Chapter Text
The ship shuddered as it docked on their designated landing pad in Keldabe. Obi-Wan took deep breaths, trying to give his emotions to the Force before they came face-to-face with anyone. He huffed. The most insulting part of the whole ordeal was that Obi-Wan had just been on Mandalore a year and a half ago.
It had been a feat to stabilize the New Mandalorians in Sundari while Qui-Gon had covertly ripped through every entrenched Death Watch compound on Manda’yaim, forcing them back to Concordia. But Obi-Wan had done his job, protected Satine as she gracefully negotiated with clan heads and went on relief missions, even the annoying one to Draboon. They’d done it, and then Obi-Wan had breathed good-byes that had stabbed him through the heart.
It had taken Mand’alor Jango Fett exactly three weeks to dismantle all that hard work, ruthlessly killing both Tor Vizsla and Satine in the process to cement his power.
He was still having a difficult time releasing his emotions on the matter.
A hand touched his shoulder, the steady presence of his Master gently brushing against his own. He looked up at the sad smile offered to him and sighed, “I still don’t understand why they wouldn’t send anyone else. We are hardly the most impartial of diplomats in this situation.”
Qui-Gon tilted his head, acknowledging his point, but said, “All is as the Force wills, my padawan. Although,” he smiled, “I believe the Senate cared less about our recent mission log and more about the line of our lineage.”
Obi-Wan snorted, “Ah, yes, so that if we are killed in mysterious circumstances, we shall count as the reparations. Is that why my grandmaster has elected to take a separate transport than us?”
A wry chuckle as Qui-Gon ruffled at his hair, “No, I believe that was just to get away from me, actually.”
He laughed and playfully batted back the hand, “Sounds like he had the right idea, then, is it too late to switch?”
His master’s face softened further as he said, dryly, “Now, now, who else would keep me on the approved Senate agenda? You know how antsy they get when I favor the local governments.” He offered his hand down to Obi-Wan.
He took it, pulling himself to a stand next to him as the ship’s ramp started to lower, “You, somehow cheat the Senate? Doesn’t sound like you, Master.”
“Of course not, Padawan. Now, are you ready to face some undoubtedly irate Mandalorians?”
He sighed, acting very put upon, “As long as there are no bombings this time, then I suppose.”
They moved towards the exit, Obi-Wan following close behind his master. Inwardly, he smiled to himself. Qui-Gon had successfully dispelled his gloom once again, and he couldn’t help but be grateful.
He had to squint into the daylight to see anything as they left their transport, but he was able to clearly hear the voice that greeted them, saying “Su’cuy, jetiise. Welcome to Keldabe.”
They sounded very flat, like they were indifferent about the whole thing. Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon’s back as he thanked the verd , thinking of all the ruckus they’d both caused the last time they were there.
Indifferent was probably the best they’d get.
Without another word, their greeting party turned and marched away, making a curt “come on” gesture behind them.
They were led to a building near the middle of the city, where everything looked similarly old and tired in a way that spoke of heavy use. In all honesty, as they walked in, the smell that greeted them reminded Obi-Wan of the study section of the Archives, an almost organic quality to the air that sent a brief pang of homesickness through him.
They passed a few other Mando’ade waiting in various spots outside of different offices, but none acknowledged them. By the time they stopped outside what looked like vault doors, Obi-Wan was thoroughly unnerved by the muffled nature of the Force through beskar again and the eyes on their backs.
Their guide cocked their head ever so slightly in a way that Obi-Wan had come to recognize as an indicator of a conversation that he couldn’t hear.
Then, they nodded and said, “Mand’alor Fett will see you now.”
To himself, he thought that it was a rather bureaucratic interaction for people that had said they hated that about the Evaar’ade.
Inside was a war room.
Several people stood around the room, in various states of formality.
Mand’alor Fett, who he recognized by the silver, red, and blue painted beskar’gam, the aliik of the mythosaur in red on one pauldron. At least the holo with their mission briefing had been accurate.
The ruler still had their helmet on and made no moves to take it off, so Obi-Wan still had no intel on what their face looked like. According to Master Dooku, they were human or near.
