around the room, and as she began to walk toward the ‘fresher to make sure she was not possibly entering another irregular monthly cycle -as such would explain the mild cramping she’d experienced in the former week- she passed the balcony doors, and saw it.
The Jedi Temple was burning.
Smoke was billowing into the sky, the underbellies of the menacing clouds lit an ill yellow by the flames and the Coruscanti city lights. Life seemed to draw away from the spired ziggurat, leaving a pool of darkness around it where citizens fled from the sight.
Satine was fixed in place as she stared in horror. This wasn’t possible. Though contrary to her belief, her eyes and the feeling in her bones told a different story. The dread in her belly built with every second, as if the universe itself was screaming in pain. Horror settled on her features as Satine pushed open her balcony doors and wrapped the sheets closer around her lean form.
Vehicles were dropping out of the trafficlanes and descending into the depths of Coruscant, as if to hide from the disaster that had to be visible for miles. Satine’s thoughts shifted to Obi-Wan. Was he alright?
Satine raced back inside, grabbing her holo, and comming the Jedi Master. “Ben! Oh Ben…” she whispered as the call fell through once, twice, and a third time. He wasn’t picking up.
He may be busy dealing with whatever has happened, she reassured herself. He is probably still taking in Grievous. He would update her as soon as he got the chance. I know who to call in the meantime.
Padmé’s code picked up, and the other woman immediately answered. “Satine!”
“Senator! The Temple…what is happening?”
“I know. I have no news. But Anakin isn’t answering. The Jedi have been declared traitors to the Republic.”
“How?” Satine gasped. This was not good. This was impossible. What could they have been condemned for? What could they possibly have done to result in such a charge?
“I don’t know.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“No! We shouldn’t gather at this time until a true explanation can be made. I don’t need protection. I have Captain Typho,” Padmé warned, “please stay safe, Lady Kryze!”
“Then I’ll see you on the morrow.” Satine turned off the com with no ceremony, and shoved the device into a pocket as she began to frantically dress. Just as Satine was fastening her jacket, a sound of a jetpack outside the window and a loud knock on her flat’s landing pad door sounded. Satine opened it to her self-appointed bodyguard.
“Lady Kryze,” the Vocator rasped with the heavy breathing, “I’m sorry to report, but the Jedi have all been ordered to be slaughtered.” Satine’s eyes flicked back behind her, reminding herself that smoke was most certainly rising and there was still a strange glow across the metallic spires that punctured the Coruscanti sky.
Satine’s stomach dropped. As her emotions rolled, Satine stumbled slightly before righting herself. “My Lady?” Ayma tilted her head, confused to find Satine already in such a state of worry.
“I’m sorry, Ayma.” Satine shook her head, and coughed to clear her thoughts, “Um, were you followed?” Satine asked.
“No. But I’m afraid I bring more bad news.” The woman didn’t remove her helmet, but folded her arms behind her back. “Mandalore is now officially leaderless. Now that Maul is gone, DeathWatch is without a head. The former Jetii has left, but your sister has started organising the Mandalorian Resistance. The people have mixed feelings about your sister's grab for power. They say she brought the Republic in. Gar Saxon has rallied-”
“You’re stalling,” Satine pointed out. She knew words. They were her weapon, and the ones her contact was currently using were excessive for a weathered Mandalorian Commando. This was news Satine could have inferred on her own. A contact was meant for sensitive information, not common knowledge, and both women knew it.
The armoured woman stiffened. “Duchess… I’m sorry to report, but Cadet Kryze disappeared a night ago.”
Satine’s stomach dropped. Korkie…
“-Those set on his charge have been searching night and day, but he was taken from our momentary outpost on Concordia, while we were en route to my Clan’s home as you permitted.”
“Korkie is missing?” Satine stuttered. "Again?!?"
“Yes, your Grace.” Alma answered, and Satine wanted to make a remark about Clan Hurr bing unreliable, but it wasn't the time.
“And no one knows where he is?”
“We believe he was taken by Maul’s renegade troops.”
She had to find him. Korkie could be in danger, or worse, dead. Who knew what monstrous plans Maul had ordered for the boy before he was captured? She had to get him to safety. It would be…
No. Many eyes were on her. Proximity to Korkie would only put him in further peril. But she knew who she could call.
“Come in then,” Satine stepped aside, letting Ayma come into the flat. She stood for a few moments by the windows, her hands by her mouth as she watched the Temple burn. It would be an understatement as Satine watched that she felt such a deep remorse, as she was unable to comprehend what explanation the Republic might have put forward to justify wiping out their own greatest asset. No, it was not the Republic that ordered this.
She was sure of it. This was Chancellor Palpatine’s doing.
Satine offered Ayma a quick meal and place to sleep before she would be returning to Mandalore -no matter what Padme said- and the commando thankfully accepted Satine’s hospitality and promised to be ready in the morning.
The former Duchess made sure her loyal contact was comfortable in the reception room before locking herself in her bedroom and pulling out her comlink. Obi-Wan’s code was in the speed dials. But once again it fell through. As the first colours of dawn lit the atmosphere, Satine did not move from her bedroom.
Time and time again, he failed to respond, and for the second time in her life, Satine truly feared she may have lost him.
But just as the first, a lingering hope in her heart burned true, and deep down she knew he wasn’t gone. She’d know. The sickly feeling of loss was something she’d recognise, and she didn't feel it now. Only fear. But fear and hope could coincide, and so Satine held on.
The emergency senate session was called at the most unconventional hour, delaying her departure.
The morning had been without a session, the Senate Building keeping even those of the highest rank out. All official and commercial transport had been shut down on the planet, freezing the populace. The only thing preventing citizen outrage was that private transport was still permitted.
The apprehension after the burning of the Temple had hung in the Coruscanti air like a blanket, and Satine had paced so much that she was sure there was a distinct walking track now indented into her flat’s carpets. Ayma had been silent, occasionally leaving to meet with a contact, and Satine had dried her eyes long before the sun was up. When afternoon came, a summoning was delivered.
Satine had been thankful she was already dressed, as she’d been expected to be present within the hour of the call. The senate building had been swarmed as soon as it had been opened again. With confusion and a general awareness that there was very little knowledge and answers were about to be given, the largest turnout of senators in the war’s history was made. The senate chamber was full of more in-person attendees than Satine had seen since the war began.
The massive amphitheatre was also eerily quiet when the Chancellor’s pod raised, and when he started speaking, his voice was powerful. Even Jar-Jar, known for his untimely remarks, was silent.
He spoke of the servitude of the Republic, and of the deep sacrifices the politicians had made. He stroked the egos of his retinue and of the senators. This tactic of manipulation, to prepare the crowd to think in his favour, was not missed by Satine or those around her. From his podium, Chancellor Palpatine stood beside Mas Amedda, his speech unhindered by the huge cloak he wore, covering even his face. As he spoke of the atrocities of the Jedi, Satine sat in flank behind Padme next to the handmaidens at attention, her hands folded in her lap. When the door to the pod was activated, she looked briefly behind her to see the welcome sight of Bail Organa, who took the empty seat beside the Nabooian senator.
Despite her former words in the middle of the night, Padmé had invited Satine to stand with her in Naboo’s senate pod, and Satine had discovered why. Others in attendance with her, such as Mon Mothma and an empty seat saved for Bail Organa, were figureheads of the Delegation of Two Thousand, as they had so named themselves.
“It was with the might of The Republic, and the swift action of this legislature that prevented the extinction of our Democracy!” Palpatine worked the crowd, “We still stand, and the Jedi Rebellion has been foiled.”
Bail leaned towards the two women, giving a greeting nod to Mon and Satine. He said, “ I was held up. What's happening?”
Padmé did not tear her eyes away from Palpatine’s massive holoform. “The Chancellor has been elaborating on a plot by the Jedi to overthrow the Senate.”
Senator Organa’s eyebrows met in surprise, “That's not true!
Padmé answered with sad eyes, “He's been presenting evidence all afternoon.”
Bail sighed, “And the Senate will go along with it, just like they always do.”
Satine resisted the urge to fold her arms, instead wringing them in her lap. What did this mean for Mandalore? What did this mean for the Galaxy?
Palpatine suddenly commanded, “The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated. Any collaborators will suffer the same fate!”
At that, both Padmé and Bail shifted uncomfortably just enough for Satine to notice past the fear that gripped her. Oh Obi-Wan… she thought, but as she had for fifteen years, she did what she had trained herself to do best, and she set aside the matters of her heart, and focused again on the needs of her home.
“These have been trying times, but we have passed the test.” Palpatine lamented.
Satine frowned. What precisely was he building towards?
“The attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed, but I assure you my resolve has never been stronger.” Again, roaring applause shook the building. “The War is over!” Palpatine rejoiced, and applause broke out across the Chamber, ringing through the hall so that even the metal floor of the repulsor pod seemed to rumble under her boots. “The Separatists have been defeated!” And more approval came. Palpatine continued, “-and the Jedi rebellion has been foiled. We stand on the threshold of a new beginning!”
As the Senate Chamber did not settle from its applause, Satine leaned in to her allies and whispered, “We shall see his intentions soon, I presume.”
Padmé nodded, and without turning around, mumbled, “This is the moment we discover if he intends to return the Republic to a democracy.”
The Chancellor raised his arms slowly, and the words that followed brought her heart down deeper into her chest. “In order to ensure our security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganised into the first Galactic Empire, for a safe and secure society which I assure you will last for ten thousand years!” Satine listened with blatant disbelief, the look upon her face reflected in those of the delegates around her.
Satine reached out and placed a hand on the purple velvet of Padmé’s shoulder, the two women watching with dumbfounded faces. Beside them, Bail leaned forward, creases of worry forming on his brow.
Palpatine continued, “An empire that will continue to be ruled by this august body, and a sovereign ruler chosen for life-”
“A mere shadow mockery of Democracy.” Satine said under her breath.
With erupting cheers, the senators were blind, celebrating the signing of the death warrant of their own freedom. A tear slipped down Padme’s cheek, and she reached up to take Satine’s hand over her shoulder, wishing to feel that somewhere, there was hope. Bail’s devastated face was not hidden, and behind her, Mon shuddered.
Chancellor Palpatine’s voice grew more grand, “An empire ruled by the majority . . . Ruled by a new constitution.”
How could they be celebrating?
Satine released Padmé’s hand, and as she could not help it, she wrapped her arms around herself. Padme leaned forward. “So this is how liberty dies, with thunderous applause.”
In horrified awe they sat, the last of Chancellor Palpatine’s words ringing in the air. It was no question who he intended to be this sovereign ruler. Who would oppose him?
Bail uncrossed his ankles, new determination on his face, “We cannot let this happen.” When he began to stand, Padme reached out an arm, quickly stopping him. Satine knew. If he spoke out now, he wouldn’t be breathing by nightfall, and there was no hope of his help if he was dead. Padme pleaded, “Not now! There will be a time.”
As the blonde woman navigated the mob of politicians rushing to greet the new Emperor, Satine tried to avoid the sense of dread forming in the pit of her stomach. She’d sent Ayma to find transport to Mandalore. The day before, Padme had convinced her to stay on Coruscant, however this changed everything. Something about this whole ordeal made her feel uneasy, the sickness of corruption a disease she was greatly attune to identifying. She needed to find Padmé again and inform her that she was leaving. Nothing about this felt right.
Satine marched through the halls of the senate building toward her friend’s office. As she passed the main entrance, the doors exploded open, and out came the newly declared Emperor Palpatine himself, followed by his entourage of guards and the mass of followers behind vying to speak with him. “Miss Kryze!”
Satine froze. His voice was cold and menacing, and something about it made her want to run, to shrink on herself and hide. Guards surrounded her, enclosing the blonde in with the menacing man. Now that she could see him up close, with less digital distortion from his hood, Satine could see the death-like pallor of his wrinkled face. Sunken jaundiced eyes and skeletal features draped in loose skin gave him the appearance of a corpse. Something about him made her skin crawl.
“Emperor,” Satine begrudgingly greeted.
“You are not celebrating. Why, you must be so happy to finally have the peace you have worked so hard to enjoy,” he prompted. The kindness was gone from his voice. His words felt more like a rasped command than a common inquiry.
“As soon as Mandalorian Blood ceases to spill, I will celebrate.” Satine stated firmly. She would not submit in the face of tyrants.
“As news of Republic victory spreads, I am sure all will be well,” Palpatine reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, and it took every inch of her power not to recede from him. He seemed to study her, and found something pleasing, as he smiled. Something about his deeply disturbing approval made her hate the idea of his favour, though she feared greater the alternative. “Please enjoy the festivities. I will see you again.”
I truly hope not, Satine thought, and as soon as he removed his hand, Satine stepped back, letting the Emperor move on. When the guards no longer had her trapped and the crowds continued on after their new owner like dogs, Satine shivered, her hand coming up to try to wipe away whatever still seemed to linger from the Emperor’s touch. She found her way to Padmé’s office, and barged through the doors.
Padmé stood by the windows, a terrified look upon her face.
Satine sheltered within the familiar office, alongside her fellow politicians. The Nabooian senator's office had quickly and quietly become a refuge for those wishing to commune without the prying eyes and listening ears of the Emperor's operatives. Padmé’s office was pleasantly laid out so that those inside could see across the Senate complex for miles, even to the Jedi Temple, where the absence of the Jedi they all had considered friends hung heavy in the air.
Inside, Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and several others who shared similar views with their figurehead Nabooian senator resided, whispering quickly on what to do. They all looked up at Satine’s entry, but breathed a sigh of relief when they recognized her. Mon reached out a hand. “Lady Kryze, please join us. We have much to discuss concerning the logistics of his new Empire,” she said, the room illuminated with flashes of fireworks.
Bail furrowed his brows. “Yes. With the death of freedom comes the death of us all.”
Satine nodded, “I fear we have far misjudged the corruption which is about to grip this galaxy.”
“I have no doubt that we will be in for a long hull,” Meena Trills frowned, and she placed her hands rigidly at her sides, thumbnails scratching at the side seam of her pants. “My guess is that we are outnumbered in the hundreds of thousands.”
“If we wish to see democracy prevail, we will need to do this carefully.” Padmé’s back was still turned, her face to the skyline.
“We must prove we are better than this,” Satine agreed, “Can we stop this?” She added, “a course of action to reveal the truth of this may be our best option.”
“Non-violent action is no longer an option,” Mon replied with a scoff.
“A petition-”
“Petitions won't matter to Tyrants,” Bail interrupted her. “And it is clear Palpatine no longer has to placate the senate, as he has full control.”
“Not full control,” Meena Trills shook her head, “He does not rule the entire galaxy.”
“But he will.” Satine finished. “Even the Neutral Systems will have no choice against the Empire.”
“I need to go,” Padmé suddenly spun, “I need to…” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes betrayed her. There was so much pain.
Satine squinted at her friend. Something else was amis.
“I will go with her,” Satine nodded to the other politicians who were exchanging looks between each other and the distraught senator. Padmé seemed to shoot her a look of thanks, and Satine stepped over, guiding Padmé away from the windows. They took a side door out to one of the more informal landing platforms, where Captain Typho’s team waited.
Panaka stood by the door, and held out hand to help the women into the speeder.
“My flat, please.” Padmé sat down slowly.
“Of course, Senator Amidala.”
Satine sat back, her hands gripping the documents she’d been reviewing with the small council ever since the disastrous Senate session. This bill was hope, and the work of the Delegation of Two Thousand could not be left in the Senate Building where those loyal to Palpatine might discover and destroy it. Thus, several copies were made, and divided up between all those who had been present. The set of files she carried now might be a duplicate of many, but it was just as precious if it were the only one.
Ayma’s updates from Mandalore were consistent with that of the news, and she worried as she mulled over the logistics. As they approached her friend’s flat, Satine noticed the single person standing, decked head to toe in Beskar’gam, tucked just so that they were only visible if the viewer knew precisely where to look.
“Thank you, Captain Typho,” Satine thanked her friend’s driver once more, and exited the speeder at PPadmé’s side, followed closely by her armed handmaidens.
“Do you need an escort as well, Lady Kryze?” He’d noticed her usual commando was absent, offering to send one of his men with her.
“No, thank you.” Satine held the datapads and holodrives close, and waited for the driver to leave before approaching the familiar stranger. With minimal glance, Satine noticed once more the crest on her shoulder of a clan long allied with House Kryze, and the insignia of an upside down peace lily stamped on their chest. Satine hadn’t chosen the symbol, but the stamp had become common on the armour of those Satine could call friends.
Satine stepped away, offering words of comfort to her brunette friend before moving to the balcony. “Ayma,” She greeted.
“Duchess,” Ayma tilted her head. “Republic forces are officially gone from Sundari,” She reported. “Gar Saxon has declared himself ruler of Mandalore.”
Satine pressed her eyes closed. “I expected he would,” she reached up and rubbed her forehead. “Is he supported?”
“More so enforced.” Ayma answered, “It is his claim on the darkbsabre that grants him the loyalty of the armed.”
“The people do not approve?” Satine asked with flickering hope.
Ayma sighed, “It does not matter. He is Mand’Alor.”
“He did not win it,” Satine squinted. “He picked it off the floor like a coward.”
“The people don’t know that.”
Satine resisted pacing again. “I hate to say it, but I must remain here at least another day.”
Ayma crossed her arms, “the transport I have arranged will not wait much longer. You need to make decision about where you want to be.”
“I need to be on Corosaunt until I am sure of what we are dealing with.” Satine closed a fist and pushed down on nothing in determination. “I will not be caught blindsided or ignorant.”
“Is it true?” Ayma asked with a worried voice. When Satine looked up she added, “Is it to be an Empire?”
“I fear so.”
With the quiet of the night, the two Mandalorians folded their arms and looked to the Senate Building. The overhanging knowledge that things were changing fast somehow made them both stand still. “I need to save my people…” Satine rubbed at her forehead again.
Ayma glanced back at Senator Amidala’s apartment. “I think you need to be with your allies at the moment.”
Taking the hint, Satine bid her friend goodbye, and stepped into the living space. Padmé had made quick time to her rooms, and when Satine came to the doors, she smiled at the two guards and the two handmaidens standing outside it. Granted a nod of approval, Satine knocked quietly until she heard Padme call her in.
The door opened, and Padmé was sitting, two handmaidens quickly doing her hair back into a long twist down her back. They had already dressed her in evening dinner attire, and when the women were finished, Padmé moved to sit more comfortably on the side of her bed. “Satine,” The brunette sighed.
“Padmé,” The woman greeted in return, letting the door slide shut behind her. Satine stepped slowly to the small vanity, sitting down at the pulled out chair where her friend had been sitting moments before. She was giving Padmé her space.
The two women sat in silence. Padmé’s face was a battlefield, and her lip trembled while her eyes stared forward in hard steel.
“You can let it out here,” Satine whispered, and it wasn't a second later that Padmé’s shoulders collapsed, and the woman leaned forward, elbows on knees as she cried into her hands. Satine leapt up, immediately sitting at her friend’s side, her arms wrapping around her.
“How could I do this?” Padmé’s body was wracked with sobs. Satine’s hand rubbed up and down her friend’s arms over her wooley purple shrug.
Satine’s face scrunched in confusion, but let the woman in her arms speak on her own terms. The two handmaidens standing at attention by the door stepped forward to try to offer their senator some help, a glass of water or a towel to wipe her eyes, but Satine reached out a hand, motioning for them to stay back. Satine looked up, and made eye contact with the one that bore a striking resemblance to Padmé, and made a silent request. The handmaiden nodded, and left the room with her friend.
Alone, Satine gently rubbed Padmé’s back. “How could I do this?” Padmé said again. She hid her face in her hands.
“Do what, burce’ta?” Satine reached up, and placed her hand on Padmé's shoulder. She used the Mando’a term ‘my friend’ out of old habit, but she was sure Padmé understood her all the same.
Padmé stilled, quieting momentarily before admitting hesitantly, “-Bring a baby into this Galaxy?”
Satine’s eyes softened. “Oh Padmé,” She tilted her head, “You did not cause this.”
Padmé’s tears resumed, “I was so irresponsible.” She turned her face away from the blonde. “I was so caught up in what I could have had…”
“You hadn't considered what you could lose,” Satine finished with a whisper.
Padmé didn't answer, but her lack of confirmation was confirmation enough. The woman was rolling through her emotions on a heightened level from the hormones rushing through her blood, and Satine hated that she couldn’t help more. She could sympathise. Satine remembered the loss of control she’d felt during her own pregnancy, and the optically irrational yet perfectly valid emotions she’d navgated. The intensity was excruciating, and she worried for her friend.
“Padmé…” Satine offered, “You cannot blame yourself.”
“I should have acted further to prevent this,” Padme gripped her fists together. “I saw it happening, and I failed.”
Satine exhaled slowly. She chose her words carefully. “You did not fail. I have a horrible feeling that this would have happened with or without our work.”
“But we should have…” Her words trailed off, and she picked up elsewhere. “-Bringing my baby into.. into this!”
“Yes,” Satine rubbed her back again. “You will have to simply raise them right. It's what we all have to do.”
Padmé finally lifted her face from her hands. “How can we fix this now?”
Satine pressed her eyes closed. “We have to protect those we love. In times like this, it's all we can do.”
Padmé looked up, and asked, her voice low, “What do you wish you could have done?”
Satine pressed her lips together in a sorrowful smile, “I would have asked him to stay.”
“Lady Kryze, there is a ship arriving. It may be news best received from you at this time,” Captain Typho asked indiscreetly, and Satine gave a curt nod.
Padmé was on the other side of the room, speaking to few. The handmaidens had given her space, and Satine had asked that the guards simply enforce the surrounding rooms to give the two women more privacy while Padme processed.
After informing her friend that she had a visitor, Satine told the brunette that she’d stall the guest while Padmé gathered and made herself presentable. “I’ll send them away if they aren't absolutely necessary,” Satine added with a playful wink to cheer her friend even a little. “Even if I have to send Ayma after their tail.”
Padmé looked away, and Satine knew that was a silent thanks. “Take Threepio with you.”
Satine smiled, and the golden droid followed at his mistress’s command.
The blonde left the room with the captain of Padmé's guard, and walked through the spacious penthouse flat to the landing platform. On it was a rickety jedi starfighter, and the symbol Satine instantly spotted made her heart soar into elation. The broken yellow ring around the red coin was unmistakable.
“Lady Kryze!” Captain Typho yelled after her, but Satine was already running.
The pressurised top lifted with a hiss, and the man who jumped out was immediately met with equal force. “Ben!” Satine gasped in relief, and he seemed surprised, as if he had not sensed her coming as he usually did. “Oh Obi-Wan,” She said.
Behind her, C-3PO’s joints clanked in its efforts to catch up, and Obi-Wan asked the two of them, “Has Anakin been here?”
Something in the way he asked made Satine worry. Something wasn't right, and it was more than the Temple burning and the Chancellor elevating his position. Satine frowned, but the droid spoke up. “Yes . . . right after the attack on the Jedi Temple.”
Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around Satine in habitual response, though distracted. “Is Padmé here?” He asked. There was urgency in his voice. Satine nodded. “I need to speak with her.” He went to move around Satine, but she sidestepped, blocking him.
“Obi-Wan,” She frowned, “Are you alright?” She held his arm. “They say the Jedi…”
“Yes,” He replied with despair, but his intent was still focused behind her at the Nabooian senator’s flat.
“Oh.” Satine blinked, and glanced down before taking his arm out of habit. They walked in from the lanting platform, and when they entered the flat, Satine paused, pulling Obi-Wan aside. “Be gentle. She's strong, but she’s scared,” Satine whispered to him. ObiWan looked momentarily into her eyes, then approached Padmé, who stood to embrace him.
“Master Kenobi…” She greeted, her eyes checking Satine’s face, where she stood back from the interaction. Padme looked back at the Jedi, “Oh, Obi-Wan, thank goodness. You're alive!” She smiled.
Obi-Wan did not tarry, and reported, “The Republic has fallen. Padmé,” He paused, “The Jedi Order is no more.”
At the concrete confirmation, the senator closed her eyes, and turned to sit back down. “I know, it's hard to believe everything to which we've dedicated our lives is gone.”
Satine watched, listening closely but trying not to appear to be eavesdropping, though that was impossible. Obi-Wan said, “I believe we have been part of a plot hundreds of years in the making.” He sat down beside her.
Padmé swallowed, “The Senate is still intact, there is some hope.”
Obi-Wan sighed, “No. Padme . . . It's over . . . The Sith now rule the galaxy as they did before the Republic.” A that, Satine looked up quickly, surprised. Her shock was reflected in the face of her friend.
Padmé echoed, “The Sith!?!”
Obi-Wan jumped straight to his prerogative: “I'm here looking for Anakin . . . When was the last time you saw him?”
Satine narrowed her eyes. What did this have to do with her lover’s former padawan? She reached a hand up to her mouth, covering it as she thought. Across the room, Padmé answered the question, “Yesterday.”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, his kind eyes concerned. “And do you know where he is now?”
Padmé looked to the floor, and her answer was slow. “No.”
Obi-Wan looked briefly to Satine, as if to check in, but continued. “Padmé, I need your help. He's in grave danger.”
Padmé contorted her face in confusion, and turned to look at Obi-Wan, “From the Sith?”
The Jedi Master stilled, heartbreak in his voice. “From himself . . . Padme, Anakin has turned to the dark side.”
Padmé did not hesitate to disagree, and exclaimed, “You're wrong! How could you even say that?”
Obi-Wan looked away, “I have seen a security hologram of him… killing younglings.” He reached up to stroke his beard, and Satine felt her stomach drop. No wonder he had been so reserved. No wonder he hadn't reached out.
Padmé shook her head, her voice breaking, “Not Anakin! He couldn't!”
Obi-Wan began explaining everything he knew. “He was deceived by a lie. We all were. It appears that the Chancellor is behind everything, including the war. Palpatine is the Sith Lord we've been looking for. After the death of Count Dooku, Anakin became his new apprentice.”
Satine’s eyes went wide. Palpatine was a Sith?
She’d heard as a child the evil legends of Sith who killed without honour or mercy, wielding their dark magic. But those stories had been tied so closely to that of Jedi that she’d never considered them serious, at least- not until five years after She’d met Obi-Wan and she’d heard that the Sith had resurfaced, and one had killed Master Qui-Gon. For years, they had thought the sith dead by Obi-Wan’s sword, but with Maul… she’d never found something so terrifying. The utter lack of respect for life or love.
Of course it had been Palpatine.
Obi-Wan had spoken to her before of the undercoursing worry that a Sith Lord had been playing both sides of this dreadful war. Satine’s breath was gone.
Padmé turned away, “I don't believe you ... I can't!”
Obi-Wan insisted, “Padme, I must find him.”
Padmé glared, “You're going to kill him, aren't you?”
Obi-Wan added, “He has become a very great threat.”
“I can’t…” Padmé turned as she sat, and the blue robe she wore twisted just right. The shape was undeniable, and Satine realised it was too late. Obi-Wan stalled, but he did not appear surprised.
He asked gently, “Anakin is the father, isn't he?”
All Padmé could do was look away, and it was all the confirmation Obi-Wan needed. He grimaced with regret, “I'm so sorry.”
He turned away, and Padmé continued to stare out the window, transfixed on some detail on the skyline as she sat without knowing what to do. She was gripping the small necklace pendant hung around her neck as she sat. It did not take force sensitivity for Satine to recognize the tormented worry rolling off the younger woman in waves.
Obi-Wan came toward Satine, and touched her arm, beckoning her to follow him. Satine felt worried leaving her friend, but behind them, Padmé leapt up, dashing towards her rooms.
Alone and tucked behind a hallway door, Satine looked at her Jedi, and she glowered in a recall of topic. “Palpatine? He is the Sith?”
“He is,” Obi-Wan affirmed.
Satine muttered a curse at the Chancellor in Mando’a. She leaned forward, hoping to feel the reassuring arms envelope her again, but Obi-Wan held her biceps.
“Cyar…” He said softly, “I need you to hide.”
Satine looked up suddenly. “Hide?”
Obi-Wan dipped his head, pressing their foreheads together in a Keldabi kiss. “I have to find Anakin, and prevent further suffering.” He admitted. “Anakin is angry. I don’t know why, but he is a Sith now, and I worry he will do what all Sith in my acquaintance have made their habit…”
“- and come after me?” Satine scoffed, “I can take care of myself.”
“Not against Anakin.” Obi-Wan said firmly. “I will not take that chance.”
Satine broke the kiss, and told him, “Korkie is missing. I cannot sit, hiding while he is also in danger.”
Obi-Wan froze for a miniscule second, but pleaded with her. “Hide, please. I will return for you.”
“And if you don’t?” Satine did not entertain fantasies. If Obi-Wan was going to a fight, who knew the outcome? She tightened her hold on him, “Do not commit yourself to a suicide mission!”
Obi-Wan tipped up his chin, and softly pressed his lips to the space between Satine’s eyebrows. “I have a reason to live.”
“So does Anakin.” Satine pleaded back. She realised suddenly what Padme was doing.
Taking her advice, the younger woman was going to ask Anakin to stay. “Kriff,” Satine shifted on her feet, “Shes going to go after him.” Obi-Wan looked at the floor. Satine leaned back, “you're going to follow her.”
Satine shifted on her feet. This was wrong, using Padmé as a tracking system and as bait. She shook her head. Obi-Wan tightened his grip on her upper arms. “Satine,” He centred her, his low voice snapping her attention back to him, “Anakin killed thousands… thousands of younglings.” He looked into her eyes, urgency in them. “He slaughtered the Jedi.”
“Then you have to promise me to protect Padmé. You keep her safe, Obi-Wan!” She warranted.
“I will,” He pulled her in, holding the mandalorian woman close. “I will.”
“Come back to me,” Satine whispered.
Obi-Wan released her, but his hands instantly found her jaw. Cupping her face, he kissed her sweetly. Then a second. This one was a promise. “I will.”
Chapter 8: Chapter 8
Summary:
Satine gets an offer from Palpatine...
a very tempting offer.
Chapter Text
“Lady Kryze!” A man’s voice was calling.
Satine smiled at Padme, and went to address whatever needed her attention. Behind her, the Nabooian senator clipped the straps of her outfit, and told her handmaids to wait for her until she returned.
“Lady Kryze, you have a visitor,” Captain Typho reported. “It seemed urgent.”
“Everything is, these days…” Satine sighed, and gave a nod of goodbye to Padme, who replied with a polite smile before she turned away to make her way to her small silver spacecraft. Threepio followed diligently, and Satine returned her attention to Captain Typho as he led her to the opposite landing platform.
The doors opened to a large open speeder, with two sets of Republic guard detail waiting at attention. A fifth man in an official looking uniform she didn't recognize addressed her. “Lady of Mandalore!” He smiled warmly. “The Emperor has asked that you join him while he hosts a small council on how to handle the Neutral Systems,” He offered her his hand, and Satine immediately recognized that this was an order, not a request.
“Hello, Sirs,” Satine greeted in reply. She preferred not to get into a speeder driven by a stranger, especially on the payroll of this new Empire. Satine made an information mining remark. “This is rather sudden.”
The man thrust his hand out further, “Of course. Your advice would be much valued, as the most recent leader of the Council of Neutral Systems.”
Satine tilted her head. “I believe you are looking for Representative Gulmin,” She corrected.
“No, Lady Kryze,” The official said firmly. “ You were requested.” He added, “ Promptly .”
Two of the guards closest to her prepared to march out of the speeder and force her in, but Satine did not desire a scuffle. Donning her respectable personality, she took the man's open hand, and stepped onto the small transport. As she smoothed her skirt over her knees, Satine asked, “Where is this meeting taking place?”
Once seated, the man said nothing. The former duchess felt that sick feeling creep back again, and the ride to their mystery destination began with the rumble of the speeder and the pick up of the sudden momentum. The night air tore at her face and made her eyes water, and she didn't like the speed at which the driver was taking them, but she kept her mouth shut.
Arriving at the senate building, Satine was taken by either arm by an armed guard on either side, with two in front and two following, all behind the official who hadn't said a word the entire trip since Padme’s flat. A steady pace of steps took Satine up to the lift, where she stood, cramped between what she believed to be an overly excessive guard detail for one pacifist woman.
When the lift opened, Satine’s stomach dropped further when the doors opened to the hall that led to what was now the Imperial office.
Standing outside the doors, Satine squared her jaw, and fixed her posture. This would not be the time to cower.
A Sith Lord, Palpatine was, and she connected the dots suddenly that he was probably the elusive master that abandoned the Zabrak that had taken over her home planet and killed Master Qui-Gon Jinn. She wondered if her attempted murder was under Palpatine's orders as well.
The doors opened, and Satine felt she could have easily suspended herself from the force by which the guards held her arms, practically carrying her forward until they deposited her in front of the cloaked man. Satine noticed that there was window repair happening behind him, and the unmistakable lightsaber gashes in the walls and floor.
“Duchess…” Emperor Palpatine greeted slowly. Satine did not dare correct him. “You are the Empire's greatest asset in establishing negotiations with the Neutral Systems.”
Satine folded her now gloriously free arms behind her back, the tingling in her fingertips giving her the relief that blood circulation had returned. She resisted swallowing. “Representative Gulmin, Emperor, is the leader of that council.”
“Not anymore,” Palpatine sighed, and Satine couldn't tell if it was dramatic or a mock regret, “Representative Gulmin is… no longer with us.”
“How unfortunate.” Satine blinked. She wondered how that had happened. Part of her was afraid to know.
“I have an offer for you, Duchess,” Palpatine leaned forward, his face still obscured. Satine this time could not resist leaning back. The emperor clasped his hands on the desktop. “It seems the Council of Neutral Systems is leaderless. I would like for you to be reinstated.”
Satine shifted on her feet, “The council elects its own representatives.”
“I am sure a strong recommendation from the empire would swing the vote in your favour.” Palpatine chuckled, but it was not out of casual jesting. He added, “If you will accept this position, I will personally see you reinstated as Mandalore’s Sovereign ruler.” He offered, “Perhaps as a Queen, this time?”
Satine was struck dumbfounded, “That is… quite the offer,” Satine flexed and unflexed her fingers behind her back. “Where is everyone else? I was told I would be advising you on the neutral systems,” Satine inquired.
Palpatine sighed again, “The Council being my personal one.” He clarified, “I intend to keep a council for matters of Galactic security and stabilisation,” He tilted his head, the movement only seen by the shifting of the large hood he still wore. He bribed, “Mandalore would be first in line for generous Disaster Aide,” He waited.
Satine took a slow breath. She could save her people. She could have Gar Saxon removed with a snap of her fingers, and have Korkie home safe. She could probably keep Obi-Wan safe as well under a new name and political asylum. Bo-Katan would be welcomed home. She could rebuild her capital city. She could put her family back together.
But it would be at the price of democracy. Her morals. Her freedom and that of her people.
She would not be a tyrant.
But things were changing. Would she look back at this opportunity someday, and curse her prideful heart? Would she watch her people die under this Empire and wish she had not traded their lives for their freedom? Would she sit on a throne for the price of more violence? She knew what the Emperor was proposing. He would send military assistance to help her take back her planet. It was against everything she’d ever stood for.
Or she could be the inside eye for the Delegation of Two thousand. She could manipulate things in her favour. Being a member of the most powerful group of people in the Galaxy would give her immense sway. She could be the voice they needed to prevent further violence. But the corruption was too prevalent to ignore. She herself would be purged long before she even placed a scratch into their armour.
Her hubris was the other side of the coin. She’d fallen for it once; that belief that she herself had fixed Mandalore. It made her feel invincible, that there was nothing she could not handle. And it had cost her absolutely everything. She couldn't fall for the ‘I’ll be different. I can handle it,’ As so many others in history had. How would Korkie look at her?
This was why they called power intoxicating.
Get your emotions in check, Satine suddenly thought. You are standing in front of a Sith Lord, a master of manipulation and lies and pain. She settled her thoughts. “I must think on this, Emperor,” She said as sweetly as she could. “You see, I must consider what is best for my people.”
“Of course,” Palpatine slowly waved one hand, “You have til morning, Duchess.”
As soon as that was said, Satine was hoisted upwards again by the guards, who pulled her toward the doors, “Oh, have some respect for our guest,” Palpatine called after them, but the grip on her arms only loosened lightly.
As soon as the doors shut behind her, and Satine was dragged through the hall, she allowed her body to shake. The terror she’d felt in there rushed cold through her system, and she took quick breaths to restore the equilibrium from holding her breath so much in effort to control her face. When she was dropped into a new speeder, Satine asked again where she was headed, only to be met with an indistinct “Home,” and nothing more. This speeder was nowhere near as nice, and had an armoured cover and a much tighter security. By direction, Satine assumed her temporary Senate housing, back to her familiar flat.
Crowded by the security men, Satine made her shoulders small, trying to keep to herself. Something was not right. Not right at all.
“Captain, we have interference on the fuel system,” The pilot suddenly reported. When the officer leaned forward to check over the driver’s shoulder, a space was made between the window and Satine, and she looked out to see the flash of a jetpack. Her eyes widened suddenly when she recognized the tri-booster modification Ayma had made since the last time she’d tried to carry a second person.
“I’m going to have to bring her down to change fuel tanks,” The pilot reported.
“You can’t do that mid-flight?” The officer snapped.
“No, Sir,” The pilot began the descent, “The switch is on the outside.”
“That's a design flaw I will not tolerate in the future,” The officer muttered.
“Yes Sir,” was the only reply, until the speeder came to rest on a small lot, and two guards exited the vehicle to tend to the engine. Satine waited silently, and the officer muttered something about this sort of transport being beneath him. He spat, “What is taking them so long?”
Outside, two thumps were heard, and Satine looked down at her lap. Whatever was happening, she really hoped Ayma wasn't killing them.
The officer sent two more outside, but immediately twin flashes sent both to the ground the second the door was opened. “Secure her!” The man in charge ordered the remaining guard, and he ducked behind the co-pilot seat. At the command, the guard closest to Satine stepped in front of her, blocking her from the open door, and reached for her wrists. Two handcuffs were slapped across them, instantly locked. Satine was so surprised she didn't react at first, not realising that she was a prisoner. The officer pulled out a comm, and screamed into it, “We are under fire! Send support immediately!”
With his words, a Mandalorian dropped down from the air, landing on both feet, two blasters drawn. With three smooth shots, she hit each of the inner occupants around Satine, who watched them slump over. “Ayma!” Satine exclaimed. Spinning one blaster on her pointer finger, she re-holstered it.
“It's just stun!” Ayma chided, stepping into the vehicle and pulling Satine off from the bench where she sat. With a switch of the settings She adjusted the strength of the bolts, and shot at the handcuffs, the energy bolts shorting them. The confines fell from her wrists, and Satine rubbed at her arms.
“What is happening?” She asked.
“We need to go,” Ayma began pulling at her arm, “ Now. ”
“When did I become a prisoner?” Satine asked, her feet moving with her friend’s.
“They were never headed to Senate Housing.” Ayma said. “They were taking you to the detainment centre.”
Satine was taken aback, and she momentarily paused, “on what grounds?”
Ayma pulled at her arm harder, and took her to the side of the platform. Personnel had noticed the scuffle, but now that Ayma’s weapons were back in their place, they were emboldened, and came out to investigate. Ayma gave the blonde a look that told her it should be obvious. “I'd assume it's because you are an open associate of a member of the former Jedi Council. That makes you suspicious.”
“How did you-”
“Remember the line I told you I intercepted the first time I saved you?” Ayma said quickly. “It activated again less than thirty minutes ago. The Emperor told someone to take you in, and keep you alive until you delivered what they wanted.”
“He what?” Satine stuttered. Ayma wrapped both arms around the former duchess, and took off the landing platform. They flew a short distance, and found a crowded area. Once back on their feet, Ayma looked around, mirroring Satine who instinctively scanned for any threats. Ayma tilted her head, and Satine heard a muffled report come through her helmet.“We need to stay out of the skies now,” Ayma escorted Satine to the side of a building, “They know you were taken by a jetpacked Mandalorian.” They continued walking, brisk enough to make distance but not to look like they were running.
Ayma reached out, retaking the blonde woman’s hand, answering her earlier question. “You have something they want.”
Satine froze. “The files.”
It was Ayma cue to look at her funny. “What files?”
“Padmé’s writings. The work of the delegation of Two Thousand.” Satine’s eyes went wide. “I left them at Padmé’s!”
“We need to get you off-world NOW,” Ayma shook her head. “I’m sure they wil be safe with your friend.”
“Padme is off-world as well,” Satine retorted. “They are unprotected.”
“What is even in those files?” Ayma asked.
Satine closed her eyes, “The future.”
The two women eventually settled with Ayma sending an ally to pick them up from Padme’s apartment. Satine was taken to increasingly lower and lower levels of Coruscant, where they made it to a safe house.
“This?” Satine raised an eyebrow. “A Brothel?”
“You will be safe here,” Ayma crossed her arms as they entered one of the rooms. It was designed for discretion, with side exits to rooms so that guilty patrons could leave without exiting the main door. “No one would expect a woman like you to be found here,” She tilted her head.
Ayma took off her helmet, her dark hair messy from the earlier fight. There was a new headband that held her hair out of her eyes, and two bars on either side glowed yellow. She turned away, listening to another communication. “My associate has made it to Senator Amidala’s residence,” Ayma smiled.
“When do I get to meet these other… associates?” Satine asked, taking a slow look around the room. She decided sitting anywhere would be awkward considering the nature of the room’s intended use, so she continued to stand. When she was younger, she and her lover would sneak away to places like this to pretend they were other people. He’d approach and woo her at the bar. She would dance with other men until his jealousy won over and he took her in a room just like this.
They had eventually put an end to that habit when the war began, as Obi-Wan was thrust into fame as a decorated war general, and Satine became the leader of the Council of Neutral Systems. They were symbols -and recognizable ones. Suddenly it was not possible to take a casual night off in different clothes and different places to be different people.
Ayma pursed her lips, “I’ll make sure the two niteowl operatives stationed here will get a chance to meet you,” Ayma affirmed. She pulled out one of the chairs sitting down. She crossed one ankle over her knee, leaning back.
Satine folded her arms behind her back, clasping them, and found herself pacing again. It helped her think, and she’d been thinking about something during their entire escape to this place. There were details out of place. She studied the floor as she walked back and forth, her torn skirt swaying. She was wearing blue, like her old gowns. It had felt like home when she’d first put it on. Another gift from Padme’s seamstress, Rynthia.
Satine caught herself huffing in frustration as she thought over the last three hours. So much had happened. She paused in her steps, her brows furrowing. How had Palpatine even known Satine had the files? How had he known she was staying with Padme to send those men to collect her? At her sudden halt of flurried processing, her bodyguard looked up. “Ayma…” Satine frowned, her thoughts speeding up. “What were the Emperor's words exactly?”
Ayma shrugged. “He wanted you to give them something.”
“Was there any explicit indication that he wanted the files? ” Satine asked.
Ayma gave her a raised eyebrow of disconcern, “All that matters is you aren't in prison,” Ayma huffed. “They wanted you alive so that they could get something.”
“No,” Satine glared at the grimy street, “his exact words.”
Ayma rolled her eyes, “something like ‘bring in the Mandalorian woman. Let her live until she delivers it. She has something I want’.”
Satine folded her arms. That was strange phrasing, but stranger things were happening in the galaxy. How had Palpatine known of her intentions to give her copy of the documents to Ayma to take to Kalevala and back up a download to Castle Kryze’s mainframe for safekeeping?
She didn't like how things were folding out.
“Don’t get comfortable. We are leaving tonight,” Ayma said. “My associate has collected the files and is en route.” She added, “There's rumours that there will be another commercial transport lockdown by morning.”
Satine bit her tongue, and the question she’d been sitting on finally broke through to the surface. “Is there any news on my nephew?”
Ayma turned to her, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Satine.” She softened her face. “No one had heard of your ‘ad, ” She said.
“No one has even seen a boy in silver House Kryze armour?” Satine begged.
Ayma looked down, “It is blue now. They painted it in the manor of the Niteowls, to match the other Concordians, for his safety.”
Satine couldn’t help but say, “We will make his recovery first priority.”
“First priority is getting you home alive,” Ayma corrected.
“No,” Satine replied firmly, “He is my heir. I will have him safe before my life.”
Korkie never knew his parental lineage and was safer for it. Though he was missing, Satine knowing he at least had her fathers armour was the only comfort she gleaned. He could blend in. He could disguise himself. Korkie was smart, and with Maul out of the picture, Satine could logically assume that the priorities of those tasked with pursuing her son would have changed by now.
A knock on the window showed another Mandalorian in full beskar’gam, and once inside, they removed their helmet. It was a man, and Satine greeted him. “It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Kryze.” He said, “I’ve heard much about you.”
“Everyone has,” Satine snorted.
The man turned to Ayma, “Commander Hurr, there has been a bounty placed,” He said urgently, “Its for billions.” He added.
Satine blinked. “ Billions? ”
“That…. Complicates things,” Ayma shifted on her feet.
“I will contact Lady Kryze to accelerate the extraction,” The man said.
Satine’s heart stopped. “ ‘Lady Kryze’? ” She rushed forward, “My sister? Let me speak with her!”
“Duchess, I need you to calm down!” Ayma said harshly. “Your sister is in on this, yes. She needs you on Mandalore in order to rally the New Mandalorians’s support.”
Satine froze. She took two steps back, a confused look donning her features. “She needs me to what?”
“I’m sorry, but Lady Bo-Katan is the current leading opposition to Gar Saxon, and with you at her side, House Kryze has a viable chance of controlling Mandalore again.”
“By force!” Satine took another step back. “I will not hand whatever influence I still wield to my sister,” the blonde shook her head faster and faster. “I will not sanction violence in my name!”
“You already have!” Ayma stood taller, “You don't have a choice right now if you want to survive!”
Satine turned to the new commando, “Give me the files.”
He tipped his chin in defiance. “Lady Bo-Katan wishes to review anything you have on your before we sanction-”
“Give them to me now!” Satine stalked forward, standing to every inch the Manda had blessed her with. Gulping, the man produced the bundle of hard drives, and Satine snatched them from his hands. Ayma looked offended at the commando’s disobedience to orders.
“We need her to comply just as much as we need her alive,” He justified himself in a hushed whisper. Satine shot him an angered look.
“You can take that up with Lady Bo,” Ayma used the shortened name reserved for family or Wartime, and Satine guessed the latter.
“It doesnt matter,” The man said, “we need to leave.”
“You need to come with us,” Ayma turned her head, and referenced the still open window. Satine shifted her feet to shoulder width.
“You may try,” Satine squared her shoulders.
“Duchess we do not have time for this,” The commando reached for his stun gun, but Ayma reached out, staying his hand. She re-folded her arms. “I know how she works,” Ayma sighed, and addressed Satine. “What are your terms?”
Satine pressed her lips into a firm line, and stated. “I want to know everything. My heir’s safety is priority.”
“I sense something else.” Ayma rolled her eyes, “And-?”
Satine didn't break eye contact. “I want to go to my flat to retrieve something personal.”
The Commando looked between Satine and Ayma. “Fine. But we need to be off the planet by midnight.”
“I can’t believe no one is there.”
“You’d think the Empire would have booby trapped the place or something,” The commando looked at the windows along the floor where Satine’s old Coruscanti flat was, and he studied the scans through the optical magni-lenses. “There's no heat signatures.”
“That doesn't rule out droids.” Ayma said. “I’ll go in first.” She drew her blasters, her helmet back on and the vocoder relaying her words.
The maroon jet-packed dot she quickly became zipped to the flat, and circled it twice before landing. It made a sweep of the windows before breaking one and slipping inside. She used the ID chip Satine lent her to turn off the alarms, and Satine remembered that they were on a timer before the local security forces investigated the trip.
The commando beside Satine lent her his binoculars, and she watched Ayma when she got the chance, the two Mandalorians passing the tools back and forth.
Eventually the three blue flashes in the previously discussed pattern told them it was safe, and the commando asked for permission to carry Satine down to the flat. With her consent, he wrapped his arms around her, and they flew the short distance to the flat.
When she landed, Satine went inside, and stepped into her bedroom. She found what she was looking for, and behind her, Ayma scoffed. “We did all this for a ratty old cloak?”
Satine didn't answer, but unfurled the folded garment, draping it over her shoulders. She clasped it at the neck like she had hundreds of times.
“We have thirty minutes before Fen arrives to get us home,” The commando came in, and looked at Satine with a glance of unimpressed apathy. “We need to go.”
Satine took a deep breath, and collected any small trinkets that might be of some value, and stuffed them into her pockets. “I’m ready,” She answered, and followed them out of her bedroom.
“We were wondering if we would be the lucky ones if you showed up here,” A gruff voice said, and Ayma and her partner immediately drew their guns. Ayma Pushed Satine behind her, and leaned forward to address the threat.
Four bounty hunters in a garbled mess of armour pieces each stood in her reception room, with a just as confusing range of weapons drawn.
“Awe….” another said, who sounded female, but through her face covering, Satine couldn't see any defining details other than two sets of darkened eyes studying her. “Here be the Pacifist Bitch of Mandalore, pretending her hands are clean of the dirty work her lapdogs commit in her name.”
Ayma bristled, but kept her mouth shut.
“Adorable,” the first speaker replied. “Get her.”
The following seconds were a rush of frenzied action, when the four bounty hunters rushed spontaneously at them. Ayma began firing her blasters, but quickly changed the settings to lethal when she realised the suits the assailants wore were similar to her’s, and resistant to such electrical blasts. Satine threw herself down onto the ground behind the blue couch, and something grabbed her foot.
Dragged backward, Satine thrashed and kicked, “where do you think you’re going?” the female hunter purred, “You're gonna make us sooooooo rich!” She giggled maniacally, and Satine kicked backwards, striking the woman in the face. Out of her sights, loud shattering of glass was heard, and the distinct sounds of bodies being struck made Satine switch into the mindset of the military training she’d received as a child.
“So she is a violent little thing!” The other bounty hunter came around as the woman touched her bleeding face, looking at her blood-covered fingers. “Astounding!” His voice was mocking, and he reached for her.
A swinging arm and a loud clunk had a cry of pain coming from Ayma and the bounty hunter, but only one fell to the floor.
Ayma shook out her wrist, her arm clearly hurt, but she ignored it, holding out her other to Satine. The former Duchess accepted it, getting to her feet. Ayma kicked the female bounty hunter when she started to rise, and Satine surveyed the rest of the room.
The other commando seemed to be holding his own, and the last two bounty hunters switched their focus to Satine when they saw her. With a final movement, one of the attackers drew a vibroblade, and with a single swing, stuck it into the space between the commando’s shoulder piece and his helmet.
Satine screamed when the man went down, and without hesitation, Ayma no longer struck to incapacitate, but to kill. Two whistling birds later, and the last of the four were on the ground, small holes in their bodies staining Satine’s carpets.
Satine stumbled backwards, then rushed forward.
Ayma began dragging the dead bodies away, and Satine went to her protector. “I… I don't know your name!” She realised with regret, but pressed her hands around the wound of the knife, knowing not to pull it out. But the vibroblade wasn't turning back off, and it was digging itself deeper and deeper into the flesh of the man’s neck. The commando’s whole body seemed to be vibrating from the adrenaline, and the black liquid was getting everywhere. It wasn't actually black, of course. The lighting in the flat was just that bad. Satine knew this.
She tried everything to help, even reaching for the old fancy counter napkins she used to keep with the bar, but nothing slowed the bleeding.
“Duchess…” The commando sputtered, blood staining his face as he coughed. “Your son might be on Coruscant…” He said, head shaking with the effort to keep breathing, and Satine chose not to question how he knew. The man reached for his comm with weak hands, pawing at it, “A boy matching his description was seen in Co-co town.”
“Verz-sen!” Ayma rushed to his side, “It’s okay. We will get you home!”
So that was his name.
“Get her out,” The commando -no, Verz-sen, tried to breathe through his nose. “Save… them,” He was forcing each consonant out, exhaling the vowels with effort. “...Man…da..lore.”
“I will,” Satine promised. “I promise.”
Those were the last words he heard, and Satine felt the ringing in her ears just as much as he heard it, the nauseous feeling of death taking over her. Ayma had deposed the bounty hunter's bodies, having dropped them out the windows of the flat, but she was sure more were coming. “Go! Run!”
Satine could barely move, but over the rushing in her ears, Ayma repeated, “Satine! Get out of here!” Ayma got directly into her line of vision, “They know of our intended route. Take the lift all the way down. Avoid Mandalore for a couple months. I will find you when it is safe, I promise. Go! Run!”
Her feet were moving on their own accord, and Satine barely registered the continued ringing on her ears as she ran and ran and ran. Her thighs burned, but she ignored the pain. The lift ride down felt like hours, though it was only minutes.
Satine fled through the streets, the cloak over her shoulders bearing down. It wasn't her fault, she told herself over and over. It wasn't her fault.
But it was. She'd put her people in danger because she wanted this damn old cloak.
As she ran, the inter-city emergency announcement system broadcasted the same speech Palpatine had made in the senate session that felt like it had been months ago, not less than 24 hours. The screens that usually played constant advertisements instead showed a holoimage of the new emperor. “-Bringing security to the galaxy with the completion of Order 66!” Holo images of the Jedi yet to be captured and confirmed dead also rolled across in the bottom bar, next to their bounty numbers and prices. She took note that Obi-Wan’s was almost as high as Master Yoda’s.
She ran again through the street, pausing only when another image flashed across the screen, the official senatorial ID image of one Padmé Amidala, quickly followed by the single word; ‘deceased’.
Satine stared at the holonet reports with a mixture of horror and anguish. Her knees almost buckled, and that sickly feeling of loss settled once more through her system. No. No no no no no no! Not her Obi-Wan. Not the Jedi. Not Padmé.
She stood with hands shaking, turning her hood closer to her face in the alleyway. The figures on Obi-Wan’s head were significantly greater than her’s, but she would never risk him. Pulling the brown cloak closer around her body, Satine stifled her sob.
The rain on Coruscant was dirty with years of pollution, and she almost didn’t hear the voice behind her.
“Auntie!”
Satine spun, staring at the Mandalorian standing in full armour, praying to the ancestors that it was not some trick of the vocoder in his helmet. “Auntie I found him,” the man removed his helmet, and Satine was rushing forward before she realised, enveloping her son in her arms, the hard, wet Beskar’gam cold against her lithe form. “Korkie! Oh, Korkie!” She kissed both his cheeks, looking up at him. With the rain she hadn’t realised his armour was painted in Kryze blue. He looked older. His time in hiding had his hair buzzed and bleached and he was taller. Tears poured from her eyes, matching the sky. It had been months since she’d seen her boy. Knowing he was okay healed some broken part of her heart. Wait, what had he said?
“You found who?” She searched his eyes, then from behind her boy, a man in an identical cloak stepped out of the shadows. Relief flooded through her heart, and she felt her jaw shake with sudden tears of joy that formed in her eyes. Even in the rain he smelled of ozone. “Obi!” She reached behind her son to take the Jedi’s hand, but found his arms occupied.
Satine stared in shock at the baby. “What happened?” She asked, trying to understand. Everything had happened so fast. The fall of the Republic. The news report of Padmé’s death. How had Obi-Wan and Korkie found each other? How had he survived? What would happen now? She looked at him with despair, “Who’s baby is that?” Deep down, she feared she knew the answer. She placed her hand on Korkie’s shoulder, as if she would lose him again if she let go.
“This is Luke,” Obi-Wan said softly, “and we must go now.” He looked around at the massive billboards flashing the faces of the slain and hunted Jedi, a deep sorrow ageing his features. “Cadet Kryze here helped me find you so I could say goodbye. I cannot leave you in pain again thinking me… dead.”
"Where is Padme?" Satine felt the tears surface again, "Is she really..."
Obi-Wan pressed his eyes closed in anguish. "Satine I am sorry. We did everything we could for her and her son."
Satine reached out and placed her hand on the sleeping baby’s head. Her decision was made. It was clear Mandalore would not be safe at the time, no matter how much she wished she could pretend she would be okay. The day proved it. If the Empire had sent those hunters on their trails, they would send more. If Ayma wanted to follow Bo-Katan, then so be it. “Where are we going?”
Obi-Wan looked up, appearing surprised that she was so ready to follow him, not knowing the future of penance he faced ahead of him. But she’d made a promise, and she intended to keep every word to her dying breath. Satine reached up and ran a gentle thumb down his grief stricken face. He studied her before admitting, “To Tatooine.”
Satine nodded, “I love you, Obi-Wan-“
“Ben,” he corrected with caution.
Satine smiled, “I love you, Ben Kenobi. I always have, and I always will.”
“Give me Luke,” Satine hissed softly. ObiWan frowned at her. “We will make a more convincing family if I have the child.”
He didn’t argue. The lines on his face seemed to grow with every hour as they stood in the rain. Satine reached carefully for the newborn, taking him within her arms. He was tiny, as Korkie had been, a combined result of her war-lean body and youth. She wondered if Luke was small like Padmé or small for survival. She tried not to notice.
“Auntie, Master Kenobi, there are three ships leaving tonight.” Korkie reappeared at their side. “We have options, but I believe I’ve found the best route.” Satine tried not to stare at him. Her son was safe.
“In public, call me Mother ,” Satine corrected. “We must don a seamless cover and minimise attention.”
“Ben. Mother ,” Korkie addressed again as they stepped out of the streets and secluded themselves into an alley, “there are three ships leaving tonight. The only one headed even remotely towards the Tatooine System is a freighter transport vessel making a stop at Mimban. I believe we can then catch a low class liner to Vandor. From there, it’s a straight shot to Tatooine.”
“That takes us through the Corellia Checkpoint,” Obi-Wan warned. “This empire has been quick in establishing its intention on its own security.”
“The Corellia Checkpoint mostly inspects for fuel fraud.” Korkie argued.
Obi-Wan sighed. “Any surviving Jedi hoping to collect a reliable ship to escape the core worlds will statistically source it on Corellia. The empire knows this.”
“Then you better start thinking like a farmer and not a Jetii,” Korkie clipped back. “Because if you wish to get to Tatooine by the fastest route, this is it.”
The silence between the three of them was palpable until Satine spoke up. “The ship to Mimban… what did you say it was again?”
Korkie shifted his weight. “A freighter transport vessel. Specifically carrying crates from the fine good imports here on Coruscant.”
