Keeping it under wraps

"Pero!"

You gasped his name, a strangled sound as Pero spun around at Thorsten's roar.

The man's face was triumphant, grinning at you and Pero as he called to the hirdmen.

"Men! Behind the stable, seize the thrall!"

You grabbed Pero's shoulder from behind, hanging on to his shirt as he put himself in front of you, his arms coming out as if to shield you from the malice on Thorsten's face.

Bile rose in your throat as you heard the sound of the hirdmen's boots, and the door of the long house slamming open as your father stepped out, calling Thorsten's name.

"Behind the stable, my Jarl."

Pero suddenly turned, grabbing your arms and locking eyes with you, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"I'll find you, amor. I'll find you, anywhere. Keep the child safe."

"Pero, no, no…"

Rough hands were pulling him away, forcing his hands from your arms as the hirdmen dragged him backwards, towards Thorsten. That man was still grinning, looking at you with glee as your father came hurrying around the corner.

"I just found them, Jarl," he said, gesturing at Pero who was held by three men, his head forced back by a strong arm around his neck, as if he was about to run. Your heart was beating high in your chest, panic filling your head with a buzzing sound as you tried to get out of the grip of the hirdman who'd grabbed you. But Pero wasn't fighting, he was still looking at you, his dark eyes quietly pleading with you, to calm your rapid breathing as the hirdmen pulled his arms tight.

"Were they…?" your father asked, letting the question hang in the air as Thorsten nodded.

"Yes, Jarl, and planning their escape, I heard them."

Your father's face darkened, stepping in front of you so that you could no longer see Pero, his large frame filling your vision, forcing you to look up at his flushed face. With a hiss he raised his hand, making you flinch as he stopped himself just in time. Instead he closed it into a fist and let it drop, his shoulders heaving as he stared at you.

"Put him in chains, in the old earth cellar. I'll deal with him later," he said, his eyes dark with rage, as he addressed the hirdmen. His voice was cold and flat, hard, and behind him you heard the hirdmen acknowledge and pull Pero away. When you tried to step to the side to look at him, your father shoved you back, grabbing your arm the way Pero had, but this time it hurt.

"Another free man I could've forgiven you for, even one of the greenest in my hird," he hissed, his voice low so that only you could hear, "But this, a thrall, bought with my silver? Not even a man, just a pig rooting when it should be slaughtered."

"He's not a thrall, he's a warrior, better than any of those in your hird," you spat back, anger suddenly surging up, your temper squashing down your fear as you struggled against his grip, "He's a better man than any of your hird."

Your father's face was red with anger, but behind him you saw Pero, blood trickling from his mouth as he looked desperately at you now, his eyes suddenly wide and fearful.

"Pero!" you called, shoving your father back and he stumbled, "Pero!"

You saw him move as he heard you, suddenly throwing himself back to break from the hirdmen's grip, his arms slipping from theirs, and you ran towards him. But he was still being held from behind, the hirdman's arm around his neck pulling tight, forcing his head up. Slipping in the mud of the dung heap, you staggered, calling his name again.

A shadow moved in the corner of your eye, and pain shot through your head, the world going dim as wet mud slapped against your cheek. Pero struggled, shouting loudly, and then his voice cut off.

You were pulled out of your daze as someone put you down onto your bed, almost tossing your body onto the covers, the impact jolting you awake. Pain flared up through your cheek as it hit the pillow, and you groaned, pushing yourself up.

"Bar her door, she's not to leave," you heard your fathers voice as he stepped out of the room "The bruise will fade before she gets to England."

Thorsten was still standing by the door, looking at you with a smirk, but at your father's words he turned to the jarl.

"She's still to go to England? Will the lord still want her now?"

"The lord won't know," the Jarl replied, "I'll talk to the men, no one is to say a word. And none of those men will escort her across, you can take some of them to Vinland."

"I thought you might keep her at Ulvehi, can you trust her to marry the English lord?" Thorsten glanced at you, and you realised he still had other plans, or hopes even.

"She'll marry as soon as she arrives in Jórvik, and then she's his property under Christian law."

"I won't marry him," you gritted out as you bit back at the pain in your check and stood up, glaring at Thorsten, "And not you either, Thorsten."

Your father came back into the room, and the rage on his face from before had shifted into something darker as he stared at you.

"You root around with a thrall and think you can decide your future?" he snarled, taking a step towards you as you steeled yourself to not flinch, "I am Jarl of this clan and I own him. And I own you too, daughter. He is cattle at this farm, and maybe I should sell you as cattle too? See how well you'd fare as a thrall?"

He looked at you, shaking his head as he drew a deep breath, "You should thank God I'm letting you marry while you can still give me English grandsons."

He turned again, and left before you could spit a reply at him. Instead Thorsten slammed the door as you rushed to it, thrumming your fist on it.

"I won't marry him!" you shouted, banging on the door, but the old oak planks didn't even rattle, "I won't! I'm a free woman, I can choose myself! This is not our way! Father! Let me out! Father!"

Your hand hurt as you slammed it against the hard wood, shouting your throat raw as you felt it close up, tears dimming your vision. Nothing on the outside stirred, no one came running, your father held too much power over his people for anyone to risk his anger in this long house.

Sinking down against the door, you sobbed, fighting against the panic in your chest. Being forced to England to marry wasn't even the worst. You were sure you'd be able to escape before you even got to Jorvik. But Pero…Pero…

You feared what your father would do to him, and most of all you feared that you'd never see him again. He could be killed, and you wouldn't even know. He could already be dead, and you still wouldn't know. Your fingernails dug into your palms as you tried to stop yourself from screaming again, choking back panic at the very thought.

How could you have been so reckless? All you needed to do was to keep away from him for a few more weeks at most, and then you'd both be free. Now he was certain to die, and all you could do was to throw yourself from the ship and hope you'd join him. Once you were married to the lord and in whatever stronghold he lived in, your life wouldn't be worth anything anyway.

The Jarl glared at Thorsten as they entered the great hall, his daughter's comment about not marrying him either hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Select your men, make preparations, Thorsten. Asgeir will bring her to England, you will take the thrall and sell him in Skiringssal. The men from Falu will soon be arriving to buy thralls for the mine and he's strong. At least I can make back some of the money he's cost me, and the added pleasure of knowing that he will have a slow death."

"Yes, Jarl," Thorsten replied, nodding and waiting for his lord to dismiss him. But the Jarl kept him in place with his gaze, studying the younger man.

"Do well on this mission to Vinland, and you will get your reward. It won't be my daughter, she is too valuable, and she doesn't have many years left to bear children. But you'll have a good and beautiful wife to honour your status when you return."

"Yes, Jarl, thank you," Thorsten nodded, and hesitated before he spoke again, "The thrall, Hauknefr…will selling him to the mines be enough punishment? What if he escapes? Why not make an example of him here?"

"What do you know of the Falu copper mine, Thorsten?" the Jarl asked, and Thorsten shook his head in reply.

"Not much, Jarl. Asgeir says their metal is as pure as it gets."

"The men in the valley there dig deep holes into the ground, like the dwarfs in the sagas. The thralls are sent into the holes to burn great fires against the mountain walls, cracking the stone and digging it out. They haul it up in baskets on their backs, and those who don't die from illness caused by the smoke, are often killed by the mountain collapsing on top of them. Hauknefr won't last a season, and he will either die swiftly crushed by a rock, or he'll die slowly as his breath is taken from him by the smoke. Don't worry, I'm not being merciful to a thrall who claimed my daughter."

Sleep was fitful throughout the night. Through the smoke hole you watched the sky darken for a few hours before the short spring night turned to dawn again. From the outside you could hear the clear sounds of preparation and departure, and your own chest of clothes had already been packed and brought down to the ship. It was to take you from Ulvehi to Skiringssal, and then across the western sea to Jórvik in England together with a group of Ulvehi's hirdmen. Your time was running out, you had a day left, maybe just hours.

A sudden, sharp, knock on your door made you jump up from the bed as the guard pushed it open and stepped in.

"Be quick about it, Nicholas," he told the man who waited on the threshold.

"My lady," Nicholas said, bowing his head before approaching you. The guard remained by the door, holding it open and watching you both.

"Nicholas, why are you here?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice neutral, as you pressed your hands together, but the look of panic was hard to miss in your face.

"I'm here to return my writings on healing that you commissioned me, lady", Nicholas replied in Norse, "I thought you would want to bring them to England, I hear you are leaving today."

So it was to be so soon, Nicholas had confirmed it, and he saw your eyes widen in fear as you took hold of the carefully wrapped bundle of parchment he handed to you.

"I have taken the liberty of adding my own knowledge of…" Nicholas paused, frowning as if he was looking for a word, "I'm sorry, my Norse is not good enough to discuss the plants."

"In English then?" you asked, switching language as the guard looked on, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I've added my knowledge of plants, but some of it might be incorrect. If you find it lacking, please scratch out my scribbles. And the writing tools are in there too, thank you for lending them to me. But please be careful when you unwrap them, they might fall out."

Placing the wrapped parchment on the bed behind you, you felt something bulge under your hands, more than just a writing tool. Keeping your face plain, you turned back to Nicholas.

"Thank you, your knowledge about healing and plants will be very useful for the English too," you told him, and he nodded. You longed to ask him directly about Pero, but some of the hirdmen spoke English, and you didn't know if this one did or not.

Nicholas bowed, "Save travels, my lady."

Outside of the door someone called for the guard and he glanced behind him and stepped out. You could still see his back, but he was speaking to someone, raising his voice, and you took your chance.

"Pero? Tell me," you whispered.

"Alive, bruised, but alive," Nicholas mumbled, "The rumour is that the Jarl is selling him to the copper mine. Don't do anything rash, my lady, Pero will tear down that mountain and come for you. And he made the dog himself, he was meaning to give it to you."

"Thank you, Nicholas," you breathed out, temporary relief filling your chest, "Thank you for everything. I'll send word to you if I can."

The guard stepped back into the room, his boots scuffing on the threshold, and Nicholas bowed again.

"My lady."

And then he was gone.

There was no time after that. You wrapped the bundle of parchment Nicholas had given you into another piece of cloth and tied it tight, putting it at the bottom of your small chest of personal belongings. You held it tight under your arm as you were escorted down to the ship, walking past your brother and his wife without a glance. Not a word had your brother said to help you, not when you were shipped off with Grim, or when plans were made for England. He was as bad as your father, and his wife under his thumb. There was no help coming from that direction, and you didn't even want to look at him as you walked across Ulvehi for the last time.

Your father was standing on the docks, his face grim, as you prepared to step on to the ship. Remembering something you suddenly turned to him.

"Father, I need to say goodbye to Aska before I leave," you said, giving Asgeir your chest to place on the ship.

He hesitated for a few moments, looking up as if to check on the wind, or to gauge if you had found a way to run. But he couldn't find any reason to say no.

"Quickly then, before the wind changes," he said, waving his hand at you.

You ran across the yard, the hirdman your father sent after you rushing to keep up, but you stopped him as he caught up with you at the door into the stable, barring his way.

"I need a moment alone with Aska, you know what she means to me."

The hirdman looked back over his shoulder, but nodded, and then took up post outside the door. It was ridiculous, where would you even run to if you could? Pero wouldn't be here, he'd be held in the small building he'd been confined to before, after he ran the first time.

The stable wasn't empty, a few thralls were going through the morning routines, clearing the stalls and feeding the horses. Aska was eating, the soft crunch of hay coming from her stall as you walked into it. Ravn followed close behind, your perpetual shadow even now, and the horse dipped her head and snorted at the large dog. She'd raised him as much as you had, nipping at the young dog when his energetic leaps and bounds became too much for her. Now he slipped inside, sniffed around the hay and lay down, his head on his big paws. He knew there was a change coming too, and he wasn't happy about it.

You buried your face against Aska's shaggy coat, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her thick winter coat was shedding, and you felt the hairs tickle your nose as you inhaled her scent. She wouldn't understand your goodbye, just wonder why you never came to see her again, but you knew you'd always miss her. Your first horse, the offspring of your mother's favourite mare, that you'd raised yourself from the day she was born. She was getting old now, she didn't have many years left, but you wished you could've been with her until the end. Not be forced to leave her behind because of your father's greed for power and influence.

Aska turned her head and nudged your shoulder before going back to her hay, and you squeezed her neck again and took a deep breath, forcing back the tears that were beginning to spill.

"You'll be waiting for me in Fólkvangr, Aska. I'm sure Freya will take us both," you mumbled, scratching her thick mane, "Stay safe until then, I'll miss you, girl."

Taking another deep breath you let go of her neck, turning away quickly before you changed your mind. You quickly rubbed your palms over your face, wiping at the tears as you swallowed the lump in your throat. Ravn whined next to you, bumping his nose against your leg, but you ignored him. There was no other choice but to force yourself into a detached space, pushing down the panic, grief and anger that had been simmering in you since that dreadful moment with Pero behind the stable.

The stable door closed with a dreadful finality as you stepped out through it and glanced over at the small building you knew Pero would be in. Could you run to him? Or would it make things worse? 'Don't do anything rash', that's what Nicholas had said, but could you leave Pero behind without even trying?

You paused your step, stopping in the middle of the farm yard and looked around you. Whatever happened, it would be your last time at Ulvehi, you were sure of it. The long house on your right, the thick old logs darkened by many years of harsh weather, the dock down by the fjord, flanked by those impenetrable mountainsides that had kept you and Pero so trapped for almost two years, and on your left, the thrall house, the kitchen and the garden behind it, and then the climbing slopes up towards the high peaks.

"The Jarl is waiting," the hirdman behind you said, his voice low, but his tone clear; don't do anything foolish.

You looked down at the dock again where you could see your father and the rest of your family waiting. The decision was already made, and with one foot in front of the other, you walked back across the yard, leaving Pero behind.

The young hirdman walked behind you, and followed you up onto the ship, as you walked past your father without a glance. It was a small act of defiance, he would get no farewell from his daughter this time. Everyone at Ulvehi knew you were forced into this, again, and you refused to make it easier for him, to save his face. So you left him standing, and sat down on the ship, your back turned against him and Ulvehi as the crew pushed out into the fjord.

The ship's name was Mánaskip, one of your father's largest long ships that could weather the journey across to England in under a week with fair winds. In just a few days you would again be far away from all that was familiar. The journey down to Skiringssal passed in a daze as you sat on one of the benches of the long ship, Ravn's head in your lap.

The tall mountainsides of the fjord were slipping past, and you wanted to look back at Ulvehi, a glimpse maybe of places where you'd met, and fallen in love with, someone so unlikely as Pero Tovar. But you bit down hard on your lips, holding back the tears that were burning behind your eyes, keeping your head high and looking past the dragon head at the bow of the ship, refusing to look back.

He would follow, he would. There was no other way this could end.

He had to follow.

And you would be as strong as he needed you to be, until he found you again.

As the ship finally passed Skiringssal many hours later, the large port at the mouth of the fjord, you barely noticed, still keeping your eyes fixed on the horizon in front of the ship. Asgeir put his hand gently on your shoulder and made you look at him.

"My lady, we're passing Skiringssal, if you want to ask for a safe journey."

"Why?" you asked bluntly, "There is no safety for me. Let it sink and take us all to Náströnd."