Of the additional four besides the Mand’alor, the only that Obi-Wan could source a name for was Silas Ordo, the one other survivor of the massacre at Galidraan. His buy’ce was also on, but his beskar was painted in rich golds, oranges, and greens.
He reviewed this info in his mind as he bowed, carefully to a degree that was proper to a planetary leader.
The Mand’alor waved away their pleasantries, “Let’s keep this short, jetiise. I’m not interested in starting a war with the Republic before the dust even settles here on Manda’yaim, but I can’t let the insult of Galidraan stand without any justice. This meeting will not be about personal vengeance, but there must be some ber entye. Official negotiations begin tomorrow,” he gestured to a Mando across from him, “Walon will brief you.” Then he turned back to the holomap of the sector, clearly dismissing them.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow towards Qui-Gon, who shook his head minutely. No, Obi-Wan, he seemed to say, don’t insult any hard-headed rulers before the event even begins. He sent the impression down their training bond, years of familiarity letting the Padawan parse the feeling and match it to similar reprimands. Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose and sent back a sensation that basically amounted to rolling his eyes, half fond-amusement and half exasperation at their situation.
They bowed again, murmuring “Mand’alor,” before turning to the newest Mandalorian in all black armor, who ushered them away while waving a few of the soldiers from around the room to follow.
They didn’t waste time, pace a decent clip as they spoke, “I am Vau, head of internal security,” they started up a steep flight of stairs, and Obi-Wan marveled at how no one seemed to even slow down, “You are not to leave your rooms without an escort for the duration of your stay. First meal begins at 07:00 local time, and the meeting starts immediately after,” they turned a few corners in quick succession, “Any additional questions can be directed to your guards who will have more than enough time to waste on them.”
They all came to a halt in what was clearly a recently-sterilized guest wing to the fortress. Obi-Wan pretended not to notice the ray shield capabilities that could cut the area off from the rest of the compound.
Vau nodded to them tersely, then again to the guards he was leaving behind before turning tightly on his heel and marching away.
Obi-Wan shook his head. What a severe man.
It took no time at all to settle into the guest quarters, so they quietly turned to their own tasks, Qui-Gon to meditation and Obi-Wan to reviewing the mission briefing for the umpteenth time.
Now having met Fett in person, the request was even more strange, given the man’s obvious reluctance to deal with Jedi and terseness at the whole situation. What was his secondary agenda, and who was advising him on this plan of action? He’d have to discuss it further with Qui-Gon. There had to be some sort of bigger picture, something else at play. There always was.
He was startled out of his thoughts by the door of the quarters opening.
In swept Master Dooku, nodding at their guards respectfully as he passed. Then he and Obi-Wan were blinking at each other, both a little surprised. The older Jedi’s gaze flicked to Qui-Gon then back to his grandpadawan.
Obi-Wan got up and bowed, “Pleasure to officially meet, Master Dooku, I’m Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon’s told me a lot about you.”
Dooku nodded back at him, smiling politely, “All my worst qualities as a teacher, I’m sure,” he said dryly, “It’s a pleasure, Obi-Wan. I’ve heard good things from Master Drallig about your saberwork. I had hoped we’d meet in better circumstances.”
Qui-Gon rose up from his meditation, chuckling, “You just wish to have another victim to train in Makashi, Master.”
“As if you did not leap at the chance to corrupt him with an Ataru focused regiment.”
“He is very gifted at it.”
“Master Drallig suggested he might be inclined towards Soresu.”
“You and I both know that Drallig suggests Soresu to anyone that has even an ounce of stamina. He wants there to be a master of every form available at the Temple, and it would complete the set.”
“I see you’re as opinionated and unkempt as always, Qui-Gon.”
“If only because it pleases you so to notice, Master.”
There was a tense pause as they looked at each other, bristled, before Obi-Wan laughed, poorly smothering the sound with his hands.
It broke the dam, Qui-Gon’s belly laughter filling the air along with Dooku’s deeply fond one.
Dooku reached out, resting a hand on each of their shoulders, “Some things never change, my old padawan. Now, let’s see if we can convince our hosts to improve our accommodations. I can’t see why we shouldn’t each have our own rooms, at least.”
