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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE: 12 BBY

Leia rushed through the gardens, the cool wind grasping at her dress and hair, pulling strands out of a carefully braided updo. Her hand in a tight clasp of yet-ungloved, soft fingers, her laughter echoing through the terrace of a Hundred Fountains. 

The best spot in the gardens was right there, they only needed to get a little farther out.

The delegation from Mandalore arrived a month earlier, in good faith, to entrust the tutors with their prince’s education in diplomacy — apparently Mandalorian diplomacy, arguably nonexistent, was quite different from what its definition encompassed in the Core — because the Mand’alor wished for his son to be adequately prepared for his duties. 

As wary as she used to be of him, Paz Vizsla proved to be an excellent companion in mischief. 

Well, the low-ranking imperial dignitary might have had a different opinion, much less favourable, after Leia and Paz wookiee-glued his cape to the floor behind his chair. Of course, the culprit was never found, even if a group of giggling children might have seemed suspicious. 

They stopped by one of the biggest edifices, of pale marble, with ten streams representing the ten gods of Alderaani pantheon. Clear water cascaded down into a pool artistically overgrown with root lotus flowers, each moon cycle harvested and dried to be ground into fine powder. Barely did Leia catch her breath when her companion — the ven’alor of Mandalore, the eleven years old coveted future king — took her hands in his own as seriously as only a child can, and squeezed softly.

“We should be heading back soon” he said mournfully; the gravity of the situation stark in his eyes, nearly unbefitting such a small child who at this age should only think of simple learning and playing. “Our buire will start looking for us”.

“I don’t want to go inside yet. Balls are boring” Leia replied, rolling her eyes. “I don’t want to dance”.

“We don’t have to. We’re still too young”. On Mandalore, a call to dance was not much different from a call to arms, or to a challenge for a duel. “We should get inside, though. You’re cold”.

She shook her head, little earrings clinking with the movement.

“I’m not”.

“You are literally shaking, princess”. Paz took off his coat to carefully drape it over Leia’s shoulders. “There”. Made for a boy not much older than Leia herself was, it was still big enough for her to comfortably wrap herself in it. 

“Thank you”. The material was soft, a little like nerf wool, but much lighter. It retained warmth very well, keeping her warm until they reached the ballroom. “Do we have to go inside? I’ll have so much time to be boring when I’m older, when I start attending balls like a proper princess, find suitors, get courted, engaged and married. Ugh”. She shook her head. “And I’ll have to marry a person my parents choose. What if they’re stupid? Or ugly?”

“I’m sure your parents will do their best to find you a good match”. Paz patted her shoulder compassionately. “What parents don’t want the best for their ad? And if they don’t, I’ll protect you”. Small fists clenched in anger, so characteristic for a young heart. “I won’t let them treat you badly. You’re my best friend. I’ll marry you and you won’t have to put up with anyone stupid or ugly”. A chainlet of beskar with a crest of House Vizsla, taken off Paz’s neck, clinked in his hand quietly. “I promise”.

Leia smiled brightly, clapping her hands. Such a bright solution! To marry a friend would be the best thing of all. “I promise too. Here”. She pulled a tiny, gold ring off her finger and placed it on Paz’s hand. “Now we both will keep it in mind if we don’t get to see each other until we are grown up”.

“We will”.  Paz carefully put the ring in his pocket. He’d hate to lose it. “Thank you. I will look forward to meeting you again, ner sarad”.

“What does it mean?”

He thought for a while, searching for a word in Basic. Despite his father’s extensive efforts, he was still much more fluent in his native Mando’a rather than the universal language.

“My flower”. 

“Ah”. Leia’s face lit up with a smile, having deterred any possible pejorative meanings. “Then so will I. Let’s go”. She took his hand and made the first step towards the ballroom, opulent and soaked in light. “We should tell our parents we got engaged” she giggled. 

Predictably, both the Mandalorians and the Alderaani royalty dismissed the cheerful news as a ploy, though an endearing one, congratulating Paz and Leia not to ruin their joy; acting out weddings, after all, was a play popular among children throughout the entire galaxy. 

0 BBY

The ship shook with the force it took for an imperial star destroyer to finally entrap it; Tantive’s shields were dying, blue forcefields weeping before glitching and disappearing. 

Prepare to be boarded, a cold voice from the vessel said. Leia swallowed anxiously. The plans she was entrusted with, the space station plans several people have already died for, had to leave the ship immediately. She will be damned if she lets anyone else die on her watch, though. Ten other people, all members of the Rebellion, were sealed on Tantive with her, facing the inevitable wrath of the Empire — the tribunal, the sentence, the execution. 

Not unless she acts fast enough. 

“Princess, what should we do? The emergency shields won’t hold for much longer”. 

Leia looked at the captain. “Tell the crew to ensure the droids — blue R2 unit and a protocolary droid — enter an escape pod, and then evacuate yourselves. Vader wants the plans, which he assumes would be in my hands, because I lead the mission. You all would be casualties, and I won’t let that happen. Secure the droids and leave, captain. That’s an order”.

Tears welled up in the captain’s eyes. He’s been part of Leia’s personal crew since she grew old enough to travel alone on diplomatic missions, spent years in service to keep her safe, and now to watch her willingly wait for the Empire to get its hands on her—

“Princess, your father—”

“Would understand the sacrifice I make. Do apologise to them for me, please” she added, her throat constricted with anxiety. “Empire’s violence cannot be allowed to continue”.

The man nodded after a moment. “It was an honour to serve under you, Princess. May the Force be with you”.

“And with you as well”. It took an excruciating effort to smile, just enough to settle the captain’s heart and confirm that this was the right choice. Hardly the first sacrifice ever made for the Rebellion. “Goodbye”.

Footsteps grew silent over the next few seconds, and the hiss of escape pods was unmistakable. Leia stood alone in front of the falling shields, head held high, and awaited the breach of the entrance. Any second now the locks would give in to relentless assault, stormtroopers in plastisteel armour would drown the Tantive’s interiors in search of her. Needlessly, as she was standing right in front of them, as cold as Alderaan’s highest peaks and deepest lakes. 

If she was to die — she would, she knew very well she would, the Empire had no mercy for those it captured, be it a diplomat or a soldier — she would face death with dignity, yet with anger as well, unconquerable to the very end. Not cowering, not crying, no; spitting her executor in the face and hoping that spit would short-circuit his void-black suit and bring him down with her. A man like Vader, if he could even be called a human being, not a husk clad in durasteel, deserved nothing more than a death as pathetic as his deeds. 

She would pop open a bottle of the most expensive Canto Bight fizzwine and watch the cork disappear in blinding constellations of fireworks; she would watch holonews reporting on his death and enjoy the fact that in every single transmission, cut as quickly as it appeared, there was not a single person mourning. 

Still, despite her moral higher standing and admirable, sun-bright ideals, she could not withstand Vader alone. The moment his empty eyes meet her own, her fate would be sealed. 

Was there even anything remotely human in that suit? Perhaps not, she mused; someone this cruel could not have been any more human than a battle droid, programmed with only one objective, and that was to destroy.

Prepare for boarding, another voice called. Much more human than the last time, if a little morphed. Perhaps a vocoder or a coding device, Leia decided, common for the imperial soldiers’ helmets. The Empire must have still assumed that she had the plans either on her person or buried somewhere in the bowels of the ship, somewhere only she would know, otherwise they wouldn’t repeat the call. 

They would sooner come in blazing.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t the imperials announcing their boarding, but a different faction entirely. Pirates? But what pirates would be daring — or insane — enough to launch an attack on a ship in the midst of an imperial vessel conducting its own search? However, if the new assailants were able to take on a regiment of stormtroopers all while surrounded by imperial territory, Leia really didn’t want to meet them. Chances were that people like this, ranging from slavers to bounty hunters on a contract worth risking their lives for, would not be very merciful towards a princess stranded onboard. 

Especially not if the bounty was on her. 

The Empire would kill her quickly, in a public execution, in a display of power broadcast throughout the galaxy to ensure that others of similar mindset would keep their traitorous, threatening, destabilizing ideals to themselves. That she was certain of; starvation was for those who weren't needed to make a statement, and one strong enough to ensure that planets collaborating or allying with the Rebellion would not be so quick to rear their heads, to declare their desire for burning anarchy rather than for stable, if cold, peace. Bounty hunters, however, could hurt her infinitely worse. 

Either drag her to whoever set a bounty for her head, no doubt to no friend of the Rebellion, or torture her to get any sort of information out, or do things infinitely worse. If the Empire imprisoned her, Vader — or any highly-ranking officer responsible for her capture — would undoubtedly brag about it, send signals of it throughout all the systems to claim that yes, they have captured the face of the Rebellion and promptly scheduled her for execution. Even then there would be a faint hope of rescue; the rebels have evaded imperial forces several times before. If certain bounty hunters took her, she would be lost to the stars.

Heavy steps resonated through the corridors behind her. It could not be a single hunter making their way towards the reloading port, no, the vibrations and deafening steps clearly defined a group.

She would have been able to tear her way out, tooth and nail, from a single hunter. From a group — not a chance. 

The steps ceased a few meters behind her. 

“Is there anyone else on the ship?” a warped voice asked through a vocoder. 

Leia swallowed, anxiety coiling in her chest, suffocating and heavy. “No” she replied quietly. All the pilots, fighters, crewmembers as well as the droids were gone, safe in escape pods which by now will have undoubtedly reached some sort of destination. Any place right now would be safer than Tantive IV. “There’s nobody else”.

“This vessel will be unsalvageable in a few minutes. I suggest you go with us” the leader of the faction said. “You will be safe there”.

“Where, exactly?” she spat. “I won’t go anywhere unless I know where you will take me”.

Never let your captors take you to the second location, her self-defense instructor said. Once they get you in a vehicle, you may be as good as dead. 

“Where the Empire has no reach and no right to enter our space. We will take you to the heart of Manda’lase”.

Manda’lase. Leia frowned. “To Mandalorian space?” The armour should have been easy enough a giveaway, considering that both the metal it was made of — beskar — and the designs of the armour were respectively impossible to get and impossible to copy. No, the elite knowledge of the creation of the armour belonged solely to the gorane, the armourers of the society responsible for forging beskar. Scraps of it could be found in various if seedy parts of the galaxy, and rarely more than just enough for a small blade. And since Mandalore’s exodus into near-isolation, any attempt to steal, buy or trade beskar would be futile. 

The man seemed pleased to figure out that she did understand Mando’a, if only a little. 

“Yes, princess. To Sundari”.

“How did you find my ship? It’s a diplomatic vessel, it should not have even appeared on your radar”. A civilian vessel like Tantive IV should have been of no interest to Mandalorians, unarmed and protected only by defensive shields. Unless they shed their mantle of noble warriors and embraced duties of common bounty hunters, hunting their targets across the galaxy.

“We’ll tell you on the way” he replied tersely. “Come with us”.

Well, Leia thought, following him — bracketed between two other Mandalorians, one to her side and one behind her back, flanking her like guards — at least they haven’t put handcuffs on her. It also seemed that there was no bounty, since they made no move to capture her and had not informed her of any puck leading to Tantive’s location.  

It would be much easier to negotiate her freedom with a faction not inherently standing against her. 

Their ship was much less elegant than Tantive IV, sleek and of smooth lines; this vessel was harsher in decor, sparse as it was, and boasted features more reminiscent of a warship. A tactical table in the very middle of the room, narrow horizontal transparisteel windows, lockers full of various weaponry and heavy artillery instead of the usual light one reserved for ships of this size. 

On the table laid a fob, its red eye blinking rapidly. 

Leia exhaled. Force, no. “So you are bounty hunters”.

The man in blue armour nodded shortly. “Some of us are. Yet none of us are hunting you, princess”.

“Why are you taking me to Sundari?” she asked coldly. The Rebellion couldn’t afford a ransom, not with the funds it needed for merely functioning, its treasury bled dry every single standard month. Alderaan could, perhaps, pay the Mandalorians if the ransom demands were sent, but dealings with Mandalore would undoubtedly catch the Empire's angry eye, and it would result in further oppression of her people. “What could you possibly gain—”

He raised his hand as if to interrupt.

“A warship is hardly a proper place to celebrate our reunion”. 

“Reunion?” she snorted. She survived becoming a fugitive, a hostage and an accidental prisoner, but to hear from a Mandalorian that they had a reunion to celebrate would be a first. “Force, I have never seen you in my life”.

“I assure you, princess, that you have”. From behind his hal’cabur, the Mandalorian fished out a chainlet with a gold ring on it, now definitely too small to fit his or Leia’s finger. It used to fit her, though, she realised. Twelve years earlier. Unmistakably Alderaani, the ring bore an inscription in Leia’s own language; an inscription marking it as a gift for the heiress to the throne. “Time has been gracious to you”.

Her breath hitched. Oh, the equinox ball more than a decade ago; the only time in her life when she met Mandalorians. “Dancing was very boring, and I didn’t want to go back inside the ballroom”.

“And I offered to protect you. I’m glad to see you again, Leia”.

“Paz”.

Force, Paz Vizsla has changed so much throughout the decade. Leia still remembered him as a headstrong, strong-willed boy, preparing for his role as ven’alor and training relentlessly until he reached the age of verd’goten — trials which made or broke a cadet, signaling their maturity and adulthood. Traditionally held at sixteen, this ceremony was accessible to those a little younger if they proved their prowess and their buire consented, or older if the cadet concerned joined the ranks later in life. For those the verd’goten was not as much a trial of maturity as it was a trial of their inner virtues and strength.

Was his short, sandy hair shoulder-length now, with most of it braided to keep it off his face? Maybe only a few shorter strands would slip free by his temples, as unconquerable as they used to be back when he was a child. Inquisitive blue eyes must have had hardened somewhere over the course of the decade, long-accustomed to fighting and hunting, to operating from behind the HUD and picking threats from his surroundings. He’s grown as well, towering over Leia; part of it must have been due to beskar-soled boots, but he would just as easily stand much taller than her with no armour at all. 

To come across the man who, years ago, swore to protect her on the exact moment when she made peace with her execution was nothing less than an act of divine grace.

She tilted her head.

“Mandalore is quite far from the sector I was in”.

Vizsla shrugged. Foolish, to believe that he wouldn’t cross entire sectors to protect her, as bound by his oath. His father took time and effort to teach him about the value of his words and promises, citing on every occasion available that a Vizsla’s word was as if written in Song — binding and unbreakable. 

“No matter how far had you been, to leave you at the mercy of the Empire would have been unthinkable. Take a seat” he added a little softer. “We should land in Sundari in a few standard hours. Take some time to rest”. 

As wonderful as rest sounded, after one and a half standard cycles of evading a star destroyer, there were much more pressing matters at hand.

“I can’t. I need to track an astromech, it has something very valuable. A blue R2 unit. Please”.

Paz exhaled. “After we land, we will talk to the Mand’alor and we’ll make a decision. Rest for now”. 

“No”. Leia rose, clenching her fists. “Lives depend on that. People died for what that droid holds. I’ll locate it myself if I have to, because there’s no time to waste”. 

Certain people possessed a remarkable quality of somehow physically looking down on a person much taller than them when dressing that person down, and Vizsla was both thrilled and appalled to discover that princess Organa was one of those people. Despite the sheer fact that he had to bow to look into her eyes — big and brown like rust — he still felt the very same way when he was merely an ad, long before his verd’goten, and his father caught him sneaking onto ori’ramikade training grounds again. 

Tieran would grab him by the scruff, like a newborn loth-kitten, and carry him back to the proper training salle. 

He huffed quietly.

“You don’t— this decision is not mine to make. This could thrust Mandalore right between the Empire and those who oppose it, and we cannot risk the peace we have”.

So much for the famous Mandalorian bloodlust, apparently. Leia rolled her eyes.

“Silence is detrimental to everything we stand for. The Empire is tightening its grip. All I can do is ask”. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “If we don’t act now, there will be no peace at all”.

“Mandalore can hold its own. We have done it already, we can do it again”.

Isolation might have served Mandalore well when it came to safety, yet in matters of awareness it left quite a lot to be desired. 

“You cannot. No planet can withstand Imperial offense, not if they stay on orbit and lay siege until your cities are razed to the ground. I understand the risk; Alderaan has been under threat from the Empire since they figured out that we support the Rebellion. They set up an orbital blockade. It’s a miracle I managed to get out”. Her next words, emphasized, made Paz’s blood run cold. “But we are not afraid”.

“Neither are we” he cut off. “We are not cowards, princess. Our peace is fragile. It cost us a lot to keep the Empire, and the Republic beforehand, at bay. Not to mention our own internal conflicts”.

Leia clenched her fists.

“My people die every day to combat the Empire. It would be downright cruel to let their sacrifice go to waste”.

Paz pressed his lips together. “I will talk to the Mand’alor. Perhaps you’re right; it might be time to tear the Empire apart once and for all”.

Mandalore treated her kindly. 

Sundari welcomed her with warm, fresh air inside its vast dome. Transparisteel — layers of it, laid in a hexagonal pattern — protected the capital of Manda’lase from the elements and any hostile action. The buildings, from the imposing palace and the living quarters to the main square and the bustling market, were built of stone and glass, with occasional accents of colour or metal. The main courtyard, circular in shape and surrounded by rows of columns, with narrow windows painting the floor due to stained glass inserted in their frames. 

Raw and primitive for some, the architecture of Sundari and no doubt of Keldabe or of Adaris was stunning. Not nearly as opulent as what Leia grew used to on Alderaan — white marble arches, countless ornaments and adornments, lavish terraces and lush gardens — it held much more character than what she recalled from Coruscant, buried in gray skyscrapers and soulless, cold lights. Practicality and simplicity resulted in rich harmony of straight lines and soft curves, spirals at the heads of the columns and intricate reliefs of battles. Sundari with its stone, glass and metalwork, combat-related artistry and frescos depicting glorious battles — with the most breathtaking one presenting an ascension to Ka’ra, a beskar’gam-clad warrior with wings protruding from their back, rising to firmament to greet a council of fallen kings — was a city reborn, forged in fire. 

No less imposing was the throne room, stone pilasters reaching all the way up to the vaulted ceiling and a walkway leading between two rows of sculptures of warriors. Every single one was sculpted in full beskar’gam, with a weapon in hand. The throne itself, on a dais, cut from gray stone and reinforced with beskar, was empty. 

Leia trembled a little, doing her very best to breathe stably and to ground herself, all to conquer her anxiety . The fate of the Rebellion rested heavy on her shoulders, only not forcing her to bow because of Paz’s reassuring hand on her back. He did assure her that once the audience was over and the negotiations set for the next cycle, they all would rest; duty, as pressing as it was, met an impasse. 

How overjoyed would her parents be to know that the rebels would not face the Empire on their own anymore! How reassuring would it be to know that no battle was to be fought alone! She could nearly see Mon Mothma’s eyes brightening, ember hair pressed to Leia’s cheek in a tight embrace. 

“Buir”. Paz turned around at the sound of heavy footsteps. “Mand’alor”.

Tieran Vizsla was a just king, chosen to become Mand’alor after the long-term internal division and an all-out civil war ended, with the fallen honoured and the hatchets buried. The factions reached a solution through both negotiations and extensive combat, taking unsolvable problems to the sparring grounds and the decision of whoever was victorious would prevail. The clan leaders formed a council and, after lengthy discussions, installed Tieran Vizsla as the sole ruler. 

“Ven’alor”. The Mand’alor — Paz’s father, if Leia recalled — gestured to invite them closer. “I take it that your insanity from this morning resulted in a sensible outcome?”

“It did, alor. This is Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, I believe you remember her. Her ship was attacked by the imperials, and she was ready to face them on her own. We secured her and brought her here. We need to inform Alderaan that their princess is alive and well”.

Leia swallowed. “I would like to ask you for an audience, Mand’alor. As glad as I am to be here, there are matters that cannot wait”.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then, after the first light. You need to rest”. A smile graced his face, for a sheer second turning the face of a stern warrior into that of a loving father. “Welcome to Sundari”.

Leia forced one of her own, bland but bright.

“Thank you”. 

She would immediately touch on the subject of Mandalorian alliance to the Rebellion, or at least some form of military support. A few ships with crew. Ground personnel, training personnel, not to mention transport or armed vessels; any aid that could help tilt the outcome towards the Rebellion's victory. As grueling and strenuous as the war was, Leia was convinced, deep down, that their victory was inevitable, only a matter of time until the Empire collapsed; too many planetary systems would escape it, its economy and hierarchy would crumble, soldiers would become loyal to those who provided for them, turning into mercenaries no longer aiming for a common cause. 

That was the decisive advantage the Rebellion had over the oppressors — her people believed in a cause, not joining one either forcibly or due to being raised in the ranks from an early age, brainwashed and unable to distinguish propaganda from the truth. 

“Let me walk you to your quarters”. Paz offered her his arm, and his lips twitched upwards when Leia accepted it. “You should rest. We’ll stop by the dining hall to get you something”.

Apparently, Leia decided, Mandalorians were much more hospitable than the galaxy gave them credit for. With a bowl of hot, spicy stew — tingilaar — and a cup of shig in front of her, she had to admit that she did feel better. Even if the dish burned her lips and throat a little. 

The audience hall, separate from the throne room and more with characteristics of a particularly well-furnished antechamber rather than a simple council room, offered a table and several chairs alongside it, with one — presumably the Mand’alor’s — at the head of the table. Leia was led to the one on the king’s left side, while Paz as a party able to act as a sort of mediator, a sort of golden ratio between Leia’s questions and Tieran’s answers would take the seat on the right.

“Now that you are rested, princess, I will gladly listen. You’re a representative of the Rebellion, correct?”

“Correct, Your Highness. I am aware, very well, that what I’m about to ask for is a feat in and of itself”. She took a deep breath. “I know that your peace, internal and external, is what you covet, but I have to ask you to perhaps make an exception”.

“An exception”. Tieran tilted his head. “As in?”

“The Rebellion is low on funds. We are losing people and vessels, and the Empire is hot in pursuit. Still, the battle is not yet lost. I am not asking for funds, I am asking you- as in your people, to join the cause. With whatever you are willing to sacrifice”. Leia swallowed, blood loud in her ears, her heart beating in the rhythm of a war drum march. 

“We may have come to your aid out of the kindness of my son’s heart” the king looked at Paz “but Mandalorians don’t work for free, princess. My people are precious to me, as precious as if they were my own children. Why should I thrust them into a battle already lost?”

Leia’s throat constricted, tears rose in its back. 

“It is not yet lost! I would not dare to ask you to demand your people to join. I am asking for volunteers, for whatever you can spare. Let it be their decision. Please” she continued after a while. “When the Empire is done with ensnaring the rest of the galaxy, they will come for you, don’t be mistaken. They will. And they will not hold back. Help us quench it now and we will rebuild the galaxy anew. You won’t have to live in isolation anymore”.

“My people are not bait, princess”.

“She never said that” Paz interrupted. “She asked for volunteers, for what we might not need or what we can spare to help them, because they need it more than we do. No Mandalorian worth their beskar would stand aside and refuse aid when it was possible to be given”.

King Tieran exhaled, the sternness on his face slowly morphing into acceptance. “Son, you must understand—”

“—standing aside is only what hu’tuune do! Refusing aid is an act not only of cowardice, but of highest dishonour. I will not stand for that”.

The king rose from his seat. “Choose your next words carefully, son” he said, his voice cold but fiery. “I do not take lightly to being called a coward”.

Leia’s heart swelled a little in her chest. Encouraged, she continued. “Do you know how the Jedi Order fell, Mand’alor?”

The man rested back down again, yet much less easily, as if ready to fight the very moment the call was made. “Enlighten us”.

“When the troops entered the temple — no resistance against them, they were supposed to be allies, protectors, faithful soldiers — they executed every single being inside. Not only the Jedi, masters, knights, students, but also archivists, pilots, caregivers. Not only adults either” she treaded slowly, careful to put enough weight on each word, to speak of a tragedy in terms of respect, not profit. “Vader himself murdered the children in the creche, regardless of their age. Yours is a culture which values children above your own lives, and solely because of that you ought to take a stand!”

Both Mandalorians froze, Paz stiffly in his seat, Tieran while picking his blade clean. 

“We oppose the Empire because they still do this. Child slavery and labor doesn’t matter as long as the tax revenues from the Outer Rim are correct. Families torn apart mean nothing after a yet another planet bent to their will, plundered and oppressed. They set their sights on my homeland now, and as I fought for the other planets, I will fight for my own too”. 

“Crimes against children are of the most foul kind” the Mand’alor agreed. “Still, to purge evil from the entire galaxy is futile”.

“It may be” Leia nodded “but at least I will have worked towards it. And if the ideals don’t convince you, I am not asking without offering anything in return”.

Both men turned to face her; Tieran’s careful interest contrasted with Paz’s disbelief. “Alderaan can offer you an alliance. A seat in the senate when all this is over. A way to integrate with the galaxy, establishment of trade routes, repatriation of artifacts. Even of stolen beskar, or at least a part of it”.

Was it not what they strived for? Beskar brought back would serve them for generations to come, forged and smelted, shaped and carved into beskar’gam either for newly-minted verde or those who needed a replacement for their armour. With Alderaan’s support, Mandalore would be listened to again, its strong, clear voice would ring in the senate’s hall for the first time in centuries, no more as guests or allies. 

“Your parents are unable to attend to sign the treaty” Tieran stated soberly after a moment. “The imperial blockade of Alderaan makes it impossible for them to as much as enter a spaceship without repercussions”.

The beskar mines were still rich in thick veins of ore; mythosaurs were still said to lurk in the Living Waters. Mandalore was neither defenseless nor starving, nor low on resources. Only painfully silent in face of injustice, terse Mando’a unable to escape constricted throats.

Leia tilted her head. It had been explained to her early on that while the monarch and the consort hold most of the power of Alderaani royalty, the heiress to the throne is not left dutyless and she as well has privileges and prerogatives to command. She exhaled.

“They don’t need to come here. I don’t need their consent. I am vested with power to make this decision for myself”.

A beskar chainlet quietly clinked, laid on the table, branded with the emblem of House Vizsla on the clasp. Would it be enough to convince them? Would a marriage — an effigy of one, rather — tilt the victory towards her?

The response was disheartening at best. 

“No. Absolutely not”.

Leia turned to face Paz. “What?”

“Absolutely not” he repeated angrily. “Marriage isn’t a tool to misuse. I’m not going to taint it like so”.

Force, have mercy. Righteousness was the last thing she would have expected from him, especially in terms of a potentially incredibly beneficial or personally fulfilling marriage, one built on a promise made years before. 

“Our marriages would most probably have been political regardless, for alliances or diplomatic relationships”. She pursed her lips. Even if she had the right to marry whoever she wished to, it would almost certainly be someone from the upper spheres of Alderaani society, introduced to her during an event. Of a certain background, from a trustworthy lineage. “Why not use it for this?”

"I won't marry someone who has no other choice. It's not a price to pay. To marry someone unwilling—"

"I offered" Leia emphasized. "I am willing. Nobody forces me to do it".

"The circumstances do. I won't be known as a man who took marriage as payment. This is vile". 

"The seat in the Senate is payment. So are trade routes. Not marriage. It would be a sign" she explained softly. "Of alliance".

When it came to a man like Paz, his resistance came from a place of honour; of respect towards Leia, not dislike, and she knew that very well. 

Paz finally ceded. He had a soft spot for the princess ever since they met, nurtured devotedly, and to marry her would be no hardship; a privilege, more like, and he would gladly do so if not for the situation. Marriage as payment was as vicious as a man could get. Paz Vizsla had many vices, but he was not an abusive man.

"We'll talk about this. It—"

“Enough”. Tieran lifted his hand. Profitable or not, after having heard of the atrocities committed by the Empire, taking a stand against it was the right thing to do. “I will send word to clan leaders that volunteers are to request the coordinates of your main fleet or base and join as quickly as possible, with all weaponry or ships they wish to bring. In return, the ships are not to bear any Mandalorian emblems, as to protect our system and mislead the Empire. Your marriage will seal the treaty”.

Both Paz and Leia’s nods confirmed acceptance.

“Are there any requirements for me?” Leia asked. “Alderaan has very few for a royal spouse, apart from being the heiress’ own choice and not having violated the law. Noble birth isn’t a requirement anymore, though I suppose it will serve us well”.

“We should both learn each other’s culture and language as much as possible without straining our other duties”. Paz’s eyes, devoid of initial anger, were now bright, almost like the stars above them, only obscured by the helmet. “The ceremony should be joint, in your rites and mine”.

“I will leave you to this”. King Tieran’s eyes glanced at Leia before focusing on Paz. “You have every right to form a committee to aid you, curate a guest list, anything that is necessary for a royal wedding. Come evening, you will announce it to the citizens. Is that acceptable?”

Leia smiled weakly. This marriage might be built on politics and a treaty, but if she read Vizsla well — and her extensive training as a diplomat allowed her to read people like a datapad — it might swiftly bloom into something more.

“It is. Thank you”.

“Thank you, ven’rid’alor”. Tieran bowed lightly. “It may be high time someone makes an honest man out of my son”.

An amused smile and an indignant huff were the only answer he got.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER II: MANDALORE

“Our people will inform the Rebellion that you’re alive and taken care of”. Vizsla walked by her side, leading her through the maze that the palace seemed to be. “Your aliit must be worried. Your family” he specified. "We will get the word out to them as soon as possible".

Bail and Breha must have been losing their senses with fear. With hands tied behind their back they were in no position to launch a search for their daughter. The Empire might have already claimed to have captured, tried and sentenced her, if not outright executed. This would deprive both Alderaan and the Rebellion of what little hope they had; yet if Tieran’s words were true, neither would mourn for much longer. 

None of it, however, would spare the Organas the suffocating pain of losing their child. An ad who lost their buire was an orphan, yet there was no name for a buir losing their ad’ika — it was a tragedy of the gravest weight, incapacitating and debilitating, depriving of the sheer will to live. He’s seen parents suffering, their sons and daughters buried with all honours, beskar weighing brittle frames down, knees buckling, choked sobs from beneath their helmets. 

Even despite the visors it was clear that their faces were devoid of feelings other than grief, and that their eyes were hollow the way only death made them. 

Leia nodded in agreement. “The Empire might have already claimed me to be dead, with or without the wreckage delivered". It would be an unprecedented courtesy from the Empire, to deliver the wreckage of Tantive IV in a gesture of anything other than propaganda. Force, it would still be kind if they delivered it if only to prove — in their own twisted way — that the bright hope of the Rebellion was gone. 

“We should discredit whatever they say” Paz replied, as if it was an obvious solution. “Broadcast the wedding. Prove that the Empire doesn’t always, if ever, tell the truth”.

The imperial claims of Leia’s death would be violently torn open in turn, disproven with clear footage of her marriage to a Mandalorian. Sending such a message of unity — not only calling the Empire out on blatant lies, but also casting a ray of hope into the open space — would be a quiet, discreet act of war. Of quick and brutal destabilisation of all those, who blindly trusted their oppressor. 

“It would not be very difficult” he continued. “It’s not a burden to encrypt a transmission to make its place of origin untraceable. Chances are they will figure out it’s from here, even they can recognize Mandalorians, but the planet is well-armed, as are the cities. The domes are there for a reason”. He gestured upwards, to plates of transparisteel and shield generators. “Even if they poison the atmosphere and bury toxins in our soil, the cities are nearly self-sufficient. One of the advantages of building on ruins is having a lot of space already available”.

As far as Leia was concerned, Mandalore’s agriculture was adapted to any conditions, with crops growing either in the sunlight or under the cities, on vast fields warmed by sunlamps and watered by a complex irrigation system. Alderaan was much simpler in that regard; fat bumps of water potatoes grew in shallow ponds, terrace fields of golden cobs and sweet-ish, moist greenery stretched outside of the capital. 

“We aren’t only warriors, ner sarad”. 