“A freighter of empty crates on the manifest will have a minimal inspection. Perhaps we can bribe the pilot to give us passage.” Satine looked between her companions, the soft weight of the baby in her arms remaining quiet as he slept. She waited for an opinion, and prompted Obi-Wan. “What do you think?”
“I don’t have enough nonstandard credits for an unsuspicious bribe,” Obi-Wan said. He was right. Anyone who had enough standard galactic currency for a hefty bribe would raise an eye concerning their desperation for escape during these times, and anyone willing to accept such a bribe would be even more willing to collect a bounty.
“Korkie?” Satine asked.
“Way ahead of you,” he sighed (much like his father, Satine noticed), and began digging through the pouches at his belt. “I have seventy-four Mandalorian tibblets, nine credits and five hundred in Seppy coin.” He produced the diverse array of payment. “Combine it with some of Uncle Ben’s credits, and maybe your earrings, Auntie, and I’d say we have a suitable bribe.”
The travellers pooled their money, and Satine agreed to sacrifice her earnings. “My arms are full,” she pointed out.
Obi-Wan sighed again, and reached over, carefully removing the dangling pieces of jewellery from the former Duchess’s ears, and setting them in the waiting hands of Korkie. “I will get us passage. It is more likely we will get silence if the one without a bounty on their head gets this done.” Obi-Wan opened his mouth to argue, but Korkie dropped the mix of currency into a pouch at his belt and put on his helmet. He pulled his cloak over his armoured shoulders and wove effortlessly through the crowd away from the two and was quickly gone, headed towards the loud and rough bar house across the street.
Satine closed her eyes, letting out a stressed breath. “Do you think we will make it?”
“I’m trusting in the Force.” Obi-Wan answered. Satine noticed again the exhaustion in his voice. They stood in silence, backs against the walls of the building they sheltered themselves from the rain in. The undercity of Coruscant was not to be trusted, and it was best they keep their backs protected from the crowds.
It took a long time before Korkie returned, and when he did, he handed Obi-Wan a bag. “I bought food and water. I put the Formula from Bail in there too. The ride is a slow one, since it’s mostly self automated save for the pilot and mechanic.”
“How slow exactly?” ObiWan asked cautiously.
“Seventy-nine hours,” Korkie answered. Satine winced and Obi-Wan closed his eyes. That was slow.
“So a trip to Mandalore,” Satine compared on impulse, then pressed her lips tight in remembering that she may never see the Mandalore she knew again. Satine was accustomed to the finest of starliners whose cruising speed would make a jump like that in a matter of hours… not days. Though she was unsurprised, such things were certainly an adjustment.
Korkie nodded, “it’s the best we can do. But we get the whole storage hull to ourselves, if that makes any difference.”
ObiWan thanked him begrudgingly.
“We leave in an hour. The Pilot instructed us to meet him at the port, by the freighter. Docking bay TK-10.” Korkie tilted his head. “I’ll lead the way.”
Along the walk, Luke began fussing, and it was up to Obi-Wan to mix the formula as they walked to the port. Luke seemed unsatisfied with the substitute, so much so to the point that Satine was trying to reassure herself that the formula Korkie retrieved from the bag was even for Human consumption in the first place.
Boarding the freighter was tiring but relieving. Their pilot, a Rhodian, was more than happy to transport the small family back to a trading port after their business trip went badly, per the story Korkie wove all about how stolen merchandise and irresponsible booking had led to such misfortune on their journey.
“-And here’s the hull, which I expect you as tenants to keep neat and tidy. No snooping around, got it, Mandii? ” The Rhodian threatened Korkie, “or I’ll open that hull mid-trip!”
“No worries. We just need to get home,” Obi-Wan said softly, his head bowed under the hood of his cloak. Satine cradled Padme’s son closely, hoping he would settle again soon. The hull was cramped, and as soon as they had entered, the Rhodian closed the door and began preparing for departure.
Satine found a corner which was not too terribly lit, and sequestered herself away, balancing as she found a place to finish attempting to feed Luke, who was still whimpering. She sat down with minimal grace and stretched out her legs, crossing her ankles. Obi-Wan and Korkie took to inspecting the hull, exchanging quick verbal observations, from their ratings of the integrity of the walls to the cleanliness of the transport crates to how well the boxes had been secured down for the trip.
Satine found herself humming softly to the baby, still trying to get him to eat. Korkie had been the same with feedings, just opposite, and Satine wondered if Luke simply wanted his mother instead. Her heart ached for Padmé, who would never be able to nurse her own son. “I’d feed you if I was still able,” Satine silently whispered to the fussing baby, her mind returning to the stressful hours she’d spent with Korben, when he’d completely refused to nurse, instead much more content to take formula out of an easy bottle than work for it from the source. She’d tried everything the midwife had recommended, and cried herself to sleep several times in fear of her own inadequacy as a mother who couldn’t even manage to feed her own son. Though Satine was eventually forced to admit that it was all for the best, as she would have been unable to nurse him after her “holiday to Kalevala” resulted in her unexpected adoption of a nephew.
It had been for the better that she ran dry sooner rather than later, so that the public would have had no reason to suspect untold stories and secrets for Satine to keep. Korkie had simply had to suffer his babyhood disconnected, yet so close. And it had killed her.
“You seem to be having better luck than I did.”
Satine looked up suddenly, realising she’d stopped humming at the interruption. Obi-Wan was apparently satisfied and had completed his inspection. Satine also noticed that Luke was happily eating in her arms, apparently lulled by Satine’s humming and the new silence of the closed hull combined with the way his holder had been rocking him slowly.
With the sound of a small clank, Korkie flopped himself into one of the hollow depressions of the nets holding down the empty crates across the way, making himself comfortable in the hammock-like divot. He was sleeping in his beskar’gam again. Satine wanted to advise the boy to at least remove what might grow stiff and pinch, but Korkie was already snoring.
Obi-Wan slowly lowered himself down to sit next to Satine. “He’s eating,” he observed, looking at Luke with pain in his eyes. Satine could only imagine how he felt, looking at the orphaned son of his former padawan and their good friend.
“Finally,” Satine held the small bottle at a better angle so he wouldn’t take in any air. The last thing their group needed was a fussing baby in pain.
They sat in the moderate quiet. The rumble of the start of the engine sent a hum through the whole ship, and Satine listened to the sounds of rattling pipes as they warmed and the thrusters turned into position for take-off.
“Will you sleep?” Satine asked, her voice quiet as not to distract Luke.
“In hyperspace, yes.” ObiWan leaned back on the same crate as Satine. He looked down at the baby in her arms, who had fallen asleep with the nipple of the bottle in his mouth. “Are you alright watching Luke?”
Satine smiled, “I’m sure he’ll be a delight.”
Obi-Wan nodded, and took the bottle from her, setting it in the bag with their food and water.
Satine frowned at the way he seemed to be forcing himself to stay awake to remain useful. “Are you okay?” She asked. He paused, setting the bag to the side and folding his hands between his knees.
Obi-Wan did not answer for a moment, but eventually repeated, “I will sleep in hyperspace.” Satine understood. She did not have to ask further.
The last two days had sent her life spirling, and she hoped she and her home would be okay. Sitting in the hull of this ship with what she could secretly know was the closest thing she had to an immediate family, she tried not to think of the sacrifice of that commando, and she realised he had not told her to “save them -Mandalore,” but he’d given her the solution. “Save them… Mand’Alor,” He’d said. He had called her ‘Mand’Alor.’
The momentum of the ship was noticeable as it shot through the atmosphere and the artificial gravity engaged. The sudden lull, like swinging backward on a swing, made their entrance into hyperspace noticeably rough. She waited a few moments, her heart aching as she watched him hold back from breaking down. She reached out a careful hand, touching his shoulder. “You can sleep now. You’re safe, my dear.”
Obi-Wan didn’t need to be told twice. He slid his back down the crate, curling up on the floor, head a few feet from her side. “Ben,” Satine whispered with heartbreak in her voice. He looked up suddenly, the complete exhaustion in his eyes making her worry. “Come here, please.”
Satine used a hand to wave him closer. Obi-Wan did not argue, and piled his cloak under him, pulling just enough over his shoulder to be warm, and laid his head down on her thigh.
She certainly had not been awake so long as him. She suspected he’d not slept since before Mustafar. She’d have to make sure he wasn’t awoken for some time. “Ben?” She asked softly.
She felt the hum of acknowledgement in his jaw against her thigh more than she heard it.
“I’ve loved you always…” she reached down, threading her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him into sleep. “… I always will.”
Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Summary:
In the Cargo Hold, things get... cramped.
Satine finds out things are not all as they seem with Korkie, and Luke poses a challenge.
Notes:
I'm sorry if you came here for sex and action, as this chapter is mostly a weird mix of fluff, angst, hurt/comfort and drama.
I PROMISE it really picks up next chapter!
Chapter Text
“Reminds me of the barge on Draboon.” The husky sound of Obi-Wan’s early morning voice and a groan met her ears. He shifted his body suddenly, and let out a loud hiss of pain.
“I am inclined to believe that particular cargo hold was more comfortable than this one,” Satine whispered back. Between the rows, they had the most space, and Satine had never liked the feeling of her back to Space, especially knowing it was just a few layers of inch thick metal and insulation between her and the vacuum of space. It seemed Korkie had inherited that aversion, and so they settled in the centre aisle between the two rows of empty crates.
She had since set Luke aside, nestled in a makeshift bed of her own brown cloak, tucked beside her other thigh to let him sleep and give her arms a break. Feeding and changing Luke every two hours had been a job not for the weak of heart, but his cries were resolved with a combination of food, humming and rocking, as Satine had discovered. Sitting between the two who needed her most in the Galaxy at the moment, Satine felt slightly guilty finding such solace in finally feeling useful for such small things as baby changing and feedings and being a pillow for her Jedi protector’s head, (even if it left her leg sore and her foot asleep).
Beside her, Obi-Wan huffed, “I apologise for failing to secure you a transport of clouds to sleep upon.” He certainly hasn't lost his humour. Obi-Wan tried to roll over, but groaned again.
“Are you alright?” Satine asked him.
“I am sore,” he replied. She nodded. What little she could infer about his battle on Mustafar had been one of immense taxation, both physically and emotionally. She could read that Anakin had not survived. Obi-Wan, in his attempt to say nothing, had told her everything. To battle one’s brother to the death was a terrible thing to endure. She didn’t wish to make him relive it.
“Are you hungry?” Satine nodded to the bag she’d rummaged through earlier. Korkie’s choice in nutrition pills and other food options had been too reminiscent of her time with Master Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan back when he was a Padawan, and she struggled to enjoy the meagre selection.
He simply nodded, taking one of the compressed nutrition bars from her and a bag of water, and began nibbling at the corner. This particular type of food bar would usually have been ground up and mixed with water or milk in a bowl to be eaten as a wet meal, but they had left Coruscant too quickly to carry anything so common as dishes.
Satine reached down to rub her thigh where his head had been, and stretched her muscles. She’d managed to get one or two hours of sleep herself. He’d gotten enough sleep to function, but probably not enough to recover in any meaningful way.
“How is our little charge?” Obi-Wan rubbed at his face.
Satine couldn't stop the bittersweet smile, “As pleasant as his mother was,” she whispered sadly.
Obi-Wan didn't answer that. “He was crying earlier,” He recalled, “I briefly woke up to you shushing him.” He pulled his legs upward with a hiss of pain, and sat beside her with his elbows on his knees, head bowed as if he were suffering a hangover. “What upset him?”
“I think he was cold,” Satine shrugged. “Nothing a little skin-to-skin couldn't solve,” Satine replied.
“Luke and I are of the same mind,” He couldn't resist replying, much to Satine’s umbrance, who habitually swung out her arm and smacked him lightly with the back of her hand on his shoulder. He would have laughed if he wasn't in so much pain, but he just closed his eyes and winced.
“Oh!” Satine realised her mistake, “I’m so sorry!” She tilted her head to get a look at his face, maybe see how much she’d hurt him. “Are you alright?”
“Oh nothing a little skin-to-skin can’t fix,” He said towards the floor, and she finally saw the mischievous smile creep up his cheeks.
“Ben Kenobi, I will smack you again,” She huffed.
Obi-Wan couldn't help himself. “In the fun way or not so-”
“You two are embarrassing,” an exhausted voice interrupted from the nets, and Satine shot Obi-Wan a pointed look when Korkie added the Mando’a equivalent of lewdly calling them ‘immature teenagers’ in a half-muffled mumble before he rolled over in his improvised hammock. Both adults in the cargo hold exchanged a look of amusement.
“You woke him up,” Satine accused. Then she lowered her voice, dipping her chin and letting her serious eyes meet his own. “He needs his sleep. I’m worried about him.”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Obi-Wan told her. As if to avoid saying more, he took a sizable, unappetizing bite out of the nutrition bar he’d been slowly working on.
The silence between them felt guilty on both ends. Something told her that if either asked their question, the other would fire back at a place too closely guarded to risk exposure or acknowledgement.
“I have to ask,” Obi-Wan tilted his head to the once more sleeping boy, “Korkie?” Satine let out a soft laugh. The Jedi nodded, “Not very traditional for a Mandalorian Princling.”
Satine looked down to the floor. It would not be the first lie regarding their son, and she suspected it would not be anywhere near the last. “It is not his birth name,” Satine offered. “It is a long-stuck nickname.”
She turned her head to look at him. Obi-Wan seemed minimally interested, and she wondered if he’d asked out of casual curiosity just to hear her talk and hear any sound other than the rumble of the engine or the thoughts inside his head. Best not to tell him of his namesake. She took a slow breath. “It’s a shortening of his full name… as I found it quicker to say ‘Korkie’ than ‘Kor Kryze’.” She left out the last syllable of his first name.
The best lies were rooted in truth, and she hoped he was distracted enough to not notice the pounding of her heart. Part of her wondered if he held his own secrets the way she did, polluting the honesty they both pretended they shared. Perhaps it was not truly Korben’s safety for which she lied, but her own pride. This was another thought to which she was no stranger to, her fear that when Obi-Wan discovered the truth, that his anger would be too much for him to ever see her the same, and tarnish their relationship beyond repair -and it would be her fault. So she left it to grow and fester.
“That isn't a peace name; Kor,” Obi-Wan observed. Satine couldn’t help but sadly smile. Years ago, on a late night huddled together in the pilot’s seat of their escape ship, Satine had explained to Obi-Wan the tradition of Mandalorian names, the battle-intended abbreviations and strong syllables, the reason she called him ‘Obi’ in such violent encounters, and the traditions broken by those of her family.
Beside her, Obi-Wan softly smiled, “Not like yours,” He closed his eyes, “Satine.” She relished the way he said her name like a precious, beautiful thing. “Meant to be said with love, not fear.”
Satine bit her tongue. It was moments like this, when her heart tugged at her will to throw herself into his arms, that she had to force herself to keep her damned mouth shut. He could pull the deepest of her thoughts to the surface too easily, and Satine feared that if she bore her heart to him right now he might shy away.
Beside her, to perfectly break the moment, Luke awoke. He gurgled his opinion at no longer sleeping peacefully, and Satine instinctively reached down to lift him to her chest. “Oh, is someone unhappy again?” She asked, setting him down in her arms. “Good morning to you, sweet child,” She grinned, and leaned over to give Luke a kiss on his tiny forehead. “Oh yes, you.” Luke thrust one mighty fist into the air, erratically waving it as he adjusted to and explored the seemingly endless space he could now occupy without the limits he’d previously known. Satine couldn't help but giggle, “Oh I could just eat you up like uj'alayi!” (Uj cake) Satine added. True to her word, Satine made a mock chomping noise, and smiled at the unimpressed face Luke gave her. In her arms, Luke made an angered face as he tested out more of his facial expressions. “Ohhh, grumpy, are we? What’s got you bothered?” She hummed, “You ate only a little bit ago…awe, are you not used to everything being so loud and cold? Space is cold, I'm sorry I can’t fix that.” Satine observed, and gently touched their noses. She chided, “Poor little Ad’ika.”
She looked up to Obi-Wan, hoping to ask him to pick her cloak up off the floor to drape it over her shoulders so that she could insulate more body heat for the baby, but her Jedi was staring with rapt attention, a transfixed look in his eyes she couldn't decipher. His face was lax as if he were lost somewhere she didn't know, and her smile fell. She took that back. She knew.
Coughing slightly, she regained her composure. “What is it?” Satine frowned with worry. “Ben?”
Obi-Wan snapped back to reality immediately. “I’m fine,” He suddenly looked away, eyes now lost elsewhere.
Satine buried those thoughts away in the back of her mind where she’d always stored them, and asked him for the cloak, which he quickly retrieved and as requested, and arranged it over her shoulders. Obi-Wan didn't reject the opportunity to place a kiss of his own to the top of her head before he began going through the bag Korkie had supplied. He took out another of the nutrition bars, and unwrapped it.
“I don't want anything,” Satine told him.
“You need to keep your strength up,” He replied. Pulling one of the capsules from his Jedi utility belt, Obi-Wan unscrewed one end, then gently turned it on its side, and gave it a few taps. Grey-ish power flaked and settled out over the bar, which he attempted to hand towards Satine. She almost turned her nose up at it, but he was trying to look out for her.
“You forget, my arms are still occupied,” She reminded him, and in consideration of her words he broke off a piece, letting her take it by her teeth. As soon as she bit down, Satine almost retched. Between trying to keep from spitting out the precious food and from hurting his feelings, she asked, “What did you put on this?”
Obi-Wan didn't seem phased, “It's what we Jedi use when suffering limited health necessities.”
Satine couldn’t hold it back, “-The kriff?”
“Antibiotics, liquid retention compounds, calcium, and iron,” Obi-Wan listed casually, “You know, everything not in the standard protein dense meal supplement,” He seemed surprised she found it disgusting.
“It tastes like rotten chalk,” She forced herself to swallow, “Which before just now I didn't know was a possible culinary experience.” He broke off another piece to offer her, but Satine couldn't stomach another taste. “I’m sorry, my love,” She shook her head, “But I fear if I eat that, we will see it again soon.”
“At least it’s not the mushroom leather Master Qui-Gon used to make us eat,” Obi-Wan said, and that time, Satine actually felt her stomach roll in disgust at the thought. During their year together, on some moon, a particularly prolific mushroom was identified as edible by Master Jinn, who in a state of worry concerning their limited food supply, spent four days collecting, processing, and drying out the mushrooms into sheets of leather-like food bars. He’d thought his improvisation to be genius, and was proud of his fungus jerky; until two weeks later Satine was so fed up with the stuff she single handedly caught, killed, and cooked some small animal for proper meat.
But those mushroom leather meals had not been for the weak of heart -or weak of stomach, for that matter. Just thinking about having to bite into those chewy atrocities made her groan. “You really had to bring those up?” She glowered at him, “Seriously?”
Obi-Wan shrugged his shoulders in partial amusement, and instead of saying more, wrapped up the rest of her food bar for later, obviously convinced that eventually she would be hungry enough to eat it. If she wanted to eat anything, it was the fruit tea she used to keep a stash of in her personal rooms back in Sundari. Perhaps that could soothe her upset stomach.
Soon enough, Luke became fussy again, and Obi-Wan was quick to begin preparing a few tablespoons of the formula. He heated it against the warm pipes running against the walls towards the hydraulics of the cargo hold door, and Satine instructed him to test a few drops on his inner wrist to make sure of its temperature.
Luke was difficult at first to take the bottle, and Satine did her best even as her frustration began to simmer in her core. She’d been awake now for almost a day and a half, and the slight snoozing she’d dipped in hadn’t done much at all to help.
“How long was I out?” Korkie groaned loudly, and his voice cracked as he spoke.
“We’ve been in hyperspace for about nine-ish hours?” Satine estimated. She’d never been good at registering the passing of time, but with Luke needing feeding every couple hours -give or take thirty minutes- it hadn’t been hard to track.
“So we still have seventy to go,” The boy said in a whiny voice, and Satine bit back a remark that he’d been advertising the advantages of this freighter only a night ago.
Korkie rolled off the nets, grimacing with his armour caught briefly on the interwoven straps, and he tugged at the plate on his thigh til he was free, mumbling some words Satine would have usually scolded him for. The boy stretched, making the same faces Obi-Wan had earlier. When he was satisfied, he blinked at the lights from the edge of the hold that had remained on, shining from the sides, casting dramatic shadows over the far wall. “Where’s the bag?” He turned his head on a swivel, looking for something to eat.
“Here, your aunt refuses to eat this,” Obi-Wan passed the wrapped food bar he already had nearby up to Korkie, who was shifting on his feet. Satine could say she understood the feeling. It was the same she’d experienced after moving almost permanently into the domed city of Sundari. After growing up near the grasslands of Kalevala with the sea stretching forever on one side and the plains to the other towards the mountains far off, she’d felt claustrophobic after a long period of time in the enclosed city. Even though Korkie had grown up within the city, this cargohold was tiny in comparison to the large open spaces within the biodome. He looked like he wanted to go for a run, as if he needed to work the after effects of adrenaline out of his system that had been forced to settle with his exhaustion having caused him to collapse into sleep.
Korkie thanked Obi-Wan with a nod, accepting and he immediately took a huge bite into the powder-covered bar, and made a face.
“See?” Satine bit her lip, “I was right,” She hissed victoriously at Obi-Wan. “It's nasty.”
His mouth full of the offending food, the boy said, “It’s food.” Korkie continued chewing, and told her, “I’m hungry.” He smirked and swallowed, “Ergo; I eat it.”
“Manners,” Satine replied on impulse, and at that, both men looked at her unimpressed. Satine rolled her eyes at them.
She leaned back, the confirmation that Korkie was still okay settling the gears that had been running nonstop in the back of her head for hours in the quiet, accompanied only by Obi-Wan’s little snores and the ship’s engines. Satine pressed her eyes closed, and took a slow breath. If she wasn't holding a baby, she would have shook her head to stay awake.
The feeling that someone was staring at her was proven accurate when she opened her eyes to Obi-Wan’s concerned gaze. “Have you slept?” He whispered, eyebrows furrowed.
Satine turning her head away was all he needed. “Satine-”
“I can hold Luke,” Korkie offered, having caught the interaction. “He looks like he will slow down soon,” He looked at the baby.
“You will need to burp him,” Satine shook her head. “Do you know how?” Korkie gave her a blank look before shaking her head. Obi-Wan bit his lip, then asked her to show him. Satine nodded, and explained in detail how to turn the baby on his front, and lay him upright against their chest with his head on their shoulders. “You can bounce a little bit too, to help,” She told Korkie and Obi-Wan, “And pat him on the back. Be soft, but babies are tough. Make sure you are gentle but effective.” The Mandalorian boy nodded as he listened, and once satisfied that Korkie would be alright with promises to wake her if he wasn't sure or if Luke was stubborn, Satine waited for her son to remove the chest pieces of his Beskar and the flight vest so that he was left with the soft shirt underneath. Korkie was careful when he took the baby, and adjusted his angle so that Luke would not be disturbed while eating, though that soon proved to be futile.
Once her arms were free, Satine stretched them, and leaned back. Her shoulders were becoming sick of the hard crates, and she was fairly certain her bottom was numb from sitting for so long on the hard floor.
Korkie started absentmindedly pacing, small steps in a five stride circle, about as much as he could manage in this aisle of the crates. Satine shimmied a little to get comfortable, and a touch to her arm made her look to her right.
Obi-Wan was there. “Come here,” He asked of her, his arm outstretched. She would be stupid to turn him down.
He was comfortable as the clouds he’d joked about, but she wouldn't voice that aloud. He would be able to sense her relief in the force.
“There you go,” Korkie murmured above them, focused on the baby. He balanced himself and Luke, and passed Obi-Wan the bottle. “An ounce and a half,” He told them, “that’s good, right?”
Satine frowned, “Less, but good enough for now,” She dropped her head back against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and he lowered her arm over her. Satine suddenly realised how cold she’d been.
Korkie adjusted his hold on the tiny baby, and turned him to lay as Satine had instructed. Korkie started humming some school chant, patting Luke’s back to the rhythm of the song. It was probably just the first thing he thought of to keep his hand on beat and stay concentrated, but it made Satine sad. That old sonder feeling rose, and she mourned the beautiful schools and learning facilities she’d built for Mandalore’s youth.
Education had been important to the former Duchess. It was the foundation of the future in her opinion, and her values and delegations had reflected that.
She wondered if she would have to school Luke herself. Obi-Wan had not told her of his intentions with the child, but he certainly intended to raise him. It made sense. Satine knew Obi-Wan well enough that his self-inflicted penance would not allow him to forget the child, and she hoped she would get to help.
It would not be the first time she had thought of adopting a child with Obi-Wan. Though their roles had been played in the underbelly of Coruscant, who said it couldn't be reality? Just as to Obi-Wan, Luke was the son of Anakin, to Satine he was the son of Padme. She would teach him in the ways of his mother, to be strong and resilient and smart. She did not want to see the son of Padme forgotten in an orphanage somewhere. She would not let the empire twist this new hope into its regime. They could all live together on Tatooine until Mandalore was safe, then they could return. She would retake her home, and save her people. Luke would be a foundling, and Obi-Wan could train him in their home. Korkie would make a wonderful older brother. She wishes she could have given him the chance -unless this was the Force doing just that?
She should have known that such thoughts would soon be followed by guilt. What would Korkie think?
She could not adopt Luke as her son while denying her own. She should be putting her own child first, not dreaming of adopting a boy with the man of whomst she’d hid his own flesh and blood from.
What a horrible mother she was.
The feeling of self loathing hit her like a wave, and tears quickly formed in the rims of her eyes and slid down her cheeks. “Oh Cyar,” Obi-Wan whispered. He couldn't possibly know why she was crying, but that didn't matter to him. She was crying, and it was his job to comfort her. His hand rubbed up and down her arm, and her years of practice hiding her emotions kicked in. She cried silently.
Oh what she’d give for a chance to go back in time and do it all over.
Obi-Wan held her, and Satine could do little but hide her face from Korkie each time he passed, hoping he wouldn't notice and ask.
Whatever it was, they would have to figure it out. But she could not keep the promises she’d made years ago if she did not keep the bargains and swears she’d made in her terror mere days ago. She would have to come clean when the time was right -if the time was ever right.
Korkie would make a wonderful elder brother, she thought again.
The boy now was humming again as he walked with a slight jump to his step to burp Luke, and in Satine’s observations, she recognized the combination of tune and muscle memory Korkie was slipping into from the dance classes he’d had at the Royal Academy. He’d been over prepared according to his peers, who teased him as only teenagers do about his natural grace on the floor. However, what they had never seen was a twenty-eight year old duchess teaching her son to dance in the quiet of the twilight stained Grand Salon, laughing with him as she taught him the steps to an old Corellian Waltz. Those few memories, when Satine had been able to be shamelessly a mother, had been some of the most precious. She held them closely in her heart, clear as a holograph.
Luke would be just fine with them, no matter the outcome, she decided. She and Obi-Wan had been presented with an opportunity that they hadn't thought possible for almost eighteen years, and this time she intended on seizing it.
Moments passed. Her tears dried. Luke didn't throw up this time. Obi-Wan pulled his cloak over the two of them. Against Obi-Wan’s chest, she was warm and safe, and she leaned her head down, where her ear could pick up the steady sound of his heartbeat. Korkie was still pacing, walking the edge of the cargo hold, just as stir crazy as Satine in the confined space. He now held the relieved Luke in secure arms, humming that tune only Satine recognized. “Babies are so funny,” Satine whispered into the quiet.
“You think so?” Obi-Wan turned his cheek to rest it on the top of her head.
“Yes,” Satine continued, “They have this thing, where no matter how many babies you see, each one makes you feel like you're seeing one for the first time,” She told him.
“Is that what it is?” Obi-Wan replied. They shared the moment, and the Jedi’s hand was warm on her arm. Past the crates, Korkie strode evenly, only the sounds of his boots on the floor and his awkward humming voice coming across the space. Luke seemed to be falling asleep in his arms, satisfied.
Satine closed her eyes, the exhaustion returning, and she pulled herself closer to Obi-Wan. She was wondering now if this would be a repeat of that year they’d spent together. Would they be forced to evade capture on every turn? She was certainly still a significant target for bounty hunters once more. Would they live hand-to-mouth, each day a gift to be fought for? She was unsure what tomorrow looked like, which wasn't anything she wasn't accustomed to. But the biggest nagging question was perhaps also the worst- Would Obi-Wan just up and leave her as soon as she was no longer in immediate danger? If he did, she was sure it would truly break her this time.
It wasn’t worth denying themselves any longer.
“He’s good with Luke,” Obi-Wan said, and Satine smiled. She opened her eyes, the both of them stealing occasional glances to keep an eye on Korkie. The boy was indeed good with the small child, and Satine watched with a sense of pride in her heart. After he’d taken his creed and accepted his role as heir to the Duchy, Korkie had begun accompanying Satine to several of her informal public appearances, including Hospital visits she’d made, and it had been there that he’d revealed himself as a natural with people. From the parents who insisted Satine meet their newest addition to the foundlings who were brought in for care, Korkie had been exceptional. His youthful countenance had not hindered him from accepting his role with grace. She had been a Duchess of the people, and he was right in her footsteps, soon to outshine her.
“You know… I sometimes wonder…” Obi-Wan whispered, his voice so soft she wondered if he was even trying to speak aloud at all. He had trailed off, but his breathing was slow, as it was when he was forcing himself to stay unemotional and compartmentalised.
Satine blinked, taking a deep breath, “I do too.” She told him with a matching whisper. Why did he have to bring this up now? She couldn't think of a worse time. She’d have to play it as cool as she possibly could. She wouldn't let him get any clue that her turmoil earlier was in connection to the overdue conversation they were having now.
Obi-Wan exhaled. He stared into nothing, somewhere in the direction where Korkie would soon pass their sights. “How many?” He asked.
“Hmmm…” Satine snorted, “Four.”
He was entertaining the same. Obi-Wan echoed, “Four?”
“I wanted at least one girl.” Satine told him. “So I could name her after my mother.” Satine disclosed this precious detail cautiously. They had spoken years ago about children, when they were skirting around the seriousness of forsaking everything. But they had disagreed on one pivotal point- He wanted a wife, and she would not give up Mandalore. Obi-Wan had expected them to run away together, and she had only been prepared to make him a consort. He’d never wanted the spotlight. He’d wanted to teach, and be no one but himself.
That had been something they’d been too scared to dissect and settle, afraid the result would be worse than the mystery.
“They would have been a handful,” Obi-Wan snorted.
“With your impetuous habits as an example, would you expect any different?” She joked.
Obi-Wan huffed in offence, “If anyone here is impulsive, it is you, my dear.”
Satine rolled her eyes. “They would have been hellions.”
Satine had many times in her life imagined what this other life could have looked like if she’d asked him to stay. She would have named Korben in the manor of her house. Obi-Wan would take the creed, and they would be a clan of three. They would have legitimised him as their son and heir. Given him siblings. Lived as a family. Maybe a brother or sister with eyes like his and ice blonde hair like her own? A clan of six, if the Manda willed.
But it had not, and she had a persistent feeling that it never would if she wasn't careful now. This situation of proximity had been forged by circumstance, and was fragile like a bomb. She’d have to make sure that when it detonated, it was in a controlled environment.
Her fingers were absentmindedly fidgeting with the hems of Obi-Wan’s burned tunics. She hoped he was staying out of her head. “Biological or adopted?” He suddenly asked.
“Adoption is central to Mandalorian Culture,” She reminded him.
He hummed, “Like Korkie.”
“Yes,” Satine replied quickly. Or perhaps like Luke?
“He reminds me of you,” He told her. “Which does not surprise me,” Obi-Wan brought his arm closer around her, “You raised him well.”
“Thank you,” Satine answered, “He is the light of my life.”
“He learned it from you,” Obi-Wan said it as a compliment, but instead her heart sank. Obi-Wan’s fingertips traced up and down her arm. “Satine…” His voice was fragile, almost soft. He stuttered, “Should I… Did we… Is he-”
“We are much too lucky to be alive to waste time being stubborn,” Satine interrupted. “We should live with this gift of time we have now.” She told him.
Obi-Wan was silent. She didn't know what else to do. To discredit him would send him on the path of selfishness, and to affirm would be to open a can of worms she preferred to keep buried, and buried deep. Another secret she would rather keep a painful mystery than risk the worst case scenario.
She buried her face in his chest as he held her. All that she could think was that she needed him. She needed his arms around her, needed him to hold her and whisper that they'd find a way to be together. To be a family.
That was what she wanted right now. No Empire, no secrets just under the surface, no lies. Just Satine. Just Obi-Wan. Just their love. Just their son.
She couldn’t let him leave, and to assume she would grow away from him. That was impossible. Their roots were so entangled that to uproot one tree would be to take the other with it.
She fell asleep with a foul concoction of terror and hope in her heart, and the love of her life to hold it all together.
To say that waking up was uncomfortable was the understatement of the eon.
The second her joints moved and the nerves of her extremities came back online, Satine was groaning. “Hello there, Mesh’la,” Obi-Wan said, and if the look she shot at him in response could kill, there’d be a Concordia sized hole on the floor of the ship where he sat, because she felt anything but beautiful. She could feel the way her hair was a mess and her face was puffy from sleep.
“Hey,” Obi-Wan tried to be positive, “Don’t treat your living mattress like that,”
Satine huffed in response, almost yowling in pain when her ear received bloodflow again from where she’d laid her head, and she reached up to rub at it. “How is-”
“Luke is just fine,” Obi-Wan told her. “Ate twice over four hours while you were out.”
“How much?” Satine found herself switching right back into the mindset she’d not realised that was hibernating more than moved on from.
“Almost two ounces, then a little less the next time.” Obi-Wan answered, sounding a little unsure.
“And changings?” She asked, groaning again.
“Once,” Korkie answered this time, and Satine was only partially amused by the repulsed face he made in memory. “There was no saving that diaper,” He shuddered. He was sitting against the crate opposite her. Beside him, Luke was swaddled and laid in a nest-like pile of Korkie’s own blue niteowl cloak. He was asleep.
Satine couldn't help the snort she let out. “Normal baby stuff,” She laid back down, her back now against Obi-Wan’s side. She extended a foot out, and poked Korkie’s leg. “Lets just hope he doesn't get colic-y like you used to,” She smiled. The alarmed look in Korkie’s face grew as he tried to guess what that meant.
“But he’s okay?” Satine asked again. The way she was quickly being pulled back to slumber was undeniable, and she struggled to fight it.
“Satine,” Obi-Wan interjected before she could say more. He looked her in the eye, “He’s just fine.” He affirmed. "You can go back to sleep."
Korkie gave her an affirming look, and told her, "It's just like looking after those droids the Academy had us all practice on in that one health class when we covered basic childcare," Which really didn't help Satine's worries much, but at least it wasn't all new to the boy. Begrudgingly, and with some encouragement from Obi-Wan, the former duchess laid back down, and tried to make herself comfortable. She piled her cloak over her, with enough under her head this time to be comfortable. Her back was against Obi-Wan's legs, and he reached down to stroke her messy hair, his fingers combing it slowly in a soothing motion. He resumed some former conversation with Korkie, making remarks about the different ships the boy wished to learn how to pilot and the engines Obi-Wan preferred over the years. She quickly got lost in the maneuverability versus speed debate, and her mind calmed, the reassuring contact at her back and the warmth from his hand lulling her towards the oh-so welcoming darkness.
Meditation was an act of clearing the mind, and sometimes when exhausted enough, Satine could approach the closest thing she could akin to a clear mind, and she found herself close enough to slip into that half-asleep dreamland that was comfortable.
At least, it was comfortable until their conversion stopped, and the two men paused as if reading something in the air, and her son spoke up. “She’s finally asleep,” Korkie whispered.
“She needs it,” Obi-Wan replied in an equally lowered voice. His hand came down and rested on her shoulder, were her hair brushed against his knuckles.
The two men breathed in awkward silence. It was clear they had spoken about something tense the first time she'd slept, and now as she laid at Obi-Wan's side, she would be witness to it's culmination. Eventually Obi-Wan spoke, “Korkie, I’m not going to pretend that you don’t know that your aunt and I have a history,” Obi-wan said. “I think we can both converse like men here,” He added.
“Of course, Master Kenobi,” Korkie answered seriously, and Satine could easily imagine how the boy had squared his shoulders at the idea of having a discussion with his idolised hero. Long before they’d been introduced, Satine had known Korkie looked up to the famed War General, weather she discouraged him or not, Korkie had found a man to look up to, and she knew there were certainly worse options.
“You may call me Obi-Wan -or Ben,” The man told Korkie, who echoed the name back as if he were honoured to be on first name basis. Satine’s body shifted slightly with the large breath Obi-Wan took. Her lover sighed, and said, “You are seventeen, you understand the way of life,” Obi-Wan paused, “sometimes people meet, and they develop a connection, which may grow into something more despite the circumstances.”
“You do not have to justify your relationship with Auntie Satine to me,” Korkie told him. “You make her happy,” the boy probably smiled, “Happier than I’ve seen her in a long time, and that's what matters the most to me.”
“You love your Aunt dearly,” Obi-Wan observed.
“Of course I do,” Korkie replied, “She raised me. She’s my… she’s my aunt.”
“She loves you so much,” Obi-Wan told the boy, “I could sense it every time she ever spoke of you.”
There was a moment of silence before Korkie took a controlled breath, “Ben,” He addressed, “You need to know, the only thing she loves more than you and I is Mandalore, alive and safe.”
“Korkie-”
“Which is why you have to keep her away from it for now, at least until everything is under control. Keep her alive and safe,” Korie told him, a firm tone to his voice. “The only way you can do that is give her the opportunity to have both things she loves dearly together and maybe it will outweigh her hopes to save our home for now.” Korkie continued. “There is something you need to know about me also, Master Jetti,” he paused, “I too have a love greater than my aunt, and that is the survival of Mandalore.”
“You take after your aunt.” Obi-Wan interrupted, “Quite the politician.”
“Than you realise that Mandalore cannot survive ourselves and this Empire without her. She is not willing to do what must be done to survive this storm. But she is exactly what we need in the aftermath. I can get Mandalore under control, but she can keep it independent.” Korkie deepened his voice in that innate male instinct to be taken seriously by a rival, “The only way she will survive this is if she truly believes you want her too.”
“This is something you have to realise I cannot force,” Obi-Wan said slowly.
“No, but if you break her heart again and leave her vulnerable, then know this,” Korkie could have snapped the tension with a single armour pin, and Satine’s horror for who her son had become in his short sojourn made her mind frantically search for an alternate meaning for his words, but came up with nothing. The boy said, “I may have been raised by a Pacifist, but I will hunt you down and make you see what you are blind to, with necessary force.”
Oh Korkie, what has happened to you? Satine’s heart sank.
Obi-Wan was not lost to the threat that was clearly forming, “Kor Kryze-”
“You are no longer Jetti,” Korkie pointed out bluntly. “Just like the rest of us, your creed has now changed to survival. I heard Master Yoda tell you that.”
Satine almost gave herself away. When had he been with Obi-Wan and Master Yoda? It couldn't have been anytime between Padme’s leaving and when they saw each other again. Unless… Obi-Wan had seen Korkie before he met with Padmé, and withheld the information.
“I cannot give you a family home, Korkie,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot take on a role you are grasping to see fulfilled,” He told the boy, “I can only try to protect you from where I am now.”
“I am going to be honest with you, Ben,” Korkie shook his head, “I thank you for the offer, but I don't need protecting-”
“Your aunt-”
“Auntie Satine doesn't know yet, but this war is bigger than her abilities,” Korkie rebutted. “Once my aunt is safe, I will be returning to Mandalore immediately, with or without either of you. You have to make sure she doesn't follow me.”
Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Summary:
The rest of the trip in the cargo hold is tense.
Satine ends up taking it out on Obi-Wan when they land (and a little bit before)
Notes:
PLEASE READ:
1) PSA: PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF THE MANDA CHECK THE TAGS. I will be updating the tags as needed with each chapter as not to spoil the plot. Any themes addressed which span more than one chapter will be tagged. For example, if there is a discussion of a (non triggering!) theme that is closed out within the same chapter, It will not be tagged. (IE this chapter discusses arranged marriage but no marriages take place, so it will not be tagged). However if the theme may be triggering it will of course be tagged. Thank you.
2) In this chapter, Satine is GOING THROUGH HELL so it may feel like she is 'a little out of character' most of the time. I don't think anyone can truly say they know how someone will react to a situation like this until it is actually happening, so bear with me.
3) There is a line in here for us readers alone. I don't think there are any Greek Myths in the SW universe, and I don't think anyone in the SW universe would ever know the Story of Orpheus and Eurydice, but for us readers its a nice tragic touch.
4) This chapter is a little longer, about 9k-ish words long and has a couple things I need to warn for. If you don't want spoilers and don't listen to TWs, feel free to move on. This chapter contains oral sex, angry sex, and orgasm denial.
5) thank you @impossibleprincess for beta reading this!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In all those remaining hours, she would regret saying something. She would wish that she’d not lit that spark so close to so much ready to explode, that she’d kept her mouth shut, and stayed asleep in their eyes. In the remaining fifty-two hours on this freighter, she would have to deal with the consequences. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Maybe she shouldn't have asked. Maybe it would have been better if she’d not flown upward to stare at Korkie in shock.
But of course, she had.
Both men had turned their heads in surprise to look at her, their mouths hanging open and Korkie’s panicked, then scared, then angered eyes staring deep into her’s. “Auntie!” He explained at the same moment she spoke his name. Obi-Wan’s hand, which had been resting on her shoulder protectively to comfort her as she slept, fell away.
Obi-Wan instinctively reached his hand back to Satine’s arm, but she shoved it away. “You can’t go back!” Satine’s crazed eyes imagined the horrors that would sniff out her son if he returned to Mandalore without her. As her heir, he’d meet a certain fate at the hands of the power-hungry warlords wishing to solidify their claims to the throne. She did not wish to make Korben live through what she’d had to endure at his age. The blonde woman told the boy, “It is much too dangerous. Ayma told me-”
“Ayma didn't tell you everything,” Kokrie snapped in response, realising she’d heard all he’d said to Obi-Wan.
Satine managed to force herself to sit, almost vibrating with anger that Korkie had been planning to place himself in danger and leave without her. Considering he hadn’t told her yet, it was reasonable to assume he’d never intended to. She felt her lungs take in slow, intense breaths, trying to collect herself before everything came to the surface.
Satine had struggled with a short temper as a child. As a person of the public, she’d been trained from her earliest days to be an unbreakable fortress of patience and decorum. Even when those under her power exasperated her or she became frustrated, Satine had learned to hold herself in a perfect vision of grace. It was quickly crumbling.
Korkie was stubborn as an ore of Beskar and Satine could be as hot-tempered as the fires to smelt it. She could only assume it was from Obi-Wan that he inherited the constant effortless cool composure he seemed to wear like a second skin. Korkie came by his stubbornness honestly… on both sides if Satine could make any claim. By blood she knew the way he too easily believed he could conquer the world if he just tried hard enough.
“What…” Satine began slowly, “-did Ayma fail to inform me of?”
Korkie was silent, and his eyes flicked to Obi-Wan as if to ask if complying was their best option, and Satine suddenly felt ganged up on. Obi-Wan either didn't answer or didn’t give the answer Korkie wanted, because the boy huffed in frustration and leaned back against the crate forcefully, folding his arms like an indignant teenager. “Ayma is sworn to House Kryze. Not specifically to you,” He said. ‘-Or your bloodline’ he seemed to imply. “She is just as loyal to Bo-Katan as she is to you.”
“I figured that out right before you found me,” Satine huffed in reply.
Korkie rolled his eyes in frustration, “Saxon has offered a deal.” He looked away, “A proposition of marriage between House Kryze and House Saxon. He thinks the two houses united will deter other clans from trying to take control.”
“A proposition of-” Satine almost gagged, “What is this, the Black Years?” She spat. That particular Era of Mandalorian History was not known for it’s civilised and equal society, and she’d fought the remaining traditions that infiltrated her world throughout her reign. “Who-”
“Saxon doesn't care which Kryze Sister he marries,” Korkie now glared at the floor. “But it’s the option with the highest chance of your survival if you go back.”
“I will not allow myself or my sister to find ourselves pressured into a union with that monster!” Satine hurled in reply. Korkie glanced up at Obi-Wan with a clear ‘I told you so’ look in his eyes, then found Obi-Wan instead watching Satine. The blonde woman was almost surprised to see relief in the Jedi’s eyes. Had he harboured an opinion on this?
Satine looked back at her son, appalled by how carelessly he had shared their opposition’s wishes. It was true that Gar Saxon would most certainly execute Satine if he married Bo-Katan, and Satine’s sister just might bend the knee if she saw such as the best way to keep her people alive. If neither Bo-Katan nor Satine accepted his offer, Saxon would never stop until he saw them both swearing loyalty or dead and gutted just like the city ruins of Sundari.
“There is only one other way,” Korkie huffed.
“I will not do that,” Satine shook her head. She knew what Korkie spoke of. It went against every ideal she held so dear.
“Winning the Darksabre is the only way you don’t end up his wife or dead under his and Auntie Bo’s rule.” Korkie told her.
“Extremists can be reasoned with,” Satine retorted. “Mandalorians are above the savage ways of our past.”
“It’s not about the violence, it’s about the symbol.” Korkie said, “you are always saying symbols are powerful.”
“Because they are!” The former Duchess said. “They are powerful because of the belief people place in them.” She balled her fists, setting them upon her folded legs, “which is precisely why I will not rely on the barbaric tyranny of a blade to claim worthy leadership,” Satine snipped. “I refuse to validate the old ways for my own gain when I have spent so many years working towards a more civilised future.”
“Those civilised citizens of Mandalore are now so hungry they will follow anything that seems even remotely promising,” Korkie answered.
“I am still a pacifist, and I will not condone violence in my name.” She added.
“And if you want any say in the immediate future of Mandalore, You will need to pick your poison.” Korkie looked at her with frustration. He muttered, “I don’t want to see your body on the ground.”
“And what would you do if I never returned to Mandalore?” Satine snapped at the boy. She threw the possibility out to test the waters and discover his intentions.
Her boy faltered, his eyes fixing forward but no longer at Satine. He said, “I would do what I should have done with my first chance.”
“And what is that?” Satine questioned.
Korkie shrank, his stance wilting and he could no longer meet her gaze. His voice mumbled, “It doesn’t matter.” He hid his face, “They’re all dead anyway.” Korkie finally answered, his body slumping, head buried behind his folded arms set upon his knees. He turned away, and Satine was reminded suddenly of the little boy she’d raised. Yet no matter how much she viewed her son as the child she’d reared, he was almost an adult now, and followed humanity’s tradition of teenage rebellion. By Mandalorian standards, he was an adult, legally emancipated from her protection.
She remembered being about his age when her own father sent her away to higher schooling on Coruscant, and the anger she’d felt. Duke Adonai Kryze had not only wanted his daughter intellectually ready to ascend the throne someday, but he wanted her safe. To Satine at the time such actions had felt controlling and patronising.
She couldn’t stop Korkie. Not if he was anything like every Kryze to ever live.
Satine glanced at Obi-Wan for help. He offered little assistance. When the woman recovered from the shock of Korkie’s words, she crossed her arms, and decided that she could address that later when she has had time to think. She wanted to ask who was dead, but it was too fragile for that. Satine took a slow breath through tight lips, and she asked for the truth. “How long have you two been scheming?”
Now Obi-Wan couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Senator Organa found me, and towed my escape pod. Master Kenobi and I met on Bail’s ship. We came to get you after I was taken to a deep space Medi-station near the Mustafar system.” Korkie scapegoated the older man, attempting to shift the focus of Satine’s interrogation. She wasn’t proud to say it worked.
“You were injured?” Satine asked, alarm in her voice.
“I was fine,” Korkie shrugged his left shoulder, “Senator Organa was being overly cautious.” The boy added when her gaze did not let up, “I had some bruises and was dehydrated, okay?”
Satine squinted at Korkie, trying to ascertain if he was telling the whole truth, but it was very much like Bail to fuss over his friends. Kryze’s were not known for their concern for what most galactic citizens would consider ‘general wellbeing.’ Senator Organa probably thought he was doing the best thing. Satine looked to Obi-Wan, “And you intended to tell me of this when, precisely?”
“It has been a stressful week, Cyare.” Obi-Wan defended himself.
“You could have told me Korkie was safe!” Satine snapped.
“We have not been scheming,” Obi-Wan said. “We were discussing a contingency plan.”
“It sounded more like a plan to manipulate my interests!” Satine said.
“Because you are going to get yourself killed if you go back!” Korkie snapped. “And I don’t want to lose my buir!”
Obi-Wan looked between the two of them, his face pulled tight in concentration. He coughed, “I think it is clear that everyone in this cargo hold would like to see the others safe and alive,” he offered, “Which is why I can only suggest that you stay with us, Korkie.”
The boy looked up at the former Jedi with betrayal on his face, then stood up quickly. He snatched up his helmet, and muttered, “I can’t sit around letting more people die.”
“Just stay with us,” Obi-Wan tried to persuade him. “You can go back when things are less heated.”
“And until then, be what? A screwed up fake family trying to atone for your mistakes?” Korkie snapped at Obi-Wan. “I’m not going to hide when people need me.” The youth shoved his helmet on, and stomped away. He sulked off to the crates, finding a space to be alone.
Satine leaned forward to stand and go after him, but Obi-Wan’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Give him space. Don’t make him feel trapped or cornered.”
“Ben-”
“Cornered people lash out and say things they regret,” He whispered, “Don’t force him into that position to speak, or he will blame you.”
‘He’s my son,’ Satine almost spoke aloud, the possessive and defensive side of her rising to the surface. She’d raised him. She knew him. How dare Obi-Wan attempt to give her parenting advice? Instead, she crossed her arms. “He already does.”
Obi-Wan watched her draw away from him, and Satine wrapped her arms around herself.
She worried for Korkie. He had always been open about his feelings and his ideas as a child, and had always been ready to go to her for help even until her imprisonment. But now he was reserved, with clipped sentences. He seemed much more grown up, but not in a good way. She remembered that shift well. She had been not much older than Korkie when her own parents were killed in the beginning of the civil war, and Satine had been forced to leave for her own safety.
Her home had been torn apart. The young duchess had felt every death so deeply, and hadn’t fully understood the movement her father had started until she herself had held the weapon that had ended a life. It was that trauma that had brought her to a knowledge she’d in that moment wished to never let another person have. The guilt had been mountainous. Had Korkie taken a life?
She felt sick at the idea. He had harmed people in her attempted escape, but she hadn’t seen him actually kill anyone. But the weeks following when she hadn’t been in the picture were a mystery. So much could happen in a few seconds. More could happen in a day. Korkie had been on his own for a month.
Ayma had ensured that Korkie would be safe. Satine wanted to trust the Concordian woman, but the track record of those she trusted was horribly stained. Ayma had also said she would find Satine when the initial danger had passed.
Beside her, Obi-Wan had sat and taken the normal seated form for meditation, but his hands gripped his knees with stress.
The silence was deafening. Apparently their ‘spacious’ cargo hold wasn't nearly large enough for the four of them. A worried feeling in Satine’s stomach accompanied the sudden wondering if that was the precise reason she and Obi-Wan worked. Was it their constant assurance that they could back out? The indomitable circumstances they considered their curse but in truth took for granted? Now that they were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, now that they had chosen, would it all go to Hell? But Satine didn't want that. Not in the slightest. She was terrified of such things being the explanation.
If he was not willing to fight for her certainty as he had her possibility, could he in truth wake up every morning and still choose her? Satine was well aware she was not the woman of her youth that he had first felt lust for. She was older now and somehow even more fucked up. Surely to Obi-Wan, Satine was just another person relying on him to fix her problems. He probably wanted to be free of her battles and baggage. He’d never asked to be dragged into the mess of her home world or private life, yet she’d pulled him in anyway. Now he was stuck with her and the son she refused to tell him the truth about.
He intended to spend quite some time on Tatooine. Was he having second thoughts about that now? Is this who they would have been if he’d given up his ‘way out’ that fateful day on the Sundari landing platform?
“You will not have to watch over Luke,” Obi-Wan spoke to her with no warning. “I won't put that responsibility on you. He is going to his family.”
Satine blinked at that. “He has… family?” The surprise shouldn't have come at such a shock that it was. Tatooine was the name of the planet Obi-Wan had said Anakin was from, but she also knew his mother had passed a few years ago, from a casual word Obi-Wan had made some time back during the war. She felt guilty from the slight disappointment that had welled up in her at his confession, that she felt herself more fit than the parents who had more of a right to Anakin’s son than she did.
“I know of a step brother, supposedly named Owen. He has a wife. I am sure they will take Luke,” Obi-Wan clarified.
Satine looked at the baby still asleep, tucked in Korkie’s cloak at their side. She only saw Padmé when she looked at him. That hope and belief that the future could be good again, now was carried in the little light that was Luke Naberrie Amidala. Satine then corrected herself, as most of the galaxy would consider him Luke Skywalker.
Maybe the silence was the worst thing for them. In the absence of distraction, they were forced to face the things they ignored.
“I know you went back to Mandalore,” Satine confessed in return.
Obi-Wan only let out a small sigh. “I should have told you,” they both knew that the excuse of military censorship or the mission being classified would not help him now.
“Were you ever going to?”
Obi-Wan was slow to respond. “I am going to be honest, while I recognize that you should have known, I was more concerned about seeing you remain alive.”
Satine slumped forward. She didn’t dare pry further. It was a cruel game of emotional blackmail. I won’t touch your sensitive topics if you don’t touch mine.
“I will not stop you from returning to Mandalore, Satine.” Obi-Wan told her. “I know the importance of your people, because if I thought I could save the Jedi, I would too.” He paused. “I will give you a home if you stay with me, but I cannot help you fight for yours.”
Their chance was slipping through their fingers and they were watching it like sand in an hourglass, drowning in the torrents. Maybe when it had run out, they’d turn it over and watch it all over again. This relationship could not be built on regrettable circumstances alone.
“What are we?” She asked suddenly.
Obi-Wan’s eyes opened and he looked at her. “Are you being serious?” Satine nodded. He sighed, “Two adults who just lost the homes they believed so strongly in, betrayed by the unimaginable.” He whispers the diagnostic with a frown.
“But what are we?” She asks.
Obi-Wan hesitates.
“Lovers? Friends?” She tries. “Paramours of Duty?”
“What do you think we are?” Obi-Wan turns it back to her.
Satine does not falter. “Idiots,” she mutters. He looks at her with a confused face, and she folds her arms. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.”
Obi-Wan stares at her. That sad look, somewhere between regret and despair. “You think we are fated to fail?”
Satine asks, “Do you think it can be different this time?”
When Obi-Wan says nothing, Satine feels her eyes tear up. As the first tear slips down her face, she tells herself that if he says some bantha-shit about the will of the Force, she just might break her pacifistic ideals and smack him. Satine then stood, gathering her cloak and a small flask of water. She wished to be alone. The former duchess knew she couldn’t think objectively so long as she was near him.
“I can’t do this, Ben,” She tells him, “I can't have every aspect of my life a raging mess.” She wants to scream, and Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet to stand before her. Satine continues, “I cannot handle a million risky disasters at once. If we are going to do…this,” she waves a hand between them pointedly, “-we need to do so with certainty. I need to know the outcome.”
Obi-Wan bites at his lips before he answers, “I cannot tell you the future.”
“But you can tell me what you wish to do with your’s, Obi,” Satine said.
“I will follow the will of the Force,” Her Jedi replied verbatim. He leans forward to kiss her forehead, but she pulls away. If he was hurt by her rejection of his casual affection, he doesn't show it. He just stares at her with that stupid blank face. She really wants to smack him now. Perhaps it is not by her own strength of will she resists.
Satine was no stranger to civil debate with him, but this felt more like an argument meant to disarm and hurt rather than challenge and exchange ideas. It was a strange justified guilt that made her speak. She almost couldn't believe it had been a regular method of foreplay for them.
“I have made my desires for you clear,” Satine reminded him. “I have promised you my future if you want it.” She looked to the direction Korkie had run away to be alone. “But I have other futures I cannot compromise while you waste my time deciding yours-”
“Satine-”
“I need you to make a choice, Obi-Wan.” Satine stated. “If not for now, then for every morning for the rest of our lives.” She said, “I refuse to be a-”
“Satine!” He reached for her hands.
“-second thought until you need me-”
“Cyare!” His voice broke.
“-just as you had your Jedi, I have Mandalore-”
“I love you!”
The pounding in her ears rushed, and his eyes were pleading with her, but even with the words he’d managed after so many years, she still narrowed her eyes. “Say it again.”
Obi-Wan’s mouth hung open, his expression that of a spooked animal. He took a slow breath, his hands on her wrists loosening slightly. He raised her limp arms, and pressed his mouth to her knuckles in an offered kiss. She didn't pull away this time, but her expression was no less cold. That wasn't the answer she needed and they both knew it.
Obi-Wan wished, “You are the only person who has ever known me in every way.” He says, “Let me be the same for you.”
“Say it again.” She repeats, eyes like ice.
He prays her name. “Satine-”
“Say it,” she feels her jaw shaking in the effort not to let another tear fall, “again.”
“My Dear…”
“Don’t speak to me until you can say it again.” The blonde woman turned, and raged away, leaving the argument with steps at a cadence that told Obi-Wan that to follow her would be to get a shoe thrown at him. For a pacifist, she was an incredible shot.
The following fifty-one hours were nothing short of Hell as the only words spoken were when Luke was exchanging holders and reports of his feedings and changings made. Korkie seemed to be uninterested in reconciling, preferring to keep to himself while Satine perched herself in one corner, and Obi-Wan in the opposite.
When the ship set down in Mimban, The trio with their precious charge thanked their ride, who insisted on inspecting the state of the cargo hold before opening it. When their pilot could find nothing for which to claim damages for, they were let go. Satine once more carried Luke, and they set out to find an Inn with the least offensive prices with the highest chances for their health and safety. It took some asking around, and Obi-Wan found a place not far from the space port. Korkie carried their bag of mostly depleted supplies under his left arm, tucked under his cloak to deter thieves. While Obi-Wan rented a room for the night under fake names, Korkie had made a beeline for the tavern food, having soon grown just as tired of the supplement bars as Satine had. The small room was clean enough if one didn't look too closely at the corners and no one would be walking the dingy carpet barefooted. The two beds were in-wall cubbies to save space just like every other inn on a planet like this, and Satine made careful work to set Luke to sleep in a pulled out drawer in the provided dresser.