The Mando’ade on his council were insufferable. The noise of their arguing was already giving him a headache.
This was why he hadn’t wanted to be a head of state. There were too many meetings and not enough battles.
The Mando on his right crossed her arms and shook her head, “Truly, Silas, it’s clear your judgment is compromised, it being in the same room as the jetiise is enough to elicit this kind of reaction.”
Silas only started yelling louder, “They’re Republic! Of course I don’t trust them! Dooku alone has already killed enough of our ramikade, and it’s just another insult that he was the one they sent for these peace talks!”
Silently, Jango thought that Silas also might be overreacting some, but that was probably because the Mand’alor recognized that the Republic was deeply afraid of them, enough to send Dooku and his kin to a dishonorable slaughter.
If anything, Jango was a little offended on the jettise ’s behalf. He expected the Republic to view him and the Mando’ade as barbaric scum, but he hadn’t expected them to be so careless with their best and only weapons. It was shameful.
The crackle of a sigh through Skirata’s vocoder, “Ease up on her, Silas. We all agreed to the talks. It’s not like we’re joining the Republic.”
“No, we’ll just let them try to defang us in exchange for some reparations instead! Which is what you always wanted anyway, Duchess,” he snarled.
Next to Jango, Satine Kryze sighed and removed her buy’ce.
“I gave up that misnomer of a title when I bartered my old life away,” she said, firmly, “and you’d do well to remember that. The Evaar’ade only back the Mand’alor if we continue to stay neutral, and you know it. If you believe that makes us weak, then maybe you should join the Death Watch cowards that scurry about the sector like cockroaches.”
Silas stood, reaching for his holster threateningly.
“Enough,” Jango interrupted, “Silas, stand down.”
He tensely released the weapon, glaring at Satine, who looked too smug.
Jango turned on her next, “Kryze, try not to insult everyone who disagrees with you, for once.” Her smugness disappeared as he addressed all four of his council, “I don’t know why we’re arguing this, again. It’s done, they’re already here, and we will have some measure of justice. I didn’t ask to rehash old meetings, I just asked if our requests are enough. Terraforming tech might be expensive, but we lost nearly 300 ori’ramikade, our whole standing army. Galidraan is still a part of the Republic, and its governor sold another head of state into slavery. It doesn’t seem like a substantial comparison.”
“It isn’t,” Vau grumbled, “it’s already hard enough to get trade into Manda’lase. We should be asking for the lost income, too, from all the potential jobs that could’ve been taken by the Haat’ade. ”
Silas huffed, “What we really should be doing is getting some sort of guarantee that it won’t happen again. The jetiise are too powerful, and they could easily be thrown at us again. If we plan to rebuild the Haat’ade, we need to know they won’t be cut down with no honor.”
They started overlapping again, all trying to expand their request into something more concrete, but not really listening to each other.
Kryze leaned in, “They do know they’re agreeing, right?”
He snorted, “They’ll figure it out eventually. Surprised that you aren’t throwing in your own thoughts to the blaze, though.”
She smiled, knowing and fond, “Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon will be here too, so I’ve elected to hear what they suggest this time around instead of finding a particular hill to die on.” She turned back to him, “And you, Mand’alor? Do you want anything out of this?”
Jango rolled his eyes, “If I could get away with it, I would never have dealt with the Republic at all, ever.”
She gave a small laugh, inclining her head in agreement.
He shook his head, “You’ve seen it yourself. No matter what deal we make, Manda’yaim gets what we want: acknowledgement of the new government and giving the sector a sense of stability. Reparations acknowledge the past, peace treaties show we’re looking to the future. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain from this, and that’s what makes us powerful here.”
Satine nodded, “So we prove the war is finally over in a way I never truly managed, despite my agreement with Concordia.” She shrugged, “That’s why I even suggested it in the first place though, alor. You really haven’t considered using it to leverage another project forward?”
“No.”
“A pity that you were never politically-minded.”
“What did I just say about insulting people, Kryze,” he deadpanned.
Another laugh, “Don’t mistake me, Fett. I would not have surrendered to the likes of you if I thought you’d be bad for Mandalore. I’m just as happy to get out from under the Republic’s thumb as long as it doesn’t mean more bloodshed.”