Asgeir shook his head, "Your father is doing what is best for the family, for Ulvehi. You have a part to play in that, as his daughter."

"You don't even believe that, Asgeir;" you said, standing up as Skiringssal began to shrink behind the ship, "You know he is wrong in this, but you owe him too much of your life to say it."

You heard him sigh behind you, shifting his weight on the creaking planks of the deck, as you left him standing and retired to the small cabin reserved for you, your composure failing as you closed the door.

The men who sailed Mánaskip, your father's hirdmen, would sleep in shifts on deck, but this small cabin, a storage room really, would house you on the journey. You hadn't settled yourself there during the journey down to Skiringssal, while there was maybe some hope that the ship wouldn't sail on past it. But now the port was already shrinking behind you and the ship, and the next stop was Jorvik, and the man you were supposed to marry.

Sinking down on the bed, the panic you'd kept at bay made your hands tremble as you drew a deep breath, tears making your vision hazy. Ravn put his large head on your lap, whining softly at your discomfort, and you buried your face in his shaggy fur as he tried to lick your cheeks. To have him with you was a relief at least, it felt like you were bringing a friend with you as you left everything else behind, every gust of wind pushing the ship further away.

It wasn't until late in the night of the first night on the ship that you remembered the package Nicholas had given you. He'd filled it with sheets of parchment filled with his neat script, writing names of plants and their properties in both English, Latin and Norse runes. You carefully flipped through them, looking for another familiar scribble.

At last you found it, tucked into a folded down page, a small piece of scrap paper, easy to overlook.

'Amor, te trobaré. Te lo prometo'

The foreign words almost mocked you on the page. Pero had only written short messages in English to you before, a place, or a time. He'd never been taught how to write in English, but this was his own language. It was similar to the little bit of Latin you knew, but still too different for you to understand. He must've written it in a hurry, without time to think about the translation.

You stroked the bold ink marks on the page, his handwriting much more sure of itself in Spanish. You could almost see him in the way the rushed lines chased across the parchment, strong, confident, intelligent. The man he was underneath the thrall that you first saw. But underneath there was more of him, another side you knew not many had ever seen since he left childhood; tender, passionate, and warm. The way he cupped your check and ran his thumb over it, his dark brown eyes looking at you with such warmth, you’d never have guessed that the sullen face he showed the world could soften into something so tender when it was just the two of you. 

Mimicking his gesture, you ran your thumb over the words again, and the few words that you could understand; 

Love

Promise

He always called you the first, and the second was what Nicholas had told you; Pero would tear down the mountain to come to you, he'd find you, that was his promise. You just had to keep believing it.

Folding up the parchment, you tucked it into your dress, hiding it beneath your clothes for safe keeping. Picking up the package again, you carefully moved the writing tools aside and lifted up the final bundle. Wrapped in a cloth was the small object that you'd felt as Nicholas handed you the package. Your finger touched hard bone as you unwrapped it, and your eyesight grew misty again as you saw what it was.

The winter dragged on for another few weeks for both thralls and free people after the return journey back to Ulvehi. Then the light began to return, slowly brightening the days and making the white snow shine almost painfully sharp on the mountains whenever you stepped outdoors.

But the days in the long house were slow, and you tried to fill your time preparing for what seemed like the inevitable journey across to England. You'd decided it should be easier to get Pero to come as your bodyguard if you seemed resigned to the idea of marrying again. If you protested too much, your father might send a greater number of men to escort you, and then escape would be much more difficult. So like a dutiful wife-to-be, you spent your time mending your clothes and making new ones for a wedding you had no intention of attending. But you also made preparations that would serve you on the journey; a new cloak with hidden pockets for a few valuable coins, skirts made for riding. There was also a new dagger and small axe that you'd taken from the smithy, and a sturdy belt to keep them hidden and secure under your cloak. You would not travel unarmed, not on this journey.

But you were also sewing something else, piecing together the blue of Ulvehi that you loved, and the dark, muted, red of Pero's old cloak. He'd told you it had been left behind in his house in England, and how he missed that thick cloak during the cold winters. The colour of your dress had reminded him of it, the rusty red from his homeland, and now you were patching together the blue and the red into a blanket. To someone watching, it might look like you were just using up valuable scraps of cloth to make a shawl, but to you it was much more important. A piece of you, and a piece of him, side by side, overlapping and making something new, a warm blanket to wrap someone precious in. Because if your counting was right, you would have a new family by the end of the year. You’d been cautious with Pero, but you'd never missed a single bleeding with Grim, and you thought it couldn't happen for you. So perhaps, on some occasions, you’d begged him to spill inside you, just to keep him as close as possible. But now, at one of your brief meetings with Pero, something must have changed inside you, and his seed had taken. 

It was still such early days, barely even a month, but something, maybe a deep female instinct, told you it would hold. Maybe there was nothing wrong with your body after all, no one knew for certain how it worked. You only knew that somehow, Pero's seed had taken root, and now your bleeding was late. You hadn't said anything to Pero yet though. You wanted to be really sure first, and to find the right time to tell him. But the shawl that you were making would hold a part of you, and a part of him, Ulvehi's blue, and Tovar's red.

Thorsten watched you work on the shawl, as he often did lately. His eyes followed you around the long house, lingering as you tried to avoid his eyes, giving him no reason to approach. His gaze was annoying, but your relationship with him had been cold as ice since he tried to force himself on you in the stable. You hadn't even told Pero about it, just tucked it away, and snapped at Thorsten whenever he got too close. Pero only knew that Thorsten was hoping to marry you, but that you had turned that idea down, and injured his pride in the process. It was best if Pero knew to be extra careful around Thorsten, but not enough to want to bash his head in. Although, the way the two men glared at each other, you didn’t think either one needed any other reason to pick a fight. You were certain Pero would love to face Thorsten on the battlefield, and show him what he could do when he wasn’t in chains. The whipping Thorsten had given Pero after his first attempt at escaping still stung, and you knew he hated Thorsten as much as he hated your father. 

And if the man still harboured thoughts about you marrying him, he'd soon find out that he was the last one you'd ever consider. And it gave you a small pleasure to know that Thorsten would probably find out eventually who you’d chosen over him. But now, in the long house, his presence was irksome, and you turned your back towards him, hiding your face from his staring. 

If Thorsten noticed your annoyance, he said nothing, he just sat back against the wall on one of the benches as usual, his legs stretched out in front. His hands were busy honing the blade of an axe that he'd had made recently. But his eyes often came back to you as you sat with your head bent over the trim of your new shawl. He knew you'd work for an hour or so in the morning while the light outside was still dim. Then you'd stand up and stretch your back and pack away your sewing. Then, without fail, you'd make your way to the stable, Ravn following close behind, the large black dog like your shadow now. Thorsten knew you'd spend at least two hours in the stable before returning for the midday meal, and sometimes he'd make an errand down to the stable too, enter quietly and find you in Aska's stall. But what he'd also find was the scar faced thrall, never far away from you in the stable. Never too close, but always nearby, in the stall next to Aska's, or working on some piece of equipment. He would raise his head as Thorsten came in and give him just a quick glance, just a brief moment, but always defiant. Thorsten could see the hatred that simmered beneath the surface in that one.

Thorsten detested him. Despite whipping his worthless hide within an inch of his life, the thrall had somehow survived, and Thorsten knew you'd been involved in it. You wouldn't let Thorsten, one of the Jarl's most trusted men, get close to you. But this stinking thrall you'd care for like he was a brave fallen warrior? And that was even before he'd supposedly saved your life from the wolf. Now the hawk nosed thrall seemed to always be in your presence whenever you left the long house, always hovering nearby in the stable or the kitchen gardens. Even being allowed to be your protector when you left Ulvehi. Thorsten seethed when he thought about it as he watched you pack up your sewing.

This early spring morning had passed quietly in the long house, many of the men outside with the ships, doing the final work needed before the summer season began. There had been a shift in the weather and even indoors, the dripping of melting snow could be heard. Give it another week and the ice would break up on the fjord, the shift in colour could already be seen, dirty yellow patches appearing in the porous sheets of ice, water starting to break through.

You had stood up and left for the stable, Ravn as your shadow as always, and Thorsten was just about to follow when his Jarl called for him.

"Thorsten," Asgeir said, waving him over, "We need you, come."

He followed Asgeir back to the Jarl's private room where he stood leaning over a large sheet of parchment. Thorsten recognised it as one of Ulvehi's most priced possessions, always safely stored behind lock and key; a map over the northern routes from Norway across to England, Scotland and beyond.

"Look at this, Thorsten," the Jarl said to him, pointing to the small island known as Iceland on the map, "men are coming back from Iceland saying there is rich land to the west of there. The journey is long and dangerous, few have dared it since Leif Eriksson, but the rewards could be tenfold to the risk if reports are to be trusted."

"The map is empty to the west of Greenland," Asgeir said, "But we spoke to Håkon and one of his men at Steinvikr. The man, that short redhead, Sten, he's been to Greenland, and the men there said that Eriksson came back from his journey west with tales of endless forests and lakes, filled with game and timber."

"I want to send ships and men to the west, and I want you to lead them, Thorsten," the Jarl said, looking up at the hirdman who nodded in agreement, "Take three of my strongest ships, resupply in Greenland, gather as much information as you can, and then sail west to this new land."

"Sten said the Greenlanders call it Vinland," Asgeir put in, "If it's as fertile as rumoured, it would be a good place to found a settlement for trade."

"And with our new connection to England, we'll have plenty of ports to trade in," the Jarl smiled, clearly happy with his plans, "You'll be rich too, Thorsten."

"I'm honoured, Jarl," Thorsten replied, looking at the map and large tracts of water that lay between Ulvehi and Greenland, "To go west from there would be a great adventure."

"It'll be an adventure for the sagas even," the Jarl said and Thorsten could only agree. This would give him not only wealth, but reputation. Enough to found his own family, even a clan, supported by the Ulvehi Jarl.

"I'll consider who to take with me, some of the young men without families, and a few of the strongest fighters. If we leave when the ice clears, we should be able to reach Greenland at the beginning of summer. And then, depending on what we find, we stay the winter in this Vinland, or come back to Greenland."

"Good, it's a solid plan," the Jarl said and looked up as there was a knock on the door and Amina stepped inside.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking at Asgeir and Thorsten, "I can come back later, but I wished to speak with you, Jarl."

He nodded in response and signalled for Asgeir and Thorsten to leave.

"Please, come in. What makes you look so concerned, child?"

The Jarl rolled up the precious map as Asgeir and Thorsten left, and gestured for Amina to come further in. She'd grown up at Ulvehi, the daughter of a beautiful thrall woman who'd Agnar could still remember capturing in one of the raids of his youth. She'd been irresistible, and if Agnar hadn't already been married, he would've considered taking her as his wife. Instead he took his right as Jarl and bedded her many times, before she married another one of the thralls. She'd been pregnant before long, and he still suspected Amina was his own daughter. And he suspected most of Ulvehi had also guessed this, but it did not stop him from being soft on her, treating her more like a daughter than a thrall.

"I…I don't know if it's my place to say anything…" Amina began, and the Jarl furrowed his brow, gently putting his hand on her arm and guiding her to sit down.

"Come, tell me. You know I will listen to any complaint you have. Is one of the men giving you trouble?"

"No, no, it's just…it involves your daughter I think, and that thrall, Hauknefr," Amina glanced over her shoulder towards the door as if to make sure no one else was in the room as she lowered her voice.

"What of him?" the Jarl asked, his look darkening, "He swore to protect her, is he trying to escape again?"

"I-I don't know for certain, but it's the way he looks at her, and...I think maybe he…he's attached to her, wants her, I mean," Amina wound her fingers together as she watched the Jarl's face shift into something more dangerous, "The other thralls whisper about them…"

"And her? What does my daughter think of this thrall throwing looks at her?"

"I think…I think maybe she does not mind, Jarl."

"Asgeir!" the Jarl roared, making Amina jump, "Thorsten!"

The two men thumped through the door, their faces looking as if they were expecting an attack with how loudly their lord had shouted for them.

"Amina has just told me that hawk nosed thrall who calls himself Tovar is lusting after my daughter," the Jarl growled, his fists clenched, "I want him brought to the docks and whipped, and this time he will bleed out."

Thorsten grinned, nodding his head, "I'll go at once, Jarl, I'm sure I'll find him at the stable with her as always."

"Jarl…" Asgeir said, holding up his hand to stop Thorsten who had already turned to the door, "A word of caution…If you flay him publicly without proof, rumours will begin about your daughter. They are sure to reach the English, and they will not want the alliance after she has been tainted. The Christians are much more…sensitive, about a woman's honour. They place an extraordinary importance on their virtue."

The Jarl growled, "What will you have me do then? Let him leer at my daughter? Let her have him? They've already started rumours."

"Take her to England as soon as possible, as soon as the fjord opens," Asgeir replied, "Then you can deal with the thrall as you see fit. And in the meantime, keep her occupied in the long house, have her involved in the women's tasks. Don't give him the opportunity to be near her."

The Jarl did not look happy, but he nodded, "Your counsel is always wise, Asgeir, old friend, although it will need to bite my horn to keep from flaying that dog's back to the bone."

Thorsten growled, still held back by Asgeir's hand, "I will make sure he does not come close to her again, Jarl."

"Amina, what does she still need to do before she leaves for England, something that will keep her in her room?" the Jarl asked, and Amina took a moment to think.

"She has not yet made a cloak with her new husband's sigil, that will take many hours to make."

"Good, I will instruct her to begin work on it at once, and you will oversee it. Be her helper, and I want you to let me know if she says anything of Hauknefr."

Amina nodded, and made to leave, but the Jarl held up his hand to stop her, "Thank you for bringing this to me, Amina. Your loyalty to me and the family will not go unnoticed, I promise."

Pero had learnt to see the early signs of the northern spring during his two years at Ulvehi, and this year he was watching for them even more closely than last. Stepping out this morning from the thrall house, he could hear birds singing for the first time in many months. They were always quiet during the winter, as intent on surviving as the humans, and the only sound he ever heard were the sorrowful cries of lonely ravens or crows. But now he could hear the bright trilling of small birds in the nearby bushes, a clear sign of spring. He knew that as soon as the ice broke up on the fjord, preparations would begin for you to leave for England, and he intended to be ready, and to make sure the Jarl remembered that he would go with you as your bodyguard.

The months had been slow though, the cold kept everyone indoors, and even when you came to the stable to see Aska, it was too risky. Pero had only been able to steal one moment alone with you in weeks, there always seemed to be someone else around, not least Thorsten who had become your shadow as much as Ravn in recent days. Pero hated him, not just for the whipping he'd given him, but for the way the blonde man hung around the stable, always finding some work to do and glancing over at you. Pero longed to have you to himself, not just to satiate his very basic lust, but to be in your presence, to talk to you freely without having to guard his words. And he wanted you to touch him, to be able to feel your soft hands on his skin or in his hair without worrying about someone seeing the way he turned to putty whenever your fingertips carefully traced across his scar. Thoughts of your hands kept him up at night, and invaded his dreams when he did fall asleep. But now he couldn't even find a moment to steal a kiss in the stable.