“No, I know”. Leia flashed a smile, shaking her head. Common misconception. “Cunning as you are. Publicizing the wedding would be a decisive move, Paz. There would be no going back. I’m not sure if it would be brave or incredibly risky”. 

“Either way, it will tear the floodgates open”. And they would withstand the flood that would come, he was sure of it. A true warrior was not afraid of a brewing storm; a true warrior was a storm, beskar-clad and armed to the teeth. “And we will stand victorious”.

“I hope so”. 

“We will. You have my word”. Vizsla gently took her hand in his own, caressing her skin — soft and pleasant to the touch — with his fingers. “It’s already as if written in Song”.

Come evening, Leia decided to send out a message to the Rebellion. To Mon Mothma personally, who was the highest-ranking affiliated politician not under imperial supervision or not on their payroll; in the Imperial Senate corruption was rampant. Senators pushed for unjust laws and regulations to line their pockets with credits, to grow richer and richer, to cut their own taxes while the grand majority of the population paid increasingly more; for laws unthinkable in a civilized galaxy. At the great cost to intricate, vulnerable ecosystems of less-developed worlds, to their natural resources drained and stolen, even to people forcibly moved from their homeworld somewhere else.

Chances were that senator Mothma’s private commlink was not regularly screened by the imperials, and so nearly safe to contact. The message would be encrypted, as neither of them could risk their safety, but it would be clear enough to state the obvious — contrary to what the Empire claimed, princess Leia Organa was alive and well.

Several ciphers and codes were in use among the rebels, each meant for a specific communication channel, so Leia settled for the one for the undercover spies. A little over a hundred of them infiltrated imperial institutions, delivered data, foiled plans, stole designs of weaponry or strategies woven to find rebel bases. So far their main base on Yavin 4, buried in the shade of ancient ziggurats and the ages-old jungle, was undetectable. Only time would tell if it remained that way. 

Each evacuation was a necessary evil, leaving them stranded in space, no matter how many of the rebels considered the fleet their home. It left them vulnerable, exposed from every side. Danger lurked in every sector, behind every belt of asteroids and behind every single moon. Leaders of the Alliance often had bounties on their heads, which had hunters on their tail, seeking to deliver the target or proof of death to the Empire; any damage done in pursuit would be irrelevant. 

Regardless, no message would be completely immune to extensive code-breaking. With enough time, effort and patience, every cipher could be broken. A simple, short message would have to do. Leia pressed send. 

A L I V E.

On Chandrila, in the Mothma estate, Mon’s commlink pinged quietly.

“You should learn how to fight” Paz said one day. They were sharing a midday meal, hashuun, tingilaar and some local fruit; the thin, nearly waffle-like bread was bland enough to soothe the spice of the stew. “You can shoot, but you won’t always have a blaster on hand. I cannot with good conscience allow my ven’riduur to be so defenseless”. 

So defenseless. As if she hadn’t been able to fend off two would-be assassins, hordes of more or less appropriate candidates for her hand in marriage even before she actually grew to be old enough for it (what business did a middle-aged man have in trying to secure a marriage to a sixteen-year-old?) and one invader inside the palace. Still, learning more couldn’t hurt. 

Mandalore didn’t have any particularly heavy vases on pedestals along the corridors for her to hit a man with, so. Supposedly, proper weaponry would have to do.

“Fine. You should teach me”. Leia finished her portion and tilted her head back, pressing it into the nape of Paz’s neck. She’s met a few potential suitors, mostly nobility heirs of her age, yet with none of them did she eat a meal back-to-back, the face of her intended obscured from view. “I could teach you some tips in exchange. It will prove useful when this is over — the war, I mean. Diplomacy is tricky no matter your rank and no matter the times, and I believe that you will be representing Mandalore on more than one occasion”. Paz was, after all, next in line for the throne. 

How would their future look? Assuming that the Alliance would win the war and reestablish some sort of a republic, naturally; if the war ended any other way, there would be nothing to reinstate. With Leia’s inevitable coronation as the queen of Alderaan and Paz’s stepping up as the Mand’alor, their future seemed to paint them apart rather than together. Each of them with a planet to lead and represent, each of them confined to duty. Would they even see each other, or would their marriage only flourish when a diplomatic meeting was set? And if they had any heirs, which throne would they be eligible for? 

Force, why did all this have to be so complicated? 

Still, with enough hope bright in her heart, it would be entirely reasonable to plan for the foreseeable future. A fragile, if daring, step. 

Her own commlink pinged, the tiny light blinking blue. 

A R R I V I N G, the message in the same cipher revealed. M S H 1 8. Joy settled in Leia’s chest. Soon, at the standard eighteenth hour of Mandalorian time, the delegation from the flagship would arrive. There was no telling how many representatives it would have, or who exactly would come, but the mere assurance that they had not given up on her was more than enough. Mandalore was kind to her, provided her with shelter and protection not to mention having saved her life before, yet now with the treaty in the works, crested by her marriage to Paz, it could turn the tides of the war. 

With impenetrable shields, a fleet of starships and an army of formidable warriors, it was a foe not to be trifled with. 

It would not go amiss to learn some of their prowess.

“The Rebellion sends a delegation” she read. “Tonight. They will probably want to talk with the Mand’alor to clarify the terms, since I can’t quite sign it as the sole representative”.

“The volunteers must have come across them, then”. Paz’s gentle touch reassured her, as he offered her his hand. Leia grasped it tightly. “The tides are already changing. You will not even notice when the Empire drowns”.

She squeezed his hand. Bared of the leather of his usual training gloves, the skin was mottled with minuscule scars, calloused the way only a hand of a warrior can be either from wielding a blade or a gun. Her hand fit Paz’s own very well, tucked between his fingers. “This is why they risked traveling all the way here. Smaller crafts should be undetectable for anyone trying to pinpoint them, and the flagship keeps its distance, so this alliance should remain undetected until the broadcast, I hope”.

“You attribute quite a few achievements to hope” Vizsla noticed. He himself learned fairly quickly to trust both his instincts and his training, as well as to count solely on himself well before his verd’goten. Any Mandalorian had to be able to survive on their own, to endure hardships and return homeward. He was the next Mand’alor; he could not offer his people anything less than perfection.

“I do”. Leia glanced at him, exhaustion along with anxiety swirling in her eyes. “That’s what rebellions are built on”.

On hope. On desire. On a bone-deep, heart-embedded premonition that nothing evil lasted forever, that empires could be tilted far enough to collapse and that chains could be broken. For Mandalorians this kind of feeling was important enough to be granted a name; shereshoy meant lust for life and freedom, living to the fullest against all odds, despite any adversities. 

The starfighter touched down on the landing pad without an issue. Paz’s lips twitched; the ship, branded with the Rebellion’s sign, was a kom’rk class armoured freighter, mostly used to transport troops rather than wares. Mandalorian-made, if a little dated and so probably scavenged or donated, the craft seemed to have held its own against the imperials very well. 

The woman in white reminded him of Leia. She had the same steel-spined posture and the same sharpness in her eyes, though her hair was shorter and fiery. Even her robes were similar. Paz felt a pang of pride in his heart — she must have been very important to his ven’riduur if the clear inspiration was anything to go by. 

“Ven’alor” the woman said, her accent nearly flawlessly reflecting the one of the upper spheres of the society, from when House Kryze wielded the Darksaber. “It’s an honour to meet you, both given the treaty and your engagement to Princess Organa. My name is Mon Mothma, I am the leader of the Rebel Alliance”.

“We are honoured to welcome you in Sundari”. Vizsla led her and her party — four people in total — towards the entrance to the palace. “The Mand’alor shall see you shortly”.

“Thank you”. Mothma’s anxious glances did not escape Paz’s attention, trained to seek out the smallest variations from a being’s usual demeanour. “I trust that the princess is waiting for us as well? The information of her capture and the Tantive’s destruction…”

“Princess Leia is safe and taken care of. You have my word”.

The moment the party stepped inside the antechamber, demanding the attention of the Mand’alor and the princess herself, Leia rushed towards them. Mothma barely managed to hold her, as bright as she was, sobs of relief echoing through the room. Grasping at her arms, getting her fingers entangled in the dress, cradling her face as if whatever was wrong with her could have only been seen in stillness. “We were terrified” Mothma confessed. “The wreckage looked horrible. If it hadn’t been for the survivors contacting us, we would have thought you all a total loss”.

“I’m alright. I am”. Leia embraced her tightly, composing herself only at the subtle cough from her side. “Oh. Apologies, Mand’alor”.

“There is no harm done” Tieran said, visibly amused by the display the way a father is amused by playing children. “Family reunions are always a bliss to watch. Take your seats, please. The terms had been roughly outlined beforehand, but I believe it would be best to finalize the treaty as soon as possible, as the ceremony can hardly wait”.

Mothma frowned.

“The ceremony?” 

“We” Leia raised her head to catch Paz’s eyes from across the table “decided to crest the treaty by marriage”. It was so easier to say that they decided to get married, not that Leia proposed marriage and its benefits in the long run out of fear that, due to lack of funds, Mandalorians would disregard her entirely. 

The silence that fell was as heavy as a sword falling, delivering just punishment. 

“By marriage”. Mon Mothma’s voice, strong and clear, pierced the air. “And is it your decision completely?”

“It is” Leia assured. “It would be beneficial for the Rebellion and Mandalore alike. We need military support, especially since we know what weapon the Empire is building. A space station” she explained, looking at Paz and Tieran “equipped with machinery capable of destroying entire planets. With a force like that bound to their will—”

“—no planet will be safe” Paz finished. Such force — and such evil — was incomprehensible to him. Raised to be a warrior with an honour to uphold and a creed to obey, he barely grasped the extent of such a weapon. “You need firepower to destroy it. We can provide”.

With the existence of such a formidable weapon revealed, they had to cease perceiving Mandalore and the Rebellion as two sides of a credit coin; faced with the Empire, hellbent on razing them all to the ground, there was no time for division. 

“If it comes to the worst, the rebels may seek shelter here” Tieran stated. “Our defenses will withstand whatever the Empire throws at us. Our allies are always welcome on Manda’yaim”. 

“Thank you”. Mon nodded. “That still leaves us a few more terms to discuss”.

The entire treaty took a week to settle; fairly quickly for treaties of this magnitude, yet with every cycle the danger loomed closer and closer. The Death Star — which was what the files named Stardust revealed the station to be — when fully operational would be capable of tearing planets apart in a single shot, piercing through outer and inner layers to the core, all in fractions of seconds. Graciously enough, the file offered them the names of the Death Star’s engineers, including long-lost Galen Erso and an imperial overseer Orson Krennic. Both of whom, as far as Leia was aware, didn’t have a single decent bone in their bodies.

To see Mon Mothma leave broke her heart, but the terms of the treaty stated exactly that Leia, for her own safety, would stay on Mandalore and when the time came swear the Resol’nare. In exchange, when the war was over, Paz would spend the period between the victory and his coronation on Alderaan, learning the culture and the language. Both Tieran and Mon kindly left the innermost parts of the treaty — the ones regarding the marriage — to them. Neither party particularly cared for heirs, though Leia knew that at least one would be necessary to continue the Organa lineage, because so far the Alderaani succession was secure and the Mandalorians considered an adopted child their own anyway. Nobody insisted on barbaric customs of supervising the wedding night (where was that from?) or an equally ridiculous proof of purity before marriage, leaving the most vulnerable aspects to Paz and Leia. The only term set in stone was that the marriage had to take place, in public, and that it would be broadcasted to the entire galaxy as the first joint step to discredit the Empire.

Its foul lies would be disproven immediately when the people, from the Outer Rim to the Core, saw the supposedly-dead princess marrying the ven’alor. A declaration of war, if nothing else. 

Both the rebels and the Mandalorians assembled teams responsible for sending out short propaganda videos, supposed to present the might of until-now-dormant Mandalore and the cunning Rebellion. Two fleets of starships coursing through the void, rescue missions, sabotages of military and industrial facilities; anything that could tilt the public opinion in their favour. Promises of drawing out the troops, of lifting restrictions, of removing impossibly high taxes imposed by the Empire. 

She watched the freighter’s thrusters get lost among the stars, following the two bright blue lights until Paz took her hand. 

“We’ll take your homeworld back too” he said. “We’ll lay siege for as long as we have to. We’ll take it back, I promise”.

“You shouldn’t give your word so often. Especially when it comes to something you aren’t certain of”. 

Vizsla looked at her — or she assumed so, as he tilted his visor towards her — and only squeezed her hand.

“Ner sarad” he stated “but I am”. 

Eventually, due to coordination with the Rebellion and near-constant contact with them, her stay on Mandalore turned from misplaced idleness to hard work. Together with studying the culture or learning the language, her days were finally full. Her schedule frayed at the edges but, despite her future husband’s worry, she found herself much more energized than ever before. 

Today she was supposed to start her training, to understand the value of direct combat in Mandalorian culture. Paz had relayed to her earlier that duels used to be — and still were — a popular, widely-acceptable form of resolving arguments, but they did not serve only that purpose. No, they were a way to socialize, a way to express sympathy or even a beginning of courtship. Gifting a weapon was a surefire way to let someone know you’re interested in them, especially if it was followed by a duel to test the weapon’s proficiency in battle. 

The training halls were nearly empty, save for a few helmetless youngsters. Instead of Paz, however, there was a man in an unpainted armour waiting for her. Quite characteristic, since she was pretty sure that everyone else customised their beskar’gam. 

“You must be the princess”. The man stepped towards her. “My name is Din. I was entrusted with your training. Paz is busy elsewhere and sincerely apologises” he added to supersede her question. “We’ll start with self-defense, if that’s alright”.

“Sure”. Leia shrugged off her cape. It was a new piece — a gift — white and cozy, reaching down to her thighs, wide enough to allow her to wrap herself in it. 

“Alright. First, stance. You’re going to fight like a Mandalorian, so you need to train like one. When you make me yield to you, we’ll move on to weapons. Hand-to-hand combat for now”. Din paused for a moment. “When do you get your beskar?”

“I didn’t know I’d be getting any” she replied. “I assumed that's strictly Mandalorian attire”.

“It is, usually, but you’re the ven’rid’alor. Paz will definitely get you some, if not a full set, for propriety at least. To leave your spouse unarmed would be in poor taste, especially for someone of his status. Still, until you get it, we’ll train without it”. Din proceeded to remove his own armour until he wore nothing but his flight suit. The only element still on was the helmet. He gestured to it awkwardly. “We won’t be aiming above the shoulder anyway”.

“Alright”.

“Okay. Try to anticipate my movement” he instructed. “With time and training, there will be signs that will make it easy for you to read your opponent, especially since hardly any of them would be wearing helmets”. 

As their training progressed, the halls grew busier and they even gathered a modest audience of a few cadets and their wards; the youngest kids, probably not older than five or six standard years, quickly took seats on the verge of the mat. Dressed in simple, but comfortable tunics, with their hair out of their faces, some of the little ones clutched toys in their hands. Leia smiled softly to herself. She knew very well that Mandalorians held children in high regard. Adoption was omnipresent, anyone old enough to become a buir could adopt and provide a home to a child. 

Adoption, she recalled, was intertwined with one of the six tenets of Resol’nare — the clan. It was an immensely honourable thing to do, to take a foundling under one’s wings and to refer to them as one’s own flesh and blood. 

“We’ve grown an audience”. Djarin helped her stand up. Her back hit the mat numerous times (as expected, she was told, a fully-trained Mandalorian was a formidable foe), but she was able to get some good hits in, judging by how Din clutched his side. “I think we’re done for today. You’ve got a good start”.

“Regret taking off your armour?” Leia teased. Her own back hurt from meeting the synthmat a few too many times, but Force, was it wonderful. 

Din snorted. “A little”.

“I’ll go easy on you next time”.

This time, the snort was a barked-out laugh. “As if, princess. As if”. He grunted quietly. “Vicious, dank farrik”. 

Walking back to her chamber, Leia had a bright smile on her face. Mandalore grew on her, that was undeniable.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER III: RESOL’NARE

Daily courses of etiquette quickly became one of Leia’s favourite parts of her daily schedule; she took immense pleasure in Paz’s company, warmer and much more comfortable than it used to be. His actual personality, as intertwined with the persona of the ven’alor as it was, began to shine through the narrow gaps in his armour.

They were sitting in Leia’s apartments — the guest chamber she was assigned on arrival — on a soft carpet, rare as they were on Mandalore not due to lack of resources but rather practicality. The low caf table was cluttered with classic starter dishes of grilled mengra roots, sturdy cups of oi-oi berries sprinkled with lotus salt and roasted ribs in a rich savoury sauce. Accompanied by five types of glasses, three pairings of cutlery and a stack of flimsinotes they served one purpose, and it was to teach. 

And to become a pleasant distraction as the oi-ois, fat with watery juice, softened any spice burns.

“If you want to apologise for something minor, you can say n’eparavu takisit. You literally swallow your words” Paz explained. “But if you committed something nearly unforgivable, you should say ni ceta. It means to kneel. Mandalorians don’t kneel, not even before the Mand’alor; it’s reserved for serious offences. For humility”. He paused for a moment. “For example, if you heavily insult someone during an argument and you want to avoid a duel and putting your honour at stake, you should kneel and apologise. Unless you call someone a coward. That warrants a duel. You never grab someone’s helmet — the buy’ce — especially from the rim. It’s an invitation to fight to the death, because you insulted them in the worst conceivable way”.

Leia frowned. Bizarre. Then again, if the helmets bore so much importance in Mandalorian culture, then it made sense that anyone other than the wearer or their spouse trying to remove it would be a heavy offense.

“What about head injury? You told me there are several creeds, all equal, but if someone of the strictest creed needs their helmet removed for medical treatment?”

Paz wondered for a while.

“I suppose it is mostly about intentions”. Mostly, as there were certain behaviours or insults which, regardless of true intent, had certain undesirable results. “Still, medical droids are the best bet. With the Living Waters redemption is easier, but under no circumstances should their accessibility be treated lightly. It’s a sacred place”. He paused. “Do you have, somewhere on Alderaan, a place like this?”

“I don’t think we do, actually. Alderaan is united in values, not necessarily in religion”. Not to mention that in private, to her, the concept of damnation and redemption based on showing one's face seemed highly peculiar.

“Interesting, that. Our creed, or creeds, is what binds Mandalorians together. Even if we lost Mandalore, if the planet was destroyed or poisoned or impossible to live on, we would still persevere. Endurance is one of the first things our verd’ike are taught”. 

Leia nodded, picking at the berries. “And verd-eeke are…?”

Paz allowed himself a little smile, biting into a fat mengra root. “Verd’ike. Cadets. Children that are old enough to start their training in combat and survival. Verd means a soldier”. 

“You’re a verd”. 

“I am. And so are you”. 

A soldier. True, Leia mused. As diplomatic as her duties were, she was still a soldier of the Rebellion. Not earlier than a week ago she sent her own men to escape, taking their place at the receiving end of imperial wrath. The fact that the wrath did not come charging at her, perhaps kept at bay by her saviour, did not diminish her sacrifice at all. 

According to Tieran, as the ven’rid’alor she would be allowed to swear the Resol’nare without having to sacrifice her career as a politician; she would be taking the oath solely because it would not do for someone of her status to remain undeclared in this matter. Certain expectations would have to be met, however. She could never be a widely respected Rid’alor if she wasn’t considered one of them, if she didn’t wear beskar and speak the language well enough to easily converse.

“It doesn’t have to be in front of everyone” Paz told her, sitting on the rug, his back resting against her armchair; his hands busy cleaning his weapons. “House leaders would be enough. You need someone who accepts your oath — that is, the Mand’alor — and credible witnesses, including me. You don’t have to do it in front of the capital and dignitaries from other cities”.

Mandalore had four most prominent houses, each of them with its own rich traditions, customs and estates; each had its own colours to paint beskar with and usually their own goran, as each used to live far from the others. House Vizsla wore dark blue, while the Kryzes dressed themselves in bright blue and grey, the Mereels opted for silver and House Wren chose orange. Colour accents could be worn in any colour, regardless of one’s last name, though usually one did their best not to confuse anyone with the colour scheme of the armour. The unwritten rule stood that the House’s colour had to be dominant, to distinguish between the four factions. 

Would Leia’s own beskar’gam have to be blue or could she, as an aruetii, choose her own colour? White, perhaps?

“I’m used to grand ceremonies, I manage them fairly well. I was raised to be heiress to the throne” she reminded him. “The audience won’t be a problem. I’m much more nervous I’d say something wrong”.

“That’s why we are preparing for it”. True enough, on Leia’s lap rested a datapad with all the most important information about Mandalore and its culture, including the oaths one took throughout their life, usually up to three — the Resol’nare, the Riduurok, the gai bal Manda. Ceremonies regarding respectively becoming an adult (or becoming a Mandalorian, if taken later in life), marriage and adoption. Leia would definitely take two. “We’ll train until you can say it perfectly”.

“Din told me I might get a suit of armour”. She lifted her head from above the pad to look at him. “Is it true?”

“I’ll do my best to give you one. Though if the clan leaders decide that you ought to earn your beskar, you will start with vambraces”. Paz stretched to reassuringly pat her wrists. “And the helmet, of course”.

“Hm”. Leia nodded. “What does white represent?”

“Painting your beskar already?” Brave of her, incredibly, as she was not granted the right to wear it yet, but Paz knew her well enough by now to recognise her affiliation for planning ahead. Good strategies served well in the field, and as a warrior he appreciated that. “White means a new start. Cin vhetin. A field of snow, clean and untouched”.

“And orange? It’s the colour of the Rebellion, I want them to remember that I represent them even after my marriage”.

“Quite fitting”. Paz smiled softly. “Shereshoy. Lust for life, for adventure, for freedom. No restraints. Joy found in every dawn”. Fitting indeed for an organization fighting tirelessly a battle many across the stars considered already lost, or doomed from the very beginning. Something born from a desperate one last stand, and turned into so much more. 

Leia marked it down on the datapad.

“Dark blue too”. She nodded to herself. Three colours would be enough, with the primary white, secondary blue, and orange confined to accents. “I’m marrying you, so it would be good to wear your house colours as well”.

“When we marry, they will be yours too. You’ll be a Vizsla the way I am, the way all my ancestors were”. Paz tilted his head back. "I will be to wear white as well, then?"

Leia noted it to figure out what to do with her last name. Naturally, out of respect for Bail and Breha as well as her status as the heiress to the throne, she would keep the family name. Still, to uphold the treaty with Mandalore, she would use the Vizsla name too. 

“You will be an Organa through marriage, the same way my father is. Prince consort, often entrusted with the position of our senator, though I suppose this time someone else will wield it”. Paz would become Mand’alor after Tieran, so to have him act simultaneously as the Alderaani senator would be highly unrealistic, not to mention would introduce conflicts of interest. “You will have your own booth in the senate”. 

“We will” he agreed. “Thank you. It is high time Mandalore takes what it’s owed”.

“Thank you” Leia emphasized. “Your help is invaluable”.

With Mandalorians by their side, they would stand a much bigger chance against the Empire. Armed to the teeth and with a reputation of cunning warriors — a reputation well-deserved at that — they were a formidable force under whose pressure the Empire’s foundation had to give. “We will be able to topple the Empire and build something better”.

Vizsla smiled to himself. Building a future for a single planet was a feat worthy of admiration; constructing the future for the entire galaxy would be a challenge resting heavy on her shoulders. Noble ideals often shattered against reality, crashing into thousands of shards cast out throughout the stars, it took immense willpower to withstand the brewing storms. Still, if anyone was able to do it, it would be his ven’riduur. With a spine of pure beskar cold and glimmering in the early light, skin as pale as alabaster and an unconquerable soul she was a blessing granted by Manda, a steady hand to guide him; a centerpiece of all star charts. 

Her light would lead him home.

Sophisticated like a piece of art, fragile like a seismic charge, dressed in snowy white she only lacked stars in her hair. Nothing brought Paz more pride than witnessing her subdue his father’s council with a few well-placed words and a taste of appeasement, as well as with firm boundaries, or than watching her train.

Maybe he’d himself invite her to the mat soon, see how well she was faring in combat. Did she start wearing training armour already? Durasteel held its own during drills, sturdy enough to withstand most of the weaponry. “After you have sworn Resol’nare, there will be celebrations. Most probably some sort of tournament. We will be able to get officially engaged” he added.

Right. Leia nodded. Of course, their marriage was so far solely one of the terms of the treaty, built on a brittle basis of a childhood promise. If they wanted to make it look real — if they wanted it to be real — both she and Paz would have to put in a lot of effort. Selling a political marriage amounted to constant effort and attention to detail; proper etiquette, attending events together, discreet affection, even coordinating clothes. 

How lucky were her parents that their marriage blossomed into something much more than an arrangement.

“Are there any customs I should be aware of?” she asked. Their engagement would be short regardless, with the date for the wedding already set, yet it did not mean they could afford not to do their best.

Paz nodded. “I would like to court you in both my culture and yours. It’s traditional to present your spouse-to-be with a weapon. The next step is a gift that has to serve them well, and the last is exchanging elements of beskar’gam. Usually pauldrons” he explained. “They remain painted the way the spouses chose them to be. You would wear a blue one” his fingers rapped at the piece “and I would wear white or orange. Your call”.

It’s a good thing that Mandalorians don’t exchange rings, Leia supposed.  

“On Alderaan, we propose with a ring and marry with a ring. Though often the couples talk about it beforehand and propose to each other, so the first rings are exchanged during engagement and the second rings during the wedding. The rings are intricate but sturdy” she continued. “Some have a statement crystal and smaller ornaments, some have only small ornaments but movable pieces. It depends”. 

“I could ask our goran for her permission to use beskar for the rings” Paz offered. “It could be gilded if you prefer it so”. His eyes caught on her earrings, gold and elegant, hugging her earlobes. Those are the only ones she has on Mandalore; the rest of her attire must be back on Alderaan. Certainly, the palace seamworkers provided her with a basic set of clothing, but Paz still felt that his ven’riduur was used to much more, to something much nicer than simple yucotton. Synthsilk, perhaps, natsilk, embroidery. Thin and flowy materials, layered, gathered, flowing in elaborate trains and capes, not to mention headpieces.

“I would like that”. Her smile lit up her face, wide and happy, a flash of pearly teeth. Tatooine’s twin suns were not as bright as her joy was. “Thank you”.

The Great Forge, lit up with flames and echoing with hammer strikes, was a sacred place. Each piece leaving it, pure beskar or an alloy, painted or raw silver, left their goran’s capable hands. For Paz, she nearly took on the role of his mother. He used to spend quite some time in the forge, hiding among the many workstations where her apprentices perfected their craft. It was rare to be admitted to her care; Paz’s own little heart broke when as a child he was denied apprenticeship. 

You are to be Mand’alor, ad’ika, she explained. You already have duties awaiting you.

From that day forward, the Great Forge was his escape. No duties, no expectations. 

“Goran” he spoke, watching her work. Her gilded helmet rose from above the worktable to meet his gaze. Her creed was strict, stricter than most, and permitted removing the helmet only in complete loneliness. “I come seeking advice”.

She tilted her head in curiosity.

“Come then, ven’alor. Ask”.

“I am to be married” he stated. “My ven’riduur will swear the Resol’nare soon. Would it be possible for her to wear beskar once she becomes one of us? She is a princess, and the heiress to the throne” he continued, hoping she’d understand; torn between simply demanding, because Leia’s standing required nothing less than beskar, and humbly asking her to sacrifice time and effort for an outsider’s armour. 

To refuse would be understandable. Beskar was sacred to Mandalorians, especially if scarce, and it was to be earned.  

“Will she require a full beskar’gam?” the goran asked. “I imagine you would wish to keep her well-protected”.

This sentence should not have made him feel admonished; he was not a child anymore, well past his verd’goten, and so there should be no space for shame, nor for embarrassment, yet still. Still, what was there to feel ashamed about? His desire to protect the woman he was going to marry? His sentiment to her, his admiration? 

His heart beating a little faster every time he saw her?

Did she feel the same way?

This marriage — or rather the promise of it — brought comfort to him. It was not going to be a battle, neither of them would have to strive for the other’s affection to tie the knot, it would not be dependent on the results of marital combat or on hearts falling out of love. Steady and stable, it would come to fruition no matter what. All the trials would be purely formalities, since once the treaty had been signed, their fate was set in stone.

“I do. The Empire, once it finds out she is alive, will stop at nothing to rectify that”.

She nodded in understanding. “Standing with the Rebellion, is she not?”

“She is one of the leaders. She will prove worthy of her beskar” Paz adds, as if to convince her. If only the goran could see Leia the way he did. “Leia is a warrior”. 

“Then it will be my pleasure to forge her armour”. A pause. “Whether she wears it immediately upon reception or earns it piece by piece, it is for you and the Mand’alor to decide”. 

“Vor entye, goran. The debt is mine”.

She only tilted her head, returning to her work; the audience was over. Paz left the forge to the rhythm of her hammer hitting beskar, his thoughts helplessly wandering to Leia. To see her after over a decade of no contact was a relief, even if they met under duress, even if the first thing he saw in her eyes was fear, immediately subdued by a facade of bravery. 

“Broadcast it?” Tieran frowned. “It will be an act of war, son. The Empire will not take kindly to being branded a liar, much less to any attempts to discredit its trustworthiness in the long haul”. The first step to sabotaging its foundations, chipping away at them until they lost integrity, until they could not hold up anymore. 

Until the wretched Empire collapsed.

Between the three of them, over a holotable, the schematics of the battle station glimmered in blue. 

Paz nodded. 

“We are prepared. The volunteers have settled in with the Rebellion. Mandalore is able to defend itself”.

“The Death Star isn’t ready yet” Leia added. “It has flaws, weak spots and vulnerabilities, and most importantly” she pointed to tiny red dots over the sphere “exhaust ports. Out of necessity, they lead to the main source of energy, cool it so it doesn’t overheat and, accidentally — or not — are just big enough to allow proton torpedoes through”. 

Tieran slowly turned to face her. 

“The station could be blown up. All that might — gone”.

“Fairly easily. A lone starfighter could do it, but it would need a solid diversion and a few other fighters to follow it to intervene or take over the mission if need be”. 

He tsked quietly. “If you leave Mandalore, will you be safe?”

“No” Leia replied bluntly. “But I’m used to it”.

“I will assign you guards. They will protect you throughout the entire journey, onsite, and back here”.

“Onsite?”

Tieran nodded. “The last thing I want is to cripple the Rebellion by keeping you here. You should not be isolated from your people”.

That stunned her. As welcoming as Mandalore was, allowing her to settle here and grow roots deep into its soil, Leia missed her life on the flagship; the stars surrounding them, providing cover and occasional aid or a potential ally, the familiar white walls, their simple designs, the constant buzz and flickering lights of the control room. Artificial mornings spent on drafting strategies, void-dark nights spent on sleeping lightly, with underlying anxiety thrumming in her chest and the back of her head to warn her about incoming imperial assaults. Migraines tearing her head apart, exhaustion seeping into her bones, bland rations nourishing her well enough to survive and nothing more.

When they win — and they will, even if she has to tear that victory from Vader’s hands by herself — she will finally rest. For a moment, a priceless moment with no worries clouding her mind. She will sip flowerwine, sleep until noon, wear her favourite garments too impractical for a lifestyle dictated by combat.

“Her safety is imperative” Paz hissed. “If she leaves, I leave with her”.

“You are needed here as my heir. We don’t want to sow instability" his father ordered. “You already overstepped once, and my patience is wearing thin”.

Leia has never seen someone so confident taken down so fast.

“N’eparavu takisit”. Paz bowed his head, then turned to face her. “I don’t like the perspective of you in danger”.

Leia mulled his words over. Easy to understand, from the point of view of her husband-to-be. “Neither do I, even if I know you will be safe on Mandalore. You were raised to be a warrior, weren’t you? In a way, so was I. And as you have to fight, so do I. I promise I won’t be heading anywhere near the Empire. I’ll be among friends”.

“Still”. Her hands nearly drowned in his own, caressed by leather-clad fingers. “Comm me from there”.