She almost thanked Korkie with a kiss to the forehead when he returned with a plate of food for herself and Obi-Wan, but held back as he still seemed to still be on the defensive. Korkie dropped their bag on the floor, and remained standing as he ate, still enjoying the freedom of no longer being in that cargo hold. Kokrie was practically scarfing down his food like a starved strill, and Satine was doing the same.
“There's a full shower,” Obi-Wan told them when Korkie began inspecting the room with the same scrutiny Obi-Wan had only moments prior, and the boy sighed with relief.
“I never want another food supplement again,” Korkie said with his mouth full, but the rest of the meal was taken in silence.
“You go first, Auntie,” Korkie said when he saw Satine making forlorn glances to the bathroom door. “I’m going to see if I can get us better supplies for tomorrow's ferry to Vandor.”
“You should wait for Obi-Wan and go together,” Satine suggested. Korkie looked at the wall, trying to formulate his words. Satine frowned at him and began to stand, but Korkie put his hand out. “I hate to say it, but you are safer here with Ben,” The boy put on his helmet, engaging his vocoder, “Women shouldn't be alone on this planet. I’ll be fine.”
Before she could say more, Korkie was out the door and gone, and Satine was looking at Obi-Wan pointedly.
“He’ll be fine.” Obi-Wan assured her. “No one is looking for him this far out here. They are, however, hunting the two of us.”
Only slightly relieved, Satine glared at the floor as she finished the last of her food. She barely remembered what it even had been. She’d been so hungry she hadn't even paid attention.
“Go shower,” Obi-Wan said to her.
Not to turn down the option to go first, Satine got to her feet and offered, “I’ll try to be quick,” while she briskly stepped into the small space.
The bathroom wasn't large, but it wasn’t too tiny either. She missed the private stateroom bathrooms on the fancy spaceliners that had been luxurious and comfortable, but this was just as wonderful after their three day trip. Satine unwound the knot of greasy hair she’d tied with some lost frayed threads at the nape of her neck, and finger-combed her blonde hair as best she could.
She hadn't been thankful for the humidity when they’d landed, but now that being on a watery-planet meant actual showers instead of sonic ones, she was praising the Manda as she stripped out of her four-day clothes and turned on the water. The steam was welcoming, and she grabbed at the complimentary soap and tested the water with her hand. It would be the best shower of her life, she was certain. Mimban just might have its perks, other than the noisy port city and the sleazy inhabitants.
When Satine was finally under the water, she let out a groan of pleasure, setting to scrubbing down her body and she started to notice the bruises on her skin from their escape and the weight she’d lost in the last week.
She was so engrossed in the wonderful spray of hot water that she barely heard the bathroom door open, and the fogged glass did little to hide the modesty of the man who began stripping as soon as the door closed behind him.
“I wish to be alone,” Satine stated, turning her back to him as if not seeing him would make him disappear. She wanted to shower in peace, not have an audience. “Alone!” She repeats with a raised voice.
Her Jedi didn't answer, but rummaged through something before he stood with eyes averted and asked, “Can I join you?”
The hot water on the back of her neck and on her shoulders was the only thing she could still focus on, and she could do nothing but stand under the glorious torrents and let the heat spread through her muscles and warm her bones. Satine grit her teeth. “I’m still mad at you.”
“Then be mad at me,” He whispered, and the following words seem so casual, but she should have known he’d admit them in such a casual place anyway. That seemed to be their habit, with relational milestones made either on the brink of death or in the most random of circumstances. He begged, “Just let me love you, even in your anger.”
Satine furrowed her brows, but her body stilled when she registered his words. He’d said it.
Obi-Wan was very aware that she hadn’t explicitly stopped him, and took that as permission before he reached for the sliding door, and stepped into the small space. Out of habit, Satine moved aside, accommodating him and letting him under the water. “You…” She said almost under her breath, deaf beneath the sound of the water, “I haven't heard you say it that way since…” Her words trailed off in memory of the day they’d said goodbye so long ago. They scrub as they speak, washing away the layers of sweat and grime and dust. Her skin has turned pink in a combined result of the heat and exfoliation, and it’s heavenly.
“I have spent years believing that word made me less of a Jedi,” He answered, “I should have known that it rather made me less of a man.”
“Oh Cyare…” She replied. She hated how easily she fell for him, over and over. How easily he could soothe the rage in her heart like a satiated storm, placated like a purring tooka. She feels herself leaning forward towards him. “Say it again,” She pleads.
Obi-Wan bows his head to her, the two of them completely vulnerable of the body and heart, and he makes his request again. “Satine,” His voice is soft, “Let me love you…” She wants to curse him for how well he knew her and how she should be courted. He was slow enough to give her ample opportunity to stop him before he took her face in his hands and turned her head gently. There, he kissed her sweetly on the cheek. “Here.” He moved to the other cheek, “Now.” Then the hands cupping her jaw tipped her down, and he placed the last on her forehead. “Forever.”
“Again,” She breathes.
“Let me love you,” He repeats, “As I always have.”
“You may,” She finds herself permitting. He meets her eyes, gazes locked. His hair is soaking wet and smeared across his forehead from the water, and droplets cling to his beard.
“I am sorry, Cyare,” He says, “Forgive me.”
Satine looks between his eyes, that striking, beautiful blue she’d memorised so many years ago. “Always.”
He kisses her then, gentle and considerate. He doesn't deepen it.
When they break apart he reaches behind her to the complimentary soap provided by the inn they were staying at, and taps her shoulder, telling her to turn around. Unsure, Satine shuffles silently, spinning in the small space. Behind her, she heard Obi-Wan lather up his hands before he threads his soapy fingers into her hair from her neck upwards, and her scalp tingles at how good it feels. Satine hums, and she wraps her arms around herself. Her head tips back, and he works the clean-smelling concoction into her blonde locks.
“You consume the thoughts of my every waking moment. When you are not there, I seek the warmth of your embrace in my dreams.” His words are honey, and she is a fly so easily trapped. It makes her feel powerless, though it is the opposite.
“You cannot draw me in with words alone,” Satine tells him. She hums as his nails scratch deliciously across her scalp, and the wonderful pain of her roots being massaged sends tears to her eyes and shivers down her spine. He directs her skull under the water, rinsing out the suds and letting her feel clean again.
“What do you need?” He asks. Selfless or selfish, she can't decide. If he’s truly so terrified to lose her as his methods of cornering her and enticing her with care is a play for what he wants, she can’t tell. With the whole Galaxy plotting against her it's difficult not to believe Obi-Wan is as well.
But he would never. He’s Obi-Wan. Her Obi-Wan.
She can’t help but lean back, and his hands snake across the wet skin of her abdomen to caress her. The embrace is not sexual or possessive in nature. Just loving. “I need you to understand,” She admits, arms wrapping around where he is holding her. Her skin is cold where the water does not warm them, and she inhales the shower steam. He put himself in this situation. Who would she be not to exploit it a little? Her voice pleads, “Understand my heartache.”
“Satine,” His voice is fleeting in her ear where his head is next to hers. His beard scratches at her shoulder and neck where he kisses her, tongue catching the water on her body. “I have lived my entire life training to separate myself from my heart. I will need to learn.” He sucks at her shoulder. “Forgive me, My Dear.”
“Then try, please.” She wants to fight. Fight him. Fight their circumstances, fight with him. She turns in his embrace, and they are so close she can see the water droplets on his lashes. His arms wrapped around her are comforting but he knows he does not own her. Satine’s hands fold near her chest. The hot water is hitting between them, and when he pulls her closer, small pools form between their bodies. She knows what she wants. She knows what could earn her immediate forgiveness.
Oh who is she tricking? She will forgive him. Every time. Always and completely. But a little apology never hurt anyone. The water is the distraction she needs because otherwise she would have wiggled out of his embrace. Or after his following words, kissed him. “And what does repentance look like to you?” He asks.
“I want you to know the desperation I feel, Obi-Wan,” Satine purrs. She shifts her weight closer, “If you refuse to know the longing of my heart, then I shall show you the longing of my body.”
He doesn't answer.
“If you wish to stop, say the name of your homeworld,” She says into his ear, and he just stands before her, waiting. She nibbles at his earlobe, hands groping at his muscled shoulders. Satine was thankful she didn't crave this in the same ways she’d used to. It’d been bad enough the first time she’d had to relearn how to just fuck someone when she was used to having a lover. She hadn’t intended to have to relearn this time at all.
But she wasnt relearning, because this is Obi-Wan.
Her Obi-Wan.
Satine makes eye contact and holds it when she stands before him, and doesn't break it when she palms him. She knows Obi-Wan had never lasted long under her half lidded gaze, and she wants him to know the way he affects her. This is psychological warfare, and he has lost his status as General.
“What are you doing,” He asks, but the way he is watching her with grit teeth tells her he knows. It’s not a question. It's an offer of himself. A sacrifice laid out of her to enjoy. Carnal. Yielding.
“I’m going to treat you as you have treated my heart.” She strokes him, “And you are going to stand there and take it, and not say a single thing about it except to tell me how it feels.” He’s hard and quickly wanton and knows it’s not just the switch of power or her eyes or her damned teasing tongue which had set a trail of fire directly from his shoulder to the mass of pleasure building low. Satine smiles. It’s her. It’s always her. Obi-Wan’s body knows her touch, anticipates, reacts in ways he cannot control. A Pavlovian response ingrained. Sometimes she’s only to look at him a certain way and his body responds. She may feign ignorance, but she always knows. They were far too in tune to miss the tiny tells the other slips. It's like a secret language. She knows he loves it. She knows how responsive he is, how despite his best attempts to control himself every time she starts something, ready for her touch even before the clothes come off.
The shower water has not turned cold yet and she hopes to use it to the full potential.
Satine stares deep into his blue eyes as she sinks to her knees. He wants to reach for her head but she swats his hands away. He plants his fists on the shower wall behind him as she traces the length of him, out of pleasure or the struggle to resist his own desires, she doesn't care. This is what she wants. He feels exposed and vulnerable and she has the ability to change that in an instant just by getting up and leaving. It didn't take much brains at all to recognize the message she was trying to send with her sexual metaphor.
His fight against succumbing to the pleasure so easily is lost when he groans. Her hands are gentle but her mouth torments him.
“Satine, Please.”
She can read his desire clearly, and in the way she shapes her lips, seeking to dare him to thrust his hips. Her touches are fleeting, peppering and light to tease him where he’s most sensitive. But she rationed her touch, letting him shudder and strain to resist seeking friction where he wants it. He has lost his subconscious battle and she knows when he moans. Her lips around him curl in the smallest of smiles. She likes that look on him very much.
She also very much likes the fact that the two of them are currently combined in her attempt to control him. When he begs to touch her she permits him on boundaries, and he takes the sides of her head in his grasp sheepishly but with shaken desire. She breathes the feeling in deeply, pulls slightly against his hands, and her hair tightens between his fingers that are threaded through her soaking locks. She enjoys the way sparks of pleasure-pain shoot directly down to her clit, but it's the same for him as the veins running downward before her eyes throb, and she revels in her power over him.
Her eyes flutter back to meet his again, a slight hiccup to her breath as she works her tongue, concealed where his gaze cannot penetrate, but he feels it all. He is watching, transfixed by her beauty, by the way she takes him further and her hands work in a symphony everywhere else. But she does not break his gaze. It is the focus, the intensity he cannot break. She wants to see the moment he starts to break. She watches as he reacts to the teasing, pushing her body harder, faster, further than he has so far.
When his hands betray him and he tightens his hold to direct her, she revokes the privilege, pulling away completely and she gives him the hardest of stares. Obi-Wan swallows, offering anything in exchange for her continued ministrations. His hands return at attention at his sides, knuckles white as his fists grip nothing. It is a temporary fix.
That’s how she wants it.
His only words are spoken praise, telling her how good she is, how she feels around him, and she watches, waits, until she knows he’s close, until he’s freezing between thrusts, shaking lightly before continuing, driving himself up higher. She waits until he can’t risk waiting any longer, until he’s so strung out, keening almost constantly under his breath as he’s almost there.
“Stop,” she says, knowing that he is unlikely to hear her, knowing that even if he does he’s not going to comply. She takes her mouth off of him, holding him in her hand only a second before releasing him.
His face is wild, unrestrained. The betrayal is there and he reaches to relieve his need but she stands, blocking his hands and she presses her body onto his.
He tries to rub, clawing for friction. “Stop,” she orders more firmly as she holds him strung out in place, unable to move forwards, unwilling to give up. He is trapped on the event horizon and she holds him on the edge. She gives him no leeway.
“Do you understand now?” she leans forward, and licks at his collarbone, reminding him of where else she’d been seconds before. He wants her back, or to kiss her? Maybe both. She doesn't care. He’s seizing and shaking under her, trapped against the wall. He knows she will get up and leave if he takes more than she's offering. These small mercies -her hands tracing those veins she’d admired earlier and her tongue on his neck - will be all she extends. Enough to hold him on the edge, a hare's breath away from shoving him over.
He is barely about to speak, trying to generate some kind of stimulation where his erection is imprisoned between them. She places enough pressure to keep him, not enough to hurt. She repeats her question. “Do you understand?”
“I do,” He finally answers. Each word is a battle, and she is a gladiatorial spectator.
“And you love me?” She decides to throw his former words back in his face, “Even in my anger?”
“I do.”
“Then show me,” She breathes. “Ask me.”
“Please, Cyare,” He begs, “let me show you.”
“Yes,” she snarls breathlessly directly into his face. His slightly widening eyes tell of his surprise at her early concession. But it’s not a surrender. It’s a demand. A gauntlet thrown. A challenge she hopes to the stars that he’ll take her up on. Her hands slide between them to where she left him trapped, and she kneels once more. It’s not a position of submission because she holds the next few moments quite literally in her hands. He throws his head back, looking to the ceiling and she pinches him on the thigh, getting his immediate attention when he flinches.
“You fucking look at me while I do this.” She commands, “You are going to watch me swallow it.”
“Satine,” He gasps.
“That’s it, look me in my eyes.” She takes him in her mouth again. He whimpers -whimpers, and Satine thinks she could survive the rest of her existence on that sound alone. She decides to be benevolent, and counts it as a second apology. In return for that little gift, she lets him hold her head in place again, but he knows not to make any informal suggestions.
This was home. The harbour. This was her place. Her still, reassured, and constant place in the galaxy. Obi-Wan would take care of her, because she would take care of him. And right at that moment, the world spun on that axis alone.
When he came it would be her conquest seen through, and Satine's saturated gaze eagerly watched Obi-Wan’s face for that miniscule moment before he would be coming down her throat.
“More,” she mumbles out the demand. She has a sudden thought, now that she's won, about how nice a victory lap would be, and that she needs him hard and heavy inside her. A single apology is not enough. “Come for me,” she drawls out sarcastically, all hard and fight and challenge, making it categorically clear that she’s humouring him only for the end results. There is no way she is conceding the fight, there is no way she is begging him after.
He will be begging her.
She freezes, the battle on his face so entertaining. Her name is on her lips then he’s gone. She swallows in afterthought because she is the one who earned this, not him.
She has won, but he still owes her one more apology.
When he is spent and still gasping for breath, she releases him from her mouth. He just looks at her with equal parts sorrow and wonder, and she knows -He's lost, she's lost and they fall deeper into each other to be lost together.
When she stands, she watches him recover, savouring the sight. He is grateful for her, Satine is sure.
The water has still not yet gone cold and she doesn't care if they are charged the extra commodity. She wonders briefly what their living situation on Tatooine would be. She knows desert planets wont have such a luxury as this, and she intends to enjoy it to its fullest. They can theoretically sleep anywhere; running water, on the other hand, is one thing she is sure she will miss.
Whatever they are now, they are in for the long haul. They have jumped in with the intention to drown, and there is no longer a hesitation or question on what they want. He must no longer simply watch her from afar. It had been one of the few things Obi-Wan did allow himself to indulge in when they were orbiting each other, those moments in their space alone when time stood still and they questioned their choices. Satine truly believed she could hear the mantra in his head every time, ‘Look but don't touch, appreciate the woman you love so much but don't start anything you don’t feel right about finishing.’
So Satine stands with him, beside him, as the water hits their shoulders and he says nothing but just stares at her. When he finally does speak it's to ask to touch her. "May I?" he asks Satine, though he knows the answer.
She closes her eyes, "Please."
He starts slow. His hands map her body, imprinting this current version of them into their memories. This turningpoint. She shifts against him, impatient but not enough to say anything, and she lets him do as he wishes. He isn't intentional, but he is decisive, and holds her close to enjoy the feeling of her closeness. This was always such a secret between them, and the idea of being so casual is new and exciting, waters untested and unexplored. To love openly would be strange and challenging, but with Obi-Wan, Satine knew it would be easy. Natural, even.
He kisses her, soft and sweet.
This was another thing she’d never considered before him. Kissing after oral had bothered her for years. Women in her acquaintance would discuss it as if it was normal, and she'd stay silent. It was dirty, it was unsanitary, it wasn’t what ‘good girls’ did. Regardless of who she was now, everyone’s upbringing did play into their sexual hang ups, but Obi-Wan made it feel like the only natural choice. Not kissing him right now would have felt wrong.
"I will always want you," he told her.
“Then take me,” She answered, “Show me.”
This too she will feel for days afterwards, but it will be worth it. He is hesitant as he lifts her up, as if they both might break, and pins her to the wall. This long overdue sealing of their silent vows, this emotional reunion after the years they were always on the edge of something great and disastrous and inexplicably perfect, and she is so pleased that he still responds the same - though more significant for the emotional weight of the act. That look in his eyes like there is nothing else in the world to him right now; It's divine.
Satine whispers her commands and he obeys, and she is still in control even when they slip into their old habits. She kisses him as her legs wrap around him, and he looks at her as if this is the best version of her he has ever seen, and he’s beautiful. Somewhere in their hazy memory they will recall the moment he entered her, the small gasp she made and the words he spoke. Becoming one spirit with no desire but to reach enlightenment of the other. Time has been kind to them, in this at least. Her kisses turn to playful bites as she leads, and he follows not far behind, and there is no tactful way to say that she missed having sex with him but hadn't realised how much until it happened again, and-
That night, when they would lie down together, it would be so easy to fade out, overwhelmed by the closeness and the promise of security. They survived. Maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. The only universe in which Orpheus kept Eurydice.
They are not what they were, she thinks as they collide. They are not what they were. They are becoming so much more.
When she approaches satisfaction she cannot help but whine at the pleasure. It quickly turns into more.
“Satine,” He keens, “Quiet.”
“My heart,” She shakes her head. “My rules,” She answers.
Obi-Wan bites hard on his own lips. Already he finds it difficult to keep himself contained. The sight of Satine’s blonde hair dripping as her head tilts sideways against the tiles of the shower. Her perfect round breasts bouncing as she slides his length deeper inside her, making sure her clit is brushed against him every time. Using his body for her own pleasure even as he supports her. Satine hears him groan in frustration. He wants to touch her forever. Kiss her again. He wants to move his hands over her breasts, see his thumbs circling her nipples until they are rock hard. He wants to put his mouth all over her. Her neck, her lips, her stomach, her clit, until she is screaming his name. He feels helpless.
And Satine knows it.
She remembers that she was supposed to be teaching him a lesson, but the anger feels so far away, and she discards her former prerogative without a second thought. Damn Jetti Bastard, she thinks, but she’d never been good at keeping her anger at him in her pants. He leans forward, and bites at her neck, not enough to indent her skin but enough to make it pink and sharp.
It was the crescendo, the full stop to her running thoughts, and she crashed violently over the edge with a cry. Obi-Wan trembled with her, and it was glorious. With dark flush mantling her skin, his hair wet from sweat and the hot water, his lips parted. But his eyes had never let her go. The deep lust in the blue that told her she had never looked more desirable to him, gone when he threw his head back, eyes pressed closed with their mutual culmination.
She comes down from her heights with a settling heartbeat and shared breaths. She might as well find that soap again if she intends for this shower to be at all productive cleanliness wise. They separate, and Satine shifts away as if embarrassed the way they had at nineteen. But to Obi-Wan, it hurts to let go of her, temporary as that is. He reaches for her. He has never been a violent man but he will tear apart the next living thing that attempts to separate them. Their lives filled to the brim with unexpected threats. Always another horror ahead, they know all too well, but they will face all of that together, as they always have.
“Don’t marry him,” Obi-Wan’s voice suddenly pleaded. His words were shaken and almost terrified. “Please, just come away with me.”
Satine did not answer for a beat or two. “I have no intentions of even considering it,” She assures him. “But if I don’t marry him, my sister will,” Satine whispered, “She will do it if she thinks it will save our people.”
“Please,” Obi-Wan took a hold of her hands, and pressed his forehead to her’s. “Just stay with me.”
“Are you trying to keep me away from Mandalore for my safety?”
“No,” he answered, “I need you with me. I don’t want to live alone without you.” He ran his hand down her arm, “Not again.”
“And we will do what, my dear?” She asked. “Will we watch Luke grow up knowing we abandoned those who needed us?” She hushed herself, “Can we even live with ourselves?”
Now Obi-Wan was silent, and he took slow breaths, but it was only when he tightened his grip on her arms that she realised he was crying, hiding it under the water. They’ve been in here for hours or years, she can’t tell. Her fingers have become spongy and wrinkled. She whispered his name, and she cursed herself for how much she loved him. No matter how angry she was, she would always want him close. Satine reached up a hand, and pressed it to his cheek. She should know by now -she’d never had any choice but to love him.
Between the hot water and the tears running down his face, there was little Satine could do other than try to comfort him. They were both fucked up people dealing with the past month with the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders. This was the time to choose, and she knew it.
This was when they would have to decide in finality if they would fight for each other or allow their stubborn duty-bound natures to prevail.
“Are you asking me to stay?” Satine asked.
“I am.” Obi-Wan affirms. “I cannot lose you, but I cannot possess you. I can only love you as you are.” She knew what he was telling her. Obi-Wan said, “I can never be a husband, but I can only give you what I have now -my life.”
“And I give you mine,” Satine echoes him.
His pause is unmistakable. He was thinking of the Grand Salon in her palace with Darth Maul. He was thinking of how close they’d gotten to losing each other. “And you really trust me with it?”
“Cyare,” She stares at him. “I have loved you always.” She finishes, “I always will.” Satine took his hand, pressing his palm on top of the scar under her ribs. Its mirror was lower on her back, and she took a deep breath. “I’m alive, Cyare.” She inhaled and exhaled again, letting him feel the breath in her lungs. “Feel my breath.” She told him, “I’m alive.” Even under the water his larger hand was warm, firm against the pink scar. “And I give it to you freely.”
Obi-Wan blinked, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Satine’s smile faltered in confusion, amused by his focused face. “What is it?” She asked, the joy returning with half disinterest and the reminder of his earlier words.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Nothing,” He smiled now as well, though more as an afterthought than anything specific. The former Jedi Master shrugged, and reported, “Your Force signature is brighter than ever.”
“Oh really?” Satine almost rolled her eyes. She’d never understood herself the complexities of the Force or how those with a strong connection to it perceived the mystical energy field tying all living things together, but she entertained him nonetheless.
“Yes,” He shifted his hand lower, opposite the scar on her back. “It's nice… like a pleasant hum.” He tells her, “It’s warm.”
Satine laughed, and she felt like saying something a little cheesy just to see him smile. She offered, “Well, that’s probably because I’m so in love.”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, a smile of his own rewarding her. “Yes, it probably is.”
Notes:
Yes, Korkie called Satine his ‘buir’. And while that does mean “parent” it can also mean legal guardian or just refer to the person who raised you, hence why Obi-Wan wasn’t surprised.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Summary:
Obi-Wan fucks up big time
Notes:
Hi guys I’m so sorry for the long wait. It been crazy with school and finishing cosplay for conventions. I literally am so close to finishing my Lawless Satine cosplay and I’m very excited to have it done soon.
Anyway I’m sorry this chapter is shorter than others. I figured you’d rather have it now then let me sit on it for another two or three weeks and change barely anything.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Satine awoke more comfortable than she had been in what felt like years. It was a tranquil moment, and the drawn curtains let in the faintest light from a soft fog-blocked sunrise. Satine rolled to her side, looking over their small space. She’d slept well, and was grateful that Obi-Wan had been on Luke duty for the later half of the night, and that the baby was still sound asleep. Across the room, Korkie was sprawled out on the second bed, arms flung out against the walls where she could just barely see. She had been relieved when he’d returned safely the night before, even though his method of gambling for the money for more supplies and new clothes had not sat well with her. “Don’t worry, Auntie,” he’d said, “I’m good at a game of dice,” and whether or not it was his force sensitive lineage or his audacity that gave him his advantage, Satine didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that he was alive.
Her Jedi was also still sleeping beside her, and she had been tucked at his side. He radiated heat like a bantha, which was nice because she always felt cold these days.
Satine rolled over again, attempting to soothe the stubborn aching bones in her body that announced their discomfort, and she stretched, the pleasant burn of her muscles reminding her she’d slept hard. Old habits demanded she rise early, but the small band of refugees were in no rush. Their ferry to Vardon wasn’t until noon, the tickets also won in Korkie’s thrill-filled evening in the Tavern below. Since nothing demanded her attention, Satine laid on her stomach, arms out to pillow her head. There was no need to get up just yet. And anyway, Obi-Wan was in the way of escape, like a protective wall between her and the rest of the room. Normally the feeling of being trapped would have had her anxiety spiking, but instead she felt safe, hidden away from the galaxy.
She dozed there for a while, enjoying the comfort of a mattress and the softness of the worn down sheets. Obi-Wan was disturbed at one point by her rustling, but never woke fully, other than to sling an arm across her back before he resumed snoring softly. It was peaceful and quiet in a strange way, even being in a strange place with strange circumstances.
Eventually her bladder forced her to rise, and she gently woke her lover to climb over him to get to the bathroom. Obi-Wan peeked at her as she left, but there was little other sign that he was anywhere near awake.
Her hair was still damp, even though she’d hoped it would be dry by now. After taking care of various needs and making herself feel as presentable as possible, Satine came back out of the bathroom, undecided if she’d climb back into bed or not, but Obi-Wan was sitting on the side of the bed, head bowed as he slowly pulled himself out of slumber. A slow morning was a luxury neither had indulged in for what felt like ages.
As she crossed the space, she picked up a pair of pants made of thick, rough woven material from their makeshift drying rack, and gave them a sturdy shake. The snapping sound they made in the air was louder than she expected as she walked. She tucked the garment under her arm.
“Morning,” Satine whispered more in apology for the noise than greeting, stepping over and leaning down, kissing the top of Obi-Wan’s head. Her free hand found the back of his head, threading her fingers through his bed-mussed hair, and he turned into her touch. He didn’t reply, but simply took slow, deep breaths in her presence. “Bad dreams?” Satine asked. She stood next to him, leaning towards him, irresistible to the desire for contact like a compass drawn north.
“The Force…. It's in distress,” Obi-Wan answered. Satine worried. He carried too much of the universe upon his shoulders. The feeling of loss for all those he considered his family could be nothing less than mountainous. She had to say she understood the feeling. Both of them were horribly accustomed to loss, and the compartmentalization they made their wartime habit would kick in the second something needed to be done. But when the world was slow and the morning quiet, the pain was unignorable. She had hoped that with a good night of sleep, a full stomach, and released tensions, they would find their emotions much easier to navigate.
Obi-Wan began meditation sitting on the bed, back straight but head bowed to fit in the cubby-like space. Satine continued collecting the articles of clothing from where they’d been set out to air from around the room, a chair back here and a coat hook there. She was unsatisfied with the half-dry feeling of the fabric. While Satine had previously thought it a good idea the night before to attempt to get their clothes to her standard of clean with the Tavern soap in the bathroom sink, she was dreading putting them on in their current state. They were new -well, new to them. “At least they no longer smell,” she told herself over and over, shaking them out to try to wish them into a state of dryness.
These clothes Korkie which had purchased for the effort of blending in would just have to be worn damp. The trio certainly couldn’t be seen as a Jedi, highborn woman and a mandalorian, as that oddity would make them stand out and would draw too much attention. Satine glanced over at her son. She would let the boy sleep as long as possible. Satine dodged his haphazard pile of Beskar on the floor, telling herself she’d teach him how to properly care for it later. Though she’d dreamed of a life where he’d never have to wear armour, that wouldn’t be the case no matter how much she longed for the opposite. And she was guilty to say that the extra protection Korkie had to any end made her feel better anyway. Once finished, Satine folded the clothing over her arm, dumping it into the chair.
Satine passed her own small bag, where those remaining, unbartered trinkets she’d collected from her flat sat with the files she’d saved. Padmé’s work had been too precious to leave behind.
At the thought of her late friend, Satine took a deep breath, and checked on Luke. The baby was staring quietly at the blank ceiling, an inquisitive look on his face. Satine marvelled at how expressive he already was. She knew babies wouldn’t gain their full sight for a while, but she didn’t know how force sensitivity played into that. Korkie had also been abnormally reactive to her presence and those of the people who had been close during her pregnancy. Satine had wondered if he had subconsciously recognized the signatures around him then. Luke squirmed slowly, and Satine couldn’t resist reaching down into the drawer-turned-bassinet and lifting the baby to her chest. “Good Morning, sweet Ad’ika,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.
Satine paced, giving Luke some love as she passed the time. Every now and then, a deep sigh would come from Obi-Wan, and she should give reassurances to Luke. She didn’t know how the force worked, but if her son had been so sensitive to her own force-null emotions, she couldn’t deny the reasonable assumption that Luke could sense the emotions rolling off of the former Jedi.
Obi-Wan sat, his back hunched as his face contorted with the effort to find the peace he usually felt in the Force. Satine shot another worried glance at him, and Obi-Wan mumbled in explanation, “It's just pain. Only pain,” he responded to her concern, and Satine approached Obi-Wan, and with her arms pressing Luke to her chest, Satine hoped to provide him with some comfort, and set herself to sit in the empty space next to him. She rubbed the baby’s back, and Obi-Wan seemed to briefly melt into her presence .
“He’s hope,” Obi-Wan said, breaking concentration and looking down at Luke.
“He’s a baby,” Satine replied.
“He will grow,” Obi-Wan sighed. Satine gave her lover a strange look. It seemed such an unfeeling thing to say. She waited for him to explain himself, and when he did, the great significance of the child in her arms became apparent. Obi-Wan seemed to say his words cautiously like they were a grand secret, “We were so sure Anakin was the chosen one, that he would end the war and put an end to the Sith. But clearly we were wrong.”
“You think it’s Luke?” She asked, “he is your Chosen One?”
“That or…” his words trailed off. Satine understood. There was no room for the disparity that would claim him if Luke hadn’t inherited the power Anakin had been expected to wield, and she wondered at how a single baby could be held to such responsibility.
As they sat together, Luke began to fuss, and Satine got up to feed him, mixing the formula and warming the bottle by letting it sit under the hot water from the bathroom faucet. Luke ate happily in her arms, and Satine shook her head, “You are such a first child,” she snickered to the baby, who stared upward with those adorable blue eyes.
Obi-Wan looked at her with the expectation that she’d elaborate, and Satine did, smiling. “They say first babies are biologically easy so that parents keep having more.” She explained. “You know, so they’re completely blindsided by kid number two.”
Obi-Wan snorted. “What, were you an easy child?”
“I was an absolute delight!” Satine retorted. She tilted her head, “But I won’t lie and say Bo wasn’t a difficult baby.”
“So Luke is easy?” Obi-Wan asked.
Satine shrugged, “I’d say so, yes.” She rocked on her feet as she walked.
“Was… uh,” Obi-Wan’s voice died. He coughed. “Was your nephew easy?”
Satine snorted. “He was a partial exception.” She made a ‘phew!’ expression at the memory. “But he had his good days and bad days. I wish I could say more, but he had a nursemaid during his earlier years.”
“You were busy,” Obi-Wan detected the regret in her voice.
“Perhaps,” Satine sighed, “but I shouldn’t have been too busy for him.” She looked over at the still sleeping teenager. He had deserved to grow up in the family life, with constantly accessible parents, family dinners, and grandparents on the weekends.
In her arms, Luke slowed his eating, becoming drowsy again. Satine carefully moderated until the child was finished, and after checking his diaper, she set him to sleep in his makeshift bed again, carefully inspecting it so that Luke wouldn’t roll over and smother himself or choke on a corner of the blanket or try some other Force-forsaken way babies liked to tease injury.
With Luke taken care of, there was nothing to do but wait for Korkie to wake, so Satine indulged herself, and found herself back at Obi-Wan’s side, her feet tucked under her to let herself just hold him, arms wrapping around his torso. She leaned against his back, and Obi-Wan’s breathing evened out.
Her Jedi asked, “Was he a good baby otherwise?”
Satine smiled, “the best,” she answered.
Obi-Wan said, “He loves you too, you know.”
Satine closed her eyes. “He used to be so dependent on me. He’d cry until I held him. He’d cling to my skirts once he learned to walk. He’d sleep once I sang to him.” She recalled, “it’s hard, seeing him want nothing to do with me.”
“I can assure you, he still needs you.” Obi-Wan told her. “He just doesn’t know what he wants or how to ask.”
“Hmmm,” Satine hummed, and Obi-Wan’s formerly interrupted meditation resumed. The quiet of the room was different than the constant hum on that freighter, and if Korkie hadn’t been in the room and their topics of concern so deep, Satine might have poked him with the amusing reminder of that stupid game they used to play when Qui-Gon was away and the two of them would see how much Obi-Wan could take before Satine (and her hands) eventually broke his meditative concentration. Instead they just sat together, the two of them against the Galaxy.
“Do you intend on telling your Aunt about that?” The male voice behind Korkie asked.
Leaning with one hand braced on the countertop, Korkie Kryze looked over his right shoulder through the mirror, observing the damage. His morning shower had been painful on the sticky wounds, though he knew he needed to keep the space clean. The hot water had loosened some of the previously hardened blister scabs, and the skin would start peeling in a week or so.
“It's not something she needs to worry about.” Korkie frowned, turning and reaching for the small bag he’d kept out of Satine’s sights. The medi-pack had been given to him by the droids at that deep space hospital, with strict instructions on how to care for his burns.
“You heard the droid,” Obi-Wan warned, “You didn't get treatment soon enough for the Bacta to prevent scarring. She will find out eventually.”
“I know that,” Korkie snipped a reply, pulling out said bottle of Bacta. He momentarily struggled with unscrewing the cap where some of the solution had dried like glue, and Obi-Wan took a half step forward to assist, but Korkie flinched, giving him a look. “I don’t need your help.”
Obi-Wan was silent. Korkie bit the inside of his cheek to mask the sting when he used his muscles to force the bottle open, and with spiteful accomplishment, he used the nozzle of the bottle and a clean piece of gauze to begin spreading the mixture over the open skin of his shoulder. He finished one section, and set down the bottle, pressing the gauze into the blisters and using his free hand to unroll it and his teeth to tear the medical tape, before fixing it in place.
“She just wants to protect you, Korkie.” Obi-Wan stated. “And when she finds out what happ-“
“I said I’d handle it!” The boy snapped, spinning on his heels in anger, knocking the bottle off the countertop. It skittered across the floor. And Obi-Wan reached out his hand, summoning the bottle to his hand. It flew through the air, colliding with the Jedis palm. Korkie reached to take it back, but Obi-Wan held the bottle.
“Give-“
“Korkie.” Obi-Wan said his name with a gentle firmness. “Let me.”
“I don’t-“
“I’ve dressed plenty of war injuries in my time,” the former Jedi told the youngest Kryze, “and anyway…” Obi-Wan nodded to Korkie’s shoulder, where the tape had already pulled loose and the gauze was about to detach. “I know you could do it yourself, but I can actually see and reach it properly, okay?”
Korkie glared, folding his arms temperamentally. He didn’t give any further comment, and Obi-Wan started careful, avoiding agitating the broken blisters or rupturing the new ones. This was going to scar, and scar badly. The bacta could only go so far with speeding up healing and its antibacterial properties. Obi-Wan arranged the new tape to be flexible with Korkie’s natural motions, and worked his way across the boy’s marred shoulders and where the injuries ran down his arm. Once the major inflammation was addressed, cleaned and rebandaged, Obi-Wan wrapped Korkie’s arm and shoulder until it was all bound in place and would remain sterile. Part of Korkie was relieved to see that the stupid sigil burned into his shoulder was no longer visible, and he hoped that it wouldn’t scar clear enough to be recognizable… another reason he hadn’t been too concerned about too precise of a heal.
“I bandaged it so that she won’t see it under your tunics.” Obi-Wan offered, patting Korkie’s opposite shoulder to signal that he was finished. The boy scrutinised the former Jedi’s work through the mirror, but said nothing, and dressed himself, satisfied when the bandages were indeed not visible anywhere around the neckline or sleeves or even outlined through the fabric. It was a peace treaty between the two, and Korkie was reluctant to accept it.
He no longer was sure what he thought of his mother’s idiot bed warmer, as his Auntie Bo-Katan called him, though Korkie had previously looked up to Obi-Wan. Korkie Remembered how shocked he’d been when Auntie Bo exposed the affair to the boy, who’d been previously oblivious to the relationship Korkie had stupidly assumed was just deep rooted friendship. It seemed there was truth in the advice of never meeting one’s hero’s. But Obi-Wan knew.
That stupid man Korkie’s mother seemed to care for so much had been there when Bail sat him down to ask what happened. Korkie was ashamed to say he’d been so rattled he’d broken down in tears with the Senator of Alderaan, and thus he felt a piece of his dignity had been lost to have also cried in front of the former Jedi. Even though both men had assured him everything was okay and didn’t bring it up, Korkie still regretted the lack of control he felt he now suffered.
But even with how turmoiled his feelings were, he couldn’t hate the man. Obi-Wan made Satine happy, and he had saved her life on many occasions. The Jedi had always treated Korkie with respect, and even when they disagreeed Obi-Wan had yet to make Korkie feel dismissed. Maybe a little stupid, but not unlistened to.
“Thank you,” Korkie begrudgingly said. This was Satine’s teaching, to be honest with oneself and aware of the reality of a situation even if he didn’t like it. It was her greatest strength as a delegate, but also the most exploited and thus her greatest weakness.
Obi-Wan smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, and moved towards the door. Before leaving, he paused, and offered, “It would be unfair of me to judge you, as I have hid my fair share of injuries from your Aunt.” He shrugged, his hand on the doorframe, “but that still doesn’t make it smart.”
Korkie lost the desire to play fair, and glared. “I’ll be fine.”
“Hiding things from people who can help you -especially from your loved ones is… not wise.” Obi-Wan’s words had a layered meaning Korkie felt he was supposed to understand, but didn’t. But that didn’t matter. He had other things to worry about than dissecting the words of a Jedi.
Obi-Wan left him his privacy, and Korkie washed his face with cold water to feel fresh again, and his hands ran over his buzzed head. The boy found the fuzz unnerving and unnatural, with the platinum blonde of his grandfather and the war-lean appearance of his face making him appear older than he was.
Korkie felt older than he was.
Those weeks had done a number on him, but especially that night when-
Korkie grit his teeth, the burn of the brand and the screams of the people echoing in his skull. His friends. His people. He’d let them all suffer. How had so much happened? He felt guilty for trying to push through and move on, and guilty when he thought about it. There seemed to be no right answer.
“Kor, Dear?” His mother’s voice was soft, and he knew she was on the other side of the door, checking on him. “My dear, are you alright?”
“Fine, Auntie.”
“Master Kenobi has gone to get us food.”
“That’s great.” Korkie answered verbatim, and somehow even his voice was different. Korkie looked once more to where his wounds were hidden. He’d handle it. Satine would never know.
Their ferry to Vardon was leaving from the port on the other side of the city, and so when all was collected and Obi-Wan returned the keys to the tavern room, the group set off, their cover story intact. Obi-Wan led the way, with Korkie behind Satine, who once more carried Luke. Several blocks down the way, Satine began to really dispise the half-dry pants, which felt like they began to rub her thighs raw from the rough weave. Part of her was quickly becoming irritated considering she couldn’t reach down to adjust anything since Luke was in her arms. Satine sighed. ‘I am tougher than this’, she thought to herself, as uncomfortable clothes were so trivial in the face of things she’d survived, but that didn’t mean they didn’t affect her mood. At least when she was stabbed, her clothes had been comfortable.
The trek took almost an hour, and they found their ferry in port with minimal effort, once they began following the crowd of others who seemed equally fed up with the muggy weather. Her cloak was too warm but she didn’t have the energy to take it off, as Satine was instead concentrating on remaining unbothered and reasonable. She should get her frustrations under control. Irritating clothes and unfavored weather were not the worst of things in the galaxy, she reminded herself over and over.
But she couldn’t get past the smell.
Satine didn’t think she could take much more of it, standing in the crowd of unwashed bodies and unwashed streets. She was too accustomed to the life of the lavish Coruscanti elite, and had forgotten the state of the places where bathing was not a daily norm.
Obi-Wan quickly noticed her discomfort, but was worried about other things -like securing their space in the hull of the ferry- and simply placed a hand on the small of her back. Korkie shifted in place beside them, his armour clanking softly. Satine tried to focus on other things, telling herself that she was being irrational and that there was nothing of importance to get worked up about. Things would be fine. They would soon be out of the muggy air and out of these streets. Things could be worse. Luke could be crying. It could be raining. Herself or someone could be sick -or dead. Satine began trying to list things she was grateful for, but every other observation reverted to her original frustrations involuntarily.
“Stop pacing,” Satine hissed to Korkie, who gave her an odd look, but obeyed, folding his arms and squaring his feet. “Thank you,” Satine forced out, and she rocked Luke back and forth, hoping he would remain asleep amongst the growing din of the crowds. Before them, a transport vessel descended from the fog, and wind blew as the heat from the thrusters disrupted the air around them. Docking commenced, and Satine’s agitation only grew.
It felt like ages before the doors opened and passengers poured out from the hull, making the space feel even more crowded. “Cyare?” Obi-Wan frowned with concern at her. “Are you okay?”
“Just fine,” Satine’s tight-lipped voice didn’t convince him, but there was no time as the future passengers around them swarmed forward to form a haphazard queue, and the trio were caught up in the frenzie. Ticket chips were taken at the door and people rushed to reserve the best places in the hull. Obi-Wan’s arm fell over her shoulders at they kept together, hoods of cloaks pulled close.
“That’s him! That’s the kriffer who cheated us out of our tickets!”
Heads turned in curiosity of the outburst, and Korkie went pale. “Shabuir!” Korkie exclaimed, “Go, go, go!” He reached out, pushing Satine and Obi-Wan forward, through the lines of people.
Around them, people became angry at Korkie’s attempt to cut the line, and responded with a colorful collection of “watch it!” and “hey you!” And physical attempts to push them back.
“Korkie!” Obi-Wan locked in on the situation, and Satine spotted the three large males of different species wading through the crowd with fingers and weapons pointed at Korkie.
“I’d recognize a Mandalorian’s armour anywhere!” Another of them accused.
“Get on the ship, I’ll deal with this,” Korkie attempted to move fast, but before Satine could say anything, Obi-Wan’s arm was out, shoving Korkie back. Satine’s son protested, but the former Jedi gave him an almost threatening look and Korkie stayed put, then turned to escourt Satine onto the ferry. Everything happened so fast Satine barely registered the debate before it was over, and she was being hurried forward.
“Ben!” Satine shouted as they were torn apart, and the people around them grew rowdier as some withdrew from the potential danger and others joined in for the entertainment of a crazed brawl.
“We need to go!” Korkie pulled Satine forward as the queues dissolved into chaos. Satine opened her mouth to tell him off, but Korkie reminded her of the baby in her arms. “We need to get Luke safe.”
Obi-Wan could handle himself, she was sure, and Satine tried not to trip as they ran, dodging luggage and boxes and people, glancing back to catch only glimpses of the man she loved facing the men who threatened them. He seemed to be attempting to use their height and weight against them, and Obi-Wan was fast, even with how tired he was. He was still healing, she remembered briefly as Korkie practically dragged her on board, loading two of the tokens into the droid running the entry onto the ferry, and getting inside. Korkie may have gotten Satine on board, but he couldn’t keep her from watching, and she observed the affray from afar. The open section between the doors and the docks was in full few of the former duchess, and she watched her lover take a punch, and she wished she could help somehow. People were filing on, the distraction of the fight not lasting long enough to prevent them from catching the transport.
Obi-Wan abstained from any use of the force, other than to leap behind cargo crates waiting on the dock, and Satine yelled to get his attention. The ferry would be leaving in the next two minutes, and final boarding procedures were already happening. Unfortunately, between her Jedi and herself were the three goons Korkie had gotten tangled with. Obi-Wan was cornered. Satine watched him swivel his head, planning the shortest route to the ship.
“Who are they?” Satine snapped at her son.
“Listen.” Korkie sighed, guilty. “I didn’t know they were pirates until after I won the tickets at dice.”
“So they were weighted?” Satine guessed.
“Probably.” Korkie shrugged.
“And you still won,” Satine grumbled. No wonder they thought Korkie cheated if his chances were so slim in the first round, not to mention for at least three tickets and the credits for supplies.
Obi-Wan began running, with the three men closing in. He dropped and rolled under the first who was mid swing, sending the leader falling and striking his comrade across the cheek instead of the Jedi.
The doors began humming and gasses hissed, the space-tight gears moving the panels into place. “Ben!” Satine almost screeched, and while the first two pirates fell, the third drew a weapon. If her arms hadn’t been holding a baby, Satine would have brought her hands to cover her mouth in terror. She almost heard the inner frustration as Obi-Wan considered drawing his lightsaber, but thought again. The last of the pirates stood menacingly. He was a wookie, and a large one at that, with matted fur and a scar down half his face that was devoid of hair and gleamed, exposing his fearsome empty eye socket. A circle formed around the wookie and Obi-Wan, all eager onlookers ready to harvest the corpse of whoever wasn’t leaving. Some placed bets immediately.
They circled each other, and when Obi-Wan attempted to pretend to go one way, backtrack, and take another to take advantage of the Wookie’s bad side, Satine could only watch in horror as the large wookie anticipated this and caught and threw the redhead Jedi up against the side of the ship, and Obi-Wan's body made an awful thud as he hit the metal She could see him grit his teeth, and his lips and head were bloody. He spat more from his mouth, writhing where the wookie held him by one arm.
A sudden shot burst through the port. Blue light whizzing from where Korkie stood, the people parting as they looked for the source. Behind Satine, Korkie stood with a blaster drawn. Satine saw from the corner of her eye as the wookie shrieked in pain, falling backward and clutching his shoulder. He dropped Obi-Wan, who somehow managed to land upright. Korkie stood behind her, legs shoulder width apart, both hands on the blaster he held, ready to fire again. The doors were still closing fast and their view was becoming more and more impaired.
When the Wookie began to rise and look for his target, Korkie fired again, this time letting the bolt graze the hair on the Wookiee’s head as a warning. When the warning was ignored, a third, immediate shot was fired. “Korben!” Satine gasped, and the pirate keeled over. Obi-Wan got to his feet, and made split second eye contact. No one stayed around to watch. It seemed murder was a normal occurrence in this corner of the galaxy as once the shock was over, even the droids were once more telling people to move along and have their tickets ready. People waited for Obi-Wan to approach the body and strip it of everything that fancied him, but when he didn’t, they swarmed the still warm form.
Obi-Wan made a bolting dash for the doors, and Satine's heart rate hadn’t settled the whole time, even when Obi-Wan just barely made it through before the clang of closed doors locked the passengers inside.
"You’re welcome" Korkie reholstered the blaster. Satine observed another nonverbal conversation between the two, but she couldn’t guess its meaning. Everything had happened so fast she couldn’t guess what had truly occurred.
"Where would I be without you?" Obi-Wan muttered, still slowing his breathing.
"Probably dead on a street corner." Korkie answered audaciously. He puffed out his chest, seemingly proud of the violent act he’d committed.
Oh Korkie, what has happened to you?
“Hey! You better have a ticket!” The droid Obi-Wan had bypassed in his unorthodox manner of boarding began berating him until Korkie produced the final token, inserting it into the slot on the side of the droid. As soon as that was done, the droid mumbled with relief about its balanced manifest as it toddled away.
“You made it,” Satine exhaled. “I was worried for a moment there.”
“I promised you, did I not?” Obi-Wan nodded.
Satine took a deep breath. “Come, let me take a look at that wound,” she balanced Luke in one arm, and reached up to hover her hand over where his head was bleeding.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Obi-Wan chided.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Satine humphed, and they turned in the direction where Korkie had deposited their bags.
The ferry was commercial, which meant it was a much faster engine, and they sat when hyperspace was entered. Satine did her best to clean Obi-Wan’s injury, and Korkie was generous with a bottle of bacta she didn’t know he previously had, but was thankful for.
Korkie took Luke while Satine and Obi-Wan talked, mostly about a contingency plan and their personal intentions for Tatooine. Satine wanted to prepare, and did so by discussing possible temporary employment, housing, and how they intended to feed themselves during their time in exile. Obi-Wan spoke freely with her, and Satine almost felt it to be too good to be true.
The ferry service came with one redeemable meal token for each person, and Satine kept close eye on the doors of the mess hall to gauge when the droids had cooked a fresh batch of food to be served.
Their dinner was no Mandalorian feast, but it was edible, and it wasn’t those food supplements or mushroom leather, so there were no complaints.
To busy themselves, Satine went to work on using her old dress skirt to make a baby sling, all by tearing off the skirt and keeping the circle of fabric intact, then using it to wrap Luke close to her chest.
Eventually their clothes were dry, and Satine found herself in a much better mood than earlier -other than the smell of that absolutely disgusting disinfectant she was sure had been used on every surface of the passenger hall on the ferry, since everywhere smelled of dirty metal and chemicals.
Hours later when they docked, Satine was ready to catch that last leg of their journey. She felt exhausted. Though her bodily clock said it was the middle of the night, on Vardon it appeared to be the bright of the morning. Luke wasn’t pleased either, and he ate, strapped to Satine chest as they walked.
They found another bar, and this time Obi-Wan went to barter for passage, after the unfortunate outcome of the undiscussed previous night. Satine took a seat at one of the booths and Korkie bought a drink. He offered Satine a sip but she declined. She was so tired that she didn’t need any more reason to fight passing out right then and there. When had her son started drinking anyway? It hadn’t been a habit she had ever encouraged, that was for sure.
“A ship to Tatooine leaves in just over an hour,” Obi-Wan returned, much quicker than Korkie had, with a drink of his own. Though unlike her son, he didn’t offer her any. Satine didn’t know why she was annoyed by that.
“Great,” she groaned in response, her hands wrapped around Luke. His almost finished bottle sat on the table before her, and Obi-Wan frowned.
“Would you like to give me Luke?”
Satine did nothing but nod, and she began unfastening the sling off her shoulders, and passed the precious baby over. Satine stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders to loosen the muscles. She didn’t want to admit how good it felt to have empty arms again. Their hour of rest passed quickly, and Satine managed to eat and keep down a bowl of some food from the bar after she was unable to eat anything on the ferry that smelled like sickly sweet chemicals and caused such nausea. She was so relieved to be out of it.
Their final leg of their journey was much smaller and ricketyer than even their first, and Satine was incredibly happy that this would be a straight shot to Tatooine. It would be barely two hours in hyperspace, then they would arrive.
The port they would meet their pilot on was one among many in a private docking sector, and Satine enjoyed walking the short distance carrying nothing. Korkie led, herself in the middle and Obi-Wan right behind her.
She was so tired. Satine decided she would take a nap on the way. It would be nice.
“This is it!” Obi-Wan waved down the droid servicing the ship, which ran to fetch the pilot. The two had a quick conversation in what Satine assumed was Huttese, and when the deal was confirmed as struck, herself and Korkie boarded with no issue.
This time they would be provided with small quarters, and Satine gleefully dropped her bag with her files and her clothes on the shelf of a bed, and turned to ask Obi-Wan if he would be willing to watch Luke. Only Obi-Wan was no longer behind her, and she looked around to see if he was busy looking over the ship. “Korkie, have you seen-”
She saw him then, walking off the ship. As the pilot passed them and smiled, offering them an enjoyable trip to the Mandalore System, Satine put two and two together, and blood rushed to her ears.
“Ben!” Satine shouted. Korkie seemed to be unsurprised, but Satine took off after the Jedi, suddenly alarmed. He wasn’t looking over the ship, he was leaving.
And he had Luke with him.
“Ben!” Satine caught up to him, “Obi-Wan!” She yelled, feeling herself become livid. “Where are you-!”
“You have to understand, Cyare.” He realized he was caught, “I won’t make you choose between myself and your.. your nephew.” He was trying to explain himself, but it wasn’t working. “You belong with your people, and your family.”
Betrayal and anger was filling her heart and she was wanting to tell herself he would have come back to the ship but she knew… She knew deep down what was happening. He’d lied.
“I can’t stay with you and Korkie and faithfully do my duty.” He was speaking words but Satine was just shaking her head. They were supposed to be past this. They were going to deliver and watch over Luke together. There would be no deviance of his vows to scare him now. Nothing to hold them back. He was saying these things but she wasn’t accepting them. His attachment to her was not the same attachment that destroyed Anakin.
She’s not listening to him even when she hears blaster fire. Satine must have been screaming at him the words she was so scared were true.
“You need to get out of here,” Obi-Wan was pleading with her, “you would never have been happy with me anyway, not in the long run,” he tells her. Satine feels them separate and she swears he has tears in his eyes as well. “I love you, Satine.” His last words to her hit her and he is pushing her back towards the ship. Korkie is there somewhere, trying to pull her out of the skirmish that has come out of nowhere. She recognizes bounty hunters when she sees them. Obi-Wan’s arm is outstretched from where he pushed her away from the bolts, and she cannot move.
Obi-Wan dares to draw his lightsabre, and doesn’t seem to be hindered by the baby strapped to his chest as he deflects the blaster fire away from himself and Satine.
The former Duchess hadn't even seen the bounty hunters come in, but then a pressure is pushing her back into the ship, and she flies. Korkie is there on the ramp, breaking her fall. He’d used the Force to push her away. Obi-Wan engages the bounty hunters, and Satine can only catch pieces of the fight with how her ears are roaring and her eyes are full of tears.
To escape the fight, their ship lifts off, and Satine scrambles to the edge as the hull closes, trapping her inside. Korkie pulls her back from trying to get to the edge. It’s dangerous. She doesn’t care. Korkie is saying things too, maybe apologies? But she can’t hear him.
“Ben!” She screamed over and over, fists beating on the hull floor. She can’t feel the time pass until her knuckles are almost bloody. All sense of her decorum and grace is gone, diminished to a heartbroken woman wailing in a heap on the floor. Korkie and herself were now headed to Mandalore, and the ship has entered hyperspace.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was gone.
No.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had left her.
Notes:
Shabuir - Mandalorian Translation: “shit”
Kriff(er) - Galactic Basic Translation: “fuck(er”
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Summary:
Satine and Korkie arrive on Mandalore, and further questions are asked while others are answered.
Notes:
Happy Satine Week! Anther chapter this week should make up for the short chapter (:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Auntie?”
Satine felt nothing. The livid rush was gone from her blood and she was numb. Under her hands the metal floor was cold. She drew an absentminded finger across the sharp sandpaper-like tread that had been lasered into the hull floor. This was another cargo ship, it seemed. She really hadn’t been paying attention. The smooth hum of hyperspace contrasts the creaking of life support systems, and Satine can almost swear she can hear her own heartbeat softly in her chest.
“Mum?” Korkie is standing there, his face drawn into a guiltful blankness. She looks at him, Korkie. Her son. “Come on,” the boy shuffled over and reached a hand down to offer her help up off the floor, but she declined it. Space is cold. Her skin feels dry. Korkie offered again, more pointedly. “We need to talk.”
Korkie instead stepped behind her, and hooked his arms under hers, lifting her with a grunt and preference to his left. Satine stood on shaking legs. He walked her to the quarters she’d been hoping to sleep in only an hour before.
“I need a favor.” Korkie hits the door mech with his elbow, and it slides shut with a hiss behind them. Satine moves across the space. The bed is firm, not suitable for her sore back.
Satine worried that if she spoke she would cry again, and she felt herself sit down on the bed. At least it is nicer than the hull floor. Korkie sighed, and rummaged through his bag. They have two bags between them now, Satine half mindedly realized, since Obi-Wan had taken the one full of Luke’s supplies.
Korkie produced a medi-kit, and a nice one at that. She noticed but did not think much about it being fancier than anything he would have bought off the street. It wasn’t Mandalorian. She knew that because traditional Mandalorian kits didn’t have so many scar-minimizing vitamin creams, burn salves. and pain killers, even though she had standardized such things in her government funded city hospitals.
Korkie sat on the floor cross legged in front of her. “Give me your hands,” Korkie asked, and began cleaning her knuckles where the skin was sticky. Satine hissed when the gummy blood and dirt was removed and the scratched skin stung where she’d beat at ground.
She wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t seen him, or if she hadn’t turned her back. Satine had caused quite a scene in the port of Vardon, yet she had a feeling that the bounty hunters would have caught up eventually.
Korkie cleaned her cuts, and found that the concerning amount of blood was not true to the state of her skin, which was instead mostly covered in tiny lacerations only a couple layers deep, but still bled impressively. She would heal quickly once they scabbed over.
Satine stared at the floor where Korkie sat, and she felt a single hot tear burn down her face. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were irritated. She was so tired.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Korkie whispered. “You need to understand, I tried to convince him to join us, but he said Luke needed to be safe.” Korkie secured the bacta-infused gauze on her hands. “And we need you.”
Satine sat in silence. This didn’t make any sense. They had promised. Obi-Wan had promised her. What had she done to change his mind? Yes, she had always intended to return to Mandalore, but later. Once Ayma contacted her and she’d had time to make a plan with Obi-
It was too soon to go back. She had few allies, no plan, and certainly no Jedi Protection. Padmé’s mysterious death and that of Anakin’s had been what it had taken for Satine to realize she was not invincible, and that there were fatal risks to resisting this new Empire. She had accepted that she was useless for the time being, and that until Ayma reached out to bring her in on negotiations, all that would be had was violence.