Not since sleeping next to his wife had a woman had such an effect on his mind, it made him feel incomplete when you weren't around, and it was a new sensation after all these years. But with the hold you had over him came a new worry. He hadn't been able to save his wife, but he had to save you this time, if only he could protect you from this Englishman you were meant to marry. He'd been granted the blessing of finding someone like you, in the most unlikely place, and he was determined to keep you safe. But staying away from you, not having you in his bed, or next to him at all times, it made him nervous and anxious. Every day felt like a potential risk of discovery, and he tried to keep his head down, keep his eyes off you, and not be tempted again to take risks.

The nights in his bed were long and cold, and only his dreams of you had kept him warm as the long Norse winter dragged on.

"I cannot believe how long this winter was, Pero," you mumbled, keeping your voice low behind the overgrown raspberry bushes. He was holding them up as you attempted to gather them with twine to support them. Grim's family in Sigtuna had cultivated the wild raspberries that grew around their town, and it had given you the idea to do the same at Ulvehi. Raspberries grew in abundance in the forest, and you'd had a few bushes dug up and replanted back when you thought you'd be staying at Ulvehi. You'd be leaving them behind soon though, the ice was drifting down the fjord and the ships were already in the water.

"I've missed you so much, even on the days I've seen you. I cannot wait to be away from here and in England with you."

"Lift it a bit higher on this side, my lady," Pero replied, looking over at the thralls digging up some of last year's turnips from the wet soil in another part of the field, "I've missed you too, amor," he whispered in reply, risking a glance down at you where you knelt by the raspberry roots, "Soon, and then we just have to keep apart on the journey over, and then we run."

"Being on the ship with you will be hard," you said, keeping your voice low too, looking up at him as you adjusted the branches higher up, "There won't be much room, and we can't raise any suspicions."

"I know, but it's just for a few days. With good winds it shouldn't take long. Soon, amor, soon."

You sighed and tied a strong knot in the string, someone else would have to harvest these bushes in summer. With the help of the gods you'd be far away and safe with Pero in England when these berries were ripe.

"Where in England should we settle?" you asked, moving over to the next bush and starting the process again as Pero followed. He gathered the wayward long branches into his gloved hands as you helped keep them out of his face, smiling as he winked at you, his back to the other thralls.

"I've thought about it," Pero replied, "and I have some ideas. Your people trade almost all across England these days, but the north east has very strong ties to both Norway and Denmark, so we can't stay there. The lord's people, and maybe your family, will be looking for us, and the risk is too high that someone recognises you. So we should go further south as soon as we can, and I think we need to leave the areas of England where your kinsmen have a lot of influence. Wessex, in the southwest, should be safe."

"Wessex, that's where king Alfred had his seat?" you asked, the name coming to you from an old story about one of the English kings before Cnut of Denmark became king of England too.

Pero nodded, "Wessex is still Anglo Saxon, there were no Norse people there when I was last through. And there is a big town, Exeter, where we can easily hide. Or if we go to one of the smaller towns further south in Somerset or Devon, we can hide away in some small village."

"I'll be happy wherever we're safe, Pero, but Wessex sounds like a good option," you said, tying another knot and sitting back on your heels, "There, the bushes are all done, maybe they'll have fruit in a few months, but we won't be here to see it."

Pero pulled off his gloves and straightened up, stretching out his back, giving you a glimpse of his flat belly. He'd shrunk since he came to Ulvehi, hard work and less food had made him lithe, but the tantalizing trail of soft hair that disappeared into his breeches was still there, and it took effort to pull your eyes from it as you stood up too and turned away from him, towards the other end of the field.

"Come, help me with the manure, I'll show you what I need you to spread on the roots of the raspberry bushes."

"My lady," he replied as you walked past the other thralls, "I can fetch the hand cart and fill that with manure."

You hated the way his tone changed when he spoke to you in front of other people, suddenly sullen, subservient, in both his voice and posture. He did it only to protect you both, of course, but to hear his beautiful warm voice change into something so sour, it hurt your heart.

You pushed down the urge to touch him, caress his cheek, chase away the scowl on his face, and just nodded.

"Fetch the hand cart and a shovel, and meet me by the dung heap."

He gave you a curt nod, and changed direction while you made your way to the back of the stables. But by the long house the door opened, and Thorsten stepped out, watching you disappear behind the stable, and Pero walking towards the hand cart. His mouth tightened as he watched you both, and clenched his fists.

It was back breaking work for the thralls working in the stable to muck out the stalls each day. You knew Pero filled the hand cart at least three times every day, more often in the winter, with what all of Ulvehi's horses left behind. Horses you'd have to leave behind soon, you realised, even your own Aska. She would not be able to come on the week long sea journey across to England. Ravn would come though, he'd fare better on the ship than your horse.

Pero pushed the hand cart around the corner and left it next to the large dung heap, sticking the shovel into the muck.

"You really are making me work today, princesa," he smiled, the scowl gone from his face now that it was just the two of you again.

"Pero, come here," you said, "let that wait, I need to tell you something."

Your counting was right, you were sure of it now, it had been too long since your last bleeding, and now you took his hand and rested it against your belly. It didn't show anything yet, it was far too early, but still, you wanted him to feel it. Pero's brow furrowed in confusion as his hand rested on your dress and you smiled at him, waiting for him to catch on.

"I've counted the days, Pero," you said, and the confusion deepened in his eyes as he looked down at his hand. You counted one moment, and another, and then realisation hit him, his eyes widening and you couldn't help laughing at his stunned face.

"A child?" he asked in a hushed whisper, taking a step closer so that he could wrap his other hand around your back, "Are you certain?"

"I think so, it's been another week since the moon shifted and there are some signs, but it's very early yet. But I wanted to tell you, I couldn't keep it a secret."

"A little one…" Pero breathed in a low voice, still stunned as he looked up at you. His mind was working as his face shifted from confusion to surprise and then suddenly into worry, "I should've been more careful, it's not safe for you to be with child now, not while we are still here."

"We'll be leaving within a week or two, by the time I'm showing, we'll be far away," you told him, cupping his cheeks to bring his eyes back to yours, "I'm happy, Pero. I didn't think the gods would let me have a child, I was never blessed with Grim. To have one with you, it's all I could've asked for."

Pero's face softened, leaning his forehead against yours, "Of course, amor, it makes me happy too. I just wish I had more to offer you and the child, it will be a hard life before we are safe and settled again."

"It will be fine, my love," you told him, "We'll be together at least, and I can get through the hard times as long as you're with me. And we have such a good life waiting for us when we reach Wessex."

"It'll still be hard," Pero said, cupping his hand around your cheek as you closed your eyes, breathing in his warm breath, feeling it against your skin, "But I promise, I'll keep you and our child safe. I'll always be with you, and keep you both safe."

His arm was tight around your middle, pressing you against him as his mouth found yours, forgetting where he was, lost in the thought of a new life growing inside you, a child he felt had already settled deep in his heart. His child, his and yours, and it brought a new purpose to his life.

"When we get to England, I'll marry you," he mumbled against your lips, "in front of your gods or mine, it doesn't matter. I want you to be my wife."

"Pero," you smiled, wrapping your fingers around long curls at his neck, "I'm already your wife."

"And I'm your husband, amor. But I want to do it properly, even though I have no ring to give to you. But I have a small gift I've been working on, I'll bring it tomorrow to the garden."

"Pero, you-"

But he cut you off, pressing his lips to yours again, imagining he could already feel a second heartbeat in you.

Behind them, the dry grass of last year crunched under Thorsten's foot as he glared at the scene in front of him. The knuckles of his hand went white, grabbing the corner of the stable wall, the wood creaking under his tight grip. There, standing by the dung heap, you and the thrall, just as he'd suspected when he saw Hauknefr push the hand cart around the corner, and it filled him with rage.

The sound of his fist hitting the wall made you both jump apart as he roared for the Jarl.

Chapter 15

Amina! Why did you do that? Why?

Before their departure to Yorkshire, Libby's sister had become pregnant with her first child—a girl. She had shared her symptoms with her younger sibling, talking her through the raft of changes her body was undertaking. Libby now recognized the signs of early pregnancy as her own, and felt a heavy sense of foreboding.

She knew what she needed to do. She made an appointment with the visiting physician who would be in town the following week.

And then all she could do was wait. And worry.

Libby sat in the doctor’s waiting room, anxiety gnawing at her. She might have been naive about sex, but she had known enough married friends and heard enough whispered conversations to know what missed menses could mean. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she awaited her appointment. She was a widow now, and if anyone found out... the scandal would be unbearable. The thought of being pregnant in a small town filled her with dread. The idea of it was insufferable, and she had no idea how to navigate this new possibility. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone know the truth. She had to think her way out of this, if she was pregnant.

Her name was called before she could sink any further into her anxious thoughts. She stood, her body stiff, dread passing through her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced herself to move, crossing the threshold into the doctor's office.

The physician was a kindly, yet dull man, with an unremarkable face that didn’t put Libby at ease. He adjusted his spectacles as he listened to her spin a half-hearted tale of how she had lost her husband to cholera on the trail. As she spoke, the lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she couldn’t risk revealing the truth. Her cheeks burned with shame, a deep flush spreading across her face as she fabricated the details of her life.

After a moment, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came in a flood, genuine this time, as the emotional weight of the situation overwhelmed her. Through trembling lips, she confided in the doctor, admitting what she had feared all along. She thought she might be with child.

The doctor’s expression softened in sympathy. He gestured for her to sit on the examination table, his demeanor calm and professional. Libby felt anything but calm as he asked her to remove her underwear. Her heart raced, her nerves frazzled by the intrusive nature of the examination. She couldn’t stop the trembling of her hands as she complied.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor gave a slight nod, his face grave. “You’re pregnant, Mrs. Green,” he confirmed gently.

At the words, Libby’s world seemed to collapse around her. The world seemed to give way beneath her, and she began sobbing uncontrollably as she lay on the table. This was the worst possible outcome. She had no idea how she would manage. The schoolhouse, her sanctuary and her purpose, felt like a distant dream now.

How could she run it as a single mother? And what would the town say?

She imagined the whispers, the judgmental glances. Her mind reeled with the weight of the social consequences.

In the back of her mind, a flicker of hope still burned—maybe Francisco Morales would return. But it was a faint hope. A fragile thought. She could barely bring herself to consider the actual possibility that he was gone and that she was alone.

As Libby sat at home later, trying to digest the news, she calculated in her mind that she was three months pregnant. She knew exactly when it had happened. It was the night in the guesthouse, the night that had felt like perfection. It had been a moment of connection with Francisco, the man she loved, but it now held an entirely different meaning. That night had left her with a permanent reminder. Of him. Of their time together. Her heart ached at the thought of him and that their perfect night had come at such a heavy price for her.

Libby had never considered that she might get pregnant and neither she nor Frankie had been particularly careful during their time together. It had never happened when she had been married to her late husband Henry, even though they had lain together numerous times. They had come to the conclusion that she was simply unable to carry a child, when it was now very apparent that she could.

Now, with the undeniable signs of pregnancy growing inside her, she was forced to reckon with the fact that she could, and soon would, have a child. The reality of it hit her hard, bringing both a sense of awe and terror. How could this happen now, after everything?

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the reality of her situation sink in. She had never imagined her life would turn out like this. But now it had, there was no turning back. She would raise this child alone, in a town that might never forgive her, if they knew the truth. And somewhere, in the furthest part of her heart, she clung to that sliver of hope that perhaps, one day, Francisco might come back for her.

She needed a plan and it would have to be inventive. A plan that would conceal the truth until she could figure out how to navigate this new reality. When she had first arrived in Longhorn, she had carefully avoided discussing her past, especially the truth about her husband's death overseas while serving his country. Her whole story of her husband, her subsequent adventures on the wagon train had been too painful to share with anyone, too personal. No one in Longhorn knew about her history, so she decided to fabricate a new story, one that would shield her from the judgment of the town. She would tell them exactly what she had told the physician— that her husband had died shortly after joining the wagon train, and that she had only recently discovered she was pregnant. It wasn’t the whole truth, but an approximation of it. It was something she could live with, for the time being.

As the weeks slipped by, Libby’s pregnancy became harder to conceal. Her morning sickness worsened, leaving her exhausted and weak. The days when she felt like she could hold her head up and push through the relentless work of running the schoolhouse felt fewer and farther between. Every morning, the nausea would come as soon as she opened her eyes. The smell of breakfast, the sight of the children gathering, even getting dressed, all made her stomach churn. She forced herself to go through the motions, to appear composed, but deep inside, she was already struggling.

She was still managing, but just barely.

The thought of having to confess the truth to the family she lived with, the family who had taken her in when she first arrived, was an overwhelming burden. She had managed to keep up appearances, and the moment she started showing, there would be no denying the truth. What would they think? Would they believe her story about her husband’s death? Would they judge her for her secretive past, for the fact that she had been with someone else, someone like Frankie?

The weight of that impending revelation made her growing stomach tighten further.

Fortunately, thanks to her well-spoken manner and sharp intelligence, no one ever questioned Libby’s story too closely. No one in Longhorn had arrived on the same wagon train as she had. No one knew about her kidnapping—or her return. If they had, it would’ve been all too easy to connect the two events. And for that, Libby was eternally grateful. No one challenged her truth.

She watched and waited, ever cautious, as her belly grew rounder, her breasts fuller and heavier, and she felt the first fluttering of life stir within her. Each small movement reminded her that everything she knew had changed irrevocably.

Around her, the children and townsfolk went about their daily routines, ignoring the quiet transformation taking place inside her.

The months passed by, and Libby’s belly swelled, the baby inside her growing steadily. Thanksgiving came and went, followed by Christmas, each holiday passed by quietly with little celebration. By the time the new year rolled in, she started to feel as though she might burst.

Rather than stay up until midnight with the other townsfolk, she quietly excused herself and slipped off to bed early. She ached with the baby's increasing demands on her body. 

And then, as the cold of winter gave way to the warmth of spring, new life arrived in Longhorn.

The day Libby went into labor was, what she considered, one of the toughest challenges of her life. It was a trial that eclipsed even the hardships she had faced during her journey to the west. Hours of excruciating, indescribable pain, coupled with overwhelming exhaustion.

She fervently wished that Frankie could be by her side, that he could witness the birth of his child, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself alone with only the physician and Mrs. Smith in the room. The absence of Frankie’s presence was another sting, one more thing that had been taken from her, something she could never get back.

Labor was far from what she had imagined. It dragged on endlessly, each contraction an eternity, each wave of pain coming faster, more intense, than the last. Libby paced the room, desperate to ease the pain that seemed to grow with each passing minute. She hated being confined to the bed. The physician scolded her, his voice stern and tired as he instructed her to lie down again. But lying down was not an option. The pain in her lower back was unbearable. She refused to listen, moving from one position to the next, her body trembling with exhaustion. She huffed and puffed her way through each contraction, crouching on her knees, the bitter words of frustration slipping past her clenched teeth.

Each wave of pain felt like eternity. She swore it had been days, but when she glanced up at the clock, only twelve hours had passed. It was relentless, but Libby didn’t have the luxury of giving up. She had no choice but to press forward, pushing through the agony, her body now moving instinctively, responding to the power of birth.