“I will”.

It was as much of a surprise to her as it was to Paz when he took her face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Leia closed her eyes, smiling softly, allowing herself to bask in the gesture. Vizsla’s hands — the same hands she saw grip a beskar spear, hold heavy weaponry or deliver a well-aimed solid hit to his opponent’s body — held her face gently, as if she was made of precious glass or brittle porcelain. 

His thumbs caressed her cheeks; Leia beamed under the touch. 

“I will be back soon”. She pressed a soft kiss to the cheek panel of his helmet. “I promise”. 

“I will hold you to your word”. Because, if she never returned to Sundari, what would he have left? The throne, certainly, a ruined alliance and a perspective of drawing consequences for its renouncement; their daring plans left shattered. “Retur’cye mhi”.

Until we meet again.

He helped Leia gather her things, inexplicably strewn around. Her clothes, her sparse jewellery, a cape he bought her on the market. He watched her enter Bo-Katan’s ship, with the woman inviting her inside, and he kept his eyes glued to the vessel until it disappeared up in the stars.

Tieran wasn’t lying, Leia decided. The four Mandalorians who accompanied her knew their craft incredibly well, be it pilotage or combat, and two standard cycles later they were docking in the warm embrace of the Rebellion’s signature Home One cruiser under Admiral Ackbar’s stellar command. The very moment she stepped out on the ramp she was welcomed, Mon Mothma standing in the docking hangar. To her side stood a man with sandy hair, in robes of a colour difficult to pinpoint — something between beige, swamp green and grey — and right by his side, a blonde young man in white. 

“We were very relieved to find out you were coming”. Mon embraced Leia tightly. “As relieved as to meet our old friend and his ward”.

The boy — because Force help her, he looked so young — smiled at her. “My name is Luke Skywalker. I’m here to help you”.

Ah, another one. She’s met dozens of people like that, starry-eyed and with a head and a heart full of ideals, bright and naive. The war would seep it out of him soon. Still, more hands on deck was always a good idea. 

“I’m Leia Organa. I’m glad to have you join us”. She turned her attention to the man. “Oh”. Her face softened in relief, and she let out the breath she didn’t even notice she had been holding.

“Hello, Leia”. He smiled softly, yet with an effort, as if having been unused to smiling for a long time, profound sadness deep in his eyes. “It is wonderful to see you again”.

“Obi-Wan. I missed you”. Obi-Wan Kenobi was a person bright like a supernova, blinding and powerful. Seemingly out of the fabric of time too; it was as easy to recall Leia's insane adventures with him as well as if they had happened a week before. 

He embraced her gently.

“I did hope that the Empire had lied about your death. It would have been a devastating loss”.

“I owe my life to Mandalore. They rescued me from my ship” Leia explained. “We are allies now”.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mon Mothma invite the Mandalorians to come with them, to rest in allotted quarters and take the late meal with them. To her surprise, they followed her with ease, Bo-Katan talking to her as if they were old friends; she only cast one last glance at Leia — or at Obi-Wan, it was hard to say — and turned away.

“Do you know each other?” she asked. “She looked at us like she hated you”.

Kenobi huffed. “We do, though not as friends. It’s a long and unpleasant story, and we have no time for it. Come, let’s get you to the command centre”. 

Luke walked half a step behind them, his eyes wandering all around the base. The designs of the ship were simple — nobody paid attention to the decor during a battle, after all, and the Rebellion had no funds to spare on defense and supplies — but to someone who had been born on one of the most uninteresting planets in the banquetxy anything would seem intriguing, Leia supposed. Even the patterns of standard cruisers or slanted windows, or the everpresent cool of recirculating air. 

The boy was already wrapped in a poncho, protecting him from the cold, of the same shade as the rest of Obi-Wan’s attire. 

“Did you adopt a child?” she asked quietly. 

“He has no family as of late, and we had to flee Tatooine. The Empire scorched his family farm. I swore to protect him, and since I failed to do so before, I will dedicate myself to it”. Kenobi shook his head, continuing as if predicting her question. “You were always in good hands, Leia. Bail and Breha are exceptional parents”.

“Alderaan is under blockade”. Leia swallowed a sob. “The Empire set a stronghold there. My homeworld is a hostage”.

Luke’s voice interrupted them. Naive as the boy might be, his enthusiasm and idealistic attitude made an impression on her. The Rebellion needed young, bright people fed up with the unjust imperial dictature; brave and strong rebels with a cause to fight for.

“We will take it back. Don’t worry”. He patted her shoulder. “The Empire will crumble”.

Will it? she thought. 

“Come on then. I need to speak to the squadrons. When they fly out, they need to know where to aim”. 

The conference room on Home One was barely big enough to fit everyone, with both the Rebellion and Mandalorian pilots crammed in the auditorium and the leading trio by the wallscreen. 

“Thanks to the efforts of our spies and Princess Leia, we managed to obtain the plans for the Empire’s newest weapon”. Mon Mothma’s voice echoed through the chamber; R2D2 beeped quietly behind her. “And the bravery of this astromech as well”. Her hand gently patted its chrome dome. 

The plans zoomed in, presenting the route from the exhaust port to the station’s very core. 

Leia cleared her throat. “The Death Star is a horrible weapon. However, by accident or on purpose, it’s not a flawless design. The exhaust port cools down the core chamber, so it does not overheat, and the port itself is just big enough to fit proton torpedoes. We need several designated shooters, the rest will shield them and draw fire elsewhere. Each shooter will have a two-fighter escort to clear their way. Speed and accuracy are key”.

It would be no easy feat. Difficult but doable, all in all, if entrusted to the best pilots. Their chances grew with the Mandalorian volunteers in their lines, known for expert marksmanship, yet amidst an assault on the station the challenge would be much more daunting. 

“Why so urgent? It’s a station” someone asked. “The Empire has many stations around”.

Leia nodded. “It does. However, this one is capable of destroying entire celestial bodies. We need to destroy it before it sets its sight on us, or on any other planets”.

“Power like that is too dangerous to be wielded”. Obi-Wan stepped forward. “The Empire has proven its disregard of boundaries long ago, be it military or humanitarian”.

“They need to be stopped before any more objects like this are built. They pose an unprecedented threat. And this? This brazen manifestation of power? It cannot be ignored”. In Leia’s eyes, bright and blinding, Bo-Katan saw the spirit of Manda itself rear its head, woven into brave words and rallying sentences. Yes, with someone like her by his side the ven’alor would not be lost in his newfound power when the time came. Instead, his reign would be stable, perhaps enough so to discourage Bo-Katan from challenging him for the throne. In her personal opinion a Vizsla on the throne was a disgrace, no matter which one of them held the title; the house’s name was enough to stain the mantle. 

However Leia Organa, the ven’rid’alor, seemed to be the person Mandalore needed. Not in the same way she needed it, granted, yet still. Her high rank among the rebels, Alderaan’s seat in the senate and respected position among the core planets would serve Mandalore well, just as Mandalore’s battle prowess would serve the Rebellion. 

Leia spent a standard month on the flagship until Mothma, unwilling to keep her in certain danger for longer, decided to send her back to Sundari. According to the Empire, Princess Leia Organa was dead, executed for her cooperation with the insurgents. Soon this lie would be revealed and dismantled, discrediting anything else the imperial propaganda would claim. 

“You are our biggest hope. Our lodestar. Besides, I’m certain your intended is anxious to have you back”. She squeezed Leia’s hands, receiving only pearly laughter in the process. 

“This marriage will seal the alliance. I was desperate to have them agree, but…” she sighed “I can’t deny he is growing on me”.

“It will be a fine marriage. With you as the bride and a man of his standing, I can’t imagine anything else”. 

Leia beamed at her. “I will see you soon. May the Force be with you all”.

“And may it be with you as well”.

With Mon Mothma’s embrace still lingering on Leia’s shoulders, she boarded the freighter and exhaled.

“Eager to go home?” Bo-Katan asked, taking the seat next to her. “To get married?”

Leia laughed. 

“Actually, I am. The alliance might help us topple the Empire once and for all, and it’s not like Paz is a necessary evil” Leia laughed. “I grew fond of him”. She tilted her head. “What happened between you and Obi-Wan? You watched him like a shriekhawk watches its prey”.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you one day. Let’s let the dust settle after the Empire before we stir it again”. Kryze smiled softly. “You have my word. Maybe it’s time we welcome the jetiise back in Sundari”.

“You may have been enemies before, but... Obi-Wan is a good man”. 

Bo-Katan’s eyes grew glassy with tears. “I know, Le’ika” she said, her voice breaking. “My sister wouldn’t love him otherwise”.

A delegation welcomed them back planetside, of eight warriors including Din, whom Leia gladly noted; sadly, however, Paz’s familiar beskar’gam was nowhere to be seen. Djarin informed her that he was accompanying his father in a clan meeting — and was as thrilled as one could suspect when a man of action is locked in a room with men of lengthy, ornate words — and would come see Leia when the meeting ended. 

“It’s good to have you back, ven’rid’alor” he added. “We missed you. There are a few things awaiting your attention — I told him not to put them in your chambers, but to reason with that di’kut is like to reason with a wall”.

“I’ll remember”. Leia smiled softly. “It does feel good to be back”.

“I don’t doubt”. She could hear the smile in his voice, even with the helmet and the vocoder. “Sundari missed you too”.

As recent as her arrival was, it was fairly simple to spot her influence over the capital. So far mostly in the palace, enriched by a proper drawing room serving simultaneously as an audience chamber for her if she so wished, by the presence of artwork and ornery. Imposing and impressive as the palace was, dressed heavily in vestiges of its past, it looked well sailing towards its future. 

After the marriage, and preferably after the war was over, Leia would work on introducing certain parts of Alderaani culture to Mandalore. From more sophisticated clothing to her handmaidens, she would make sure to feel at home. 

“Did it, now” she mused. It would be fatal to assume that the city did not grow used to her presence, ven’rid’alor or not. 

“How could it not? You had the guts to dress both the Mand’alor and his son down for their passive approach; I cannot imagine anyone better for this”. Din escorted her to her chambers — the chambers she would soon vacate once the marriage was sealed — and cleared his throat. “Paz asked me to tell you that your Resol’nare will take place this week. The Riduurok—”

“—soon. I know. I’m ready”.

“I’m glad to see you happy with the outcome” he continued. “And to see Paz happy. He deserves to be. You both do. He’s like a brother to me, but if he acts out of line, I’ll gladly straighten him up”.

Leia’s bright laugh echoed through the corridor. “I don’t doubt that”.

She didn’t, and neither did she doubt that the future — fought for tooth and nail — would be kind.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER IV: RIDUUROK

Swearing Resol’nare was nothing compared to swearing Riduurok. While the Resol’nare was no doubt as official as the wedding would be, the clan leaders seemed also genuinely proud to see her join their ranks. She was given a suit of armour, already painted white at her request — the orange for vambraces and dark blue paint for the pauldron with a mythosaur would come later. The second pauldron would be the one she exchanges with Paz, with a sigil of clan Vizsla embedded in beskar. 

Her Mando’a apparently was pretty good, given the nods of approval from the clan heads as well as the immense pride she could feel coming from Paz in warm, steady waves. 

She’s been in the throes of preparations since the first light, the rings for Paz delivered by dawn. The two vambraces were laid out on a pillow, new and shiny. So far painted white, they would harmonise nicely with her attire — a traditional Alderaani wedding dress, fairly simple, paired with a headpiece, a sophisticated updo and a veil — and highlight her heritage. The vambraces would signify her marriage into another culture as well as mark the first steps in her journey as a Mandalorian — they were the first part of beskar’gam that any child learned to use. Newly-sworn verde wore their helmets and the braces, having not yet earned an entire suit of armour, so supposedly the same would apply to Leia despite her new rank and status. 

She would still be the ven’rid’alor — the spouse of the future king — upholding the title with joy and grace, as well as with effort. Now, having sworn the oath and having become one of her new brethren, her efforts would have to be split between the Rebellion, Alderaan and Mandalore.

Mon’s words rang in her head. Don’t you think you tend to take on too much, dear? Leia snorted inelegantly. Two planets and an entire organisation to reign over, a world to besiege and an enemy to beat was certainly the most she’s ever had on her plate, but she had no reason to believe she’d fail. Mandalore would be mostly under Paz’s command anyway; the Rebellion had a five-people leadership. 

Hopefully, Alderaan would be freed soon enough. Its liberation wasn’t included in the terms of the treaty, and it sowed anxiety in Leia’s heart. Then again, once the Empire was gone, driving its remnants out of her homeworld would be much easier without its fleet and endless credits streaming towards the blockade. 

One of the young women attending her — no doubt a new verd herself — helped her put on the vambraces. “Will they remain white?” she asked, chastising herself immediately after. “If I may know, that is”.

“It’s alright. And no, I want to paint them orange”. 

The woman, Ama, nodded.

“Good choice. White and orange. For new beginnings and a lust for life”.

Was it an accident that the colour the Rebellion had adopted — white and orange — corresponded with those exact meanings? Of a start anew for the galaxy and a lust for life strong enough to tear the freedom out of imperial hands. 

“And blue. I want to wear Paz’s colours too. We’ll exchange pauldrons, of course, but I believe it would be nice to match him”.

“Oh, it would”. Ama clasped her hands. “You look like one of us, ven’rid’alor”. As it turned out, hands versed in weaponry were equally skilled at braiding hair — Ama braided Leia’s hair around her head like a halo or a crown. “It’s a shame we have nothing to adorn it with. You're a princess, you deserve a royal wedding”.

The other women, both helmed and not, agreed nearly in unison; Leia had to speak up to cut through the chorus of yes exactlys and absolutelys. 

“I am having a royal wedding. The lack of jewels in my hair isn’t going to change that”. Leia’s smile was blinding, and it found its reflection on Ama’s face. “Thank you”.

“Of course, ven’rid’alor. I will always be here to help you, wedding or not”.

There was nothing Leia treasured more than budding friendships, and the brief respite they provided. “The Rebellion will send a small delegation, to make a point that we stand together, and I would be honoured to have you with them during the ceremony. I haven’t made many friends here yet”.

Ama confirmed her agreement exaltedly, embracing Leia gently. “The honour is entirely mine. Now, let’s get your skirts on” she added. Three layers of a dress, with the top already on, made of synthsilk, embroidered with white thread, the patterns swirling throughout the entire length of the narrow, flowy skirt. Leia did the make-up herself, painting her eyelids with shimmer and her lips with a balm. The last thing to add was jewellery, a pair of sturdy, simple earrings, then Leia was ready for the wedding. 

On Alderaan, she would have been dressed as lavishly as possible while maintaining good taste and proper protocol, wearing her homeworld’s pearls and silks embroidered with melted open spirals. Here, on Mandalore, with her wedding camcorded and transmitted to the entire galaxy, it was key to keep her attire elegant but simple; otherwise the people watching her marry the ven’alor wouldn’t be able to sympathise with her, to consider her a voice of their own. 

No oppressed masses ever sympathised with an ostensible monarch. 

She took a deep breath. 

She knew very well that this day would come — the day to get married and secure her succession to the throne — and that her marriage was always going to be political more or less, as befit the sole heiress, yet there was no comparison between imagining it and awaiting the ceremony. 

“All will be well. The ven’alor is an honourable man”. Ama took Leia’s hands and held them tight. “You have nothing to fear”.

Paz had meticulously cleaned his armour, smoothed all the chips or scratches it boasted, painted it in honour of the occasion, and now waited for the signal for him to enter the high courtyard. Situated several condignations above the ground-level one, smaller to allow for passage of sunlight, it was basking in the sun. Backed with the stained-glass wall of the throne room, it glittered and gleamed, gilded solder tying together panels of painted glass. 

While his ascension to the throne still was an event to transpire one day, his marriage no longer was. The moment they signed the treaty it became his certain future, not a some-day possibility. Still, it would have been infinitely worse had his intended spouse not been Leia Organa. As seriously as he took his promise back when he was before his verd’goten — so when he was merely a boy — he would have never suspected to actually marry her one day.

He could only be grateful that Manda saw it fit to tie their fates together. 

Marriage was another step towards ascension to the throne, another step towards becoming the Mand’alor. Another milestone to mark in life, even if as a result of a treaty; nevertheless, back then his promise to Leia from all those years ago would stand unless she explicitly stated she would marry someone else. Until then, he would gladly serve as her harbour amidst the raging sea, somewhere for her to come and rest, and not worry about a thing. A Vizsla’s word was as if written in Song, that Paz knew from early childhood. His father kept his word, no matter the cost, which resulted in him being immensely respected among his people, and in a reputation of an honourable man. 

Now, however, he was the one to swear the Riduurok with her.

“We’re almost done”. With a grunt, Din clasped the cape over Paz’s shoulders. A floor-length, white cape, a subtle nod to Leia’s house colours. “There. Anything else?”

“I would wish for you to be my witness”.

To be a witness in a Mandalorian wedding took an enormous amount of trust placed in the person designated so; it was a close one, entrusted with safeguarding the marriage vows in the event of questioning, and while marriages became much less political and much more personal during the period of isolation, the role of a witness changed to a simple honour. 

Din spoke after a while, with even his vocoder unable to hide the touched tone of a constricted throat.

“That’s an honour. Thank you”. He gently knocked their helmets against each other. “I accept and shall be your witness”.

A horn rang sharply through the palace, echoing through the edifices of the complex. Paz exhaled. It was time, then. The entire galaxy would watch him get married to a woman widely presumed dead, light up long-dormant embers to start a fire widespread across the galaxy. A galaxy-wide insurrection would pose a significant threat to the Empire, not to mention destabilise its reign. The tighter Vader clenched his fist, the more planetary systems escaped his grip.

“Breathe. You’re not going into battle, vod, you’re getting married” Din chastised. “To a woman you hold dear. Act like it”. 

Paz absent-mindedly fiddled with the clasp of his cape, putting it right above his bes’kar’ta. “You’re right”. 

This marriage would bring daunting challenges and thrust them onto treacherous waters, it would bring war to their doorstep, but what mattered most was that it would later also bring peace. 

Still, the joy bursting in his chest at the sheer thought of marrying Leia was impossible to quench, and even the act of war they were declaring wouldn’t change that. 

Leia walked the aisle accompanied by Mon Mothma, who would simultaneously be her witness. Apart from the personal invitations extended to the guests seated in the courtyard, the ceremony was transmitted via cam-droids and holograms to ensure that everyone would see it clearly. 

That the entire galaxy could see it clearly, and begin to understand — or merely confirm — that the Empire had lied through its teeth, that there was not a single word of truth in its communiques. That all it spat out was vile propaganda, and nothing more. Handpicked words in each decree, in each video, in each notice were bursting with venom of horrible threats and consequences for those who disobeyed. In contrast, the Rebellion’s recording would serve a completely different purpose; a declaration instead of a threat, a promise that the Rebellion and Mandalore stand together.

A call into the void, yet not a symptom of desperation. 

A statement.

A challenge.

Walking the aisle, she caught sight of a few close ones. In the first row, next to the empty seat reserved for Mon, Obi-Wan looked at her. Both anxiety and joy swirled in his eyes, with an undercurrent of worry, undoubtedly built on the fact that the marriage was a trading card, a ransom for Mandalorian aid in the battle against the empire. 

Suddenly, doubt arose in her mind. 

It was my idea, Leia thought. I offered them marriage. Nobody forced me to do it. 

Not the circumstances. Not the gratitude. Not the desperation. If she truly didn’t want to marry Paz, she would have sought any other way to give Mandalore what it wanted, any other way to pay for their effort. 

Kenobi visibly relaxed, as if he could hear her thoughts, and observed her with a soft smile on his face. When he last saw Leia, she was a brilliant little girl, with ample wit and a distaste for senseless cruelty. Now, as a young woman, she was every inch the gracious heiress Obi-Wan had pictured her to be. Bail and Breha put their entire hearts into raising her to be a princess, well-versed in politics and etiquette, with a spine of steel straight even during curtsies. Her spirit, however, forged and honed in Alderaani highlands, among crystal clear lakes and spectacular wildlife, was a remnant of her biological parents. 

His heart ached when his thoughts anchored themselves at the memories of Anakin and Padmé. Both of them would be incredibly proud of their children — at least the Anakin he knew. Amidala would hold her daughter as dearly as humanly possible, teach her everything she needed to know to uphold the legacy of the Republic.

Leia’s eyes met Paz’s visor halfway through the aisle. Undecipherable as ever, stoic in its forged expression, and yet so achingly familiar. His beskar was newly polished and painted dark blue with orange vambraces, gleaming in the sunlight. The snow-white cape was a nice touch, undoubtedly a nod to the Alderaani royal colour. The moment she stepped onto the low dais, facing Paz, he took her hands in his own as if to anchor himself. 

She smiled brightly. Unbeknownst to her, an equally beaming smile was hidden under Paz’s buy’ce. 

 The vows were already all too familiar to her, repeated countless times in the process of learning the pronunciation — mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde — in their promises to be one, together and apart, share all and raise warriors. 

The Mand’alor looked at them, having listened to their vows, and nodded watching them exchange rings; two gilded beskar rings for Leia, intricate segments linked together, and two pure beskar rings for Paz. Both sets boasted inscriptions with the vows themselves on the inner side. 

When the marriage was sealed, artificial fires shot up in the sky, glittering and disappearing before they hit the dome in a flurry of colours. The witnesses cheered happily, the clanking of vambraces nearly deafening, as were the occasional whistles and calls. 

“K’oyacyi, ven’alor, ven’rid’alor. Congratulations on your union”. Tieran opened his arms. “Oya!”

Thousands of voices chanted it back.

“OYA!”

Paz grabbed his cape and raised his arm to shield them from the audience, all to lift his helmet just enough to press a soft, nearly shy kiss to Leia’s lips. All he heard were taunting whistles and cheers, and Leia’s quiet laughter against his mouth. “Ner mesh’la rid’alor” he murmured, kissing her once again before lowering the buy’ce again. “Olarom bah Vizsla aliit. Welcome to clan Vizsla, my beautiful wife”. 

Leia beamed at him. “Welcome to lineage Organa, my husband”. She scrunched her nose. For now, the weight of the ceremony would be shifted somewhere far away, beyond the flags decorating the streets, the strings of lanterns across alleys and the music, of bes’beve, of drums, of flutes, leaving her shoulders lighter. 

Just in time to allow her to dance, her hands up, her attire swirling around with her; for a brief, brief moment she looked just like a supernova, surrounded by blinding white light. Paz’s hands resting on her waist, on her back, her own arms thrown around his neck, their foreheads pressed together. Congratulations granted left and right, a myriad of gifts no doubt stacked on a sturdy table in their — their! — drawing room, invitations to dance coming nearly each time she found herself standing still.

Mandalore would celebrate their marriage, so would the Rebellion, and so would the entire galaxy. It would be the final breath of a dying star, an explosion to sweep the Empire out from anywhere spanning from the Outer Rim to the Core Worlds, to establish a new republic among the systems freed from imperial oppression. The galaxy despised power vacuums, festering like black holes.

She danced with not only Paz, but with most of the personal guests, from polite slow dances to vibrant, swirling figures, twirling and twirling until the colourful armours and elegant attires began to form one blurry, sparkling landscape; only managed to catch her breath when, after a particularly vigorous round of dancing with Bo-Katan, the woman pressing a kiss to her cheek, Paz swept her back to himself. 

“You should drink something” he stated, offering her a glass of fizzwater and gently pressing the top of his palm to her cheek. “You’re burning like a star”. 

“Well, I think I have danced with everyone”. Her lips froze at the touch of ice-cold water. “At least with the personal guests”. Granted, the reception was smaller than it would have been had they hosted the ceremony on Alderaan, much smaller, less lavish, but oh, she would never exchange it for anything else. “Bo-Katan made sure to exhaust me”.

Paz only huffed. The Kryzes had a reputation of being much more frivolous than a Mandalorian ought to be, so Bo-Katan’s dance skills were no doubt much better than anyone else’s. Adonai Kryze trained his daughters — with aid of an extensive board of advisors — in warfare and in courtly duties alike. 

“I was worried I would have to intervene. Leave it to her to make me jealous over my own wife”.

The Kryze blood could be treacherous like that. Tempting into carelessness like a sun-soaked sea only to entice a cocky sailor, to pull them down to their death under the waves, into maws of an aquatic monster. 

Leia giggled. “She’s my friend, not a suitor. There was absolutely no competition for my hand”.

“I would fight her for the honour”.

“Would you?” she lifted her eyebrows. “I need to see that one day. Alderaan is much more diplomacy-oriented, so fighting is a very rare thing to see anywhere. Especially in the capital”. Following a sip, she continued. “There was one instance of an actual fight in the parliament chamber, and ever since then it’s been forbidden to bring any weaponry inside”.

“Fighting over legalese is a crucial part of making laws”. Paz shrugged. “The meeting is not over until there are at least three knives embedded in the table and someone needs a healer”. 

Leia laughed, tilting her head back. “I need to see that one day too”.

Vizsla took her hands in his own, his fingers fidgeting with the rings. Adorning their ring and middle fingers, they glinted in the lowering light. “I promise to invite you to a court session next time. It’s not the same, but it might get heated. My father holds an open court every fourteen cycles, so if you find yourself in our vicinity again, you are more than welcome to join”.

“I’ll make sure to happen to be close to Mandalore every once in a while”. A short pause. “You are welcome to come to Alderaan whenever you want. You’ll be its Prince Consort. Once we take it back, that is”.

“We will” he promised. “Even if I had to purge the Empire all by myself”.

“You won’t have to”. Leia sighed. “We will fight together, hand in hand. I wish my parents could be here. If only…”

“They saw you get married, ner sarad. The transmission was impossible to miss even in the systems under blockade. They watched it and they are very proud of you”. Paz cradled her face gently and pressed his helmet to her forehead, her tears disappearing under his thumbs. 

For a moment he believed that the only response he’d get were quiet sniffles. 

“For getting married? Please”.

That was about the easiest thing she had to do as a princess. 

“For doing what was right. For tying an alliance which will set us on course to victory and topple the Empire. You are the Rebellion’s lodestar” he stated. “We all follow your light”.

“Let’s dance”. Leia pulled him towards the dancefloor, still full of the guests. The crowd glittered and glinted, elegant robes paired with polished, cleaned beskar, jewellery rang quietly, pearls, gemstones and glass beads alike. “The Empire is vengeful. The war will come tomorrow. Let us celebrate today. We just got married” she smiled. “We’ll take up arms after dawn”.

Vizsla confirmed with a nod.

“We will”. 

And unfortunately, they would. 

It was only when the night fell that they were finally allowed to return to their chambers. After countless embraces and best wishes laid on their hands, both Paz and Leia were exhausted to the bone. 

“Come rest” he said, watching her undo her hair; long earthy strands cascaded down her shoulders in waves, bouncing off the gown. 

“Come help” she shot back. “Undo the buttons, please. I’d do it myself if I was of a three-jointed species, but…”

Paz snorted. “Of course”. Tiny pearls meticulously sewed onto the dress acted like buttons, holding the overgown close. “I remember when my father had me train fighting stances when I was a child. Tedious. Not as tedious as this, though” he quipped.

“And the skirts. Honestly, you put on a suit of armour every morning. It can't be much less annoying than this”. Leia pointed to the ornate belt of the dress. The crisp white upper layer, the middle layer made of synthsilk and the bottom layer of yucotton were designed to keep the wearer cool. “Thank you”. With the skirts off, Leia stood solely in a long natsilk shift and her beskar vambraces. “How do I take your armour off?”

Manda be thanked for the fact that he was wearing his buy’ce, because it was incredibly unbefitting for the ven’alor to blush like this. “It’s a very intimate thing” he started. “Reserved for—”

“—spouses. We are married” Leia recalled soberly. “You don’t need to take off your helmet if you don't feel ready. I can sleep with my back to you”. 

“No”. Paz shook his head. “I will take it off. You’re my riduur and have every right to see my face. Come closer”. He gently guided Leia’s hands towards the latches on his vambraces. “You take them off the same you take off your own. The clasps are attached on the bottom, here”. The closing snapped quietly under their fingers. “The forearm pieces work the same way. The pauldrons have latches and bands, to keep them secure. You unlatch them and slide them off. For the hal’cabur — the chestplate — the hatches are on your shoulders and along the sides. This” Paz’s finger rested on the tiny octagonal shape in the middle “is the bes’kar’ta. You have it too” he pointed at Leia’s own armour. “It means a heart of beskar”. 

Leia tilted her head, carefully setting the chestplate down. Her vambraces quickly joined it, together with Paz’s other pieces of armour, until he was left in nothing but his kute and his helmet. “Can I?”

Vizsla nodded. Wouldn’t it be nice to see her face with his own eyes instead of through the HUD? 

The visor desaturated the world quite a lot, as it turned out, kept firmly on his head since his verd’goten, the only exceptions being sleeping in a solitary bunk or rare private moments. Paz blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to dying sunlight. Leia’s eyes apparently were much brighter than the HUD suggested, warm and brown like soil, like jaspillite, like nebulae in outer space. Her skin rivaled marble, albeit a blushing one, and her smile was blinding.

“Hello” she said softly, cradling his face. “Hello, Paz”.

His complexion was a little darker than hers, and his eyes were blue the way a cold sea was, somewhere between gray steel and pale blue. Sandy hair framed his face with a few strands escaped from a short braid, wavy and just long enough to brush his jawline. Leia noted — not without pleasure — the elegant shape of his nose and full lips. 

Light stubble greeted her when she rose to her tiptoes to kiss him. Paz pressed their foreheads together, rubbing his nose against Leia’s own. “Su’cuy” he murmured. “Ner riduur”.

Yet sleep evaded them both, refusing to curl around them like a faithful, obedient hound; it wandered like a stray strill, huffing and growling, anxious, restless. For whatever reason, neither of them could fall asleep, too anxious or constantly on guard, or unused to sharing a bed like so. Paz had been staring at the ceiling for the better part of an hour, doing his utmost not to rouse Leia from sleep, but it soon became clear that she was not able to rest either.

“I should give you some space” he said finally, pulling back. “No. Stay. I’ll sleep elsewhere”.

“Where, exactly?” Leia asked. “On the floor?”

Paz’s expression clearly stated that he planned to do exactly that, the strain on his muscles be damned. “I’ve slept on the ground quite often. Hunting is not a very glamorous part of training. I’ve got a bedroll somewhere”.

Leia’s eyes would have been orbiting out in the other corner of the galaxy if only she could roll them that far. 

“Don’t be stupid” she replied instead. “I appreciate this, I do, but this is our wedding night. I don’t think that banishing my new husband to the floor is a very diplomatic thing to do. Nor is it a thing I'd like”. 

“You didn’t banish me. It was me who offered”. Vizsla shrugged. “I want you to be comfortable. I know neither the marriage nor the wedding fulfilled your expectations. You offered to marry me because you were desperate for an alliance for the Rebellion. I respect that and I won’t impose. This is not a marriage sealed out of anything deeper than a childhood promise”.

“A promise you valued enough to track my ship when I was in trouble”.

“I still value it. It does not change the fact that we married for politics, did we not?”

Leia pinched the bridge of her nose. “What do you want me to say, Paz? I wish we could have been married solely because we wanted to be, not because of the threat in the distance. But has it occurred to you that even in desperation to save our efforts, I wouldn’t have proposed marriage if I was inert towards you?” Frustration made itself clear in her voice. “If you meant absolutely nothing to me?”

Paz only shook his head. “I would have never offered to marry you if I was not…” he paused, carefully choosing words as if weaving an intricate tapestry, where a single misplaced thread, a badly-woven row would ruin the strenuously created piece, “anyhow ready to fulfill the promise”.

Ah, right. Vizsla was a very serious child, prepared for his upcoming role with utmost dedication. As sweet as the promise had been, an offering of aid coming from a kind heart, only when Mandalorians boarded her vessel did Leia discover that for Paz their words had been much more binding.