With one hand bandaged, Satine wrapped her arm around her middle, as if she could curl up and disappear. It would be easier than facing the morning. Her other hand stung momentarily as the Bacta was administered to the worst places and her hand protected from infection.
Korkie still could not meet her gaze even when she stared at her son. Would Obi-Wan have stayed if she’d told him the truth about Korkie? It may have been cruel to force him to choose but at least it wasn’t as selfish as leaving her in the dark. She felt a guilt she could not place, that something more had been lost she had yet to realize.
“I’ve contacted some people to meet us when we land. But you can’t look weak, Mum.” Korkie put away the medi-kit. She stared at her boy: her son. Satine decided she did not like the buzz cut Clan Hurr had given Korkie. And the bleach job was growing out, and his roots were dark, auburn like-
Korkie folded his arms. “You can’t be vulnerable, not while so many people are looking for a way to use you.” Korkie coached her. Satine felt her thoughts ping around her skull with the disorientation of exhaustion. Korkie bit the insides of his mouth, “I’m just going to need you to do something for me, okay?” He asked. “I’ll explain later.” Korkie turned around, flipping off the lights and leaving only the dim security glow tape on the floors. He stepped out the door, “I need you to be strong.”
The minutes passed like seconds, the hours felt even less once Satine fell asleep, her exhaustion taking over. Military culture taught one to sleep whenever possible, and since Satine could not change her situation, her body and mind demanded their dues for mercy.
Satine was awakened by Korkie, unsure how long it had been. Her immediate instinct was to ask about Luke, but the whiplash reminder of what had happened sent her into silence. “We are approaching the Mandalore system,” Korkie said. “You need to prepare yourself.”
‘For what? ’ Satine wondered. For general procedures when exiting hyperspace? To see her home planet she loved burned to ash? To look into the eyes of the people she had failed?
“Who are we meeting?” Her voice was raspy, and she was further confused when Korkie just looked at her, pointed to her bags and suggested she change before stepping out of the quarters without any more answers.
Satine dressed, the bandages on her hands getting in the way, and she stared at the blue dress she’d left Coruscant in. It felt wrong to arrive at the home she had lost in a gown of silk made by the finest of Naboo’s tailors -even missing the bottom half of the skirt- so she instead donned those thickly woven pants and tunic once more. They felt more appropriate for a leader in exile anyway.
Satine reached for her satchel, checking to make sure Padmé’s files were still where she expected them to be, and she left the room.
The ship was small enough that the way to the cockpit was not difficult in the slightest, and Satine followed the blue shine of hyperspace to the pilots chair. Seated was the Trandoshan pilot who spoke Huttese, a Drall, and Korkie, who was chatting with the two. “So you’re the woman.” The Trandoshan tiddled, giving her a stiff nod when he noticed her presence. “Don’t worry, you’re almost there.”
Satine’s mouth remained shut. Korkie had polished his armour, she noticed, from the way it gleamed in the shine of hyperspace. His cloak had been left in the room and he looked older, with fuzz of an unshaven jaw that stole the youthful appearance she had always known. It had not taken much for Satine to realise that something had happened to Korkie to get him to so desperately want to return to Mandalore and have changed so drastically. Every motherly instinct in her demanded she sit him down and discover the truth, but the diplomat in her knew that to demand anything of such a newly established personality would be to challenge the very foundations it had been built upon, and would be perceived as a threat. It would just make him angry.
She was still allowed to worry, however. Nothing would stop that.
“You said you needed a favor?” She insinuated her desire for an explanation, and Korkie sighed.
“Excuse me, Gentlemen,” he said to the pilots, and got up to guide Satine into the hallway. When the cockpit door closed behind him, Korkie fidgeted with his nails, then folded his arms to force himself to stop. His emotional tells were through the roof, and Satine narrowed her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Do you promise you trust me?” Korkie asked slowly. Satine was taken aback. She felt a need to say “ of course, ” but in her heart she knew she couldn’t do so honestly. Not wishing to hurt his feelings, Satine dodged the question, and stated, “I’m a little short on trust right now.”
Korkie didn’t reply, but he did offer some explanation. “The NiteOwls will meet us on Concordia when we land,” He told her. “Auntie Bo has made plans to take you in.”
Bo-Katan. So that was who Korkie had been getting his ideas from. “I would like to speak with my sister.”
“You will,” Korkie assured, “believe me, last I heard, she wants to talk to you too.”
The ship jerked as it exited hyperspace, and Korkie ran to the cockpit as soon as he realized they left the safety of the hyperlane. The ship descended with caution, and the shape of Concordia creeping around the horizon of their white glass planet sent a feeling of false security through her gut.
They came closer, the rest of the moon revealing itself. “Air traffic controls should have hailed us by now,” Satine whispered to herself. Mandalore was exposed, and the lack of ship recognition sat badly with her. No log crew would board and take note of their presence and purpose, and virtually anyone could approach their home undocumented and unexpected.
Their ship passed through the atmosphere of the lush moon, and Satine watched Korkie point out a landing site. His comm was blinking red with an unheard message, but he pressed the button to delay it. He was avoiding speaking with whoever was on the other end, and Satine frowned.
The air was thick and the change in the thruster controls prompted Satine to sit for landing. Their pilots brought the ship down with a deep rumbling sigh (and a few lost parts, if Satine had any say in it) and they settled onto the exposed rock of a ridge overlooking a deep ravine full of trees and other vegetation. Wisps of mist lingered between the rocks and trees, and a light blanket of fog obscured the very bottom of the canyon. Satine blinked as the Upper Atmo shields slid open across the cockpit view, bright sharp sunshine breaking through without the filters to protect their eyes.
The Trandoshan pilot mumbled something in Huttese, and the Drall translated the words into Galactic Basic, “he wants you to grab your bags and get off his ship,” but Satine had picked up on the tone and didn't need the meaning given. Korkie lingered to speak with their chauffeurs, and Satine retrieved her bag, her hand resting over Padme’s work nestled safely away in her few belongings.
“...As promised, the other half,” Korkie’s voice echoed, and the sound of clinking credits into an open hand was unmistakable.
“Can’t leave a tip for timely delivery?” The Drall sniffed.
“A deal is a deal,” Korkie replied, and Satine wondered where he got the money to make the payment, and if he had used up whatever he had left. She passed Korkie his bag as he approached her on the way to the loading area, and he slung it onto his left shoulder, stepping in front of her.
Light burst as the ramp lowered, and Satine squinted. Concordia’s weather was mild, and she breathed in the fresh air. After constant recycled air in spaceships and the AirFarms of Coruscant, she was grateful for the natural attributes Concordia possessed. The moon had always been a significant perquisite to the Mandalorian System, and though it felt premature, Satine was grateful to be back, that is, until she found blasters pointed at her and Korkie’s hands flew into the air. Six jetpacked mandalorians had slipped through the crack in the boarding ramp which hadn’t even touched ground yet.
“State your name, rank, and intention!” A young male voice commanded, and Korkie stuttered. Satine froze momentarily. Would her name result in her welcome or her execution? She didn’t know the people who now held them captive. She didn’t know their opinions of her either. The five Mandalorians who had swooped in on jetpack were a complete mystery. Their pouldrons did not bear the niteowl crest.
A lack of panic to accompany her logic was unexpected but yet it guided her as Satine stepped forward. She felt calm in the face of what should be danger. “I am Satine Kryze of House Kryze. This is my Nephew, Korkie Kryze. I am seeking Asylum with Clan Hurr.”
The silence that followed was surprising, but she said no more. Confusion filled the posture of the Mandalorians, and Satine tried to see their armour to get an idea of their allegiances. One leaned over and whispered into a commlink in the Concordian dialect, telling a mysterious Alor on the other end that ‘ she’s here early. ’
“…Duchess?” Another spoke, and Satine drew her eyes to the female who asked. The girl’s helmet tilted as she undoubtedly ran some kind of scan behind her visor. Her blaster was small, and hanging by her thigh was a large data pad, clearly for more than courtesy calls or general use.
Korkie flinched at the vocoder distorted voice, and he kept his hands in the air, but carefully removed his own helmet. He stared at the female in red armour from head to toe. “Soniee?” He asked slowly, “is… is that you?”
“Kor!” The girl removed her helmet as well after reholstering her weapons, and she raced forward to the surprise of everyone in the hold. The girl collided with Korkie, who embraced her back. Korkie almost stumbled at the impact, but regained his balance.
“How are you…” Korkie’s voice wavered. He stared in shock at the brunette. Her green eyes flashed with relief, and she patted his shoulder when he let her go. His words were full of confusion, and Soniee’s smile fell. “That’s a story for later,” She turned, and nodded to Satine, a heartfelt look in her eyes. “I’m glad you are still with us,” She offered, “There were rampant rumours, you know.”
Satine only nodded in return, and the other Mandalorians did not remove their helmets, but they did gather closer and put away their weapons. The engines of the ship fired up, and Satine suggested, “I believe that is our que,” With a glance around the space, she walked down the ramp, and Korkie was behind her, falling in stride with his brunette school friend. With her feet on solid ground, Satine breathed deep, feeling relief that they had found friends. To their right, a low hollow sound cut through the ravine mist, and as the cargo ship departed, a familiar shape slicing the fog, rising into the sunshine. The maroon smear slowed, watching the ship leave, head swiveling until it spotted the group in the clearing.
Satine smiled despite her emotions, she would know that maroon armour anywhere.
Ayma zipped down to the edge, landing with grace and powering down her jetpack. “Soniee!” She barked from inside her bucket, “What did I say about tagging visitors?”
“Oh come on, ’Alor!” Soniee groaned, her posture instantly changing as she shrugged. “Didn’t you hear who’s here?”
“Of course I did,” Ayma Hurr sauntered over to the group, giving Satine less than a second of attention before approaching the girl she had apparently taken under her protection. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that we need to keep up an appearance of planetary control,” She lectured, “former dignitary or not, we sweep and secure before release. Always. ”
“Listen; I got the serial number, okay?” Soniee replied, patting her hip where the datapad rested. “I also did an internal scan from inside the hull. There were a few small weapons, spare parts, a lot of spice, but nothing harmful.”
“Hmmm,” Ayma squinted at the young girl, “I want a hard copy by morning. You kids and your digital records will get you nowhere.” She huffed, and finally turned to Korkie.
Korkie avoided her gaze, much to Satine’s confusion.
“So you’re the Kryze kid everyone makes such a fuss about,” Ayma looked him over, and a split second glance of suspicion to Satine was more than the former duchess needed to know that Ayma was perhaps too smart for her own good. The scion of Clan Hurr scrutinized the young man in front of her, “I told you not to come back until I commed you. What the kriff were you thinking?”
“I want to speak with my aunt.” Korkie finally looked up, staring down the tall woman in front of him.
Ayma chortled, “We will arrange that later,” She threw a frustrated expression at Satine. “I don’t know why you are here. It’s too early and not safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” Korkie glared.
Ayma burst out laughing, “And you are a better bodyguard than the Jetti, boy?”
That made Korkie shut up, and his hands turned to fists as he held his helmet in his hands, his jaw squaring and he clearly wanted to talk back but his anger threatened to break loose. Satine reached out a hand to still her son, but the boy shook it off. He was guilty about something, and Satine had yet to put her finger on exactly why.
“Well, your job is done,” Ayma told Soniee and the other commandos, “Let’s get them home.”
“I want to speak with my aunt,” Korkie told Ayma for perhaps the upteenth time. The campsite was bustling yet deathly silent, and as soon as Satine had been taken aside to speak with people despite her exhaustion, Korkie had left her in good hands while he went to complete his mission.
“In time,” Ayma sighed, “She’s a very busy woman.” Commander Hurr swung out an arm, pushing aside a curtain that served as the door to a tent that was clearly used for tactical planning.
“I know that,” Korkie folded his arms, “That’s why I came back to help.”
Ayma whorled around on her feet. “To help?” She echoed, “I had your… aunt safe and away from this until we needed her.” The woman told him, and Korkie couldn't help but lean away from her anger. “I don't approve of her choice of bedmate anymore than the next Mandalorian, but at least she was safe with him!”
Korkie snarled, “Obi-Wan was-”
“-not stupid enough to drag her back to an active warzone!” Ayma finished. Her eyes gleamed with frustration, “You had orders to make sure she was hidden. When you told your aunt you wanted to fight for your home, you agreed to listen to the orders given to you.”
“I-” Korkie choked on his own words. No, this wasn’t what he had wanted. Ayma clearly didn’t understand the situation. If Auntie Bo had not been rescued yet, then it was time to move to plan B. He hated plan B, but he had made his promise that night, and he had vowed not to let another person die on his behalf-
The auburn haired boy glared at the woman his mother called friend. “You have not even alerted Bo-Katan that I am present because she isn't,” he deduced. “Which means your plans didn’t work.”
“Cadet Kryze-” Ayma warned.
“He said ‘a sister for a sister,’ remember?” Korkie placed a hand on the holotable. “How long has my aunt been negotiating with the enemy?”
Ayma’s face was full of equal rage. It took her a few seconds to admit, “Three weeks.”
Korkie huffed in a defiant ‘I-told-you-so’ manner, reveling in finally being right.
“Do we know where she is being held?” Korkie asked.
“Reports suggest she is in the undercity of old Sundari,” Ayma informed him, “Our attempts to get more information have been futile. The city is crawling with desperate people and turncoat loyalists.”
He rolled on his feet, his face pulled tight in concentration. Ayma watched him, and waited until Korkie spoke. “We have something he wants. Saxon is out to set himself as the most powerful clan leader, and he needs so many powers either removed or bending the knee.” Korkie reached up, gripping his chin, “As much as I admire my Aunt’s negotiation skills, we need a trained warrior with the respect of the people who can be calling the shots.”
“Are you saying you want to trade Satine for Bo-Katan?” Ayma asked with mild shock.
Korkie jerked to shoot her a disgusted look. “Of course not,” He huffed, “I would never betray her like that, unlike some.” He looked away, “I want to make Saxon think I’m willing to.”
“To draw him out.” Ayma finished.
Korkie nodded, “If he’s exposed, he will have an audience,” the boy added, “And with an audience comes his pride.”
The campsite had been comforting in an oddly familiar way, as she had once been harboured just like this by a group of people during her year on the run. They had fed and clothed her, and not asked questions about the suspicious foreigners who hovered nearby, hands over weapons that most of the people in these regions considered to be magic. She had always felt a debt of gratitude to those people, the memories blurred as she tried not to recall that it had been in a camp just like this where their system, ‘ Two second lefts and a right down the nearest corridor,’ became a common practice to avoid prying eyes and seek out moments of privacy. Satine’s teeth began to ache with how much she clenched them to keep her face blank. If she let a single tear fall, more would follow.
“My lady?” Soniee approached, “Sorry, I’m not sure what protocol of address to follow now,” The young girl’s voice was like fresh air, and Satine allowed the attention to pull her from her sorrow.
“Lady Kryze - or Satine is fine,” The blonde replied with a forced smile.
Soniee’s eyes widened, clearly uncomfortable addressing the former planetary leader by just her given name. “Lady Kryze-” Soniee came into the tent Satine had been taking a moment in. The brunette was still dressed in her red armour, and Satine began to notice that it was a bad fit, with a rushed paint job. Her iron skin had clearly been salvaged from another body, hastily donned out of fear, claimed by right of warpath as spoils. Soniee came inside, and sat down across from Satine. The girl said, “The people are thankful that you are here, but…” She hesitated, “They want to know why you are here if you will not fight.”
“My weapons are words, young one,” Satine replied verbatim. “The truth is sharper than any sword, and pacifism is strength, not cowardice.” Soniee appeared disappointed, and her shoulders sagged. Satine knew that look. “You believe the only way out is a war?”
Soniee was silent. She looked away, and when she spoke, Satine’s heart broke. “I have seen things, Duchess.” Her words died, but she regained her strength. “I have seen a man strangle another for a single ration, and I have seen children lift blasters by the orders of a monster.” Soniee’s eyes lacked their usual vibrant flashes of childlike wonder for the world around her. “I saw a woman throw herself off a balcony to avoid the unrestrained urges of men on a power trip.”
Satine felt her gaze sharpen. This was precisely the life she had never wished for these children. Soniee was too young, too good to have been forced into this world. She should have been at school, taking notes in class and cheering for her team in PhysEd. She never should have been thrown into a warzone, where horrors awaited.
“I watched as Saxon declared you a heretic, and burned your palace beside Maul.” Soniee frowned, “I used to eat lunch with your nephew on weekends there… to get away from my noisy sisters,” Her voice faltered, “I don’t even know where they are.”
Satine instinctively reached out a hand to the girl, watching her crumble. Her bandaged hand was warm on the cold Beskar, but Satine was no less discouraged. Soniee recognised the comfort but did not lean into it, guilty as she added, “I should have looked for them, but I ran away.”
“You did everything you could,” Satine whispered. She knew that guilt, and had felt it for years regarding her own younger sister. “I have no doubt that your parents evacuated them along with everyone else when the firefights began. You are from a clan seated in technological progress,” Satine remembered, “Your father would have been on the list for invaluable personnel.”
Soniee seemed calmed by that reminder. But her words were not what Satine expected. “I watched him hurt Korkie.”
Satine’s comforting hand stilled.
Soniee admitted, “Saxon. That monster.”
Satine’s blood rushed hot in her veins. Her head turned slowly, and she asked, “Soniee, what happened?”
The brunette then burst into tears. “We tried to escape. We were caught. The Protectors were slaughtered,” She recalled, her chest heaving as she became more and more upset. “Maul’s men took us to a holding place. A rescue attempt was made, and we thought we were free. But the new people were cruel and forced the others to help them. Even when Ayma’s people came, we didn’t last long. Saxon caught up. He…”
“What did he do?”
Soniee paused, and the horror on her face was unmistakable, as she spoke of a night she so desperately tried to block from her memory. “He burned Korkie.” She said. “He burned him so many times. I heard him screaming but there was nothing we could do. Saxon separated all of us. I still haven't heard anything about Amis or Lagos. After Korkie escaped, Alma broke me out, but they were nowhere to be found.”
Satine felt anger rise in her chest, suddenly remembering all the times Korkie had kept her on his left, favoured his left, and flinched when he had to use his right. He had not just been dehydrated and bruised on Bail’s ship or in the deep space medi outpost. He had been a real patient.
“Saxon branded him, Lady Kryze,” Soniee whispered. “I heard it happen. I heard everything.” She sobbed, “I’m sorry.”
Satine felt her hands shaking, the desire to search out her son rising. He had kept this from her. Korkie had been hurt and never told her. Satine’s son had bee hurt -no, burned. He had been branded, like an animal. Her blood pressure rose, the desire to give Saxon a piece of her mind and the mandalorian instinct to repay his act tenfold rising with it.
This knowledge changed things. She had held onto hope that Saxon could be swayed. But to burn a child…
And not only a child, but hers.
The rest of the moments felt like a blur as Satine thanked Soniee for her honesty. The blonde rose to her feet, and her steps were even and calculated as she exited the safety of the tent and came into the dying light. When the first person showed interest and asked if she needed anything, tight lipped words left her mouth in Mando’a, asking for Korkie’s whereabouts. Eventually someone pointed to a far off tent, the one with maroon drapes serving as a flag.
“Where is my son?” Satine entered the tent, and all hell broke loose.
It was less than a day later that Gar Saxon, lounging on the half destroyed throne in the now open air Sundari Grand salon, was handed a holopad screen which had received a transmission containing nineteen words.
‘I demand your presence by evening. Bring my sister. Ignore me, and taste regret.
Signed, The Duchess of Mandalore.’
Notes:
Next chapter will dive into Korkie's time on his own and follow with the meeting with Saxon. It's mostly written out, just have to make some final edits and it should be up soon.
Happy Satine Week 2025!
Chapter 13: Chapter 13
Summary:
A look into Korkie's sojourn.
Notes:
WARNING: It is in this chapter that I have changed the rating to Explicit due to Graphic descriptions of Violence. if you are sensitive to those themes, please consider skipping this chapter. Everything that you technically *need* to know for the plot was explained last chapter.
THIS CHAPTER IS A TIME JUMP. It takes place a month before the current happenings While Satine was still on Coruscant and not getting the full truth from Ayma. It happens just under two weeks after Satine's Escape from Sundari with Obi-Wan to be more specific.
Yes, these few chapters are short but I have some big stuff planned, don't worry.
Chapter Text
They had been attacked at dawn.
Korkie Kryze huddled down beside his schoolmates as blaster fire reigned down. Beside him, Lagos attempted to comm her family, hoping that they could send some form of backup or support, and get them out of here. Unfortunately, since the Fall of Sundari and it’s mainframe, all signals had been blocked or faint at best, and it appeared to affect the whole planet. They had been forced to use the information Soniee had gratefully already had downloaded onto her datapad, and their escape had been guided by an outdated holomap she had used months ago in some school project.
Lagos’s family lived in a compound in the north, approximately sixty-two miles from the Capital, and was a house long allied with Clan Kryze. The teens were so close to safety, and yet so far. The two Niteowls that had been sent to assist the Protectors were still holding their own against their attackers, and one yelled to the teenagers, “Run!”
It took every ounce of bravery for the four teens to leave their safe place, and Korkie found that running was more difficult with the weight of Beskar on his body. The armour of his Grandfather, Adoni Kryze, protected him. The armour had been taken with Auntie Bo’s help from the vault of the Castle in Sundari alongside three other ancestral kits by Korkie and his renegade schoolmates, and painted swiftly to match the other niteowls. Unfortunately the cover hadnt lasted long, and the boy and his friends ran for their lives in suits of iron skins too big for their youthful bodies.
It had greatly slowed them down.
The Niteowls had been the last to fall, using the dead Protector’s bodies as shields to resist the assailants. “We have to help them!” Amis argued.
“No!” Korkie tried to keep his breathing sustainably as he ran, “They said run, so we help by running! If we go back, we will be four more bodies to protect!”
“We are three miles out!” Soniee announced, her hands trying to keep her datapad steady and look at the map as she ran for her life. The safety of the compound of Lagos’s family was supposedly straight ahead. So close yet so far. They had made it this far.
“We will never make it!” Lagos said.
“Yes we will!” The Heir of Mandalore shouted encouragement to his schoolmates. Bo-Katan had risked everything to help get them out of prison, and Korkie had gotten them out of Sundari, and the last of Satine’s Mandalorian Protectors had died keeping them safe. They had crossed the lawless no-mans-land of the White Desert. They had been attacked, robbed, and slept hungry most nights. Once they were in the claimed territories they would be safer, and an attack on Lagos’s life would mean swift retribution upon their assailants. Since Lagos’s family was allied with House Kryze and most of the Sundari Noble populace, by extension Korkie, Amis, and Soniee would be under the same protection. Korkie would not give in now.
The hum of a transport wasn't far from the firefight, and Korkie begged the Manda that it was friendly. It had to be.
He cursed the ground he stood upon when he was wrong.
The speeding vehicle was armed to the teeth, blowing up dirt and sand as it rode low. It caught up to the still sprinting teenagers, and pulled around in front. They tried to bypass it, but warriors leapt out, and Korkie’s friends were met with blasters in their faces.
“One of these is the Kryze boy. Line ‘em up!” A man’s voice said through his vocoder. He stood in the transport.
He descended as The teens were grabbed, each fighting and trying to get away, but they were held with such might it was futile. They were outnumbered and outmanned. The blaster fire had stopped somewhere a while back. The Niteowls were dead.
“Gar Saxon of House Saxon,” The man took off his helmet, and Korkie then noticed the scars on his face and the blonde hair the man kept closely buzzed, much like Pre Vizsla. The other significant similarity was the black hilt that hung at his belt, and behind his helmet, Korkie’s eyes widened. The other teens had fallen silent. Korkie was confused. Last he heard, Maul had been in possession of the saber, and it had been unaccounted for after Maul’s disappearance
“I’ll reckon to guess that the Princling is wearing some sweet skin,” the newly introduced Gar Saxon whistled, and set his helmet on the side of the transport. He unclipped the ancient blade from his belt, and tossed it a few times in his hand. “Theres a couple ways to test it, you know.” He looked from right to left the teens in full armour.
“Shall we remove their helmets?” One of the commandos who stood behind Lagos asked as he held the girls’ arms behind her back.
“No, No,” Saxon shrugged, “I like a game. A little fun!”
Korkie feared Saxon would test the Darksabre blade on them, but instead Saxon sauntered over, starting at the right, lifted the hilt, and struck the butt of of the Darksabre against Amis’s armor. A Sharp ringing sound of metal against metal rang, and Saxon tilted his head. “Not pure,” He commented, and moved along. The second test was on Soniee’s armour, even if it was only the teens who knew who was under each iron skin, but Saxon clearly liked to toy with his captors, drawing out their fates just to see them sweat. The second clang was similar.
“Not quite,” Saxon graded the sound of Soniee’s breastplate, and came to stand in front of Korkie. The boy thought momentarily of kicking the man in the balls and making a run for it, but that would leave his friends in unpredictable circumstances. Saxon studied his third captive, and raised the hilt again. This time, the sound was clear, the cutting sound singing through the air. Beskar against Beskar. “There he is,” Saxon waved his hand, and Korkie was grabbed tighter. “Take them home, boys.”
“Let us go!” Soniee yelled. “You have no right to-”
“If she makes any more noise, remove her tongue,” Saxon sighed as the other teens were dragged apart, and Korkie remained in place. Saxon clipped the hilt back to his belt, and reached up. He removed Korkie’s helmet, and looked at the boy.
“I have to say, I’m not impressed,” Saxon commented. “But I look forward to getting to know you.”
Gar Saxon paced with a bounce in his step before his tied up prize, gawking over his victory. “You’re a very valuable trading morsel,” Saxon snickered, his laugh unaccompanied by any form of mercy or empathy. Korkie had discovered not long after regaining consciousness that struggling against the plasi-bonds was futile, and the way he was bound, hands behind him and secured to the ground, led to great discomfort with every strain. So the boy sat, legs crossed and back hunched as he took the abuses of his captor.
The other Mandalorians had been forbidden to touch him on pain of losing their offending hands, so no one came to help when Korkie had begged for water or for permission to relieve himself. All day he had been in the same place as the burned planet shone harsh sunlight across the white planes. Korkie had never spent much time on the surface of Mandalore outside of the protective domed cities, and he bit his lips with worry.
They had been taken to some place near the ruins of another destroyed residence, and the twisted, mangled metal of what was once the protective shell of the outpost had been his only source of shade all day. Nearby, the water filters that had once served the engineered atmosphere of the destroyed town had dripped stray condensation moisture, and there, along the walls, was a tree. The miraculously preserved artificial wind turbines sucked in air, pulling a breeze through the scrappy twigs that the scraggly, thin tree shot into the poison sky. Korkie wondered how long the small plant would last with the dwindling water supply, and for some reason, the thought of the resilient little thing dying made him sad.
It felt stupid to feel sad over a plant when he was in such circumstances. The irradiated surface of Mandalore would be toxic to the body over long term exposure, and he knew that while it would be months before his body suffered irreparable damage without the protection of Beskar, it was still something he worried about.
Korkie hadn't seen his friends in his entire time since regaining consciousness, but he knew they had to be somewhere nearby. There was nothing for miles, and the only tracks leading anywhere were the ones from the transport they had been dragged in on.
“I have a question for you, Princling,” Gar Saxon sniffed, squatting down slightly with both hands on his knees in a demeaning form, as if talking to a small child or animal. He tilted his head. “Are you so loyal to your harlot Aunt because you think you are in line for her throne, or because you are just incredibly thick in the head?”
Korkie grumbled, grating his teeth as he debated answering him. Silent defiance hadn't worked earlier, and had only resulted in a sharp knock to his jaw with Saxon’s armoured knuckles. But any answer he knew was the truth was far out of the interest of self preservation.
“At least she saw a future where Mandalorians were safe, ” Korkie huffed, “Not fearing for their lives,” He felt his lip curl in a snarl, “Not trading their loyalty for food . ”
The strike that followed had been anticipated, yet it still hurt. Korkie spat the blood from his mouth, but he was so tired and it didn't make it far enough, dribbling down his chin. He tried to wipe it away on his shoulder, his hands making fists behind him as he processed the pain.
“Oh but we are free!” Saxon responded with a deadly gleam in his eye, “Without that Dar’Manda bitch, we can be Truly Mandalorian!”
“Freedom isn't running for our lives,” Korkie argued.
“You wouldn't have to run if you just bent the knee,” Saxon spit to the side.
“Then how is that freedom?” Korkie asked, “Safety in exchange for Loyalty isn't freedom of choice,” The boy debated back, and stared at the dirt below him wishing the man would just go away. The sun was setting and his headache from lack of water and too much light was beginning to wear on him. The hits to his jaw and skull had not helped either.
“Is this what they teach you in those fancy schools?” Saxon scoffed. “All brains, no muscle. No wonder you all fell so easily.”
Korkie shifted as he sat, trying to turn so that the setting sun was no longer piercing his eyes. He wanted Saxon to get bored and leave. He wanted to know where his friends were. He wanted this to be over and to find himself waking up in his childhood room in Sundari, or even that cramped dorm room at school.
“Your privilege has made you stupid,” Gar Saxon reached down, forcing Korkie to look up at him. “You think you know better than everyone, without knowing anything at all.”
Korkie couldn't help himself, “It doesn't take a brain to know that cruelty is wrong.”
Saxon dropped Korkie’s jaw, shoving him in the process. “You don't see it, do you?” He said, “What makes a True Mandalorian?” The blonde haired man stalked around in his ancestral armour, “It’s respect. Power. Honour.”
Korkie bit back his words, knowing it would only lead to more pain. It wasn’t like Saxon was here to debate and could have his mind changed. He would never admit that he was wrong. The hope his mother had always held; that belief that everyone could be convinced for the better, was seeping out of him with every drop of blood that was shed. Some people were just plain evil.
Gar Saxon continued, “You want to be a real leader?” He smiled, an idea forming in his head and lighting up his face with a terrifying excitement. “You want to protect your people?”
Korkie pressed his eyes closed. Whatever was coming would not be good.
“Mandalorians!” Gar Saxon suddenly shouted with a loud voice. All around them, men and women in full armour turned to look at the head of their clan. With their attention, Gar motioned for them to all come closer. “Behold, your future Duke!” He burst out in laughter. “His highness is our great guest of honour. Perhaps we should throw a feast in his name!” He lowered his voice, “Korben Kryze, the Heir of Mandalore.” He theatrically gasped, “Oh wait… there's a problem.” Saxon wiped his hands, pacing as if in thought. “He's no longer royalty.” The man folded his arms, “He's just a scared boy who couldn't even keep his friends safe. How does he expect to rule a planet if he couldn't protect three friends?”
Korkie’s breaths became even, trying to dissociate, trying anything to keep from reacting. Saxon was toying with him, trying to make him angry. Saxon wanted a reaction, to get a rise out of him.
“Do you want to know what makes someone a leader? To make someone powerful?” Saxon leaned down again, his head and eyes laser focused on Korkie. “The ability to reach out and take it.” He reached to his belt, where the darksabre hang. The ancient blade was a means to a reaction, as Korkie recoiled from it. He knew what that blade had done. He knew that that Sith Monster had tried to kill Satine with it.
“You know what I have done with my power?” Saxon asked. “I freed Mandalore!”
“You played along as an outsider destroyed everything!” Korkie muttered.
“No, Princling.” Saxon laughed. “I vowed to avenge Pre Vizsla, the Hero of the Battle for Sundari, he was the defender of Mandalore.” He paused, “now that’s what they should be teaching in your fancy schools.”
“Then why don’t you teach him a lesson?” Someone suggested. “Teach him what a real leader is?”
“You!” Saxon pointed to the one who spoke up. “You have more brains than most.” He chuckled. He turned his attention back to his prisoner, “Lesson one; someone always pays in blood.”
Korkie tried again to even his breaths, to let Saxon wear himself out until he found something else that was more interesting. Anything to avoid whatever sick ideas were simmering in the man’s head.
“And anyway,” The traitor said, “No one said you had to be in perfect condition for a trade.” He looked back to his men, “Strip him.”
There was hesitation in the ranks. “Sir, you said we weren't to touch-”
“And now I’m telling you to strip him!” Saxon snapped.
Another one spoke, laughing to try to lighten the situation even with Saxon’s maniacal anger, “Hey, he's just a stupid kid, we don't need to-”
“Do it!” Saxon almost screeched.
The hands that seized Korkie were rough, and they appeared almost without any time lost, the obedient commandos rushing forward. They grabbed him by his Beskar and flight suit, the dirty garment underneath ripping down by the front closures. Korkie tried to struggle, to preserve his dignity, but he could do little. Quickly they got him bare from the waist up, his arms cut out of the sleeves and even his undershirt thrown into the nearby fire.
Half bare, Korkie shivered, the sweat brought on by fear causing the wind to make him cold in the twilight. Shane creeped into his cheeks. Deep down he knew none of this was his fault, but still… to be chained like a strill and humiliated was not something anyone could find confidence in.
Once the commandos withdrew, leaving Korkie partially nude, Saxon muttered something about jobs half finished, but rolled his eyes. “Not much there, is there?” The man snorted, surveying Korkie’s chest and shoulders. “So be it. I'll turn this canvas into a true work of art.”
“Sir- He will freeze overnight,” the one who spoke up earlier pointed out, but his words failed to inform their leader, and he was hushed by the look shot their way. Korkie felt a sense of gratitude for the small rebellion, but not enough to stop hating them all. No matter what they said, they were still letting this happen.
“Someone has to pay for all the deaths,” Saxon hummed, “We can keep him warm in the same lesson.” He strode over to the fire a few steps away, where earlier some had been making small repairs to their armour. The ringing of the hammers on Mandalorian steel earlier had also contributed to Korkie’s headache. A well nursed bed of coals had formed around the main blaze where soup was being prepared beside mulled Tihaar in extra helmets, and Saxon looked around at the tools still laid out. Selecting one, he set it to heat up in the orange glowing coals, and came back over. “I’m sure he won’t freeze.”
“Sir, he’s just a kid,” the Mandalorian in blood red armour chided, but her attempt at easing Saxon’s intentions fell slack. Another sitting by the fire watching the food cook rolled their eyes.
“He’s not just a kid,” Saxon snapped, “He’s a spoiled Sundari pig. He’s old enough,” Saxon sneered, and Korkie’s adrenaline began to rush and his heart rate rose. He had a feeling he knew what Gar was thinking and planning, and the apprehension of pain in the close future made him sick.
Saxon eyed the iron tongs in the fire until their tip’s were a bright orange, almost yellow, and he picked it up, looking at the glow. “Lieutenant!” He called, gaze never straying. “Count our dead, would you?”
The one who had spoken up earlier glanced at their prisoner and hesitated, “Sir-”
“I said count the dead!” Saxon ordered more forcefully.
With the smallest of sighs, the commando surrendered, and began listing names and numbers. When he had reached about thirteen, he nodded to Saxon, suggesting that was the final count.
“There's more,” Saxon said, the threat in his voice apparent, and placed the tongs back in the coals to heat back up when they paled. “Count the Protectors who could have been inducted. They died defending a lie on orders of his precious Duchess.”
The count rose.
“Count the deserters, too.” Saxon asked.
Between the thirteen lost, the five protectors, and the miscellaneous others, the roster neared forty now.
“And finally,” The blonde man grinned, “Count the clan leaders slaughtered by that Jetti, ” Saxon glared right at Korkie with a fiendish delight, “The outsider Duchess Satine permitted to murder the True Mandalorians, the ones loyal to Maul and Vizsla, our liberators.” He leaned down again, and took Korkie’s head in a firm grip, tipping it head up to stare into the boy’s eyes. “You will suffer for that heretic’s sins.” He curled his lip, “Dar’Manda.” With that, the tongs came down, one bright orange tip of the tong pressing into the flesh of Korkie’s shoulder. The searing sound of the skin was swallowed by the scream Korkie let out, and only a half second passed before Saxon pulled the tool back, and stated firmly, “That’s one.”
Korkie struggled to get away, instinct to flee overriding any knowledge that that was impossible. His wrists felt they would break, and he tried to kick his captor away. “Hold him down!” Saxon barked, and the hands were back, seizing his flailing limbs and fixing him down. Even the twisting of his torso was stopped, and Korkie found himself face down in the dirt, his chest meeting the course ground. The weight pressing him into the rock caused the gravel to cut into his skin, and Korkie stilled his body. There was nowhere to run. No way to escape.
The second was somehow worse. The smell of burned flesh filled the air, and Korkie began sweating, gasping for breath before screaming again. Somewhere, the shout of horror from a girl was quickly hushed, but he didn’t hear it between his own screams and Saxon’s counting.
The worst part about a burn this extreme is that the initial searing doesn't hurt. It’s just a shock of cold followed by a wave of heat, and the nerves fry almost instantly. But the skin around it is what registers the pain. It smarted fiercely, and tears formed in Korkie’s eyes, quickly spilling down his face. The mortifying realization that he had wet himself in terror and pain hit him.
“Renounce your heresy! Purify yourself. Become a True Mandalorian!” Saxon screamed between each systematic branding, working across the boy’s shoulder. After the first ten, some men and women could no longer keep watching, and one even ran away to throw up outside of the camp.
“Please!” Korkie begged, “Please! Please stop!”
“I told you what to do,” Saxon began a third row, now closer to Korkie’s ribs. The boy’s back had become red all over, the systematic dots across his shoulder, barely across his spine had become more difficult to keep even with how the Heir of Mandalore squirmed. “Stop crying, weakling.”
"Please!"
Saxon gave a big sigh when Korkie refused to curse the former Duchess’s name, and reheated the tongs. “What number are we on, Lieutenant?”
“Twenty-seven, sir,” The Lieutenants voice was hushed, as if he too was not approving of Saxon’s methods, but there was nothing he would do.
“Twenty three more to go.” he hummed, and retrieved the tongs, “Over halfway there!”
Korkie was unable to register more than the most important of things through the pain. The way the hands were still holding him down. The way his muscles seized and his body quaked when Saxon brought the tongs down again, and again, and again across his shoulders and back.
The pain was so intense that Korkie felt his eyes roll back in his head. He was sweating so much that it dripped into his eyes, burning with the dirt and salt that came off his forehead.
“Do you understand?” Saxon asked, somewhere between count thirty-one and thirty-two, “you burn for each life I took looking for you, Princling.” He watched the tongs become red again in the fire, “All the deaths you caused.”
“I killed no one!” Korkie cried, the attempt to convince Saxon fell behind the attempt to convince himself. "You did!"
“Renounce your Heresy!” Saxon snatched the tongs, and pressed them with more force into Korkie’s back.
The boy didn’t respond, head and limbs slack on the ground. “Did he pass out?” Saxon threw the tongs down, and squatted to lift Korkie’s head off the ground again and examine his face. If the boy hadn't had his hair buzzed he would have grabbed him by those Dar'Manda auburn locks like in his School ID. Oh, Saxon had done his research. He had an idea where those red tones came from, and it wasn't the same as Bo-Katan. Finding no response in his examination, Saxon dropped him, and stood.
“He shouldn't get off this easy, boss,” The commando who seemed to be enjoying this in some sick part of his mind asked, “Should we wake him?”
“No,” Saxon shook his head, teeth clenched. “I was getting tired of the screaming anyway.” He picked the tongs back up, and reheated them. “I can finish this without you now,” He waved his free hand, and his loyalists looked between themselves. “I said leave!”
The commandos scrammed, those who had been holding the teenager down leaving as well, with red marks where their hands and knees had been. He would bruise, but it would be nothing compared to the exquisite lesson Saxon had left on his back. “Six more, boy,” Saxon huffed a laugh, and pressed the tongs into the next space, pulling back and admiring the black and red splotch that steamed. “Five more to go.”
Korkie awoke to nothing but blinding pain. He felt he could barely move, and the first thing he noticed was the silence other than the fire. He tried to open his eyes, turning his head, and almost yelped. Just the act of turning his head, and moving muscles in his neck and few in his shoulders had hurt more than anything he could ever remember.
He finally forced his eyes open enough to take a peak, and saw a single silhouette form kneeling over the coals. Saxon.
Korkie couldn't help but moan at the pain, his mind still foggy, and Saxon spun like a Tooka to grin. “You’re finally awake, Princling.” He leaned back from the fire to give him a look at what he was doing, but Korkie was so disoriented that he couldn't see anything at all. His sight was too fuzzy to focus on any details. “Right on time for my final touch,” Saxon began to stand, both hands on the tongs that he drew from the fire, this time with something held in them.
It was vaguely round, Korkie noticed, and it was so dark outside that only the light of Concordia and the campfire made Saxon visible. The thing in the tongs did not glow even when the tongs did. Whatever it was must have a higher melting point than regular iron, which made it one thing; Beskar.
“Every Artist leaves their signature,” Saxon returned, gave Korkie little warning, and pressed the pauldron into Korkie’s shoulder, exactly where the piece of armour would usually rest.
Korkie felt he had no energy, even as his scream was so raw and guttural that he felt his own ears ring. He recoiled, and the thing was gone.
He could see Saxon smiling, a twisted evil smile. “Your classmates say you are right-dominant,” Saxon lifted the tongs, blowing on the still hot pauldron as if it would cool down faster. “Now, should you ever raise a weapon, the sigil of House Saxon will be there to remind you of this lesson.”
Korkie felt his thoughts fading, his mind surrendering to blissful darkness.
“No matter what clan crest you wear, you will always know what is under it,” Saxon spat, “Dar’Manda bastard.”
Korkie Kryze felt flashes of pain and felt himself being moved.
When he did awake it was not with full awareness, and the person whispering to him felt familiar, but not in a good way. He had no idea how much time had passed, and he frankly didn't care.
His back felt that it had been numbed, but everything else hurt. When the arms tried to lift him, whispering to stay quiet, Korkie couldn't help but moan at the pain, and a hand slammed over his mouth. He knew the person, or rather the smell. It was the Lieutenant. He was being redressed, his arms shoved down shredded sleeves and armour put back in place.
“My name is Kur’mod of Clan Hurr, and I am a spy for the Coalition of Clans,” The person said, and Korkie’s eyes were now wide. He had heard that whispered, in Sundari where war still raged, theree had been rumors that those still loyal to Duchess Satine had organized elsewhere, and renamed themselves. But even though the New Mandalorians were no longer in power, with his mother -no, aunt- gone, and though he knew of Clan Hurr’s efforts from those who had tried to rescue them once and from the NiteOwls, he had little more knowledge to draw from. “I’m a friend,” he told Korkie. The boy could not muster the strength to say anything, and his body felt oddly weightless. “The anesthetic I gave you will wear off in thirty minutes. Make sure you are out of here by now,” The man’s voice was hushed and the world was dark. It must be before dawn. He could still move his fingers. It must not have been the surgical paralytic kind of anesthetic, but war anesthetic, to make it easier for soldiers to keep on fighting despite the pain.
Korkie’s body was carried by the man, and they left the campsite in flashes according to the teenager’s memory. “My friends!” He wheezed.
“They will be fine. I’ve made sure of it,” Kur’mod answered, “My clan is coming. Now hush!”
The soft light from the fire disappeared behind them as they snuck out of camp, and Korkie saw very little. Even the light from Concordia was diminished. They approached a small ship, and his rescuer stopped, and lowered the boy. The rush of blood made the Anesthetic reach his brain, and Korkie felt woozy. “Can you stand?” The man asked, but Korkie felt he had little choice as he concentrated on staying upright. Kur’mod leaned Korkie against the ship, and unlocked and raised the top. He put his hands around Korkie and helped him climb in. but it wasn't a normal ship.
“This escape pod has enough juice to get you out of the system,” he explained, “Make sure once you are out of range of the media lockdown that you- hey!” the man smacked Korkie awake. “Don’t lose focus!” He ordered. “Once you are out of the media lockdown, you have one ten second call on log before they can track you. Once you make that call, go dark!”
Kur’mod stepped up and began buckling Korkie into the seat. Korkie ran the instructions over and over in his head, trying to keep them from dissolving into the inky darkness of the anesthetic. The sky was still so dark, and Korkie’s eyes drifted up. The stars seemed to spin and his head felt so light. Light enough that he might just float upwards and drift with the stars forever.
Another smack bright the boy back to the ground, where reality was much worse. “Stay awake! You can sleep once you're safe, boy.” Kur’mod instructed. Then he reached out, touching Korkie’s good shoulder. “You get out of here, understand?” the man waited for Korkie to nod before stepping down and reaching up to close the cockpit.
“Wait,” Korkie’s voice rasped, and Kur’mod slowed his work. He looked at the boy, and Korkie could feel the blood of a reopened cut dripping down his jaw. “Why?” Korkie forced out.
“You are from a lineage of hope,” Kur’mod told him, “There are still some of us who believe in a brighter future. Bring the Duchess back. Maybe she can-”
His words were cut off by an exclamation from the campsite heard across the plains, followed by the lighting of searchlights and yelling.
“Go!” Kur’mod ordered, shutting the cockpit and it sealed with a hiss.
Korkie managed to light the engines, and place both hands on the drivestick. With the flick of a button, the thrusters lit. He didn't trust himself. The medicine was so strong that his wounds were dulled and his muscles felt weak.
“Good kid!” Kur’mod said, and Korkie could hear it through the outside. He looked up, telling himself to make it for the stars.
Boots on the ground. Shouting. Engine noise. Torches.
Korkie focused on piloting the escape pod. He pushed forward the drivestick.
Saxon was screaming. Someone was a traitor. Blaster fire. Green bolts hitting a man already dead on the ground.
Up. Out of the atmosphere. Korkie let the blackness of space consume him.
Floating. Stars. One message then go dark.
Korkie punched in a trusted number and his mind spun and his vision left him.
“Senator Organa? Yes. This is Cadet Korben Kryze of Mandalore. I need help. Please.”
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Summary:
A challenge is made
Notes:
Once more I'm so sorry about the short chapter, but I hope the closeness of publishing makes up for it. The next one is much longer with lots of feels. I'll be posting it tomorrow.
Chapter Text
When Satine had stormed into Ayma’s tent, a fierce anger burning white hot in her chest, she had asked a simple question, “Who is going to tell me the truth first?”
Needless to say, both Ayma and Korkie had stared at her in surprise at her entry, and Satine was sure she looked practically insane. They had asked for clarification, and somehow she felt even more pissed off that they had the gall to ask in what subject of matter she wanted the truth on.
The following argument had been impressive, to say the least. Once the accusations and the excuses and the yelling calmed enough for a civil conversation to take place, Satine’s temper was so strung out she could barely hold composure.
“Why the hell didn't you tell me?” She snapped at her son. “Why didn't you tell me that man tortured you?” She was so angry. Angry, yes, that Korkie had kept this from her but angrier still at Gar Saxon. She wanted to ask herself why she so desperately wanted to not even attempt negotiations with the man, and to simply bend her morals and organize an attack, but…
Korkie was staring at her with wide eyes. “What would you have done?” He asked.
Satine wanted to answer quickly, to say that she would have done everything in her power to save him and to help him, but Korkie’s gaze, telling her that he knew she would not have broken her code of pacifism, even for her anger. Even for her son. Satine took a breath preparing to speak, “I-“
“Commander Bo-Katan has been held as a hostage for too long,” Ayma offered. “If we even try to make a move, Saxon will kill her.”
Korkie said, “Soniee was lucky to have escaped when Clan Hurr made their first move on sundari. Saxon still has Amis and Lagos somewhere, suffering Manda-knows-what,” Korkie seethed. “He told me that if I brought you back he would set them free.”
“You want to trade me in?” Satine asked with confusion, her words laced with a sense of cautious betrayal.
“We are trying to plan our next steps.” Korkie sighed.
“And you don't want me a part of that until it suits you?” Satine found herself saying. It felt childlike, in a way. She was angry, so angry, and she should know better than to waste it on this tantrum. She was a grown woman, for Force sake. “You did not tell me the full truth,” Satine accused Ayma, her words firm.
The commando in maroon armour folded her arms. “What would you have done?” She repeated the same question, and Satine felt speechless. She had been through a war like this before, where the options felt futile. Death was around every corner, and she had navigated waters like this before.
“You want something done?” Satine thought about her future. Her Son’s future. Mandalore’s future. Nothing would be gained by further pointless fighting. She would handle this. She always had. Just because she had failed Mandalore’s people once did not mean she would do so again. She had learned her lesson. She would not let them fall into the old ways she had fought so hard to build upon and improve. Satine murmured, “I negotiated my way out of one war. By the Manda, I can do it again.”
“We can't waste time and try to negotiate our way through this. He has the Darksabre and has declared himself Mand’Alor.” Korkie said, “People are dying. There is only one way to unite the clans.”
“Absolutely not!” Satine replied. “I told you once I would not bow to the barbaric ways of a cult!” She shook her head. “No, we must show them that there is still a better way.”
“We don't have that kind of influence.” Ayma huffed. "You aren't formally in charge here."
"You did not bring me here to be a consultant."
"that's exactly why you are here!" Alma replied.
"No!" Satine said, "I will not sit here while Saxon lets more of my people die." She turned her head. “You want influence? That’s what you brought me back for, right?” Satine squinted at them. “I can give you influence.”
Ayma and Korkie had watched her, their eyes almost fearful as Satine stepped over to the holotable in the middle of the tent, activated it, and let her fingers fly across the small keyboard.
She wrote a message. ‘I demand your presence by evening. Bring my sister. Ignore me, and taste regret. Signed, The Duchess of Mandalore.’
“Duchess,” A girl greeted, “I thought you might want something a little more fitting,” Soniee came into the tent, carrying a small bundle of fabric. “You know, for the parlay.”
“It's hardly a parley,” Satine snorted.
“It sounded like one to me,” the brunette replied, handing the bundle to Satine. “Everyone could hear everything. The tent isn't exactly soundproof.”
“Good,” Satine said, “I believe in transparency of government.” She was so lost for energy and so angry at Saxon that an audience for her dirty laundry was the least of her problems.
“I don’t think there's a government anymore,” Soniee tilted her head.
“There is always a government, young one,” Satine unfolded the bundle. It was a simple flight suit, in a green-grey tone like an ancient rock covered in lichen. It would be better than the destroyed dress she wore now. Satine began undressing, and Soniee stepped in to assist where Satine’s injured fingers fumbled with the clasps. “There is government in a monarchy, in a democracy, even in a dictatorship. There is a government even if you are all alone; in your mind. That is why it is important to regulate those who are in charge. A government is just the minority that makes decisions for the majority.”
“I thought it was up to the people to make a government in the best interest of all, so that everyone has the best chance,” Soniee listened, and helped Satine step out of the outer layer. She did not have time to change her underthings, and pulled the top of the flight suit over her, then stepped into the pants. Connecting the garments to form one piece, Soniee began helping with the adjustable parts on the side and back so the suit fit snugly on Satine’s body.
“You are right,” Satine smiled. There was hope in Mandalore’s youth yet, she decided. “I wanted Mandalorians of every clan and background safe, and free to pursue life without fear.”
“Then why won’t you fight for it?” Soniee asked.
“I do,” Satine replied, “It is harder to hear out an enemy than to cut off a head. But then, where does it end? No progress is made in death.”
Soniee’s hands stilled, “I don’t know if I agree with you anymore,” the girl looked forlorn, her eyes drifting back to some horror and Satine was sure she knew which one. “I want Saxon dead. I want him dead for what he did to Korkie, to us, to everyone.”
Satine let out a breath, and adjusted the sleeves, rolling the cuffs where they were a little too long. “Believe me, I hate him for what he has done.”
“How do you balance a democracy like that?” Soniee’s thoughts went further, “If a part of the population wants a policy that harms another group?”
Satine smiled again. “That is when you make sure your leader is prepared to make the best decision.” She turned to the brunette. “You are smart, Soniee,” Satine nodded, “Don’t you ever stop asking questions like that, got it?”
The girl shrugged, and stepped back, looking at her former Duchess. “It’s not very regal, or pretty,” She commented, then backtracked, “But it will be fine.”
Satine let out a quick laugh.
Soniee put her hands on her hips. “Commander Ayma talked about organizing a ‘Shavings Ceremony’ for you, whatever that meant.”
“It’s an old Concordian Tradition from the old days,” Satine explained, “Everyone in a clan shaves off a little bit of the Beskar from their armour, and the shavings get mixed with the ore that will be used for a new member’s iron skin. It’s the idea that the clan protects one another, and is stronger together.” She looked around at the small space. "It's kind of them, when they have so little, to share with everyone. I fear our society has lost the desire to help those less powerful."
Satine leaned over, picking up the tattered dress she’d haphazardly discarded on the floor. She carefully rolled it into a more neat, compact shape. She could keep it, as it was a last gift from her dear departed senator friend.
“What if Saxon doesn't give in?” Soniee asked Satine.
“Then we will give him the same option that his cult received years ago; the freedom to practice their own ways apart from the peaceful people.” Satine remembered those her young government that given Concordia to, those violent Traditionalists who had wanted to see her destroyed just for their own extremism.
She would make the tattered remnants of her once flourishing society into a united front. That was the only way to save them. She had negotiated her way through one war, she would do it again.
Padme had believed that the senators needed to be a united front to oppose the new empire, but had died before anything could come of her plans. Those plans, Satine thought quickly, could be the blueprint for a well fronted political opposition against the Empire. She would stay here and figure out the mess that was Mandalore, but she knew deep down that their neutrality was irrelevant to Palpatine, and would mean nothing when he came for her again. He had tried to lock her up once. He thought she was a liability. That made her dangerous.
Satine would have to get Mandalore to a place where it could resist the empire when the time came. Whether she was in charge or not, she would make sure this petty war of powers would end. She wouldn't let a corrupt monster like Saxon claim to be the leader of her people and continue to allow these battles to take place for his own gain.
She would tell Ayma and Korkie, she decided. As much as she hated how young her son was to be forced into this life of hard decisions and survival, she would not do to him what he had done to her, and they would not hide these crucial pieces of information. She would tell them everything -well, almost everything. Even though he would be hurt if he knew she had hidden the secret of his parentage from him, Korkie did not need the irrelevant pieces of his past to survive this future. But the danger of the empire, that she would not leave untold.
She would face Saxon, and debate him in public. She would remind and prove to the people she still had their best interests at heart, or die trying.
The Public Gardens of Central Sundari were dark and war-damaged.
Ayma had approached the starving city first, bringing a convoy of food purchased with the last of the Kryze Duchy reserves that had been depleted by Satine’s attempts to save her economy over the years, stored away in Castle Kryze on Kalevala. It was a wild play, but a smart one, Satine thought as the first transport was attempted to be seized by Saxon’s people an taken for distribution at the Mand’Alor’s private discretion, but the sight of Satine, standing beside her Nephew and the heir to Clan Hurr was enough to make them hesitate. These were the untrained civilians turned soldiers who had traded their loyalty to feed their families, and Satine offered a new option. A better option.
While Saxon was distracted by Satine’s potential return to her Capital, the Coalition of Clans under Ayma worked, distributing the food freely behind Saxon’s back.
Satine’s entry had been somber. She chose to walk instead of take a speeder, much to the disapproval of practically everyone around them. But she wanted to see her people. She wanted them to see her, too. Satine would not cower, would not hide.
The first sights of her destroyed metropolitan legacy had been heart wrenching. Smoke was still everywhere. Glass shards from grand broken windows littered the streets alongside a buildup of trash and refuge. This was the kingdom Saxon deemed to be their most free? People who were hiding in the eerie silence murmured when she passed, few praised the Manda for her return but most were curses thrown at her feet, blaming her for what had become them. Some, perhaps realising this was the most interesting thing in weeks and they were in danger anyway no matter where they went, fell into a group a few paces behind the entourage of NiteOwls, Soniee and Korkie, and the many others who had volunteered to accompany the former Duchess.
By the time they reached the Central gardens, a large group had amassed behind Satine, and she was glad for the audience.
The thick plexiglass floors of her gardens in the middle of her city of light were still miraculously intact. The man standing in front of his own people was tall, with blonde hair buzzed on the sides, with violent red and grey armour. Satine felt Korkie and Soniee flinch at the sight. The army of mercenaries and commandos in full Beskar’gam flanked the man who wore the Darksabre on his belt, and Satine did not cower from the weapon.
Bo-Katan was nowhere to be seen. Unfortunately, however, Saxon had brought a replacement, and both Soniee and Korkie stiffened when they saw Amis and Lagos, battered but otherwise unharmed, kneeling several rows behind Saxon, blasters to their heads. Satine looked with disapproval, anger flaring once more in her heart.
The city was silent still, breath caught in anticipation as the two opposing powers faced each other.
“I’m glad you came,” Saxon spoke first. “Let's settle this.”
“Yes, let’s.” Satine wore no armour, but her stature was no less confident. Two steps forward, and eye contact with the enemy.
“I have no interest in bargains, Duchess,” Saxon said, his voice indifferent until the last word, where he said the title like a disease. “I have the Darksabre. It is mine. Our tradition dictates you bow to the Natural Order of things, and submit to me.” Satine stared at him, letting the silence prompt Saxon to keep talking. He did. “There are two ways to do this. We can unify our Houses, or I will wipe you out.”
“I will never marry you,” Satine scoffed.
“Your sister has expressed the same, for now,” Saxon laughed. He sighed, “I have daughters and sons.” Saxon raised his hand, and picked at his nails, as if this were some casual conversation. He grinned, “They may be Bastards, but I can legitimise one for your Nephew.” Satine scowled. Behind her, Korkie shifted on his feet, equally uncomfortable. Satine looked disgusted. Gar Saxon finished, “We will see if that option suits you. I will be gracious and let you think about it while I give option two.” Saxon paused, “Option two; Myself and my True Mandalorians wipe you out.”
Satine finally spoke, “I want the release of any and all hostages. I do not see my sister, where is she?”
"She's here, watching. I have her heavily guarded and if any of your people attack mine, she's good as dead."
"I said I want-"
"You said to bring her, not give her to you!" Saxon laughed. "You think I would hand over insurance like that?"
Satine took a deep breath through her nose. Well this complicated things. "I am here. Let me see my sister."