At last, when it seemed she could go no further, Libby found herself kneeling beside the bed, her body bowed in exhaustion, as if in prayer. With one final, powerful push, the baby came, and Mrs. Smith was there to catch him as he made a grand entrance, holding the tiny, wriggling baby in her arms. The placenta quickly followed and Libby collapsed, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Labor had left her utterly spent. But in the end, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

So overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, she could barely lift her head as the nurse placed the child in her arms.

Exhausted, Libby gazed down at her son, tears streaming down her face. He was so small, so fragile, and so perfect. 

As she looked into his tiny face, a realization washed over her. It was said that newborn babies often resembled their fathers in the beginning, to help with the bonding process, and as Libby studied her son, she couldn’t help but see Frankie in every feature. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his chin—it was as though he had been born with a piece of Frankie inside him.

She tried not to look too hard, though. It was still too painful to focus on the features that reminded her of the man she loved, the man who might never know his child, never be there to help raise him. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to push the sadness to one side.

But the pain of missing him was a constant, always lurking just beneath the surface.

In her new role as a single mother, Libby was met with nothing but kindness and understanding. There were very few women in the town, but those who were there rallied around her, offering gifts of old blankets, gowns, and bonnets for her new arrival. They didn’t ask questions. They embraced her as one of their own; a fellow woman who was simply doing what she had to do to survive in a harsh world.

Despite her fears, Libby found solace in the support of these women. She was no longer alone in her struggle, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, she allowed herself to feel a sense of hope.

Her son, a little piece of Frankie and a little piece of herself, would have a chance at life here in Longhorn, surrounded by people who cared. And maybe, just maybe, with time, she could heal. For the sake of the boy in her arms, she had to.

When it came to registering the birth, Libby’s nerves overwhelmed her. She sat at the desk, staring blankly at the slip of paper before her, her hands trembling. She faced an enormous decision—one that ate at her conscience. Who would she list as her baby’s father?

Her heart and soul screamed that she should acknowledge Francisco Morales, the man who had given her this child, the man she had loved with all her being. But propriety and society had other demands. They told her that she should list her long-dead husband, Henry Green, the one she had claimed had died just after they had set out on the wagon trail. It was the story everyone believed. It was the story that kept her safe, that kept her from the harsh judgments of the townsfolk.

Libby sat there for what felt like an eternity, her eyes fixed on the paper, trying to decide. The future of her son weighed heavily on her heart. If she told the truth, would it be too dangerous? Would Francisco’s name on the birth certificate lead to unwanted attention, unwanted questions, from the law, from the sheriff, from those who might come looking for him? Would she put her son at risk?

Her mind raced with fear and guilt. The tension in her chest grew tighter with every passing second. She thought of the kindness she had found in Longhorn—the women who had taken her in, the sense of belonging she had begun to feel. But none of that mattered in this moment. What mattered was survival, and in this small, fleeting decision, her son’s future was bound to the choices she made.

Finally, in a wave of resignation, she caved. Her pen moved across the paper almost mechanically, writing Henry Green's name where Francisco’s should have been. The sickening weight of the lie settled in her stomach, but there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

As soon as the ink dried, Libby shoved the slip of paper back into the envelope with trembling hands and hurried from the Mayor’s office. Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way outside, the bright afternoon sun blinding her.

Before she could stop herself, she doubled over and vomited behind one of the nearby horse troughs. The contents of her stomach emptied: a sickening mixture of guilt and the raw, physical toll of the decision she had just made. She wiped her mouth, her face flushed with shame and exhaustion, her mind reeling. She had just betrayed the memory of the man she loved, and the price of it had never felt so high.

Libby’s days in Longhorn quickly fell into a pattern of exhaustion and overwhelming responsibility. She had never anticipated how difficult it would be to balance her role as a teacher with the demands of motherhood. Every morning, after a restless night of tending to her son, she would rise before the sun, her body aching from the lack of sleep and the thoughts of the tasks ahead.

Her small, humble schoolhouse, which had been her sanctuary when she arrived, was now a burden. The wooden structure creaked in the wind, the walls too thin to shield her from the biting cold or the prying eyes of the townspeople. 

Each morning, she would breastfeed her son, now a few months old, before dressing quickly and preparing a simple breakfast. He was a quiet baby, often content to sleep for hours in his cradle while she taught her small class of eager young students. But there were days when he cried for hours, refusing to settle, and on those days, her patience was surely tested. Her attention split between the needs of her students and the wails of her baby, Libby found herself growing weary, and the guilt weighed on her heavily.

She had chosen to raise him alone, to pretend that Henry Green, her late husband, was the father, and yet every time she looked at her son’s face, she was reminded of the man she had lost. There were moments when the sight of his soft, dark curls or the way his eyes seemed to mimic Francisco’s sent a wave of longing crashing through her heart. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not when there were lessons to teach and papers to grade. Not when the ever-present weight of motherhood pressed down on her in such an unforgiving way.

The schoolhouse was small, and so were her classes. Yet even the quietest days were filled with a constant stream of demands. There were papers to correct, lessons to prepare, and children to tend to. When the bell rang at the end of each school day, she would rush home with her son, who was often already awake and squirming in his cradle. There were days when she could barely muster the energy to prepare dinner or fix the small meal of bread and vegetables that was her usual meal. The nights were long, filled with the sounds of her son’s cries, and she found herself waking up more often than not with the weight of life pressing down on her shoulders.

Despite the difficulty, there were rare moments when her son would smile up at her, his little face lighting up in a way that made the exhaustion worth it. And at times, when she sat in the small rocking chair by the fire, gently soothing him back to sleep, she could almost forget the loneliness that had taken root in her heart.

The town had grown fond of her. Women often came by to check on her, offering to help with the baby or bringing over a dish of food. While Libby appreciated their kindness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was constantly pretending. Pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that she wasn’t haunted by the absence of the man who should have been beside her, holding their child.

There were moments when the burden of it all threatened to break her—when she would find herself staring out of the schoolhouse window, wishing for a different life, wishing for a chance to be just a teacher. But she had made her choices. Necessity had meant that she had created this life for herself, and for her son. She couldn’t go back.

So, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm of teaching, the rhythm of motherhood, a delicate balance that she walked every day, never quite certain if she was doing it right. But for her son, she would keep trying.

Eventually, she caved. She needed help. Mrs. Smith, the lady who had helped her deliver Edward into the world, saw her daily struggle with life and school and offered to take her son during school hours. Overwhelmed with guilt, she agreed. In exchange for a small sum of money, she dropped Edward off every morning and collected him at the end of the day, her body sore, aching, and swollen with milk.

But it meant that she could carry on.

Adjusting to her new routine, one morning, when Edward was about three months old, one of her students, a boy by the name of David, came sprinting into class late.  Libby admonished him for his tardiness, her tone sharp, but David was far too excited to care. He slid into his chair behind his desk and sat down, already whispering to his neighbors. Libby turned her attention back to the blackboard, trying to ignore the disruption happening behind her.

But the whispering grew louder. The noise spread through the classroom like a wildfire. There was a sudden tension in the air and a palpable shift of energy. Libby's teaching instinct told her that something big had happened. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face her students, her eyes looking out over the room. Her gaze finally landed on David, who had been the instigator of the disruption.

“What's got into you all today?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. She raised an eyebrow, questioning. Her voice was full of curiosity and consternation, but David’s excitement was too much to ignore.

“Haven’t you heard, Miss?” David’s voice practically burst with energy. “The Triple Frontier Gang attacked the Army's gold wagons. There was a big shootout and some of them died, but they got away with lots of money.”

“I heard they all died,” piped up Harry, a small, dark-haired boy. “My dad is friends with the deputy Sheriff of Willsto—”

“They couldn’t all die, could they?” interrupted David impatiently. “Otherwise they couldn’t have run off with the money. Stupid.”

“I heard that they're all living like the Queen of England. Rich beyond belief,” exclaimed Lucy, one of Libby’s more sensible students. 

The restless excited chatter resumed, but Libby’s world stopped.

The room seemed to freeze around her, the voices of the children suddenly muffled as a deafening silence filled her mind. The chalk in her hand snapped in half. Her other fingers clenched around the desk as she was overcome with dizziness. She could feel the air tighten in her chest, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. 

The Triple Frontier Gang. Francisco.

Her heart pounded in her chest; it was so loud that she feared that she could hear it thumping in her head. For a moment, it felt as though the walls of the classroom were shrinking, as though she were trapped inside. Her legs felt weak and she could barely find the strength to stand up. The hope she’d clung to, the fragile thread that kept her from fully accepting that she would never see him again, snapped in that moment.

Francisco. 

The man she loved, the man who had made her believe in the possibility of happiness again, was involved in something dangerous. Something that would mean that he might never come back to her. He was either dead or an outlaw.

Forever.

The gang had talked of revenge and of plotting against the Army. And now she realized what they had been planning to do all along. All of that waiting in the hills. Waiting and watching. Ready to exact revenge.

She felt sick to her stomach. Maybe they had got away with lots of money, but that didn’t matter to her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the weight of a new found truth: she would have to raise her son alone. The dream of a family with Francisco was gone. Lost in a way that was potentially irreversible.

Libby’s eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink back. Her vision blurred and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it all felt impossible. She didn’t know how long she stood there, fighting to keep her composure in front of her students, but it felt like a lifetime. The room was suddenly too small, too suffocating.

Her throat tightened, and the words, He’s gone, echoed in her mind.

Tamping down her emotions with great effort, Libby slowly forced her voice to steady. "Alright," she said, her tone more strained than she intended, "back to your work." Her eyes didn’t linger on any one student. She couldn’t look at them or acknowledge their excitement for something so trivial when her whole world was falling apart.

Her hands shook, but she turned back to the blackboard, her mind swirling, the weight of reality crashing over her with the force of a storm. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. She just had to keep going, because that’s all she knew how to do now. Keep going.

Before their departure to Yorkshire, Libby's sister had become pregnant with her first child—a girl. She had shared her symptoms with her younger sibling, talking her through the raft of changes her body was undertaking. Libby now recognized the signs of early pregnancy as her own, and felt a heavy sense of foreboding.

She knew what she needed to do. She made an appointment with the visiting physician who would be in town the following week.

And then all she could do was wait. And worry.

Libby sat in the doctor’s waiting room, anxiety gnawing at her. She might have been naive about sex, but she had known enough married friends and heard enough whispered conversations to know what missed menses could mean. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she awaited her appointment. She was a widow now, and if anyone found out... the scandal would be unbearable. The thought of being pregnant in a small town filled her with dread. The idea of it was insufferable, and she had no idea how to navigate this new possibility. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone know the truth. She had to think her way out of this, if she was pregnant.

Her name was called before she could sink any further into her anxious thoughts. She stood, her body stiff, dread passing through her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced herself to move, crossing the threshold into the doctor's office.

The physician was a kindly, yet dull man, with an unremarkable face that didn’t put Libby at ease. He adjusted his spectacles as he listened to her spin a half-hearted tale of how she had lost her husband to cholera on the trail. As she spoke, the lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she couldn’t risk revealing the truth. Her cheeks burned with shame, a deep flush spreading across her face as she fabricated the details of her life.

After a moment, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came in a flood, genuine this time, as the emotional weight of the situation overwhelmed her. Through trembling lips, she confided in the doctor, admitting what she had feared all along. She thought she might be with child.

The doctor’s expression softened in sympathy. He gestured for her to sit on the examination table, his demeanor calm and professional. Libby felt anything but calm as he asked her to remove her underwear. Her heart raced, her nerves frazzled by the intrusive nature of the examination. She couldn’t stop the trembling of her hands as she complied.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor gave a slight nod, his face grave. “You’re pregnant, Mrs. Green,” he confirmed gently.

At the words, Libby’s world seemed to collapse around her. The world seemed to give way beneath her, and she began sobbing uncontrollably as she lay on the table. This was the worst possible outcome. She had no idea how she would manage. The schoolhouse, her sanctuary and her purpose, felt like a distant dream now.

How could she run it as a single mother? And what would the town say?

She imagined the whispers, the judgmental glances. Her mind reeled with the weight of the social consequences.

In the back of her mind, a flicker of hope still burned—maybe Francisco Morales would return. But it was a faint hope. A fragile thought. She could barely bring herself to consider the actual possibility that he was gone and that she was alone.

As Libby sat at home later, trying to digest the news, she calculated in her mind that she was three months pregnant. She knew exactly when it had happened. It was the night in the guesthouse, the night that had felt like perfection. It had been a moment of connection with Francisco, the man she loved, but it now held an entirely different meaning. That night had left her with a permanent reminder. Of him. Of their time together. Her heart ached at the thought of him and that their perfect night had come at such a heavy price for her.

Libby had never considered that she might get pregnant and neither she nor Frankie had been particularly careful during their time together. It had never happened when she had been married to her late husband Henry, even though they had lain together numerous times. They had come to the conclusion that she was simply unable to carry a child, when it was now very apparent that she could.

Now, with the undeniable signs of pregnancy growing inside her, she was forced to reckon with the fact that she could, and soon would, have a child. The reality of it hit her hard, bringing both a sense of awe and terror. How could this happen now, after everything?

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the reality of her situation sink in. She had never imagined her life would turn out like this. But now it had, there was no turning back. She would raise this child alone, in a town that might never forgive her, if they knew the truth. And somewhere, in the furthest part of her heart, she clung to that sliver of hope that perhaps, one day, Francisco might come back for her.

She needed a plan and it would have to be inventive. A plan that would conceal the truth until she could figure out how to navigate this new reality. When she had first arrived in Longhorn, she had carefully avoided discussing her past, especially the truth about her husband's death overseas while serving his country. Her whole story of her husband, her subsequent adventures on the wagon train had been too painful to share with anyone, too personal. No one in Longhorn knew about her history, so she decided to fabricate a new story, one that would shield her from the judgment of the town. She would tell them exactly what she had told the physician— that her husband had died shortly after joining the wagon train, and that she had only recently discovered she was pregnant. It wasn’t the whole truth, but an approximation of it. It was something she could live with, for the time being.

As the weeks slipped by, Libby’s pregnancy became harder to conceal. Her morning sickness worsened, leaving her exhausted and weak. The days when she felt like she could hold her head up and push through the relentless work of running the schoolhouse felt fewer and farther between. Every morning, the nausea would come as soon as she opened her eyes. The smell of breakfast, the sight of the children gathering, even getting dressed, all made her stomach churn. She forced herself to go through the motions, to appear composed, but deep inside, she was already struggling.

She was still managing, but just barely.

The thought of having to confess the truth to the family she lived with, the family who had taken her in when she first arrived, was an overwhelming burden. She had managed to keep up appearances, and the moment she started showing, there would be no denying the truth. What would they think? Would they believe her story about her husband’s death? Would they judge her for her secretive past, for the fact that she had been with someone else, someone like Frankie?

The weight of that impending revelation made her growing stomach tighten further.

Fortunately, thanks to her well-spoken manner and sharp intelligence, no one ever questioned Libby’s story too closely. No one in Longhorn had arrived on the same wagon train as she had. No one knew about her kidnapping—or her return. If they had, it would’ve been all too easy to connect the two events. And for that, Libby was eternally grateful. No one challenged her truth.