“To marry me in someone else’s stead”.

“You said you didn’t want a stupid or an ugly spouse. I promised to come to your aid. I hope I don’t disappoint”. In the weak dual moonlight, his facial features were barely more than strokes of desaturated, darkened paint, only gently traced with soft, pale lines of moonrays painted by a loving artist’s hand. The prevailing darkness, coiling around them both, did nothing to conceal Paz’s amused smile. “And if I do, let me die a warrior’s death”.

Leia froze. So far, she found herself unable to decipher whether he was serious or only quipping in quite a few instances. She relaxed only when Paz gently laid his hand on her own.

“You’re impossible”. 

“I may be” he agreed. “Still, ner sarad, I was serious. If you need space, I want to give you some”.

“And I appreciate that. Get down”. We have a war to win. 

“Yes, ven’rid’alor”. 

Leia laughed softly, letting herself drown in his arms. The hold was gentle enough to give her the promised space, but tight enough to keep her warm.

Yes, she decided, resting her head on Paz’s chest. The outcry would come tomorrow, fierce and violent, armed with heavy cannons and squadrons of TIE fighters, with tens of thousands of plastisteel-clad troopers and political threats. 

Tomorrow would also be a brand new day.

Chapter Text

The brand new day began with horrors creeping up from the dark, yet unconquered by the morning light. With seismic charges tearing vessels apart, with bright green blasts exploding in the vast expanse of space, with desperate evasion of agile fighters by grander, less swift freighters, capital ships and medical frigates. Of failing bombardiers dying in the flames of their own making, white-greenish-orange explosions engulfing wrecks before they had as much as a chance to burn in the atmosphere of the nearest celestial body. 

With the Death Star destroying planets, its spherical silhouette looming over the doomed targets, stifling any sparks of hope which dared to arise. Leia woke up with a sob and with tears in her eyes, and a breath catching in constricted throat. 

The shift under the duvet behind her easily betrayed Paz’s movement, as did a hand resting on her forearm. “Are you alright? Leia, ner sarad” he murmured. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Nothing, it’s… I’ll be fine”. She wrapped the covers around herself, counting slowly in her head to regulate her breathing. 

“You’re trembling”. 

“I’ll be fine. I promise. Just a nightmare, nothing more. It’s fine”.

“Don’t hide your fear. It will only do damage”. Paz gently laid his hand on her back. For someone so used to a near-complete lack of physical contact, he grew into casual affection surprisingly easy. “It’s no use. Face it instead”.

Face it instead. Leia nodded, turning to look at him. “Let’s go, then. The dust has probably settled already, so we need to be prepared”. 

It didn’t take long for very alarming messages to ping on Leia’s commlink; reports of the Rebellion fleet being attacked, of planetary bases razed to the ground, of pursuit after the survivors. She watched Mon Mothma’s worrisome transmission, her voice anxious. They’re after us, and viciously. We declared war, and we need to step up to fight. 

The only delegates of the Rebellion who remained on Mandalore after the wedding were Obi-Wan — whose presence sparked a debate, since Jedi presence on Manda’yaim seemed to be a sacrilege — and Luke, still under the man’s kind tutelage. The pull towards him has never lessened from their first meeting, he was just so bright, somehow, somewhere, compelling her to seek his company. 

It felt as if meeting an old friend after years of separation, except she had never seen Luke before. Raised as a princess of Alderaan, she could not have had less in common with an orphaned boy from one of the hottest known planets, subjected to scorching twin suns and relentless sandstorms. 

Not even the language barrier — derived from Leia’s native being Basic and Luke’s mother tongue being Huttese, widely spoken on Tatooine — could throw a wrench between them. From communicating through various sign languages, Tusken signs and Basic concepts, through associations and connotations to translating devices, they persisted.

“Are you scared?” he asked one day, playing with his translation droid, a little machine easily resting in his palm. He watched Leia train, this time in full beskar’gam to get accustomed to the weight of the armour, and posed the question so unexpectedly she nearly stumbled. 

“Of what?”

“That we’ll lose”. 

Those blue eyes reminded her of mountain lakes on Alderaan, clear and deep, and not even tinted red after all the violence they saw. Not stifled by swirling smoke, not dulled by a perspective of strenuous effort. 

“We won’t” she replied firmly. Even if they lost now, if they paid the highest price for their fight against the Empire, it still would not last forever; regardless, the Empire would be toppled one day by those against its regime or die of natural causes like all the empires before it. An inescapable fate, inevitably tied to power and perceived glory. “We can’t”. 

“Ben trusts you”. 

Leia turned to look him in the eyes. “So does the Rebellion, and now Mandalore. I hope I don’t disappoint”.

“Ben speaks very highly of you, you know. If they let him stay here — why wouldn’t they? — he’ll help you. If it wasn’t for him, I might have died back there”. Luke shuddered, his voice breaking. “The Empire killed my aunt and uncle. Burnt down the homestead. I owe it to them to at least try to avenge them”.

“What were their names?”

“Owen and Beru Lars. You know, if not for the weird insistence to keep my father’s last name, I’d be Luke Lars too”. 

“Don’t you want to bear his name?”

Luke shrugged. “Uncle Owen said he was a spice runner. I don’t know if that’s the career I want. Even shooting womprats in the canyons for a living seems better”.

Owen Lars seemed like a man able to lie, then, building his lie on the fact that spice running was one of the most profitable careers on Tatooine; when Bail talked about his old friends, current and former, he always spoke about Anakin Skywalker not with anger, but with infinite sadness, and without a single word about spice. Obi-Wan, however, always brought a smile to his face. 

“You can always join the Rebellion”. Leia patted his shoulder. “We need people like you. I’m glad Ben brought you to us”.

“So am I”. Not that they had any other choice, given the loss they suffered. To take a stand against the Empire was only the right thing to do. “When you launch the fighters — to destroy that space station, I mean — I want to be there. I want to fly one. I’m a good pilot. Womprats can be bigger than this exhaust port is”. 

She mulled his words over for a moment. It would put him in danger, and probably fester in her heart until she saw Luke safely down on the ground again, but the Rebellion needed every pilot it could get. To keep him basebound would be a waste of talent and chances. 

“Alright. You should tell Ben, though”. 

“I will. I promise”. 

“Then once you’re back on base, try the simulator. Flying an x-wing is nothing like driving a speeder. There’s no gravity. A mistake costs much more than a broken bone or a concussion”. 

Both turned towards the entrance to the training hall when the door hissed, revealing Bo-Katan. “Ven’rid’alor” she bowed lightly. “There’s a transmission for you in the defense control room”.

“Defense control?”

“We’re at war” she shrugged. “We all knew this day would come. It’s high time we waged one anyway”. 

“Thank you, I’ll be right there”. When Luke left, no doubt seeking Ben to talk about his plans, Leia looked Bo-Katan in the eye. “Who’s calling?”

“Mon Mothma sent us reports on the Rebellion’s state. The fleet upholds, the base is still safe, the undercover agents—”

“Who’s calling?” she interrupted. “Bo-Katan, who’s calling?”

Her heart sank deep into her chest. She knew that despicable man all too well, having met him in the Imperial Senate quite a few times, exchanging venomous pleasantries and insincere compliments; there was no man she despised more than Grand Moff Tarkin himself.

It took a titanic effort not to recoil, as if a foul stench tore through her nostrils. The only reason she remained poised was not to show any weakness, either to Tarkin or to the rest of the room; Paz and Tieran stood to the side, their visors trained on Leia. 

“Grand Moff Tarkin” she stated coldly. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you”.

“Princess Organa. Or have you shed your title to affiliate yourself with those barbarians? Perhaps you have gone utterly insane to declare war on the Empire itself? I cannot decide whether your last move was brave or inane. Then yet, bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity”.

Leia swallowed, the sensation bile and sour. No other person evoked such a visceral reaction in her, a feeling revolting and sickly. 

“Admirable words from a sore loser. Certainly, they will sting when you find yourself among the wreckage of your own confidence” she spat. “The more you tighten your fist, the more systems escape. You are not the only force to be reckoned with. We don’t stand alone anymore”.

Tarkin’s face twisted with disgust.

“Be careful in your rebellion, princess. Keep in mind that your homeworld is still under heavy blockade, and all it would take is a single order”. 

She pursed her lips. “Any cause worth fighting for demands risk. Mine. Yours. We all put something at stake”.

“I assume, then, that Alderaan’s safety — or mere existence — is something you are willing to wager? Very well, then”. 

“Alderaan is unarmed” she replied coldly, yet with tears rising in her eyes. “It’s a peaceful world, you can’t—”

“I think, princess” Tarkin’s voice slithered unpleasantly through the holo, harsh and smug “that you will the word harmless better suited for your homeworld. Perhaps even defenseless”. 

The hologram disappeared, leaving Leia breathless with anxiety. If Tarkin found himself confident enough to threaten Alderaan, the battle station might have been further along in construction than the intel had claimed. 

“We need to destroy that station now. We can’t let them as much as test it out on any unsuspecting world. This kind of power— Force, what chance do we have if they wield it?” 

Nothing could resist such violence, such power vested in a space station, summoned on one man’s command. This would turn the tides of the war, smothering the Rebellion via a single order.

“Rather what choice?” Paz replied. “If that station becomes battle-ready, there will be no stopping this. There is no other force able to contend with it”.

The Mand’alor nodded in agreement.

“We need to mobilize. Coordinate with the Rebellion, plan the assault. We have less time than we suspected”. He looked at the others. “Lady Kryze, rally your clan and spread the word. If we gain their support, the rest will follow. The threat of total annihilation of our planet should convince them fairly quickly. First, we destroy the station. Second, we besiege Alderaan”. 

Leia looked at him, shocked. 

Tieran shrugged, as if it was obvious they would head for Alderaan next. 

“None are free until all are. Once we eliminate the Death Star, the most serious threat will be gone, and we can move onto orbital and land offensive. We will not let your people suffer, ad’ika”. 

Did the princess not understand that once married to his son, she was a part of the family? They might not have shared a name — both of them burdened with a house and a lineage to preserve, a Vizsla and an Organa — but with the marriage they became a family, and Leia was now as Tieran’s own child.

“Thank you. I will call Mon Mothma at once”. 

“I’ll rally the clans”. Bo-Katan saluted. 

All this escalated much quicker than Leia supposed. The Empire was known for swift, ruthless responses to any provocations, and so a near-immediate retaliation was to be expected. Yet still, it barely took them a few standard days to answer.

“I’ll send out word to any Mandalorians off-planet” Paz offered. “They are bound by duty as well, and are to take up arms when the Mand’alor calls for it”.

There was only one thing for Leia to do, and it was to send a universal call for aid. There must have been more people willing to rebel against the regime, unable to do so or too scared to take action. It was her duty to rouse the citizens of the galaxy, to promise them a better future if they accept the risks coming with the Empire’s fall. She swallowed nervously. 

“I have to make a stand” she said. “The broadcast shows what needs to be said. We showed that we tied an alliance, that we stand together. It’s time to say it out loud. Tarkin can say whatever he wants; we won’t win if we cower. The risks aren’t acceptable, but…” she exhaled shakily, “necessary”. 

Alderaan’s fate hung in balance. Powerless against the threat, she was unable to as much as contact her parents, to warn them about the upcoming danger. Her fists clenched tightly, the knuckles as white as the snows of Hoth, clutching the edge of the holotable. To put anyone in the line of fire was a crime in and of itself, especially when done with malicious intent; Leia, however, had the heavy duty of a leader weighing her down, requiring her to send others into the void and anxiously await their return. Estimating casualties for riskier missions had her heart sinking deep down into her chest, drowning in the tissue, quietly choking on its own blood. 

This was exactly what made the Rebellion different from the Empire; the anxiety, the grief, the pain were only present in the hearts of people whose conscience had not been irreversibly suffocated. And still, despite the heavy toll, Leia would never exchange countless hours spent mourning for a comfortable life on imperial leash. Many have succumbed, trading decency for relative safety — safety still infringed on, to say the least — yet Leia felt little to no pity for them. 

“You’re right. Sacrifices never come easy”. Paz took her hand. “But the Empire needs to fall”.

Leia glanced out of the window, towards the pale, cloudless skies. She owed as much to her adopted homeworld as she owed to Alderaan, and she would not rest until the Empire was gone.

“It will”.

Leia faced the holorecorder. Standing straight, dressed in one of her simpler gowns — an expensive elegant one would distance her from the target audience, put her in the same row as all other Core politicians serving the Empire, well-dressed, never hungry, greedy to an impossible degree — she only waited to press the button. She had one chance at this, only one chance to call out before the Empire blocked this frequency too. 

“To all constituents of the galaxy” she began. “I am Leia Organa, heiress to the throne of Alderaan and active leader of the Rebellion. As you may know, the Empire announced my lawless arrest, its decree nisi sentence and my execution. As you may see, it lied. I speak to you now only because I have been saved. I owe my life — and the future of the Rebellion — to Mandalore”. Deep breath, deep breath. “The Rebellion and Mandalore stand united against imperial oppression. It’s high time that this” she gestured, encompassing, somehow if possible, all the atrocities the Empire has committed in one simple movement “ends. It may seem impossible to topple the Empire, but it is not. A daunting task, yes, but entirely possible. All it takes are cooperation and solidarity. We need to stand together so that we may seek a better future. A future where nobody other than us holds the reins. We need you for this. The Rebellion is waiting for you. Don’t let them stifle your freedom”. Leia nodded curtly to herself. “And to those who believe that compliance will buy them safety — it will not. The Empire disregards treaties, attacks diplomatic vessels, denies involvement in well-documented war crimes, but we all know the truth. They lied to you just now, when they said I was dead” she stated. “They will lie to you again. They will threaten you, stifle you, imprison you. The only way to end the terror is to stand up against it, and the time to do it is now. You might think it’s delusional to do so, but I assure you, we are well-equipped to fight until the end. I know you all — we all — have people you hold dear whose lives are on the line. This is who we fight for. Your resistance is what the Empire fears most. The moment you stop fearing them, they lose all their power. The Empire is not invincible. You are. This isn’t a war we wage for power” she stated. “It’s a war we wage for freedom. Yours and ours”. 

The holorecorder blinked, sputtered and whirred quietly, but the control light was green. The message was sent throughout the galaxy, overtaking all public channels due to an intricate bug. She was promised it would work, and it did; the Imps would not be able to silence them now. 

Her face lit up with a bright smile. The perspective of the struggle — a twenty-year-old struggle at that, a war waged ever since the Republic had fallen — finally ending was nothing less than daunting. Thrilling and exciting, yes, yet daunting in its scale.

What would they do when it was all over? 

The establishment of a new republic made for an obvious answer, as well as proper laws and clear definitions of what the state apparatus is allowed to do and what is a breach of civil rights. An outline of how to repair the tangled, warped branches of separation of powers, a system to downgrade, thoroughly vet and bring to justice Imperial officials together with corrupt politicians. A way to ensure that where imperial law was dismantled, a new one would be installed and respected as to prevent a vacuum of power from existing. 

Then, after everything was done, she would rest. Return to Alderaan, enjoy the careless life of the sole heiress to the throne until Breha decides to abdicate. Periodically travel to Sundari, to see Paz and spend some time with him, free from official duties of a queen; in return, she would welcome him on Alderaan and brazenly indulge in his company. 

Perhaps, when the war was over, they would even have children, adopted or born in a safe galaxy, without an endless threat looming over them. Children who would not have to take up arms to fight the battle their parents already did. 

She flinched when she felt a hand rest on her arm, but relaxed into it nearly immediately. 

“You are a fantastic speaker” Paz said, pressing their foreheads together in a kov’nyn. “A spitfire”.

A spitfire was the heart of any forge, allowing beskar to be melted and shaped into either beskar’gam or weaponry. 

“I have fought for the cause since I was old enough to understand it. We might be so close to victory, we can’t fold right now. It’s just…” Leia gasped wetly “it might be too much”.

“It’s not. You are a leader, are you not? The Rebellion holds you in high regard. You are the ven’rid’alor of Mandalore. We are willing to follow your command”. The usual softness of his voice was gone, replaced by firmness worthy of steel only amplified by the vocoder. “I married a warrior. So did you. We will fight until the end if we have to”. 

“I know, I know. It’s just so exhausting”. 

“It is” he agreed. “But it’s worth it”. A gentle tug of her sleeve followed. “Come, ner sarad. We still have a lot to do”.

And they did, from rallying the clans to join the cause to planning rapid bursts of offensive. Throughout several following weeks, they saw each other less and less; Paz was always somewhere in the system, speaking to clans residing in other cities or on Mandalore’s moons, relieving his father of the burden of widespread internal affairs. Building and upkeeping strongholds on the system outskirts, ensuring that the orbit was a border impossible to cross. A few of the biggest ships orbited around, armed to the teeth, salvaged remnants of the Mandalorian fleet as well as vessels captured during numerous battles. 

The entire system was arming itself, ready to withstand possible assault. 

The six of them gathered around the holotable in the war room. Two big spheres and several smaller ones floated above it, tinted blue. 

“This is the Death Star”. Leia pointed to the second biggest one. “This is our first objective. To destroy it will mean to debilitate the Empire enough for us to besiege and retake Alderaan. It’s one of several planets under imperial blockade; once this one is broken, the others will follow suit”.

Bo-Katan stepped forward.

“We won’t be launching the assaults alone. All the clans obeyed the call and will send everyone able to fight. Thanks to our numbers — we won’t outnumber the Imps, but their troops are little more than cannon fodder anyway — we will be able to split into regiments when it comes to Alderaan. For the Death Star we need our best pilots. It’s risky, I know — jare’la, really, but there’s nothing else to be done”. She zoomed in on the battle station. “With the Rebellion in tow, we should be able to easily distract the enemy, especially if we use bigger ships. Nobody aims for a fighter when there's a bigger threat around”. 

“I’ll join the fighter pilots” Djarin volunteered. “More chances on the exhaust port”.

Leia nodded.

“Good. Just warn the other pilots that the Naboo starfighter is their ally. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Tatooine”.

Her raised brows were enough of an answer. Din only snorted. “Long story. I’ll recruit pilots from Sundari, then circle back for Keldabe and clan seats”. 

“I’ll make an official announcement. This won’t be a futile strife; lives are at stake. I want our people to hear it from me”. Tieran straightened his back. “I will have the rites of succession prepared as well”.

Paz turned to face him. “Buir—”

“War spares nobody” the king replied sternly. “Not kings, not their warriors, not civilians, and I have no intention to do anything else than lead you into battle. The Empire has no mercy. Mandalore needs to be prepared for any loss, including having to navigate a period of interregnum”. 

Leia watched her husband wilt, his shoulders slump and his breath lose its cadence. As accustomed as he was to combat, death as a concept and death as an adversary were two entirely different things. 

“These would be extreme circumstances” she said placidly instead, turning her attention back to the station. “The external corridor is the only way to the exhaust port, so it will be heavily armed. That’s why every fighter is going to be escorted by two others, who will both cover it and draw the fire away. Now, we don’t have too many proton torpedoes, so the chances to shoot aren’t infinite. Once — if — we lose them all, we’ll have to fold”.

Tieran looked at her.

“How many are we talking about?” 

“Enough to arm several fighters. Ten, twelve, no more. It’s very precise, costly equipment. Our funds aren’t unlimited”. Leia’s voice broke; admitting to it was an effort she never grew strong enough to easily make. “We can’t afford as many as we’d like. Choose six best pilots, Din. The Rebellion will provide the other six. We’ll arm their fighters”. 

Djarin nodded.

The Mand’alor did as well. “Are the proton torpedoes the only option?”

“They might be. They’re definitely the only confirmed option we have, so. There might not be enough time to try out anything different. We shouldn’t risk it” Leia stated. “The price would be too high”.

“Proton torpedoes it is, then. Djarin will instruct the pilots on the plan. Paz and I will lead the covering squadrons”. Tieran gestured towards his son. “Paz, stay a moment”.

Vizsla watched the rest walk out, catching Leia’s anxious gaze over her shoulder. What could possibly be confidential enough to keep even his spouse in the dark over it? Leia was the ven’rid’alor, and as the holder of the third-highest rank she had every right to be informed. 

“If we manage to destroy that station, the Empire will be significantly weakened. When it falls — as it will, sooner or later, and the war ends, you will take over the throne”. 

“Buir—”

“Paz, I want nothing more for you than to reign in times of peace. I studied war strategies and history so that you may concern yourself with economy, trade and integration, so that your heir” Tieran knocked on Paz’s chestplate “may only have to learn diplomacy and various arts. I’m not getting any younger, son. I can and shall lead Mandalore to the end of the war, but when it’s over, you will take on the mantle of the Mand’alor and lead our people into a new era”.

The silence hung heavy between them, stifling and suffocating. 

“Do you think I’m ready?” Paz asked after a moment. “You taught me well, yet—”

“You are a warrior” the king interrupted, “and a married man. That alone is indicative of your maturity. You passed your verd’goten excellently, you have a mind for strategy and are unafraid to take a stand, or to fight. I raised you to be my heir, to one day take the crown and the saber from me. That day is close”. 

Arguments would bear no fruit; neither of them would yield. Paz had learned that well growing up. His father was not only exactly that — a parent — but also his king, the man to whom Paz bowed and whom he addressed by title if need be. There were times when a quiet buir became a loud, clear Mand’alor. 

He nodded instead.

“Thank you for entrusting me with this duty, then. It’s an honour. I will make you proud”.

Tieran smiled softly under his helmet. “I know you will. You will be a wonderful king, Paz. You are my greatest pride and joy”. He gently knocked their helmets together, for the briefest of moments, only to lead his son out of the war room and follow with instructions. “Take the swiftest, most agile ships. We can’t risk heavy losses”.

“Yes, Mand’alor” Paz replied, but with a much heavier heart. 

It would be much easier to reign over a system if he had someone by his side. Yet no, Manda willed him to fall for someone with her own crown to wear and a lineage to uphold, her own planet to rule. His riduur would have to take the title of the monarch, carry out her royal duties and, together with other victors, build up a new system for all the planets to exist in. New laws, new regulations, new rules; everything boring and time-consuming, but simultaneously necessary for anything and everything to be conducted as safely as possible. 

She was a politician much more than he was, educated in diplomacy, used to debates, negotiations, ruses and subterfuges; double entendres and insincerity were her second and third languages, with words ornate enough to distract the receiver from their slithering forms. 

Manda, with someone like that by his side — permanently, not during allotted periods of time, granted between his duties in Sundari and hers on Alderaan — he could conquer the galaxy in mere days. Restore Mandalore to its former glory, reenact the empire his ancestors were the heralds of. As exciting as it sounded, a power fantasy to entertain in private, a fantasy was all it was. 

The last thing Paz Vizsla wanted to be was a harbinger of chaos. Mandalore wasn’t defenseless or hungry, or deficient in anything; there was no need to strive for more than what they had now.

Only for blood, perhaps, to pay all the debts the Empire owed.

Chapter Text

Leia’s hands were shaking with fury.

“A banquet. In my home. In honour of recent military achievements” she hissed. “How dare they”. She threw the invitation to the ground; the flimsipaper, even more fragile than intricate Alderaani glasswork, crumpled under pressure. “My parents are hostages, my people are hostages, and they’re organising a banquet!”

Tears fell down her cheeks in powerless anger, in fury burning as bright as only a young woman’s could be; all-consuming, exhausting, yet righteous. Frustration with injustice swirling underneath, scorching hot and blinding. “The audacity!”

Paz pulled her close, pressing his lips to her temple. “They will pay” he promised, because what else was there to say? “They will”.

“Oh, I’ll make sure. I’ll go there”.

He froze. “No. Leia, Manda, you are not going there. It’s a—”

“A trap. They want to lure me out of Mandalorian Space, imprison me and execute or use me as a bartering card against you. I’ll let them believe they did”. She shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to fool a man into thinking he’s the smartest in the room”.

Paz exhaled. As composed as his wife was, she could turn into a livewire  “You could just let me at them” he offered instead. “Either with a scope, pick them out one by one like womprats, or with my cannon. Or a slugthrower, if you want me to drag it out. Smoke them out of their hiding spot and eliminate them without mercy”.

“The tribunal will have none, I promise. Executing enemies like so is… it’s exactly what the Empire does. It’s less than humane”.

“Yet effective. They proved fairly well that they deserve neither mercy nor any rights the tribunal might offer”. He squeezed Leia’s hands. “I don’t want you to go”.

“I have to. Once I am there, they’ll believe they conquered Alderaan, and so their military presence will go back to a standard few regiments. It will be much easier for us to besiege the planet”.

As a soldier and a leader, Vizsla understood the concept of necessary risks all too well; it didn’t mean he liked it, or accepted it as it was. 

“When is that banquet?”

“Next standard month”. Leia pursed her lips. “I need to attend in beskar, but hidden well enough that they won’t see it”.

“Din often goes out of the system, he may have some ideas on how to disguise it. Or you can attend in full beskar’gam, only with skirts and sleeves. The Imperials would not know ceremonial outerwear if it killed them, so”. Paz’s steady, quiet voice soothed her, washed over her wrecked nervous system like warm waves do over a sandy shore. “Besides, beskar’gam is our culture. It’s always appropriate to wear. You represent not only Alderaan, but also Mandalore. You can’t change it now” he added with a hint of amusement. 

“Ceremonial wear it is” she agreed. “I’ll need an escort if I want to make a statement. Just a few guards, nothing more”. I don’t want to endanger any more lives than necessary. This operation was already incredibly risky, incredibly dangerous, and to conduct it meant to risk Alderaan’s entire existence. Still, it was necessary to tear it out of Vader’s grasp.

Would Vader be there? Would he have already desecrated Alderaan’s royal palace and settled in it like a conqueror after a victorious battle? Would he have already destroyed precious cultural artifacts hosted in the complex for a reason as meek, as brittle as making a point? Would he already have threatened the citizens, imposed restrictions, held them in line by threat of violence and hunger? 

“Take Kryze with you. She’ll protect you with her life if it means I’ll be in her debt. If Din is available, he will go with you too. Though I’d rather you stayed here” he confessed. “You must be glorious in battle, I’ve seen you fight, yet—”

“These are my people, Paz”. Leia looked at him softly, reaching up to his helmet; it took Vizsla all but a second to unlatch and remove it, and look his riduur in the eye. “They are counting on me. Since we have made it clear that the Empire lied and that I’m alive, allied to Mandalore, they are looking for us every time they raise their eyes to the sky. They hope to see the cruisers and the fighters taking aim, they hope to see their sworn protectors” she rapped her knuckles against his armour. “My parents, the current queen monarch and prince consort, are held hostage. They can’t do anything that would spark repercussions. We can”. 

Paz pulled her closer, close enough to rub their noses together; her bright smile nearly blinded him. “Duty and power look good on you”. 

“Don’t distract me” Leia scolded him quietly, yet insincerily; a smile dawned right under the scowl. “What did your father say?”

“He said that after the war is over, I will take over the throne. We will fight for the Darksaber in ritual combat, then I’ll be crowned”. 

So fast, she thought. Of course, she knew that day would come, someday, when the war was over and Mandalore — or any other system — didn't have to worry about imperial violence any longer. When the galaxy could be reborn in peace, reestablished under a new dawn, a new emblem. The New Republic would rise after the Empire's collapse, sign new treaties and new cooperations, build lasting alliances and trade routes, all to serve its citizens. Mandalore would be a part of it, thanks to its alliance with the Rebellion.

“That's... soon, I hope. Though I haven’t seen your father wearing a crown”.

“A crown is an euphemism” Paz conceded. “It’s a gilded beskar circlet which rests on top of the visor. It’s discreet enough not to mark the Mand’alor as a target, but visible enough for everyone of the culture to know. There’s still a lot of time until that; we do not even know when the war will end”. 

“Soon”. And there was promise in Leia’s voice, promise-desire-hope. “It would be ideal if we could put both Vader and the Emperor in front of a tribunal, but I suppose they’d rather die than face justice”. 

“Works for me”.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it does”.

“They’re far from anyhow redeemable, cyar’ika. Dead, they will be as good as captured. Death will bring them to justice”. 

How should she explain that death was a fate too kind, a punishment not severe enough? That nothing but seeing those horrid, cruel men cuffed and guarded, and awaiting their sentence would finally bring her peace? That their death would feel as if they escaped justice in the end, their crimes gone unpunished? Leia wanted — viscerally — to see Vader put down like the rabid strill he was, forced into weakness. “It won’t” she murmured sadly. “I want to see them answer for their crimes”. 

“I know, Le’ika, I know. And we shall do what we can”. Paz’s lips pressed to her hair — how grateful was she for his creed allowing the helmets off in private, it would have been devastating never to be held dearly enough to see her husband’s face — and he spoke again. “We will. None of them will see the light of day again”. Imprisoned, executed, it didn’t matter to him; poetic justice was not quite something Mandalorians dabbled in. A crime merited punishment. A swift strike of a saber, a shot of a blaster. “And when this is over and Mandalore joins the other systems in building a better, safer future, I want to reign with you by my side”.

Anxiety weighed her down; they would never hold court together, confined to duties on their respective planets. “You know we can’t” she answered quietly. “Alderaan needs a queen. As strong and valiant as my mother is, I know she’d like to give up the mantle once the war ends. She’s been queen for over three decades. We are more similar to Naboo in this matter than to systems with more traditional monarchies”.

“Can I ask that of you?”

“Ask what?”

“That if your mother decides to keep reigning for a while longer, you’ll stay here”. Paz’s voice was quiet, soft, and if Leia didn’t know him well enough she’d say weak. “I might have been raised to be king, but I feel as if I’m still adrift”.

“It’ll pass” she countered immediately. “You won’t have to fight to establish your reign, they all knew you were going to be the next king and made their peace with it. They would have to be absolute nerf-herders to believe you’d mean Mandalore or its people any harm”. The moment after, her face softened. “If she remains queen, I’ll stay, but the moment she decides to abdicate, I need to be there. Alderaan can’t be crownless”. 

“I wish you could stay”.

“So do I, but… Paz, I want to be their queen. I owe it to my people. I want to lead them towards a brighter future, I want to do my best for them, I want for them to have someone determined for a leader”. She sighed. “It’s not a burden. It’s a privilege to be the heir to the throne. Even if it comes with personal abnegations”. 

Personal abnegations were an inseparable part of royal life. Duty towards the state and any debt owed to it took priority over anything else; sacrifices were to be made, both demanded and expected. 

“We shall be seeing each other whenever politics allows us to, then”. It ached, somewhere deep inside him, buried beneath his heart, deep under his ribs. An ache only known to those torn apart. “Hopefully not only when a reason arises”.

“Of course not”. Leia pressed their foreheads together. “I’ll designate you a set of guest chambers back home”.

Paz laughed quietly, low and rumbling. As if they would not sleep in the same bed every night possible, pressed close together. “At least afford me the courtesy of keeping me close to your own, lest I’ll have to sneak to see my wife every nightfall”.

“I’ll make sure the guards look the other way—” the rest of her words drowned in a kiss, soft and tender, the fears pushed under the waves of joy “so that we don’t have to worry”.

The plan was set in motion. Despite the Empire’s overwhelming strike back, several bases declared destroyed and a hurried evacuation of a major part of the fleet, the Rebellion saw no shortage in volunteers. Mandalore’s public affixture to the Alliance had emboldened quite a lot of independent or semi-independent systems into joining as well as into offering military aid. Vessels of all kinds — fighters, freighters, transporters, cruisers — orbited planetary bases, with parts of the fleet delegated to various sectors of the galaxy. 

Obi-Wan could easily understand how watching it grow made Leia nearly glow. It was her pride and joy, naturally, but it was also something entirely else — a hope for a better future. Now allied with Mandalore, it would be stronger than ever. 

The sentiment for the planet, its people and its culture had been festering in Obi-Wan’s heart for decades now, a fond memory of his youth. Still, the summons from the Mand’alor himself — and a Vizsla, at that — managed to settle fear in his bones. Serenity could only do as much when he was facing the man whose House he had frequently fought with, and who held absolute reigns over Obi-Wan’s fate in the system. 