He sighed, only half offended, “You and your pacifism.”
“You sound just like Obi-Wan,” she snorted, “But at least he understands how negotiations operate.”
Jango glowered, “And which one was he, the baby-face or the hermit?”
“The baby-face, and I will be letting him know you said so.”
“Well, he is. ”
“Don’t underestimate him, and I say that as both an advisor and a recent friend. In fact, the less you talk, the better, I think. It gives them less ammo.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. While he wasn’t as explosive as Silas, he didn’t like the idea of the jetiise being there either. But as long as those kad’aue stayed unlit, he’d be fine.
He glanced at Silas, still all angry gestures. These days, the other survivor was never not defensive.
Manda, he missed Myles.
Now, he ignored the pang in his chest, Myles had been dead longer than Jango had known him.
The Mand’alor closed his eyes, tuning out the noise entirely. These stupid negotiations couldn’t end fast enough, and they hadn’t even started yet.
Introductions were brief as they gathered the next morning. The Mand’alor simply pointed at each member of his council and gave their names, no additional information. For someone who had called them, he was unfortunately unwelcoming in his demeanor.
Obi-Wan carefully acknowledged the way his heart leapt then ached when one was introduced by Fett with a terse, “Kryze.” Satine had mentioned that she had a sister, and it was an old clan with many members.
They all sat, secluded in what seemed to be a glorified conference room, not uncommon for these kinds of negotiations. It was simply a bit surreal to be on one of the sides rather than being an impartial mediator.
Back in their rooms, they’d discussed who would be taking point for these talks, and it was agreed that Qui-Gon would be speaking, given Obi-Wan’s general padawan-ness and Master Dooku’s… fraught past with the other party.
Opening remarks were tense in that special way that came with polite words through gritted teeth, and it soon became clear that the Mand’alor was not particularly keen on participating, silent after he did his due diligence in the introductions. Instead, he sat back with his arms crossed, occasionally nodding at one of the points made by his advisors when they looked back at him for reassurance. Obi-Wan tried not to find the ‘reluctant leader’ persona unnerving.
But overall, the Mandalorian stance was clear: they wanted the Republic to pay them back for Galidraan, and to some extent the Excision, in such a way that nothing like them could happen again, ever.
It was understandable. However, what the Republic wanted was a total disarmament of the Mandalorian sector, the same deal that they had pushed onto the New Mandalorian government in exchange for protections. Internally, Obi-Wan sighed. Yes, near-annihilation would make any people desperate. It was no wonder they found comfort in Fett, someone who had come back from the brink just as the whole people had.
It was a rather… sticky problem.
Back and forth they went, the Mandalorians asking for, honestly, fairly manageable things such as environmental reclamation equipment and a non-aggression pact. Qui-Gon’s lips thinning as he calmly informed them that the Republic wasn’t satisfied with a non-aggression pact that was too easily broken.
After the third variation of this exchange, one of the Mandos broke, screaming, “You were the ones that murdered us, and we have to be the ones to ‘give assurances’? You’ve lost your fucking minds!”
“Silas–” “Tensions are getting high, maybe we should just–” “No, he’s right, this isn’t–” “Perhaps a meal–” “If the hut’uune would admit–”
Voices stacked on top of each other until Fett intervened with a sharp, “Enough!”
Immediately the other Mandos froze, it was almost comical.
Fett sighed heavily, “A midday meal. We’ll figure it out after,” he glanced around, “Back at 1400. Dismissed.”
As they filed out, Obi-Wan leaned towards the other Jedi, “Well, it’s not our worst diplomatic mission. We haven’t even come to blows, yet,” he said, wryly.
Behind him, surprisingly, Fett snorted, “Give it time, jet’ika. I’m sure that after today they’ll all be itching for a spar or two. Except maybe Kryze.”
Obi-Wan slowed his pace to match the Mand’alor, waving the older Jedi away in the Force when they sent an inquiring feeling his way. If Fett was willing to actually speak, maybe he could get a read for Qui-Gon and negotiations could progress more smoothly. “I’m sure that’s a completely normal and healthy coping mechanism,” he snarked, “Maybe Kryze is on to something.”