She watched and waited, ever cautious, as her belly grew rounder, her breasts fuller and heavier, and she felt the first fluttering of life stir within her. Each small movement reminded her that everything she knew had changed irrevocably.

Around her, the children and townsfolk went about their daily routines, ignoring the quiet transformation taking place inside her.

The months passed by, and Libby’s belly swelled, the baby inside her growing steadily. Thanksgiving came and went, followed by Christmas, each holiday passed by quietly with little celebration. By the time the new year rolled in, she started to feel as though she might burst.

Rather than stay up until midnight with the other townsfolk, she quietly excused herself and slipped off to bed early. She ached with the baby's increasing demands on her body. 

And then, as the cold of winter gave way to the warmth of spring, new life arrived in Longhorn.

The day Libby went into labor was, what she considered, one of the toughest challenges of her life. It was a trial that eclipsed even the hardships she had faced during her journey to the west. Hours of excruciating, indescribable pain, coupled with overwhelming exhaustion.

She fervently wished that Frankie could be by her side, that he could witness the birth of his child, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself alone with only the physician and Mrs. Smith in the room. The absence of Frankie’s presence was another sting, one more thing that had been taken from her, something she could never get back.

Labor was far from what she had imagined. It dragged on endlessly, each contraction an eternity, each wave of pain coming faster, more intense, than the last. Libby paced the room, desperate to ease the pain that seemed to grow with each passing minute. She hated being confined to the bed. The physician scolded her, his voice stern and tired as he instructed her to lie down again. But lying down was not an option. The pain in her lower back was unbearable. She refused to listen, moving from one position to the next, her body trembling with exhaustion. She huffed and puffed her way through each contraction, crouching on her knees, the bitter words of frustration slipping past her clenched teeth.

Each wave of pain felt like eternity. She swore it had been days, but when she glanced up at the clock, only twelve hours had passed. It was relentless, but Libby didn’t have the luxury of giving up. She had no choice but to press forward, pushing through the agony, her body now moving instinctively, responding to the power of birth.

At last, when it seemed she could go no further, Libby found herself kneeling beside the bed, her body bowed in exhaustion, as if in prayer. With one final, powerful push, the baby came, and Mrs. Smith was there to catch him as he made a grand entrance, holding the tiny, wriggling baby in her arms. The placenta quickly followed and Libby collapsed, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Labor had left her utterly spent. But in the end, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

So overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, she could barely lift her head as the nurse placed the child in her arms.

Exhausted, Libby gazed down at her son, tears streaming down her face. He was so small, so fragile, and so perfect. 

As she looked into his tiny face, a realization washed over her. It was said that newborn babies often resembled their fathers in the beginning, to help with the bonding process, and as Libby studied her son, she couldn’t help but see Frankie in every feature. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his chin—it was as though he had been born with a piece of Frankie inside him.

She tried not to look too hard, though. It was still too painful to focus on the features that reminded her of the man she loved, the man who might never know his child, never be there to help raise him. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to push the sadness to one side.

But the pain of missing him was a constant, always lurking just beneath the surface.

In her new role as a single mother, Libby was met with nothing but kindness and understanding. There were very few women in the town, but those who were there rallied around her, offering gifts of old blankets, gowns, and bonnets for her new arrival. They didn’t ask questions. They embraced her as one of their own; a fellow woman who was simply doing what she had to do to survive in a harsh world.

Despite her fears, Libby found solace in the support of these women. She was no longer alone in her struggle, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, she allowed herself to feel a sense of hope.

Her son, a little piece of Frankie and a little piece of herself, would have a chance at life here in Longhorn, surrounded by people who cared. And maybe, just maybe, with time, she could heal. For the sake of the boy in her arms, she had to.

When it came to registering the birth, Libby’s nerves overwhelmed her. She sat at the desk, staring blankly at the slip of paper before her, her hands trembling. She faced an enormous decision—one that ate at her conscience. Who would she list as her baby’s father?

Her heart and soul screamed that she should acknowledge Francisco Morales, the man who had given her this child, the man she had loved with all her being. But propriety and society had other demands. They told her that she should list her long-dead husband, Henry Green, the one she had claimed had died just after they had set out on the wagon trail. It was the story everyone believed. It was the story that kept her safe, that kept her from the harsh judgments of the townsfolk.

Libby sat there for what felt like an eternity, her eyes fixed on the paper, trying to decide. The future of her son weighed heavily on her heart. If she told the truth, would it be too dangerous? Would Francisco’s name on the birth certificate lead to unwanted attention, unwanted questions, from the law, from the sheriff, from those who might come looking for him? Would she put her son at risk?

Her mind raced with fear and guilt. The tension in her chest grew tighter with every passing second. She thought of the kindness she had found in Longhorn—the women who had taken her in, the sense of belonging she had begun to feel. But none of that mattered in this moment. What mattered was survival, and in this small, fleeting decision, her son’s future was bound to the choices she made.

Finally, in a wave of resignation, she caved. Her pen moved across the paper almost mechanically, writing Henry Green's name where Francisco’s should have been. The sickening weight of the lie settled in her stomach, but there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

As soon as the ink dried, Libby shoved the slip of paper back into the envelope with trembling hands and hurried from the Mayor’s office. Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way outside, the bright afternoon sun blinding her.

Before she could stop herself, she doubled over and vomited behind one of the nearby horse troughs. The contents of her stomach emptied: a sickening mixture of guilt and the raw, physical toll of the decision she had just made. She wiped her mouth, her face flushed with shame and exhaustion, her mind reeling. She had just betrayed the memory of the man she loved, and the price of it had never felt so high.

Libby’s days in Longhorn quickly fell into a pattern of exhaustion and overwhelming responsibility. She had never anticipated how difficult it would be to balance her role as a teacher with the demands of motherhood. Every morning, after a restless night of tending to her son, she would rise before the sun, her body aching from the lack of sleep and the thoughts of the tasks ahead.

Her small, humble schoolhouse, which had been her sanctuary when she arrived, was now a burden. The wooden structure creaked in the wind, the walls too thin to shield her from the biting cold or the prying eyes of the townspeople. 

Each morning, she would breastfeed her son, now a few months old, before dressing quickly and preparing a simple breakfast. He was a quiet baby, often content to sleep for hours in his cradle while she taught her small class of eager young students. But there were days when he cried for hours, refusing to settle, and on those days, her patience was surely tested. Her attention split between the needs of her students and the wails of her baby, Libby found herself growing weary, and the guilt weighed on her heavily.

She had chosen to raise him alone, to pretend that Henry Green, her late husband, was the father, and yet every time she looked at her son’s face, she was reminded of the man she had lost. There were moments when the sight of his soft, dark curls or the way his eyes seemed to mimic Francisco’s sent a wave of longing crashing through her heart. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not when there were lessons to teach and papers to grade. Not when the ever-present weight of motherhood pressed down on her in such an unforgiving way.

The schoolhouse was small, and so were her classes. Yet even the quietest days were filled with a constant stream of demands. There were papers to correct, lessons to prepare, and children to tend to. When the bell rang at the end of each school day, she would rush home with her son, who was often already awake and squirming in his cradle. There were days when she could barely muster the energy to prepare dinner or fix the small meal of bread and vegetables that was her usual meal. The nights were long, filled with the sounds of her son’s cries, and she found herself waking up more often than not with the weight of life pressing down on her shoulders.

Despite the difficulty, there were rare moments when her son would smile up at her, his little face lighting up in a way that made the exhaustion worth it. And at times, when she sat in the small rocking chair by the fire, gently soothing him back to sleep, she could almost forget the loneliness that had taken root in her heart.

The town had grown fond of her. Women often came by to check on her, offering to help with the baby or bringing over a dish of food. While Libby appreciated their kindness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was constantly pretending. Pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that she wasn’t haunted by the absence of the man who should have been beside her, holding their child.

There were moments when the burden of it all threatened to break her—when she would find herself staring out of the schoolhouse window, wishing for a different life, wishing for a chance to be just a teacher. But she had made her choices. Necessity had meant that she had created this life for herself, and for her son. She couldn’t go back.

So, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm of teaching, the rhythm of motherhood, a delicate balance that she walked every day, never quite certain if she was doing it right. But for her son, she would keep trying.

Eventually, she caved. She needed help. Mrs. Smith, the lady who had helped her deliver Edward into the world, saw her daily struggle with life and school and offered to take her son during school hours. Overwhelmed with guilt, she agreed. In exchange for a small sum of money, she dropped Edward off every morning and collected him at the end of the day, her body sore, aching, and swollen with milk.

But it meant that she could carry on.

Adjusting to her new routine, one morning, when Edward was about three months old, one of her students, a boy by the name of David, came sprinting into class late.  Libby admonished him for his tardiness, her tone sharp, but David was far too excited to care. He slid into his chair behind his desk and sat down, already whispering to his neighbors. Libby turned her attention back to the blackboard, trying to ignore the disruption happening behind her.

But the whispering grew louder. The noise spread through the classroom like a wildfire. There was a sudden tension in the air and a palpable shift of energy. Libby's teaching instinct told her that something big had happened. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face her students, her eyes looking out over the room. Her gaze finally landed on David, who had been the instigator of the disruption.

“What's got into you all today?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. She raised an eyebrow, questioning. Her voice was full of curiosity and consternation, but David’s excitement was too much to ignore.

“Haven’t you heard, Miss?” David’s voice practically burst with energy. “The Triple Frontier Gang attacked the Army's gold wagons. There was a big shootout and some of them died, but they got away with lots of money.”

“I heard they all died,” piped up Harry, a small, dark-haired boy. “My dad is friends with the deputy Sheriff of Willsto—”

“They couldn’t all die, could they?” interrupted David impatiently. “Otherwise they couldn’t have run off with the money. Stupid.”

“I heard that they're all living like the Queen of England. Rich beyond belief,” exclaimed Lucy, one of Libby’s more sensible students. 

The restless excited chatter resumed, but Libby’s world stopped.

The room seemed to freeze around her, the voices of the children suddenly muffled as a deafening silence filled her mind. The chalk in her hand snapped in half. Her other fingers clenched around the desk as she was overcome with dizziness. She could feel the air tighten in her chest, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. 

The Triple Frontier Gang. Francisco.

Her heart pounded in her chest; it was so loud that she feared that she could hear it thumping in her head. For a moment, it felt as though the walls of the classroom were shrinking, as though she were trapped inside. Her legs felt weak and she could barely find the strength to stand up. The hope she’d clung to, the fragile thread that kept her from fully accepting that she would never see him again, snapped in that moment.

Francisco. 

The man she loved, the man who had made her believe in the possibility of happiness again, was involved in something dangerous. Something that would mean that he might never come back to her. He was either dead or an outlaw.

Forever.

The gang had talked of revenge and of plotting against the Army. And now she realized what they had been planning to do all along. All of that waiting in the hills. Waiting and watching. Ready to exact revenge.

She felt sick to her stomach. Maybe they had got away with lots of money, but that didn’t matter to her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the weight of a new found truth: she would have to raise her son alone. The dream of a family with Francisco was gone. Lost in a way that was potentially irreversible.

Libby’s eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink back. Her vision blurred and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it all felt impossible. She didn’t know how long she stood there, fighting to keep her composure in front of her students, but it felt like a lifetime. The room was suddenly too small, too suffocating.

Her throat tightened, and the words, He’s gone, echoed in her mind.

Tamping down her emotions with great effort, Libby slowly forced her voice to steady. "Alright," she said, her tone more strained than she intended, "back to your work." Her eyes didn’t linger on any one student. She couldn’t look at them or acknowledge their excitement for something so trivial when her whole world was falling apart.

Her hands shook, but she turned back to the blackboard, her mind swirling, the weight of reality crashing over her with the force of a storm. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. She just had to keep going, because that’s all she knew how to do now. Keep going.

Before their departure to Yorkshire, Libby's sister had become pregnant with her first child—a girl. She had shared her symptoms with her younger sibling, talking her through the raft of changes her body was undertaking. Libby now recognized the signs of early pregnancy as her own, and felt a heavy sense of foreboding.

She knew what she needed to do. She made an appointment with the visiting physician who would be in town the following week.

And then all she could do was wait. And worry.

Libby sat in the doctor’s waiting room, anxiety gnawing at her. She might have been naive about sex, but she had known enough married friends and heard enough whispered conversations to know what missed menses could mean. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she awaited her appointment. She was a widow now, and if anyone found out... the scandal would be unbearable. The thought of being pregnant in a small town filled her with dread. The idea of it was insufferable, and she had no idea how to navigate this new possibility. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone know the truth. She had to think her way out of this, if she was pregnant.

Her name was called before she could sink any further into her anxious thoughts. She stood, her body stiff, dread passing through her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced herself to move, crossing the threshold into the doctor's office.

The physician was a kindly, yet dull man, with an unremarkable face that didn’t put Libby at ease. He adjusted his spectacles as he listened to her spin a half-hearted tale of how she had lost her husband to cholera on the trail. As she spoke, the lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she couldn’t risk revealing the truth. Her cheeks burned with shame, a deep flush spreading across her face as she fabricated the details of her life.

After a moment, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came in a flood, genuine this time, as the emotional weight of the situation overwhelmed her. Through trembling lips, she confided in the doctor, admitting what she had feared all along. She thought she might be with child.

The doctor’s expression softened in sympathy. He gestured for her to sit on the examination table, his demeanor calm and professional. Libby felt anything but calm as he asked her to remove her underwear. Her heart raced, her nerves frazzled by the intrusive nature of the examination. She couldn’t stop the trembling of her hands as she complied.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor gave a slight nod, his face grave. “You’re pregnant, Mrs. Green,” he confirmed gently.

At the words, Libby’s world seemed to collapse around her. The world seemed to give way beneath her, and she began sobbing uncontrollably as she lay on the table. This was the worst possible outcome. She had no idea how she would manage. The schoolhouse, her sanctuary and her purpose, felt like a distant dream now.

How could she run it as a single mother? And what would the town say?

She imagined the whispers, the judgmental glances. Her mind reeled with the weight of the social consequences.

In the back of her mind, a flicker of hope still burned—maybe Francisco Morales would return. But it was a faint hope. A fragile thought. She could barely bring herself to consider the actual possibility that he was gone and that she was alone.

As Libby sat at home later, trying to digest the news, she calculated in her mind that she was three months pregnant. She knew exactly when it had happened. It was the night in the guesthouse, the night that had felt like perfection. It had been a moment of connection with Francisco, the man she loved, but it now held an entirely different meaning. That night had left her with a permanent reminder. Of him. Of their time together. Her heart ached at the thought of him and that their perfect night had come at such a heavy price for her.

Libby had never considered that she might get pregnant and neither she nor Frankie had been particularly careful during their time together. It had never happened when she had been married to her late husband Henry, even though they had lain together numerous times. They had come to the conclusion that she was simply unable to carry a child, when it was now very apparent that she could.

Now, with the undeniable signs of pregnancy growing inside her, she was forced to reckon with the fact that she could, and soon would, have a child. The reality of it hit her hard, bringing both a sense of awe and terror. How could this happen now, after everything?