The door to his office imposed on any visitor with its impressive height and heavy material; panels of pure steel, simply adorned, split in two instead of rapidly rising, giving the view of the Mand’alor’s desk on a dais. Behind, a stained-glass window cast bursts of light around the armchair, as if the monarch himself wasn’t intimidating enough. Tieran Vizsla was a man commanding respect, tall and broad and armed to the teeth. 

“Master Kenobi”. He gestured for Obi-Wan to enter. “Take a seat. I assume you know why you’re here?”

“Just Obi-Wan, please. I haven’t been a master in quite some time. And I suppose. Mandalore is not very fond of Jedi, is it”. 

“It’s not” he agreed “and had you been any other jetii, you would have been escorted off-planet the moment the boy you brought here was adopted into a clan”.

“Luke is an adult” Obi-Wan opposed. “We weren’t supposed to arrive here at all. The alliance and Leia’s wedding derailed our plans”. 

“That’s ven’rid’alor to you. She’s not to blame”. Tieran exhaled. “But since she is held very dearly by my own son and shall in some capacity reign side by side with him, it would be incredibly cruel to ignore her opinion in this matter”.

Kenobi pressed his lips together. If Vizsla really wished to deport him out of the system, somewhere where he would by definition be vulnerable to the Empire’s attack, there was very little Obi-Wan himself could do. However, as of recently, due to Owen and Beru’s death, he was Luke’s only living if informal guardian, and Mandalorians considered tearing up a family a crime most foul. 

He was supposed to keep Luke and Leia’s true bloodline a secret to protect them. Would surrendering it willingly be worth his stay on Mandalore? Without him, nobody would be able to train Luke the way he had to be; the way of the Force.

“She said that you are a decorated war hero, one of the fiercest on the frontlines, and her parents’ dear friend. Since our families are tied now, deporting you would be an affront”.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. He used to appreciate Mandalorian honesty, back when he was a young man, but as of now it heavily strained his nerves.

“Mand’alor, the boy — Luke — is her birth brother”.

“What?”

“He’s her brother” he reiterated. “They were born on an interplanetary medical station, because their mother required urgent medical intervention. She died in labour. Leia was adopted by Bail and Breha Organa, and Luke was entrusted to Beru and Owen Lars. We were forced to keep their mere existence a secret. Their father would undoubtedly hunt them down. As far as I’m concerned, and thanks to your son, Leia escaped his clutches once already”.

Tieran tilted his head. “Her father — their father” he spat “or rather nothing more than a donor — is an imperial?”

“He is. And a vicious one at that. He’s nothing like the man I knew”. 

“You knew him?”

When the jetii’s eyes met Tieran’s own, his fair complexion making the dark rings under them all the more visible, as if the man was plagued by nightmares, the Mand’alor understood what could not possibly be said without causing Kenobi unnecessary pain. The sheer weight of the suffering and grief he carried on his shoulders, bent down to accommodate its bearing. Hands and fingers burning from the heat, cut from sharp edges of every single memory festering in his heart like a gangrenous wound. 

“He was important to you”. 

“A brother in all but blood” Obi-Wan nodded, his eyes glassy with tears. “My apologies”.

“There’s nothing to apologise for”. A brief moment of silence later, Tieran continued. “What I wanted to say was nobody will split you and Luke. You are his guardian, as the Organas are Leia’s own. With their biological father posing a threat, any rights he may have are invalid. We have two important sayings on Mandalore — aliit ori’shya tal’din and gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la. They respectively mean family is more than blood and nobody cares who your parents were, only what parent you’ll be. The Organas, from what I’ve gathered, have done a splendid job with raising their daughter. The Lars have done the same, may Manda watch their souls, and now so do you”. 

“Am I allowed to stay, then?”

Vizsla nodded. “Yes, on the grounds of guardianship over Luke. After an allotted period of time, you will be able to apply for citizenship”.

“Thank you, Mand’alor”. Obi-Wan bowed his head. “Luke is what now I suppose to be the galaxy’s last hope”. 

“That little ad?” A frown turned up on Tieran’s forehead. That scrawny thing, trailing behind Kenobi like a lost nooduck? “Perhaps with some proper diet and training. He’s about as thin as a flimsisheet”. 

“I’ll take your word for it, Mand’alor. Thank you once again. May I inquire about one more thing?” To a nod, he responded. “Where could I find the mausoleum of House Kryze?”

“In the eastern gardens. It has an atrium and a fountain in the middle of it, and their crest above the entrance. Visiting an old friend, I assume?”

“You could say so”. 

When in the late evening Tieran walked by the mausoleum to light a flame — it was important for the visiting and the citizens alike to know that the Mand’alor recognised and valued all sacrifice made during the bloody civil wars — he noted a kneeling silhouette inside. Past the tomb of Adonais Kryze, an untimely death and a loss of a great man, laid a lily-engraved tomb of his eldest daughter. Duchess Satine Kryze was not very popular during her reign, still considered illegitimate if not downright sacrilegious, but as misguided as her ideals were, Tieran could not deny her efforts for Mandalore. 

Nor could he deny that a death so young was a grave injustice.

Obi-Wan was pressing his forehead to the stone, weeping quietly, cradling it as if it was the face of a loved one. 

Vizsla stepped back, silently, so as not to ruin the moment. Briefly, he thought about whether Bo-Katan herself ever visited the tombs of her closest family, and then his eyes caught sight of a meticulously hidden bedroll and a blanket. Perhaps the sole survivor of clan Kryze frequented the mausoleum more often than he’d ever thought. 

Leia huffed. It was much easier to dress up nicely to appease her former court etiquette teacher than to choose an outfit to serve her well under the set criteria. She had to conceal her beskar, and it had to be a full beskar’gam to protect her in battle, but simultaneously look like a princess would be expected to. 

“Shimmersilk might be too thin. They’ll see right through it” she doubted. “I don’t know”.

“Try an undergown” Bo-Katan replied. “The more layers the better. I’ll keep your helmet on me, because I’ll be by your side all the time”. 

“I don’t know how to hide the chestplate. It’s too thick to wrap it and pretend it to be a corset”.

“Then don’t hide it. You’re the ven’rid’alor of Mandalore” she shrugged. “You have every right to wear cultural attire. They can’t forbid it. Even the imps need to keep at least their elites satisfied, and some of them hold culture in very high regard”. 

“The skirts need to be wide enough to hide two blasters” Leia added.

“Thigh holsters”.

“A knife would be nice”.

“Boot sheath”. 

“Something for immediate self-defense”.

“That’s me. Also, heavy rings. I think the wedding ones will do nicely, but we can look for some more”.

“And…”

“Leia, you will be fine. You’re a weapon in every sense of the word. You are what leads the Rebellion. They have no grounds to arrest you, no warrant after you. And if they try anything that isn’t a polite good evening, princess, what a splendid gown you’re wearing, Vizsla is going to wipe them out”. Before Leia managed to get as much as a single word in, Bo-Katan continued. “He is. I’ve seen what he lunges around. Plastisteel doesn’t stand a chance”. 

Hardly anything did when subjected to a weapon as formidable as a slugthrower. This kind of weaponry proved incredibly useful back during the wars with the Jedi; as simple as it was for a jetii to stop a blaster bolt, a bullet would require much more effort, concentration and time, something a slugthrower wasn’t forgiving enough to grant. Properly made, its bullets would pierce through anything but beskar itself, making its wielder nearly invincible. 

Naturally, Paz’s own was custom-made in the best ways, able to switch between bolts similar to blaster ones and the heavy ammunition. 

Bo-Katan easily understood why Paz Vizsla liked this type of cannon so much. Heavy infantry was key to any assault, firmly standing its ground and pushing solely forward. He wasn’t a man of intricate words, no; he was a man of action, and she could respect that. His time to play diplomat would come when he won the fight for succession. For now, as the ven’alor, he could get away with a head a little hotter than a king ought to have. 

“None of them do, in fact, unless they’re wearing beskar or using the Force, whatever that truly is”. Her fingers worked quickly to tie the skirts around Leia’s waist, cinching it in line with her hal’cabur. “Some shimmersilk might be nice anyway. You’re a princess and twice the queen-to-be. You should look the part”.

“I know. I will”.

She did. With her hair intricately braided as was in fashion on Alderaan, a white gown under her chestplate and a plethora of jewellery Leia looked exactly like the heiress to the throne ought to. Regal and poised, with fire in her eyes and the galaxy’s fate on her shoulders. 

It was still a lot simpler than most of the traditional post-Republic formalwear, kept as sophisticated as possible under a military regime despite heavy objections; uniformity was what the Empire pushed for, depriving systems of cultural traditions or outerwear under the guise of equality and harmony. With high taxes imposed, the majority of the planetary systems found it more suitable to feed, house and heal their own populations rather than dress up their nobles and royalty, and so the clothing grew both simpler and more practical. Alderaani fashion was never too complex, finding elegance in simplicity and harmony; compared to Nabooian or Pantoran, it was nearly ascetic. 

Her jetpack would be one of the hardest pieces to disguise, together with the helmet, so with a heavy heart Leia decided to forego it; she wasn’t there to fly down from the skies, ready to take on the invaders. Her job was to sabotage any internal defenses, to which she still must have had access as the princess, and allow the Mandalorians into the palace. 

“You look really good, princess”. Bo-Katan nodded, pleased with the efforts. “When you walk into that banquet, they won’t even know what hit them”.

Leia scrunched her nose. “Hopefully, Paz’s cannon”.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure he looks forward to getting rid of them too. Pests, nothing more”.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was narrow enough to kill any suspicion of weaponry carried underneath, the beskar’gam was marked as cultural attire further proven by Leia’s arrival helmetless. Her hair would be done in typical Alderaani fashion — let the imperials know she is an heiress to two strong, powerful worlds, and that she didn’t come to play nice.

“We need to be vigilant at all times. They didn’t invite me out of the goodness of their hearts — if they even have them. Ninety-percent probability it’s a sabotage”. Bombs, seismic charges, well-timed fire. 

“Would they sacrifice their elites?” Bo-Katan tilted her head.

“In a heartbeat. To them, lives are worth as much as they are useful. I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed everyone just to ensure they got their target”. Her. “I don’t like it, but we have no other choice”.

“The planet might be additionally fortified if they’re inviting us. We’ll go in with all we can”. 

“Thank you”. Leia’s eyes welled up with tears. 

Kryze embraced her tightly. “Alderaan will be free in no time. We’re fighting for freedom, yours and ours”. 

Still, there were challenges to overcome before they even set foot on Alderaan’s soil. 

The plan to destroy the Death Star seemed simple enough in the war room, its holopicture floating above the table, every detail of the station mapped out and the journey to the exhaust port clearly marked. In the hangar, however, it grew to a daunting perspective. Some of the pilots entering their fighters — both the x-wings and the mismatched squadrons — would never land again, having fallen victim to the Empire. This assault could — would — turn the tides of the war and finally give the Rebellion the upper hand. Deprived of its most powerful weapon, the Empire would lose precious time to either build a new one or gather a fleet of star destroyers with firepower strong enough to gravely harm a planet. Raze its surface to the ground, even glass it, but not blow it up. 

Leia turned when someone’s hand grabbed her shoulder. 

“Hi!” Luke beamed. In the orange pilot uniform, a safety vest on and a helmet in his hands he looked much more confident than he had when they first met. By his side, a blue astromech beeped quietly. “I was cleared to pilot an x-wing”.

“That’s wonderful”. Leia embraced him tightly, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Be careful. The simulator is still very different from the real thing”. 

“I’m not going alone, R2 will be with me”. The droid tweeted again, as if in confirmation. “See? We’ll be fine”.

“I hope so. This is one of the riskiest campaigns so far” she added, looking around. “The Death Star is definitely well-armed in itself, so you’ll need to watch out for its guard towers too”.

“Sure will. The Mandalorians were kind enough to give us some seismic charges to use if necessary, so if we all fail to blow it up, we can at least heavily damage it”. 

Of course, she thought. It often paid to have back-up strategies, and from a people so acquainted with war she should have expected nothing different. 

Having to stay in the control room, staring at the holotable and monitoring their fleet was a horrible task; all she could do was stand and watch, passively witness everything taking place. On a planet as fortified as Mandalore she would be much safer than on Home One, protected from turbulence or bombardment, and it only gnawed at her further. 

Nearly everyone else, bar the Rebellion’s leadership, would fight. The hangar on the eastern flank was bustling with pilots and warriors alike; colourful beskar’gam melted into one bright crowd in front of her. Accustomed to dark and bright blue sets of armour of clan Vizsla and clan Kryze — including the Nite Owls, Bo-Katan’s closest friends — for a second she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Grey, burgundy, beige, specks of green, yellow and blue, splashes of white and silver. Din’s unpainted beskar caught her eye once or twice, accidentally matching his silver fighter. 

A Naboo starfighter. Force, Leia thought, they were at least two-decades pre-Empire, so around four standard decades now; not even vintage, more like bordering on antique. Still, if it was still in use, it must have been in excellent shape, repaired and tuned. 

If she looked a little harder, she’d probably find yet another relic getting ready to take off. 

Farther out, under the skies, freighters were preparing to carry personnel to ships orbiting Mandalore so that they could watch over the fighters, send out more if necessary and tend to the injured. 

“That’d be good too. As long as it’s disabled, the galaxy is a little safer”. Nobody should be able to wield such power, and yet. “May the Force be with you”.

“Thank you”. 

When Luke walked away, heading towards one of the x-wings, Paz stopped by her side. “What are you thinking about, ner riduur?”

“I’m anxious” she replied quietly. “This could finally lead us to victory. I don’t think they expect anyone to be insane enough to attack their battle station”.

“It is insane” Paz agreed. Jare’la, insane to the point of suicidal. “And unexpected. If we orchestrate it well, the victory shall be ours. Maybe it won’t collapse immediately, but it will be significantly weakened. With the support your call brought us, we might stand on nearly even ground”.

Leia rose to her toes to press their foreheads together, the blue beskar cool against her skin. 

“Be careful, please. I can’t lose you”.

Not even the hands closing around her own, not even quiet soft-spoken words, not even the insistent, soothing feeling of armour against her body could settle the anxiety coiling in her chest. 

“You won’t” Paz murmured. “But I cannot stay. What warrior would I be if I did? My people will be fighting out there; I have to fight side by side with them. I’m the ven’alor. This is expected of me”. He exhaled. “Both my father and my brother will be pilots. It would kill me to stay and watch”.

“I know, I do. Just… Force, come back to me”.

“I will. You have my word”. A Vizsla’s word is as if written in Song. “Manda truly blessed me when we met”.

Leia trembled when, with the last feeling of cold metal by her face dissipating, she watched Paz walk away. “I love you!” she called, tears rising in her eyes. 

Vizsla stopped, turning around to look at her. “I love you too, ner kar’ta”.

She only left the hangar when the shrieking, bright pink engines disappeared among the stars.

Chapter Text

The palace’s war room was left to the Rebellion’s disposition. Leia took her place by Mon Mothma’s side, her eyes aimed at the holomodels representing the Mandalorian fighter fleet. Somewhere there, in one of the vessels, was Paz. In an unmarked fighter, just like the Mand’alor, to keep them as safe as possible, impossible to single out from the rest of the squadron. 

“All will be well”. Mon laid a hand on Leia’s shoulder. “We allied with warriors. They have battle in their blood”.

There were three of them around the table — Leia, Mon Mothma and Obi-Wan — with admiral Ackbar and the rest of the council surveying the assault from the Home One. This would be the grandest, bravest assault for the Rebellion to have ever carried out; an assault much more daring that partisan fighting or flash attacks. Taking out — or over — an imperial base was a rarity, a victory celebrated between heaving breaths and nervous calculations. 

But this?

This would be a breakthrough. A decisive declaration that the Rebel Alliance not only is there, nor is it only a nuisance, but that it is a force to be reckoned with. 

Paz gripped the control lever. He’s promised at least three people sincerely that he’d be careful, one person that he’d come back to her — and he would, what good husband lied to his wife so obscenely? — and countless others that all would be well; his vode in the hurry to their ships, clasping their vambraces or patting backs, all in faith that today the horrendous threat would fall. 

In faith that their effort would not be in vain. That the lives laid down in battle, sacrificed for the greater good, were not lost for nothing.

In a fighter, the world was both microscopic and overwhelming; limited to the cockpit and its transparisteel windows, yet wide open to the vast expanse of space, cold and merciless. With only metal separating him from the widespread void, his life was entrusted to nothing more than the fighter itself. 

Some found it thrilling or enchanting, the speed and adrenaline coursing through their veins, the stars blurred in the peripheral. Din was like that, Paz recalled, a pilot not out of necessity, but out of love. Vizsla himself wasn’t terribly fond of piloting, preferring over it any form of combat — close, hand-to-hand, armed — but the sense of duty always overdrove the ambivalence. 

Prioritising duty had been drilled into him since youth; a Mand’alor had to always put their own people and planet first, regardless of their own desires. Since he remembered, he has always been the ven’alor. As a little ik’aad in his father’s arms, as a growing boy in training armour, as a young man able to fully understand the weight of the crown. 

The shriek of the engine called for his attention. With one — last? — glance at the hangar, at the transparisteel panoramic window of its control room, he flew out into the void. 

Futile, he thought when the horrid station finally appeared. How were they supposed to destroy it? To evade both its defenses and the fleet stationed around it, shoot the torpedoes straight into the port and escape before the entire thing blows apart? It would be a miracle. Then again, from what he’d gathered from the rebels, the soldiers and the leadership alike, the Rebellion bet on miracles quite often. 

Their offense wasn’t left without an answer; the sole moment the imperials noticed their presence, a charade of TIE-fighters surrounded them. Small and maneuverable like ook flies, twice as annoying and much more dangerous, they were a wraith sent upon. 

In a moment, accompanied by shrieks and bolts, the orbit turned into chaos. With star destroyers looming in the distance — the battle no doubt surveyed from their bridges — the threat was clear, yet leashed. Green bursts of energy countered red ones, aimed at the station’s infrastructure, the defense towers barely managing to turn in time to take a shot. 

“I’m in the corridor” he heard someone say; Woves, maybe. “I’m going to try. I need two fighters to cover me”.

“On it” another pilot said. A rebel, probably, since Paz didn’t recognise the voice. “Blue squadron One and Two, follow me”. Two x-wings, lined with blue on their sides, leaned and smoothly broke out of the squadron. If the universe was in their favour, all this would be over soon. 

“Taking aim”. 

Paz followed the designated vessel with a silent prayer. Let it be easy, he pleaded, because nothing else is going to be. 

“There’s too many of them, I can’t get a clear view. Pulling up”. 

One chance gone. He steered his ship towards the corridor. Maybe if he’d cleared it enough, the TIEs would learn to stay away from the exhaust port — discouraged by high death toll — giving the Rebellion a few more chances. Just a few more. 

Leia watched the vessels on the holotable. Two of them were marked with dark blue, for Paz and Tieran, and several in red-orange-gold-green-blue for squadron leaders. She watched one of the fighters approach the port, fly straight towards it flanked by two others only to rise in the last few seconds. 

They still had some time before the imperials figured out what exactly was their goal, apart from a relentless assault. Once the Death Star fell, a swift counterattack would be on the way, there was no doubt. The only advantage the rebels had was that their main base — Home One and adjacent fleet — was constantly moving or, in part, orbiting Mandalore, and so safely docked in a sector the Empire wouldn’t dare to enter. Stories of ships entering without permission and getting incinerated still circulated. Fabricated or not, they served Mandalore well. 

She only stepped back from the table when her own commlink beeped. 

“I’ll be right back”. In the antechamber, she sat down heavily on one of the sofas. “Paz—”

“I’m going to try. Woves and some of your pilots cleared the corridor decently”. 

Leia pursed her lips. She’d much rather Vizsla stayed there, with her, as the heir apparent to the throne, but it would be unsightly of him to stay safely in the war room while his people risked their lives. She could practically hear him say it. He’d brand such a thing cowardly to do, all in his deep, grave voice, then press their foreheads together and leave for his ship. “Alright. Be careful, please”.

“I will. On my honour”. A beat of silence. “I’m pulling down”.

She imagined Paz’s fighter diving down into the narrow space, piercing the schematic’s thickest line around the station and rushing towards the exhaust port at an impossible speed. Immediately, two other fighters joined him at his flanks, shielding him from the TIEs and clearing his path. 

“Taking aim”.

She awaited Paz’s next words with bated breath. Would he aim true, would the torpedo enter the port? Would the whole intricate plan even work? 

All of a sudden, his fighter swerved, the torpedoes hitting the armed side of the corridor.

Her commlink crackled.

“Ner sarad, I’m so sorry” he said quietly. “I missed”. 

Leia swallowed heavily, her throat constricted.

“It’s fine. I saw you swerve. I’d rather have you alive than a mourned hero”. She closed her eyes. Quietly, privately, she did count on Paz’s aim, she hoped that perhaps his shot would be the one to bring the victory home. “We still have chances”. 

“Forgive me”.

“There’s nothing to—” but he wouldn’t understand, would he? he wouldn’t accept it until it was said “alright. You’re forgiven. I’ll see you when you land”. 

“And I’ll see you”. 

Very little time was left for them to aim and hit, and Luke began worrying. It wasn’t his first time behind a control lever, his speeder back on Tatooine had one too, most of them did. An x-wing was much faster than one, though, but the simulator did a good job of instructing him, teaching him how to fly under duress. 

They made two attempts, fought-for and unsuccessful, and soon enough they would have to retreat. Luckily enough Mandalore was out of the station’s range, but planets around them weren’t so lucky; they would suffer a fate worse than anything else, annihilated in seconds. This wasn’t about saving a particular planet, Luke knew it, it was about knocking the power out of the Empire’s hands before they even managed to use it. About incapacitating their most powerful weapon yet, about protecting the galaxy from men drunk in power, careless about the lives they actively put in danger. 

“I’m going to try” he said. “Setting the navcom and descending now”. 

“Alright. We’ll flank you, clear your path”.

He was rushing down the corridor, with the navcom dead set on the exhaust port; it couldn’t be that difficult, could it? Gliding towards it seemed almost effortless, easy, like gliding on sand dunes, as if he knew exactly what would happen in a second or two. Which way to swerve to avoid a rogue womprat, how to twirl among the dunes as not to wake the dormant krayt dragon. This, despite the scale, was not that much different.

For a moment, he felt really compelled to put the navcom away and wing it. Use the Force, a voice whispered in his head. Use it, Luke. Trust it. 

“Obi-Wan?” he asked quietly. But how could it be? Kenobi was half a quadrant away, in Sundari, Luke couldn't possibly hear him. Unless, of course, the Force Ben so revered saw it fit to.

Trust it, Luke. It will guide you. 

Obi-Wan never lied to him, not once, and he seemed all too glad to finally find himself on an allied planet, so he couldn’t possibly wish to do them harm. Not after how he reacted to seeing Leia alive and well, or how he protected Luke throughout their journey. How he made sure that his lightsaber was hidden from view, because any imperial soldier was ordered to shoot Jedi on sight, and shoot to kill. How he consoled him after Beru and Owen’s death— no. Obi-Wan was bright, somehow, blinding even more so than Leia. Such light could not possibly be tainted; from the very beginning he was so trustworthy, so kind, even in peril. 

“I will”. He pushed the navcom away, folding it into the side. “It’s fine” he explained. “I can do it without the com. It’s distracting”. 

“Are you sure?” Leia’s voice rang in his ears. “Remember what’s at stake. We trust you. May the Force be with you”. 

Luke nodded. The closer he was, the more and less anxious he was. More, because the target was closer and closer, and his time of trial would come in a matter of seconds. Less, because with every few seconds he became more and more confident that he could do it, that there was no other trajectory for the ionic torpedoes than towards the exhaust port. 

Trust it, Luke.

Luke pushed forward, the two x-wings clearing his way. He could nearly see it, right there, unobstructed and empty—

—and then it was bright with the cold, cold pink of the torpedoes, disappearing in a hexagonal exhaust. 

“I made it!” he called. “I made it!”

“Everyone flee” a stern voice said, lined with pride. “Head home. Don’t let the explosion singe you”. 

The station exploded seconds after, torn apart in smoke and flames. Clouds of stale, white-green-pink smoke surrounded the collapsing skeleton, engulfing everything too close to the sphere; solid whirls suffocating whatever remained in the station’s immediate vicinity, melting durasteel hulls and eviscerating stray TIE fighters. A pale ring of the shockwave razed through the void around it, a final act of violence of something of such power that it should not have been allowed to exist in the first place.

Leia never reveled in destruction or senseless violence, yet an urge to celebrate was immense, bubbling in her chest. Joy and excitement alike coursed through her veins, only waiting to burst.

“It’s gone” she whispered. “We did it. It’s gone. Force, it’s gone”. A smile blossomed on her face, glassy with tears and as bright as the sun. “It’s gone!”

Mon embraced her joyfully, her hands around Leia’s shoulders, their cheeks pressed together. “It is. Force, it is”. 

Leia hugged Obi-Wan tightly. “Thank you for bringing Luke here”.

“Of course, dear one”. His hand patted her back. “The Force is rarely wrong, even if the path it leads you on is complicated”.

“Transmission incoming from Home One” the admiral spoke, happiness evident in his voice. “The station is gone. I don’t know who exactly made the shot—”

“Luke did”.

Mon turned towards her. “Luke?”

“Yes”. 

“Might’ve been. Your Grace, the squadrons will be landing soon. I have to admit, as skeptical as I was about the alliance, I was wrong. You made the right call”. Ackbar cleared his throat. “The fleet is in good condition, lightly damaged. The Empire just lost its main propaganda prop and a tool to threaten any disobedient worlds. This is an incredible victory for us all”.

“Thank you for the report, admiral. I suppose a celebration is in order”. Mon’s face lit up with a smile. Two decades of fighting the Empire, of first standing up to it in the senate, of then urging the galaxy to stand against it before it would be too late — and then it was, the Ghorman massacre, the Death Star rising — and now she could laugh in its face. Without the battle station it was still a formidable enemy, but an enemy significantly weakened. Oh, to see Krennic’s or Tarkin’s faces now, frozen with horror! Did they even survive the explosion? were they on the station or hovered on the destroyers nearby, wary of their own creation? 

“Might very well be. What base do we land at?”

Leia swallowed. In the absence of both the Mand’alor and the ven’alor, the decision vested in her. 

“Sundari will welcome you” she decided. “The landing pads by the palace can hold a dozen medium-sized vessels, the rest can dock in the hangar. I look forward to seeing you all”.

“Us as well. The announcement of your death had us torn apart. We owe a great debt to the Mandalorians for your rescue”. The moment they all saw the transmission, Tarkin’s blue-tinted face monotonously, venomously explaining that the Rebellion-affiliated princess, notorious Leia Organa, was detained and executed for violation of laws as well as association with known criminals and actively seeking to do harm to the Empire, not to mention the lives lost during the rebels’ assaults, the entire Rebel Alliance lost its breath. 

Mon Mothma watched the personnel freeze, the leaders looking at each other in horror. If the Empire dared to venture as far as to execute diplomats without as much as due process, the principles of war were being wiped out. The conflict would escalate, pushing limits and crossing boundaries until atrocities became common and nothing was certain anymore. 

All her thoughts anchored around Bail and Breha, convinced their daughter was dead. Their heiress, their only child, the little girl they took in to protect. Did they even know now that she was alive and well, that she was married? That their grief, paralyzing and unforgiving, had no ground to stand on?

The landing pads filled with ships, a few fighters, Bo-Katan’s transporter and a shuttle undoubtedly taken over from the Empire, sleek and minimalistic; the v-shape of the wings was a telltale mark. Anxious to the bone, she watched each vessel carefully, hoping to spot the one Paz was in. Even damaged, even battered after the assault, but intact enough to get its pilot back home safely. 

Did he survive? He must have, had he died she would have felt it; a pain so debilitating, so overwhelming she would have collapsed. Her chest burning like a dying star, like a sudden sunburst on a world in perpetual, numb darkness, too bright not to inflict pain.

The only thing she heard was a hearty riduur! before she was embraced and lifted, her arms automatically wrapping around Paz’s neck, their foreheads pressed together in a kiss. 

“Ner sarad”. Vizsla buried his face in her neck, the edges of the visor resting on her pauldrons. He noted it with satisfaction, how could he not, with pleasure purring in his chest, that she tended to wear parts of her beskar’gam every day. Her usual choices were the pauldrons — mismatched in white and dark blue, their family colours; one of them being Paz’s own modified to fit her silhouette — and vambraces. “You’re trembling” he noticed. “Are you cold?”

Before she could answer — before Paz even finished speaking — his cape was wrapped around her. 

“It’s just stress. Anxiety. I was worried”. 

“All is well”. His hand cradled Leia’s face, soft and gentle. “The Empire is not yet incapacitated, but weakened. Now that they can’t threaten us to destroy our planets, we can take Alderaan back, and we will”. The fingers — the very hands, and possibly forearms up to the elbows — that held her close and cradled her cheek were drenched with blood, calloused from weaponry and spattered with tiny scars, but they held her nonetheless. “We will protect your people. Our people, now”. 

She pulled the cape tighter around herself. Sturdy and thick, it must have served Paz well during combat. A silver gleam caught her eye; beskar. Thin, woven into the material, nearly invisible to the eye. “Thank you. You know, even if it hadn’t been for the treaty—”

I would have married you all the same, she wanted to say, but her words drowned in his embrace.

“I know. I’d have sought you until I found you”. 

Would they have got married differently, if the Empire never attacked Tantive IV? If the Empire had never risen at all? Certainly, she mused, the only military part of the ceremony would be beskar, polished to a high sheen. Her own wedding dress would have been much more elaborate, with lakepearls sewn onto the outermost layer, shimmersilk glittering in the sunlight, her crown-like headdress tinkling with tiny pearls. A sophisticated updo under it, braided by her handmaidens, and soft make-up — muted lipstick and glistening eyeshadow. 

Of course, before the wedding, they would have to withstand courtship, signified by thoughtful gifts and learning of each other’s culture. They would be tended to or chaperoned by either Leia’s handmaidens — similarly to those of the queen of Naboo, the young women bore a striking resemblance to Leia herself, once in a while serving as her decoys — or Paz’s guards, established for this very purpose. 

They would only come to share bedchambers after they married, each of them bearing two titles — of Mandalore and of Alderaan. Any heirs would be specified in the treaty well beforehand, with an added footnote that for Mandalorians a rightful heir was either a biological child or one adopted through gai bal Manda. If they reached a consensus in this matter, maybe Leia wouldn’t have to go through pregnancy, something that scared her to the bone. 

It was still an open subject, since until the war was over none of them would think to have children. Unless, naturally, they adopted a child in need. 

Paz, she thought fleetingly, would make for a wonderful father. 

“Do you think we would feel differently if we met again under normal circumstances?” she asked. “Without having our marriage be a result of distress?”

“Perhaps it would have taken us a while longer” he replied, tilting his head “but I would have fallen in love with you regardless. Certain things are bound to happen, Manda willing or not”.

Fall in love with her. 

Leia giggled quietly. Their loyalty to each other remained unquestionable, despite their sudden shove into marriage, their rise and now careful wading through it, yet Force, did it feel good to have it said out loud! 

“And you knew that since we met as children?”

Paz nodded. “Ever since. I have revered you, and you should know I still do, and I always will”. Even to him, Force-null and clad in beskar’gam, Leia was incredibly bright, almost blinding. Her smile was blazing like a supernova, unobscured by a helmet, her beauty bestowed upon everyone regardless of whether they deserved it, selflessly and openly. Paz’s heart clenched. She belonged among the stars, with them glittering behind Home One’s control room’s panoramic window, and deserved so much more than what Mandalore could offer her. 