Fett gave a shrug, “Well, you know her, just because she’s a pacifist doesn’t mean she isn’t plenty combative.”
He stiffened at that, but recovered quickly, “I hadn’t realized that Satine,” was alive, he thought as he said, “even owned a set of beskar’gam.”
Inside his whole soul gave a shudder of relief. Satine was alive, and on Jango’s council. Suddenly these peace talks seemed far less daunting.
Beside him, the Mando shook his head, chuckling, “Took her ages to stop walking like a bantha.”
Torn between defending his friend and deferring to a planetary leader who was being surprisingly casual, Obi-Wan snipped sarcastically, “Well, at least she had such an example of grace, alor.”
Fett blinked at him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing in particular, Ser Fett,” he shot him an innocent look, “I’m sure that walking silently in all that iron came completely naturally to you.”
“I can tell you’re insulting me, but you’ve got just enough of a pretty face to make me second-guess it.”
Obi-Wan gave a little scoff at that, “Just enough of—? Says the helmet head,” he took a deep breath as they arrived at the mess hall, ignoring the way that the Mand’alor’s shoulders had hitched in silent laughter, “You mentioned sparring later, yes? Perhaps I’ll be able to see evidence of all your grace then.”
All that got him was a small wave, possibly of agreement, as they parted ways towards their respective groups.
His master and grandmaster gave him sideways glances and pelted him with their curiosity and concern in the Force. He shook his head at them, sending back amusement, as he said, “All is as the Force wills, Masters,” with a sly grin.
Dooku narrowed his eyes while Qui-Gon’s own smile grew to the same mischief, “You’ve done well, my padawan, and what has the Force revealed to you?”
“That the future is very much in motion.”
Qui-Gon huffed a small laugh while Dooku sniffed a little disdainfully at the reference to Yoda, but the Force betrayed his internal delight.
“Ah, that would be one of its many mysteries,” his Master nodded sagely, “Care to share any other mysteries?” he asked as he glanced back at the group of Mandos loading their plates from the dispensaries.
Obi-Wan shared some of his relief and joy as he said, “Just that a friend was less one with the Force than had been previously ascertained.”
The older Jedi exchanged glances and shared their own relief and support on his behalf. It was almost heady, after the weeks of quiet grief to be able to wash it away so completely.
Dooku placed a hand on his shoulder, “And anything regarding our mission?”
He shook his head, “If anything, I am only more convinced that Mandalore will not disarm, especially under a traditionalist regime. It’s certainly a tricky one.”
“Well, Padawan, think through each of our positions. Where is there room for compromise?” Obi-Wan recognized the tone of voice as Qui-Gon asking as a way to teach him rather than simply inquiring.
He thought it over, “Perhaps instead of expensive equipment, we could suggest an AgriCorps presence? That might reassure the Senate that there are Jedi on the planet if things ‘get out of hand’ in a way that they would agree to the pact instead of disarmament.”
Qui-Gon sent the sensation of pride, like he was ruffling his hair and saying ‘good job.’ Outwardly, he nodded sagely, “A fine suggestion, though we need to take into consideration the Mandalorian attitude towards Jedi. We wouldn’t anyone to be put at greater risk.”
Master Dooku hummed in agreement, “It is at least a starting point. As of yet, we have so little progress that I had doubted that we would overcome our differences.”
The other two nodded. The morning had been atrocious.
After the meal it was only slightly less so. Maybe it was their chat, maybe it was Obi-Wan knowing that Satine was there, maybe it was simply better temper after eating, but Fett began to interject more often to keep them on track as the mood grew thicker.
“So, alternative to disarming, you offer occupation?” Skirata crossed his arms, voice tight like he barely restrained his anger, “How is setting up a base of operations less expensive than giving us the equipment that we want?”
Jango sighed, “Both are still less expensive than us blockading the Hydian Way.”
Obi-Wan nearly groaned and he felt the other Jedi mirror his exasperation. “Surely if all of us wish to avoid war, which I believe is the case, we can find some course of action. Maybe we’re simply thinking too broadly.”