“You are in no place to be making demands!” Saxon shouted, and the sound rang out through the cavernous expanse of the ruined city. The dome, where sunlight illuminated the middle through the hole of multiple bombs, echoed his words to anyone who might be listening.
She hoped it would be the same for her.
Satine's voice was clear. She was no vision of beauty or grace, standing in the middle of her failure before the people who wanted her dead, “The only one who decides who should be making demands is the people of Mandalore!” She retorted. “And the fact that you have not struck me down already tells me you know that, deep down.” She said, "Now let the cadets go."
“The people obey because I am the True Mand’Alor,” Saxon justified himself. “I carry the Darksabre! I liberated us! I set these people free!”
“You have made them slaves to your regime of corruption and fear.” Satine’s words were carefully planned and considered. She hoped the plan was working, and that the people would see the truth.
“I see where your nephew gets his stupidity,” Saxon bared his teeth.
Satine shrugged, but did not comment on the mudslinging. “The truth is, you have not wiped us out yet, which means my people still pose a threat to your seat of stolen power.” She would delegitimize him brick by brick until she had the upper hand.
“Your people?” Saxon spat, “I heard they dragged you here kicking and screaming. Satine Kryze, the Duchess who ran!”
“You cannot make an argument, so you resort to throwing insults? I thought better of you, Gar Saxon.” Satine tilted her head. Behind her, Soniee could not help but snort in amusement at the way Saxon’s face went red as his armour in anger despite the circumstances.
“It’s ‘MAND’ALOR ’ to you, you heretic bitch!” Saxon snapped.
Honestly, he was making it too easy for her. Satine continued, “You tortured a youth for your own amusement. How did that bring you the honour you claim to have? You make grand statements about the tradition you hold so dear, but we all know the Mand’Alors of years past would be ashamed of you.”
Saxon looked about ready to shoot her, but he held his ground, pacing with aggression as his head practically steamed.
Her next words were the final blow, “I know for a fact you did not win that sabre in battle, as your precious tradition demands. You picked it up off the floor like a coward.”
“You lie!” Saxon replied. “I would burn a hundred children more if it meant humiliating you, Satine Kryze,” He said the words quietly, but the shock in the ranks of those who apparently did not know of Saxon’s extracurricular activities also froze up, with hands tightening on weapons. Children are precious, and to make such a statement so rashly had only confirmed Satine’s accusation.
“I want the Hostages freed,” Satine said again. “I want my sister, and the Cadets.”
“You are a heretic! You defile the very name of Mandalore! You could not protect your people! You could not save them with your idealism and fancy words of unrealistic grandeur!” Saxon debated back.
The words stung, but she had taken worse. Much worse. Beside her, a commando made a hand signal, and Satine resisted smiling. The food was distributed and the news was out. Information would travel fast and she now was in the literal spotlight of sunshine that shone through the war damaged dome. Satine took a breath.
“I will never stop working for a peaceful Mandalore, a safe Mandalore! These people do not deserve to live without the security of food on the table, of employment, of safety! You want to tear that all down for what, Anarchy?” She spread her arms, “Free the oppressed under you who you rule with fear! Let them go! I am prepared to negotiate with you a mutual deal where my people and yours can live separately, where you may rage conquest as you deem fit so long as it does not affect those who just want a better life under my policies.”
“I don't want a deal,” Saxon rolled his eyes, and made a fist, “I want everything.”
“At the cost of what?” Satine spoke with a clear voice, her stance unhindered, with power in her voice and anger in her eyes. “The blood of every Mandalorian man, woman, and child you see is expendable in the pursuit of your selfish gain?” She had hurt his ego, and challenged his legitimacy. She had hoped for the people to call him out on his cruelty, but instead his words were unexpected.
“I will reign war upon you! I will cleanse the planet of your tainted blood and wipe out anyone who opposes us!” Saxon bet his chest, attempting to rile up the crowds. “You want a war for the throne, I will give it to you, Duchess Satine!”
He stared at the blonde woman, “I will offer you one more deal before I let my men have you for lunch. You want the hostages? I will free them under one condition, to put this all behind us.” Saxon marched forward, and draw the Darksabre. He ignited the blade, and said, “I challenge you, Satine Kryze, to a Conclave.”
The crowds broke out in a clamour of noise, some calling for him to recant the challenge and make a deal, others cheering.
Satine froze. She would decline, and laugh in his face. But Korkies eyes were full of fear and when she turned to look at him, she did not know what to say. Korkie did not know what to say either.
“I give you thirty seconds to decide, Satine,” Saxon yelled. “You refuse, I have no more use for hostages. They are just extra mouths to feed in this brave new world.” At his words, those holding the Cadets hands over their heads drew weapons, pointing them at the two teenagers. Soniee gasped and Korkie swore.
Satine could hardly move. What would she say? To accept would be to turn against every moral she held so dear. She could not give in to this tradition of violence. She could not let this momster force her hand.
Korkie was breathing heavily. He was looking at her with panic. Some in the crowd were calling for a bloodbath, others for Satine’s execution, others for Saxon’s dethronement. No matter what they thought, it had come to this moment. Korkie had been right. This would be the only way to save lives. If she refused, she would prove that she was unwilling to sacrifice herself for her people. If she refused, the hostages would be killed. If she refused, the empire would have no problem taking the planet and Padme’s plans would have even less of a chance of ever seeing the light. If she refused, would that be damning the whole Galaxy for her own pride?
“Fifteen seconds, Duchess!” Saxon announced.
“Mum,” Korkie’s mouth was trembling. “He’ll kill you.”
Satine reached out a hand, touching Korkie’s arm. “He will do that anyway if I refuse,” She whispered. she glanced back at the captive Cadets, their eyes full of terror with the humming blasters pressed into their skulls.
Satine took a slow breath, the sounds of the crowds becoming dull in her ears. She straightened her shoulders, making an about-face and staring into Saxon’s soul. He looked mad as he watched her, hungry to watch her die.
“I want the hostages freed to me,” Satine repeated. “And three days.”
“Fine, fine! I give my word,” Saxon stomped across the plexiglass now. “Five seconds!”
“Thank you,” Satine spoke her words with forced certainty, a calmness she didn't know she still had coursing through her. “Well then. Gar Saxon, holder of the Darksabre, I accept your challenge.”
Satine turned around again, and looked into the horrified faces of Korkie and Soniee, who were both still panicking. Amis and Lagos were shoved forward, roughly handled until they were pushed forward to Satine’s Entourage. “Mum!” Korkie was shaking so hard a single tear threatened to spill, but Satine looked past him to Ayma, who was slowly shaking her head.
She didnt care what Ayma thought. Korkie and his friends were safe for now and if she died for her beliefs, so be it. Not that she would give in. No, she would plan, strategize, and not go down unless she took his corrupt regime down with her. The noise was still blurring into a monotonous clamour as Satine hugged her son, and Ayma raced forward to escort them out, helmet back on. “We need to get your armour made, stat,” Ayma said as she reached for Satine’s arm. The crowds were getting concerningly close, and they needed to get out of the city.
“I have armour. I will retrieve it myself.” Satine replied. Ayma was sending orders to her people, who were ushering Satine’s negotiation party out of the gardens and into a mismatched fleet of speeders.
“Let’s get back to Concordia and make a plan,” Korkie became concentrated, focusing on getting away from the uproar. Soniee was receiving her schoolmates, hugging them and promising them clean clothes and a meal. They would be debriefed later, and though they looked relieved to be alive, they were also looking at Satine in disbelief at her acceptance of the challenge.
“No,” Satine shook her head as they walked. “We need to relocate.”
“Relocate?” Ayma asked over the shouting, “to where?”
“Kalevala, to Castle Kryze.” She said, “My home.”
“Three days, Duchess!” Saxon screamed with glee after her, “Three days!”
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Summary:
Satine's time draws near.
Notes:
Warning: This chapter includes graphic descriptions of violence and threats of Sexual Assault.
In better news, we finally have art again! I got my shit together finally and there's art for this chapter. Satine's armour design is the one Dave Filoni originally designed for Satine back before TWC was cancelled, forcing him to kill her off early. (:
Lastly; If you have the ability, I beg you to please stream Hozier's "Empire Now" during the march from the Castle scene in this chapter.
It was the most influential song in the playlist I had running while writing this fic, and I feel you readers should have the chance to see the scenes the way I do. If this fic were a movie, I'd sell my soul to have 'Empire Now' play during this chapter.
Chapter Text
The Conclave would happen at dawn, on the cliffside beside Castle Kryze. Gar Saxon, the challenger, was permitted a choice of time of day. Satine Kryze, the challenged, was permitted to choose the location.
It was no surprise that a massive crowd showed up. Campsites spread out across the Kalevalan plains, morning cook fires visible from the cliff-facing balcony Satine sat upon in the earliest hours of the sunrise. She’d opened the castle to those who were unaccustomed to camping, and the floors of her halls below were filled with her citizens.
When the first streaks of colour tinted the skyline, Satine noticed with concern the clouds that were coming in fast from the sea. It would rain within the morning hours.
Satine breathed deep, centering herself. Meditation was never something she’d been very good at, and her busy mind refused to settle for anything it might deem unproductive.
Satine threaded her fingers through her blonde hair, longer than normal, as it brushed just past her collarbones now. It hadn't been this long since she was a teenager. With nimble fingers, she braided the almost silvery strands in an interlocking pattern down the back of her head, and continued it to prevent it from getting into her eyes. With a single clasp, Satine pinned the braid upwards, so that her hair could not be grasped easily should Saxon try.
Satine left the balcony, stepping back inside from the early morning chill and the wind that came from the sea. She slowly sat upon the floor in the middle of the room, beginning slow exercises to stretch her muscles. Satine had never neglected to keep herself flexible, even if some days she found herself too busy or tired for any formal strength training and consistent physical upkeep.
A knock on her chamber doors heralded Korkie’s entrance. Satine rose, and gave him a greeting. He was already dressed in the dark blue Beskar’gam he’d been wearing for months. The armour of his grandfather, the late duke, Adoni Kryze. It fit the boy well, Satine thought. Korkie had briefly mentioned it had been fitted to his measurements during his sojourn, but hadn’t said more than that. They had been temporary tailorings to the armour that could be removed if he filled out in his twenties. The sigil of House Kryze adorned his right shoulder, opposite the recently added upside down lily in allegiance with those backing their duchess.
“Auntie,” He greeted, and Satine turned from the balcony doors. “Good Morning,” He said solemnly.
“Korkie…” She sighed. The door slid shut behind him, leaving them alone.
He hung his head, “I am sorry, mother.”
Satine’s eyebrows knitted together, trying to work out what he must be apologetic for. When she connected the dots, she rushed forward, embracing her son, her hand on the back of his head running through his auburn hair still tipped with blonde. “Oh Korben…” She used his birth name, “This is not your doing.”
“But it was me who suggested that this might be the only way…” he shook as he embraced her back, “I just didn’t realise it would be Gar Saxon himself who would duel you.”
Satine stared at her son’s face. Over seventeen years ago, she’d held him for the first time in her arms, promising him a life she’d hoped he’d have forever. The safety and comfort of a New Mandalore, free of bloody childhoods and apprehension. She hoped for him a long, fitful, satisfying life.
She committed to her memory every feature of her son, hoping that should she die today, it would be the last thing her mind could offer before the great thereafter. The deep blue eyes staring back were not unfamiliar, an echo of the kind eyes she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. “You have your father’s eyes,” She whispered against her better will.
Korkie didn’t ask further. She wondered if he knew.
No matter if he did or not, it was not the time.
Part of Satine wished she could say goodbye to Obi-Wan as well, but he had made his choice and chose duty over love, as she was now. She figured he’d eventually hear about her death in the holoreports.
“Are you ready?” Korkie asked.
Satine attempted humour. “I don’t know. Are you? ”
He seemed to prefer humour to sombre goodbyes, and he replied, “Well, Auntie, I happen to be the one already in my Beskar’gam.”
Satine laughed softly. “Care to help me?” She looked to the side of the room, where the armour was laid out for her. It had been repainted and polished, but she hadn’t had time for it to be refitted.
Korkie did not answer, and he looked at her, still wrapped in that precious old brown cloak she's dragged with her all the way from Coruscant. He held out his hands, and Satine took the cloak from her shoulders. The old flight suit she wore underneath was still quite comfortable, just as she remembered. Flexible and light, the suits were designed for optimum movement and versatility, and were woven with a percentage of Beskar thread to protect the wearer from mild stun bolts and most electric weapons, with the metal channelling any electricity directly into the ground. The weakness was of course if a jetpack was in use, but Satine had no intention of wearing one today. She would be light on her feet.
Satine folded the cloak, and looked at her son. ‘ If I do not survive, this is my shroud,’ she wordlessly told him, and Korkie turned away, setting the brown garment aside. It took him a second to square his shoulders again, and banish the fear from his eyes.
Satine began selecting the first pieces of armour, with the chest plate first. It was not a perfect fit. Korkie messed with the straps as he helped her. There was one new piece; the Kar'ta, a small diamond shaped Beskar Armour piece that notched into the hollow at the center of the chest plate. It represented bravery of the heart, as its Mando'a name translated directly to the word. It was forged last minute from the shavings from armour of members of the Coalition of Clan's at Ayma’s instance, as a token of their loyalty. Even Korkie had learned how to participate in the ceremony, and Satine could still see the dark silver on the edges of his Beskar'gam that had not been repainted.
“I have not worn this since before your birth,” Satine reminisced, “there was a time… in the early days, when I had reason to fear for my life. I wore several pieces as long as I could under my clothing, at least to protect you if not the rest of me,” She shook her head. Korkie’s hands stilled on the buckles of her armour straps. He had never heard her speak in such a way, as the famously reserved Satine Kryze was conservative with the words she shared regarding her private life.
Korkie did not ask for more, probably fearful that if he reminded her he was actually present, she would stop.
Satine looked at the floor when Korkie began to fasten the armour around her biceps.
“You were born on a cold night in the middle of winter… in this very room.” Satine told him. It was only fair. He was a man now and had a right to his history, and though it was not fair, if she died today, his history died with her, as no one with memory of that night still breathed. Korkie was looking around with newfound interest, from the fireplace he’d been born beside, and the bed she’d laboured in. Part of her regretted her insistence that there would be no evidence, as his cot was disposed of as soon as she’d returned to Sundari. The bloodied sheets and blankets had been burned, and both attendants retired comfortably with suitable compensation for their silence.
Satine smiled softly, “You were tiny, barely breathing. I was screaming as the midwife revived you. I was terrified that if you never cried, I would never stop.” She could not see her son’s face, but she knew him well enough that he was blinking rapidly like he always did when he was registering new, important information. As he fastened the interlocking plates along her back, Satine stared forward, remembering the terror in her heart. Even blinded by pain, she’d pulled herself off the floor to follow her son when the midwife lifted him away, rubbing his back. She’d begged to see him, and pleaded with the Manda to spare her son’s breath. The agonising seconds before his cries cut the air had been the worst of hells. Satine closed her eyes, “And when I first held you, I knew; You were my everything, but I could not keep you.”
“Because of my father?” Korkie guessed. Satine nodded. An heir born out of wedlock with a Duke was of little concern, but an heir born out of wedlock to a newly established, already controversial Duchess was regrettably another. Korkie took a deep breath, “Who was my father?”
Satine grimaced. She should have known he would ask. “A good man, Korben. A very good man.”
“Eyn Dar’Manda,” Korkie whispered. A non-Mandalorian. Korkie asked, “But you loved him?”
“With everything I was.” -and everything I am. She offered the only thing she could. Korkie knew he couldn’t press her further, and when Satine stood in full beskar’gam, other than her buy’ce, she put on a firm smile, and asked, “How do I look?”
“Uh, flashy?” Korkie scrunched his eyebrows together, and Satine was struck once more at how much he resembled his father. Satine laughed again, this time with real joy in her eyes.
Korkie was not as stoic as Satine appeared, but stayed with her the rest of the morning, just a mother and her son talking as the sun slowly rose and the clock ran out. Breakfast was delivered, but neither had much appetite to eat. Satine did not want to waste rations when she felt her stomach couldn’t handle much anyway, and Korkie was bouncing his knee with anxiety as they waited together. He’d begged her, pleaded with her to carry just one vibroblade, at least as a token from him, but Satine had declined. She was Mand’Alor the Pacifist, the lily of Peace. She would not tarnish that vision. Not today.
She forced herself to eat at least a few bites of fruit if not for the easy energy her system could metabolise and not find lacking later, and Satine asked the attendant who came to collect the dishes that all rations in the Castle stores be on stand-by when DeathWatch laid siege if the day went unfavourably.
Satine was not stupid. With everything she knew of Gar Saxon, she would be unsurprised if he would wipe out every clan leader still loyal to her, all in his name of purging her beliefs of peace.
She would have to trust that Korkie would negotiate in her absence.
When the hour struck, Korkie offered his arm in a gentlemanly fashion, and they exited her rooms.
Their walk through the palace was quiet. The people in the halls had stirred and were also awake for the day. Most were refugees from Sundari and the surrounding territories. The food and the news had travelled fast as Satine expected, and she had opened the doors to all of them. Korkie escorted her silently, his shoulders squared. In his free arm, he carried her helmet. Kryze colours were their banner, and when they passed through the alcove of one of the halls, hushed whispers mumbled through the people as they pointed her out to each other.
It was almost the hour, and though the sun was up, the clouds blocked it out, permitting only an eerie light to filter through the massive windows.
When they made it to the doors, so many people had fallen in behind Satine and Korkie that they couldn’t count. Satine stared at the imposing doors, the seconds turning to minutes. Once she exited the castle, she was walking to the most important hour of her life.
A small disturbance at her thigh alerted Satine that there was a small hand on her hip. “Duchess Satine?” a little voice asked, and Satine looked down to see a small girl, maybe five or six, with fiery red hair like Bo’s. The girl was looking up at her with admiring eyes, and an excited smile.
Satine blinked, her mind surprised by this distraction from the creed which had been running through her thoughts nonstop. “Hello,” Satine forced out.
“My Mum said you were going to save us,” the girl told her, and people around them watched Satine let go of Korkie’s arm and turn towards the child. Satine sighed, wishing she could assure safety and peace to the little girl. “I picked this for you.” The girl lifted her short arms, and in her hands, half crushed, was a delicate blue flower.
“Thank you,” Satine reached out, taking the blossom.
The little girl grinned even more. “My name is Lita.” The girl offered. Before Satine could answer, a movement and a parting in the crowd opened up to a woman, running out and apologising profusely.
“I’m sorry about her, your grace.” The woman swooped in, picking up Lita. She started walking away, carrying away the girl. “What did I say about wandering away from-”
“It's alright,” Satine broke a smile, and the woman paused, the worry on her face only showing when Lita buried her face in her mother’s neck and could no longer see it. “Thank you, Lita,” Satine said, and the girl’s face shot to look at her. Satine tucked the flower into her belt. Lita grinned even more.
The moment over, Satine nodded to the men who’d organised themselves to guard the doors, and they opened the massive structures. The loud creaking of the main gates reminded Satine again of how long it had been since this castle had been in use, and she retook Korkie’s arm as they stepped out onto the descending stairs to ground level.
There were people outside as well, and Satine spotted Clan Hurr in their maroon colours, and a flash of blue where Ayma was raising a banner. The newly appointed leader of Clan Hurr fell in behind Satine and Korkie, and the people parted to let them through. The banner of House Kryze blew violently with the wind that was tearing up the cliff sides, coming in rapidly from the sea. The clouds were almost completely rolled out overhead, and the sky was an eerie, supernatural array of greys, yellows, and blues.
When they came to the small outdoor sparring arena, Satine stopped, the procession of Mandalorians halting behind her. Ahead of her, Gar Saxon was laughing with the rest of his commandos, their own banner proudly bloodstained and torn. Battleworn.
“Still insisting you shall die today, Lady Kryze?” Gar shot at her, but Satine did not give him the dignity of an answer, turning to address her people.
“Mandalorians!” Satine called out. Korkie stood solid beside her. The blonde woman made eye contact with as many as she could. “I come here, not as your Duchess, not as your future Mand’Alor-'' Gar Saxon scoffed comically at that. Satine continued, “-But as your ally! I see your faces. They are tired of this terror! They are tired of this deceit! They are tired of the threat of war and violence. We are people with families, lives, passions, and loves! I too, am exhausted of this terror, this deceit, the war, and violence. It ends today!”
As she spoke, the first raindrops spattered upon the ground. The people listened to her with rapt attention. Satine looked out at them. This was for them. This was for Korkie. This was for Ayma. This was for little Lita. “If the Manda wills, I will walk away alive and you shall walk away as free people! Useless bloodshed will cease! A blade will not rule you!”
She turned to the members of DeathWatch now, with her people at her back. “And you! You will see that there is another way. Blood-won Glory will not be your currency, but the honour of your hearts!”
“Finished, Duchess?” Saxon asked in mockery.
“I am.” Satine held her head high. As Saxon made some comments about taking long enough and some backhanded words about how easy this fight was going to be, Satine turned to her son.
Reaching up, she cupped his freshly shaven jaw, and looked at his face. “Korben Kryze,” She said. “Chin up. Mandalore watches. Whatever influence I still have, you are its heir.”
He nodded profusely, and said, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, buir.” I love you, mother.
Satine rapidly blinked her eyes to avoid tears, and reciprocated, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner ad.” I love you, my son.
He refused to cry, standing as tall as he could, trying to be a man. Korkie pulled her helmet from under his arm, holding it reverently. “I do not want this back empty, ba'vodu,” He said.
“Maybe I’ll return it occupied… just without the rest!” Saxon interrupted, and his men roared with laughter. Satine ignored the implication. She took her helmet, and donned it.
With that, she turned, and stepped into the circle.
If she would not use her own hands for violence, perhaps she could use her surroundings, and turn Saxon’s own rage against him. Words would be her weapon, as they had since she was young. Her words would cut him deeper than any sword ever could, and Saxon’s anger would make him sloppy.
She knew because Bo-Katan had been the same way.
As girls, they had spared on these cliffs. Bowstaffs in hand, the sisters Kryze had fought up a storm, not unlike the one that was rolling in from the sea now. Heavy rain, appropriate for the irony of the day. This was the hour which would decide the fate of Mandalore. Satine was either walking away with the Darksabre or her fallen body would rot, unburned, on the ground in dishonour.
Satine was not as heavy or as strong as Gar Saxon, and her body had been softened by her rule and by motherhood, but she was quick, smart, and resourceful. These she could use to her advantage.
Gar Saxon relied too heavily on his weapons, Satine noticed. He had arrived completely decked out in whistling birds, vibroblades, blasters, and of course the Darksabre which hung from his belt. Korkie had begged her to at least take a single vibroblade as a family token, but a Pacifist she had lived, and if the ancestors willed, a Pacifist she would die.
The laws of a Conclave were simple. Only weapons won in combat or family tokens and heirlooms could be used. No children under twelve could be harmed or challenged, and in finality, someone had to die.
The ring of warriors was tight, leaving little space for Gar Saxon to work up the momentum to hit her full force, and he was fast, but he was also clumsy, and Satine could use her sleight of hand every time he got close.
“You stepped into the Conclave weaponless. What did you expect?” He laughed at her. Satine ducked when he swung a punch, but was struck in the ribs by his knee. She grunted, but from her hand, a vibroblade hit the dirt far out of bounds.
Gar laughed at his successful strike, and Satine spun, not permitting her face betray her. She was well practised in the psychology of facial communication, and she allowed him to think she was trying her best, that her strategy would be evasion.
Satine permitted him to land a few more blows, and with each one she bit back the pain, letting only a whimper escape her lips to distract him. Her greatest weapon would be his ego.
Vibroblade after vibroblade joined their sisters in the dirt at the feet of the onlookers.
Gar Saxon seemed not to notice. It was working, but Satine kept her Sabacc face intact, even allowing her eyes to become teary. The rain was helping her immensely, as it masked the sound each blade made when it left its sheath and hit the mud.
No one dared inform Saxon of the game Satine was playing. The rules for onlookers were also sacredly simple. No assistance could be given. Not through word, symbol, or physical help. The punishment was at best exile, at worst, death.
She was quick, but slow enough to let his fist connect with her body in places where her armour could absorb and distribute a majority of the impact, her one fist curled tightly to trick him into believing she favoured her left, as her right stole weapon after weapon from his arsenal.
Gar Saxon tackled her, and Satine narrowly avoided slamming her head into the rock. She felt him attempt to break her arm, but she caught her thigh on his hip, locking her grip, and used the arch of her back to pivot as she rolled to knock him off her. She managed to get off her back, and Saxon snickered, “You use that trick on your Jetii , whore?”
“What, you’d like to watch?” Satine retorted, using the momentary distraction to unholster and grasp his final blaster. This time, Satine looked him dead in the eye as she held it by the end of the grip and threw it aside. The blood running from the cut above her eyebrow trailed down her face and over her lips, and she tasted the copper.
Saxon realised suddenly that he was completely disarmed as he furiously patted himself down, reaching for the Darksabre. “You fucking bitch!” He roared, and Satine let a small smile twitch on the side of her lips before she refocused.
Gar Saxon sneered at Satine, looking between her and the lightsabre he carried. In an unexpected turn of tide, he reclipped it to his belt and viciously attacked the closest person.
The surrounding Mandalorians withdrew from the sudden conflict, expanding the circle around Saxon. The DeathWatch victim was so surprised to have been attacked by his commander that it was not difficult for Saxon to wrap an arm around his neck and twist. The cracking sound of the instantly-dead commando’s neck was heard across the arena-like space, leaving Satine wondering about how a leader could be so evil as Saxon quickly harvested the weapons from the corpse.
He had not broken the rules, but everyone knew that the vibroblade Saxon now wielded had not been won in fair battle, but in murder -all because his ego could not permit him to use the Darksabre so soon into the duel.
Across the mud, Saxon barreled at her again, this time taking her down with arms wrapped around her middle, effectively pinning her elbows to her sides. This time, he put all his weight into the small of her back, and tore her helmet from her head. He tossed it aside with the same smirk she’d given him. He pressed a vibroblade into her neck, the buzz of the tiny weapon eating at her flesh. Satine yelped in pain, but he was slow, like a strill playing with its prey, torturing it for amusement before consuming it alive. Satine turned her head, trying to escape the blade he pressed towards her jugular.
Saxon ground her face into the mud, the sharp flakes of slatestone cutting into her fair skin. “Maybe I should take you for myself.” He suggested, and Satine felt her jaw shake and her eyes pressed closed in the innate terror that swarmed in her belly. “Every Mand’Alor needs a whore or two…” he leaned forward. “Once I have your bitch sister at my side, I’ll complete the set.” Gar Saxon laughed, “Maybe I’ll let you die with a True Mandalorian cock buried in your spoiled cunt-”
Satine tried to shut out his words. For some reason, she was not so worried about what happened to her, but that Korkie would be forced to watch. And if Gar Saxon was ready to publicly violate her, there was no telling what further atrocities he’d force Korkie to endure.
That thought gave her reinvigorated strength, and she felt her face tighten, her eyes narrowing and she threw her head forward, sinking her teeth into the inside of his forearm, biting down between the panels of his gloves and armour and through the thin under layers of the flight suit beneath his Beskar.
Gar Saxon was so surprised, his arm tore from the iron clench of her jaw, and the vibroblade dropped from his grasp. Saxon didn’t bother to retrieve it. He observed his wrist, and flexed his fingers, checking that she had not severed any tendons. “Since this is the weapon you have left me with, it will have to do,” Saxon sighed. He'd gotten bored when his threats did not anger her. He kept a knee in the small of her back, his left hand still on her head. With his right hand, he unclipped the Darksabre from his belt. “Maul may have failed to kill you, but I will cut true,” Saxon tossed the hilt in the air in show, and caught it. “You are not even worthy to die upon such a fine blade,” He scoffed, igniting it.
“And you are worthy to wield it, Ad-Killer?” She accused. The deep rooted sense of family-like loyalty in the Mandalorian clans made it common for clan leaders to refer to their followers in the same manner as a parent to child. The accusation cut deep at his reputation, and Gar Saxon scowled at her. Blood ran down his arm from her teeth, and she spat red from her mouth. At some point, her hair clasp had been lost, and her braided hair laid rain-soaked across her neck.
Saxon pointed the Darksabre at her, and looked at the people around him. He had no argument but to insult her back. He jumped up, and Satine pushed herself out of the mud enough to glare at him, but his foot returned to her back to keep her down.
Saxon yelled to the people, “Look at her!” He spat, stepping off her enough to circle her like a strill, the Darksabre steadily pointed at her bleeding neck. Saxon raised his hand in the air, showing where she’d bit his exposed wrist, and he brought his boot down on her elbow. Satine could not bite back the scream it brought out of her. Saxon waved the Darksabre. “Behold! Your Duchess who ran! The leader who flees from conflict!” He kicked mud at her face, “A coward!”
Satine pressed her eyes closed, taking slow breaths to try to slow her heartbeat. If she could centre herself the way Obi-Wan had taught her all those years ago, she could think past her anger and make a rational, strategic move. From the sidelines, a small whisper was heard under Saxon’s thrown insults and boastful words.
“Get up, Auntie,” Korkie was saying under his breath. “Get up.”
Satine grimaced, her arm in terrible pain, and Saxon’s boot pushed her again, deeper into the dirt. “ Dar’Manda, ” He spat, “Weakling bitch.”
“Get up,” Korkie pleaded again on the side, the ring of warriors watching with silent attention as the fate of Mandalore was decided before their eyes. “Get up.”
She did not have to do things the old way. If she was to be the forger of new paths, she must forge it now. Gar Saxon raised the ignited sabre, preparing to bring it down upon her neck. He leaned over, and whispered into Satine’s ear, “I will purge you. I will cleanse this Galaxy of your heresy. Kryze blood will stain my armour and never rule again.” He held the sabre close enough that the ragged hum of the blade buzzed in her ears despite the sounds of the rain. Saxon laughed to himself. “I am Mand’Alor. When I am done killing you, I will cut your line.” He leaned forward to whisper the last bit, taunting her. “Your Jetii bastard will watch you die, then I will kill him-”
In the last second, with everything she had left, Satine twisted her body, rolling onto her back under his knee, her arm flying to connect her fist with his nose, avoiding the black blade. Momentarily disoriented at her strike, Saxon coughed, giving Satine enough time to push herself up out of the mud from under Saxon’s pressure. She realised that the darksabre was no longer in his hand. It had landed mere inches from her outstretched hand. She reached for all she was worth, and in the mud, the hilt almost seemed to come to her waiting palm. Her fingers wrapped around the ancient sabre. Gar Saxon flew at her, but Satine dodged him. He tried to swing a kick at her, but she rolled again, out of his reach.
Satine rose to her knees, the darksabre in hand. It was a heavy hilt, and her armour, caked in mud, gleamed where the rain washed the dirt away in streaks. When she stood, Satine raised the hilt, and ignited the blade, the sharp singing tone of the plasma cutting through the storm. “I am no coward.”
She would rise. Rise for Korben. For Mandalore. She would not let this fate be the fate of her people. This would be the last conclave, the last duel. She would make sure of that.
Whatever it took.
With a screaming rage, Gar Saxon threw himself at her, clearly intent on trapping her on the cliffside as she took slow steps backward. She would not run. She would not hide. Satine held the blade, feet squared on the rock below her, solid and in stance. She was balanced, he was not. “Don’t do it,” Satine warned. Arms outstretched, Saxon ignored her warning and reached for her. Satine’s eyes fixed on him despite the blood and rain dripping off her brows, time slowing down. With an intentful, elegant flourish of the Darksabre, Satine sidestepped, and the painful howl that left Saxon’s throat matched the thunder that struck at the same time.
Gar Saxon’s liberated hands fell to the ground, his wrists cauterised. A shocked gasp came from the DeathWatch commandos.
Once Saxon seemed to realise she had not made a death blow, he spun at her, his feet momentarily slipping on the wet slatestone, and his eyes widened. “I would rather die than allow a heretic to defile the name Mandalore ,” He gritted his teeth, ignoring the loss of his hands.
Satine realised what he was doing far too late.
Gar Saxon body-slammed her, and Satine slipped with him. The cliffside was unavoidable.
But Satine knew this place better than her own heart. She knew it like she’d known her sister, and she knew it now like she knew… I will not die today.
The collision could not be avoided, but Satine threw the now deactivated Darksabre hilt, not caring where it landed. With her hands free to catch herself, she braced for the impact of Saxon’s suicide, and she felt it the second she lost balance, Gar’s own body tumbling along with her’s.
Saxon went over the edge, reaching for nothing, his last war cry echoing along the cliffs and fading into the roaring of the sea below and the rain. Satine felt her body become weightless, and her hands grasped at the rock, tearing at the stone as the pull of gravity called her towards the end she’d face upon the sea-torn rocks along the beach far below. If she fell, death awaited.
I will not die today.
She found it.
There was a tree which clung to the cliffside, resilient against the storm and the erosion of time. As a little girl, Adoni Kryze held his eldest daughter on his hip, and pointed out to the cliffside from the Duchy balcony of Castle Kryze. “Sat’ika, our family is like that tree out there. Strong. Defying expectations. Thriving in a place nothing else can. This is the legacy I will leave you someday.”
Her father’s words rang true as Satine caught herself on the ancient roots, the sudden end of her free fall halted by her stroke of luck.
She didn’t believe in luck.
Satine’s body jerked with the ceasing of her falling, slamming her into the cliff side with a cry. There was rain in her eyes and her breath was knocked from her. Satine hung by her failing grip, and she swung another arm up, grabbing at the tree root. She tried to find something to support her in the ledges of the cliff side, but her boots slipped on the slick rock.
Satine swung in the wind, her hands gripping the rough root. The cries of surprise from the attending Mandlorians reminded Satine it had all happened in under a second, and though she couldn’t see him, she heard Korkie’s voice. “Auntie!” He screamed in horror.
Her heart lurched, and Satine’s fingers began to slip.
I will not die today .
Satine curled her body, using whatever thrust she could muster to hook her other arm over the protruding root. She forced herself upwards, wrapping her arms around the organic structure. Once she was sure she would not slip, she took much needed breaths, restoring the air that had been knocked out of her lungs. Adrenaline and sheer will ran hot in her blood, and Satine squared her jaw.
She was alive .
“You have no right to that blade!” Someone yelled over the cliff. A ruckus arose where she could not see, and Satine climbed upwards, until she heard Korkie’s voice again over the storm. “Wait! We don’t know if they’re dead-”
Suddenly a scuffle of beskar’gam on stone prompted her to look up again. Movement caught her eye, and someone was laying belly down on the cliff to look over the edge.
“ Auntie! ” Korkie’s relieved gasp was quickly followed by his outstretched hand, and she reached for him, their hands meeting and they locked grip on each other’s wrists. With a loud grunt, Korkie pulled her up, giving Satine enough lift to throw her body over the clifftop. Korkie crawled backwards, not letting go till not even her feet were over the edge. Satine laid only for a moment on her stomach, allowing her heart rate to subside.
“Saxon?” One of the DeathWatch commandos asked hopefully.
“Over the edge,” Satine spat the rain and grit from her mouth. Korkie helped her up, and as the adrenaline faded, the intense ache of her stomach muscles and arms hit her. Her bad hip informed her that any healing since the initial injury was undone. She avoided doubling over at the intensity of it, but Korkie gripped her arms, holding her upwards. Ayma stood, a blaster drawn, ready to defend against any sly attempt to push Korkie over the edge as well. With the assurance that Satine was standing and away from the drop, she reupholstered the weapon.
“You must stand, Auntie,” Korkie hissed, and Satine looked at the crowds before looking at her son. Her heart couldn’t help it, and she embraced him there on the cliffside, the moment reminding her that not all in this galaxy was unworthy of her fight. She released him, her hands shaking.
“Duchess,” Someone announced in wonder.
“No,” Korkie turned, lifting his head. He stood at formal attention at Satine’s side, reminding her that this was a turning point in their history. Songs would be written about this hour. Stories would be passed down to the children of those who stood witness to the victory of their leader. The victory of Satine Kryze. The victory of a mother fighting for her son.
Satine felt Korben take her hand, and he opened it for her. She had done enough. He pressed a heavy metal object in her hands.
Korkie addressed the crowd, “No! She is no Duchess!”
Ayma’s voice spoke up. “She is Mand’Alor .”
Someone echoed her. “Mand’Alor.”
The chant was taken up, in tune with the thunder that still rumbled through the skies. Satine didn’t take note of who kneeled first, but the sea of commandos, citizens, and warlords bent the knee. “Mand’Alor Kryze! Mand’Alor Kryze! Mand’Alor Kryze!”
Satine’s eyes flicked to Korkie. She held the darksabre in mild horror and instinctively, she ignited the blade, her arm raised, holding the ancient blade high over her head.
The chant rang across the Kalevalan seaside, and Satine pointed the blade to the lightning above, daring even the skies to strike her down. Satine addressed her people. “If any of you wish to challenge me now, make yourself known. Pay your respect to your ancestors, and stand now!” By the stars she hoped no one would stand, as she wasn’t sure she could repeat that feat, but no answer from the people made itself heard.
“Clan Hurr swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze!” The declaration was echoed by the hundreds as throngs of family, house, and clan leaders acknowledged their Mand’Alor. Satine only registered a few.
“House Naast swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze!”
“Lady Wren swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze!”
“House Sintra swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze!”
“Clan Je’dur swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze!”
Then, from the throng of people, another was heard, hesitant but decisive. “DeathWatch swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze.”
Beside her, Korkie was the last to kneel. He said loud enough for those close enough to hear, “House Kryze swears fealty to the Mand’Alor Kryze.” He bowed his head. “You won, mother,” He whispered under his breath, for only her ears to hear. “ -Mand’Alor, ” He corrected himself.
Satine tore her eyes from the sea of kneeling Mandalorians to look down at her son. She’d done this for him. She’d done this for her people. She lowered the blade, letting it sing at her side. “Korben…” She whispered.
Korkie’s head shot up, meeting her gaze.
The sudden weakness in her body overtook her, and Satine had just enough warning from the watering of her mouth and eyes before she leaned over, throwing up. Satine deactivated the Darksabre, her head spinning with the nausea lessening with the speed with which it had arisen. The stress of the conclave had forced her system into survival mode, causing her to vomit.
Korkie leapt to his feet, his hand on her shoulder holding her steady. He reached for her braided hair, holding the plait out of the way as the feeble contents of her stomach continued to reacquaint themselves to the outside world. Confused looks were exchanged by the people watching, the chant dying in mild surprise.
“Better?” Korkie asked.
Satine shook her head violently, and Korkie helped her stand straight again. He escorted her forward, into the crowds which parted for their new ruler.
People raised their weapons in salute, and Satine forced her body forward, fighting the shaking of her muscles and unsteadiness that was quickly plaguing her thighs. Respects were shown once she passed, helmets re-donned and they fell in line behind her, swarming to follow their Mand’Alor.
“Inside,” Satine hissed to Korkie, and the swaying of her body was almost unignorable, but Korkie held her upwards, and somewhere Satine heard Ayma order someone to “Go! Get a medipack,” before Satine felt her vision tunnel.
It was by iron will that she made it back to the castle, but as soon as the doors shut behind her, to save her dignity, Korben wrapped his arms around his mother, lifting her with some effort, but refusing the assistance of others. She felt the sway of his steps as her mind faded. “You did good, Mum,” He whispered, and Satine allowed her eyes to close.
She did not die today.
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Summary:
Korkie and Satine have a moment to themselves
Notes:
Warning: Descriptions of Childbirth
Notice: This chapter contains flashbacks. They will be in Italics, and divided from the rest of the text for the sake of the flow of the scene (:
Chapter Text
Satine awoke to way too much sunshine on her face, and she grimaced at the light that seemed to stab its way directly into her skull. She was back in her rooms. Memories flowed back, of the rain on her face, the saber in her had, and Saxon screaming as he fell. Korkie must have carried her all the way from the doors after she had collapsed. She still felt sick.
Someone in the room was speaking, and she winced again at the sound. Why there were people in her private chambers she did not understand. The noise was an instant reminder that her private life would now be back in the spotlight of public interest. Though, why the public deemed her chambers as free to their own use, she did not know. There was still so much talking. It was garbled as if she were underwater, and she struggled to make sense of any of it. She was laid out on the large bed, a few blankets tossed over her body. Someone had removed her beskar’gam and flight suit, leaving her to sleep in the light jumper she’d worn underneath. It was such a relief to be warm and dry.
Her whole body seemed to ache, and her joints were stiff. When she tried to stretch them, a swift and intense pain radiated through her limbs as the fibres of her muscles refused to stretch. She found a splint ran down her arm, fixing her elbow back in place. There were places on her skin that felt cold and sticky, which suggested that someone had treated her abrasions with salve or bacta.
A weak sounding exclamation at the pain left her lips, and the voices stopped, the noise coming closer as faces came into view. Ayma and Korkie were the first people she recognized, and she frowned, thrashing in the reaction as the spasming cramps rendered her helpless.
“Korben-” she began with a shaking breath.
“Auntie!” Korkie’s voice interrupted, his tone and choice of address informed her immediately that there was an audience.
Satine clenched her teeth and forced her limbs to extend, the burning of her ligaments causing tears to gather at the edges of her eyes.
When the pain finally dissipated enough, Satine opened her eyes, letting them adjust, and with a little struggle, looked up at the people in her room.
“Auntie,” Korkie said again, his firm voice catching her attention again and she quickly turned her focus to him. When her head moved, the sting of bandages around her neck reminded her of the vibroblade, and how she’d almost had her own head sawed off. Korkie sat down on the bed beside her, careful not to disturb her. “There’s people who want to see you.”
Satine pressed her eyes closed, still trying to think past the aching pain all throughout her body. “I…” she croaked, “Hurt.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Korkie laughed cautiously, clearly trying to downplay the seriousness of her body’s recovery. She would have to retain the image of power and strength to make sure that her newly established title was not held in question. Korkie said, “The Conclave was strenuous.”
“Mand’Alor!” Some person she did not recognise pushed past Ayma and Korkie. Satine frowned when they demanded, “we have logistics to discuss concerning the feast for your celebration tonight.”
Another person took the first person's audacity as permission to speak as well, and reported, “the efforts to retrieve Saxon’s body have been without result. So far we have only collected two pieces of washed up Beskar'gam. DeathWatch members have asked to burn his hands as custom.”
“Saxon’s former loyalists in Sundari have surrendered your sister. Lady Bo-Katan is enroute to Kalevala, retrieved by the NiteOwls.”
“Have you selected the members of your retinue? There’s already a running list of applications from clan leaders wishing to serve on your council.”
“Tonight it is customary that you designate an heir. Has your ward been selected and notified?”
“There’s questions about Mandalore’s official status in the Empire. Have you decided?”
“Castle Kryze cannot house this many people for much longer. Will you send everyone home?”
Satine groaned at the onslaught of voices, and she reached out, searching for Korkie’s hand. When her boy recognized her need, he took hold of her palm, squeezing reassuringly.
“Friends!” He spoke up, using a commanding voice that was unusual for such a young boy. At their surprise, the room came to a hush. Korkie continued, “your Mand’Alor is physically exerted. Please give us a little time to get her dressed before official business?”
The people turned their attention expectedly to Satine, who nodded. With confirmation of the command, people began filing out. When a few lingered, Ayma jumped to action, herding them out with waving hands and a firm reminder of her holstered blasters until she left Korkie and Satine alone. “I got the Door, Worshipfulness,” Ayma assured them, closing it behind her and taking her place right outside.
“Blessed silence…” Satine sighed, dropping her head back on the pillows. She realised her hair had been unbraided and brushed out - presumably to let it dry from the rain- and it had become messy and frizzy around her face.
“Sorry about them,” Korkie seemed tired, “they absolutely refused to leave until you commanded it.”
“They should respect my privacy,” Satine groaned. It was becoming easier to talk.
Korkie squeezed her hand, his back slouching from the formerly perfect posture he’d sported at her bedside when there was an audience present. Satine stared up at the ceiling. Things would be different now. As Mand’Alor, she would be the political, military, and to some, the spiritual leader of the Mandalorian system. It was no question -Korkie would be her heir now as well.
Her sister may pose a problem, but they would have the time to work things out. Satine wondered if Bo-Katan would respect the choice of her Heir, or challenge Satine herself. Perhaps their familial relationship was not completely unviable and could be saved. She wouldn’t know until they spoke again. However, Satine’s claim on the ancient weapon would prove a significant chess piece no matter what the outcome. The weapon in question was sitting on the small table next to the bed, set on a display stand that had come from Force-knew-where.
Satine’s mind couldn't help but drift to the next task. She would eventually have the people elect her council, just as she always had. She couldn’t afford the tedious formalities of a parliament at this time, but she would act to enact as much when she was no longer solidifying her rule and Mandalore was safe. But that had been Palpatine’s excuse, and she was not -and would never be- like that Bastard. Yes, she was dedicated to the survival of Mandalore, but she was just as dedicated to making sure they deserved to survive.
She’d have to act with caution in mind. She could not appear indecisive or weak, but she could not be a tyrant either. She would keep Mandalore out of Palpatine’s control, and keep her people alive. Those were her priorities.
Beside her, Korkie leaned back in his chair, tilting his head and looking at her, then glancing away. “Sooooo,” Korkie fussed with the hems of his flight jacket with the fingertips of his free hand, “this very room, huh?”
“Yes,” Satine answered, knowing what he was referring to. She turned her head on the pillow, agitating her stitches and looking into the sunlight. The change of thought subject was welcome.
The young twenty-something Duchess writhed upon the huge bed, sweat soaking every surface of skin. Her discomfort had turned to agony, and she fisted the sheets, her shoulders tensed and muscles hardening as her body bore down on its own accord. “I can’t do this! I can’t!” She whined as her contraction peaked.
“Too bad,” the old midwife replied nonchalantly, “there’s only one way out of this and it’s happening whether you’d like it or not,” she skittered about the room, commanding the one handmaiden Satine had kept with her to perform whatever task she deemed necessary.
“I’m too hot,” the suffering girl said.
“The heat is good for you,” the midwife told her with a straight face.
Satine Kryze begged the gods for mercy.
“When is my birthday?” Korkie asked, and his hand rested as he forced himself to concentrate. Part of the foundling adoption facade had been Satine’s claim that no one knew his real birthday. When he was four, Satine had sat the boy down with a little calendar and asked him to pick a date for his birthday out of the offered month. His chosen date ended up on his legal records.
Satine recalled the date. “The one we have usually celebrated in private.”
“We always celebrated two weeks early.” Korkie smirked, “And you would say you had business on my official date.”
Satine gave him a wink, “There was a raging blizzard when you were born. I should have known it was an omen for your natural tenacity.”
“I think I got that from you.” Korkie shrugged, “Not from a little snow.”
“I’m too hot,” Satine pleaded, but received the same answer. After the longest time, she waited til the midwife left momentarily to retrieve something, and she decided to take matters into her own hands. With sheer willpower, the young woman forced herself up out of bed, and stumbled towards the balcony, towards the windows where the blizzard raged outside.
“My Lady!” The handmaiden heard the thump of Satine’s body hitting the floor, rushing to assist her.
“The Window. Open it!” Satine commanded as she couldn’t help the scream that was ripped from her body when another contraction hit her like a tidal wave. On all fours on the floor, the young Duchess turned her head down in reaction to the pain, rocking her hips to soothe the ache.
The handmaiden hesitated briefly before Satine pushed her away, and when the window opened and the howling wind tore through the room, Satine felt momentary relief as the air cooled her sweat soaked skin. Quickly the doors opened and the midwife returned, her blunt formality abandoning her as she rushed to close the window. “Duchess! You mustn't let in foul weather. It will foster a fussy child!”
Satine cursed herself for employing a superstitious midwife. It had eventually taken a royal order for the window to remain open, and they had compromised with it remaining cracked.
“It was cold,” Satine told him. “The midwife was an ass, but she was discreet.”
At that, Korkie laughed. “Did you know I was a boy? You know… before? ”
Satine huffed, amused. As a girl, she’d feared what she could not predict, thus she excelled in preparation in all that she could. It was a trait she had not lost in her years. Satine softly nodded with a smile. “I did.”
Screaming.
She was pretty sure she was screaming -something deep and guttural and inhuman.
“This is it, your grace,” The midwife reached for her. “You’ve transitioned.”
“Dont! Touch! Me!” Satine forced out in a snapping breath. Everything was so intense, and she couldn't control her body as it seemed to operate on its own accord. She squatted by the fireplace. The bed was too hot, and she didn’t want to be on her back. Satine faintly recalled tearing all clothing off minutes ago. Or was it hours? Years? She wanted to rest. She wanted a moment where there was no blinding pain. Yet still, her muscles toiled at their relentless task. Kriffing traitors.
“But Duchess-” The handmaiden begged, “Let us help you!”
Her insides burned, and something felt different, calling to her to bare down.
Korkie snorted at her answer. “Of course you found out early.” He leaned back in his chair, taking his hand from hers and folding his arms theatrically. “You don’t like surprises.”
Satine rolled her eyes. “So you know you come by it honestly.”
“Was I…” Korkie squinted, “Cute?”
Satine turned her head on the pillow, remembering. “You were beautiful.”
“Beautiful.” He repeated, unimpressed by her choice of words. He reached up and scratched at his head behind his ear, waiting for her to keep speaking.
“Perfect. You were perfect,” Se said, “And very small,” Satine smiled, “Even still, you almost broke my pelvis,” She told him.
Korkie looked horrified. “I what-? ”
“And you were very opinionated from the start.” Satine added with a laugh. “I delivered you myself.”
Korkie scrunched his eyebrows. “You didn't have help?” Satine shot him a look. Korkie tipped his head in realisation. “You didn’t want it.”
“They were there in case something went wrong.” Satine forced her shoulders upward in a half-shrug. “I was terrified you would be taken from me. Maybe I was overly paranoid, perhaps irrationally so.” She added, “A year on the run will do that to you.”
She hadn’t meant to draw the parallel, but the way Korkie looked away reminded her how much he’d been through on his own.
A single word in ancient Mando’a, not unakin to a much more indecent form of ‘kriff’ was leaving her mouth over and over again. Beside her, the fireplace burned, the contrasting temperatures of the room offering her some distraction.
Out of pure, raw instinct her hands waited, shaking between her legs. She kneeled upon the stone floor, rocking slowly on her hips when those blessed pauses came. Her handmaiden had piled sheets below her, to save her legs and protect her knees from the hard floor.
Her teeth hurt from clenching them. Her jaw ached. Her arms hurt from the shaking fists she made. It was so much pain she couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but suffer the labour.
“I have to know,” Korkie began, “Where did you find my name?”
At that, a sad expression crossed Satine’s face. “You were named in the manor of our old house.”
“A verb and a title, like Auntie Bo-Katan?” He finally looked at her, and folded his hands in his lap.
“Yes,” Satine confirmed.
“‘Kor,’” the boy said, “to make a big choice.”
“Older, more formal,” Satine corrected. “To make a considerable decision out of love.”
“And ‘Ben’? ”
Satine hesitated, and it was her mistake. There was a similar word in the same dialect, and she could say it was the word for ‘blue’ like his eyes, or more specifically, his eyes. Granted, it was where the nickname had first originated, not that she had ever confessed that to Obi-Wan. It had just been a special endearment for him, until the day her son arrived and stared up at her with those same blue eyes. But Satine could not lie again to her son. Korkie dropped his head.
Something came out. She felt it go, and there was a thing in her hands. The instant relief was mind-clearing. She sensed her hands reaching out, lifting it upwards, taking it close... and then all of her strength faded for a moment. It was heavy and hot and slippery and silent.
-And completely still.
There was screaming again, and it was no longer out of pain, but of fear. This time the midwife did not listen to the Duchess’s former command, and snatched the thing from her hands. Something was wrong.
Satine lunged forward after it, after those hands reaching out to steal it, watching as the woman rubbed violently at the blobby bundle. It was too quiet. Everything was too quiet. Adrenaline rushed through her system once more. She had to recover quickly. She had to protect her child.
“My baby! My baby! Give me my baby!” She could hear herself screaming in the silence that should be filled with the cries of her child. ‘Spare him. Spare him!’ She pleaded with the ancestors in the Manda to save her little baby.
The midwife was turned away, mindful of the cord that ran from her to her child. She rubbed at its tiny back. He was so tiny. Certainly hadn't felt tiny during his untimely eviction, however.
‘Please live. I can't lose you too.’ She begged within her heart. She was certain such a thing would break her.
When the weakest of shrieks left the baby’s tiny mouth, tears of joy clouded her vision. After three deep breaths of her own, Satine struggled to sit. She felt weak, deeply fatigued, sore everywhere. But it was worth it.
“You have a son, your grace,” the midwife said, setting the baby into her outstretched arms.
Korkie was no longer looking at her. His arms were folded, tight and solid. “Ben.”
Satine remained quiet.
“I should have known.” The boy swallowed. “You called him that.”
The sunlight still on her face made her blinking easily masked as adjustment to the light. Did it really need to be said?
“Is that a family name too?” His voice was thick.
“You are my son, Korben,” Satine replied. “My son.”
The young Duchess sat upon the floor, hard stone under her. The baby held close to her chest was voicing his obtuse displeasure at the environment change, and Satine did not register the handmaiden as she fussed around her, finally closing that window and mumbling that the sheets were unsalvageable. They were quickly burned.
A fire to her back, a blizzard to her front. Her baby in the middle, a small metaphor of the mixed blood he carried.
The midwife waited until the cord was no longer pulsing, then severed it. For the first time in many months, Satine felt empty. Her body had served its biological function, and her heart was full.
‘Obi-Wan should have been here,’ the thoughts at the back of her mind said. He would have been so proud.
In his absence, Satine whispered the customary blessings, welcoming her baby into the Galaxy. She was dutiful to introduce herself as well, and when it came to speak his name, she hesitated.
The name she’d been set upon for months, a tribute to her father, suddenly felt wrong. Looking at the tiny face, she could not burden him with the legacy of strife. The Peace Name, the echo of Duke Adoni Kryze, did not suit the baby she held. In some ways, peace was more difficult than war. The little baby she carried, despite the complications, and who had managed to give her the scare of a lifetime in only his first three minutes of life, was a fighter. Her son was a fighter.
Satine looked down at her baby, wailing his opinions into her chest, and she could feel the strength of his lungs in her bones. “You're going to be quite the conversationalist, like your father, aren't you?” she said quietly.
“You are no ‘Andurion Kryze’...” the twenty-one year old duchess mused, pressing a kiss to the fine blonde hair, inhaling that sweet smell she already couldn't get enough of. “I have a feeling you are more Kenobi than you are Kryze,” She rolled her eyes with a smile. She could not keep a Kenobi, she remembered with heartache. At least, she could not claim him. But she’d known this for a long time. She looked at him now, and oh- how she loved her son. But the planets she governed would not. Not if they knew the truth.
A Kryze would be the son of Mandalore. A Kenobi would be her end.
Satine ran a finger over his tiny face. She could not sacrifice the progress she’d made for the emotions of her heart. She could either claim him as her legitimate child and watch her world crumble, or she could keep him as a nephew. Her pregnancy had been well hidden, and not public knowledge. She had already strung the tale of visiting extended family. To return with a baby couldn't be the craziest thing someone has ever done. The Civil War was over. There were a lot of orphans.
“Kor-ben,” She said suddenly. “For it is by consequence of our love -that of I and my darling Ben- that I must make this choice for your safety.”
Korkie hung his head, eyes darting about before settling on the place where her healed knuckles still bore the faintest marks from where she had beat the floor of their return ship. “There's something I need to tell you, Mum,” He whispered.
Satine turned her head.
He was slow, jaw shaking and shame was filling his eyes. “I called the bounty hunters.” Korkie confessed, “The ones back on Vardon. I tipped them off to help speed things up. I thought it would make things… easier.”
Satine frowned, registering his words. “Easier?” She echoed.
“I threatened Master Kenobi,” Korkie said, his words shaky and full of regret and pain. “I threatened to expose him if he didnt let you come with me. I had this whole plan to trick you but you never fell for it. So I had to let things get desperate.”
“Kor-”
“I’m sorry, Mum. I had to follow orders.” He said, “I had to get you back here.”
Satines heart raced. Obi-Wan had not abandoned her. He had left her because of Korkie. Because the boy was so terrified of losing his friends. She wanted to be angry at him, to ask him why he did not just tell her upfront, but she could not. Her stomach turned over. Her boy had been through too much already. She would die to protect him. She almost did today.
“You’re telling me you made him leave?” Satine closed her eyes.
“We saved lives,” Korkie answered. “I don't like what I did but Amis, Lagos, and all of Sundari are free now because you are here, not on Tatooine.”
“Ayma wanted me to come back when she called for me,” Satine recalled.
“I wasn’t following her orders,” Korkie said, “I was following Auntie Bo’s. She said you were Mandalore’s best fighting chance at reunification.” He explained.
She wanted to be angry at him, but the flickering hope that was growing in Satine’s chest overpowered everything else. They still could have a future.
They could still be a family.
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Summary:
Satine begins organizing her government, has a coronation, and gives Korkie a very important task.
Notes:
We have art again! Yay!!!!
Note: There are a couple of societal inspirations (that being the transactional relationship between monarch and clan leaders) taken from Beowulf. Yes, I said Beowulf. The four thousand year old poem. You expect me, an archaeologist, to write a fanfic about Space Scandinavia and NOT include Beowulf in some form or an other?
Chapter Text
“I believe my exact words, insolent boy, were ‘I’d rather Satine’s stupidity than Saxon’s Tyranny,’ but I guess this is acceptable,” Bo-Katan sighed as she sauntered into the Dining Hall where Satine’s most trusted faces waited to meet with the younger Kryze sister. “That shit you pulled, Sister? I’m glad to see you still have a spine,” she laughed.
“It's good to see you as well, Bo,” Satine answered. She regretted not being present when Bo-Katan and Ayma reunited, as she was sure that show would have been interesting and informative, but she was just glad Saxon’s men had surrendered her sister with little to no resistance. At the news that Satine was now Mand’Alor, most had bent the knee. Others with differing opinions had cursed her name and sworn never to fight for her banner. Satine had a feeling that would not be an issue for them, as her morals would still be in place. She had meant it when she said that hers would be the last Conclave, and that a blade would not rule them.