An alliance in times of need was one thing, and something Paz would gladly provide. A lavish life was a completely another thing, one Mandalore would struggle to offer. A planet devoid of unnecessary luxuries, devoted to war, with weaponry held in high regard was no place for a core-world princess. Despite a several-generation-long period of isolation, formerly rich trade granted them financial security and relative stability; most of the planet’s riches were remnants from Mandalore’s past, full of conquests, as well as its long-gone empire. Frescoes on high ceilings, depicting conquests and battles, tapestries, reliefs, statues, a treasury full of gold and precious goods predating the usage of credits in the galaxy. 

Sometimes, as a little boy, entranced with the glittering riches, he would sneak down to the treasury, sit in the middle of piles of gold, weapons and artifacts, pick a few to look at and carefully assess them. A long sword with a gilded hilt, ancient, sturdy and delicate simultaneously. Jewellery, from earrings to tiaras, from bracelets to rings. Bizarre mechanisms, thrown carelessly onto coin piles, as one of many spoils of the conquests. 

“I’m glad I’ve grown into my feelings for you”. Leia took his hand and pulled him towards the entrance, away from the bustling hangar. “Is everyone accounted for?”

“Very few losses” Paz replied gravely. “We will bury them with all honours, as is only right for fallen warriors, and avenge them when the time comes”.

As was only right. Mandalorians took burials very seriously. Seven funeral pyres would lit up cold, smalt blue skies, the bodies enshrouded and covered. When all that remained were embers, the mourners would be allowed to dissipate. Some of them — if not all, rebels and Mando’ade alike — would swear vengeance, swear to tear the Empire apart until there was nothing left.

It was, regardless of anything else, exactly what Leia intended to do. 

“Thank you”.

“Of course, ner sarad. Your people are my people, and mine are yours”. 

Was it not true? Didn’t their people become one under their prospective reign? Were Alderaan and Mandalore not intertwined with their marriage? The very moment Paz and Leia said the vows, they became each other’s future Prince Consort and Rid’alor. They became each other’s future, and now had to fight for it.

The lack of seven pilots lost among the Mando’ade was nearly impossible to register with how many were there, gathered in the throne room, yet their absence weighed heavy in the air. Leia stood next to Tieran; Paz took the place on his father’s right side, as the heir. Her eyes glanced from Obi-Wan and Luke, standing at the very front, to Bo-Katan’s familiar fiery hair. It was braided today, and the clumsiness of the braids suggested it was done by very young, perhaps even little hands. Leia smiled softly to herself; Bo-Katan was increasingly more and more likely to be found training the kids. 

Maybe it allowed her to forget about the unrest in the galaxy? Training was a constant in a Mandalorian’s life whether there was war waged or peace imposed, so it must have given Bo-Katan some sort of closure. 

Even if at the cost of getting her hair braided by tiny hands. 

Five x-wing pilots lost to combat would be honoured as well during a military ceremony. Heroic deeds demanded sacrifice, and this time was — heartbreakingly so — no different. Every time one flew out, especially during a battle, it was necessary to keep in mind that it could be the last. 

They were paying tribute to the warriors and the soldiers, but most of all, to the heroes. 

When the flames from the pyres reached their peak, bright and warm, the first voices behind her began to sing. Strong, clear and steady, not unlike a battle cry, yet gentler, mournful; a promise of vengeance. Easily, she recognised Paz’s voice among them. Apparently, akin to the Song itself, songs in general were an important part of the culture; one of the first things children learned were songs, they were sung to when soothed and cradled, the melodies of joyful chants and soulful rhapsodies inscribed in their hearts. 

Paz’s hand, inconspicuously resting too close to her own to be an accident, gently interlaced their fingers and squeezed. 

When the fire died down, embers buried beneath the ash, hardly any mourners remained in the courtyard. Leia found herself standing by the pyres, her hand resting flat on the edge. Paz awaited her in the hall, where the mourners would feast.

“We mourn too many” she said out loud, more to herself than to anyone else. “Sometimes I wonder if the price isn’t too high”.

“We do. Their sacrifice isn’t in vain, though”.

She turned. Luke stood next to her, a step behind, his eyes transfixed on the fire as well.

“It’s not. We accomplished a lot so far. Each new system or new planet supporting us is another step towards defeating the Empire. We can’t exactly call out to them in the Senate, but we can hack into official information channels and use them”. 

“Like your wedding announcement?”

“Like my wedding announcement” she agreed. “We managed to disprove the imperial claims of my death and display our alliance. The wedding must have made so many so angry” she added, a hint of glee in her voice. “I wish I could see it”.

“Did you want to marry him?” Luke asked suddenly. “He doesn’t seem like someone a princess would marry”. 

“He’s a prince”. Her tone grew harsher, colder. The match might have been peculiar, but political marriages saw ones weirder ten times over. “That alone makes him fit for any royal”.

“You know what I mean. Once the arrangement is made, nobody asks the spouses if they really want to get married. Were you forced, Leia?”

Was she? The circumstances — the war, the diminishing funds of the alliance, the desperate need for a strong, reliable ally — were at least dubious, but did they truly force her to make the decision to offer her hand in marriage to Paz? “No. It’s in my duties to make difficult choices”.

“So you didn’t want to marry?”

“Luke!” she hissed. “I married Paz to seal the alliance, yes, but I wasn’t forced and I wasn’t coerced. We met as children, and I think we have held each other in high regard since then. He was a wonderful friend. I had no reason to doubt him when I met him again”.

“If they forced you, I’ll help you out. So will Obi-Wan. Arranged marriages are cruel. There’s nothing good in trading your child for resources or credits”. Luke pursed his lips. “If he ever hurts you—”

Leia clenched her fists.

“Enough! He didn’t want to marry me!” she emphasized. “He didn’t want it to look as if he was taking marriage as payment for alliance! He didn’t want to take advantage of me, because I was vulnerable and desperate!” She exhaled angrily. “Maybe on Tatooine arranged marriages are nothing but abuse in disguise, but not necessarily in the rest of the galaxy! Mandalorians despise any sort of spousal abuse, and even if they didn’t, Paz would never raise his hand at me!” Tears welled up in her eyes, more of frustration than sadness. “My parents had nothing to do with this decision. They were unable to attend because Alderaan is under blockade. I was blessed to come across Paz when the imperials caught my ship”.

For a moment, they were both silent; Leia’s chest heaved with anger, while Luke averted his eyes to focus on the dying flames instead. 

“I’m sorry” he finally said. “I shouldn’t have implied that”.

“You were worried. No wonder with what you know about arranged marriages. Tatooine is really harsh on everything, isn’t it?” 

“There’s not much space for anything other than sand, honestly” he laughed quietly. “And resources are too precious not to be an important point in marriages. Moisture, or water, in general. Seeds, especially of useful plants; nobody wants to waste water on something that simply looks pretty. Still, I shouldn’t have assumed your marriage would work the same”.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you”. Leia shook her head. “Though at least we resolved that. If Obi-Wan is worried too, tell him that it’s all fine”.

“He doesn’t have the best memories with the Vizslas, from what I’ve gathered. Maybe that’s why he was anxious about this wedding”.

Leia knew that clan Vizsla was a prominent side during the Clone Wars, that they used to usurp the right to the throne and support the claim by the fact that Tarre Vizsla, the only so far Jedi-Mandalorian, created the blade marking the next kings. Perhaps Obi-Wan’s side — either clan Kryze or clan Mereel — fought with them, clashed violently enough to leave wariness etched in Kenobi’s psyche. 

If Obi-Wan still believed that anyone of Vizsla's name was brutal and violent, no wonder he reached out to Leia in the Force, sending her a quiet, warm question. He only settled when he received nothing but reassurance in the process, soft and gentle, pushed towards him more or less consciously. 

Leia didn’t particularly blame him. If Obi-Wan’s only reference to the clan was Pre Vizsla, then he was right to be worried; he was nothing short of a power-hungry, bloodthirsty tyrant. 

“Maybe” she agreed. “Let’s get back inside”.

Walking back, she glanced towards the pyres only once, a glint of pure, unpainted beskar catching her eye. Feeling Luke slow down to the point she easily surpassed him, she smiled to herself. There was only one Mandalorian wearing his beskar raw silver, and her suspicions were only confirmed when, upon entering the hall, Din Djarin was nowhere by Paz’s side. Paz shortly pressed their foreheads together in a kiss. 

“You cried” he noticed quietly. “They’re marching up in the stars, ner sarad, and Manda watches over them. They all died a warrior’s death, and we honoured them”. When he lifted his hand to wipe a stray tear off her face, she expected to feel a leathery glove, not his bare skin. “And they will be remembered”.

Leia sniffled. 

“They will”. 

Despite Din’s gentle insistence, Luke stayed in the gardens a while longer, waiting for the treacherous blush to subside. Djarin was a kind, respectful man, and maybe Luke began to slowly understand what made Mandalorians so attractive apart from prowess in combat and full beskar’gam. The touch of worn gloves on his fingers — and a press of his palms to Din’s bes’kar’ta — still lingered after they parted ways.

He nearly walked into another man, clad in dark blue, with a cape flowing off his shoulders. He managed to profusely apologise, doing his utmost not to stare in the man’s visor, until he heard warm, hearty laughter. 

“You’re Luke, are you not? Come. We need to have a talk”. The man gestured for him to go forward, and Luke heedlessly did so. “I heard you had concerns regarding Paz and Leia’s marriage”.

This time, Luke’s face grew pale. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was only worried that—”

“—and I respect that” Tieran interrupted. “Paz is my son. I raised him to be Mand’alor when his time comes, and I have no doubt that he would never hurt her nor would he abuse the privileges this marriage gave him. Still, I know that our name carries weight, and to someone who wasn’t acquainted with Mandalore’s development, her marriage to Paz may very well be concerning”.

Tieran himself was concerned when princess Organa offered her hand in marriage to Mandalore. The sides weren’t exactly equal in standing, with the Rebellion desperate for funds and allies, but in the end he convinced himself to agree, to cut to the chase and seal the deal. 

“She explained it to me” Luke admitted. “I was worried, because on Tatooine arranged marriages are much more transactional. Resources are scarce. The children are often the only thing many people have to offer” he added, letting the Mand’alor conceptualise the rest of the sentence. “I didn’t want her to get hurt”.

For anyone else’s implications of this kind, Tieran would challenge them without a word. To suspect his son of such vile things would be an insult paid for in blood.

“And it’s admirable. You want what’s best for her, and I’m sure she appreciates that. And if, under extremely improbable circumstances, Paz did hurt Leia…” he said quietly “you can be absolutely certain that I will be the first one to challenge him for that”. That, or Kenobi would supersede him; the jetii seemed awfully concerned for both young Skywalker and the princess herself, unwilling to let any harm come to them. Nevertheless, Vizsla would never allow Paz to go unpunished if necessary. “I promise you that”. 

“Thank you”. Luke nodded. “I don’t know her very well, we didn’t meet long ago, and yet I feel like she’s so close to me. Like a sister”.

“You should be glad, then. A sibling to gain is always a joy”.

It was as Mandalorian as it could get, apparently. Not that he would ever expect something else from a culture of family-focused warriors, as devoted to honing their skill as they were to raising their children. 

They celebrated until dawn, with fizzwine and ti’haar and any other kind of alcohol available, tinting bare faces pink or red with joy and heat. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings and simple arches, of adults and children alike.

Chapter Text

The last time Bail and Breha Organa saw their daughter, they were sending her away in hopes of sparing her the fate of the monarchy under occupation. The next time they saw Leia was on a Rebellion transmission, a series of short holovids about an alliance with Mandalore and, somehow, Leia’s wedding.

Their daughter got married to the ven’alor of Mandalore, a man they only barely recalled from a one-time diplomatic visit; a man who back then was a young boy, Leia’s best friend. 

“Our brave, brave girl”. Bail took Breha’s hand. “I hope Mandalore took her in”.

“She’s alive”. Breha couldn’t tear her gaze away from the silhouette of their daughter, dressed in royal white, standing opposite Vizsla. “I hope she wasn’t coerced into marriage”.

“Mandalorians are an honourable people”.

“We both know that our definitions of honour clearly differ” she opposed. “If Leia didn’t have a choice—”

“I know Tieran Vizsla well” Bail cut in “and I place utmost trust in him. He would never leverage something so binding when a friend is in need. Neither would he allow his son to. Our Leia is safe in Sundari”. 

The relief that flooded them both, warm and light, could extinguish a supernova. Ever since the Empire’s cold announcement about Leia’s capture and execution, they have been mourning their only daughter together with the entire planet. Despite the imperial efforts, her memory lived on, etched in symbols of her name on building walls and in rebel signatures all over the capital. The myth of the lost princess, stranded somewhere in outer space, gathering forces to return and besiege the planet was the thing Bail and Breha clung to the most. Anything was better than believing their Leia was dead, her young life ended so violently so soon, even if the rumours were exactly that — rumours, falsehoods concocted solely to keep the hope in people’s hearts.

Now, looking up from the balcony, Breha watched a grand fleet enter the orbit. Too mismatched to be imperial, a few venator-class vessels surrounded by a myriad of smaller crafts, all armed to the teeth, looming ominously above the city. 

Perhaps somewhere there, among the arriving, was their daughter. 

“The main entrance to the palace is here”. Leia pointed to it. “However, there are several other entrances and exits, marked with red”. Ten red points appeared on the diagram. “We have to assume that all of them will be guarded. Aim to incapacitate, not kill, unless you have no other choice”.

She was already wearing the gown she had tailored, with her hal’cabur in place, the vambraces and pauldrons as well; the rest of the armour was hidden under the narrow skirts. While certain visible parts of beskar’gam were excusable as cultural attire, arriving to the Empire-occupied palace in full armour could result in a very poor outcome. “I will signal when I turn off the basic defense systems. Then you move on into the palace. When we retake it, we retake public buildings. Always make sure that no civilians are harmed”.

“And the stormtroopers?” Din asked, looking up from his vambrace. 

Leia mulled over the words for a while.

“Clear them out”. 

Din nodded. “Fine. We will lead the ground assault” he looked at Paz. “Bo-Katan is in charge of the descent and aerial assault. The Rebellion and remaining Mandalorians are going to engage the imperials in battle on orbit to keep them away from the atmosphere”. 

“This is key” Leia added. “We need to stretch their forces thin. We can’t have them swarm us”.

“They won’t”. Paz confidently said, casually hefting his cannon. “We’ll pick them off in spades. They might outnumber us, but neither plastisteel nor numbers will protect them”. The only thing anyhow able to protect someone from Mandalore’s wrath was Mandalore’s own beskar, worn by her own warriors, near-impossible to gain otherwise. “Alderaan will be ours before the sun sets”.

“I hope so”. Her hand found his, her bare skin entangled in a thick leather glove, and tightly grasped it. “I’ll see you when it’s over”. 

“You will. You have my word, ner sarad”. 

The gala was sickening. Leaking with millions of credits, dripping with venom, suffocating with opulence. The guests, from the highly-ranking officials in signature white uniforms to various old- or new money aristocrats, fickle and empty, interested only in riches and in power. Half of the party was dressed in the most impractical, lavish gowns or robes, glinting like gold or seemingly woven from light itself, adorned with crystals or pearls. Heavy jewellery worth millions — if not tens of millions — of credits rested on their necks, laid snug against their fingers or dangled from their ears. The other half wore all kinds of clothing tailored for a more masculine body, together with capes of sleek synthsilk.

Five types of glasses, from shallow ones for aperitif to spherical ones with tiny straws so that the drink would not spill over expensive garments even during vigorous dances. Several dozen dishes, from universal to unusual specialties of certain regions, from bite-sized to elaborate. 

All that funded by blood. Produce and resources stolen from starving planets, barely paid for due to the inhabitants’ desperation. Labour exploited, unappreciated, ignored in favour of desirable results. 

All these people, unbeknownst to them or not, would pay for all the suffering necessary for their ostentatious luxury. 

Leia watched the guests disperse in panic when the first blows hit the imperial defense shields. Having shed the overskirts and the cape, she stood in full beskar’gam at the top of the marble staircase, the complacent nobility noted down one by one, crouching or hiding, as if their brazen celebration of atrocities ought not to be disturbed. Everyone cooperative with the Empire out of their own will would be justly punished; the law was slightly kinder to those forced to obey. Still, all those who aided the Empire would stand trial before the Royal Tribunal, with the state of Alderaan as the accuser, with defense provided only by Alderaani legal provisions. 

With the distraction in place, she glanced back one last time to ensure she wasn’t being followed and rushed to the heart of the palace — the security control rooms. Not as airtight, not as hermetic as those in Sundari, but still tight enough to alert any leftover imperial security of any upcoming breaches, so to disable them was the first thing to do. Leia quickly pressed three buttons, inserted her personal code and pulled the lever down to its limit until the diodes around it went out. 

External shields were disabled; soon after so were the internal ones, leaving the palace ripe for the taking. As often as she used to complain about security to her parents whenever she wanted to leave the palace — either officially or sneak out with her friends to drink homemade fizzwine and eat highly caloric street food — she had to admit that in comparison to Mandalore it was rather lax. Then again, Alderaan hadn’t seen war since the Second Establishment eons ago, when the absolute monarchy was toppled and replaced by a constitutional one. Less secure, albeit more stable, it was a flourishing period for the planet. Trade routes, interplanetary relations and industry heavily benefited from the reforms then implemented, as did the monarchy itself. 

“The shields are down” she said quietly into the comm. “Move in”.

“On it”. 

Paz’s voice offered her support; a gentle push among the bristling anxiety. “Be careful”.

“Always, ner sarad”. 

She moved fast along the security stations, clearing the path for the first line of offense to enter the palace. Her breathing echoed in the helmet, her heart fluttered with worry under her breastplate. 

The crashing noise a floor or two above her had her speed up, locking the mechanisms and looping surveillance so that anyone else —any imperials — attempting to regain control over the palace would fail miserably. The assault started, then, clearing out the gathered stormtroopers with the heavy fire of blaster cannons and slugthrowers; beskar-lined bullets could pierce nearly anything, leaving only white-clad corpses in their wake. 

Paz looked around the entrance hall. The frescoes and sculptures sang a song of arts and history, of love for all things beautiful, and had him vaguely recall the few weeks spent there as a child. The spiral staircases, the shape of a grand statue at its heart and the marble of the walls seemed both etched in his memory and properly seen for the first time. What a shame, he thought, that the first time he came here after his marriage was as a conqueror, not as Prince Consort. 

What a shame to see those pale floors stained with blood and littered with bodies. Still, to his relief, not a single body belonged to Mando’ade. 

“Entrance hall clear” he reported. “Moving forward”. 

“Entering the western wing” he heard Din say. “Internal defense systems are down. There’s nearly no resistance. They must have concentrated in the core”.

“Probably. That’s where the throne room is, and that’s probably where they hold the royals hostage. That or in the main tower”. The main — the highest — tower was the heart of defense, fortified and secure separately from the rest of the palace; its own defense protocols would have to be disarmed later on. “It’ll give” he added.

Djarin snorted lowly. “It will. It wasn’t armed for a siege, from the looks of it, only for riots or small-scale conflicts".

“Go ahead, then. I will keep clearing the path inside”.

“I’ll send reinforcements” he stated after a moment. “You could do with some support”.

“Thank you”. 

Din signed off with a short this is the Way, as if neither of them already knew that. Soon after Paz found himself flanked by four others, all of various clans, who aided him in clearing out the first level of the palace. Those who survived — either the white-clad troopers or imperial officials — were cuffed and guarded, kept in place none too gently by designated guards before being led to their own holding cells. With their names and chaincodes taken, the situation allowed hardly any possibilities to escape or defy justice; soon the trials would start, the sentences would be law-abiding, binding and final. The Alderaani survivors were taken outside of the raging battle, beyond the capital, to makeshift medical centers where they were tended to if need be. 

Any minor injuries could be treated immediately, while graver ones warranted transport to the Rebellion’s medical frigate. Those names were noted and offered to family members in reassurance, to spare them the horrifying thought of losing their loved ones.

Manda knew that one family was enough.

The army, split in two — for the terrestrial and the orbital assault — valiantly battled on both fronts, pulling the imperials as far away as they would follow to tear into them. The star destroyers, mighty in power yet vulnerable in size, were relentlessly attacked, shot at until the engines were dying, until their cold blue light weakly spluttered, barely pushing forward, too slowly to escape the onslaught. In return, however, their powerful cannons incinerated any aircraft daring to fly too close. Hearts clenched when an x-wing or a Mandalorian vessel died in flames, the mourning set aside for when it would be granted the time. 

The warriors pushed forward in the capital as well, sifting through the palace and its immediate surroundings, dismantling crude imperial institutions and outposts. Every so often, they would catch sight of hastily painted symbols on the walls of buildings; either a sign of the Rebellion, bravely orange among the streets dulled with white armour, or four symbols of the Alderaani alphabet, always the same ones in the same combination, as if a war cry, as if a call. 

One of the civilians, an elderly woman whose wrists Din freed of handcuffs, gripped his forearm as she slowly explained that the signs were always arranged the same way because they always spelled a name, and that it was the name of their lost princess. 

Din exhaled only when she finished. The people kept believing that Leia had survived the pursuit and that she was somewhere in outer space, safe and sound, gathering forces to free her homeworld. That their princess, the heiress to the throne, would not abandon her people in need and would do her utmost to save them from oppression.

And she did. 

What a grace had it been, to tell them this.

Somewhere in the capital, armed to the teeth, clad in beskar’gam, the princess fought for her people. 

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Luke was not yet properly trained — the classic Jedi training spanned years, if not decades — and the boy was nowhere near ready. A deep connection with the Force required years to weave, even if one was particularly sensitive to it. Luke clearly was, having inherited that from his father, but even that wouldn’t help them in this case. 

“I cannot in good conscience—”

“I can’t stay there! They are out there fighting, I can’t just sit and do nothing!” Luke clenched his fists. “I don’t want to be useless!”

“And you are not”. The tightened fingers relaxed when taken in Kenobi’s own. “All effort is important during war, even if one does not risk their life. It would do you well to remember this”. He’s already lost his closest friend; he will not lose his ward. “But if you are truly so impatient to fight — if the war still rages on when we are done — then we may begin your training”. 

He unclipped his saber. 

“My training” the boy repeated. “With this?”

“Not yet, dear. Soon. You are so much like your father” Obi-Wan shook his head. “So impatient yet so brave”.

“You knew him?” Luke asked, disbelief apparent in his voice. “Uncle Owen always said that my dad was a spice runner”.

At that, Obi-Wan snorted, amused; that was as Owen as it could possibly be. 

“Anakin was many things, but I assure you, he was not a spice runner”. He gently patted the boy's shoulder. “He was the best starpilot in the galaxy, if a little reckless at times. A cunning warrior as well; I owe my life to your father’s inability to leave me to a hopeless demise. But above all, Anakin was a wonderful friend”.

Luke’s persistent questions seemed to melt on his tongue at the sight — no, at the feeling — of deep, profound sadness buried somewhere deep in Kenobi’s psyche, of a festering, gangrenous wound that would never stop hurting. “Will you tell me about him one day?” he asked, treading as carefully as one would to avoid rousing a krayt dragon. 

“One day” he heard in response. “When we are both ready”.

From the highest vantage points, Leia watched the capital drowned in chaos. Imperial troops purged from the streets, plastisteel alloy powerless against the beskar-clad assault. Aerial support from the orbit or hanging low in the air seemed close to reaching its final act, too close to breaking permanently to be strained in favour of upkeeping control over a world in turmoil. The stormtroopers fled to any transports willing to hover low enough for them to climb in, the unable, the wounded and the dying soldiers abandoned on the battlefield, forced to face both the wrath of the opponents and the solitude of death.

She couldn’t help feeling bad for them. Taken from their homeworlds as children, brainwashed from a young age and forced to participate in drills, routines and acts deeply traumatizing or downright criminal, they had little choice in the matter. In a way, they were going through their own personal hell — or were they so dehumanised that they were unable to recognise it? Were their minds purged from any individuality, any independent thoughts? Were baseline human instincts like pity and mercy pruned from them throughout the training?

Her heart easily led her gaze towards Paz’s dark blue figure, tearing through the enemy. Once they managed to free Bail and Breha, they would regain control of the planet. Victory was so close she could nearly taste it, so close she could—

An explosion threw her off track; her back hit one of the walls. She’d be bruised to all haran, but she knew that well before she joined the fight. Her back would ache for a few days to come, stained red and purple, and so would her nose; she could feel a trickle of blood seeping down to her lips. In battle, nobody escaped unscathed. 

Apart from, naturally, those who commanded. Their time came later, much later, in front of a tribunal or a firing squad, or ungloriously by Vader’s hand. She knew well that Vader’s outrages — tantrums, rather — already cost the Empire several commanding officers. 

She’s seen him only a few times so far, haunting and imposing in his black armour, his face hidden under an ominous helmet. Steady, mechanical breaths echoed through any space he found himself in, effectively choking out any undesirable noise, be it a machine’s hum or someone’s complaint. 

With the dust settled — at least temporarily — the galaxy could take a breath. No longer suffocating with an iron fist on its throat, at least for now, it breathed evenly and deeply, much more easily, with lungs free of stardust, without its sleep disturbed by piercing gunshots and tearful screams. With the systems’ newfound freedom came challenges and duties, none of which Leia was willing to disregard; the legislative and executive branches had to be purged clean of imperial officials as well as courts and tribunals, slowly washed clean of rusting corruption. People had to settle again, planets drained from natural riches had to reestablish their resources, sanction-closed trade routes had to be opened, tyrannical local governments persuaded or goaded into cooperation and impossibly high taxes were lowered. 

Political prisoners — and it encompassed every person imprisoned without due process or by an imperially-inclined judge whose both methods and respect towards universal justice were far from proper — were freed, the families reunited, the people rejoicing again. This, even if it was only a fraction of what was to come with the Empire’s collapse, set Leia’s heart ablaze with joy. 

She watched the streets of the capital cleansed of dust and rubble, red imperial banners torn down and burned in bonfires, the makeshift barricades blocking certain districts removed. Only when the siege started did she realise that the blockade was a facade, a lie fabricated to hide what was lurking beneath. No trade blockade, not even forced isolation, required the enforcing party to set up cells in the capital, to organise mass arrests and introduce terror as a tool of power. 

Perhaps it was for the better that she was absent throughout the imposed regime; her heart would have surely broken. To see her people, peaceful and kind, under the Empire’s boot would undoubtedly kill her; to see her people imprisoned for expressing their anger, for standing up to injustice and violence of the oppressor would fester in her chest, angry and full of venom. To see them rejoice, dance and drink, sing their songs, hold each other had her face bright with a smile. 

Still, the fires had barely been extinguished, the queen had barely made her speech — my daughter and our heiress was proven to be alive, to be here on Alderaan fighting for our freedom — when Leia found herself rushing down the stairs from the High Hall to the royal balcony, beskar hitting marble, one corridor, a second one, a staircase, the ornate door pushed open—

“Leia!”

Breha turned around, met with a solid beskar chestplate and a vice of an embrace. “My Leia, you’re—”

“—I am! I’m fine, mom, I missed you! Missed you” she repeated ardently, earnestly, pressing her cheek to her mother’s. 

Breha took her face in her hands, cradling it as if to ensure it truly was her daughter, her heiress, her little Leia. “We thought— the Empire said— oh, Leia”. Tears intertwined with laughter as sincere as only a mother’s could be, overjoyed with her child as if brought back from the dead. “They told us you were dead, executed—!”

Leia’s arms only grew tighter around her mother’s frame, supporting her steadily.

“It’s all a lie” she reassured. “They lied. It’s okay. I’m here”. 

Bail hugged them tightly, his forehead pressed to Breha’s own, and then a kiss pressed to Leia’s temple. “We were terrified. The people mourned you, wept after you… You were a symbol— you are a symbol, Leia. A symbol of resistance. We have had quite a few visitations from the Empire here, and I don’t think they liked the fact that you became a martyr instead of a warning”.

 “There were… protests” the queen continued. “Manifestations. The people were angry, rightfully so, but with each protest the imperials brought more reinforcements. They didn’t even pretend to act like peacekeepers, they resorted to violence nearly immediately”.

“They imposed curfew, stalled our trade and started to ration the products”. Bail’s tone grew heavy, the joy of finding his daughter eclipsed by what the Alderaani people had had to endure. “Changed the emblems on the palace, culled our power. Forbid protests. Then they carried out mass arrests, unmotivated or on baseless accusations. Opposing politicians were imprisoned; we still don’t know where many of them are”.

“We’ll find them” Leia assured. Anger at the injustice of this kind — the sheer gall it took for the imperials to break the law so smugly, so brazenly! — has long since stopped burning bright like a flame in her gut. No, it was a constant, simmering fury, a taste of bile in her throat, white-hot embers blistering her lungs. “And we’ll bring them home”.

Still, it would only be once the Empire collapsed. Until then, there was no telling who might have survived, who clung to their sanity and who was not coherent enough to recognise their homeworld upon arrival. 

“We will” Breha agreed. “But before we take any action, I want to ask you something else”.

She looked first at Vizsla, then at Leia. No, her daughter looked neither unhappy nor subject to violence, at least not at first glance, yet her heart ordered her to seek. “Was it your decision, Leia? Solely yours?”

Not being able to see her only daughter get married stung her enough, but to suspect she might have entered marriage under duress? under threat? to be crippled by anxiety, worried for her fate, tied to someone her parents had no chance of meeting properly? 

To someone whose political power vastly exceeded Leia’s own, be it military or resources, or not having been branded a fugitive? 

“It was” Leia confirmed. A flash of anger sparkled in her eye, and it only unsettled Breha further. Her beloved only daughter was not a person who would allow anyone to put a yoke around her neck, much less to tighten it enough for marriage. Why, out of all possible solutions, did she resort to this one? Why would she put something so personal on the altar of duty? “I wasn’t coerced or forced into marriage. I made this decision, nobody else”. 

“I don’t appreciate being accused of having forced her to marry me” Paz stated coldly. Not after he was so vehemently opposed to doing so in fear of her decision being solely political, not after he did everything in his power to ensure their marriage wouldn’t be an exploitation, but a partnership! “And I don’t take kindly to insults of my honour”.

Breha glanced at Bail. As dubious as this marriage seemed to be, the man seemed to treat Leia well. Perhaps discreet curiosity would be better than outright distrust and hostility.

“We owe you a great debt for protecting our daughter” she began amicably. “You saved her life. By extension, you saved the crown. We could not be more grateful”.

“N’entye” Paz replied. “There is no debt among the family. I made a promise years ago that I would protect her, and a Vizsla’s word is as written in song”. 

He watched the queen and her husband herd their daughter to a chaise by the window, taking her hands as if to soothe her. Anxiety was clear on their faces, as if painted with a brush on glass. Overtaken by fear, it soon dissipated, sowing doubt not only in their hearts — and in whose would it not, having first believed a daughter dead, then seeing her married to a warrior, a conqueror, under the guise of a treaty? — leaving anger in its wake. 

All of a sudden, Leia rose, shaking her head. “I know you’re worried. So was I. It wasn’t how I wanted to get married, not as the last resort, not as an act of war, but this was what I got. I love him”.

Was it not true? As wonderful as their wedding had been, joyous and exhilarating, they went to their marital bed knowing they would have to take up arms the next day over. 

“Neither of us wanted our wedding to be a declaration of war” Paz added. “I refused marriage at first. To accept it as payment of alliance was plainly wrong, and we are an honourable people. You should not question that”.

Bail pinched the bridge of his nose. Obi-Wan, may the Force watch over him wherever he was, was rarely wrong, yet apparently this was one of those instances — according to him, Mandalorians were fairly reasonable. This one, however, was a child of the Watch. As a father, it was nearly impossible for him to see Leia as anything else than a hostage bound by marital vows, a heroine who sacrificed herself over and over again to appease a bloodthirsty ally. 