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the reality of her situation sink in. She had never imagined her life would turn out like this. But now it had, there was no turning back. She would raise this child alone, in a town that might never forgive her, if they knew the truth. And somewhere, in the furthest part of her heart, she clung to that sliver of hope that perhaps, one day, Francisco might come back for her.

She needed a plan and it would have to be inventive. A plan that would conceal the truth until she could figure out how to navigate this new reality. When she had first arrived in Longhorn, she had carefully avoided discussing her past, especially the truth about her husband's death overseas while serving his country. Her whole story of her husband, her subsequent adventures on the wagon train had been too painful to share with anyone, too personal. No one in Longhorn knew about her history, so she decided to fabricate a new story, one that would shield her from the judgment of the town. She would tell them exactly what she had told the physician— that her husband had died shortly after joining the wagon train, and that she had only recently discovered she was pregnant. It wasn’t the whole truth, but an approximation of it. It was something she could live with, for the time being.

As the weeks slipped by, Libby’s pregnancy became harder to conceal. Her morning sickness worsened, leaving her exhausted and weak. The days when she felt like she could hold her head up and push through the relentless work of running the schoolhouse felt fewer and farther between. Every morning, the nausea would come as soon as she opened her eyes. The smell of breakfast, the sight of the children gathering, even getting dressed, all made her stomach churn. She forced herself to go through the motions, to appear composed, but deep inside, she was already struggling.

She was still managing, but just barely.

The thought of having to confess the truth to the family she lived with, the family who had taken her in when she first arrived, was an overwhelming burden. She had managed to keep up appearances, and the moment she started showing, there would be no denying the truth. What would they think? Would they believe her story about her husband’s death? Would they judge her for her secretive past, for the fact that she had been with someone else, someone like Frankie?

The weight of that impending revelation made her growing stomach tighten further.

Fortunately, thanks to her well-spoken manner and sharp intelligence, no one ever questioned Libby’s story too closely. No one in Longhorn had arrived on the same wagon train as she had. No one knew about her kidnapping—or her return. If they had, it would’ve been all too easy to connect the two events. And for that, Libby was eternally grateful. No one challenged her truth.

She watched and waited, ever cautious, as her belly grew rounder, her breasts fuller and heavier, and she felt the first fluttering of life stir within her. Each small movement reminded her that everything she knew had changed irrevocably.

Around her, the children and townsfolk went about their daily routines, ignoring the quiet transformation taking place inside her.

The months passed by, and Libby’s belly swelled, the baby inside her growing steadily. Thanksgiving came and went, followed by Christmas, each holiday passed by quietly with little celebration. By the time the new year rolled in, she started to feel as though she might burst.

Rather than stay up until midnight with the other townsfolk, she quietly excused herself and slipped off to bed early. She ached with the baby's increasing demands on her body. 

And then, as the cold of winter gave way to the warmth of spring, new life arrived in Longhorn.

The day Libby went into labor was, what she considered, one of the toughest challenges of her life. It was a trial that eclipsed even the hardships she had faced during her journey to the west. Hours of excruciating, indescribable pain, coupled with overwhelming exhaustion.

She fervently wished that Frankie could be by her side, that he could witness the birth of his child, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself alone with only the physician and Mrs. Smith in the room. The absence of Frankie’s presence was another sting, one more thing that had been taken from her, something she could never get back.

Labor was far from what she had imagined. It dragged on endlessly, each contraction an eternity, each wave of pain coming faster, more intense, than the last. Libby paced the room, desperate to ease the pain that seemed to grow with each passing minute. She hated being confined to the bed. The physician scolded her, his voice stern and tired as he instructed her to lie down again. But lying down was not an option. The pain in her lower back was unbearable. She refused to listen, moving from one position to the next, her body trembling with exhaustion. She huffed and puffed her way through each contraction, crouching on her knees, the bitter words of frustration slipping past her clenched teeth.

Each wave of pain felt like eternity. She swore it had been days, but when she glanced up at the clock, only twelve hours had passed. It was relentless, but Libby didn’t have the luxury of giving up. She had no choice but to press forward, pushing through the agony, her body now moving instinctively, responding to the power of birth.

At last, when it seemed she could go no further, Libby found herself kneeling beside the bed, her body bowed in exhaustion, as if in prayer. With one final, powerful push, the baby came, and Mrs. Smith was there to catch him as he made a grand entrance, holding the tiny, wriggling baby in her arms. The placenta quickly followed and Libby collapsed, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Labor had left her utterly spent. But in the end, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

So overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, she could barely lift her head as the nurse placed the child in her arms.

Exhausted, Libby gazed down at her son, tears streaming down her face. He was so small, so fragile, and so perfect. 

As she looked into his tiny face, a realization washed over her. It was said that newborn babies often resembled their fathers in the beginning, to help with the bonding process, and as Libby studied her son, she couldn’t help but see Frankie in every feature. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his chin—it was as though he had been born with a piece of Frankie inside him.

She tried not to look too hard, though. It was still too painful to focus on the features that reminded her of the man she loved, the man who might never know his child, never be there to help raise him. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to push the sadness to one side.

But the pain of missing him was a constant, always lurking just beneath the surface.

In her new role as a single mother, Libby was met with nothing but kindness and understanding. There were very few women in the town, but those who were there rallied around her, offering gifts of old blankets, gowns, and bonnets for her new arrival. They didn’t ask questions. They embraced her as one of their own; a fellow woman who was simply doing what she had to do to survive in a harsh world.

Despite her fears, Libby found solace in the support of these women. She was no longer alone in her struggle, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, she allowed herself to feel a sense of hope.

Her son, a little piece of Frankie and a little piece of herself, would have a chance at life here in Longhorn, surrounded by people who cared. And maybe, just maybe, with time, she could heal. For the sake of the boy in her arms, she had to.

When it came to registering the birth, Libby’s nerves overwhelmed her. She sat at the desk, staring blankly at the slip of paper before her, her hands trembling. She faced an enormous decision—one that ate at her conscience. Who would she list as her baby’s father?

Her heart and soul screamed that she should acknowledge Francisco Morales, the man who had given her this child, the man she had loved with all her being. But propriety and society had other demands. They told her that she should list her long-dead husband, Henry Green, the one she had claimed had died just after they had set out on the wagon trail. It was the story everyone believed. It was the story that kept her safe, that kept her from the harsh judgments of the townsfolk.

Libby sat there for what felt like an eternity, her eyes fixed on the paper, trying to decide. The future of her son weighed heavily on her heart. If she told the truth, would it be too dangerous? Would Francisco’s name on the birth certificate lead to unwanted attention, unwanted questions, from the law, from the sheriff, from those who might come looking for him? Would she put her son at risk?

Her mind raced with fear and guilt. The tension in her chest grew tighter with every passing second. She thought of the kindness she had found in Longhorn—the women who had taken her in, the sense of belonging she had begun to feel. But none of that mattered in this moment. What mattered was survival, and in this small, fleeting decision, her son’s future was bound to the choices she made.

Finally, in a wave of resignation, she caved. Her pen moved across the paper almost mechanically, writing Henry Green's name where Francisco’s should have been. The sickening weight of the lie settled in her stomach, but there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

As soon as the ink dried, Libby shoved the slip of paper back into the envelope with trembling hands and hurried from the Mayor’s office. Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way outside, the bright afternoon sun blinding her.

Before she could stop herself, she doubled over and vomited behind one of the nearby horse troughs. The contents of her stomach emptied: a sickening mixture of guilt and the raw, physical toll of the decision she had just made. She wiped her mouth, her face flushed with shame and exhaustion, her mind reeling. She had just betrayed the memory of the man she loved, and the price of it had never felt so high.

Libby’s days in Longhorn quickly fell into a pattern of exhaustion and overwhelming responsibility. She had never anticipated how difficult it would be to balance her role as a teacher with the demands of motherhood. Every morning, after a restless night of tending to her son, she would rise before the sun, her body aching from the lack of sleep and the thoughts of the tasks ahead.

Her small, humble schoolhouse, which had been her sanctuary when she arrived, was now a burden. The wooden structure creaked in the wind, the walls too thin to shield her from the biting cold or the prying eyes of the townspeople. 

Each morning, she would breastfeed her son, now a few months old, before dressing quickly and preparing a simple breakfast. He was a quiet baby, often content to sleep for hours in his cradle while she taught her small class of eager young students. But there were days when he cried for hours, refusing to settle, and on those days, her patience was surely tested. Her attention split between the needs of her students and the wails of her baby, Libby found herself growing weary, and the guilt weighed on her heavily.

She had chosen to raise him alone, to pretend that Henry Green, her late husband, was the father, and yet every time she looked at her son’s face, she was reminded of the man she had lost. There were moments when the sight of his soft, dark curls or the way his eyes seemed to mimic Francisco’s sent a wave of longing crashing through her heart. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not when there were lessons to teach and papers to grade. Not when the ever-present weight of motherhood pressed down on her in such an unforgiving way.

The schoolhouse was small, and so were her classes. Yet even the quietest days were filled with a constant stream of demands. There were papers to correct, lessons to prepare, and children to tend to. When the bell rang at the end of each school day, she would rush home with her son, who was often already awake and squirming in his cradle. There were days when she could barely muster the energy to prepare dinner or fix the small meal of bread and vegetables that was her usual meal. The nights were long, filled with the sounds of her son’s cries, and she found herself waking up more often than not with the weight of life pressing down on her shoulders.

Despite the difficulty, there were rare moments when her son would smile up at her, his little face lighting up in a way that made the exhaustion worth it. And at times, when she sat in the small rocking chair by the fire, gently soothing him back to sleep, she could almost forget the loneliness that had taken root in her heart.

The town had grown fond of her. Women often came by to check on her, offering to help with the baby or bringing over a dish of food. While Libby appreciated their kindness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was constantly pretending. Pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that she wasn’t haunted by the absence of the man who should have been beside her, holding their child.

There were moments when the burden of it all threatened to break her—when she would find herself staring out of the schoolhouse window, wishing for a different life, wishing for a chance to be just a teacher. But she had made her choices. Necessity had meant that she had created this life for herself, and for her son. She couldn’t go back.

So, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm of teaching, the rhythm of motherhood, a delicate balance that she walked every day, never quite certain if she was doing it right. But for her son, she would keep trying.

Eventually, she caved. She needed help. Mrs. Smith, the lady who had helped her deliver Edward into the world, saw her daily struggle with life and school and offered to take her son during school hours. Overwhelmed with guilt, she agreed. In exchange for a small sum of money, she dropped Edward off every morning and collected him at the end of the day, her body sore, aching, and swollen with milk.

But it meant that she could carry on.

Adjusting to her new routine, one morning, when Edward was about three months old, one of her students, a boy by the name of David, came sprinting into class late.  Libby admonished him for his tardiness, her tone sharp, but David was far too excited to care. He slid into his chair behind his desk and sat down, already whispering to his neighbors. Libby turned her attention back to the blackboard, trying to ignore the disruption happening behind her.

But the whispering grew louder. The noise spread through the classroom like a wildfire. There was a sudden tension in the air and a palpable shift of energy. Libby's teaching instinct told her that something big had happened. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face her students, her eyes looking out over the room. Her gaze finally landed on David, who had been the instigator of the disruption.

“What's got into you all today?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. She raised an eyebrow, questioning. Her voice was full of curiosity and consternation, but David’s excitement was too much to ignore.

“Haven’t you heard, Miss?” David’s voice practically burst with energy. “The Triple Frontier Gang attacked the Army's gold wagons. There was a big shootout and some of them died, but they got away with lots of money.”

“I heard they all died,” piped up Harry, a small, dark-haired boy. “My dad is friends with the deputy Sheriff of Willsto—”

“They couldn’t all die, could they?” interrupted David impatiently. “Otherwise they couldn’t have run off with the money. Stupid.”

“I heard that they're all living like the Queen of England. Rich beyond belief,” exclaimed Lucy, one of Libby’s more sensible students. 

The restless excited chatter resumed, but Libby’s world stopped.

The room seemed to freeze around her, the voices of the children suddenly muffled as a deafening silence filled her mind. The chalk in her hand snapped in half. Her other fingers clenched around the desk as she was overcome with dizziness. She could feel the air tighten in her chest, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. 

The Triple Frontier Gang. Francisco.

Her heart pounded in her chest; it was so loud that she feared that she could hear it thumping in her head. For a moment, it felt as though the walls of the classroom were shrinking, as though she were trapped inside. Her legs felt weak and she could barely find the strength to stand up. The hope she’d clung to, the fragile thread that kept her from fully accepting that she would never see him again, snapped in that moment.

Francisco. 

The man she loved, the man who had made her believe in the possibility of happiness again, was involved in something dangerous. Something that would mean that he might never come back to her. He was either dead or an outlaw.

Forever.

The gang had talked of revenge and of plotting against the Army. And now she realized what they had been planning to do all along. All of that waiting in the hills. Waiting and watching. Ready to exact revenge.

She felt sick to her stomach. Maybe they had got away with lots of money, but that didn’t matter to her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the weight of a new found truth: she would have to raise her son alone. The dream of a family with Francisco was gone. Lost in a way that was potentially irreversible.

Libby’s eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink back. Her vision blurred and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it all felt impossible. She didn’t know how long she stood there, fighting to keep her composure in front of her students, but it felt like a lifetime. The room was suddenly too small, too suffocating.

Her throat tightened, and the words, He’s gone, echoed in her mind.

Tamping down her emotions with great effort, Libby slowly forced her voice to steady. "Alright," she said, her tone more strained than she intended, "back to your work." Her eyes didn’t linger on any one student. She couldn’t look at them or acknowledge their excitement for something so trivial when her whole world was falling apart.

Her hands shook, but she turned back to the blackboard, her mind swirling, the weight of reality crashing over her with the force of a storm. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. She just had to keep going, because that’s all she knew how to do now. Keep going.

His thoughts had been on Tess - on how all he had left of her was the promise he made regarding his current cargo, and the fact that with Bill and Frank gone, and Tommy’s fate uncertain, keeping her memory alive rested fully on his shoulders. He was the only one left who knew the slant of her smirk or the kind of things that put it there. He was the only one who knew about her penchant for trashy old romance novels, the only one familiar with the sound of her hum as she washed dishes or cleaned her gun, the only soul to swipe salty tears from her cheeks on nights when she couldn’t keep up the facade. He was the only one left who knew Tess, and not just the hardened survivor she had become. 

But that wasn’t quite true. 

He cleared his throat and glanced over at his passenger, the girl’s eyes trained expectantly on him as she waited for his answer. The ghost of disappointment over his response to whether or not he saw her as family still lingered there, but it wasn’t enough to stifle her inquisitive nature. A pang of guilt struck dully through his chest, and Joel recognized it as the vestigial need to put her mind at ease the way he would have done for his own daughter in another lifetime. It faded quickly. She wasn’t Sarah, and his heart had already reached its limit on the number of times it could break without killing him, so he couldn’t afford to let her inside of it. 

The look on his face must have given her the impression that he hadn’t heard her question, so she asked it again. “The tomato lady.” She blinked, clearing the wispy disappointment from her eyes as she resituated herself in the seat. “If we’re taking a detour just to deliver a letter to her then you must give a shit. So do you see her as family?” 