Satine rose, her muscles reminding her of their soreness, and greeted the redheaded fury that was her sibling. She simply shook her hand. Neither woman was ready to hug the other, and the handshake was bond enough. Satine motioned for Bo-Katan to take one of the empty seats at the table, and the woman took the closest one to Satine’s right hand side, next to Korkie. Ayma had taken the left hand chair, and the rest of the polished metal table was filled with the surviving officials and Clan leaders who had not outwardly betrayed their Duchess. The Coalition of Clans took up approximately half the seats, and many glared across to where others Satine had personally invited sat. The fresh face of leadership for the True Mandalorians sat, his scar covered face as miserable as his spirit. Others were entirely new faces, either heirs who took the places of fallen predecessors or frantically elected governors. Fenn Rau, the leader of the Mandalorian Protectors who had survived the Battle of Sundari, was a member of the Coalition and sat beside Ayma.
Her government style had been remembered and quickly reinstated by itself, much to Satine’s relief. Clan leaders had organized to democratically vote representatives from amongst themselves from four major cities across the system. It wasn't perfect, but it was certainly the best case scenario given the circumstances.
Bo-Katan was still dressed in full NiteOwl Beskar’gam, with a couple bruises on her face and her hair a matted mess. Any other injuries that might be under her armour were well hidden, and she stood tall and proud, helmet under her arm. When she approached the table, she set it down before her like all the others, except Satine, who wore no armour.
The redhead pulled out the chair, sitting irreverently with her ankle on her knee. “Out with it, sister,” Bo-Katan loudly exclaimed, “Lets see your prize!”
Satine came back around the table, pulling out the chair and seating herself. She smoothed her skirt over her legs and folded her hands in her lap. She resisted letting out a sigh. “The Darksabre is not with me.”
There was silence in the room, and a shocked expression from Bo-Katan. “Say that again?”
“The Darksabre is not with me,” Satine repeated. “I will not flaunt it about as a-”
“Are you properly insane?” Bo-Katan interrupted. Korkie looked with alarm between his two aunts, and Ayma took a deep breath. Bo-Katan leaned forward, elbows on the table as she said, “You have had it for what, six hours?”
“I don’t need it to help my people,” Satine replied, “It is a symbol of the Dark Years and I will not continue to sustain such barbaric beliefs.”
“You took on those ‘barbaric beliefs’ the second you idiotically accepted Saxon’s challenge,” Bo-Katan spat, and swung out her arms dramatically. Slouching, she leaned back in her chair, throwing her feet up on the table, much to the discomfort and horror of Satine’s informal cabinet. Ayma smirked in amusement at the battle of wills that was taking place. The iron Kryze stubbornness was legendary. According to the Old Houses, it was what made them good leaders.
Satine narrowed her eyes. Her sister was impertinent. She wanted to fold her arms, but kept them firmly in her lap, her years as a Duchess washing back in posture and tongue. She answered her sister, “I am not a Mand’Alor of years past. I vowed to forge new paths. I will not fawn to some hooligans who are governed by brutality and violent hierarchies.” She paused, “I will not be that Mand’Alor.”
Bo-Katan appeared increasingly more frustrated. “I’m sorry, Satine, but you need to do exactly that,” She told her, “If you don’t make it yours, someone else will,” Bo-Katan reminded her. “You agreed -no, you fought- for this burden, now carry it.”
“They already falsely believed I murdered Pre Vizsla. Is that not enough?” She argued with her sister.
“No!” Bo-Katan replied, She sneered, looking Satine up and down. “If you will not act like a Mand’Alor, you should at least consider dressing like one.”
“Beskar’gam isn't really necessary-” Satine began.
Bo- Katan rolled her eyes, “It is a start!”
“Stop interrupting me!” Satine stood violently, slamming her hands on the tabletop. The splint on her arm saved her elbow the pain, but she was reminded of her temporary limits. One of the old lords jumped in his seat at the outburst, waking him up. Others exchanged glances. Ayma grinned at the floor, and Korkie’s eyes were wide. He knew that voice. It had been reserved for when he was disobedient as a child or stupid as a teenager. Bo-Katan starred in surprise. Satine leaned forward on her arms across the small space. “If you want me to be Mand’Alor, then respect me like one!” She blew air from her nose in a huff. “-And get your boots the hell off my table!”
Eyes wide, Bo silently removed one foot at a time off the stone tabletop, placing them back on the ground. “It doesnt change the fact that people are watching you,” Bo stated. “It's simply the truth. They will judge.”
There was a moment of quiet as Satine looked at the twelve faces around the table. “I have brought you all here to advise me, not insult me.” She said, “The governing policies and expectations of my cabinet remain the same as before. Many of you swore an oath to me years ago, and every one of you renewed it this morning,” Satine looked around at their faces, “If you wish to keep that oath, you will also swear upon the ideals of justice, accountability, and nonviolence.”
Ayma tilted her head, and cautiously began, “Satine-”
“I’m still speaking, Lady Hurr,” Satine shot the tall woman a look, and continued. “Violence will not rule. Anyone who disagrees may join those I offered the Lawless Lands to. Each and every one of you is free to walk out,” She waited a moment, and added, “To remain seated here is your vow to govern by my policies.”
Korkie was the first to place his hand atop the helmet on the table before him, and say with firm eye contact, “Sworn, Mand’Alor.”
One by one, the rest followed, until Bo-Katan was the receiving end of watchful stares. She was the last one. It was tense as the room seemed to grow cold, and the growing stress culminated until Bo whispered, “On my life, Mand’Alor.” Her hand on her helmet, she swore her loyalty to Satine’s law, and waited.
“But we do need to change your wardrobe, Worshipfulness,” Ayma sighed, “That is the first thing I call to the council for vote.”
Satine turned her head to glare daggers at the woman, but she huffedd her disagreement and repeated, “Ayma Hurr of Clan Hurr moves that my wardrobe be adjusted to the traditional silhouette of a Mand'Alor. Are there any comments?” Bo snorted, but otherwise there was silence. “Well then,” Satine resisted rolling her own eyes, “Votes in favour?”
This time, it was quite quick as a secondary unanimous vote was made, and all hands rested on their helmets.
I guess there is no need to call for votes of disagreement," Satine grumbled. “Motion passed,” She deadpanned.
“On to other matters, Duch- Mand’Alor,” one of the governors spoke up, “Have you decided on who you will be announcing as your Heir tonight?”
Satine leaned forward. “Of course,” She did not look at either family member that stared at her expectedly, “All Ceremonial Positions will be announced tonight. All others may be voted into office by the ruled populace.”
“So we will still have the Celebrations tonight?”
“Yes,” Satine answered, “I require no lavishness. The only budget I condone to be allotted will be for food, drink, and hosting.”
“A new Mand’Alor usually calls for a three day event,” Ayma reminded her.
“I will not have valuable rations and resources wasted on me.” Satine decided, “And that is something I will not have argued with. The bare minimum for the comfort of our guests, then we focus on Humanitarian Aid across the system.” She continued, “I am here and my focus is to rebuild and survive.” She said, and noticed that many were starting to look agitated and tired. She still had plenty of political talents up her sleeve, “Let us finish this conversation over lunch, shall we?”
The rest of the afternoon was full of long conversations. Firstly, they discussed the funerary permits for Gar Saxon. Satine had an audience with Saxon’s closest followers, and she allowed them to burn his hands and to return the two pieces of recovered Beskar’gam to his family lands. But when one had mentioned rites for those to be buried in honour, Satine had been firm; Absolutely not. The decision, though she wanted to say it was a political statement, was entirely in her own small revenge for her son, who would never be the same again. The men had marched off muttering, but had been bound by their own self-imposed vows on their own self-imposed beliefs.
Saxon’s remains had been ash within the hour with minimal ceremony.
Satine had assigned responsibilities to people seemingly on a whim, but each was a firm calculation. For example, she had set a team of NiteOwls to Sundari to relay all decision making and establish infrastructure. Soniee had asked to help as well, her skills put to use at Satine’s side running numbers on everything from rations to unaccounted landmass to Mandalore’s finances. Amis and Lagos had been given the opportunity to go home, which they readily accepted with the hope of recovering from the experiences Saxon put them through.
Other conversations had been had about other looming concerns, such as Mandalore’s official status in the Empire. That was one thing she was not prepared to proclaim just yet. She would let her new position and all the fresh opinions of her people to settle before she did anything rash. Satine believed she had time. According to the news, which she knew was incredibly censored, The Empire was being welcomed with open arms across the galaxy, expanding outwards from Coruscant, filling and silencing the cracks in between. By the rate of expansion, Satine guessed she had a year before the Empire turned their focus on her system, so long as she kept ruckus down and out of Palpatine’s attention.
Another announcement had been made, however. Past noon the following day, Castle Kryze would no longer be providing free accommodation and shelter to those not declared as refugees and displaced individuals. It was a private property, owned by the Kryze Clan leader, which Satine was. The Castle was not in government ownership, so the people had no lawful rights to the place. People had grumbled about that, angry to be kicked out, but Satine had stated that refugees and those seeking asylum would be assigned employment in exchange for food and a place to sleep, and by working cleaning up Sundari during the week, could stay as long as they desired. Most stopped grumbling at that, and those who the policy could actually help were thankful.
Hours later, when the sun was almost set, Satine dressed once more in her Beskar’gam. This time, Ayma assisted her while Bo-Katan lounged in Satine’s rooms, making judgemental stares and clipped remarks. Soniee and Korkie were in the corner, chatting away about some unimportant topic. It was nice to have the sounds of happy teenagers again, Satine thought as Ayma placed each piece of armour in its place. It had been refitted since the Conclave, and it sat better on her hips and chest now.
There was nothing to do about the splint but use extra bands to fix the usually interlocked bracers to her forearm, but it was only almost good enough.
A blue half-circle of fabric was produced, with burnout velvet and gold stitching along the edges and the Kryze Crest in darkened tones proudly in the center. “Keep this over your shoulder and it will hide my handiwork just fine,” Ayma pinned the cape to Satine’s right pauldron and back plate, letting it hang just to the blonde woman’s knees.
Ayma bid Satine to sit, and reached for a hairbrush but Soniee interrupted. “With all due respect, Commander, you think the solution to a bad hair day is a pair of clippers,” She joked, and glanced at their Mand’Alor, “please, let me.”
Ayma raised an eyebrow, and through the mirror, Ayma waited for Satine’s confirmation before she stepped aside to let the girl work. Soniee took the hairbrush dutifully, and began at the ends. How the girl still had the energy to talk like a little bird was a mystery for the universe itself, and Satine lost focus as Soniee continued her conversation with Korkie about some game while her nimble fingers detailed and separated Satine’s hair to prepare it for some updo.
Satine’s thoughts drifted to Obi-Wan. He deserved to be here. He had attended one coronation, and it would have been full circle for him to attend this one. Someday, Korkie would wear a circlet as well, whether she died or stepped down. She knew she would make sure he was present for that one, at least.
Somewhere, Obi-Wan was on his own, in the desert with just his thoughts and a baby to guard. There was, of course, the possibility that he was not alone, but she knew the truth. In her bones, she knew it. He missed her as well.
Korkie had told her he sent the man away with a threat of exposure. The boy had done it to save his friends and provide the Coalition of Clans with an experienced Negotiator. He had believed to be doing the right thing. He had also asked her forgiveness, and Satine had stalled her words when he asked. Not out of anger, but the honesty that she needed to process his confession before she put it behind them.
“Are we finally ready?” Bo-Katan huffed.
“Almost,” Soniee placed a final pin, and gently turned Satine’s head to show her the elegant twist on the back of her head. There was a looping weft wrapped loosely around a small spray of her soft ends, curling up from her neck to bloom in teased blonde locks. It looked like a peace lily.
“Perfect!” Soniee announced proudly, and Bo-Katan grimaced in disapproval at the sight, but held her tongue.
Satine smiled in thanks to the girl. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Satine leaned forward and stood from the chair.
Immediately her blood dropped heavily in her veins, her stomach turning over and head spinning. She caught herself on the vanity, arms braced on the edge. Her vision was a cloud of static, and she wobbled on her feet. Both Soniee and Ayma reached out to stabilise her, and Satine let out a slow breath as her mouth salivated. Was she going to be sick again?
The blonde woman took slow breaths through her nose, desiring cold air. She winced, and slowly her eyesight returned. The roaring in her stomach subsided, and she paced deep breaths with regaining clarity.
“You checked her for a concussion, right?” Bo-Katan asked, genuine worry on her face.
“Of course. There were no signs,” Ayma replied instantly. “My Lady, are you alright?”
“Yes,” Satine lied, and she forced a smile. Truth was, she was worried her lack of meals and sleep had caught up and was affecting her, causing her to be so sick in the morning and some evenings that she could barely smell any sort of chemical cleaner or stand too quickly before she was emptying her traitorous stomach behind Ayma’s watchful gaze. When she felt solid on her feet once more, Satine nodded firmly. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”
The moment the circlet had been placed on her head, reinstating her to the political position as Duchess of Mandalore on top of her ceremonial position of Mand’Alor, Satine had felt relief. Two positions, hand in hand, for two sides of the Mandalorian coin. Those who disapproved of her title of Mand’Alor respected her name as Duchess. Those who had qualms about her democratic chair would respect the Darksabre at her side.
Clinking against her armour the whole way down the aisle of standing Mandalorians of all backgrounds, the Darksabre stunned those who laid their eyes on it. It was a powerful symbol indeed.
The overseer of the ceremony was some religious leader from the north, but it had been Bo-Katan who placed the circlet upon her head, a decision the two sisters had not come to easily. Bo-Katan did not want to appear to be surrendering her beliefs but Satine told her it would send a message that a compromise could be made. But as Bo-Katan lowered the jeweled Beskar diadem upon her head, Satine could have sworn she saw a glimmer of approval in her sister’s conflicted face.
Korkie was on her right the entire way, in the place for an Heir. The position was not lost to the attention of her people. He had spoken to her, as they stood behind the massive doors before entering, that he did not feel ready or worthy to stand next in line to her occupation, and Satine had placed a hand on his jaw and told him that his concern was the exact reason she knew he was ready.
Their walk had been somber until they climbed the stairs to the Dias holding the ancient Kryze throne. The area had been decorated with the helmets of the fallen, and fresh lilies -at Satine’s insistence. She would keep some things consistent, but the suggestion of unification between both polarized ideals was clear. The Beskar Hall was lit with torches, the faces and polished armour of the people reflecting the soft light.
When the call for gifted titles was made, Satine had turned to her son first.
“Korben Kryze, my nephew.” She addressed him. “I declare you Governor of Kalevala. If there are any who wish to dispute this choice, speak now.” There was silence in the crowds as some shifted on their feet and others exchanged glances, but none dared to contradict her, so said nothing. Satine smiled at Korkie’s shocked face. “Do you, Lord Korben Kryze, accept this responsibility?”
The boy glanced from her to Soniee, who was near the front of the rows of onlookers. Satine caught the encouraging smile the girl gave him, and Korkie gulped. “I do.”
The vows he spoke, to protect and govern the planet with justice and honesty, were mirror image to Satines words only moments before. When he finished repeating after the religious officiant, a roar of approval and acceptance was made from the Kalevalans, who had a Kryze in their seat of power for the first time since before Adoni took the role as Duke on Mandalore so many years ago.
A mantle was brought out, blue and green and silver in the colours of the planet, and set upon the shoulders of the young man. Satine watched in pride as her boy accepted his role with grace. “I will govern with truth and honour, Mand’Alor,” Korkie said to her, and she knew he would follow in the path the Manda had laid for him to walk.
“Bo-Katan Kryze, My Sister,” Satine turned to address the redhead. Bo-Katan smirked, her formality compromised by the sassy hand on her hip and the way she cocked it out.
“Yes, Mand’Alor?” Bo raised her eyebrows.
“I ask that you fulfill the need for Mandalore’s protection. I offer you the role as the Captain of the Guard.”
Bo’s eyebrows raised even more. Satine knew the girl knew her opinion on her methods for said security, but this was more a roll to keep her in line than give her control of any militaristic force.
“In turn, you will oversee the rebuilding of Sundari and the reestablishment of its inhabitants.” Satine knew the risk of setting Bo-Katan up to the task of rebuilding the place where she had first started the rebellion that had overthrown her, but the job would keep her near Satine more than away. It was wise to have a close eye on those one was vary of. She wanted to trust her sister desperately, and both women knew this was the olive branch in the first steps to rebuilding that trust.
“I accept,” Bo answered with a laugh, swearing on The Waters her sound responsibility.
She was handed a cloak of her own, in deep red and gold. It was fastened around her neck the same as Korkie’s.
“Ayma Hurr of Clan Hurr,” Satine turned, “My friend,” She nodded, and the woman stepped forward. “I offer you the role of Ambassador to Concordia. You will see the homeland of your clan rebuilt.” She smiled, “Do you accept?”
“I do, Worshipfulness,” Ayma jested, accepting the cloak that was given to her as well.
“Fenn Rau,” Satine turned to the man she had known since she first accessed the throne. “My loyal friend,” she nodded and he stepped forward. “I reinstate you to your former position. You will see the Mandalorian Protectors rebuilt in rank and skill, to protect all people from my nephew to the everyday citizen.” She smiled, “Do you accept?”
“Of course, Mand’Alor Kryze.” He was given a new Pauldron with the crest of the Protectors. It was swapped out by Satine, who placed the new sigil herself.
The rest of the positions distributed were to people Satine had spent the afternoon selecting with the help of her council. Allegiances were sworn from clan leaders who had not been present at the conclave. Satine had noticed the unfilled ranks of several she suspected would never approve, and she refused to concern herself right now. There would be time to negotiate with them. She had meant it when she had told them a blade would not rule them. If clans wished to secede from her, they would not be stopped, but they would be banished as well.
Saxons right hand man, the same who sat on her council at her request, waited until she called upon him.
“Death Watch, and any other members of the True Mandalorians, I address you now,” Satine narrowed her eyes across the crowds. “It has come to light, the truth of your affairs. Pre Vizsla led you to destroy a peaceful city in the name of extremism. I give you the offer today; you may remain Mandalorian, and accept the judgement that is given, or you may take your war elsewhere. Those who leave will never be permitted to step on Mandalorian soil again. If you stay, you will pay for the death and destruction you caused.”
Saxon’s man stepped forward, face grim. “My people have accepted the offer.”
Their Mand’Alor was firm. “Any house that wishes to regain a standing will be required to face the judgement of Sundari’s remaining legal system.”
The man scowled, “bureaucracy has never treated us fairly!”
“Would you rather I personally decide your court sentences instead?” She suggested with a raised brow. “You were a willing participant in the terrorizing of Mandalorian children, were you not?” She did not expose Korkie’s afflictions to the public, but the man received the threat all the same.
“No, Mand’Alor,” he glared at her, “that is not necessary.”
“Then we will see it done.”
The drinking began as soon as Satine took a seat, with food and Tihaar filling the grand hall with the loud clamour of partying Mandalorians. It would last long after midnight, perhaps until dawn. Satine’s time would be filled with smaller audiences with Clan leaders, giving and receiving tokens of power and appreciation.
The hour was late when Satine was able to finally sneak away, taking a lift to the third level that looked out over the hall. Her legs were still too sore for the stairs and her eyes were tired.
Anyway, it would be nice to escape the smell of the fresh spiced Kalevalan seafood.
Satine heard Korkie before she saw him, and he joined her at the railing. From their angle in the upper floors overlooking the throne hall, they could see the revelry in abundance, where Tihaar was being consumed out of every possible container, from Satine’s mothers fine silver sets to Beskar helmets. It was quieter up here, and it was a welcome break from the crowds.
“Good evening, Mother.”
“Good evening, dear boy,” she smiled at him, waving him over with a hand. “Big day, huh?”
“You’re one to talk,” he joked back.
They stood in silence. Below, Bo-Katan was arm wrestling some poor man -and winning. Ayma looked to be next in line and Satine figured it would be a brawl for the centuries if there wasn't the knowledge that it wouldn’t be tolerated, and the level of alcohol would not be accepted as an excuse.
Music that was traditional to some of the Southern houses was being played at a fast tempo, and people danced throughout the centre floor space.
“You want my forgiveness, Korben?” Satine said slowly. Korkie didn't say anything in response but to look at her, and Satine didnt turn her face to him.
“Find Obi-Wan, bring him home,” Satine told him.
“Mother-”
“I mean it,” She raised her eyes from the people below to the grand windows, where the stars were visible over the sea. “You made this mess, you will clean it up.”
Korkie took a deep breath. “What about-”
“Bring him back, and we will talk at length about attempting to hide such things from me again, understood?”
“Yes, Mand’Alor.” The boy, the young Lord of Kalevala, released his tight grip on the railings, and bid her good night.
“Korkie?” Satine called after him.
His steps halted but he did not face her. “Yes?”
“I love you,” She said with a sad smile, “Sleep well.”
Then Korkie finally met her eyes. He smiled back, “I love you too, Mum.”
Chapter 18: Chapter 18
Summary:
Satine deals with the frustrations of Bureaucracy in her new government.
Notes:
First off, thank you all for your patience and I'm sorry about the long wait. I've been super busy with University. Y’all’s comments were so instrumental in keeping my motivation to write chapters alive. I have a few future chapters already written out, so it should be fairly consistent updates from here on out.
Sorry this chapter is so short. I love writing this political stuff, but if that's not to your tastes please let me know and I'll lean out of it. I promise next chapter will be more plot-pushing, as I still have some big stuff planned -the soonest being something I think you have all caught onto (even if Satine hasnt)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I would like for you to see a proper healer,” Satine stated as she sat at the table where a modest breakfast was being served. Korkie had snuck into her rooms to share it with her, like he used to when he would stay the weekend at her residence in Sundari, all in an attempt for some feeling of normalcy and home from school.
The boy frowned into his bowl of food, utensils still. Korkie still appeared half asleep, with his elbow on the table, hand propping up his head. He answered with a forced shrug, “I’m fine, really.”
“Kor, Dear,” Satine looked at him with worry in her eyes. “I don't like to see you in pain.”
“It’s not so bad anymore,” Korkie shrugged, more so to make a point of his regained mobility than a statement of disinterest. “Senator Organa’s Bacta has already done a lot.”
Satine shut off the holopad from where she had been working half mindedly on reading reports from around the system. She had fully secured two planets -Mandalore and Kalevala- but there were still seven she had yet to personally see to. Shukut had lacked a single representative at her coronation the night before, and she had concerns that there may be complications still in place. Rumours swarmed about pirates and criminal gangs who had followed in the Black Sun’s footsteps, and taken advantage of her system while it was dismantled. Only Fenn Rau’s assurance that the nearby Concord Dawn would keep an eye out for trouble eased her nerves, though it did little for her sense of urgency.
Korkie was expected to leave the following week. She would not have him go into the Outer Rim Territories with such wounds unchecked. “I’m not expecting you to take a dip in a Bacta Tank -even if I think it’s the best option.” She saw him dodge her gaze, “But at least be seen by a healer to make sure you are alright.”
Satine had not personally seen the damage for herself, as when she’d asked, Korkie had turned his shoulder and told her no. It was enough that she knew how he had stared at Saxon with hate in his eyes, and it was enough that Korkie had struggled to hold himself with confidence when facing him. She knew he was scarred, and scarred badly.
“I’ll see a healer when you do,” Korkie gave her a pointed look. “You were sick again this morning. I heard you.”
Satine rolled her eyes, “I’m fine. That was probably Bo-Katan sleeping off all that Tihaar she consumed last night and this morning,” the woman diverted the accusation.
Korkie stared at her. He wasn’t buying it. “Auntie Bo tends to curse a whole lot less when her head is in a latrine,” he mumbled. “I think because she’s used to it.”
Satine huffed, “At least promise me you will look after yourself,” she chided. If he was going to be the Lord of Kalevala in her absence, he would need to stand the part. They still had a few remaining upcoming ceremonies to attend, and all would symbolically be in place. They would each bathe individually in The Waters, and adapt their Coming of Age creeds to that of leaders. Satine had done it once before, and though she personally viewed the whole process as nothing but tedious ceremony, the Mandalorians were a people of tradition.
“Hmmm.” Satine hummed in his direction, ignoring Korkie’s concerns. “At least see a healer before your Creed Ceremony.”
Korkie huffed at the reminder. He stirred the stew in his bowl with the spoon he had been messing with earlier. "What about you?” He shot back, “Will you wear your armour or go the traditional route?” Korkie changed the subject. “I doubt that will be a matter for your counsel to decide.”
Satine almost snorted, “Armour. I have no desire to stride around practically naked in front of the religious leaders.”
“Oh thank goodness. I didn't either,” Korkie exhaled in relief, and Satine was reminded again how she would be setting in motion new expectations and traditions for her House. Clan Kryze hadn't had a proper Mand’Alor in the family for several generations, and with her title she was rewriting reputation.
Surely as they settled into their roles, things would begin to feel less uneasy. Satine would see to having Korkie moved permanently into Castle Kryze here on Kalevala. He would not take over her rooms, as Satine still was the head of House Kryze, but he would be moved into the next suite, which had once belonged to Satine’s mother when Satine was a child.
Korkie seemed to take to the idea of living here the same as he had to the dorms at school in Sundari. Granted, he had only been a speeder ride away from the palace where he had easy access to her, but this was still a big step. He would be working, not studying, and would be an entire spaceflight away from her in Sundari in the coming months. He was independent enough, she would have to remind herself. He would be just fine on his own.
And though Satine knew he was so young, there was no one else she felt she truly trusted in the position. Korkie would be eighteen very soon, and in the winter months she knew he would handle the peaceful towns and villages where Saxon and Vizsla's men had ransacked for supplies and booty before the worst of the Kalevalan cold fronts came.
He would still defer to her, of course, when the larger problems arose, but Soniee had asked to stay here once she found her sisters and parents, and Satine had a feeling they would make a good team. It would be good for him to have a support system not only of older, more practiced dignitaries, but also of peers of his age who could ask the hard questions and help challenge and grow him as a leader.
Satine broke the stare she had absentmindedly fixed in her son, and lifted the holotablet back to her attention. There was never not an issue for her consideration, it seemed.
“I want humanitarian aid focused on those without registered skills,” Satine said, folding her hands on the stone table. She had been delegating and organizing operations with her Council for almost three hours already, with what felt like agonizingly slow progress.
“What about your army?” Bo-Katan’s hologram asked. “Soldiers gotta eat, you know.” She looked bored as hell, with crossed arms and terrible posture. It was clear she had not been born for the Bureaucratic life.
“Soldiers also have blasters,” Satine replied, “And at the moment, a lot of free time,” She offered.
Bo-Katan straightened up, “You want us to be mercenaries?” She actually grinned, “I’m impressed, Sister.”
“No, I do not, Sister,” Satine huffed, “I want you to take out hunting parties on Concordia for any extra food you feel yourselves lacking. Trade the extra meat for any supplies you need. I will not be like Saxon, feeding only those who are militaristically loyal to me.” She added, “I have reminded you, I have no desire for a standing army at the moment, only the security needed for general life and Planetary protection. You may have fighters on call, but I will not have the effort for rebuilding our homes wasted by thugs with weapons sitting around with nothing but a contract.”
“What about the conservation efforts on Concordia, Mand’Alor?” One of the clan leaders who had served her during her years as Duchess asked, “How will we protect our endangered species if they are being hunted or cut down for lumber?”
“At the moment, I am focusing on Mandalore’s very survival,” Satine replied. “I happen to prioritize my people over a few animals and trees.”
Korkie bit his lip to keep from laughing, but then Ayma brought up an excellent point, “At the moment we are still re-establishing trade with the Black Market couriers we had contracts with before, and unfortunately these underground operations are quickly being discovered and shut down by the new Galactic Government.”
“Yes,” Satine frowned, “This Empire has tightened the noose on every system not in their control,” She said, “Lady Hurr, what legal options do we have for importing medical supplies and relief?”
Ayma took a deep breath, and activated the holotable inlayed in the stone surface. “We are still offering open trade with the Chandrillan’s for their Bacta exports and Mineral Tablets.”
“I have a good relationship with their senator,” Satine thought aloud, “I could get in contact with her.”
Ayma nodded, “I’m sure Alderaan would be ready to offer their Medi-Packs for Trade, and I think we should consider reaching out to the Ithorians for a contract for Power Cells to fix up our fleet and power the Air turbines in Sundari and the other domed Cities on Mandalore that still aren't running.”
Satine, Bo, and Korkie all nodded. It had been difficult to breathe without a helmet on in Sundari, and they could only imagine the toll of unpurified, irradiated air on the long term residents who had been trapped there during the weeks of Saxon’s negligence.
Ayma Added, “The Naboo fabric factories have offered to revisit trade agreements after their month of mourning.”
Satine sighed again, “I hate to say it, but I have a feeling we should steer clear of the Naboo system at the moment. They have Galactic attention as the Emperor's homeworld and with the passing of their outspoken senator, things could be rough if we engage on such a level.”
Ayma folded her arms, “It should still be an option for the future. Since the Trade Federation seemingly disappeared, we have opportunities for unregulated trade in that entire sector. Since they are no longer the most powerful agency for organizing such exchanges, we have the upper hand so long as it stays under the Empire’s radar.”
“What do we even have to Trade?” Soniee piped up, and the answer on everyone’s minds was too controversial to speak aloud.
Satine existed for a moment in the awkward silence of vast arrays of expressions before she decided, “Beskar trade is a Life or Death, Final option only.” She said, “That's the quickest way to immediately cause a lot of problems.”
“With this many sick and starving, it very well may be a Life or Death situation,” the Clan leader spoke up.
“In the meantime, I will organize markets in Sundari and other capital cities. We will promote internal trading first, then use that more stable system to support inter-planetary exchange.” Satine decided, “No luxury goods. No non-essentials. We will focus on survival and rebuilding. Things will be rough for a couple years, but if we are honest and consistent, we can lay the foundation for a solid future.” Satine added, “I want all trades put to vote, and that information to be available if the public asks. Beskar Trade is off the table.”
“But what about Quality of Life?” the leader of Clan Naast asked, “If people are miserable and don’t see a future of opportunity, they will emigrate at alarming levels.”
“Then that is their choice,” Satine flexed her hand nervously, “But if we are clear with our intentions, I believe the people will trust us to rebuild.”
“I still think we will see drastic population decreases.”
“And where will they go?”
“Anywhere!” Bo-Katan answered, “Mandalore has countless colonies across the Galaxy that don’t fall under the system’s rule.” She reminded them, “We should consider other options. There was a time when we were feared and respected, not hiding in our corners.”
“Bo-Katan,” Satine warned.
“I’m serious!” the redheaded hologram waved her arms, “If the Galaxy will only ever see us as conquering warriors, then we should lean into that!”
“I will not condone preying on other civilizations for our own gain!” Satine argued, “We are better than that! We are better than this Empire!” She stared with a cold gaze across each face at the table. On the holotable, the transcript of the meeting stopped, the blinking computer waiting to write down her next words. Satine watched her Mando’a form, and preserve her decision. She softened her expression and her voice. “We came together to provide a safe haven where Mandalorians would not have to fear for their lives. We will be stronger together. I want the Farms here on Kalevala and Concordia to be offered contracts for inflated government collection. I want the Skilled Workers Society to be offered agreements as well for Tax breaks after this period of Reconstruction. This is not a time for personal gain, but the survival of all.”
Everyone listened to her words, and when she was finished, the Minister of Herswee said, “I still think we should keep Beskar Trade on the table.”
“Absolutely not!” Bo-Katan seethed, and many others nodded in agreement with her, “We will not trade away what gives us advantage, and we will not hand over an integral part of our tradition to line anyone’s pockets!”
“I said nothing of lining pockets!” The minister retorted.
“Oh please, we all know you prefer to line your stomach with expensive wines and exotic delicacies,” Bo-Katan spat.
“Enough!” Satine snapped. “I said Beskar Trade was a last resort only, and I will order that to do so, the agreement must be unanimous!”
“Good luck with that, when little Miss War-Path here would rather starve than let a single ounce of Beskar end up off world.” The Minister mumbled.
“I will have you removed from this meeting if respect does not return to your words, Minister,” Satine warned. “You as well, Bo-Katan.”
“But if it were to be traded for life-supporting supplies…” The Prince Representative of Keldabe began, but trailed off.
“We could not make it public knowledge,” Someone finished.
Satine paused only a second, briefly considering, but then shook her head, “I will be transparent. I have to.”
Soniee poked around on her tablet. “If we did, we would be smart to trade extremely small amounts at a time. Keep demand high, and not release much onto the market at all. With low supply, we have higher demand with which to barter.”
“I said, Last resort only,” Satine repeated, and almost buried her face in her hands. She felt frustrated by these people, and part of her wanted to lean fully into her new title and make these decisions on her own, but she wanted to do this right. Democracy was hard. It always would be. She could not let her Hubris win. It made her feel unqualified to have such feelings, but she knew she would have to remain faithful to her beliefs, even if it meant this frustration.
Besides, there had been someone, once, who had believed so strongly in her capacity to lead Mandalore again that he had died for it. The blood of Verz-sen was in many ways still on her hands. Satine took a deep breath. So much had happened that led her to be here and now, the irrefutable Duchess of Mandalore, carrier of the Darksabre.
It felt like a lifetime ago that she had once stood before a council and was sworn in as a young duchess in the wake of inheriting her father’s title, then reaffirmed by the majority. She had years of experience to call upon, and she only hoped to lay down a new system that would serve her people faithfully so long as they remained faithful themselves.
Satine dropped her hands to her lap. The future she was building would be worth every meeting.
That afternoon, Satine took an hour to herself, and retrieved her old satchel from her room. She hadn’t had the stomach for much lunch, and whatever the kitchens had made for lunch filled the whole lower half of Castle Kryze with a smell that made her so dizzy she wanted to find a ‘fresher. Instead of attending lunch with her Council, Satine had used the time to take a lift into the lowest levels underground to where the armouries, bunkers, and most importantly at the moment, the mainframe existed. In her hands she held the disks of flimsi, and one by one inserted them into the side ports to make back-ups. The idea of losing these were growing more and more worrying with each day, and Satine ached at the loss of her dear friend.
Padmé, one of the few remaining voices for all that was good and kind in the Galaxy, was gone. Her plans, which Satine had examined more closely the night before, were for a Rebellion. One which might inspire the right people into action. They were a reminder of light, of truth, and most importantly; Hope.
There, in the depths of the Castle’s Mainframe, Satine watched as Padme’s legacy was uploaded and backed up, and she let her tears fall in private.
Korkie left for Tatooine three days later, in the middle of the morning meetings. Satine had stepped out, wishing to accompany him to the landing platform where a small star skipper waited for him. Satine had wanted to send Ayma with him, but the boy had refused. He did not want to attract more attention than he was willing to risk, and one Mandalorian was interesting enough. Two Mandalorians, and people would talk -especially if they recognised him from any small news reports which had kept up on the progress of Mandalore’s new leadership.
Korkie had kept his promise to see a healer, and they had compromised on a Droid. Satine hated droids, but she was willing to accept the in-between just for assurance that he was healing. Korkie’s blood had been drawn to check for infection, and his skin examined. The droid had stated he should have received skin grafts, but that there was nothing to do now, where the burns had healed into a patchwork of scar tissue and textured skin. Korkie had received a few steroid injections to prevent keloid formation, and given a new tube of topical vitamin creme to lower the risk of tearing.
Though the droid was skeptical about him travelling to such a warm place, Korkie was sure that he would be just fine on his own. “Don’t worry, Mum,” He chided, “I won't be out flashing credits or picking fights,” He offered to console Satine’s concern. Yes, she had asked that he do this, but it didn't change the fact that she would worry for his safety. “I’ll find him.”
"I want daily updates," Satine put a hand on his shoulder, "Take that as an order."
Korkie resisted rolling his eyes. "I'll let you know when I locate him too."
Satine nodded. When Obi-Wan returned with Korkie, she promised herself that she would tell him everything. She would tell him everything about their son. Satine hugged the boy. “You be safe. I love you.”
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.” Korkie put on his helmet, and Satine watched him toss a bag into the ship, full of supplies and a change of clothes to serve as a disguise when he arrived. “Love you too, Mum.” Then with a smirk, he flashed her a Mandalorian salute. “Mand’Alor.”
Korkie climbed into his ship, and tipped his head in a final goodbye.
Satine watched as the ship powered up and ascended into the sky, shooting into the Kalevalan atmosphere. When the silvery ship was out of her sights, Satine sent a final prayer to the Manda, and headed back inside, where her council waited to plan a campaign to remove the crime lords and pirates they had found to be occupying Shukut.
“You okay?” Ayma asked with a sympathetic smirk.
“When it comes to that boy, I never am,” Satine sighed, rubbing her arms. She was still getting used to wearing the weight of Beskar every day, and the heavy cloaks she had quickly adopted to cut the biting Kalevalan sea wind only added to her muscle’s endurance tests. Not to mention her newfound habit of skipping meals with the excuse of rations wasn't helping. But Satine had missed many meals during the first few months of her reign when she was first crowned duchess, and ruling on one’s own was a task she had adjusted to once before. Satine took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders before reentering the Castle.
Ayma gave her a worried look. “I’ll be sure to keep my tabs on him.”
The main doors from the landing platform opened. Satine smiled at her friend, “I expect nothing less from you.”
Notes:
Next chapter is a dive into Korkie's time on Tatooine and what Satine gets up to during his mission (and maybe a little look into Obi-Wan?).
Chapter 19: Chapter 19
Summary:
Korkie faces Tatooine’s challenges while looking for Obi-Wan, and Satine goes for help with the same problem. Both end up striking deals with more than they bargained for.
Notes:
YAYYYYYY long chapter again! I'm still finishing the artwork for this so come back in a few days to see it if you want. I thought y'all would prefer the chapter sooner rather than later <3
Thank you to @impossiblepricess25 for encouraging me with some things and thank you all for your comments! I read and loved every singe one.
Chapter Text
Korkie Kryze decided he despised the dry heat.
He’d had his fill of the bars and inns of Mos Eisley, with their loud music, stinking patrons, and thinned liquors. He’d slept in his ship, shivering under his Beskar when the suns set and the desert lost all the heat it seemed to hoard like gold during the daylight hours. He’d furthermore had his fill of the Tatooine residents, each one out to scam him for even a single cent more. He’d run out of Mandalorian Tibblets days ago, to a seemingly kind old woman who had promised to take him to the ‘new refugee camp’ outside of the city for Planetary Immigrants, then left him for lost in the middle of the sand dunes. Since then, it had been a challenge to collect any relevant information about Obi-Wan’s wearabouts. No one knew of any Skywalker family, and no one had seen a Jedi, even for a reward -not that his Republic Credits were much help out here. Most of the inhabitants didn't recognize or accept the currency, and others had already reluctantly adopted the Empire’s tender. Most everyone else dealt in Favours, and Korkie had no desire to sell himself for work to any sleazeball who saw his armour and thought he might be out for a job of sinister intent.
Parking his ship had been a nightmare in of itself, with high rent and the warnings that parking an unattended ship outside of the stations meant certain theft and scrapping. It was small enough that a landlord of some building residence had permitted him park the ship on the roofs of his units, for a price of course.
The ale in his cup was an acquired taste, and when he’d asked in Galactic Basic what it was brewed from, the bartender had laughed, and made some comment about it being better that he didn't know. Of course, it had been perfect timing for a new shipment of suspicious liquids, one being labeled “Rancor Bile,” to have been delivered, and the Bartender had shrugged and given Korkie a laugh.
He was hot and tired, and found the lack of water on this planet particularly frustrating. He missed Kalevala, with its oceans and rivers, where he could drink when he wished and shower when he wished. This place even made him miss Mimban with its hazy atmosphere and distasteful city.
“You there, boy!” a being even Korkie couldn't identify called out to him through the sea of oily wrinkles on his face. “You’re the one looking for the Jedi, right?”
“I never said a Jedi,” Korkie answered, and tipped back the cup, finishing the last of the spicy ale.
The being snorted, “You were askin’ about a man wielding a laser sword just last week!”
Korkie leaned back on the stool, and examined the approacher more closely. He felt uneasy, and not wishing to repeat his first mistake of trusting anyone, he pushed the cup back across the bar, and squinted, “Doesn’t mean he's a-”
“Save it, boy,” the alien smirked, “Them Jedi are supposedly traitors to the Empire. You working for them?”
Korkie almost spit out his drink. “No. No I do not.”
“Perfect,” The male slapped his hand down on the bar, “Thrassko! Get me a drink for myself and my new friend here!”
“Sir, really. I am fine.” Korkie started to stand up, but the same massive hand (or paw?) landed on his shoulders, pushing him back into the seat. Korkie almost yelped when his back exploded into pain, but bit his tongue to prevent the noise from escaping even as his eyes watered. Satine still hadn't seen the map of burn scars on his back, but the Bacta ointments and the creams couldn't speed up the new layers of skin that would simply have to form over time.
The alien leaned back on the bar, his massive elbow taking up a significant amount of room on the surface. His eyes were continuously darting to look over Korkie’s shoulders at the flock of Twi-Leks women who were dancing mostly naked beside the musicians, and Korkie huffed inwardly. He wondered if the being knew that two of them were actually male -not that Korkie had tried anything, but he had seen them leaving the bar early one morning with an excited patron and the boy had accidentally gotten an eyeful.
“What will it be?” The Barkeep, apparently named Thrassko, blinked in boredom.
“Get us three lines of the good stuff,” the being tipped up his jaw, “Yeah, Rancor’s Revenge.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but I have no desire to owe anyone anything,” Korkie shook his head. The Barkeep seemed almost sympathetic as he turned around and pulled down several bottles, one being the aforementioned Rancor Bile, and began preparing two shot lines on the back counter, three glasses each. The being kept stealing glances at the Twi-leks, his eyes not on the Bartender’s quick hands. Korkie realized the being was distracted.
“You keep up, I’ll offer you a job in exchange for your Jedi’s location,” the male said, and Korkie stalled. He had no idea what a Rancor’s Revenge might entail, but by the gleam in this Alien's eyes and the vastly different body mass between them, it couldn't be good. However, by the way his progress here on Tatooine was going, the chance might be worth it.
“And how do I know you even have good information?” Korkie challenged back.
“Krippo never lies!” The being seemed offended, and Korkie took note of his name. The bartender turned back around, all four hands holding the boats of shots, and placed the drinks in front of them. Krippo leaned close, a grin on his wide face, “But you fail, you pay.”
“Then there's no shame in a deal,” Korkie glanced from Krippo to Thrassko, and an unexpected sense of trust washed over him.
“Of course, of course!” Krippo nodded, his multitude of chins wobbling with him and his eyes still over Korkie’s shoulder. “Ready boy?”
Korkie looked at the shot glasses of liquid, and his stomach muscles tightened in apprehension. “You have a deal.”
With that, both of them lifted salt rimmed glasses, and tipped them back. Korkie tried not to think of the components he had identified, but the burn wasn't so bad at first, before it hit his throat in a wave. It was sour, with a strange bitter undertone. Somehow it was dry and slimy at the same time, and his stomach recoiled. But Krippo was already lifting his second glass and Korkie followed ensuite. The second was worse, but Korkie managed to swallow, and he coughed, eyes watering once more. Krippo was grinning, looking back with amusement to the buddies watching from some booth in the corner, and Korkie grabbed his final glass. Working up the nerve, he downed it in a go, the heat rushing through his face.
Oh, the headache would be brutal in a few hours, but it was worth it to see the look of shock on Krippo’s face when he looked back, final glass in hand, to see Korkie slam his third glass back into the boat.
Krippo’s mouth fell open momentarily, and he finished his third shot with a growl. “You impress me,” Krippo muttered with a sour look on his face, and Korie knew it wasn't from the drinks.
“We Mandalorians know how to handle our drink,” Korkie answered in a stinging voice.
“Well,” Krippo huffed, and swatted Korkie’s shoulder in half-interest, “A deal is a deal. Come, let's talk business.”
Krippo waddled back towards his friends, beckoning Korkie to follow him. The Auburn haired boy blinked away the tears from the alcohol, and let out a quick breath before getting off the stool. He felt the effects quickly, but stayed on his feet. With suspicion, he reached over and lifted one of Krippo’s discarded glasses to his nose, and immediately recoiled, feeling his face scrunch. It was awful . Korkie was certain he just singed off every hair on his face with a single sniff.
Placing the glass back down, Korkie tilted his head in interest at the bartender, who was already cleaning his glasses. Korkie leaned over the bar and whispered to Thrassko, “Did you cut mine with water?” The music was loud enough that Krippo heard nothing, and kept walking away.
The Bartender let out the littlest of shrugs. “You tip well.”
Korkie pulled his face into a half smile, “Thank you.”
With that, he left two Credits at the counter, and followed Krippo back to the table where five rowdy beings of different species awaited him.
“Has Korkie checked in with you today?” Satine whispered to Ayma. “I haven't heard anything.”
“That Tatooine time difference might be significant. Yesterday when we talked, it was almost evening there.” Ayma answered. In the hallway of the space shuttle to Sundari, The two women stood in the center of gravity of the spacecraft to minimise the pressure sickness from passing so many gravity fields as they traversed the Mandalore System. At the moment, the Planet of Mandalore was opposite the sun from Kalevala, and this would be Satine’s second visit to her old Capitol city since she took to Darksabre, which hung at her hip from the over-gurtel she wore, fastened at the waist with a buckle bearing her Mand’Alor’s crest.
“I know I trust him… but I worry,” Satine closed her eyes, inhaling through her nose.
Ayma sighed, “And you know for sure that man went to Tatooine?” She whispered the question, “It can’t be that hard to find him.”
“Jedi are excellent at undercover, at making themselves disappear into a crowd, where you hardly see them.” Satine commented. “I had hoped Korkie would be able to see through it-” she coughed, “-having been obsessed with the Jedi as a child, of course.”
“Of course,” Ayma deadpanned.
Around them, the shuttle creaked and groaned, and Satine wrapped her arms around herself. The meetings with the clan lords in Sundari were important, and she wasn’t looking forward to delegating the rebuilding tasks between them. The trade with the Ithorians had happened two days prior, and they had acquired enough power cells for nine cities in the system. The trade had been for a Kalevalan Shipbuilding contract, and had not been to Mandalore’s favour. On this shuttle, they were transporting three of the power cells. One for Sundari, one for Keldabi in the north, and one for Chenjuri in the east.
Also on their plan for the visit was to dismantle the remaining Saxon loyalists living in the undercity. Somewhere in the Sundari depths she would find the stronghold that had been fortified by the extremists, and she would offer them the same deal; exile or trial. If any of them challenged her for the darksabre, she would diffuse it.
She wished Obi-Wan were here. He would be able to train her with it, to wield it not like the bow staffs and Beskar scimitars she’d trained with as a child, but to at least protect herself -and Korkie.
Kriff, she was worried about him. It wasn't supposed to take this long. Obi-Wan must have rid himself of his comm and gone fully undercover. Or maybe Ayma was right and he was already off planet.
“You don’t really think he’d lie about Tatooine, do you?” Satine asked quietly to her friend.
Ayma shrugged. “I don’t know him.”
Satine glared at the floor. “I want you to do some digging, and see if there's some way to track him.”
“Do I get to beat his ass when we find him?” Ayma put a hand on her hip, “For leaving you?”
Satine tilted her head, shooting her a look. She smiled with amusement, “Non-violence, Ayma. Non-Violence.”
“Noted,” Ayma gave a curt nod and a small wink, “Public embarrassment only.”
“Just see if you can track him, please,” Satine rolled her eyes.
“Is this an off-record order, Worshipfulness?” Ayma asked with a sly smile.
“When it comes to Obi-Wan, always.”
Obi-Wan Kenobi kept telling himself he’d been to worse planets.
“There’s a Mandalorian in Mos Eisley looking for you,” Owen Lars stated firmly next to him. The weathered former Jedi stiffened briefly. The men appeared to everyone else at the market of Anchorhead to be strangers, perhaps conversing over the machine parts laid out on the tables manned by a single droid. In Lar’s bag, a month’s supply of baby formula had been paid for with everything Obi-Wan had left.
“Did you get a description?” Obi-Wan cautiously asked, surprised that Lars would even offer the information to him.
“No, but I’ve seen him,” Owen nodded. “He hangs out at the bars, and occasionally rents Eoppie's to the other cities to ask around.”
Obi-Wan frowned with anxiety. Part of his entire disguise here was that no one would expect a Jedi to flee to such a remote, down low planet. To many of the Tatooine people, Jedi were simply a myth or legend. He gathered the feelings of worry, and pushed them down. It felt strange not to release them into the Force, but he hoped to minimize his tracks, including those left in the Force. Ripples, not waves.
“Anything else?” Obi-Wan hoped to confirm what he was worried was true.
“Well, he seems miserable here, that's for sure,” Owen huffed with amusement. “He’s scruffy. Sunburned like no one else I've seen in a long time, but hair bright as fire in the sun.”
Obi-Wan sighed. So it was true. Satine’s nephew was looking for him. It was certainly better than a bounty hunter on Empire payroll. But Korkie came with his own collection of issues. The boy probably needing his help for something, though… Oh, Satine.
He ached to have left her when her spirit was so fragile, trembling in the Force, that light in her flickering like a candle to guide him home. But Korkie had been serious. He could feel it in the Force, back when he had not cut himself off. He wondered now if the boy Satine raised as her own was looking for him on Satine’s behalf, and he wanted to rush to Mos Eisley to find him, and ask if she was okay, but the fear that she wasn't urged him to wait. If Satine was in trouble, he would drop everything in a heartbeat to save her, every single time. If she was fine, and Korkie was here for another reason, perhaps it was best he remain hidden, out of the Empire’s attention. And if Korkie already had the Empire’s attention for any other reason, he would have to keep Luke safe. But worse, if Satine were dead…
He would have no idea. He had cut himself off from the Force, and from her light.
Korkie could only be here for one of three reasons; Satine was dead and he was the messenger, they needed him for some reason, or Satine had sent Korkie herself. If Satine had sent Korkie, Obi-Wan could think of very few situations which would be more important than the safety of Luke.
In all scenarios, the chance of the Empire discovering himself and Luke rose astronomically, and he could not risk the Skywalker child in that way.
“Do you understand, boy?” Krippo asked once more.
“You have explained it to me as if I’m stupid about four times, so I’ll argue that I got the point a while ago.” Korkie sighed, hands on the scopes he had pressed to his eyes, focusing them across the sand dunes to the massive vehicle parked between the ravine sides. It reminded him of the Republic war-tanks he used to see on the holonews, and Korkie focused once more on his assignment.
“Ha! I knew I liked you.” Krippo swatted his back with a laugh again, and Korkie gritted his teeth.
“You have said that about four times as well,” Kokrie grumbled under his breath.
The dark hunk of metal was almost hidden between the rocks, though Korkie had a feeling that their terrible vantage point was not a mistake, and was meant to instead hide from the view of whatever lived in the tank. Korkie had been given minimal information, which he knew meant this was something they didn't want to do themselves for the reasons of whatever information they weren’t sharing. “It’s called a Sandcrawler, abandoned from the Old Republic mining days.” Krippo informed Korkie, “So you’ll want to go at dusk, when they open the vents to collect moisture.”
Korkie assumed it was because of his size difference to this band of beings he had accidentally fallen in with, as he was much leaner and probably quicker than the lot of them. Even still, they had managed to lend him a speeder, and told him to make it fast and easy.
“You go, we will be right here waiting.” Krippo checked the time again. “It’s almost time. It should take you fourty clicks to cross the plain, then you can get there right as the filters are opening. You should use the cover of sound from the mechanics to crawl inside.”
“And what about crawling back outside? With a droid?” Korkie scoffed.
“You seem smart,” Krippo guided him over to the speeder bike, and started it up while Korkie climbed on. “You’ll figure it out!”
“Hey wait!”
“Now! Go!” Krippoo hit the throttle for him, and the young Mandalorian shot off like a rocket across the desert plain, cursing as he went. He was thankful for his helmet, as the wind tearing across him certainly would have otherwise rendered him blind. The suns were setting to his back, and his shadow was long across the orange stained sand.
Korkie managed to get control of the speeder bike about halfway across the plain, and saw that the tank was fast approaching. He hit the breaks last minute, leaning in as the bike turned and threw sand up against the side of the tank. It was even bigger in person, with dark rusted sides and the front came to a point upwards towards the sky. Krippo had his timing correct, as several panels on the side of the Tank lifted, revealing the vents. The metal groaned loudly as gears scraped together and ground sand from between the cracks. Korkie got to work, and used the corner of the Beskar armour attached to his gloves to pry one of the slotted vents off, and he realized that he would fit perfectly in through the shaft. Not knowing how long the panels on the side of the tank would remain in motion, Korkie took a single great big breath, and climbed inside.
The space was dark, and he turned on infrared in the visor of his helmet, using it until he crawled on elbows, belly to the metal until he found the turbines at the end. Above him, a service hatch was visible, and Korkie used what little space he could manage to push it open. Managing to squeeze out, Korkie flopped onto the floor of the interior of the tank, and immediately heard the curious and confused chatter fill the space. His helmet was picking up what appeared to be work tables, and so much junk around him he wondered how the tank moved at all with so much scrap metal weight. Between the infrared lines were masses of something, and Korkie realized he was not alone.
Scrambling to get up, Korkie’s eyes adjusted to the light and he switched off the infrared, suddenly seeing a multitude of pairs of glowing yellow eyes staring at him.
“I -uh- come in peace?” he offered, before they all swarmed him. There were perhaps six or seven, he wasn't sure.
Korkie stomped as the creatures rushed at him, waving blunt knives and small guns. He quickly discovered what the guns fired when one shot him with an Ion bolt, and Korkie was quickly grateful for his Beskar, as the energy was channeled straight down into the metal floor, and stunned all the creatures in contact with him. The shooter clearly hadn't expected that, and waved his small blaster. Four of the creatures fell, their glowing eyes fading as they rolled sideways in their thick brown clothes, and Korkie drew his own blasters. Setting them to stun, he quieted the remaining three, and took in the silence. Korkie removed his helmet, and surveyed the space.
He was looking for a droid, and around him there was nothing matching the description he had been given. According to his employers, there was supposed to be a silver service droid somewhere, allegedly outfitted with weapons of its own scavenged from separatist army droids.
Korkie pawed around the place, but made it quick. He had a whole tank to search, and who knew how many of these things were on it?
Keeping his blasters drawn, Korkie navigated the halls and rooms, stunning the creatures he found, trying to keep quiet. He was constantly ducking to avoid the low ceilings these creatures were the perfect height for, after learning his lesson the first time and probably leaving a decent welt on the top of his head. Somewhere, the machinery groaned again, and this time exhaust made the pipes rattle, and Korkie heard what could only be the engines start up and the treaded wheels began slowly turning.
“Oh Kriff!” Korkie swore, and picked up his pace. Then, finally, in one of the remaining garage-like workspaces, was a quickly painted black service droid. It was powered off, mostly dismantled, and definitely missing the large amount of blaster arms Krippo had described. Korkie snuck over, and reached out to the droids paint job. He scratched at the paint with the Beskar on his arms, and smiled when he discovered silver underneath. He looked the droid over, and reached behind its head to switch it on.
The droid shook as if startled awake, and began beeping furiously. Korkie didn't understand whatever mechanical language it was screaming in, but he did know that it was far too loud.
“Shhhh! Quiet! Quiet!” He ordered in Galactic Basic, and considered shutting it back off, but with the way the shuffling in the other rooms was picking up, he needed to know the way out of this place, and quickly. The droid would not be fitting back through that vent. Its head was spinning at the neck, eyes blinking on and off in an electrical storm as it came back online.
“Master! Where is my master?” The droid switched to his mechanical voice, and Korkie did bang it with the butt of his blaster to get its attention.
“Hey there!” Korkie whisper-shouted. “How did they get you on here?”
“Are you my new master? My buyer?” The droid asked.
“Uhhhh yeah. Just bought you,” Korkie thought fast. “Ten credits.”
“Ten credits!” The droid moaned in disappointment. “My life has diminished in worth to that of a shoelace!”
“I said quiet,” Korkie hissed. “I’m your master now and I need you to tell me how to get off this thing.”
“If I am purchased, certainly the sellers will let you go,” The droid offered, then tried to stand. “Wait, my legs!”
“I’m sure we can get you new ones later,” Korkie reached down, and lifted the droid, immediately stumbling backwards once it was off the worktable and in his arms. “Kriff, you're heavy!”
“I am ninety-two percent made of metal,” The droid reported, “But I will need to recalculate that percentage accounting for the loss of my legs and -oh! My blasters!”
“No computations required,” Korkie hiked the droid upwards, “Just tell me how to get out of here!” He didn't like how disorientated the whole tank made him feel, as if he couldn't tell left from right or front from back.
“There was a ramp at the back, I think,” The droid answered. “I was turned off, you know.”
“You think or you know?” Korkie asked with urgency as an alarm went off. Clearly the creatures had discovered their friends and started waking them up from the stun. “No time, let's go!” Korkie shifted his weight and hit the wall panel behind him, shutting the door. His arms were full and he could not reach his blasters with the droid, and instead hopped backwards and kicked the panel, his Beskar tipped boots leaving a sizable dent and sparks flew. Korkie hoped that would at least slow down the creatures, even though they surely knew their way around this mining tank better than he did.
It was a mining tank, after all.
The whole thing would have been engineered for maximum efficiency. It probably would have loaded its ore at the front, then processed it using gravity, and kept only what it needed. It most likely had a dumping system for the waste in the back. Korkie looked around him at the room he was in. “The exit will probably be at the back of the vehicle,” The droid suggested. “On the lower level.” It was at that moment that Korkie desperately wished that he had a lightsaber like Obi-Wan, and could simply cut his way out of here. Behind them, the same chittering voices shouted behind the door, then scampered off to find another way to him.
But around him, on the walls, were many air pumps, suggesting that this was where more toxic and dusty material was refined after being crushed and sorted in the levels above. There were enough pipes leading out to wherever the tank would dump the waste. Following the lines of the pipes, Korkie took a wild guess, and rushed to what he hoped was the exit. The chittering and yelling of the creatures was concentrated behind the door, and Korkie re-hoisted the droid, and ordered it to take the blasters from his hips.