“We are allowed to be concerned for our daughter’s wellbeing if she traded herself in exchange for your aid” he hissed. “Lay a hand on her—”

“I have”. Paz’s voice was low and gravely, stripped of tone by the vocoder. “I have held her when she needed me to. I have dressed her in beskar sacred to my people. I have married her — do not interrupt me — I have married her” he repeated forcibly “as my equal. You may not know this, and this is the only reason I will not challenge you for the insult you ought to kneel for, but any violence inflicted on your spouse with intention to harm is the second gravest crime to commit. Spousal abuse is only second to child abuse, which we take incredibly serioudly and punish the shabuire deservedly. Do not under any circumstances liken me to them” he spat. 

Paz’s anger was not warm in the Force, no; it was scorchingly white, painfully red, spilling in waves not brutal like water, but otherworldly like lava. She’s never felt such fury from him, fiery and flaming. 

Leia stood between them, her arms outstretched as if to keep two creatures from fighting each other, limiting their aggression to snarls and insults. 

“Enough”. She looked at them both, then focused her gaze on Bail. “There was no coercion. I promise. I could swear to you as the princess of Alderaan, under oath”. Her heart was set ablaze in rightful anger, and the flames — albeit gentler than formerly — warmed Paz’s own. To watch his riduur defend their marital bond, tear accusations apart, as gracefully as only a diplomat born and raised could.

“That’s… Leia, that’s not necessary”. Bail pulled her close. “We trust you. But first and foremost, before we are Queen and Senator, we are your parents”. 

“That’s the first reasonable thing spoken so far”. 

All of them turned to face Paz, who only snorted quietly under his helmet. 

“Senator, believe me, I understand your worry” he said. “If I had a daughter and she married someone I believe I have never seen, under dubious circumstances, I would be hostile too. Yet I assure you, she will know no harm from me”. 

If he ever hurt her, he would have to shed his beskar and declare himself dar’manda. His creed — the very same one Tieran and around one-third of Mandalorians followed — was a strict one, punishing abuse severely. Not to mention that the Mand’alor himself would be the first one to serve justice if he heard about it and would be sorely disappointed not only as the king, but as his father. 

“Our apologies. We were merely concerned”. Bail took his wife’s hand. “First we were told our only daughter was dead, then we saw her — on an illegal holotransmission — marry into a culture of warriors, someone we have never met. It wasn’t difficult to draw unsettling conclusions”.

“But you have met me” Paz replied smugly. “Only I was but a child. My father holds you in high regard and remembers you fondly”.

Breha tilted her head. “Prince Paz”.

“It is good to see you too, Your Majesties. Leia will be safe with me, I can promise you that. On my honour”. 

“We should go”. Leia tugged at his hand. “It’s time to reestablish your reign”.

Breha only smiled softly, accepting her husband’s arm and following the pair. When the sun rose, the proper monarch would be already reinstated, the crown back on her head, the planet under her rightful sceptre. The Empire could have had an unlimited budget, a firepower able to destroy entire planets — not anymore, she recalled with a quirk of her lips — and a several-million-soldier army, but the Rebellion had a rising loyalty of the citizens tired of violence, supplying them with donations, with verbal support of protests and manifestations, with quiet acts of sabotage. 

Painted symbols of the Rebellion appeared on duracrete walls of imperial institutions, tall and imposing; prestigious and clean in the skies, high above the bristling anger of the people, while dirty and defaced where garishly orange, weather-resistant spray could reach. 

The palace had three courtyards, one of which led to the throne room; the very same one where many of the people took shelter upon the breach of the palace, shielded from the raging battle by Alderaan’s best defenses. Paz had personally led some of the civilians there, parents clutching their ad’ike or leading them by hand, children aiding their elderly parents. Some of them were armed in self-defense, some had weapons lent to them by their liberators.

Still, even if they were armed and clad in beskar, they had no chances against the guards in red, taking steps towards the entrance. Hell, even a fully-fledged Mandalorian would have trouble beating them; these guards were rumoured to be the Empire’s finest, trained in bloody, fratricidal combat to gain the privilege of dying for the Emperor. 

Their presence on Alderaan could mean only one thing — the Empire was nowhere near accepting its loss of the planet, and if it couldn’t have it, it would tear the world apart. 

And the guards were too close to the entrance to Paz’s liking.

Through the lenses of the greater good, it was a decision easy to make; one life prematurely extinguished was nothing when compared to several dozen saved by an act like that. Not to mention that inside the throne room, vulnerable and exhausted, were children. Sacred in their privilege of seeing the times their parents would not, they were to be protected at all costs. 

Paz had made his decision by the time he stepped towards them. With a helmet tilted towards the skies, he whispered one last prayer — an apology, really, heartfelt and tearful, against time too pressing to dwell on his choice — and charged at them. 

Three ominous crimson figures loomed around him, their cruel weaponry — electro-bisentos, as vicious as a close-combat weapon could be — aimed at him. Each pointed at a weak spot in his beskar’gam, where his body was only protected by weaker armour or solely by his kute. One of them would be a formidable opponent, two would be nearly impossible to defeat, but three?

Three were a death sentence.

Paz clutched his cannon. If — when — it overheated, and it undoubtedly would, he would be left with only a vibroblade to defend himself, and despite his skill, he would never last long against them. No, this would serve as a distraction, as a way to keep them from moving onto more vulnerable targets. He’d die a warrior’s death, a most honourable death of all, and yet—

—yet his heart clenched in pain. 

He’d abandon Leia, leaving her a widow in grey beskar, weeping and heartbroken; the colour of her irises washed off with tears, her face rigid in permanent sadness, her gaze always cast down, always averted. Or would she stand tall, spine steel-straight, cold and calculated, bright with the force of a thousand supernovas? 

He didn’t doubt he’d be avenged, if it came to his death, if not out of sentiment then out of duty. Tieran would spill blood in wide streams until his boots were soaked with it, a battle cry an order to charge until his son’s death was avenged. Leia would scream, mourn, honour him in her work, raise him a statue. Din would cut through the imperials one by one, regiment after regiment, when all he was surrounded by were dead men. 

None of them stood by his side now. 

Each narrow slit of a visor buried in scarlet was impossible to read, blank and blind, set on violence. All three watched him like strills watch defenseless prey, waiting for it to tire from the chase before making the killing blow.

The inevitability of it struck him. He would never see his riduur again, nor would he his brother, nor would he his father. He would never become a buir, adoptive or biological, he would never watch his ade or bu’ade play in the sunlight of the courtyard of Sundari’s fortress. His hair would never grow grey, his body would never ache from old age, he would never again take Leia’s hand in his own. 

Forgive me, he prayed. Look for me among the stars when I’m gone. 

What else was he to do? 

He was certain he managed to injure them, yet none showed any sign of pain, any sign of weakness; were they impossible to injure or did they discard their pain in order to fight?

A sharp blade, crackling with electricity, embedded itself in his side tearing at his muscle; Paz howled in pain. He had made his peace with death, accepted it before the combat started, but to feel it? to watch his vision blur, to feel his soul come up his throat to escape his body with the last cry?

Another one slashed at the back of his knee, vulnerable, shielded only by duraweave. Paz’s knee hit the floor with a heavy grunt, blunt pain coursing through it, He would not withstand them, no matter how fiercely he fought or how violently he resisted, the best he could do was desperately hope that this battle would weaken them as well—

A third weapon pierced through his back, dripping blood — his blood — onto the stone. Surreal in a sickly, hollow way, the blade protruded from just under his ribs, the wielder of it pushing him down with it. 

Suddenly the heavy weight pressing him to the floor was gone, the shabuir holding him down as if dissipated. No, he registered — barely, through hot tears and piercing, pulsing pain — something tore him off. Someone, rather. 

Dark blue armour swirled between three crimson silhouettes. Paz exhaled with relief, hissing in pain when standing up and lifting his cannon, fully intent on bludgeoning the guards until unrecognisable. His wounds bled profusely, blood slick on his beskar, 

“Ad’ika” the voice in his ear said, breathless and full of relief yet, just under the surface, terrified to the bone. “You should—”

“I’m not” he cut off. “You’re not fighting them alone, buir”. 

It took a titanic effort to lift himself off the ground, slowly, heavily, not even fully regaining his balance before lunging at one of the red-clad menaces, slashing with vibroknife and throwing the cannon around; subjected to enough brute force even beskar would bend. The crude alloy they wore, of stolen beskar and steel, would be a good substitute, strong, sturdy, if not aimed at by pure Mandalorian iron.

Tieran used to tell Paz stories when the boy was young, of warriors mad with rage, who conquered even the gravest of injuries in order to fight. Of adrenaline strong enough to overcome extreme pain, of glorious battles won by honour and duty. 

Jetpack ablaze, he rose upwards, still entangled with his opponent. Having pried their filthy hands off his armour, he aimed their back at the nearest palace wall, and aimed so several times until the scarlet terror’s bones rattled, until they went limp. Nobody who made the defenseless their target deserved anything other than a death as vicious as they had wished to inflict. The second one lost fairly soon after, pierced with Tieran’s saber, as dark as the longest night of the year. The third one succumbed to a vibroblade between the parts of their crackled chestplate. 

Darkness danced in Paz’s eyes when the fight was over, threatening him with blindness, his lungs and heart dangerously close to his throat. Only when he looked down did he see rivulets of blood seeping from under his beskar, staining the pale marble floor. 

Dying hurt, and incredibly so. 

He wished he could say he was angry. Furious, even, to the point of choking on his own spit and blood, on one last battle cry that his broken ribs and bruised lungs would let him make. Mad enough to accuse the menaces in red of having not granted him the absolution of death he’s earned through battle. Instead, he was heartbroken. Heartbroken he would never see Leia crowned the queen of Alderaan, he would never have ade with her — of their blood or otherwise, both equally loved — he would never raise them and watch them grow, watch them pass verd’goten, watch them get married and raise their own little ones. He would not die of old age, instead a warrior’s death. 

“Don’t overexert yourself” he heard; Tieran supported him and pressed the wound closed with a torn piece of his cape. “Don’t close your eyes, ad’ika, talk to me”. 

“Is it grievous?” Paz asked quietly. 

Concise and to the point. He was always like that, the Mand’alor recalled, never much one for unnecessary words. Never one for lies, either. 

What a shame he would now receive nothing but.

He glanced at the wounds. A deep gash festered in Paz’s shoulder, back and side, soaking his flightsuit with blood. An injury like so, if not tended to quickly enough, posed the threat of sepsis, of gangrene; of a slow and painful death, or a faster one simply due to bleeding out. As debilitating as it was, all he could do to save his son’s life was to ping a healer to call them to their location. “No” he lied through gritted teeth. “It hurts more than what it looks like”. He gently fixed their position so that Paz could rest his head. “We’ll clean up the capital tomorrow. You’ll see what your second domain truly looks like. Do you remember it from when you were a child?”

Paz laughed wetly, throatily. “I mostly remember Leia” he admitted. “Should we not seek them? The battle seems nearly over”.

“Not yet. You need your rest” Tieran answered with a sad smile. How would he live after this? How would he bury his heir and watch the very future of Mandalore burn? He would mourn his son akin with Leia, offer her a shoulder to cry on, set his own heart on fire and lay it down on the funeral pyre.

No, he chastised himself, Paz was not yet gone. Despair had no right yet to settle. Paz was not yet marching on, marching to join their ancestors and be offered a seat with the Ka’ra. The star council of fallen kings welcomed only the most valiant warriors, the bravest of them all, and Tieran had no doubt that they’d gladly see Paz Vizsla among them. 

It was only a crime that he would march on so young.

Chapter Text

Every standard minute — every second — was worth its weight in beskar now. The healer was to arrive anytime now, as soon as possible, and every moment was excruciating, torturing Tieran with the shallow rises and falls of Paz’s chest, already stripped from chipped hal’cabur to ease his breaths. 

“We should go” Paz coughed, briefly spluttering with blood. “I need to see the rest, and Leia—”

“Leia is fine” Tieran soothed. “I’ll comm her, if you want”.

For a while, they rested in silence, only accompanied by Paz’s ragged breaths and quiet groans of pain. Piercing pain was pulsing now, agonizing, too strong to bode anything but the end. His vision grew darker and darker, blurred, as if the night was already here. 

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” he asked. “It will not be long”.

“You are not” Tieran’s voice was cold like steel, hot with rising tears. “Manda be my witness, you will not march on”. I will not bury my own child, he thought. I will not raise a pyre for my own son, because if I do, I will tear out my heart and lay it down alongside him. 

Fast, steady steps, heavy with beskar’gam, were so only until the healer saw them; then her moves became rushed, fast, panicked when she knelt by Paz’s side. “Mand’alor, ven’alor” she greeted. Under the helmet her face instantly grew ashen when her eyes caught on the wound, gushing out blood. “He needs medical attention immediately”. She turned on her commlink. “Medical transport to the western wing of the palace, now. The ven’alor is wounded. Prepare a bacta tank. It’s critical”.

The last thing Paz felt before his sight went dark was the soothing, thick consistency of bacta. 

Leia barely managed to settle the state of affairs — to assure her parents and people all would be well — when she was informed of Paz’s condition. Bo-Katan relaid the Mand’alor’s words to her with fear choking her tone, her eyes not quite only sad. She also held Leia tight until the sobs stopped shaking her, until her knees did not threaten to buckle under her anymore; had it been necessary, she would have sought a nearby vessel with her legs giving out and her lungs convulsing, if only to reach her husband in time.

According to Kryze, who was entrusted with the information by the Mand’alor himself, rush would help nothing. Paz was already patched up and submerged in bacta, yet in the battle against death he had to stand alone. 

She caught the nearest shuttle to orbit, temporarily installed to transport the verde and civilians in need of medical aid as well as the healers to the makeshift clinic hovering above the planet. First-aid medical tents were set up in the capital, to deliver quick aid immediately, but anything requiring more invasive or more serious treatment was done in the clinic or on the medical frigate. 

The healer’s demand for the next of kin — and so for her — to come was nothing short of ominous. Was the battle truly lost, the injuries too grave to be anything else than a sentence? 

Right on the doorstep, having passed through what seemed like a maze of sterile white corridors, she fell into someone, beskar hitting beskar. 

“Where is he?”

“He’s resting”. The healer looked at her with compassion. With mercy, even, buried deep behind her irises. “The ven’alor lost a lot of blood and needs for it to be replenished. The tissue will mend as well. There is still risk of sepsis, though low. We are more worried about his lungs and ribs — I have never seen injuries this horrible. I will be frank with you, princess”. She turned to face Leia. “It was a miracle he wasn’t dead when he arrived here. Rarely does one survive a chest caved-in”.

“But will he survive?” she asked, her voice trembling. Force, and if he didn’t? If Leia became a widow months after her wedding, stranded somewhere on the way to the half-built future? Waging a war, leading the Rebellion, with half a crown of Mandalore on her temples. The grief would kill her slowly, that she was certain of, seeping exhaustion into her bones, drilling her heart clean of any will to live. 

“We aren’t sure”. The healer lowered her head in a bow. “I’m sorry”.

“Can I see him? Please” she asked. “I know the regime is strict and that patients need peace and quiet to recover, but—”

“He’s in a bacta tank. He won’t hear you, but you can talk to him”. The woman bowed curtly, hurry apparent in her demeanour. Paz certainly wasn’t the only one injured warrior in her care; the siege was bloody, but gratefully short. “It soothes many visitors, even if it has no real impact on the patient”.

Leia stood in front of the tank. The half-clear, thick liquid obscured her husband from view, his face covered with a breathing mask. Fair strands of hair floated around it, framing it like a halo, the rest of it still braided. The wound, ugly colour of infectious red, must have been horribly painful. The bruises littered his entire body, from barely a few on his limbs to the ugly, purple-red-yellow ones staining his chest and stomach, beaten into the skin alongside the bloodied mess.

The healers, having cleaned him as much as possible for the tank, inadvertedly exposed all the cuts and bruises blemishing his skin, leaving them raw for Leia’s eyes to catch on. The sheer horror of what her husband had gone through — nothing less than torture, especially when the assailants had no mercy even when he had fallen on a knee, fending them off as best as he could — squeezed her chest hard enough to take her breath away.

“You’ll be fine” she declared. “You can’t leave me like that”. The only way they were supposed to part was when they died, old and gray, in their sleep after a life well-lived; with a child or two raised and grown, maybe with a few ade of their own running amok across the palace. Little ones raising tiny hands in a universal question, a plea to be picked up by loving hands, their big eyes full of wonder. Short strands of hair would be soft under Leia’s fingers, her cheeks would be wet from clumsy baby kisses, her hair already interspersed with silver. She’d watch them play and train from the comfort of her balcony, accompanied by a cup of shig; perhaps also by Paz, who by then would have given up his title as the Mand’alor to grant it to their eldest. 

They would together watch a new generation of warriors who knew war as nothing but history, honouring the fallen heroes and keeping the telltale signs of a rising regime well in mind to prevent it from ever taking root. 

They would carry the youngest children to their beds, thanked by a soft, sleepy ba’booie, slurred from tiredness, invite the elder ones in for a short chat, then send them to sleep as well. 

Leia would have long since given up her title of the queen of Alderaan, entrusting it to a blood-heiress or a queen-elect if the parliament had allowed it. She would settle down happily and eagerly, spend the days enjoying the city and indulging herself, a reward for a lifetime of duty. Oh, she could nearly see Paz easily hefting up two of their bu’ade, sincerely amused at their screams of joy, held in strong arms and carried around like tooka kittens. 

Nothing would take that from her, not even looming death.

“I love you” she murmured, pressing her forehead to the glass. “See you soon”.  

Outside the tank chamber — tight and narrow, as it served to host the tank and not much more, separated to preserve the creed of the patients — she stumbled upon Din, hunched over and with his head low. She was pretty sure that had it not been for the helmet, she would have seen his eyes glassy with tears. 

“Din”. 

Djarin stood up straight, clearing his throat, and bowed. “Ven’rid’alor”. 

“He’s in the tank. Not sure if he ever recovers”. Leia swallowed heavily. “Why did he go off alone?”

She was met with a shrug. To Djarin, though, the response was obvious. Because he’s Mandalorian, and up until the appearance of the menaces in red he was the apex predator. Nearly undefeatable, a whirlwind of beskar and fire, tearing through enemy lines like a hurricane. 

“He’s heavy infantry. Almost invincible” he said instead. “I should have been there instead of forcing the Mand’alor to intervene. Maybe had I been there—”

“Din. That was his son and heir fighting. What parent wouldn’t intervene?” She smiled weakly. “I know nothing would stop my mother if I found myself in a situation like that. And nothing would stop me if it was my child”.

Fleetingly, Din thought that it was the most mandokar’la sentence ever said. Paz was lucky to have a riduur like that. “Nothing would stop Paz either. He’s the most stubborn, obnoxious, tactless person I’ve met, and I hated him for so long when we met for the first time, but he’s my brother. And I love him”.

Leia pulled Din close, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. What could she possibly say? To lose a sibling was to lose half a heart, and leave the other half a beaten, bloody mess. “All will be well” she said instead. “He’s got a life to live”.

“If he needs anything— if they need to transplant something, anything, if he needs a transfusion, I volunteer. Whatever he needs”.

“They won’t. He’s patched up, all that matters is bacta doing its job. It’s his battle now. Let's just... please, let's just rest for a moment”. She led Djarin out of the medical area to the waiting wing, nearly empty; a good sign. Not many were gravely injured, then. “You should sleep”.

“You should too” Din bit back. “When Paz is out, he’ll raise hell”.

“I have half a mind to let him”. 

“Both of you should rest”. The Mand’alor entered the wing, a bag slung over his shoulder. “Try to eat or drink something first. I’ll have my guard escort you planetside, you should reassure your parents” he looked at Leia “and you shouldn’t be alone” he added, glancing at Din. “The capital is safe, the Empire is culled. Rest”.

“But—”

“That’s an order” Tieran corrected. “You would do well to obey it”.

When they walked towards a shuttle, Leia could only follow Din’s steps, only slightly more certain than her own. Onboard, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of broth in her hand — Din’s cup had a straw — she dozed off, thinking of Paz.

Din was walking back towards the palace, his beskar’gam cleaned of blood and grime, when he heard a squeak. A tiny, quiet one, but undoubtedly one belonging to a child, and a little one at that. Could it be possible for them to have missed someone buried under the rubble while they swept the capital for the lost and the missing? An ik’aad, at that, a little one crying under the debris, calling for someone to hold it, to protect it?

The rubble used to be some sort of outpost — hastily constructed, definitely by the invaders rather than by the people, the mortar too weak to keep the duracrete elements together for a long time — abandoned after its collapse. Perhaps that was where the ik’aad sought shelter, miraculously avoiding mortal danger when the capital was a warzone. 

No, he could not simply shrug it off, consider it misheard. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself — Manda, he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the visor, not to mention his actual eyes — as it would gnaw at it, eat his heart away until he one night rose, torn from sleep by a nightmare, rushed to the collapsed outpost to seek the little one. Would it even survive for so long, undoubtedly malnourished or sick? Whimpering in pain, maybe it was hurt, bleeding, too weak to cry anymore, tiny and helpless?

He crouched by the rubble, snaking his arm inside it to feel. Maybe he’d grasp a blanket, a piece of clothing, anything to hold on to and to carefully take it out. 

And he did.

Something coarse, rough to the touch even through his gloves — what dar’buir dressed a baby in something so unpleasant? — and he pulled at it gently, slowly, methodically, until the debris gave in and Din was able to take out a shivering, barely-breathing bundle. 

At least it was breathing. 

The ik’aad was a pale, dusty shade of green, had enormous pointy ears and two now-closed, big beady eyes. Its three-fingered, tiny hands held tightly onto the blanket, rigid in exhaustion. 

“Su’cuy, ik’aad” Din murmured, standing up and cradling the little one to his chest. “You’re safe now, I will bring you to the healers and they will help you”. The tiny body was cold, incredibly cold, as if in stasis. “I’ll keep you warm”. He tore off his cowl to wrap it around the child. “I promise”. 

The healer took the little one in immediately, unswaddling it to measure vitals and instill an IV drip. They instructed Din to keep an eye on the kid, hold it close to keep it warm and to feed it some nutripulp from the packets in the supply chest. Din chose to take a few packets of both flavours — meiloorun and pallie — and in case the ik’aad preferred only one of them, he’d return the others promptly. 

The child — as weird as it was, tiny and green — was as endlessly curious as all children were. It waddled around the tent like a toddler would, cooing and babbling, picking at its brown tunic until its claws accidentally ripped a hole in the material. Then, with a wobbling lip and eyes full of tears, it turned to Din.

“Wah?”

“Yes, ad’ika?” 

The child pushed the damaged fabric — and half its bodyweight with it — towards Din, entangling itself in the process, nearly tripping over its own foot and squeaking with disapproval. 

“You want me to patch it?” After a minute of no response, only of big eyes staring at him and of insistent pushing of the material, Djarin ceded with a sigh and gestured as if he was to fix the hole. 

The baby nodded. 

“Fine. Put this on” he offered the child a spare towel “and in the meanwhile I’ll sew it”. 

The towel, much too big for such a tiny body, fell over the kid’s head; it only cooed joyfully from under it. “For Manda’s sake” Djarin murmured, helping the kid take its tiny hands out of the sleeves and swaddling it before patching its own tunic. “You really are an ad’iik”.

The child tilted its head, as if in agreement. 

“There you go. Good as new. When this is over” he gestured around widely “we will go home. To Mandalore” he explained. “To Sundari. There will definitely be someone who wishes to adopt you as their own”. The moment he landed in Sundari, he would be swarmed with his vode trying to immediately adopt the cutest child in the known galaxy. 

Before that, however, there would be a ceremony to attend. A ceremony to reward the bravery of the people, to thank their unexpected saviours, to celebrate freedom from the imperial boot keeping them down. And throughout the ceremony, the little womprat would undoubtedly stick to him like a flea to a loth-cat. 

When Din came back to the tent well into the evening, he saw his cot turned into something akin to a circular nest; two blankets and a spare kute entangled together, with a basic flat pillow serving Grogu as a blanket. Maybe, just maybe, he thought while taking off his beskar’gam and lying down around the nest, the little one had already grown attached to him, and it would be aimless to seek him a buir. 

The flaps of his tent, pushed open, allowed Luke to slip inside. 

“Hey there”. Despite the joy of victory clear on his face, he seemed… unsettled. Anxious, as if. “The Force is disturbed around you”.

“There’s beskar in the tent” Din gestured around. “Maybe that is why”.

Luke shook his head. “No, it is there, only disturbed. I heard in it a cry for help, and— oh”. He noted the clumsy nest on the cot. “And it seems like you already took care of it” he added, watching the child squirm, its ears pointing out of the makeshift wrap, tiny hands clutching a bag of fat squork seeds. With a hard core and watery parenchyma surrounded by a thin membrane, it was devotedly cultivated on drier planets, gathered and replanted to raise the crops. “He’s so bright in the Force. I always say that Leia is blinding, and she is, but he is bright like a dying star”.

Was he? Din discreetly checked the kid; no, he was as tiny as before.

“He’s a jetii, then?”

“He doesn’t have to be” Luke replied carefully “but he should learn how to master his abilities for his own safety. It does not mean he will become a Jedi, I know how much contempt Mandalorians hold for them—”

“We don’t anymore”.

“What?”

“We don’t anymore” Djarin emphasized. “Those who survived — those who we know, you, Kenobi, our ven’rid’alor — aided us too much to dismiss it. We were wrong about them. About you”.

Luke’s face lit up with a soft, serene smile. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that”.

“You could stay here. With us, I mean. Go to Mandalore when this is over”. Din swallowed nervously. “I imagine your buir would want to as well”. 

All he got in response was quiet laughter. 

“Obi-Wan isn’t my dad. He’s more of a guardian, I suppose”. Luke paused for a moment. “He would be overjoyed to know that not all younglings died in the Temple”.

Not all younglings died in the Temple, Luke said, and Din heard nothing but travesty. What kind of being kills children? As defenseless as they are by default, small and reliant, seeking safety with any adult in the vicinity, to raise one’s hand at a little one was a crime on Mandalore, and a heavily punished one at that. “What do you mean?”

“This is how the Jedi Order fell. That’s what Obi-Wan told me. He managed to escape, spent years in exile on Tatooine watching over me. Apparently the invaders didn’t even spare children”. 

His heart clenched. “Then this ad’iik had already been through a lot when I found him. I can’t abandon him”. The baby, as if capable of understanding his words, squealed. “Children are our future, ka’ra-touched or not”. 

“Do you know his name?”

“No, I don’t”. Shame pooled in Din’s gut, hot and sick. “I didn’t think he had one”.

“If you let me, I’ll try to talk to him”.

Djarin turned to him, shock and surprise concealed beneath his helmet. “You know his language?”

“The Force is a universal one”. Luke extended his hand towards the kid, who sleepily grabbed onto his finger. “Hello, little one. May I know your name?”

GRO-GU, something screamed. GRO-GU. GROGU! 

“Hello, Grogu” he corrected. The child’s aura grew calmer and softer, soothed. “It's nice to meet you”. 

Tired, Grogu projected. Sleepy. Cold and hungry until found. 

“Are you cold or hungry now?”

The baby scowled, its tiny bottom lip wobbling. No. Only sleepy. Before, cold and scared. Now, warm and happy. 

“Thank you. Sleep tight, little one”. Luke fixed the blanket and turned towards Din. “His name is Grogu and he is very happy to have been found”. 

The coos and babbles could not have been more joyous.

It has been a painful few weeks. With Paz still in the bacta tank, unconscious and healing, the entire city seemed to be much quieter than usual, as if already in mourning. Not only did it weigh down on Leia’s heart, anxious and weary, but on the people as well. Sundari fell nearly silent, awaiting the worst — to lose the ven’alor, the heir to the throne, would be to leave succession stranded, with nobody to take his place. A crown left hanging, headless, weeping after the one who never got to wear it. 

Wearing white would seem nearly an affront, a spit in the face of those who worried; ever since the siege, she’s foregone her usual whites and creams in favour of more appropriate colours, of muted blues and simple greys. Leia noticed the same among Paz’s closest ones, or even those he would call a friend, and he did not throw a word like so around lightly. Tieran’s armour seemed darker than it always was, heavier with the fear imposed on his shoulders. Din was nearly always absent-minded nowadays, terrified sick, the only thing tearing him out of his catatony was the little foundling. Grogu, as she had been informed, was a handful, but as curious and as endearing as one could possibly be.

Waddling around in a makeshift tunic, Grogu quickly became the favourite of many, lovingly cradled or picked up when demanded, or offered snacks to fill the grabby little hands. 

Leia began to spend more time with the foundlings, training with them or reading to them, watching over them as they played. Some of them were adopted sooner than later, yet as she noticed, with no pattern — no age or gender was preferred — with only a few somehow evading finding a new family. One of them was a ten-year-old boy, dark-haired, and treated by the other foundlings as sort of a leader. Especially by the younger ones, five or six years old, with the tiniest ones clinging to him tightly. 

One day, she met him sitting away from the group on the training grounds. While the other kids stared at the warriors sparring — some of them with tiny mouths adorably open — the boy was fiddling with something. 

“Su’cuy” Leia called, sitting next to him. “Is something wrong?”

“Ven’rid’alor” the boy bowed his head, yet was stopped by Leia’s hand. “Will the ven’alor wake up?”

“He will” she replied. Would he? “He’s got too much fight left in him not to”.

“He was always very kind to me and other foundlings. ‘Specially those who haven't found a home yet” the boy explained. “He trained with us, told us stories. He was almost like a buir when he visited”. 

Leia smiled softly. “You miss him”.

“A lot”. Wet sniffles were enough of an answer; she embraced the boy gently. “I want him to be okay”.

“He will be. And when he wakes up, I’ll talk to him”. 

“Thank you”. He sniffled again. “My name is Ragnar”.

“It’s good to meet you, Ragnar”. Leia tilted her head. “I'm Leia. And I’m sure he misses you too”.

Walking away, she saw Ragnar stand up and join the other kids, swarmed by his younger friends immediately. Yeah, she decided, she had to ask Paz about this. Had he wanted to adopt a child, he only had to tell her.

Her comm pinged on her way back. Din, probably, or Bo-Katan — since Paz’s condemnation to the tank Leia more often than not found herself sharing meals with one or the other, grasping at straws not to feel alone. Sometimes Tieran joined them, as desperate as they all were. The commcode was Din’s, as expected, but the message nearly had her drop the device. 

He’s awake. 

She’s never ran so fast in her life; perhaps only when she was informed Paz was heavily injured, or when she rushed to her parents after the liberation of Alderaan. Her husband was awake, he was fine, they would meet soon—

Din met her in the ward entrance. “He’s not very coherent” he warned. “Though he did ask for you”.

Her heart lit up with a soft glow. “Can I see him?”

“He’s right through here. I’ll be by the door. He isn’t wearing his helmet” Din explained. “I’ll alert you if anyone comes by”.

“Thank you”.

Paz was resting, bandaged, with heavy dressing on his injured shoulder — not everything could be healed with bacta, apparently, even if the flesh under it was already closed pink with new tissue — his face uncovered, his helmet laid on the nightstand. 

Leia sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning downwards to press a kiss to his forehead. Paz was still burning to the touch, taut and hot, but alive. Someone already put an electrolyte drink on the table next to the bed, together with a few packages of protein snacks. Maybe the healer did, rightfully predicting that the patient would be malnourished by the time he woke up from the coma. 

“Don’t even move” she ordered, through tears and joy. “Rest. We nearly lost you”. 

“Leia” he said only, quietly enough to be nearly impossible to hear. “Ner riduur. I am so sorry”.

“What for?” 

How could he even attempt to apologise? He nearly died in pursuit of her planet’s freedom, having faced three enemies and, with gargantuan effort, torn them down. He was owed nothing less than a hero's tribute in recognition of his sacrifice.