Joel frowned and considered her question as your face filled his memory. He hadn’t seen you in just under a year, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d had a conversation with you that lasted more than five minutes. But those few conversations had been warm and welcome ones, ones held around the table at Bill and Frank’s over a well-cooked meal and a bottle of wine he’d be helpless to remember the name of, ones that fostered laughter and made the prospect of soldiering on in a rotten, broken down world seem more worthwhile. You’d become special to Bill and Frank, the pair often talking about you when you weren’t there, so even though he hadn’t spent a ton of time with you, Joel still felt like he knew you. 

Like you, in a small way, knew him. 

Moreover, you knew Tess. She, like Frank, had been far more receptive to the idea of growing their social circle beyond the four of them, and you and she had hit it off from the start. He saw how easily she let you in, how you provided a kind of friendship for her that he simply couldn’t. He saw how unguarded she was with you, even in just those handful of times you’d all been together. He noticed an uptick in her mood on days when they knew you’d be at Bill and Frank’s, and though he, like Bill, had bristled at first when it came to including you in their lives, Joel knew that Tess never had. 

Joel thought back to the day he met you, a coincidental crossing of paths during an unscheduled trade run, the stress of getting back to Boston as quickly as possible to get Tess out of lockup hanging over his head as Frank introduced you to him. You’d given him a smile then, even though all he could muster in return was a scowl, one that he wore until he and Tess were back in their apartment, thin early-morning sunlight peeking through the shades. 

“Did you know Bill and Frank have been talkin’ to other people? Invitin’ ‘em over?” 

She had asked him what had crawled up his ass to put such a look on his face, and that’s how he’d answered. 

Letting out a huff, she sunk into the battered couch cushions. “It’s just one other person, but yeah.” She said your name then. “She lives a few hours west of them. Frank found her on the radio, same as us. I met her when I was there last month, actually, and-” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Joel shifted his weight to one leg, hand resting on his hip.“How do we know we can trust her?” 

He could feel the deep furrows cutting into his forehead. It wasn’t anger. Tess was her own person and he didn’t presume to think that he had any sort of control over her, or over whom she spoke to. It was more a failure to understand why she wouldn’t have mentioned you beforehand. He would have told her. Then again, he told her everything. 

Tess sighed, scrubbing one palm down over her face. “I figured you’d meet her eventually.” She let out another puff of air that only he would know was actually a laugh. “I know your stance on stranger danger, so I knew you wouldn’t be thrilled about it. You’re not what I’d call a social butterfly, Joel.” She shrugged and gave him a look that he knew meant that there was nothing he could say to refute it. “As far as trust? She’s a widowed tomato gardener who lives on her own in the middle of an abandoned town. She’s not exactly a threat to our operation. Besides, Bill trusts her, and he’s even more paranoid than you are, so that’s gotta count for something.” 

Though she was exhausted and dirty and there was a bruise forming on her left cheek from the events that led up to her capture, she hit him with that smirk he knew so well and that was all it took for him to drop his wariness. 

As he got to know you over time, he realized that Frank and Bill and Tess were right to have trusted you, to have let you in. He realized that he had unwittingly done the same. So when he and the girl he’d promised Tess he would get out of Boston and into the hands of someone who could take her to the Fireflies arrived to find nothing but a locked bedroom door and two sealed envelopes on the table, Joel didn’t even think twice about what he had to do. You deserved to know. You deserved to hear the news from someone you trusted. And as far as he knew, he was the only one left who fit that description for you. 

“There’s another letter here,” the girl had said after reading Bill’s farewell out loud. She sniffed, shuffling the envelope so she could read out your name. “Who’s that?” 

Joel’s eyes flicked involuntarily to a shelf in the kitchen where he knew he’d find a few jars of your homemade sauce. He thought back to the last book he’d seen Tess reading, some faded and dog-eared paperback with Fabio on the cover that he knew she’d gotten from you. He recalled the pleasant surprise he felt when you’d referred to yourself as his friend and he found that the description fit. 

“She’s a friend,” Joel stated, reaching his hand out for her to pass him the letters. Her eyebrows flew up in shock as she gave them to him, clearly not expecting to hear the word friend come out of his mouth. He cleared his throat and shoved both envelopes into his pocket. “A friend of Bill and Frank’s.” 

And Tess’. 

And mine. 

He left out the full truth and the girl’s shock vanished. “Oh. Well, then why are you taking it? Shouldn’t we leave it where she can find it?” 

He sighed. “She lives in the direction we’re headed. We’ll drop it off on our way outta Massachusetts.” 

“You know where she lives?” 

“Roughly.”

“Roughly?” 

“I know which town she’s in and what street she’s on, and I know she’s got a big greenhouse full of tomatoes in her yard. Won’t be too hard to find.” 

She’d tried to ask more questions then but Joel put a stop to the seemingly endless stream, telling her that he’d need some time to get the truck battery ready and that she should grab what she could from the house. To her credit, the girl dropped the topic of you and your relevance in his life. Within a few hours they’d both cleaned up and gathered what they’d need for the journey, and then they hit the road. 

That’s when the girl’s questions picked back up. When she’d asked about Tommy, which had led to Tess and finally herself, receiving the answers of “family”, “like family” and “cargo” respectively. Which had led back to you. “You must give a shit. So is she like family?” 

His nod came before he knew he was moving, but despite the fact that this was the first time he acknowledged it, Joel felt how true his response was. “Yeah. Guess she is.” 

---

Thank you for reading!! :)

She had confided that she wasn't entirely convinced as to what species he was. You simply hid behind your coy smile because you knew that Din was human, you'd shared enough intimate moments alone with him in the cot on board the Razor Crest to know that on previous trips. Many stolen moments where you had removed his beskar piece by piece, kissed the constellations of scars that littered his battle-worn body, and explored places that few others had. You had never seen his face, but that didn't bother you; your ability to read his gestures and body movements told you everything you needed to know about how he felt about you.

“So, where are we off to?” You were spinning around in the co-pilot's chair - your chair - right by his side, looking at him as you spoke.

“Thought we might take a trip to Rishi,” he said as he continued to crunch numbers into the console. Adept at reading his body language, you noticed a slight shift as he spoke. Your eyes narrowed, slightly.

“What are you up to Din Djarin, hmmm?”

The question made him look up, “Nothing, cyar'ika.”

You reached out for the holopad on the console, wanting to check your destination. It wasn't the name of a planet you recognized. Scanning through the notes that appeared in front of you, you read it out loud, “A tropical planet in the Outer Rim. What are we going there for?”

“I have some business that I need to take care of.”

This news surprised you, because Din usually shared all of his plans with you - you were a team. Very rarely did he make a decision without you.

“Oh, okay,” you said, frowning. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“Once we hit the hyperlane, about forty standard hours.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned, with a twinkle in your eye, as you reached across to take his gloved hand in your own bare one. You began to slowly peel the glove from his hand, keeping your eyes trained solely on his visor. “How are we going to fill the time?”

“Cyar'ika,” he growled, “we haven't taken off yet.”

“Too right,” you replied smugly.

Rishi

You walked down the ramp of the Razor Crest, side by side with the Mandalorian. The ship was resting on a lush, green landing strip just outside of Corataani Town, the main trading center of the planet. 

The vibrantly green rainforest that sat adjacent to the space port, was teeming with exotic wildlife. You could hear the chatter of the Orobirds that sat high in the trees above the hum of nearby engines.

It was both hot and humid and you were hit by a wall of tropical heat as you descended from the cool belly of durasteel that had been your home for the duration of the trip.

Rishi was not a hostile planet, but Din was always armed and ready. It used to be a hive of pirate activity and there were still reminders of their activities here and there.

“Where are we headed, D-Mando?” You always struggled to remember his public moniker, especially after spending several days holed up in the Crest together where you had spent so much time whispering his real name reverently over and over again.

He cleared his throat and took his time before replying, “Rishi lies on the Manda Merchant Trade Route and has a busy market. I thought you might like a visit. I need you to pick up some more supplies because we have a few more stops after this.” 

“We do?” For the second time in the last few standard days, Din had caught you by surprise.

“We do,” he confirmed. “Let's divide and conquer. But keep your comlink handy. And keep your eyes peeled for thieves and pirates.”

“Always,” you said, brightly as he handed you a bag of credits. “How long will you be?”

“Meet you back here in an hour,” he said, pointing at the town gates.

“In an hour,” you said over your shoulder as you skipped off to find the marketplace.

Just as you'd hoped, the market was vibrant and exciting. Delicious smells, colorful fruits, luxurious fabrics - the list went on. It was an assault on all of the senses. You strode through with purpose, haggling for supplies for your onward journey, feeling jubilant every time you bartered with a vendor and lowered the price.

Satisfied with your purchases, you made your way out of the market and back towards your meeting point. Because he was easy to pick out in a crowd, Din's absence at the gate was immediately obvious. You panicked a little, it was unlike Din to be late. He was never late. 

You were juggling too many parcels to reach your comlink, which was safely stowed in your pocket, and so you decided to wait - and hope.

After standing for ten or so minutes, you were seriously starting to think of returning to the space port, because the Trandoshan standing on the opposite side of the gate was starting to take too much interest in you, you caught a glint of silver on the corner of your eye and relaxed.

“Ready?” He surveyed the parcels you were struggling to hold on to and lifted a few out of your hands.

“Ready,” you affirmed. “Not sure I like the look that guy is giving me.” You raised your eyebrows and nodded in the direction of your observer. Din's head turned to look and the Trandoshan shrank back into the shadows, leaving only his scaly tail visible.

On the walk back to the ship, something felt off. It took you a few minutes to figure out what it was. It lingered in the air, something familiar  - it smelled like ozone and carbon. It was definitely blaster fire.

“Everything okay? Have you been in a fight?”

“All good,” said Din firmly as he lowered the ramp on the Crest, pressing a button on his vambrace, ignoring your second question.

“Where are we going next?”

“Ilum.”

Ilum

As the Razor Crest dropped out of hyperspace, you looked out of the viewport towards the gray planet looming towards you. 

You pulled your tunic down as you spoke, “What's that white swirling pattern in the atmosphere?” 

You turned towards Din, who was still half-dressed and didn't look in a great hurry to put his armor back on.

“It’s an ice planet,” he said, turning his head to look for himself. “Inhospitable for most species. Would you like to land there?”

You shivered at the thought and doubted that you had enough warm clothes to survive for more than five minutes outside of the spacecraft. “I'd rather stay where it's nice and warm.”

Din just shrugged as he let his flight suit drop back to the floor, “It's close enough, I suppose. Maybe we should just move on.”

You arched an eyebrow at him, “Close enough to what?” You echoed his words back at him. “Move on to where?”

Din pulled your tunic back over your head, making you squeal as he roughly pulled you in, tugging at the buttons on your pants as he reeled you into his body.

“But we’ve only just…,” you panted as you brushed up against his cold breastplate.

“I'll set a course for Dalna,” he said, walking you backwards towards the pilot's chair, making you forget your other questions.

Dalna

Looking up from the holopad,  Dalna came into view. It looked interesting shades of green and blue from this vantage point, and you stood up to get a better view. After traveling in hyperspace for around a standard week, seeing a physical planet felt like a small luxury. As much as you loved spending time with Din on the Razor Crest, you needed to stretch your legs and feel a solid planet beneath your feet.

Din dropped into the pilot's seat and casually flipped a few switches to guide the ship towards the planet's surface.

You looked back down at the notes that you were reading, “It says here that Dalna is agricultural. Do we need anything agricultural?”

“There are some magnificent waterfalls here and I thought…”

Unable to contain your excitement, you jumped out of your seat and caused the holopad to fly out of your lap, where it was deftly caught by Din.

“Yes!” You cheered loudly. “I've only ever seen one on the holonet. Yes!” Din gave a small snort of approval and a loud huff as you grabbed him tightly around the waist.

“How did you remember?”

“I always remember what you tell me, cyar'ika. It's about an hour's walk from here.”

“I could do with stretching my legs and getting some decent exercise.”

He pulled you in tightly and his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, “Are you saying you aren't getting enough exercise? Do you want more? I can give you more, cyare.”

You fluttered your eyelashes at him, “I’ll take as much as you can give. But first, let’s see this cascade of water.”

Din released you from his hold. “Mr'sheb,” he whispered as you gathered some belongings together. You wiggled your rear at him as you bent down to tie your boot laces.

The walk through was pleasant, the terrain was gentle and the canopy of trees provided cool shade from the two suns. As you walked, you listened to the symphony of birds in the high-up branches and the rustle of animals running through the undergrowth, reminding you that this forest was a living, breathing thing.

Finally, the woodland began to thin, the air became fresher and cleaner, and the light became brighter. You could hear the roar of the water rushing as you approached the edge of the trees.

And then you stopped in your tracks, staring in wonder at the sight ahead. It was a tumbling, cascading, tumult of water which rumbled down into the plunge pool below. The sun picked out the droplets of spray that bounced back into the air, creating a vibrant rainbow of iridescence which danced around. It took your breath away and you stopped in your tracks as you stared.

“Din,” you said, reaching out to take his hand in yours, “It's beautiful. Thank you”

Din said nothing, but simply reciprocated by giving your hand a squeeze whilst he looked at you, as you looked at the magnificent sight ahead.

You both stood in silence and awe, watching and admiring. Finally, Din spoke up, “I think you would stand here forever, but we need to get moving.”

“We do?” You reluctantly dragged your eyes up to look at his visor. 

“We do,” he confirmed. “We're going to Utapau.”

Utapau

You had been sitting in your chair watching through the viewport as Utapau loomed up on you. This one was unlike the others you had visited so far, consisting of vast stretches of grasslands interspersed with what looked like deep sinkholes, making for an interesting terrain.

“Where are the inhabitants?” You couldn't see any settlements, just grasslands.

“All underground,” replied Din, guiding the craft, towards the largest sinkhole, before dropping down inside it. The Razor Crest made a smooth landing on one of the upper level docks just on the fringes.

The walk into the city was a short one, but fascinating. The buildings were carved into the bedrock, with supporting bone structures, making them beautiful and slightly creepy. You also tried not to look down too often, because the eleven levels seemed to go downwards forever and the drop was endless.

“I have to go and meet someone on the trade level. There are plenty of places for you to look at whilst I'm gone.” he didn't look at you as he spoke.

“Again?” You turned to look at him, searching for any indicators in his body language. 

“I won't be any longer than necessary. Try to stay out of trouble.” His gloved hand brushed against yours, giving it an almost imperceptible squeeze.

“I think you'll find that I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble finds me.” You hooked your little finger around his, your way of saying goodbye.

“You have your comlink. Use it if you sense danger.” With those parting words, he moved off on a different trajectory and you watched him move away into the jostling crowds. 

Slipping your hand into your tunic pocket, there was no sign of your comlink.

"Dank farrik,” you sighed, as you realized it was still sitting on the console in the Crest. 

Looking around, the shops were bustling with activity and you thought that it would be best to mingle with the crowds rather than stand and wait, you needed new socks anyway.

Browsing around, you found an ancient-looking antique store that looked like it contained a treasure trove of artifacts. And then you found them, lurking in a dark and dusty corner - a set of children's books. You had only encountered books a couple of times in your life - they were rarities because most of the Galaxy preferred flimsiplast, data-tapes or holovids.