Korkie shielded himself behind the metal droid in anticipation. He had a guess that there were at least ten of the creatures behind the door, and they were all angry and armed. “But what enemy could we possibly be fighting?” The droid asked, even as it handled the blasters like an expert, powering them on.
“I’ll let you take a guess when they start shooting at us!” the boy responded, and he kicked open the door.
It was immediate as a war cry sounded from the smaller beings, and Korkie was rushed by the creatures, all of them banging on his armour and shooting at him. Ion bolts ricocheted off his Beskar and off the droid, and the screeching was intolerable. Korkie ran, trying not to harm the creatures but kicking some out of the way all the same.
The droid had almost perfect aim, and it’s true bloodlust made itself apparent once it started shooting back and discovered the blasters set to stun. It protected itself and by proxy Korkie, who then used the droid as a battering ram to knock down the last door, and light exploded into his eyes.
The garage-like space was wide open, and full of the last rays of light from the twin suns that were almost gone. Korkie’s arms began to ache and his legs were tiring from the weight, but he had to keep moving. The creatures chased him shouting and some threw tools at him.
He was out of the tank in a few laboured steps, and his boots hit the sand. The material shifted under his feet, but Korkie kept his balance and ran to where he had left his speeder bike.
To his dismay, it seemed the creatures had discovered it, and were currently dismantling it. From Korkie’s quick glance, he noticed that one hover disk had already been removed, and they were quickly ridding it of a second. The steering component had already been dragged back towards the tank, but Korkie didn't have time to retrieve it. The creatures were staring at him only a second as they registered Korkie with the stolen droid and their brethren on his tail. Weapons were drawn, none of them blasters, and others lifted their tools in determination.
“Come on, stun them!” Korkie ordered the droid, but it seemed to be glitching as it mumbled something about being a good host, which Korkie had zero desire to fulfil. The Prince of Mandalore couldn't handle the blasters and the droids, so simply did his best to haul the droid forward. Kriff, why did a single Jedi he formerly wanted to be rid of have to be so hard to find?
Korkie also discovered quickly that without the metal floors under his feet, his armour no longer had an easy circuit to distribute the electricity back into the ground, and his fingers turned numb when a bolt grazed his shoulder. “We need to go!” He said as more creatures poured from the tank, and Korkie balanced the droid sideways on the speeder, immediately trying to turn it back on.
The speeder sputtered and Korkie cranked the engine. “Come on, come on, come on!” He pleaded, and the fuel lines found a connection, the singular back hover disk glitching from where the tiny menaces had begun to take it off. Without steering, Korkie could simply hit the fuel, hoping and wishing that he would be able to manage to control the bike.
It shot off, albeit shaking and screeching across the sand, as the creatures yelled after him, waving their weapons and certainly demanding revenge. Korkie only leaned forward, and raced back to the meeting point.
In the Sundari Throne Room, in what used to be her beautiful Grand Salon, Satine sat upon her old throne in frustration. Most of the electrics were still out, and her stained glass chair was cracked in places where the panes had been blown out or shot to shattered pieces. It no longer glowed behind her. She had ordered the Sundari Palace be restored last, as a finishing seal to symbolise when her city was rebuilt to its former glory. At the moment, Satine was hosting the Clan leaders, attempting to delegate the repairs to each clan. She knew she technically had the ceremonial power to simply order them, but she would not disregard her dedication to democracy so quickly. In many ways she was now fulfilling the shallow definition of a Prime Minister, but she would have the people elect their own when the time came.
“I will not force my clanmates to labour under your every whim while their homes have been destroyed!”
“Have some respect for your Mand’Alor, Dan’tajj,” Ayma warned, her hands remaining off the blasters at her sides. “We all know your compounds in the west were hardly raided.”
The leader of the minor clans in the plains grumbled, “But-”
“The supplies you are claiming were ransacked are on record as having been voluntarily gifted as tribute to Saxon, is that correct?” Satine asked with an intense gaze.
“You cannot fault us for trying to establish the best chance of survival for my clan.” The man challenged.
“Oh, of course I don't,” Satine tilted her head, “However I do fault you for demanding government aid to replace what you voluntarily gave away, while others are still starving on the streets,” Satine wanted to roll her eyes, but the biting reply was enough. She leaned forward, “I called this meeting to organize a workforce that will maximise recovery but minimize individual workload. Many hands make light work.” Satine folded her hands in her lap. Across the floor, seated on rubble and what remained of the palace’s intact chairs, those in the meeting glared between each other. Light poured through the still shattered windows, and the sounds of the repairs to the dome being made could be heard throughout the entire palace.
Satine took a deep breath. “The people of Sundari and of Mandalore have been in a state of survival for far too long. I wish to see the people here able to return to normal life by the end of the year.”
“The end of the year?” One elderly woman snorted with disbelief. “There is so much damage to this city, what could possibly motivate these repairs?”
Satine was satisfied with herself to have the opportunity to smile. “I think the first problem to be addressed should be the air quality, which I have already seen to. At this moment, a replacement Power Cell is being installed into the air turbines. I have a team of engineers looking over them.”
“You think we will have weather control back soon?” Someone asked hopefully. The air quality was no secret and perhaps the most constantly irritating thing after the hunger of the people. “The people have been sleeping with their faces wrapped in fabric simply to keep out the dust.”
“The turbines should be running by evening,” Satine reported. It was also a political play, not just one for survival, as she had to keep the people hopeful. So long as they were hopeful, then these presumably wild timetables for the repairs would seem achievable.
Beside her, Ayma’s communicator beeped. The woman looked to Satine, who gave her the slightest of nods to dismiss her. Ayma stepped away to take the holocall.
“But what about food?” The same elderly woman spoke up, “The rations distributed days ago have almost run out. Can we purchase more?”
“Those were purchased from my private accounts,” Satine revealed. “Feel free to check my personal transactions, and you will find them drained.” The people stared at her. They seemed to be surprised that their Mand’Alor was practically credit-less, but the small glances between themselves was almost amusing to Satine. She wondered if they would still believe she was not willing to sacrifice anything for the safety of her people.
Satine raised a hand. “I would like to request your approval to sign off for purchases to be made with whatever is left of the Sundari Government Treasury. I wish to propose that we order food and relief supplies to the city under the guise of building materials to deter pirates.”
There was silence. “Don’t… dont you automatically own the spoils of any prior Mand’Alor?” Fenn Rau spoke up. “They are under your control already as the current Mand’Alor -by tradition.”
“I am not stupid,” Satine replied, “But those reserves are funded by the taxpayers, and I will see that they will remain to serve those same taxpayers, not my personal desires,” Satine added, “The finances were formerly handled by Prime Minister Almec, and I exposed his lies and corruption. I do not wish for that to happen again.”
People nodded. Fenn Rau frowned, “Do we know how much of a budget the government has in the accounts? We need to prevent too much debt -at least debt to anyone who may turn their guns on us.”
Satine crossed her legs, and nodded, “Unfortunately Saxon spent a considerable amount of the credits that had been kept in the vaults,” She muttered, “-mostly on weapons and alcohol.” Satine straightened her back. “But luckily he did not fully understand how our government used to work. We did not keep all our eggs in one basket.”
Bo-Katan nodded, “Pre Vizsla regrettably did, however he was not in power long enough to get clearance of all the vaults in the private banks.”
The woman who was sitting, a cane at her side, said, “I was young when Duke Adonai Kryze set up the system for the handling of Mandalore’s collective finances. I remember not understanding the reasons as to why he made it such a slow process to permit it’s use, but I think we all now understand why Duchess Sat- Mand’Alor Kryze wishes to preserve that process.” The woman wore no armour, and Satine made eye contact with her, smiling with a nod. With her piercing gaze, she addressed the crowd. “I’d like to pass a motion of collective approval to open the remaining Treasury for use by Mand’Alor Kryze,” The elderly woman said, her hand out on an imaginary helmet.
“Motion seconded,” Fenn Rau added, his helmet in his hands, covered by the right one.
“I third the motion,” Ayma reappeared at Satine’s side, and Satine saw the look on her face. She had something to tell her. Ayma placed her hand on the helmet in her lap.
Satine asked, “All in favour?”
“Aye,” The resounding chorus agreed.
“Any disagree?” She looked as several voted against her access, and the meeting scribe took their names and clans for the record. Even with four votes of unapproval, the motion passed with an easy swing. The clan leaders erupted into a squabble of sound, and Satine reached out a hand, “Now that I have access to the Treasury, I will sanction those food orders to be made immediately.” Satine nodded, and changed her tone of voice. “Now we will have a quick recess.” Her eyes darted to Ayma.“We will discuss exactly what to order after the pause. Excuse me.” Satine stood, pushing herself upwards off the throne, arms braced on the armrests. She walked towards where a small table of modest refreshments had been provided for the meeting attendees, and she began making herself a second cup of tea. Or maybe it was her third?
“What do you have for me?” Satine whispered to Ayma in the corner. They leaned away out of the attention of the Clan Leaders, and Satine selected the same bag of tea she’d practically been living off the last couple days. Nothing else seemed to stay down.
“I got confirmation that the legends of a Force Witch on Tracyn have real evidence.”
“Tracyn?” Satine echoed with confusion, pouring the boiling water into the cup. “Whatever would appeal to someone to live there?”
“If the stories about the Force-Sensitives are true, then surely they can accurately predict the eruptions and avoid them just fine.” Ayma shrugged. The planet she was speaking of, Tracyn, was the third planet in the Mandalorian Solar System, and was covered in Volcanoes. It’s unpredictable tectonics and dangerous pools of toxic acids made it practically uninhabitable, a constant risk to anyone on the ground, except for the particularly stubborn. In fact, the planet’s name in Mando’a translated directly to ‘Fire.’
Satine hummed, and lifted a spoon to stir the steeping tea. “And I’m assuming you think this witch would be able to track him?”
“I can’t assure anything, but it is our most discreet option.” Ayma leaned on the table. “Better than hiring someone,” Ayma’s eyes darted away. “However… I don’t think you should go.”
Satine frowned, “Overrided.”
Ayma leaned in closely, “Listen, Worshipfulness,” The dark haired woman huffed, “I don’t know why you think you need him so much, but you cannot abandon Mandalore for what very well may be a wild Bantha chase.”
“I will do what I damn well please.” Satine bit back. “And we both know that’s not your real concern.”
Ayma’s mouth opened and closed, and she grabbed Satine’s arm. Almost spilling her tea, Satine barely managed to set it down on the table before she was pulled through the door. Physically ushering her into the hallway, Ayma’s elbow hit the wall panel and the door shut behind them. In the silence of the destroyed hall, Satine yanked her arm out of Ayma’s grasp.
“There is something wrong with you,” Ayma pointed out. “You may have set me as an Ambassador, but I notice other things too,” The woman in maroon armour lowered her voice. “Are you sick?”
Satine blinked, instinctively stepping backwards. “Of course not.”
Ayma put her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Because-”
“It was this way when I first became Duchess.” Satine interrupted. “The adjustment puts a lot of stress on my body.”
Ayma squinted her eyes, but no relief was seen. “You still want to go, don't you?”
Satine leaned back against the wall. “I’m fighting, this time around. I let my chance go once, and I’m not giving up so easily this time. There is nothing to hold us back. No Jedi Order to keep him.” Her hand hovered over the Darksabre at her hip. “I am Mand’Alor and I can marry whoever I want.”
Ayma sighed through her nose, blinking as she looked around the hallway in thought. “I know what it’s like to regret lost time,” She whispered, “So I’ll compromise.”
“You really don’t have a foot in this decision,” Satine reminded her.
“We’re bringing the medical droid,” Ayma said firmly. “Even if you think you’re normal-”
“We?” Satine echoed.
“You need a pilot and a bodyguard,” Ayma shrugged, “And someone with enough knowledge to keep it quiet. I’ll have Fenn Rau cover for you.”
“Fine,” Satine decided she would rather not argue, and having a bodyguard when facing a force sensitive that they knew nothing about might be a good idea. “We leave in the morning.”
“I’ll have your schedule quietly cleared.” Ayma suggested, and the women turned back towards the Grand Salon. Satine took a deep breath, redonning her public persona in preparation for facing the people once more. Ayma opened the door.
“Is everything okay, Mand’Alor?” a man she recognised and knew well stood on the other side of the door, her mug of tea in his hands. He offered it to her, and Satine accepted it gratefully. Satine took a sip, exhaling slowly as her head’s buzzing subsided. She forced an assured smile.
“Fenn Rau,” Satine tilted her chin upwards. The man’s eyes shot up to attention, and he straightened his Beskar as he waited for her instruction. Satine turned to him, lowering her voice. “I have a personal matter to attend to. Please have a small starcraft prepped for my use in the morning.”
“Of course, Mand’Alor,” The man gave a half-bow, and they returned to the meeting.
“Where's the other half?” Krippo held the droid’s head and torso in his hands, looking it over. Korkie was fuming. Krippo and his men had not been at the designated meeting place, and Korkie had found them back at the bar, drinking, placing bets on his success after being chased halfway across the desert on a barely operable speeder that was backfiring with a noise to wake the dead and misfiring at a rate to knock his teeth out.
“You tell me!” Korkie seethed, “what were those things!?”
“Just a few Jawas,” Krippo rolled his eyes, “did they have the rest of my droid?”
“Listen,” Korkie reached out an arm and pointed straight up at the oily hunk of flesh he was starting to regret ever knowing, “I got you your droid, now you owe me the information you promised.”
“I said I’d share it if you retrieved my droid, not half of my droid,” Krippo said, and Korkie reached to his hip towards his blasters.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” One of Krippo’s goons warned. “You don't know who you're messing with.”
‘-And neither do you,’ the boy thought. Oh how Korkie wanted to tell them just who they were talking to; the Heir of the Mand’Alor, Lord of Kalevala, probably the most influential teenager they’d ever have the displeasure of pissing off. But he kept his mouth shut.
“I’m just kidding around, boy,” Krippo began disassembling the droid with all four hands, and pulled from its chest a pure block of aurodium. The others leaned in close, grinning and speaking in some garbled language with excitement. Korkie recognised the precious metal immediately. No wonder Krippo had wanted his droid back so badly. The yellow gold-toned metal had to be worth a few planetary fortunes. It was also no wonder the droid had been so heavy. Krippo held it up to the glow of the city lights.
Korkie grumbled to himself. It had never been a service droid, but a payload droid. No wonder it’s severed legs had been such a problem; as it couldn't run away and protect its treasure. He connected the dots; how the weapon systems activated only in danger of destruction to the payload. Korkie wanted to smack himself. How could he have been so stupid?
If he had realized the droid’s disguise sooner, he would have been rich enough to do anything he wanted on Tatooine -or be killed for it. That thought sobered him. Surely Krippo’s friends would have hunted him down for the block.
It was better to stop thinking about it at all.
“Where is the Jedi?” Korkie calmly asked. “What is it you know?”
Krippo sighed, still examining his prize. “There were talks of a man asking for a family out in the drylands. The guy who saw him said he was carrying a baby and a lightsabre. Of course everyone assumed he stole it.”
“Where, exactly?” Korkie squinted.
“Out near Anchorhead, I think.” Krippo smeared an annoyed glare across his face, “Now get lost, boy.”
Korkie had never been more relieved to be disrespectfully dismissed in his entire life.
“Have I mentioned I hate droids?” Satine grumbled in the co-pilot’s chair, watching the scanners as the planet of Mandalore disappeared behind them.
“Only about thirty times,” Ayma retorted. By all intents and purposes, they had snuck out of Sundari in the early hours, with very little more than the clothes on their back and that stupid medical droid Ayma insisted on bringing along.
Satine grumbled, relishing in the opportunity to casually complain to a friend without the constant eyes of her new court. “They're always driving me insane with their lack of social cue recognition, … or trying to kill me.”
“Well, good thing this one is a medical droid coded with perfect bedside manner,” Ayma attempted to joke. The woman flipped the switch to autopilot, their course charted. The trip was far too short for a hyperspace jump, and crossing the system would take enough time to let them kick their feet back, which is exactly what Ayma did. Her boots up on the console, Satine’s loyal bodyguard rummaged in the bag on the floor for a snack.
Satine decided not to comment on the feet on the console, and chose to distract herself instead. Packed away in her own case was the Holotablet she was starting to believe may actually be an extension of herself by now. Turning it on, she reviewed the trade offers her council had made yesterday, looking over them a final time before she signed off on them.
“All work, no play?” Ayma asked, ripping open the container to enjoy some freeze dried jerky mix. She reached out her arm across the space to offer Satine a handful of the snacks, but Satine declined.
“I have no interest in your… kibble,” Satine jested with a small smile.
“Your loss,” Ayma shrugged, “All the more for me.”
Satine hummed a disinterested answer, and sipped quietly from the thermos of tea she’d snuck from the kitchens that morning. For Satine, reviewing documents in the silence of the morning with a cup of tea or caf was therapeutic to her, almost like a return to normal. Almost like a return to the time before…
Satine almost shut off the Holopad as the memories of those days of terror and week in prison rushed back, followed by that terrible day in the Grand Salon. She had almost died in that room. Satine’s hand reached and rubbed the place on her lower left ribs where the same saber that hung at her hip had struck her ribs and left a sizable scar on her front and back. Biting her upper lip, Satine inhaled slowly, banishing the memory. They weren't far from Tracyn, but she refused to appear in front of a potential Force Sensitive with her emotions in a mess. Obi-Wan used to be able to read her like a book, and whether that was due to his Jedi magic or their connection, she still wanted to be safe.
Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the darkened shadows of the alleyways, a hand to his chin in thought. Across the street, the boy he’d been watching all evening argued with the uncivilised ruffians Obi-Wan had had a bad feeling about since the moment he’d seen them. The teenager was finally wrapping up the conversation, his helmet under his arm as he turned his heel. Korkie Kryze looked both ways before he crossed the road to the other side of the way, lifting his headgear as he went. Obi-Wan squinted, studying the young man as he stepped out of the shadows to follow him many paces behind. It was like a calling, a desire to follow and protect the boy. This was Satine’s boy, and though he had little emotional connection, something in him strove for the opposite.
Obi-Wan tilted his head as he walked, and Korkie stalled, his steps slowing and he looked back over his shoulder before he put on his helmet. Time slowed down.
The last of the light from the twilight of the twin suns threw dramatic light across the skies and across the profile of Korkie Kryze. Obi-Wan was suddenly hit with a strange sense of intense deja vu, as if he’d looked into that unshaven jaw and that face before.
Korkie Kryze was the spitting image of a particular twenty year old Padawan who had fallen in love with a particular Duchess many years ago.
Obi-Wan almost stumbled in his tracks, his boots tripping On nothing before planting them firmly. Obi-Wan stared with wide eyes, his heart dropping in his chest and then quickening to a pace he couldn't keep track of. The emotions he was so practised at keeping in control surged in him like a tidal wave, hitting the walls of the Force he was still erecting like a Tsunami. The wave tripped over the edge, splashing into the Force and sending out the ripples Obi-Wan so greatly feared.
But that was the least of his worries, and Korkie froze, spinning on his heels, and finding his watchful stare. Korkie removed his helmet quickly, identical blue eyes meeting again. Both men stared at each other for the briefest of moments, shock for different reasons filling their gazes, and Obi-Wan could barely swallow his reaction. The denial took hold, and brief reassurance reclaimed him.
Korkie Kryze couldn't be his son.
Satine would have told him.
“I’m currently scanning for Life Forms,” Ayma reported as she took back the controls. Autopilot was switched off, and Satine buckled in for landing. The planet below lived up to its name, with glowing oceans of lava and rivers of fire cutting across its black volcanic surface. Satine remembered long ago learning in school about the biologically engineered microscopic plant life and lichens which somehow fed off the gasses of the planet’s interior, and allowed for humans to breathe on the surface. Satine watched Ayma’s scan conclude, and a few outposts popped up, most with five to ten individuals. Satine watched the map, and pointed out a single dot out in what she guessed would count as the wastelands of the planet. “That one. A Force Witch would probably live alone, don’t you think?”
“This is your mission, Mand’alor,” Ayma shrugged. “Adjusting course now.”
Ayma guided the ship downwards, breaking through the hazed sky that glowed with the light of their sun with yellow and grey clouds. The ash of the volcanoes streaked across the windshield of the spaceship, and Satine instinctively squinted. The winds knocked them around a bit as they entered the lower atmosphere, but Ayma brought the ship down carefully, keeping it level. They landed with a jolt, and Satine gripped the sides of the pilot seat with white knuckles. Upon landing, she listened to Ayma mumble through the Life support checks, and she looked outside. The scanner was still indicating that their person of interest was nearby, somewhere in the cliffs they had parked beside.
The cliffs provided some shelter from the tearing winds, and Satine reached for something to wrap around her head and face. She’d made the stupid choice to only wear only half armour over her more casual new clothes. This meant she’d left her helmet in Sundari.
Satine looked back to the cliffs. When this is over, she would be so close to finding Obi-Wan. Nearby was the assurance that Korkie would find him, and bring him home.
Ayma stood from the seat. “Are you listening to me?” She asked with a small sigh.
“Sorry?” Satine asked her to repeat herself.
“I’m going out to survey the area. You stay with the ship. And I’ll come back when I’ve found your witch and made assurances they have no ill intent.” As if to prove her point, Ayma donned her helmet, and unholstered her two blasters, walking towards the back of the ship where she would lower the entry ramp.
“Ayma, I don’t need protecting,” Satine sighed, pulling on gloves and preparing to cover all skin that might be exposed to the wind. Who knew what else was swirling in that wind. She was only half a step behind her friend, who muttered something about winning a darksabre just to never use it, but Satine ignored the remark and moved forward all the same.
The ramp lowered, the immediate noise of the planet surprising Satine. Wind screamed around every jagged rock spire, and a slow rumble seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. On the horizon, volcanoes of every size and shape slept and erupted, the smoke and fire colouring the sky red where the sun didn't manage to come through the cloud cover. Satine figured that if there was a Hell, this was it. Her first foot stepped off the ramp onto pebbles of sharp black rock. She looked around them, and fully stepped off the ship. Ayma gave her a side eyed glance through her helmet, blasters aimed outward as she flanked Satine.
Satine tried not to cough, and she made her way towards the cliffs, looking for some sort of sign of life. “The scanner indicated that the lifeform was nearby,” Ayma mentioned, her focused eyes looking for any movement.
Satine found the cliffsides where crevices twisted and fell into inky darkness. It had the look of a massive gate, but at its base, the air was stiller. Nearby, other cracked exuded gasses of differing colours and temperatures, and Satine made sure to steer clear of those. All around the naturally formed spouts and chimneys was the species of lichen Satine recognised as to be responsible for the oxygen she was breathing.
“Your blasters are of little use against me, Commando,” a sultry voice from the shadows called, and Ayma spun in the sand to aim them at the speaker.
Satine looked around for the source of the voice, but could not see them. Well, she was pretty sure the voice was a woman’s. Satine cleared her throat, “I have come to speak with the Force Witch that lives on this planet!”
“Force Witch?” The voice echoed, and Satine felt uneasy as the source seemed to have shifted to behind her. “That’s a rude title, though I presume a correct one.”
“What is your name?” Ayma asked, still trying to find the person speaking, examining the maze of cracks in the cliffs and the boulders all around them. Ayma signalled for Satine to please return to the ship, but like earlier, Satine ignored her.
“Oh, my name is of no importance,” The voice shifted yet again, “all are nameless here,” the voice was somehow always behind them. “All will eventually burn.” How she was managing the illusion, Satine did not know. She forced her heart rate to subside.
It was not until a figure melted out of the black rock that Satine and Ayma both saw her. She was of lean build, average height, or at least that was the information they could infer from the black and red robes wrapped all around her. Her hood was drawn low over her face, where Satine was able to focus on a pale, sharp chin and the lips a tone of grey-purple, tattoos drawing her mouth downward to the sides of her chin.
Satine swallowed, and the woman lifted her hood. Her head was shaved, to Satine’s interest, and her skin was pale as silver, with minimal, thin tattoos adorning the corners of her eyes and her forehead. Others swirled on the sides of her skull. Satine furrowed her brows as she took in the face who gave the smallest of smiles, “You better come inside before another shard storm hits. I mean you no harm… right now.”
“What's a…” Ayma’s voice died when Satine wordlessly followed the woman into one of the Crevices, squeezing between the stones into pure darkness. Satine did her best to follow, using her ears and hands to navigate through the small space before she saw light, sickly green lanterns hung from the walls of the cave where veins in the rock glowed gold, emitting a pleasant warmth. Ayma squeezed behind her, grumbling about scratched armour. The cave opened up into a cavern that was much more quiet than the outside, and fine sand covered the floor.
"Sometimes, when the wind becomes strong enough, it picks up shards of Obsidian from the Glass Ocean and they fly through the air at high speeds. You are shredded to pieces before you can take your second step outside," The woman explained as she went deeper into the cave.
“I must insist that you leave your weapons on that table there,” the woman said, her back still turned to them as she relaxed into the space.
Beside Satine, Ayma spat, “Like hell I’m leaving my-”
“This is a shrine of non-violence.” the woman said in that seductive voice again, “Which you should find to your tastes, Duchess.”
Satine tilted her head, eyes widening with surprise. “You know me?” She asked.
“We have… a few connections,” the woman chuckled to herself. “Now, please have your pet lower her guns and leave them alongside yours, thank you.” The woman raised her arm, pointing a long skeletal finger to direct them to a table that seemed more like an altar, where two lightsabers sat on stands above an array of other weapons. Satine unclipped the Darksaber from her side, and Ayma violently shook her head.
“We need this information,” Satine whispered under her breath. Ayma gave her a look that stated they would be having a discussion about her recklessness later, and Satine handed the weapon to Ayma, who was forced to take it. With a whole lot of attitude, the dark haired woman dumped them on the shrine.
“Now that we are on equal grounds, let’s talk business,” The woman smiled for real this time, and took a seat on one of the boulders in the cave. Satine was able to look closer now, and saw the amount of carvings on the walls and the way so much of the place was gathering dust.
“This place is ancient, but you are not,” Satine observed.
“I will take that as a compliment, Duchess,” The witch crossed her legs, and her graceful hands fell to her lap. Satine took a seat on another of the rocks nearby, and bid Ayma sit. Ayma did not sit.
“This cave is one of many shrine retreats for my kind throughout the Galaxy,” The woman explained. “I was once a Nightsister, until I pursued other goals.” She sighed, and reached out to scoop up a handful of black sand. She tipped her hand, the grains running through her fingers like an hourglass. “This place is a refuge of solitude and servitude for my clan. There is a long list of witches who have spent time recovering here. And like a few of them, I came here to remind myself of my identity.”
“Wouldn’t you do that on your homeworld?” Satine asked, unsure what kind of debt she was racking up just from these questions.
“Visiting Dathomir would prove… difficult,” The woman replied. “However, this place reminds me of home.”
“My condolences,” Satine said without thinking. She tightened her jaw in regret of what she just said. Instead of being offended, the woman burst out into harsh, intense laughter.
“Lets settle and say I find the fissure gasses here relaxing,” The witch said with a wink, “It will help me discover what you are wanting to know.”
“And you want payment,” Satine inhaled through her nose.
“I have no use for your money,” The woman raised and whisked a hand in the air, “You can pay with a secret or two. If I find the first one interesting enough, I may waive the second.”
Satine blinked, though she wasn’t surprised. These types of people usually had the ability to earn money in nefarious ways, and so getting someone to talk took more skill and time that they didn't have the patience for. Satine could certainly barter something of minimal importance. “I accept.”
“Perfect,” The witch stood, “Let me make us something to drink, shall I?”
Satine shook her head, “I’m fine, thank you.”
“What about you, Madame Friendly?” The woman tipped her chin in Ayma’s direction.
Ayma continued to glare as she stood, feet shoulder width apart, arms folded behind her back. She forced out the words, “Respectfully, I will decline.”
“Suit yourself,” The woman swayed her hips as she walked with a dancer's grace. She pulled bottles and jars out that had been shoved into the cracks in the rock, pouring and mixing contents into a bowl. Using tongs, she reached them into one of the glowing crevices, and yanked free a bright stone. The witch examined it before dropping it into the liquid. It bubbled and fizzed, and the women seemed satisfied. Returning with the bowl in her hands, the woman reseated herself.
“I want to know if you can track another Force-User,” Satine said.
“Darling, I use magic just as much as I use the Force. You will need to tell me which method to use.”
Satine frowned. She knew nothing about magic, except the old legends that spoke of it’s danger and how it always had a price. Judging by the situation she was in, Satine guessed that any price to be paid for such a feat would be terrible. She resisted shrugging, “I would assume the Force.”
“I can track a Force-Sensitive, so long as I have a Point of Reference,” She paused, “And so long as they are still alive and present in the Force,” She tilted her head.
“What do you mean a ‘Point of Reference’?” Ayma asked suspiciously.
The woman’s eyes shifted to stare into Ayma’s. She smiled, “Anything that has been a part of their living body. Limbs have been used. A little blood. Kyber crystals are also viable. I once used a finger,” The woman said nonchalantly.
Satine’s stomach recoiled in disgust. She had nothing of the sort for Obi-Wan. Nothing that gruesome. His cloak she owned once had some of his blood on it many years ago, but that was more likely than not completely washed out. Then her mind came to another possibility. Satine’s face concentrated, “You say blood…” She licked her lips, “What about an immediate relative?”
“You know an immediate relative?” The woman’s face twisted into a knowing smile, and Satine’s stomach rolled again. The woman whispered under her breath, “Facinating.”
“I do,” Satine swallowed, anxiety forming in her chest as she debated truly going through with this. She wanted to back out, to take a few more days to think about this, but if she waited around more, she would wait around forever. Satine had promised herself action. She had chosen this. She had chosen to fight for their future. Satine gulped again. “I have the blood from a son.”
So Ayma was sent to retrieve the medical droid, as Satine said it was irony for her insistence on bringing it along. Ayma hadn’t been happy about leaving Satine alone with the witch, but was sent all the same.
“Oh yes, I can use this just fine,” The woman snatched the tiny vial from Ayma’s hand when it was presented to her, holding it up to the light of the lanterns and rolling it between her thumb and pointer finger. Ayma was watching every move with the eyes of a guard hound, and the witch traipsed around the cavern, pulling potions and items from of the walls once more. She had finished her bowl of drink earlier, and she used the bowl along with six others to create a line on the floor, where she poured out her mystery liquids into each one. With a circle drawn in the sand of the floor with her toe, the woman seated herself, and drank the first bowl. She held the vial of Korkie’s blood in her right hand, and uncapped it, pouring three drops into her palm. She took the position of a meditating Jedi, and ordered for silence. Her eyes took on a sour green glow, and similarly colored mist came up from the circle in the sand in wisps.
Minutes passed, and the woman worked her way down the line of bowls, drinking from each one in a system. Satine didn't want to ask what she was ingesting, and chose to sit outside the circle, back to the same boulder she’d been seated on earlier. Even Ayma eventually surrendered with the passage of time, planting herself nearby where Satine was constantly in her sights.
The minutes passed, and the woman started to become frustrated. When the blood drops in her hand fizzled and evaporated to leave red crumbles, The Witch growled, “You are sure he is alive?” Satine had tried not to mention that she’d never revealed who exactly she was looking for, but the woman's words were revealing that she knew more about Satine than she let on.
“He has to be,” Satine pleaded more with fate than the woman, and she added, “He is in hiding. I need to bring him home.”
The woman’s face twisted into a smear of concentration, and used the vial of Korkie's blood once more to replace what had burnt in her hand, “If he is in hiding, he may have cut himself off from the Force, that bastard,” The witch muttered, and Satine got the sudden realisation that this woman knew Obi-Wan one way or another. Guessing by the lightsabers she had on the altar, she was probably a former Jedi or had stolen them from one. Either was a dangerous life to live. The woman sighed, “I will have to broaden my search.”
With that, she drained the remaining mixes in each of the seven bowls one after the other, and grunted when they hit her system at once. She groaned, sweat forming on her pale skin. The woman gritted her teeth, her face changing with her own emotions as she tried to sense the location of the Force-Sensitive.
The woman’s face finally fell, confusion replacing it, the followed by almost sick amusement. Her eyes opened, pupils dilated widely from the drugs, and she stared straight at Satine. With careless words, she shrugged and said, “I’m sorry, I have done my best.”
Struggling to stand, the woman got up slowly, and Satine scrambled to her feet, the anxiety in her building and her whole body reacting to it. “But you found something!”
The woman sighed, looking at her with interest, “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Satine shook her head.
“There was nothing of Obi-Wan except a brief disturbance from the Outer Rim Territories. It was hours ago, but not definitive enough to track.”
“And?” Satine waited for her to finish.
The woman folded her arms, looking Satine up and down with the same amusement, "And- the closest signature is already in the room with us."
Satine's head tilted, eyebrows drawn close. “I’m.. I'm not Force Sen…” Her argument died in her mouth. Her hand fell from her face to find what she had failed to notice on her own.
“No, Duchess,” The woman smirked, “It seems congratulations are in order. Consider your debt paid.”
Chapter 20: Chapter 20
Summary:
The entire dysfunctional Kryze-kenobi fam face some hard truths
Notes:
NOTICE; this fanfic runs off the Star Wars universe calendar system, with a five day week as the norm. All mentioned time measurements have been converted to fit that standard. But worry not, translations are at the end of the chapter so no math is required of my lovely readers.
Also: *insert that one Mama Mia scene* “how old are you?” “I’m twenty!” “AHHH!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you going to ask about her or not?” Korkie sighed, setting down two small meals onto the table. He slid into the seat, awkwardly using his hip to push aside his Buy’ce that he’d left to mark his place in the booth.
“How is she?” Obi-Wan finally begged the answer, even as his conflicting emotions and the orders from Yoda to detach himself to protect Luke warred with the desire to know that the woman he loved was safe. Obi-Wan stared at the food Korkie had pushed in front of him. “She’s not in harm’s way, is she?”
“No, no,” Korkie shook his head, “She’s alive.”
Obi-Wan turned his head, looking up at the boy. Korkie appeared to be better than he was before, and he now carried himself with an underlying confidence that made Obi-Wan wonder what had changed. When they parted mere weeks ago, Korkie had been a determined yet traumatized teenager. But now he seemed focused and aware, with an assurance about him that seemed backed by experience, not ego. Either he’d stepped up somehow, or he had a vendetta to meet. Obi-Wan bit the inside of his mouth. “I take it she didn’t take it well, then,” He lamented.
Both men sat in the bar they’d wordlessly slipped into from the street. Neither had spoken about the circumstances of their separation, although Obi-Wan had hesitated addressing the Bantha in the bar until Korkie had volunteered the information at his expense. Their corner was secluded, quieter than the rest of the establishment, and they sat opposite each other at a table that only smelled a little bit -much better than the rest of the Bar.
“No, she did not take it well,” Korkie deadpanned, lifting the meat pie off the plate in both hands to his mouth, taking the largest bite he could manage. He chewed, relief on his face as the heavy spices reminded him of home. When he swallowed, he added, “But she wants you to come home.”
“Home?” Obi-Wan echoed. “I don’t have a home,” he stared at Satine’s son, with blonde tipped auburn hair that was still growing back out after the buzzcut. He had patchy parts on the sides of his jaw and chin where the beginnings of a youthful beard was coming in. Force, Satine must hate that, Obi-Wan thought. She had certainly hated it when they were on the run years ago, and he’d had no access to a razor.
Obi-Wan had wondered before, in a moment of selfishness, if the boy Satine doted on could be theirs. Back on that freighter, when Satine had been in such turmoil, her emotions longing for something out of reach that he could not place, Obi-Wan had wished. He’d tried to ask, but looking at the youth now, he couldn’t deny the resemblance. The coincidence was far too aligned.
Korkie was rolling his eyes at his words, “That’s stupid.” He took another bite, and Obi-Wan succumbed to his own hunger, trying to not be bothered by the lack of eating utensils. Not that he wasn't accustomed to eating with his hands, but it certainly wasn’t his preference.
Across from him, Korkie coughed lightly with the effort of swallowing too soon, and Obi-Wan’s attempt at redirecting his thoughts failed. He could not process this well enough to control his thoughts. He had to be certain. He would certainly make a massive fool of himself if the boy wasn’t theirs, but some cruel trick of nature to remind him of what he had given up. “How old are you?” Obi-Wan asked when the panic returned.
“Old enough,” Korkie huffed, giving him a side-eyeing glance.
“Humour me,” Obi-Wan leaned forward, his hands folding again over the table.
“Old enough that the answer might make you uncomfortable,” Korkie snorted. He looked up from his food, which was somehow already almost halfway gone. “I’m seventeen, almost eighteen.”
Obi-Wan leaned back in his seat. The timelines certainly matched, with enough overlap that either Korkie was born early or Satine might have known already when they said goodbye. That thought hit him harder, that she might have made the choice for him back when they had a chance together. Kriff, she had made the choice for him. She had decided for him that he would not be a father. Satine had never reached out, never even called to tell him. An anger and betrayal he was not accustomed to feeling rose within him.
Satine, his dear Satine, had hid this from him. For years.
Obi-Wan almost shook his head. No, she wouldn't have. She couldn't have betrayed him like that. They had their disagreements for sure, but a betrayal like this was out of the picture. They had talked about kids long ago, to the point of joking about names. She knew how much he loved children. She wouldn't keep this sort of thing from him. Of course, the only other option was that Korkie wasn't even theirs, or he was born of someone else… if Satine had been with someone else within the same month of her coronation, when they’d also said goodbye -quite passionately.
No, Korkie was either theirs, or not at all. When he instinctively reached out in the Force, he found it to be true. Korkie’s signature was deeply layered, but under all the scars of life, it flickered with a familiarity that Obi-Wan could only liken to home. When he had watched him from the ridge top, Obi-Wan had been impressed with the skill by which Korkie had seemingly effortlessly dodged the ion blasts of the Jawas, and snuck past the dangers inside. Now he knew it was more than talent. The Force was in his blood.
Korkie was most definitely Force-Sensitive, enough that he could have been brought into the Order and become a Jedi. But life had worn him down, taught him to deny his instincts and hide the thing that made him special. Oh, but he had never needed Force Sensitivity to be special, Obi-Wan knew that. He wondered if Korkie had struggled as he had, trying to understand why he was different, striving for the approval of those around him. That was a habit not easily broken, and when Obi-Wan looked at his son, he knew it to be true.
He was a father.
Obi-Wan felt something heavy form in his throat, “And your…”
“-Father?” Korkie finished with a jabbing snort of laughter. “Don't know-” His eyes flicked up to stare straight into Obi-Wan’s, accusation flashing through them, “-Dont care.”
Obi-Wan’s heart fell at those words, hurt he didn't know he had the leverage against him to feel ripping at a place he’d shut away long ago. He had no idea what to do.
Korkie continued, “Whoever it was, he left my Mum to do it all on her own,” The auburn haired boy dropped the food to his plate, his hand shaking briefly, “-and I will never forgive him for that.” Obi-Wan sensed the boy’s convoluted anger, the flow of it swirling until it corrected itself and focused directly at him. So Korkie knew.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had a son. A son.
A son with Satine Kryze.
Satine Kryze, who had hidden it from him.
A tear slipped free down his face, and instead of wiping it, Obi-Wan let it fall. No one seemed to pay any attention to the tumultuous reunion happening in the corner of the bar. Obi-Wan stared at the boy he had unknowingly abandoned. His appetite was gone.
“Satine,” Ayma hissed, “Get your ass up before I drag you.” Ayma Hurr growled into her ear. Satine’s collapsed legs were folded under her as she sat in the volcanic sand, back slumped to curl in on herself. Nearby, the Witch was cackling to herself, mumbling under her breath about how entertaining the situation was.
“I’m…” Satine couldn't force out the word. Her arms wrapped around herself, down around where something rested that changed everything. “I can’t be..”
“I heard,” Ayma’s face scrunched with suspicion to the Witch, glaring through her dark lashes to keep an eye on the woman. “Come on. It’s time to go.” Ayma lowered a hand, offering it to Satine to help her up.
Satine’s walls were collapsing as denial set in. No, she couldn't be…
“I hope you find what you are looking for, duchess,” The Witch purred from where she stood near the corner, a hand on her hip and the other flourishing through the air. Her hood was redonned, and she squinted as she watched the other women with disinterested amusement.
“Let’s get you to the Emdee, then we will know for sure,” Ayma offered in a whisper, pulling Satine up to her feet. They both retrieved their weapons from the Altar, and Ayma handed her the Darksabre once more. She clipped it back to her girdle, disbelief setting in. No wonder people were thinking she was sick. Satine took back the heavy blade with newfound disgust, her stomach lurching.
“Please rid her of my premises before she makes a mess of my floors,” The Witch rolled her eyes. It was the kindest farewell Satine felt the woman was capable of, and let Ayma lead her from the cave. Through the crevice and back into the maze of black spires, they returned to their ship. Outside was loud, with a tearing wind and that rumble she still couldn't escape. Satine’s hair whipped around her face where whisps had been pulled free from her braid, but she didn't bother to fix it. Her boots in the pebbled sand were unsteady as they walked, quiet while Satine’s thoughts raced. She wanted to just shut them down, to take this the way she took most unexpected challenges; with a stern gaze and a tight lip. But everything was in turmoil, with her mouth becoming dry and her hands shaking. This really was the worst timing for her.
She had managed to do this once before, with Korkie. But a second time? This would be messy.
Ayma pulled down the ramp, the two of them boarding the ship and Satine was unsure what to do. She took her place in the co-pilot’s chair, folding her legs and crossing her ankles. She wanted to feel small, like she might hide away from the confirmation. “Shall we do this now, or back home?” Ayma asked gently, her demeanour softer now that they were out of that witch’s presence. Ayma busied herself with prepping the ship and closing the ramp, letting the ship fall back into silence.
“I… I don’t know,” Satine answered. She didn't like not knowing for certain, though the confirmation or denial seemed more terrifying than the limbo beforehand. But Satine realized she knew. She knew it was true. If it wasn’t, this would just be a freak scare and she could go back to her ruling of Mandalore and her search for Obi-Wan.
Oh, Obi-Wan.
How could she forget him? It was his. She knew that. There was no one else. But the question was when, and how? Satine reached for her arm, checking where her implant was supposed to be located. Her thumb rubbed across her skin, and found the lump. It was still there. Her implant was still there. How had it failed?
They had been together several times since her rescue, and Satine wondered how far along she was. There had also been a few stolen nights in the months before her dethronement, but it had to have been sometime after. Otherwise the Temple medical droids would have caught it. She reached down, finally splaying her hands across her stomach. How long has she been pregnant? How could she have missed this?
Satine had been pregnant during the conclave, she realized. A surge of panic rushed through her, terror that she had somehow hurt them. She had had bruising all over her middle from that fight, from being thrown to the ground and all the kicks and jabs Saxon had struck her with. She was still sore in some places where her ribs ached and her bad hip still protested prolonged usage. She’d caught herself over that tree root in a way that could have injured them. Satine had even had a drink or two at her coronation.
“Kriff,” she swore, curling in on herself, hands folded as if she could cradle them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” She whispered downwards, the tears that had collected in her waterline finally spilling over down her cheeks. Satine was stricken with horror and dread that she may have caused irreparable damage. “I’m so sorry,” She mumbled again. She had put them in danger. She had been in battle, taken unsafe hyperspace routes with faulty ship engines, drank caf, and drank alcohol… Her brain kept listing things off. She’d even taken some pretty hot showers. Even if that was on the lower end of risks, Satine considered it. Her potential child was in the one place they were supposed to be safest, and she’d been so careless.
“Hey, hey.” Ayma appeared, “You’re panicking,” She reached out and hovered a hand over Satine’s shoulder. “Let's get the medical droid, okay?”
Satine could barely nod, and she stared into space. She needed to tell Obi-Wan. Surely this would bring him home. There was no reason to hide it from him this time around. This time around... He would have to know sooner than later the truth about Korkie.
Korkie.
He was going to be an older brother, she realized. He would have a brother or sister. Satine had wondered on many occasions how he would take to the role. He would have a sibling, she told herself. A real sibling.
That was, if this didn't end terribly, if there were no complications that she would be forced to suffer from, then she could see them become the family she used to imagine and pretend she had. Beside her, Ayma had rolled out the medical droid, and flicked the switch to turn it on. The droid blinked awake, looking around and immediately asking if the blood Ayma had taken from its files had been useful. Ayma spoke quickly with the droid, giving its directive over to patient care.
“Here, shall I ask or do you want to?” Ayma was walking on eggshells, trying to keep her calm even as tears were slipping down Satine’s face. This wasn't how a woman was supposed to feel when she discovered something like this, right? She was supposed to feel elated. This was something she should have wanted. In many ways, she felt no different, and she knew nothing but the fear in her heart and the worry that this would all go terribly wrong.
When Satine finally spoke, she looked at the Emdee and ordered, “Please run a diagnostic… general health.” She watched the droid look her over, performing some quick scans and it asked her to sit properly or find a place to lie down to get a proper look. So they went to the small room behind the cockpit opposite the emergency closet, the three of them squeezing into the small space. Ayma pushed a panel on the wall, a small platform folding out. She hit a button and the thin cot inflated immediately. Satine leaned back and hopped up onto the small fold out pilot’s bed. She removed the armour pieces she wore decoratively over the skirted flight suit she wore. She let Ayma unzip her back for her. Setting everything beside her, Satine unclipped the Darksabre with shaking hands, setting it atop the pile of clothing. Remaining in her compression undergarments, Satine wrapped her arms around herself. The droid puttered around her, mumbling about the bruising still healing on her ribs and her bad hip that was still inflamed.
“Do you want me to stay?” Ayma asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Satine replied. Part of her wanted her friend here just in case, but she also wanted to be able to feel whatever came her way without the need to perform. Not that she had to save face in front of Ayma, but long habits were not easily broken. During her first pregnancy -‘first pregnancy’… that would be strange to reconsider- she had barely anyone around her who knew what she was going through. Just like Padmé, she didn’t have her own mother to call upon or a close friend to confide in. Certainly no one else who had actually birthed a child of their own before, and certainly no one who knew who the father was.
“Subject still has significant bruising and inflammation of the Elbow and Hip,” the Emdee reported. It held up one of its mechanical arms, pointing in the air theatrically to make a point, “I can recommend a mild painkiller.”
“Is that even safe?” Satine mumbled.
“Safe for what?” The droid waited for her to elaborate. Its cam-eyes were expanding and minimizing its lenses while it watched her, analysing its patient for whatever queues it had been programmed to recognise.
“Safe for…” She felt her voice falter, then she said, “Please run a scan,” Satine ordered, “for… for pregnancy.”
Ayma watched carefully, eyes flicking between the droid and Satine. She stood with her back to the wall, waiting for a crack in Satine’s emotional facade that might call for her presence. Satine felt cold, the artificial lights of the room too bright as she waited. The droid tilted its head, and blinked, “Scan commencing.”
Satine’s heart pounded, her hands clenched at her sides in a soldier-like fashion. By the Manda, if this was just a scare, she wasn't prepared for how she would feel. Relieved? Disappointed? But if it was a positive result, how would she proceed? What would she do if she’d unknowingly caused them to suffer with her careless lack of self-preservation and negligence of her health? The nightmare scenario of losing this baby due to her own stupidity made her stomach drop in fear.
It was that moment that she realized that if it was true and the witch was right, she desperately wanted this. She wanted this baby.
A Baby.
“Scan complete,” The Droid nodded.
“What are the results?” Ayma gently whispered when Satine was unable to. The Droid wheeled backwards a little bit, its arms folding in front of itself.
“The subject is far enough in gestation that a blood test is not required,” The Emdee confirmed. “The scan places the pregnancy at approximately fourteen weeks,” The Medical droid’s voice was neither sympathetic nor congratulatory, and Satine was too focused on forcing herself to breathe to attempt to backwork precisely when that placed the date of conception. Her mind was in a frenzy, emotional survival mode kicking in as it searched for the first familiarity: a problem to solve.
Satine throat closed and she gulped. Blinking rapidly, Satine felt her eyes become fuzzy with tears, her hand flying from her side to touch her bare skin. Choking, she begged, “And the health?”
The Droid tilted its head up to imitate a caring expression. “The heartbeat is steady,”
Satine let out a huge breath with a broken exhale, the relief washing over her. Her mouth couldn't help but pull into a tight smile. Her eyes blinked to avoid the fall of tears, but they failed. She watched the drops stain the compression pants she wore, and Satine wished to the Manda Obi-Wan had been here to find out with her.
The Droid retrieved a small data pad from its included supplies and continued, “The health of the Embryo is good. There appear to be no signs of placental abruption or umbilical complications, despite the subject’s injuries.”
“Tough little guy.” Ayma smirked.
“However, I would recommend immediate removal of the hormone regulator from the Subjects arm to prevent any future risk.” The droid reached up its arm, reverencing towards Satine's left one. “If possible, I would like to do so now.”
Satine was nodding before she could think. “Oh! Of course,” She clenched her jaw, and followed the droid’s direction, leaning back down onto the fold out cot. Satine pulled her braid around so it wouldn't irritate her neck, laying her head back. She laid down so that the droid had access to her left side, her right hand remaining pressed over her stomach, thumb brushing just under her belly button. She stared upwards at the ceiling. Fourteen weeks. She was already fourteen weeks and she had missed that much?
From what she remembered from all the frantic research she’d done before Korkie’s birth, the first eight weeks were a proverbial ‘red zone’ where loss was more likely. She was past that, or she should be. This was happening.
Oh Stars, what was she thinking?
The droid located the implant still in her arm, disinfecting the area of her skin. It began laying down plastic to create a sterile field, rubbing and wiping and applying a mild concoction of general anesthesia.
“Is this a procedure we can do in the air?” Ayma asked, “My scanners are picking up another storm and I’d rather not be stranded here.”
“I require a steady work space,” The droid answered, and Satine turned her head on the cot, looking at her friend with a nod, telling her she would be okay in here.
Ayma gave a curt smile, and left, leaving the door to the room open and making her way out to the cockpit. “I’ll keep the ride boring, don't worry!” She called over her shoulder. “I think this morning has been eventful enough.”
Satine looked back up the ceiling, resisting crossing her ankles, knowing from experience that the Emdee would just ask her to uncross them to better regulate her blood pressure. The Emdee rolled around, a tray of supplies in its grasp. Setting it beside her, it said, “The Subject is only a week or so out of qualifying for the second trimester. With a proper date of the last menstrual cycle, I can calculate that estimate to the day.”
“My cycle was always irregular and very light with the implant,” Satine swallowed nervously. The loss of her cycle had been a significant perk to the contraception she’d selected, other than the fact that there was supposed to be little to no upkeep. No appointments to miss or pills to forget. Clearly something had gone wrong.
Or something had gone right. She was supposed to be panicking. She was supposed to be thinking about the future and how this would seriously complicate things. Months ago, this sort of situation could have ruined her. She would have had to approach this differently. Satine was supposed to be considering…
The Droid worked quickly, its arms making little noises as its gears whirred and the tiny incision was made. Within a few moments, a small clatter was heard, and the droid began cleanup and closure procedures. Luckily with an incision that small, a bit of Bacta and a bandage would do the trick. The ship rumbled, a few noises and vibrations the only telling that Ayma was piloting them out of this place.
Satine took deep breaths, trying to plan how she would string this baby’s story to her people. A message that rebuilding was possible, maybe? That Mandalore’s future was secure in her hands, stable enough to consider children?
So long as she kept the paternal intrigue off public interest, it could work. She wouldn’t be the first pregnant Mand’Alor, either. There were stories of a Mand’Alor centuries ago who rode a Mythosaur into battle late into her pregnancy. Perhaps Satine would not be that dramatic, but she could find another angle.
People would ask, though. And when they did, she would laugh it off and redirect just as she did to her handmaidens and guards with Korben.
“All done,” The Emdee said, “I would like to do a hormonal regulation check every couple days until everything is orderly,” It told her. “And I would like to run a diagnostic as to how this implant failed.”
Satine nodded, and the Droid removed all the plastic, leaving her with a bandage wrapped around her arm and instructions to keep an eye on it, and remove the bandage four days from now, then reapply another if needed. The droid picked up the small metal rod out of the tray to place it in another, and inserted it into an analytic port. Satine was handed a small tube of Bacta, and Satine thanked the droid. Leaning forward, Satine sat up, swinging her feet off the cot and finally crossing her ankles. She reached for the cloak she’d left with her clothing, pulling it over her shoulders when the chill of being mostly undressed finally got to her.
A beep sounded and the tray popped out. Lifting the removed implant to the light, the Emdee said, “It appears your implant was fried by a significant electrical current,” The Droid asked, “Were you at any time in the vicinity of Arc Reactors or a particularly strong stun?”
“I…” Satine thought back, before the conclave, before their escape from Coruscant. “I was, yes,” She answered. When she had first met Ayma, she had been stunned by that Assassin that Palpatine had sent after her. She had been shot in the left shoulder, and woken up hours later. She had no idea that could cause such an implant to fail. If she had known, would she have been more careful?
“That fits the damage I am detecting.” The Medical Droid said. “You appear to have experienced a Hormonal rebound within the two weeks following the failure.”
“Thats, uh,” Satine swallowed again, thinking back to the days after, if she had been a younger woman she might have blushed, “-One way to call it.”
“My scans otherwise indicate a healthy pregnancy,” The Droid told her, filing away the implant and puttering around as it cleaned up after itself. “Unless you would like to discuss any other treatment options, in which I may refer you to a more specialized facility.”
“Oh! No, no thank you,” Satine shook her head quickly. She almost thanked it for its service, then her thoughts shifted elsewhere. The droid was waiting for her cue to power down, but she waited, thinking if there was any possibility at all to test for such a thing. She could hear Ayma out in the cock pit flicking switches and plotting a course, but for now she had a moment of privacy. They could both pretend Ayma had no idea who had fathered Satine’s child, but the illusion could remain for Satine’s comfort for now. Lowering her voice, Satine asked, “Is there any way to proactively test the Midichlorian Count?” She asked.
If the droid could give her a funny look, it would have. “Miss Kryze, such tests are usually reserved for after birth.” It nodded it’s head, “If this is of concern to you, we can organize a more specialized-”
“No, no,” Satine insisted.
The droid tried again, “You needn’t worry about such things. Mandalorians are genetically incredibly unlikely to have a high count,” The Droid assured. “I will put a note in your chart to-”
“No.” Satine said firmly. “No charts. I want this off the records.” Her eyes darted towards the door, then back at the droid. “In fact, I want this whole consultation off your records. I want you to wipe your database immediately.”
“But Miss Kryze, I cannot properly administer care-”
“Do it now.”
“Maybe you should know my birth name,” Korkie said, and Obi-Wan hung onto every word, swallowing at nothing with the effort to keep his outer shell intact. His son leaned back in his seat, his meal finished, and he folded his arms. The expression on his face was neutral, but his eyes burned with satisfaction when he spoke as if taunting him, “My real name is Korben.”
Satine had named their son after him.
Obi-Wan knew of the Mandalorian traditions, how names worked and how they were passed on and created. Korkie -no, Korben, wasn't angry in the Force, he was hurt. There was remorse for the life they never had, but in a false sense of having made peace with it, Korben had let it fester until he had a direction in which to channel that pain. Obi-Wan’s instinct was to comfort the boy, like he used to comfort Anakin. But this was his son, and he had no idea what to do. His only experience to draw upon was his padawan, and look at how that turned out.
“She still wants you to come home,” Korkie folded his arms with a small barely disguised glare. The way his eyes narrowed was just like his mother, and the lines of the muscles on his forehead were just like his own. “She’s Mand’Alor now, but listen, Master Kenobi,” Korkie paused, “She’s not… well.”
Obi-Wan recoiled into himself, trying to tell himself that he was being irrational and that the heat of the suns was already getting to his head. His brain kept trying to offer other, better solutions. Should he be happy? Should he be sad? This whole reality was impossible, he couldn't imagine Satine choosing to keep their child from him.
But she had. Satine had taken his autonomy from the situation, thinking she knew better than him what he wanted. He could see it immediately, her stupid self sacrificing self, believing that she was being the better person by keeping this a secret so that he could pursue his life in the Jedi Order. She had kept his own son from him. How dare she?
Satine shouldn’t have chosen what she thought he wanted. She didn’t have the right to decide what he needed. Obi-Wan’s breath quickened in his chest, the ideas and realizations crashing over him all at once. He had a son. He had missed everything. He had missed it all, from her pregnancy to Korkie’s birth. He’d never been there for his first steps or his first words, for his first day of school or graduations. He’d never been there to pick Korben up when he fell, to help him with schoolwork, or raise him to be a man. Perhaps he was projecting his own regrets from the tumultuous relationship with Qui-Gon onto the situation, but it changed nothing. Then a horrible thought hit him.
Did Satine think he would have been a bad father?
That quieted everything else. Of course she would have thought that. He had been raised in the Temple, without the traditional family structures. He had no reference to parenthood other than the few exposures to civilian life and the rocky relationship Obi-Wan had had with his own Master. Satine might have seen that and believed him falling short, especially now. With the way Anakin, the boy he’d raised as his own, had turned to the Dark Side, what would Satine have thought about his influence on Korben? If Anakin had fallen to the depths of cruelty only monsters wielded, what might she have feared for their son?
But that didn't change her choice. She had never asked him to leave the Order. She had never given him a chance to prove her wrong. She had never asked him to give it all up. Yet she had plenty of reason to do so. He had loved her. Obi-Wan had loved Satine in a rebellious, dangerous way. Enough that he had dipped into the Dark Side that day he’d saved her. He had betrayed every ideal he held so dear just to ensure she remained out of Death’s grip. And she still hadn't told him he had a child. Had Satine ever even planned on telling him?
His anger was justified. She had kept this from him. She had chosen to keep him out of Korben’s life. His emotions rolling, Obi-Wan felt a panic as he realized he could not control them. He could not simply release them into the Force, and every minute he sat here facing physical reality made it harder to stay solid. Any remaining Force sensitive individual was especially susceptible to detecting it; most notably Darth Sideous. He could endanger Luke with this much pain.
Obi-Wan stood quickly, abandoning his hardly touched meal and giving one last look at his son before dashing for the door. He had to get out of here. The bar was too loud. Everything smelled of alcohol and sweat. His own heart had sunk and he felt terribly unwell.