“For nearly leaving you a widow”. Paz cradled her face gently; Leia pressed forward softly to touch his forehead with her own. “As honourable as a warrior’s death is, it was not quite what I had envisioned for myself”.

“You are not” she emphasized “allowed to die before we are old and grey”.

Paz chuckled quietly.

“Yes, ven’rid’alor”. 

“And don’t you ever do that again”.

Vizsla’s smile, brighter than a thousand suns, tasted sweet against her lips. 

Din watched Grogu sit on a flat, wide stone. The little one sat calmly, tiny hands lifted and beady eyes closed. 

However, Din’s attention shifted between Grogu — his soon-to-be adopted ad; when he came to Tieran to sheepishly ask to consider the child one of them, the Mand’alor didn’t hesitate a split second — and Luke. They were meditating together, dutifully, fulfilling Obi-Wan’s request to try and reach each other in the Force. 

Kenobi’s wonder was unmatched when he first met Grogu, still wrapped in blankets. The sheer joy that filled his eyes when the little one gurgled happily, as if recognising him, the press of their foreheads together, as if the jetii wished to take away all of Grogu’s pain and fear. 

Had Mandalore never gone into isolation after the civil war, it might have found itself tussling with the Empire much earlier. A divided planet would be an easy target, razed to the ground, perhaps glassed, its veins of beskar drained dry. Maybe the Mando’ade would have been scarce, rare, turning to bounty hunting and other unsavoury professions to make a living in a galaxy that actively despised them. Perhaps they would have been still isolated, hidden from the rest of the outer space; Tieran would have never met Bail Organa, Paz would have never met Leia, Din himself would never meet Luke. 

A gentle tug on his finger pulled him out of the reverie. Grogu very clearly wanted something — knowing him, it was probably something to eat — and decided to let his ven’buir know. 

“Are you hungry?” Djarin asked. “You probably are. You’ve got a black hole in your stomach”. He gently poked the child’s tummy, earning giggles in return. “Let’s go get you something. Both of you” he specified, offering his free hand to Luke. “Since the jetii are under Mandalore’s protection, I believe you should come with us”.

Luke only beamed at him, following suit. 

To Din’s dismay, Paz was nowhere to be seen in the dining hall — even if it would've been stupid to expect him to be there so soon after his brush with death — but Leia was. It seemed weird to him to wear only a few pieces of one’s beskar’gam after having earned it in battle, yet he supposed that the princess had to reflect both worlds, both Mandalore’s warlike nature and Alderaan’s refinement. Still, she seemed more disheveled than usual, in a simple dress and the top half of her armour on, her hair braided around the head like a halo. 

She was sipping on shig, cradling the cup like a treasure. Despite the exhaustion clear on her face, she lit up immediately when she saw Grogu.

“Hello, little one. Din, Luke”. 

“Hello”. Din tilted his head. “How’s Paz?” 

“He’s resting. Disgruntedly, but resting”. Vizsla was the kind of person who a day after a major injury would insist everything was fine. “The healer said that a few more days on bedrest, enforced if necessary, and he’d be free to start walking. His knee needs to mend”.

This could not be news Paz would accept without a fight. A warrior like that, a crown prince, forced to undertake training in walking. 

“He will not like that”. 

“He won’t” Leia agreed “but he’ll have to. You can go see him after you eat. He’ll be happy to see you”. He definitely would be, so far confined to his room in the medical bay, unable to walk yet. 

Grogu squeaked happily, reaching for a bowl of squork seeds. 

“He really likes them” Din explained, watching the little one chew on the fat seeds one by one. Grogu hadn’t grown much yet, but it was clear that he gained some weight; his tiny arms no longer resembled only bones wrapped in pale green skin. The apples of his cheeks were full now, tinted pink, and his eyes were as bright as the stars above Sundari’s night skies; his ears perked up every time he was mentioned. “I found him on Alderaan, among the wreckage. He seems to be touched by ka’ra, just as Luke is. As you are”.

“Then he’s already been through more than any other child his age”. Yet Grogu seemed to have granted Djarin unquestioned trust, plopping down on his lap and promptly resuming his snacking. Leia laughed quietly. “He’s delightful”.

“That he is”. 

When Grogu and Luke were done with their dinner — Luke’s eyes still a little watered from the tingilaar — and Djarin took ten minutes to have his own in private, they walked to the medbay. 

“I think I’ll wait here” Luke said. “I know you can’t take off your helmet when strangers are present, and I want you to be comfortable”.

“Thank you”. Din nodded, propping Grogu higher on his hip; the child giggled. “If you see Kenobi, tell him I’m grateful for teaching my son”. It slipped out easier than he had ever thought it would, and yet there was no discomfort in his mind over it. “He needs steady guidance in ka’ra, and I cannot give him that”. 

“I will. You know, I’m glad the Force led me here”. Skywalker smiled shyly. Manda, in so many aspects this was just a kid, a young man torn from his homeworld and thrust into a galactic war. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop mourning aunt Beru and uncle Owen, and the Empire will pay for that” briefly, fury crossed his face; two honest lives lost to the Empire’s brazen greed “but I’m glad I met you all”.

This was no kid, Din reminded himself. This was a war hero. Decorated for the destruction of the Death Star, a pilot too good to assign it only to honed skills. 

“So are we. We might owe you our lives”. 

Luke wondered for a moment — a moment of eldritch wisdom, unsuitable for someone so young yet so experienced by fate — and in the last thing Din would ever expect, he hugged the Mandalorian tightly. 

“I might owe you mine. If Ben had nowhere to take me, the Empire would have hunted us down. Just like they did the other Jedi before us”. A poor young thing, burdened with history of his kind, nearly too heavy for him to uphold on his shoulder, straining his spine and his soul alike. “Thank you”.

It’s not me you should thank, he wanted to say. It’s the Mand’alor, it’s the Rebellion. 

Still, with the warmth of the embrace lingering on his armour, he watched Luke turn back before he entered the medical bay. 

Paz seemed to be sleeping, according to what Leia had said, but at the slight slish of the automatic door’s closing he sat up slowly. The bandages covering his chest and side must have been freshly changed, the wounds underneath them mended pink, similarly to his knee. He was wearing his helmet, no doubt for the safety and respect of his creed, and its familiar visor turned to face Din. 

It tilted at the sight of Grogu.

“I don’t want to bother you if you want to rest, ori’vod” Din said immediately. “I only came to see how you are recovering”.

Paz’s voice was raspy, breathy, but steady. “It’s a miracle I survived. Leia told me you volunteered to be a donor if I needed anything”. He paused for a moment. “Thank you. I appreciate it”.

“This is the Way”. A loud coo from around his hip reminded him of Grogu. “And this is Grogu. My son”.

“Your son?”

“I found him during the siege. He was weak and malnourished, and I would be nothing less than dar’manda if I ignored a child in need”. Din rubbed the tip of Grogu’s head, resulting in a giggle. “Will you be fine if I let him onto the bed? He wants to meet his ba’vodu”. 

“You have said the vows, then?” Paz aptly watched the little one climb onto him, three-fingered hands splayed flat on the bandages, too light to cause any pain. 

“Not yet” Din admitted. “I should. Grogu got attached to me, and… well, I got attached to him”.

“You should say the vows now”. 

“What?”

“You should say them now” Paz stated. “Go on. Say them. You have an opportunity and a credible witness with the power vested in him to sanctify your vow”. 

Grogu babbled quietly, pressing his hand to Paz’s chest.

“See? He is in agreement”. Vizsla patted his head. “He wants to become your son. Will you deny him?”

“No. No, I won’t”. Din’s hands gently grasped the child, setting it down on the bed. Curious dark eyes looked at him, the unsure scowl turned into a toothless smile. 

“Take off your helmet, if you want. I’ll turn around”. 

“Fine”. He unsealed his helmet, carefully placing it on the bedside table. “Grogu, ad’ika. Do you want this?”

Grogu cooed enthusiastically. In some way — in a way only a little one’s aching heart, starved for warmth, care and gentleness — the man who dug him out from under the rubble, kept him warm and fed, who gave him a clean, soft tunic and washed him patiently with a sponge after every accident was always going to be his father. 

“Then I know your name as my child, Grogu Djarin” Din whispered. “And I give you mine as your father”. 

He pressed his forehead to Grogu’s one, raising his head to kiss it briefly; Grogu eagerly pushed his head forward, bumping into Din and eliciting a raspy laughter.

Silence prevailed in the ward until Din put on his helmet again and turned to face Paz. “Thank you for being my witness”.

Vizsla only shrugged. “I hope you will become mine when the time comes. Among the foundlings, there’s a little one who has clung to me from the very moment we brought him and his peers here. I have never been brave enough to adopt, though”.

“You shouldn’t wait if you already have it in mind” he heard in response. “These kids need parents”.

He mulled over the words for a few moments. “You’re right. They do”. Another moment of silence. “I will go see him when I’m cleared for walking. The last thing I want for him is to have his first memory with me as his father when I’m still bedbound”.

Din only pressed his lips together. Certain demands Paz had for himself, certain expectations he had set, were in Djarin’s own opinion futile, or plainly pointless. A child would not care whether they were being adopted by someone standing tall or bedbound, as long as they had a parent to protect them and provide for them. Still, not to agitate Vizsla, he kept this part to himself. “I think he would appreciate it anyway. You are injured because you are a warrior and because you refused to see the defenseless harmed, because you put yourself between them and death itself” he said solemnly instead. “There is no shame in injuries from combat. And I… I am glad to see you recover”.

Paz inhaled sharply. “Thank you, vod’ika. You should go” he added, glancing at Grogu’s antics; the little one was fiddling with the bedding, seemingly ready to be tucked in and profit off Paz’s warmth. “A medical ward is hardly a proper place for an ad’ika”. 

Grogu cooed, as if in agreement. 

“See? Rest easy, little one”. Vizsla’s fingers gently rubbed the skin between Grogu’s ears, fine white hair soft under his touch. “I’ll talk to Ragnar about gai bal Manda. Thank you for opening my eyes”. 

“Of course. Rest” Din ordered. “We need you”.

Over the course of the next several standard days, the same few visitors came through the ward — others, also inclined to visit their ven’alor, were at Paz’s own request thanked and turned away at the door, sparing him the necessity of appearing weak in front of his people — Leia, Din with Grogu, Tieran. The healer allowed only family inside, citing that even if Vizsla hadn’t made the request, she would have let in only the select few regardless to preserve his peace. 

Tieran usually came in late at night, having made it his nearly nightly ritual to see to his son. No longer deathly pale and heavy in the inert, torpid way only a dying man could be, Paz looked much better even if pumped full of nutritional IVs and only able to walk for a short time. With Paz asleep, Tieran spent quite some time cleaning and polishing the discarded beskar’gam, wanting his son to have it prepared for when he becomes ready to wear it again. 

Manual labour often allowed the mind to sift through the troubles haunting it, to sort through what needed to be sorted. Paz’s injury didn’t force the combat efforts to a stop, the war went on and on, fueled by the Empire’s further atrocities and the Rebellion’s relentlessness. Yet with only the pauldrons left to clean and polish — one navy blue and one white — there wasn’t much time for him to ponder. Tieran was still a wartime king, there was still an adversary to beat. The war wouldn’t stop until the Empire was blown to ashes, and even then it would take years for the rot to completely deteriorate. Empires died slowly, gracelessly, their remnants serving as an ominous reminder. 

Sometimes he met Leia there, her eyes darkly ringed, hollow, sunken in her face. A bedroll laid next to Paz’s bed, neat and tidy, used often enough not to be worth putting away, only pulled under the cot so that, to Leia’s relief, Vizsla wouldn’t be able to see it and berate himself for letting his wife hold vigil over him and in result sleep on the floor. Tieran never said a word about it, only greeted her quietly and offered her a cup of broth. When Leia wasn’t there — no doubt having been persuaded by Paz to go sleep in their chambers — Din was, either by himself or with his weird child in tow, beady eyes closed and green pointy ears sticking out of a swaddle. 

Grogu, he was informed the name was. A foundling, sworn as Djarin’s own in this very medbay, found on Alderaan under the rubble. Nursed back to health and cared for, the baby seemed much better than it was before; gone was the pale hue to his green skin, the ears were not droopy anymore. Instead, the little one eagerly raised his hands in demand to be lifted, reached out for any food in sight and waddled happily behind Din. 

Tieran mentally noted to give him a birikad, so the baby could be easily carried, strapped to Din’s chest. 

“I should have been there sooner” he murmured quietly. “So you would not have had to fight them on your own”.

Yet, Tieran knew his son well. Paz had always had a temper, bright and hot like molten beskar, a livewire swirling and coiling, sparks flying out of its head, a serpentine beast spewing corrosive venom. He had always been a man of action, never much for diplomacy, quick to judge and quick to condemn. Tieran could only hope that Leia would mellow his fiery temper a little; no king should be tempestuous enough not to hear out both sides of an argument.

“You proved your bravery and dedication to your people on the battlefield” he continued. “Not only to Mandalore, but to Alderaan as well. There were civilians behind those walls, parents and children, and you put your life on the line to defend them”. Why, Manda be his witness, did he raise a son prone to heroics? “I am incredibly proud of you”.

He rose and leaned to gently knock their helmet together. “I know I raised you to be king, but ner ad’ika, you were born to be one”.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER X: THE AFTERMATH

With Paz cleared for minor physical effort — and lugging a shoulder cannon around was not minor, the healer specified, he was supposed to slowly regain all his capabilities — they were able to slowly train again. From the simplest exercises of stretching and aiming to more elaborate ones throughout the weeks, up until Vizsla was cleared for full-fledged training. 

In a span of a standard year, Paz regained proper mobility and was back in his prime, travelling on either military or diplomatic missions the moment he was allowed to by the healer. At Tieran’s insistence, he was flanked by at least four guards — blame a father for protecting his son — and more often than not, Din was with him. With the Empire pushed farther away from Mandalore, the system — if not the entire quadrant — could relish relative peace. Stray Mandalorians flocked back home, eager to return there after such a victory and a newly-relit pride in their culture. Tieran welcomed each clan, each lone warrior, granting them quarters or land according to wishes and possibilities. 

It was hard to locate everyone comfortably and fairly, indeed, but nothing was harder than watching his son walk around like a ghost. Miraculously back from clinical death, pulled and stitched back together, back in his prime Paz had every reason to relish in their accomplishments. Yet there he was, unusually quiet. 

Not even a sparring victory over Bo-Katan, including her appreciation of his forged skill and a friendly permission to call her by her name, could lift the fog from his mind. To Tieran, Paz was as easy to read as a datapad, his vulnerability usually buried deep beneath his beskar hanging onto his sleeve. Not even Grogu’s first attempt at saying his name, so far limited to a wonky aaa, achieved anything other than a light smile under his helmet.

“You miss her” Tieran stated. “Ever since—”

“I do” Paz interrupted. “I miss her. I know she’s dutybound to that crown, that she will reign on Alderaan, yet…” Weakness never came easy, much less to someone raised as a warrior, to someone cherishing weaponry and proud of their battle-lined heritage. “I feel like half of my heart is gone”.

“She will come for your coronation. Her family too, if they so please. And she will stay here until it’s time for her to ascend to the throne. Listen, ad’ika”. Paz’s visor swiveled towards his father. “You knew your marriage would span quadrants when you took the vows. I know your heart aches, believe me, but apart from a loving, devoted, slightly moping husband you are also my heir. And Mandalore needs you to be out there with your head up high”. 

“I know. Still, being torn open hurt less”.

Tieran tilted his head in disbelief. “Manda, to be young and stupid again. We were all worried sick. Leia spent nearly every night sleeping in the medbay. Din would guard your door until dragged away, not to mention the children. Don’t you dare do anything like that again”. He knocked their helmets together. “Now go. Make yourself useful”.

Paz stopped mid-step. “The children?”

“Well, Djarin’s foundling and the little one usurping the title of your own. Must be already attached to you”.

Ah. 

“His name is Ragnar. I was thinking of adopting him soon”.

“I’ll gladly welcome a bu’ad to the family”. Tieran patted his son’s shoulder. “Make your choice”.

“I will”.

The foundlings’ quarters, situated just beyond the palace grounds, were always at least halfway full. The kids lacked nothing — they were healthy, well-fed, neatly dressed and educated — only apart from a clan of their own which, Paz hoped, would come soon with all the stray Mandalorians coming home. No child should feel neglected. Each time the quarters were empty, the ade all adopted, it was a reason for celebration.

Ragnar was one of the older foundlings, nearly nine standard years old now, in the graceless period between advancing to the older group and remaining in the younger one. Paz noticed him being an unofficial leader of the little ones quite some time ago, leading them to training and mealtime, going as far as to help them in training before a ba’jur could. Adjusting a strap of their training armour, wiping a few messy tears or sitting the youngest ones down in a row to do their hair. A well-trained cadet would become an excellent Mandalorian. On the field, the little ones trained hard, following the teacher's moves. 

He walked straight towards the ba'jur, nodding in a greeting. She bowed gently. 

“Ven’alor. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to borrow Ragnar for a while, if you don’t mind. If he misses out on training, I will personally catch him up”.

“That’s very kind, but won’t be necessary. He’s doing fairly well”. Her call for Ragnar was answered quickly, by the boy’s scrambling to get to the edge of the training area. “You have a guest. I’ll leave you to it”. 

Vizsla knew very well she would still keep an eye on them, out of habit more so than out of fear, but he didn’t mind; the children were in her care, entrusted to her until another ba’jur took over. 

He knelt down before the kid. 

“Hello, Ragnar. Me and my wife — the ven’rid’alor, I mean — were thinking of adopting a child”. Briefly, but they were, and something told Paz that Ragnar needed this much more than they did. “And we thought you would like to join our clan. We could use a warrior like you”.

Big blue eyes stared at him in shock. 

“If you want to, that is. We will understand and accept if you refuse—”

“No!” Ragnar cried out. “Sorry. I want to. You were always so kind to me, and the ven’rid’alor too. I want a clan". The boy pressed close to him. "It feels bad to be a stray”. 

“Then it is settled, ad’ika”. Paz’s fingers gently grasped little hands. “You are not a stray, and neither are the other foundlings. You all will find your clans or start your own. When the coronation day comes, you shall be named the heir apparent to me. Until then” he said “I know your name as my child, Ragnar Vizsla”.

“And I know your name as my buir”. Ragnar’s voice was soft and quiet, his cheek squished against Paz’s pauldron in a tight embrace. “T’ank you” he added, thickly with tears. 

“Of course, little one”. 

In a while, they would walk back to the quarters, gather Ragnar’s things and watch the boy get congratulated for his adoption, impromptu festivities blossoming in the evening. Later, in private, Paz would remove his helmet to let Ragnar see his father’s face, to share a meal and to kiss his forehead goodnight. 

Leia smiled softly at her reflection. Alderaan demanded a lot of effort after the initial clean-up was done — justice either was served or would be, the people were reinstated to their homes and the public institutions functioned again. 

Still, a hole deep in her heart wouldn’t let her rest. She’s grown so used to Paz’s steady presence in her life that without him she felt slightly off-balance, like a singed starship one thruster down. The comms would never be enough, not when she wanted to kiss him and sleep by his side. Neither would be daydreams when she had the time for them, short bursts of imagination or visions of their future on Mandalore; the peace that would come after the Empire was beaten bloodily enough to stay down.

“Oh, my dear. You miss him”. Breha slowly braided Leia’s hair. “Don’t you?”

“I do. He’s my husband”. Leia put on her earrings, the very same ones she wore for the wedding. Since then, she’s grown incredibly fond of them. “Of course I do. Mandalore grew on me, but he’s part of the reason why”.

“I have to admit we both were worried when we saw the transmission of you getting married, and assumed the worst” the queen continued quietly, finishing up her updo. “But, my dear, I’m glad it worked out. I’m glad you’re happy. I only regret that you didn’t have the royal wedding you deserve”.

“I did, mom. I didn’t need jewels in my hair or a dress worth dozens of thousands of credits to marry the man I love. I didn’t want my wedding to be an act of war, but…” Leia shrugged “there was no other way. And I'm happy now. Even if we’ll spend most of our marriage apart”.

Of course, Breha recalled. Paz was a crown prince, next in line for the throne of Mandalore. With no other heir, he was the only person able to take the mantle after his father, effectively tied to the system unless on diplomatic visits. 

“I’m sorry it won’t be what you expected”.

Leia laughed softly.

“I didn’t think that far ahead when we got married, but I don’t regret it”. 

“My brave girl”. Breha embraced her daughter tightly, cradling her head. “He’s welcome here, you know. He’s a hero to all the people he saved, so by extension to me and to your father too. He’ll be our Prince Consort. This is his second home, if he so wishes”.

“Thank you”. 

“So? What do you think of this gown? I know white is our signature colour, but you will be a queen of two planets. Your garments should represent that”. Breha draped a dark blue cape on Leia’s shoulders. “Hm. Too contrasting. A middle layer would work well, don’t you think?”

“It would. Something in-between”. A nice, pale shade of blue, something the tint of the sky at dawn. 

“We’ll find you a perfect gown, dear” Breha promised. “You should look absolutely incredible at the coronation. You will”.

Despite the threat gone — or at least significantly delayed — it still felt weird to suddenly have mental space for something as trivial as outfits. Of course, even during the most active period of the war she was still a princess, and her wardrobe was as scrutinised by the media as were the Rebellion’s actions. The smallest mistake or the seemingly most insignificant choice would be attributed ridiculous meanings, and therefore influence the citizens’ opinion of her.

And an opinion was sometimes all it took to shatter even the best plans.

Her comm pinged quietly. Paz’s silhouette, tinted blue, rose above it. 

“Su’cuy, mesh’la” he began. “Our reunion cannot come soon enough. I’m speaking for the entire capital when I say that we miss you here”.

“And I miss you here. I’m not the only one. You’re a hero. So is the Mand’alor”.

“I think he would be insulted that you still refer to him by title instead of by name. Honestly, if you slip and call him buir, he’d accept it”. 

“I’d rather talk to him about it. Still, you’re both heroes here. All Mandalorians are. Alderaan is unarmed, so without you victory would be impossible”. 

“About that, ner kar’ta…” Paz’s voice hung in balance for a moment “you should start arming your planet. The Empire got singed, but it’ll come back. We will help you”.

Leia tilted her head. “Not even your helmet can hide your worry from me. What’s going on?”

“I adopted Ragnar” he admitted. “I should have told you before, asked you before, in fact, and for that I apologise”.

Apparently Mandalorian instincts of fight-protect-adopt were unmuteable. Leia giggled quietly to herself. “I wanted to talk to you about it anyway. The little one had to be taken out of the medbay when you were recovering, so he probably got attached, though I wanted to talk to him before breaching the subject with you”.

Vizsla nodded slowly. “Apologies. Still, what’s done is done, and Ragnar is acclimating to the new situation. He was so happy, mesh’la, he nearly did not let me go”.

Oh, she could imagine that. Ragnar’s little form latched onto Paz’s own, tightly holding on. Paz’s arms wrapped around the boy, carrying him home — to his chambers in the palace, split since marriage between him and Leia; now one of the rooms would belong to their son — and promptly introducing him to his father.

“What did the Mand’alor— what did Tieran say?”

“He was overjoyed with finally having a bu’ad, and scolded me for taking so damn long. I did perform gai bal Manda; if you wish to, we can organise it for you too when you arrive”. 

“I think this would work best” Leia agreed. “How’s Ragnar?”

“He’s asleep now, but he spent a better part of the hour trying to get into every nook and cranny, and passed out after his third fuji apple”. He paused briefly. “I know, ner kar’ta, too much sugar, but I couldn’t deny him anything. He hasn’t had a proper family perhaps since before he can remember; he can be spoiled for a few days”.

“I’ll bring some gifts for him. And for Din’s kid too”.

“You’d be better off bringing him frogs or packets of squork seeds. Apparently he’s got a minuscule black hole in his stomach”. A smug grin lit up his face. “I have never seen a stomach this endless. It’s fascinating”.

“Squork seeds it is. I’ll see you in a few days, I take it, my ven’alor?”

“You will”. Paz’s voice grew deeper and smokier, quietly amused. “And I cannot wait to see you”.

Naturally, as a palace built by warriors, the royal palace of Sundari boasted a vast circular arena, with the emblems of all clans, each on its own merlon. The royal emblem — of House Vizsla — hung from the balustrade of the royal lodge, where Leia, Din and the weird green foundling tucked into his chestplate took their seats. Grogu, apparently his name was.

Djarin’s fingers gently scratched the sparse, barely visible white hairs on the baby’s head, its big brown eyes wide open in curiosity, tiny fingers splayed on pure unpainted beskar. 

“Do you think he’s ready?” Leia asked. She arrived in Sundari this very morning, dressed as a queen ought to be; in a fine white yucotton gown accentuated with her pauldrons, with a dark blue cape wrapped around her shoulders and a gilded beskar circlet. A simple updo had her hair in a braided bun, a pair of gold earrings was tucked in her earlobes. 

The capital welcomed her with songs and taps of vambraces, the preparations for the ceremony and the following celebrations slowly wrapping up. The market ended at noon to give the people enough time to prepare; to clean and polish their beskar’gam, to arrive at the arena and take their seats without unnecessary rush. Leia's eyes caught on Obi-Wan's robes, a beige speck among Nite Owls' blue, right next to Bo-Katan's fiery hair. Perhaps whatever hatched had been laid out in the open was finally buried.

Ragnar sat next to her, dressed in similar colours. Ever since his adoption, he was happier, seemingly healthier, clinging to her and Paz whenever he could. Now, in uncontainable excitement, he was leaning over the railing, watching the gathering audience. A change of guard was a rare thing, either conducted after a king's death or abdication in ritual combat.

“He’s been raised for it his entire life” Din replied, the little one grasping at his finger. “He was raised to be Mand’alor, he was raised to best his father in combat one day and take the throne. This is the greatest honour the Mand’alor could afford him. Trust me, he is ready”. 

She was thoroughly explained how the fight would proceed. First, Paz had to formally challenge his father for the crown, and Tieran had to accept. Then they would descend onto the arena, choose weaponry — though according to Din, most successions saw usage of various blades, since the Mand’alor wielded one — and clash. 

“Nobody gets seriously injured, or they rarely do unless it's a legitimate challenge” Djarin added. “We all know the outcome. It’s to uphold tradition, mostly symbolic and in good spirits”.

“Mostly?”

“Mostly. Paz has to win, otherwise he cannot take the throne”. The Darksaber was an insignium of power handed over in combat, impossible to traverse its wielders in any other way. “Don’t worry. He will”.

He would, Leia agreed. She saw him in battle numerous times, as either a whirlwind of dark blue beskar and vibroblades or as a fortress, strong and steady, surrounded by flashes of red. In her heart, no doubt settled down, replaced by nervous anticipation. It seemed to spread among the Mando’ade, the noise growing, the excitement apparent in the taps of vambraces and encouraging calls. 

Soon enough, when the Mand’alor arrived and took his seat in the lodge, a figure rose from the arena, its Rising Phoenix jetpack bright aflame. 

“I am Paz Vizsla of House Vizsla, and I challenge you, Mand’alor” Paz stated proudly; he might have worn a helmet, but his own excitement was clear as a day in his voice. “For the throne of Sundari, for the reign over Mandalore and its people. This is the Way”. 

Tieran stood up. His pride and joy, raised to be king, would now finally become one. 

“I accept”. He nodded, unsheathing the saber. “May the victor reign. This is the Way”.

Paz grasped his beskar spear. In close combat blasters or any sort of fire was acceptable when the melee weapons were out of reach or broken; as the Darksaber would never break, Paz had to count on it falling out of Tieran’s hand. “Oya, Mand’alor” he confirmed, tauntingly, before gesturing for his father to start. “Redalur mhi”. 

Let’s dance. 

Tieran snorted quietly, good-naturedly — the sheer gall to invite him to fight! he raised his son well — and charged, immediately aiming for Paz’s hal’cabur to knock him back. He always knew he would not make the battle easy, no, the Mand’alor had to prove their worth in combat — his memories hazily recalled a succession fight from his youth, when he was but a child clinging to his parents’ capes. Both the former and the newly-crowned Mand’alor walked off the field limping, with a slow streak of blood seeping from under one’s helmet, wiped with the other’s hand.

Leia watched them fight, the saber and the spear clash, the cheers from the audience nearly overwhelming. Both warriors were cheered for, that much was clear; Paz to take the throne, Tieran not to surrender it too easily. There was no worth in battle won without effort, she mused, wincing as beskar met beskar, as hits were paired and blocked. 

Paz’s spear danced time and time again on the Mand’alor’s armour, denting it, chipping away at the paint, sparkling bright orange streams and sheaves of sparks, tearing with fierce attacks at even fiercer defense. It seemed to weave between Vizsla’s hands, capable and strong, like a serpent, aiming with its vicious teeth for the gaps between armour plates, trying to embed them in soft tissue and inject enough venom to win, to throw its victim off balance, and it struck and struck and struck—

—and Tieran’s back hit the arena’s soil. 

Paz offered him a hand and it was accepted, clasped tightly, and raised in victory. Cheers grew from loud to deafening, together with claps and whistles and countless oyas, hereby confirming Paz’s victory. 

“Oya, Mand’alor!” Tieran called, his voice still breathless, but oh, how immensely proud. A dream of any parent, to see their child surpass them. “May your reign be long and steady”. He grasped his son’s helmet — from the back, gently, as if to cradle — and knocked briefly with his own. “This is the Way”.

“This is the Way”. Paz nodded and turned around, watching his people cheer for him. Exaltation and elation shone bright in his chest, as if there was a supernova imprisoned under layers of beskar, skin and muscle. “Thank you. Oya!”

“OYA!”

Under the dying stars, before the celebrations fully fledged, the Armourer welded the gilded circlet onto Paz’s helmet just above his visor. With pride well visible in her voice, melodic and soft, she pressed it gently to let it set. “Reign well, Mand’alor” she added.

When he walked out of the Great Forge, he was welcomed by his people’s cheers and calls. Joyful pats on his forearms and shoulders, gentle fists hitting his hal’cabur in semblance of a salute, open palms slapping his jetpack in celebration, beskar ringing. Leia threw her arms around his neck. 

“I’m so proud of you” she whispered, smiling brightly. “You will be a wonderful Mand’alor”.

Oh, Paz’s pride and satisfaction were impossible to conceal even despite his helmet, clear in the warm tone of his voice. Only a select few would be able to decipher the slightest hint of doubt.

“I want to make my father and my people proud. I was raised for this, Le’ika, and yet I’m still uncertain whether I will reign well”. 

“You will. Your father taught you well. Now, let’s go”. Leia’s eyes glinted with joy. “Your people want to greet you properly, Mand’alor”. 

Standing on the higher courtyard, Paz stepped towards the edge of the balcony. The Mando’ade gathered on the lower yard watched his every step, each of his movements tracked by thousands of eyes. Leia stopped a few paces behind him; this was his moment, his glory, his time to announce Mandalore’s new era. To her right, Tieran stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, head raised with pride. 

Leia could feel his happiness, radiating off him in waves, circular like rings on the water. Somewhere there, among the warriors, was Obi-Wan, taken in not without wariness, but with understanding. Bail and Breha watched the ceremony from Alderaan, in a mirror of Leia’s own wedding, unwilling and unable to leave the planet for a journey so long as not to jeopardize the newfound freedom. Luke was with the Rebellion, drifting through space. Ragnar celebrated somewhere in the crowd, surrounded by his peers, all under the watchful eyes of adults nearby.

“It’s not over yet” she said against her better judgement. “The Empire won’t surrender so easily”.

“It won’t” Tieran agreed “but we are armed. And when they come — if they come, hu’tuune that they are — we will be waiting”.

They watched Paz finally take his place by the edge, hit his bes’kar’ta with his fist and raise it. Facing the bleak sun, cutting his silhouette sharp, he looked every inch the warrior he was. 

“For Mandalore!” he called; the echo of his words drowned in a resounding call back.

“FOR MANDALORE!”