Skirata tilted his head, “Too broadly?”
Obi-Wan, unsure, looked to Qui-Gon, who nudged him in the Force with encouragement. He turned back to the Mandalorians, “Well, what would you do if it were simply two Mandalorian clans with this issue? How would you resolve it?”
Satine shrugged, “Traditionally or in recent times? The answer often overlaps, but, even with the New Mandalorians, political alliances have always been tricky business.”
That got nods around the table as Skirata grumbled, “The marriages alone were a nightmare to deal with, one challenge duel after another,” his expression morphed to something considering, “Though, clan alliances with marriage ties were the most stable…”
Fett openly scoffed, “I don’t care how traditional it is, Skirata, I’m not interested in getting a riduur, much less some Republic spy.”
Vau grimaced, “They wouldn’t last very long if they were,” he turned to Fett slightly, “You could always try to woo them, turn double agent.”
“I’ll get right on that, then they can suspiciously be a renowned warrior that I’d never heard of, too,” Fett snarked.
Silas chuckled, “Ah, ‘The Mand’alor’s Bride,’ that was one of the better romance novels on the Legacy. Do you still have a copy somewhere?”
Obi-Wan was just grateful that the tension in the room had broken. Seeing the more antagonistic of the group teasing their leader gave the padawan a little more hope as well. Hoping to pull them back towards the original topic, he laughed, “I suppose, since you’ve addressed the need for reparations to the Jedi rather than the Senate, you would get a rather well-trained spouse.”
That got him a kick under the table from Satine, who laughed as well, a touch too forced, “Yes, well then it’s a relief that Jedi don’t marry, then!”
He made a face at her across from him, less professional than he would normally allow himself but… it was Satine. She’d hidden in swamp muck next to him as Death Watch hunted them during his last visit to the sector. He’d loved her with all the fierceness of a first love and his departure had been unfortunately messy. Jedi and their lack of marriage had been a particularly trying conversation.
Which is why he sent his feeling of utter betrayal towards his Master when he gently corrected, “Well, that’s not quite true, some notable exceptions have been made to the rule, especially in extenuating circumstances.”
If he could see Satine’s face, he was sure it would be red with fury. He glared at his Master, “Not that the topic of a political marriage was ever under consideration in this instance.”
Qui-Gon looked back at him placidly, an expression that Obi-Wan unfortunately recognized as he said, serenely, “We are simply servants of the Force, my padawan.”
They were snapped out of their silent battle of wills by Mand’alor Fett. “Even if it were on the table, I’d never marry a Jedi,” he glowered.
The mood was darkening again, and Obi-Wan snarked back, barely polite, “Well, I suppose someone in your position and of your background would find it unnerving to share such constant contact with a Jedi. I understand your reticence entirely.”
Fett narrowed his gaze, fully turning his helmet towards the padawan, “Excuse me?”
Qui-Gon still had that unbothered expression, and Dooku had long since pressed his hand over his eyes, like he couldn’t believe that this was where he was spending his time. Obi-Wan felt something like indignation well up inside of him as he plastered on his best, most serene Jedi smile, “It’s perfectly understandable, and certainly none of us would have judged you for your discomfort at the idea. Even if it would have been a more efficient solution to this whole situation. No occupation, recognition, and assurance. Maybe the Senate would’ve thrown in the environmental tech as a dowry.”
Satine practically crushed his foot under heel as Skirata muttered, “How the hell did we even end up here?”
The Mand’alor crossed his arms, “It’s not even a real offer, but if it was, my refusal isn’t because of my ‘discomfort.’”
He felt his smile sharpen into something far less serene as he placated, “I certainly would never think to call the Mand’alor a coward, of course. It would be truly wrong of us to put you in that sort of position. I’m glad that we are firmly closing that door as a potential compromise.”
Fett’s whole form somehow both stiffened and settled, like he was physically bracing for his own stubbornness. Vau and Skirata exchanged unreadable looks. One of them reached for his shoulder but it was too late.
“Fine,” he snapped, “I’m so glad that you volunteered, Padawan Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan blinked. What?
He swore the Force was laughing.