Korkie scrambled after him, but he was out the door faster than he could let himself rethink and regret. They broke out into the quiet street, and Korkie called after him, “Wait! We need to talk!” Obi-Wan kept pushing to get away, far away where he could process this on his own. His feet were no longer slipping in the sand as he rushed away. Behind him, the door slammed again. Feet pounding on the ground, Korkie raced and jumped in front of him, quick as a bird. His eyes were shocked at his outburst. The street lights were reflecting off his armour, the night winds picking up the cloak he had tied over his shoulders. “She needs you, Obi-Wan,” Korkie pleaded, panic rising in the boy’s face. Korkie looked so much like his mother at that moment. The look in his eyes was identical to the one Satine had given him as she begged him to choose her, to give each other everything. She had pleaded with him to be honest with her, even as she refused to tell him the most heavy of truths.
After the loss of the Jedi, of Padmé, and of Anakin, this was the last drop in an already overfilled bucket. Someday, he would forgive her, but it was not now.
He wanted to stay, and to make up for lost time, but Satine had broken that, and every moment he might stay in her presence, or in Korkie’s presence, brought emotions he didn't have the reserves to process. He was endangering Luke by allowing so much to crash into the Force.
Even more so, he was endangering Korben and Satine. If the Empire knew he survived, that put a huge target on their backs. He could not let them remain in danger because of his failures.
Obi-Wan pushed past the prince of Mandalore. “If she didn’t need me then, she doesn’t need me now.”
A call from Ayma Hurr was the only thing to break Korkie’s concentration. He had tracked Obi-Wan out into the wastelands, cursing his name for falling for that stupid Jedi trick.
Korkie was outright furious. This man, the one who claimed to love his mother, sure liked to use her only for his own convenience. From Korben’s perspective, Obi-Wan had abandoned his mother twice already; Once before he was born, then again before Maul. Now, he was doing it again. He had gotten them out of Coruscant, and not made it too difficult when Korkie had threatened him. It had not been Korkie’s proudest moment, but things had worked out. And now, even with his mother’s fragile claim on Mandalore, Obi-Wan refused to come back, all for some baby.
Sure, Luke had been cute. But why the child of some senator friend of his mother’s held precedence over Satine herself, Korben did not understand.
The tracks lead east, but he felt he’d been going around in circles for the longest time before he found them, leading into a ravine much like the one he’d escaped the sandcrawler in. There were no lights to indicate dwellings, but something in Korkie’s gut told him that to risk the ravine at night with no knowledge of it’s layout was to invite friends he had no desire of making.
So he planned to wait til dawn, and find Obi-Wan then. He probably had a home or hiding place nearby, whether it be a house or some cave.
The beeping of his comlink grabbed his attention in the night, and Korkie lifted his wrist. “Commander Hurr?” He asked when the Holo connected.
“Lord Kryze,” Ayma formally addressed him, “you failed to check in earlier today.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Korkie answered, eyes wandering to look back at the shadowed cliffsides. “I found him.”
“You did?” Ayma asked with urgency. “You will need to get him back with no delay.”
“Yes, I know my mission,” Korkie replied. “But that might prove difficult.”
“Is there an issue?” Ayma said. “Do you need militaristic support?”
“That sounds like an idea not of my Mother’s,” Korkie huffed. The more he stared at the cliffs the more his tired brain tricked his eyes to see movement and strange shadows lurk in the distance. “I found him, but I think I spooked him. I don’t think Master Kenobi will be joining us any time soon.”
“He might when he gets word,” Ayma mumbled.
“Word of what?” Korkie frowned.
“It’s not my information to share,” the Mandalorian Commander stated. Ayma’s blue holo image sharpened suddenly as the connection improved, and Korkie looked closer.
“Are you flying somewhere? Is everything alright?”
“Come home, Lord Kryze.” Aymas voice insisted. “Your mother needs you if that shabuir won’t come.”
Korkie cracked a nervous smile at Ayma’s insult, but his frown deepened, “is my mother okay?”
“Just come home, Korkie.”
On Coruscant, Emperor Palpatine stared out his window, the satisfaction of his victory bringing a sick smile to his wrinkled face. Oh, he had won, and won gloriously. There would be no resistance now with the dreamers crushed and the people on his side. There would still be Jedi to hunt down and rebels to destroy, but his new lapdog would serve that purpose perfectly.
“My lord,” A voice across the room called. Sheev turned ever so slightly, permitting them to speak. “The first reports from your Health initiative have come in.”
Sheev Palpatine waited. It had been a risky declaration to make, but an intergalactic update to all Republic and Separatist Medical Droids had been made, the executive order buried under all the other hundreds that drew much more attention than one little update. Now, the Empire had access to the medical records of every citizen registered, or any person that just happened to be treated by one of the droids. These records were uploaded instantaneously to a collective database which tracked the health of the Empire’s people -or those of particular concern who had the misfortune of their ignorance of the new policy. Palpatine had placed a marker on the files of several persons of his interest, asking to have any updates of significance end up on his desk. He wished to avoid any more potential opportunities like Padme’s to not slip through his fingers again. Granted, he’d salvaged that disaster quite gracefully, though he could have done more with it.
“Bring them over,” Palpatine ordered, and the attendant quickly crossed the space, entered his code cylinder, and produced the files. Dropping the flimsi where the Emperor could see, the attendant quickly bowed out, leaving as quickly as he came.
Sheev squinted halfmindedly at the flimsi, a particular name catching his eye. Reaching down, Palpatine pushed aside the other files to look closely at the report. Reading the quick excerpt of transcript and summary, Palpatine smiled. Another player just entered his chess board. His senses confirmed, the Emperor smiled. “How perfect.”
Notes:
Fourteen weeks in SWU is equivalent to ten weeks in real life (:
HOLD OUT ON ME OKAY. HAVE HOPE. I PROMISE YOU THIS REUNION WILL BE *DELICIOUS*
(But first: drama.)
Chapter 21: Chapter 21
Summary:
Satine comes to terms with some things, Korkie comes up with a good idea to help rebuild Mandalore, and both of them have some serious therapy as things come to the surface that need to be said
Notes:
as usual, I'll have art for this in a couple days. I'm sorry it took so long. I originally would have had this chapter ready for you months ago, but a string of particularly unencouraging comments really set back my motivation. Thank you to those who defended me and my writing. This one’s for you ❤️
Anyway, I tried to get this done and to you as fast as I could once that motivation was back.
Chapter Text
Their ship had touched down an hour or two after the noon hour, and Ayma had gone to check the ship back in while Satine had practically fled to her rooms, not speaking a word to the people she passed.
The glass of the windows of what used to serve as her living quarters was shattered, and a few of the panes had been replaced just for the sake of her safety and privacy. In the reception room, all other windows had been simply covered with a thin sheet of plastoid, waiting for the day Saundari’s palace would be restored.
Everything in the glass fortress had been looted and searched, including her rooms. In what felt like years ago, this had been a place she could be herself. Behind closed doors, Satine could take a break from the face of political personas and expectations. It was her refuge, her castle. When all was said and done, this was her space. In these rooms, she had not been the Duchess of Mandalore, just Satine. Satine Kryze.
Satine closed the double doors behind her, entering what used to be her bedroom. The place was a mess, with some of the curtains shredded and pulled to the floor, her palace of safety pillaged and invaded.
Even her closets had been searched, clothing thrown every which way as Vizla had come looking for the jewels she’d worn, disappointed to find that most, if not all, had been fake or simply glass. The few semi-precious gems she’d occasionally worn had been ripped from their settings and the pearls torn from the embroideries. Unlike many dignitaries who had flaunted a new set of clothing every other day, Satine had stuck to her favourites, rarely indulging in new fineries or jewelry. While high quality, the clothing had been symbolic. Her wardrobe had once been her armour, a strategic reminder to her people of the beautiful forests and seas the planet once had. So much had changed. The silks and brocades had been abandoned, the velvets and chiffons burned. Now she wore real Beskar.
The only pristine place in the room was the bed that a few surviving palace attendants had made up for her, and Satine sat down. The tears hadn't really dried since the medical droid had confirmed she was carrying, and she reached up both hands to cover her face, trying to wipe the redness away.
In a sudden flurry, Satine removed the armour she was wearing, not bothering to place it in its fancy storage case sitting at the end of her bed. Every piece had its place in the foam protection, but she cared not. She threw the Darksabre onto the bed, watching it bounce slightly and settle somewhere in the blankets where it would not stare and haunt her. Satine removed the chest piece last, and the shine of the Kar’ta from the center, made of the shavings of armour from the Coalition of Clans, gleamed at her where it had not been painted. The raw Beskar was almost glowing in the soft sunlight pouring through the thin and tattered curtain-covered windows. Discarding it, she removed the flight suit flack vest with shaking hands, fumbling momentarily with the zipper.
She needed it off. Now.
It was too tight and restrictive and uncomfortable and the interior seams were irritating her with screams to get them away from her skin. Finally victorious, Satine yanked herself free when the zipper gave, and slowly she stood on two feet, taking slow, deep breaths, counting quietly to herself in Mando’a. She reached up to rub her face again.
Why was she feeling like this? She wanted…
She didn't know what she wanted, other than to be done processing already. Oh to be confident in her thoughts, prepared to move on to something else. She’d always hated the task of actually sitting down and dissecting her emotions to understand what she was feeling. Other people were easier. Psychology when other people where the subject was easy. It was when her brain seemed to attack her from all angles with new concerns and fake scenarios that she would have to actually sit and deal with them and dismiss later. It was part of what helped her prepare and remain calm in unexpected scenarios. Her constant evaluations of possibilities was what had made her a good mediator and politician. She’d always had an ability to analyse a situation and predict how things might play out, but this was something she hadn't expected at all.
This was a curveball out of left field that sent every meticulous idea she had for her future off centre and off track. It was too much on her plate. One more thing to deal with and handle. No, she was not ‘dealing with’ this baby. She would handle it as she always had.
Look how you handled your last disaster, the voice in her head said.
“This is a disaster,” Satine echoed her thoughts aloud. The invasion and fall of Sundari was still heavy on her mind and heart. She should have seen that coming.
Satine’s eyes turned to the mirror on the wall, which had miraculously survived the raids with only a few cracks. She stood in the middle of her old room, staring at her image. One crack ran like a vein across her face in the reflection, from where something had hit it or perhaps someone had bumped into it with Beskar.
She felt like that reflection now; cracked, clear yet flawed, ready to fall apart. In a moment of curiosity, Satine turned herself sideways. Years and years ago, she hadn't shown until much later with Korben, but her mind still ran wild. Korben had been a small baby, and had preferred to tuck himself up under her ribs most of the time until she was alone in the late of the evening and Satine had felt comfortable enough to relax. He had been easy to hide under flowing clothing and strategically draped fabric and the occasional piece of flashy Beskar. Satine chewed on her lip. This still didn't feel real.
Obi-Wan would have known exactly what to say in a moment like this.
He was the exception to her talents. Obi-Wan was an enigma of his own, burdened with the weight of the Galaxy and always appeared to be in steady harmony with his beliefs and in the Force. She had never understood everything he believed, though she could see why he chose to believe them. His steadfast outlook on life had been what she’d first found infuriating, though she had soon found it interesting, then attractive, then he’d become someone she had found herself unable to live without. But she’d let him go, and she’d had to relearn what life was like without him next to her.
Korben had been a blessing. He’d been a precious secret and a distraction from her aching heart and her burdened head. Things would have to be different this time. The Manda was laughing at her, Satine was sure.
Satine stared again at her reflection. She had always been a slim woman, and she attributed her figure to the height she’d inherited from her grandfather. After her time in prison she’d been almost sickly, her face gaunt and hands weak. It had taken time for her body to recover, and she now wondered if her body had overcompensated with the replenishment, or had genuinely returned to what it once had been. There was a slight curve, not enough to make anyone notice. Hell, she barely noticed it, but with her bones no longer showing and her hips filling back out, anyone looking would just think she was healthier.
Satine’s hand fell, and she tucked her thumbs under the seam of the compression undergarments she wore, lowering them a little and swallowing. Yes, there was definitely a small curve. It wasn't early enough to be what she considered. Satine knew that realistically it was probably just bloating, and she was seeing things that weren't there. Then again, she’d been fairly late in discovering Korkie’s presence as well, and had practically missed most of everything in the early months.
Kriff, she was bad at this.
Satine Kryze had many talents. Pregnancy was not one of them. Well, at least not the ‘convenience’ side of things.
She frowned. Satine took another slow breath, trying to gauge how she intended to tell people. It was for the better that Ayma already knew, because that would have been a discussion and a half. She would have to tell Korkie soon enough. He had apparently noticed something before she had, and would probably follow up when he returned with Obi-Wan.
She’d tell him too -No question about it. Once they had talked, she’d be honest. She’d plan what to say, how to say it, when to say it. Then she would. It would hurt. He would be angry, and rightly so. He would need time. She would apologize and beg his forgiveness. Then she would ask him to stay. If he did, they would heal together and grow together and find their way out of their darkness, hand in hand. They wouldn't be able to fix things if they didn't face them. There was nothing holding them back. “Your father is going to be so surprised,” She smiled sadly, “Very surprised indeed.”
“And he is going to love you so much.” She said it aloud before she had even a second to think more about it, her heart falling. It was true. Obi-Wan deserved to know, and he deserved to stay. He would be the most wonderful father. She’d tell him about Korkie, too. Satine could already feel the tears coming, and she pulled the garment back up and she made sure the door was closed.
Grabbing her old brown cloak, Satine wrapped it around herself. Curling up on her bed, she pretended it was his arms wrapped around her, and she fell asleep.
“I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up,” Korkie muttered to himself over and over, drawing out the words to try to not think about the scolding he probably deserved. Granted, Korkie had done the best he could with the hour or so before Ayma would start tracking his flight path, and had risked the ravine to leave his own comm and all his remaining Mandalorian Tibblets on a rock, having chosen one that Korkie felt would be found by him. He knew it was more in an attempt so that his mother couldn't blame him for not trying, and not about his own regret, but it was the best he could do.
“Mum’s gonna kill me,” He bit his tongue in his mouth, trying to prepare what he was going to say to her. He had lashed out. He had been tired and angry and stressed and he had snapped. Korben was usually a very evenly tempered person, but this planet had worn him down to the bones, emotionally and mentally. After spending almost two weeks on this terrible planet searching for that Jetti, Obi-Wan had had the audacity to follow him, then turn up only after Korkie had completed an almost Herculean task in his efforts. Revealing parentage -even not explicitly- in a way to hurt him had been wrong, and Korkie knew it.
Korkie couldn’t admit it, of course. At least not to his mother. Part of him wasn’t looking forward to facing her. He had known what he had done. Korben just hadn’t been willing to refrain from the satisfaction of seeing the horror on that man’s face. After everything that had happened to him, it had been almost intoxicating to have some control over his life again, even if it negatively affected others.
He had figured it out some time ago, when watching the interactions between his mother and the famed Jedi General who couldn't keep his eyes from her even in a room full of people. He had once joked about his father and the Duchess Satine had said it mattered not, even as she hung that old brown cloak over the banister of her bed. Korkie had looked into eyes he felt he’d seen before, and he’d wondered.
That day on Polis Massa, when Bail Organa had rescued him from that escape pod, There had been a silent moment of eye contact between himself and the Alderaanian Senator, a recognition and a warning. His ties to the Jedi Temple would put him in danger. He’d not understood it at the time, but had set it aside as an odd moment.
It was not until the freshly minted Mand’Alor the Peaceful had told him of the night of his birth that Korkie had put two and two together. Even Master Kenobi hadn't known. Nobody had. Korben Kryze went on to spend the rest of the time coming to terms with what he had wondered within his heart. He had been so angry.
“I seriously fucked up,” Korkie sighed. His ship was still parked on the roof of the living complex in Mos Eisley, and he could see the glimmer from the street. After walking all morning through the desert, it was a welcome sight. With weary shoulders and a guilty conscience, Korkie huffed before he started climbing the flight of stairs to the rooftop. On his way back he’d paid his tab at the Inn he’d stopped at with Master Kenobi, and nodded goodbye to Thrassko.
Reunited with the small starskiff, Korben powered on the engine and ran a cautionary diagnostic to warm it up before the eleven hour jump to the Mandalorian system. He manually checked the fuel lines for tampering, having learned his lesson on this planet, and absentmindedly flipped on the reports for current hyperspace lanes and traffic controls.
Korkie wasn’t listening all that much as he calibrated the burn cells and checked the turbines for sand that might have blown in. But he was interested when a warning for anyone passing through Coruscant airspace was made, as there was a massive exodus of Clones attempting to immigrate elsewhere. Korkie listened to a clip of Emperor Palpatine thanking and retiring the first through fifth generation of surviving War Veterans from active and all forms of duty, essentially disposing of them with “high honors” and a few pocket credits to their names.
Korkie frowned at the injustice of it all. The clones had been bred and born and raised for war. They had died for it, and now The Repub- The Empire was tossing them aside like trash.
Beeping from the cockpit told him that his engine check was complete, and Korkie practically leapt into the seat. He couldn’t wait to get off this planet, even if it meant facing his mother empty handed. She would be livid, but he would make it up to her, somehow. He tossed his helmet and a few pieces of choice armour into a balled up heap behind the pilots chair, and prepared for the eleven hour hyperspace jump.
Pulling the throttle back, tapping the gauges, and flipping the buttons, Korben Kryze piloted the little star skiff up into the sky, thankful to be leaving this Force Forsaken planet behind for good.
By the looks of the quiet docking point, Ayma had taken the blow and broken the news to his mother for him.
The dommed city of Sundari still had holes blown into it in some places, though in the two weeks he had been gone, Korkie could already see improvement. He piloted past the conscripted construction labourers, slowing down in the airspace lane as the dock workers locked in on his ship, guiding him down to the smaller landing platform. It was higher up, usually used for state officials, as it was located behind the Palace and away from the public gates.
“Mand’Alor-ad Kryze, you are cleared for landing,” the operator said over the transceiver, and Korkie surrendered control of his speed and steering to the remote landing overseer. He squirmed in his chair as his blood rushed to his feet in preparation of standing after the long haul, and he used the excuse of his stretching not to make eye contact with the tall blonde woman at the end of the tiny spaceport. It was early morning in Sundari on the planet of Mandalore, and the silver city dome gleamed, reflecting the white irradiated wastelands and the night haze slowly burning away under the sunlight. The winds would pick up as the surface heated, and the sand blowing in from the east would replace the fog by midmorning.
His ship lowered slowly, finally connecting with the metal platform. The ship creaked and sputtered as it settled, the Tatooine heat and sand unkind to the paint job and joints. Attendants rushed forward, only two or three, as they wheeled out refuelling tanks and maintenance droids to run diagnostics. Korkie procrastinated on popping the windshield, the blue swirls of hyperspace still stained on the backs of his corneas. He was tired and sore and really not looking forward to hearing what his mother would have to say to him.
He was Heir to her role as Mand’Alor, and she was no longer the lenient, peaceful and kind Duchess. She had to have a firm hand, and Mandalore would not follow a lenient parent. He deserved the reprimand, and he was fully expected to have to sit at least two hours for her lecture. Korkie was already preparing his excuses. The boy’s “Yes Buir,”s “No, Buir,”s “I Understand,”s and “I’m sorry, Buir”s were all in a row.
He waited until he knew he couldn't wait any longer. Korkie knew that Satine would know he was stalling, especially when the Mand’Alor began taking slow but firm strides towards him, and Korkie hit the door release, hearing it pop with a hiss of pressurized air and a waft of cold Mandalorian wind. He was still acclimated to Tatooine, and instantly wished he was still wearing his cloak. Korkie hopped up onto the rim of the windshield seal, and sat down to brace himself and reach for the bundle of balled up armour in his cloak. What a sight he was, half beskar’gam donned, with fuzz on his jaw and an ashamed slouch on his shoulders. Any second now, he’d hear-
“Kor! Kor Dear! Thank the Manda you’re alright!”
-Not that.
He blinked, eyes lifting from the ship's interior and he slid down the side without a second thought, boots hitting the ground and his feet grumbling with the sudden pressure, ankles hurting with the impact.
The second impact came, and Satine was there hugging him, kissing both his cheeks, right on the stubble he knew she hated, and hugging him tightly. He was so surprised at first he froze, but the boy knew better than to push her away. She wasnt… furious?
“You’re not mad?” He asked.
Satine finally released him, standing with a sag in her shoulders that mirrored his. Her posture was imperfect, which was unlike her. “Well I’m not pleased, if that's what you’re implying,” She answered, eyes searching all over for any preliminary signs of the debrief he knew she’d want. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Korkie replied, and reached up to take the bundle of his cloak and armour hed forgotten from one of the attendants who was already clearing out the cockpit for cleaning. Satine’s hands released him, and they folded themselves back in front of her the way she always received dignitaries. Korkie offered, “I left him the means to come back to us.”
Korkie hoped she would not question further, the sick feeling of lying to her about the whole truth of his mission result left him unsteady and unable to look her in the eye.
“Kor…” Satine’s voice was suddenly low with seriousness, and Korkie couldn't help but snap to attention, interest ignited at the look on her face. It was a mix of emotions, none of which he could place, her thumbs fidgeting over themselves and she shifted on her feet.
“Yes, Mand’Alor?” He asked softly, testing the waters to gauge whatever might come out of her mouth next.
“I’m…” She cut her words short, and she softened. “I’m glad you’re home.” She forced a relaxed look. “We’ll talk later.”
Korkie let the smallest of smiles at her unsaid approval break his stoic regret. “I’m sorry I couldn't get him.”
“I know you did your best,” His mother sighed, and Korkie’s stomach dropped deeper. Whether Ayma had inferred the truth or not was unrelated, but she clearly hadn't replayed his exact wording to Satine from their transmission, otherwise his mother would have figured out his discrepancy quickly. Satine straightened herself, and opened an arm out to reference their home. “Let’s get you something to eat.” She offered. Breakfast was probably being served. Satine had always been an early riser, and the Palace meal schedule had followed her example.
Korkie had never shuffled past her so fast, his own fingers flexing in his gloves to hide his shame.
Satine remained several steps behind, her feet intentional even as the adrenaline rush subsided from her blood. She had almost told Korben. The moment hadn't felt right, and she pressed her hands closer to her body, but not close enough to be suspicious to anyone. For now, she’d keep her secret.
“You are expecting too much of him,” Ayma scowled, her arms folded. She stepped into a flanking position behind her Mand’Alor, the tone in her voice a warning and a caution. They stood close enough to converse without the threat of eavesdroppers, eyes fixed on the young man who was almost running away from them.
“He’s handling it well,” Satine frowned back. Korkie was growing up. He was growing into the role he’d accepted the day of her coronation, and though it ached her to see him on his own, his own independence would protect him in whatever new dark age was quickly gripping this galaxy. The Republic was gone, and Satine worried that she’d someday leave him defenceless … or leave his sibling defenceless.
“No,” Ayma huffed, “He’s just hiding the damage well.” The woman raised an eyebrow, “Like you.”
The silence was deafening. Only the ship attendants and the whistling wind through the new turbines could be heard between them.
“I inherited an entire system at his age.” She tried to justify it. “I handled it.”
“Just because you did doesn't mean you should have.” Ayma scoffed, “You were forced into that position by the expectations of your father and a clan searching for a leader.”
Satine stopped in her steps, shoulders squared as she hissed over her shoulder,“No, I was expected to be a Martyr,” Satine replied, “But I prevailed.” She walked calmly again, several strides behind her son, reentering their city. The door slid closed behind the Prince of Mandalore, the sensors waiting to reopen with the next wave of people. Satine hesitated.
Ayma’s concern was palpable. “He will not be a martyr.”
“He already was!” Satine argued, stopping in the doorway. Those around her were waiting for her to enter the palace’s back entrance so that they could follow, but Satine held her ground. “Saxon… Saxon burned him. He burned my son. Korben was a Martyr the second I was no longer on planet.” Her fists were solid at her sides, shoulders tensing with the feeling of having her morals questioned.
“You’re proving my own point,” Ayma counselled. “He should not have been put through that, but you need to make sure he is truly okay.”
“He doesn't want to speak to me about anything that isnt surface level,” Satine closed her eyes. “He’s still recovering, and I’ll respect his space.”
“Maybe he doesn't need space,” Ayma tried. “Maybe he just needs his mother.” She waited a beat. “Have you been honest with him?” Ayma quietly challenged.
Satine's eyes popped open to squint another glare at her. “What else could I possibly tell him to make him trust me?” She snorted, the two of them keeping the most glaring of options to themselves.
“How about the truth of why you kept him a secret in the first place?” Ayma recommended.
Satine rolled her eyes, finally waving the door open again, and stepping inside. The change of the sound of her boots on the floors echoed through the glass hallway, Korkie long gone through the doors opposite where they would eventually take him to one of the dining halls. She folded her hands behind her back, reaching to her full height and taking long strides, almost in some psycological reminder of her rank. Ayma was not amused, and she kept up with frustrating proficiency. Satine heard the few members of her entourage who had accompanied her to the landing platform remain some steps behind, and she answered her unofficial Second in Command, “He knows of the dangers of a prince out of wedlock at that time.”
“We both know what I meant,” Ayma huffed, and the doors at the end of the hall opened once more, the two women returning to their duties.
Obi-Wan stared at the comm that sat on the makeshift table of stone. Even from across the cave it seemed to stare back at him, taunting him with the temptation for answers. He’d seen Korkie leave it for him, had waited half a day after the boy was gone before retrieving it, holding it as if it was burning his hand, then stuffed it into his pocket to stop the voices in his head telling him to call her.
Satine was alive. That was all he needed to know. Everything else he needed to compartmentalize and banish from his thoughts. He didn’t dare open himself up to the Force. In doing so he would certainly make himself prey to the Sith. He needed to keep Luke safe. Master Yoda had said that the twins were the hope of a Galaxy. Korkie and Satine might not even have a future if Luke didn’t one day fulfil whatever destiny the Force had laid out for them. Obi-Wan looked to the mouth of the cave, in the direction of the Lars homestead. Luke was safe there. So long as things remained so, he would protect his own family from afar.
“Fuck.”
Obi-Wan very rarely swore.
He reached up, covering his mouth and rubbing at his jaw. The word had slipped into his mind so easily; family.
But was that even what they were? It felt things were too shattered to mend, and it would be better to live and let heal. Satine didn't need him. Korkie didn't want him.
The comm stared at him once again, and Obi-Wan couldn't help but pocket it once again. Something in him would always long for the things they gave up. He’d give up the galaxy to get another chance to let her ask, and he would have stayed. Force, if he’d only known. He would have stayed.
Perhaps the Galaxy would have been better for it.
“Kor Dear, you are not required to attend this,” Satine chided, standing in front of the mirror as she dressed for the council meeting. Breakfast had been silent as her heir had practically stuffed his face, reminiscent of his teenage years on weekends home from the Academy. He still hadn't shaved, though she'd sent him right to his rooms to shower as soon as his hunger was satiated. Satine had chosen not to comment on the bristles on his jaw, but she focused instead on ignoring her former meeting minutes and the list of topics for the day. Korkie sat on the end of her bed, having come in unannounced to ask if he could join her for the hour before they were expected in the Grand Salon.
Her gauntlets were freshly polished, having been sent to the armoury for a cleaning after Tracyn the day before. Satine clicked the pieces into place around her forearms, still getting used to the feeling that was so different from her old ceremonial bracers she’d wrap around her arms, all to be reminiscent of the armour she wore now. She wore a long cape under the shoulder pauldrons, the final piece of the picture being the unpainted, raw Beskar Kar’ta in the center of her chest. Her flightsuit was form fitting but formal, and she wondered to herself how long it would take before she would need new ones.
“I want to be there,” Korkie said, his grandfather’s armour replaced with a fine uniform befitting a graduate of the Academy. It reminded Satine of her initiatives to get the schools up and running again within the next three months, and she looked at him through the mirror, that old crack in the glass running right between their individual reflections.
“I’ve missed enough as it is. I tried to ask Captain Rau to catch me up, but he was more interested in drinking his caf in peace,” Korkie slipped a bit of humour, and Satine hoped briefly that something could be done to mend this, preferably before she eventually had to tell him her other news.
Satine straightened her outfit, and pushed her face framing hair from her eyes and behind the circlet she wore, and extended her hand to her son. He stood, and she took his arm, allowing him to escort her through the halls and to the other side of the Palace where the meetings would be held. They didn't speak a word, even though in the almost two weeks that Korkie had been searching for Obi-Wan, some progress had been made. No implications of Empire interest on Mandalore had been detected on the media, and Satine had taken great strides in juggling the demand for humanitarian aid, and removing the scavengers and pirates who had taken advantage of Mandalore while they were weak.
The doors to the Grand Salon were opened for them, where an oval of chairs with Satine’s shattered throne at the head.
“Mand’Alor-Ad Kryze,” One of the officials greeted him awkwardly, “We did not know if you would be joining us or not.”
Satine’s eyes quickly picked up on the fact that they were a seat short, but Korkie released her arm and waved a hand. “It’s fine. I’ve been in worse places,” He answered, sitting himself down on one of the steps that lead up to Satine’s place. Korkie still sat higher than the rest, but the awkwardness was still clear. Even Bo-Katan was smirking from her seat as the ambassador to Concordia, and she did nothing to help the misstep in Order of precedence, but she had always hated all the concepts of etiquette anyway.
“We will get you a seat,” The Governor of Herswee gulped, calling for another high backed chair to be fetched for the Heir. He attempted to divert attention, asking, “How was your diplomatic mission?”
“Sucessful if you still know nothing about it,” Korkie mumbled to himself, and Satine shot a warning glare at the back of his head. Korkie sighed, “It was educational.”
“Educational?” The Emissary from Chenjuri, their sister city in the East, asked for elaboration.
“The empire is an ever growing concern to how we have established ourselves to run things,” Korkie saved the conversation. “I was investigating a lead that my Aunt and I had hoped would have helped us in the long run.”
“I see,” The Emissary nodded, and Satine climbed the three steps to her throne, sitting down with the grace she’d never have drilled out of her. With The Mand’Alor in her seat, the rest were free to take their own, and the meeting opened. Someone passed around flimsi, and a holorecord popped up in the middle to begin taking minutes.
“We have concerns from Concord Dawn that there are still some clans calling you a heretic,” The Elder of Sundari started out. “Kalevala, your planet is closest to theirs. What reports do you have on the issue?”
Korkie looked up at her quickly, staring at the elder for a brief second before replying, “We have made it clear that the Darksabre will not control anyone’s loyalty,” He said with deciciveness. “So long as they do not get in the way of our attempts to rebuild or interfere with those who have pledged themselves to Mand’Alor Kryze, they may do as they wish.”
Pride blossomed in Satine’s heart as she listened to him speak, and though the others in the room had not read into the fact that Korkie was clearly unaware of the reports and had’nt had a chance to touch his Duties at the Lord of Kalevala since his return, he hid it exceptionally well.
“The price of Free Speech is that people will speak freely,” Satine affirmed. “I cannot please everyone. I can only do what I can to bring us closer to a stable system once again.” She said, “so long as I have the affirmation of the majority, I will continue to serve.”
“And what about The Empire?” Bo-Katan huffed. “They seem mighty interested in surrounding us.”
“Go on,” Satine tilted her head.
“Multiple Mid-Rim territories have already mysteriously turned Imperial seemingly overnight,” Bo-Katan pointed out. “We therefore have one front that we must keep our eyes on. Adding to that, Bandomeer and Akiva have already allowed for Imperial military outposts to be built on their planets in the years to come. We are slowly being surrounded.”
“Do we know for sure if we are really being surrounded?” Satine raised an eyebrow.
“Listen, Sister, you’re the one who appointed me to be the battle inclined one. I will notice what I am trained to notice.”
“We cannot in any way position ourselves as opposition to the Empire. They have said they will respect the Neutral Territories.” Satine reassured herself more than others. With what she knew of Sheev Palpatine, she had no idea how long such a promise would last, and Bo-Katan brought up a worrying point.
“Do we still even register as Neutral?” Fenn Rau spoke up. “There was Republic presence on planet for almost three weeks. Padawan Tano may have been independent, but the clones who fought and died were considered investments to the former Republic.”
“I did what I could during my Exile to keep the Republic involvement at a minimum and I testified to make sure Mandalore owed them nothing. I was almost successful in changing the Republic's interest to purely capturing Maul, but I fear that my temporary dethronement made my words value next to nothing.” Satine remembered, crossing her legs and leaning on the armrest like she had a thousand times in meetings. At her side, the Darksabre gleamed at the meeting attendees, and she always noticed the glances of awe that still came in its direction.
“The best thing we can do to avoid the appearance of mustering a military offense is to keep rebuilding as our priority.” Fenn Rau offered. “They will watch our funds and our actions.”
“We simply do not have enough volunteers anymore,” The Lady of Keldabi retorted. “The numbers in the ranks of the workforce are dwindling as the necessities for life are being met, and no one wants to work on a city for free if it does not directly benefit them. Most have returned to rebuild their own homes and clans.”
“So what, we need more workers?” Bo-Katan summarised.
Herswee’s Governor frowned, “What do we have that could incentivize a more dedicated workforce other than money, which we are still desperately short on?” He blinked. “What do Mandalorians need?”
“What if we allowed them to go home?” Korkie asked suddenly.
Satine turned to look at him. He still sat on the steps, elbows on his knees and a hand stroking his chin in thought. “Go on,” Satine tilted her head along side everyone else.
“It’s a common fact, as stated before, that the best work is done when the result directly affects the worker.” Korkie shrugged. “Let the Mandalorian’s go home and rebuild their own houses, and bring a new workforce in.”
“You want to hire a contracting company?” The elder scoffed, “With what money?” Their financial deficits were no secret.
“Not money,” Korkie looked around the room, “Something else.”
“Like what?” Fenn Rau had the smallest of smiles on his cheek, watching Korkie Kryze as he proposed his idea. Satine sported the same.
“Like citizenship,” Korkie immediately stood to quiet the outburst of questions and gasps. “Hear me out,” he said. When no decrease of volume was made, he repeated in a shout, “Hear me out!”
Satine leaned forward as her son began to speak, occasionally glancing around the other faces to make sure they were not dismissing the youngest person in the room who commanded attention like he was born for it. Korkie began with assurance in his words, only looking back to her twice to get her approval to continue.
“The Empire has forcibly retired over a Million Republic Army clones. They were never even Republic citizens themselves, so there is nothing to dispute,” He told them. “Now Emperor Palpatine has sent them into the galaxy with practically nothing but a few medals to their numbers. But we cannot forget; they are genetically Mandalorian.” Korkie held out his hands.
“You want to offer them legacy citizenship?” Bo-Katan asked. “But they were not raised in our ways. They have not taken the creed.”
“What are the core values of the creed?” Korkie asked in return. “Are they not Strength, Loyalty, Valour, and Bravery? I propose that the clones have lived the values of the creed since the day they were first told of their purpose.” Korkie paused. His palms were sweating with the anxiety of making such an address, but he kept them outward to keep the trust and attention of the council (and maybe to help dry them). Korkie said, “We have a million men who are homeless without a bit of real thanks from the Republic they once served, purposes torn from them and they have been told they are old and useless.” Korkie waved his hands around in reference to the wreckage. “We can offer them a home in exchange for the work ethic I believe they have demonstrated above and beyond what they were asked of.”
“But didn't they kill the Jedi?” Fenn Rau reminded him. “They turned on their own Generals."
“Not all of them,” Korkie shrugged. “I can propose this solution as an option, but we all know no option will be perfect. At least in this one, we won't end up in a financial contract we cannot meet, and we don't have to make slaves of our own people.” Korkie rubbed his jaw. “If we put the Clones on restoring Public Places, we can double the productivity while the Native Mandalorians restore their own homes.”
“How would we feed a million more men?” The Elder asked.
“We could send all who do not wish to work in constructions to the Hydroponic farms on Concordia, and to the herding plains of Kalevala.” Korkie suggested. Within two months with doubled output, the rations should start coming in on a more stable schedule.” The auburn haired boy folded his hands together. “Besides, we wouldn't have to expect a million clones to accept our offer. That is just the current number of veterans that is estimated to have been freed from service.”
Satine’s pride grew with every passing second. Korkie’s plan could work. Now it was just about convincing the rest of Mandalore that it was a good idea.
“You are sure they are genetically Mandalorian?” Bo-Katan seemed unsure.
Satine nodded, interceding. “I had a close friend who was a part of the investigation into the Republic Army’s origin. They were cloned from the mercenary bounty hunter Jango Fett, who is believed to be a descendant or a foundling from a detachment clan.” She considered her thoughts, “We have never been a people to turn away foundlings.”
“Many of the clones are still only fifteen to eighteen years old.” Fenn Rau commented, “Not even adults by Repu- Empire standard… Will the Traditional Mandalorians see it that way?”
“Their 'Age of Adulthood' has been a culture clash for my history as Duchess, and they struggled to accept my decisions on that matter.” Satine answered. One of the things she’d accomplished at nineteen years old as a Duchess had been raising the age of adulthood on Mandalore from fourteen to sixteen, the age of consent and parental responsibility to eighteen. It had been a hot topic among the Traditionalists who were used to arming their fourteen year olds and marrying off their children to make clan alliances. Satine’s New Mandalorians had been receptive and pleased with the change, though it had always been considered one of her more widely accepted policies.
“By their own logic, they should love the clones,” Korkie snorted to himself. “Ten year olds in battle, willing to die for the cause, already proficient in the use of war machines and wearing armour.”
Satine gave a glare at the thought. The morality of the clones' employment had never sat right with her, even though Obi-Wan had told her many times that the Jedi protect them as their own. Being bred and born to live as tools used for another man’s whim was no life at all.
Satine nodded. It was worth a shot. There would be so much paperwork to do, but if this worked, they could cut their reconstruction period in half. Uncrossing her legs to lean closer from her throne, Satine listened as details were considered and opinions were voiced. In the end, she would have the final vote, but she’d make the announcement soon to let the idea settle with her people before any mass immigrations happened.
What clans would they join? Where would they live? How would they be paid? What were the minimum requirements to achieve citizenship? There was so much to discuss, and they would still want to run it by the Clan leaders. Satine knew she could just decree the change under her own power, but she held firm the faith that a joint democracy was still possible.
The people of Mandalore had taken to the idea with a mix of opinions. Many held onto their strong sense of nationalism, and others thought the idea convenient. There were ideas coming from all viewpoints. Some said that such an offer was perfect since the clones “Would die out in half the time anyway” and others thought it unfair that the Empire was treating their own so unfairly. Satine kept herself from any opinion other than the betterment of her home, and preferred to set an example than argue with the masses. The fact of their genetics and their assistance in removing Maul from the throne softened the hearts of many to the idea, though Satine couldn't change the hearts of those who held their hateful reservations. But they had saluted her, so they would honour the outcome so long as they wished to benefit from her work.
In only a few days the motion was passed, and the invitation was sent out to the Galaxy that any Clone of Jango Fett which was no longer in the employment of the Empire would have a place on Mandalore - if they earned it. Five years minimum of assimilation was expected, and their legal names as citizens of Mandalore would be granted in return for four days a week of helping rebuild the system. Satine refused to turn to slave labour, and made sure that they would be granted a small but sensible government pension on top of their room and board. Any Citizen of Mandalore who did not wish to leave the workforce would earn the same thing.
A week flew by in what felt like a moment or so, and Satine found herself buried under the paperwork and decrees needing her signature. It seemed every hour a new question was up for her answer of debate. What about those with war injuries who can't work? Why not put their military experience to practice and allow positions in her Mandalorian Protectors to be filled? What were the terms of citizenship application suspension? What medical services would be available to them?
“I feel as if I am going insane,” Satine took a deep breath as she passed the cylinder back to the attendant, having received a letter from a Clan leader requesting twelve healthy men who would be granted clanship in exchange for the labour. “Manda knows they will all need therapy,” She sighed, having replied a simple, “This will be decided at the next planetary address,” for seemingly the thousandth time. “Please, no more interruptions,” Satine told the attendant, “I’d like to have a quiet dinner with my Nephew.”
Korkie sat on her right side, next to her seat at the head of the smaller dining table. This room was usually reserved for more private receptions, and unlike most of her palace, the windows were tinted and curtains could be drawn. Satine’s son was more relaxed, satisfied with his involvement in the project he was spearheading. Already almost a hundred clones had answered the invitation and would be arriving at immigrant processing within the following week.
Satine mostly pushed her food around her plate, trying not to let the smell of whatever vinaigrette was on the greens cause her to become sick. It stole her appetite, and she stared for only a second at the still full glass of wine in front of her. In years past it was not too strange for her to be seen late at night, so busy at her desk that she missed her dinner and had it cold with a glass of the stuff before falling into bed, but she needed to watch her health now. She had not yet taken the liberty to request that her palace provided diet be augmented, as the kitchens would spread the rumour like wildfire. Satine loved her cooks, but they were incredibly gifted in the art of inferring what went unsaid -and gossiping about it.
“Have you spoken with your friends recently?” Satine asked her son, trying to make conversation.
“Lagos has been with her family, but not replying much. I think she is still processing everything,” Korkie reported, “Amis has his eyes set on joining the Protectors, and I’m sure will be slipping you a recommendation request in a few months.” The boy leaned back in his chair, and looked down at the table. “Soniee has found her family. Her sisters are doing better.”
“I heard,” Saatine smiled.
“I know she wants to come back to Sundari though, and finish her education.” He shrugged. “Her family doesn't think it’s safe. Her parents are concerned about the initiative.”
“They do know that there will be careful screening of the Clones that we do accept, right?” Satine frowned. She was minorly insulted that Soniee’s family, long time friends of house Kryze, would think she was inviting common war criminals into their home.
Korkie shook his head, “I think Soniee will just have to wait until the buzz has calmed down and the trust is built.”
“Well, don’t tell her this just yet, but she will have a place on my accounting team if she ever wants it,” Satine smiled, extending the offer second hand. She knew Korkie wouldn't keep it a secret from the girl, and Korkie knew too.
“Do you think the schools will be opening soon?” Korkie asked her.
“I want the stress to blow over, but I do want a sense of normalcy back. We can't move on as a people and recover if we allow ourselves to remain in a state of panic.” Satine reached for her glass of water, sipping it. “The next school term would have started in two months. What do you think?”
“I think it's a good idea,” Korkie said, “But I think this term should be optional, not legally required.” Korkie reached across the table to the bowl of Tiingilar they were sharing servings of, helping himself to a second. “That way they don't feel like you are forcing anything too soon.”
“You don’t think the students will fall behind?” Satine approached the idea with a nod, taking another sip.
“I think they are traumatized,” Korkie tilted his head. “Everyone copes differently. Some will thrive in a structured, familiar environment, and others will thrive at home with their families and clanmates to support them.”
“I think that is a fine idea,” Satine set down her glass, her fork pushing aside the despicable smelling greens to try to eat some of the Tiingilar. It was a familiar dish, traditional to the Kalevalan houses, and what Korkie would request for his birthday dinners nine times out of ten growing up. Normalcy was exactly what she was pursuing here. She was even wearing one of her old dresses that seemed to have survived with minimal damage. It was a familiar feeling. Korkie wore his old school jacket and the only new thing in the room seemed to be the Darksabre still at her hip.
A knock at the dining hall doors made Satine groan, and she said with a slightly raised voice, “Is it an emergency?!”
The door cracked, and Fenn Rau himself was standing with a solemn look on his face. Satine’s eyebrows met, and she waved him to come in. Fenn made a flashing glance around the room at the two attendants who waited on their leader and her son, and he whispered urgently, “Mand’Alor, its Imperial.”
He extended a metal cylinder towards the two of them, and a conversation in under a second took place between the three of them before Korkie reached out to take it. His food was abandoned, and Captain Rau held out a small tablet with a place to sign for it.
Korkie held the large cylinder, looking it over. He thanked Fenn for bringing it, and signed off that the Imperial letter had been received. Fenn nodded to them both with a small bow, and left the room as quickly as he’d come. “Shall I read this?” Korkie asked, and Satine for a second thought against dragging him into more bureaucratic loops to jump through, but remembered Ayma’s suggestion. She nodded. He needed to be exposed to this, and she needed to include him.
“Whats another interruption to a family dinner?” She sighed.
Korkie broke the seal on the cylinder, opening the hologram flimsi to the left, where the words in Galactic Basic were only visible to him, for the reader’s knowledge only. Korkie’s eyes darted over the letter and his face slowly dropped. Satine resisted jumping up and reaching for the flimsi to read it herself, but Korkie swallowed slowly. “They’re Imperial Senate Summons.” He took a slow breath. “Someone on his council has accused you of rebel activity. The Emperor says he is giving you a chance to explain yourself in front of the Senate.”
“What could we have possibly done?” Satine’s eyebrows furrowed, then fell when she realized. “The Clones.”
Korkie nodded, eyes pressing closed. “We offered employment and a home to an entire army.”
“We offered citizenship, not a place in our military,” Satine seethed. “We don't even have a standing army.”
“Much of the Galaxy still views our entire population as a militaristic power,” Korkie reminded her with a mumble. “Military trained men invited to work on a remote planet with a history of mercenary hiring. Of course they would try to make it out the wrong way.” He sighed. Korkie set the flimsi down on the table with a gentle slam, and folded his arms in frustration as they both couldn't help but begin tackling the problem. “What will be your defence when you speak to the senate?”
Satine’s heart dropped, her appetite once again lost. The thought of bringing herself anywhere near the clutches of the Emperor was terrifying. She had a terrible feeling that he would attempt to imprison her once again, and leave her home in danger without a leader. Korkie wasn't ready and she feared what Bo-Katan might attempt in her absence. Satine’s hand fell to her lap, her stomach lurching. “I… I can’t go there.”
Korkie frowned. He snorted to himself in confusion, head tilted as he waited for Satine to elaborate. He forced himself to continue eating, perhaps to try to pretend as well that they were just having a nice pleasant dinner together. Satine gulped when he wasn't looking. The apprehension in her grew. She hadnt wanted to tell him tonight, but perhaps there would never be a ‘Best time.’ The utensils continued clinking. Satine’s eyes darted around the room to the attendants, and she swallowed. “Clear the room,” Satine said sharply, the nervousness setting in. She felt wrong keeping this from him any longer, and she took a deep breath. Her face was serious.
Korkie was staring at her with surprise now, not understanding why Satine might suddenly become so guarded.
When the dining room was empty, Satine looked again for any other people before fixing her gaze on her firstborn son. “Korben,” she leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table, and folding her hands together.
“Well damn,” Korkie leaned back in his chair, his lighthearted spirit not yet completely put on edge by her caution. He laughed awkwardly, “you haven’t started a conversation like that since you told me you were shipping me off to Academy.”
Satine pursed her lips. How the hell does one disclose this? The room felt cold, and Satine hoped it wasn’t a nervous sweat forming. “There’s been a change.”
“A change.” Korkie echoed, his posture becoming stiff.
“I’m…” her words faltered.
“Does this have anything to do with what you wanted to tell me on the dock last week?” Korkie squinted at her. His hand was now slowly twirling his fork, the metal flashing from the one lit chandelier that hung from the center of the room. It was distracting, and Satine forced herself to not look away from Korkie’s face.
“It does.” She answered. The moment was becoming harder and harder. She reached across the table, taking his hand. Korkie stared at her with apprehension.
“I’m expecting,” Satine confessed.
Korkie stared at her. His eyes darted around her, clearly not connecting the dots. “Expecting what?”
Satine blinked. That actually made her crack a small smile. “No,” she emphasized. “I’m expecting.”
“I mean, yeah. You are a pretty demanding person,” Korkie commented.
Satine’s other hand dropped to her middle. “Kor,” she looked downward meaningfully, bidding him follow her gaze. Korkie did. She squeezed his hand. “I’m pregnant.” Satine said for a third time. His eyes met hers, a blank look on his face. Seconds, then a moment passed by.
“A baby.” He blanked.
“Yes.” Satine nodded slightly, and her braid slipped from her back over her shoulder. She didn’t bother to push it back. Korkie’s eyes were widening. She smiled.
“You’re expecting… a baby.” Korkie’s words were void of emotion.
“Yes,” Satine nodded. She watched him, waiting for something. Anything. His hand was still in hers. She searched his expressions for some telling of what he thought, but the boy was just blinking rapidly and swallowing slowly. He glanced again past the table to see where her hand rested. When he looked back up, there was betrayal in his eyes.
Alarm bells went off in Satine’s head. This wasn’t supposed to be how this went. She had hoped he would be excited. Maybe a little scared. Maybe surprised.
Hurt and angry? No.
She wasn’t prepared for that. They were both silent as whatever Korkie was thinking built, and it must have culminated with some conclusion because he looked away quickly to the empty wall. There was buzzing in Satine’s ears from the stone cold silence. Korkie was tense all over. His eyes were hardening, as if she should know what he was thinking.
His jaw was trembling with biting down on nothing, his eyes swarming with emotions that Satine wished he would express. “Korkie, say something, please.” Satine furrowed her brows.
Korkie yanked his hand from hers almost violently. He spun faster than she could reach for him, leaving his seat in a rush and Korkie stomped away, all the grace of his upbringing leaving his motions. Satine stood quickly, trying to keep up. But with the sudden change in blood pressure, her vision tunneled, static pressure in her ears and eyes making her balance tip from side to side. Satine caught herself on the table, the action sending the still untouched glass of wine shattering on the floor. She felt the liquid splash up onto her legs and skirts. Red on silver blue fabric.
Satine managed to step over it, her dinner threatening to make a reappearance.
Korkie made it to the door. He grabbed at the door frame, leaning away. He paused, staring forward with pain in his eyes. “Congratulations,” he forced the word out. He didn’t even look at her as he said over his shoulder, “I hope you get it right this time around.” With that, he slammed the door behind him.
“Korben!” Satine yelled after him. She left the mess on the floor, headed after him. She threw open the door, finding the glass walled hallway perfectly empty save for her son who was storming away with swaying shoulders and fists clenched.
“Korkie, wait!” She called. His steps didn’t slow, and Satine kept up. Her low heels clipped across the floor, and she felt her nausea build, but she stayed firmly upright.
Satine finally caught him, her hand reaching out to his shoulder to pull him back. She spun him around. “Korben!” She said again. He was as tall as herself.
Korkie swayed but didn’t leave, and Satine knew that was the best she would get from a Kryze. She pleaded, “We cannot choose to be like this.”
“What, I can’t have a reaction? I’m supposed to just take the fact that I’m about to be replaced with a smile on my face?” Korkie shot back, his face red and eyes hurting with whatever thoughts were running through his head.
Shock filled her. Her eyes blinked. Satine felt her eyebrows meet and she shook her head rapidly, which was terrible for the nausea that swam in her. “Replaced? No, Nothing could ever-”
“You are about to have a legitimate heir that will -to the public- take presidency over any ‘Nephew’ you have.” His mouth was curled in anger. “Adopted or biological.”
Satine confirmed, “You are still my heir. Always. This…” her hand hovered over her belly, “this does not change my choice.”
“You never claimed me.” Korkie spat. “My ‘adoption’ was a private event, right?”
“Did I have to? It doesn’t change my love for you,” She didn’t expect this from him. He’d never expressed before the feeling that she should have proclaimed him as a legitimate child. Korkie had always seemed accepting of their abnormal family unit. She’d told him as a child that it was to keep him out of the public eye and let him grow up without the expectations of an heir; to let him pursue what he loved without the shadow of a crown.
“But you never claimed me!” Korkie retorted again.
“I don’t have to!” Satine said. “I chose you. That changes nothing!”
“But you will be claiming this one, right?” Korkie spat. “Don’t pretend like you’re not going to.”
The tall glass windows around them were vibrating with the volume of their voices, and Satine wanted to worry about eavesdroppers but she couldn’t let this become worse. Ayma had been right. She needed to tell him why. She tried to soften her voice. “Things were different when I had you.” She whispered.
“Oh really?” Korkie spat, “you couldn’t have your happily ever after with me because you were new to the throne and I was just so inconvenient -“
“In order to keep you and Mandalore safe, sacrifices had to be made,” Satine justified. “You were not ‘inconvenient’ , you were everything.”
“Were,” Korkie echoed, venom in his voice.
“You know that is not what I said,” Satine told him. “If you want me to publicly claim you, I will.”
“It’s too late. The damage is done,” Korkie huffed. “But good luck. Maybe your Jetti will come back and you’ll get your happy family this time around.”
His words stung deep. He was right. She had failed in these things. She’d failed to see what he thought and failed to realize what she was doing was hurting him so deeply. “Kor-” Satine’s heart ached, tears forming in her eyes. “I am not proud of the precautions I took when I raised you but I would never not choose you.”
“You chose Mandalore over me the day you didn’t claim me,” Korkie replied. They stood in silence, both staring at the floor. He was saying what he needed to say. “You know, I grew up always wondering why I wasn’t good enough to be your son.”
Satine’s heart shattered, and she reached for him. He pulled his shoulder away and she respected it. Satine told him, “There is nothing I wouldn’t give to go back and do it all over again,” Satine wanted to make things better somehow. “I am willing to admit that I did not give you everything you deserved. You should have had the opportunity to grow up like every normal child.”
“…And now I’m not normal.” Korkie rolled his eyes, hissing through his teeth. “Because of that fucking Jetti.”
Satine resisted wincing at his language, but held her tongue. “If Mandalore had known of your parentage, the extremist Clans would have assassinated you -just for your blood.” Satine told him. “You are too young to remember how close we were to wiping out our very own existence. I had to choose between giving you a life as my adopted nephew, or watching you die as my son.”
“But now you’re trying again?” Korkie interrupted her with a mocking voice. “You know that little trick won’t work this time.” His eyes were red rimmed and filled with tears.
“Kor-” Satine was shaking her head furiously even as it worsened her dizziness. “I didn't plan this, if that is what you’re implying.”
Korkie continued, “you couldn’t ask him to stay when you had me, but now you’re fighting to have him back now?” He was breaking down. Tears were brimming in his eyes and Satine wanted nothing more than to embrace him.
“Ner Ad’ika-” Satine took another step forward. She reached out slowly, touching his hand. Korkie stared at the floor, the muscles in his face twitching as he tried to stop his crying. He didn’t pull away.
His head jerked upward and he stared at her. “Did you know?” Korkie asked suddenly. “Please tell me the truth,” He begged. “Did you know… back when you sent me to get him?”
Satine looked into his eyes. “No, my dear. I did not.”
Korkie sniffled. He bit down on his lips, face wet and red from crying. “Then why does this one deserve a father and I didn’t? ” Korkie asked with heavy eyes. Tears were slipping off his cheeks and hitting the floor. “Why wasn't I enough?”
“You are,” Satine said. She looked him over. “You don’t have to be anything more than who you are. That is all I ever wanted from you.”
“And what if I don’t want to make the same sacrifices for Mandalore?” Korkie let her take his hand.
Satine blinked and reached up to wipe the tears and wetness from her nose and mouth. “Then that is your choice.” She bit her lips to speak, “but I hope you will someday realize I made them all for you -my family- and for your future.”
Korkie said nothing. He shifted on his feet. He was processing, but he would need time. The city lights that got brighter each evening as repairs were made to their city shone through the glass windows. Behind the door to the dining room, the quiet shuffling of an attendant cleaning up the spilled wine was the only sound other than the steady low hum of the air turbines.
Collapsing on the floor, Korkie sat with his back to the glass, sniffling as tears fell down his face. He still hadn't gotten rid of the splotches of hair on his cheeks and jaw, and the blonde tips of where his auburn hair had been bleached and cut short were finally growing out. Satine pressed a hand on the glass walls to stabilize herself as she lowered her body to sit next to him, her bad hip protesting. She ignored it, and settled herself a couple inches away. Korkie had pulled his knees up to his chest, head bowed as he hid his face.
“My darling boy,” Satine whispered, “You have made me so proud. I could not have asked the Manda for a more perfect son,” She affirmed, resisting reaching out to tousle his hair as she had for years when they were nothing but themselves. “It would be impossible to love you more than I always have.”
Korkie was taking calculated breaths now to reset his body and stop crying, but he said nothing. The floor was cold under them, and Satine folded her hands over her knees.
Satine told him, “I have loved you from the day I discovered you were here and you were mine.” She continued, “No matter what, nothing could change that. Not even another baby.” She assured him slowly. “I will make it work. This is not your burden.”
A shudder shook Korkie, and without looking up, he said, “I’m sorry, Mum.” He took a deep breath, “I haven't been honest about-”
“You needed your time, I understand," Satine interrupted. “You know you can take these feelings to me at any time. I’ll be here for you. Mandalore is important to me, yes. But you are my ’Ad first.”
Korkie’s mouth pressed into a line, his eyes finally lifting to stare out the glass walls opposite them. “I’ll go.”
“Kor-”
“I’ll go to Coruscant,” He pulled his face tight. “I can take care of myself. I've been through the Junior Legislative Program. I know how the senate and its people operate.” Satine opened her mouth to speak, but Korkie continued, “The letter said either you or your next in command must defend the initiative,” Korkie frowned. “I organized it, it’s only fair I defend it. Ayma might not be happy, but if you give me permission, I’ll go in your place.”
“Kor’ika,” Satine’s anxiety of sending her son to the mouth of the lions den was terrifying.
“I’m ready, Mum,” He said, “I’ll do you proud.”
“Is this what you really want?” Satine felt her heart clench in on itself. This was her way of asking forgiveness, and his way of asking her to trust him. The two Kryzes stared at each other finally.
“If it’s his…” Korkie inclined his head meaningfully, “then that means you’re technically carrying a traitor to the Republic by birth.” His face twisted in disgust. “If your secret gets out, then that will illegitimize anything you say in defence."
Satine took a sharp breath, “Kor, if you know-”
“I am a Mandalorian. Not a Jetti,” He replied instantly, “Unlike…" His hand swirled downward "-that one, there is nothing about me for them to claim is up to chance.”
“Are you sure about this?” Satine silently begged to the Manda that he’d change his mind. But he was her best option. Bo-Katan certainly couldn't represent their new government considering her history of terrorism, and Ayma wasn't trained to speak in a Senate setting. Everyone else she might have even considered was dead or gone.
“I’m sure, Mand’Alor.”
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