Picking them carefully off of the shelf, you turned them over in your hands, wondering if they might fall apart if you turned the pages. You held your breath as you opened the cover of the first book and miraculously, it was complete and intact.

You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the books, turning them over in your hands, debating with yourself as to whether you could afford to buy them. You only stopped thinking about them when you felt a familiar presence come to rest behind you.

“They're yours,” said Din, coming to stand close. “Put them in your shoulder bag.”

“Sorry? Are you telling me to steal them?”

“No, I’ve been watching you through the window. You have that dreamy look on your face; it's the same one you have when you watch Grogu sleeping, so I bought them for you.”

“For me? You bought them? I don't know how to say thank you.” You hugged the books tightly to your chest as though they were as precious as the foundling.

“I can think of a few ways,” he said, leaning in closely as he furtively ran a finger down the curve of your spine. The coarse leather of the glove dragged the fabric with a friction that made your skin tingle.

“Back to the Crest, then?” You surreptitiously pressed your back into his body. “And did you sort out whatever it was you needed to do?”

“Yes and no,” he replied cryptically, leading you out of the store.

“So we aren't going home yet?” Your mind wandered to Grogu how much you missed him.

“Not yet, two more stops. Umbara next.”

Umbara

“Why Umbara, Mando? You walked down the ramp together and into the cityscape.

“We need to refuel and do some running repairs,” he said as he scanned around looking for a port maintenance hand.

You tutted - The Crest was always in need of repairs and you watched as Din found who he needed and headed off to sort it out.

You caught up with him just as he finished handing over a bag of credits.

“Might take a few hours,” he said. “We could take a look around.” You reluctantly agreed with him. Ueda was a giant metropolis, nowhere near as beautiful as Utapau nor Dalna. The ships buzzed past in their lanes, sweeping in and out, around the skyscrapers and the bustle reminded you of Coruscant. You followed Din’s lead and headed into the noise and bustle.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you rounded the next corner- there in front of you was a large statue of an Imperial Admiral which glared down on all he surveyed. It was a stark reminder of those that you'd lost in the name of freedom and it made the bile rise in your throat.

“Was this an Imperial stronghold?”

“Looks like it,” said Din, as he too stared up at the monument. He'd never talked about what he was doing during the years of The Empire, but you knew his allegiances lay elsewhere now.

“You know how I don't go looking for trouble,” you said, unable to tear your eyes away, “but how do you like the idea of bringing down that monstrosity?”

Din turned his visor towards you. “You're serious?”

“Deadly,” you replied as you reached into your bag to find your thermal detonators. “It's not busy right now. How about we go and plant them and then clear the area?” Without waiting for a response, you both moved towards the statue.

As you approached, you read the plaque at its base “Admiral Thrawn.” You were going to enjoy this - really enjoy this, and you bent down to lay the charges. Din moved to the position side.

“Oi!” You ignored the voice as you set to work. 

“You!” The voice rang out again and you looked up to see a large Houk approach your location. He was approaching with his blaster drawn. 

You stood up slowly, placing your back towards the statue, wondering where Din was.

“I want your weapons. I don't give a mudskuffer's tail about the statue,” he growled, pointing his weapon directly at your chest. Slowly, trying to buy time, you reached for your bag, but before you could do anything, blaster fire rang out. The Houk grabbed you by the throat and pulled you into his body, using you as a shield, pointing his blaster in the direction of the noise. He was so close that the smell of his breath made your stomach roil.

“Release her or I'll gut you like a burr fish,” growled the deep tones of the vocoder behind you, and you relaxed, knowing that Din was safe and soon you would be too. The Houk just laughed and gripped tighter to your neck, making you gasp for air as you struggled in his hands. 

Without any further warning, the large hand that was squeezing yours slackened its grip and you collapsed to the ground clutching your throat as your large captor toppled behind you with a heavy thud.

A pair of strong arms lifted you up, hoisting you up into safety. Din ignored the looks from passersby as he walked through the metropolis back towards the port. He flicked the vambrace on his wrist and several of the grenades detonated, causing the statue to topple and crumble. You watched Din's parting gift to Umbara as it hit the floor with a loud crash, plumes of dust, and screaming

“Not going to lose you, cyar'ika,” he grunted as he headed for the Crest on the landing pad. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head and whispered, “No. I'm fine.” You watched the lights retreat over his shoulder as he moved swiftly and resolutely towards the docking bay and the safety of his ship.

“Good, then let me take care of you.”

“But I'm not… oh,” you said, catching onto his meaning.

As he climbed the ramp, holding you still in his arms, you buried your head in his shoulder and whispered, “Let's get out of here. Where next?”

“Ryloth,” came the reply.

Ryloth

Sitting on a rocky outcrop with the sun on your back, you surveyed the landscape before you. You had been on an incredible journey over that last standard month and had seen more in that time than you had over most of your lifetime and experienced dangers across the galaxy. The tropical rainforest stretched out ahead of you, as far as the eye could see.

You didn't think you had encountered a place with as much beauty as this. As much as you loved your little home on the lava flats of Nevarro, it couldn't compare with this.

Behind you, you heard the gentle swish of a cape. His footsteps might be silent, but the breeze could not disguise his advance. You stood up as Din approached, turning to face him.

“Meshla.”

“Yes, it is very beautiful here,” you sighed, looking from Din back to the valley behind you.

“No, I meant you. It's pretty here, but nothing compared to you,” he moved to stand beside you, close enough to feel his presence, his vambrace lightly brushing your arm, and instead of looking at the vista, his visor was trained on you.

“Haven't you worked it out yet?” He sounded amused. Din rarely did amused, or games. He had no patience for riddles or puzzles.

“I-I don't understand what you mean, Din,” you said. 

“Think about all of the places that we have visited. Where have we been?” He was amused by your confusion. 

You looked at the beskar helmet. “We've been to Rishi, Ilum, Dalna, Utapau, Umbara, and now we are standing on the surface of Ryloth.” You recited each planet on your fingers as you recounted your journey.

Suddenly, the tempo of your heart increased as you worked through the answer.

“Oh. Oh,” you said, clapping your hand over your mouth in realization. “If-if I take the first letter of each planet, it spells R-I-D-U-U-R.” 

It was an important word and its significance was not lost on you. You knew what it meant, of course. Din had told you that one day he would ask you to take the vow with him.

“Riduur. Partner,” you whispered, closing your eyes for a moment as you let the truth sink in. A tear pricked at the corner of your eye and your heart was hammering so hard in your chest that you thought that it might burst through your ribcage. 

Din, who had been watching you closely during your revelation, finally spoke. His vocoder sounded hoarse, “Riduur. If you will say the vows with me?”

“Din!” You gasped. “Kriff! That is one hell of a proposal. How could I ever turn you down after that? But here? Now?”

“Can't think of anywhere better,” he said, clasping your hand in his and turning to face you. “Mandalorian's can make their riduurok wherever, whenever. If you want to?” His last words were softly spoken and gentle. He opened his gloved palm to show you a silvery, delicate looking chain, adorned with a mudhorn pendant - the sign of his clan. Now, your clan.

“A beskar pedant,” he said, “as a symbol of my commitment to you. To us. I acquired the beskar in Rishi and had the pendant made on Utapau. The Armorer is more skilled, but there wasn't time to return to Mandalore.”

He had done this for you - all of it for you. You raised yourself up, placing your free hand upon the side of his helmet, roughly where you imagined his cheek to be and stroked the cold armor with your thumb, looking into the t-shaped visor. 

Pressing your forehead against the top of his helmet, you whispered, “I am ready, riduur.”

Cyar'ika - darling

Mr'sheb - smart ass

Riduur - spouse

Meshla - beautiful

Author's Note: well done if you figured it our before the end.

Here is each planet that they dropped on.

Rishi

Ilum

Dalnar

Utapau

Umbara

Joel keeps walking, unhurriedly stepping into a bigger room with high walls and comfortable chairs to sit around, his gaze seeking his most cherished treasures: his daughter and wife. It doesn't take much to find them, always attuned to them, to be bestowed a mesmerizing sight he knows he will never tire of contemplating, of adoring.

Sarah is standing on the other side of the room, fascinated by what she's looking at, talking to her mother as she points at something inside the water. The bond between them, one carved not by blood but by choice, glows vibrantly and alive as they laugh together, filling Joel's heart with so much joy it sketches a smile on his face.

The two of them, dressed in matching flowery summer dresses and sneakers, beckon him, guide him through the space and the people scattered around the room.

Joel steps behind his wife. Her body welcomes him as soon as he invades her personal space, recognizing him instantly and leaning against him once his hands cradle her belly, ripe and heavy, carrying his child, barely four weeks away from the due date. He takes the weight of her belly on his palms, using the strength of his arms to lift it enough to relieve her body for a spell, feeling her sigh against his chest in gratitude as they start to sway, side to side.

“You doin’ ok, Sweetheart?” He whispers, nuzzling her neck, pressing his nose just below her ear, where her scent is thicker, filling his lungs with the fresh whiffs of honey and vanilla of her body lotion.

She rolls her eyes. Annoyed, but also fond and loving. Understanding of Joel's anxieties, his worry about how today could strain her body. “Yes, as I’ve been the last twenty times you’ve asked me.” He chuckles, apologising with a kiss on her cheek as she keeps talking. “Sarah is having a good time.” Joel looks down at Sarah, sitting beside the glass, staring at the sea turtles.

There are three of them swimming close. Healthy and big. They move with grace, as if they were flying, with resilience and a quiet, but mighty strength.

“Yes. We did well in coming here for the weekend.” 

Their weekend getaway was rooted in the desire to give Sarah a little adventure before the baby was born, and their lives became chaotic for a while. Sarah's only request had been to visit the aquarium, which served as the perfect excuse to drive for a couple of hours to Corpus Christy so they could visit the Texas State Aquarium and enjoy the beaches and the sea now that the summer had begun. And the heat was still pleasant and welcomed.

"Yes," she agrees, still swaying a little. “I have a question, though.” Joel hums in answer, looking at the turtles, content to enjoy the peace these gentle giants transmit. “I was thinking…”

"About?" Joel wonders, his curiosity awoken by the tone, the hints of excitement in her voice.

“Sophia or Irene?” She asks, carefully watching Joel's expression transform, his confusion melt into surprise and bewilderment.

“What?” It's his turn to ask, not daring to assume what those names mean, needing her to say it out loud as his heart drums underneath his sternum and his blood pulsates in his veins.

“For the baby.” Her hands caress her belly, tenderly roaming the covered skin as they land on top of Joel's, weaving their fingers together. "They mean wisdom and peace. Respectively. Have I ever told you that the sea turtles were my grandma's favourite animal?" She explains, cherishing the memories of the woman who taught her to cook and helped raise her. "She once told me that those are some of the symbols sea turtles are related to. And those names are on our list. Maybe it's a silly reason to choose our daughter's name, but Sophia has been on my mind a lot these past days."

“Sophia?” Joel’s astonishment floods his voice.

“Yeah…”

“We’re having a girl?” He asks again, needing to hear her state it once more.

“Yes,” she admits, the corner of her mouth pulled up, sheepish and unrepentant, caught in her mischief, but too ecstatic to care. Her teeth nibble her lower lip, waiting for Joel's reaction. “I'm sorry. I know we said we’d wait until she was born, but when I went back inside the doctor's office at the last appointment to grab my purse, I couldn't stop myself, and I asked the doctor."

“Another girl, uh? Fuck.” Joel buries his face in her shoulder, trying to contain the wave of emotion flooding him. He fails, the awe in his voice, the tears dampening her skin, and his shaking body betray him as he squeezes her harder against him. Elated, blissfully happy at the news, already certain of how thrilled Sarah will be.

The giggles flee from her ribs, too big and powerful to contain, as she nods, pressing her cheek to Joel's curls, with no rush to move, giving Joel the safety to stay still as her revelation sinks into his bones.

Before, when fate slashed him deep enough to scar his soul, when being forsaken took on a new meaning, sharper and viler. And he became a single father, barely sleeping, working as many hours as his body could endure, constantly feeling like he was drowning, failing constantly, unfit, never good enough to be a father as Sarah's milestones kept coming, suffocating him with his anxiety: the first word, the first steps, the teething, the first cold and stomach bugs, the first cut deep enough to need stitches. He never thought he could have this, a confidant, a best friend, a lover, a wife with whom to face any obstacle together, with whom to raise Sarah, and welcome more children into their family.

His person had appeared when he least expected. She had been a wave of fresh air, a kindred spirit who saw him, understood him in a way that had never happened to him, bewitching him, healing his scars with patience and love.

And as he moves, grinning, gazing at her before leaning forward, ravenous for her lips, he's certain, with an unwavering faith. His life hadn't turned out as he expected or dreamed of. However, he's on the winning side.

“Nothing.”

“That's a large sigh for nothing,” he observes. His visor, trained solely on your face, never wavers. It's unnerving, but not in a frightening way, just in a way that leaves you feeling seen in a quiet way. That he wants to hear what you've got to say. He is, after all, a Mandalorian, and as well as being a fierce warrior and bounty hunter, you know that his core values are based on honesty and integrity.

You’ve come to value his honesty too much not to answer in kind.

“I was just thinking,” you start.

“Dangerous,” teases Din lightly. 

“Heyyyyy,” you reply, in mock offence. “That's rude! I'm not the one who keeps putting themselves in harm's way.”

“No. But you're still here, despite the danger.” He shifts in his chair, folding his arms across his beskar-covered chest plate, his black visor still fixed on you, as if daring you to respond.

You jut out your chin, ready to protest when a well-timed, soft cooing noise from the back of the cockpit diverts your attention.

“I stay to make sure nothing happens to Grogu,” you say boldly, crossing your own arms, mocking his posture.

For a few moments neither of you speak, you just posture.

Changing tack, Din is the first to break the silence. “So what is it you're thinking?” His tone shifts into something more serious.

“Well,” you say, finally breaking eye contact, unsure of how to ask for what it is you want. Instead, your eyes focus on the small stain on the cockpits durasteel floor—the one left by Grogu last week, which you had been meaning to clean up.

“I would like to visit somewhere new,” you say with an air of wistfulness. “Somewhere beautiful. We've been chasing bounties through some of the sleaziest bantha-dung holes across the galaxy recently, and…”

You take a beat to collect your thoughts. “And I thought it might be nice to… see somewhere, well, nice.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, see somewhere nice. Beautiful even. I'm sure this galaxy must have some beauty left in it—even after the Empire's had its grubby hands on most of it.” 

You think nostalgically of your home planet of Aldaeraan. Its beautiful lands, once covered in greenery and teeming with life. All obliterated in the blink of an eye.

“We don’t have enough credits to make a detour,” he says matter-of-factly. “When we've dropped off this bounty and paid for the repairs to the Crest, we'll just have enough to get back to Nevarro.” His visor never leaves your face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you chide, feeling downhearted at his reply as you try to hide your disappointment.

“You can't see how I'm looking at you,” replies Din, his voice deeper than before.

“No,” you say, “but I can imagine the look on your face right now, you—”

“No,” Din cuts across you brusquely. “I really don't think you can.” 

“No?”

“No.” He says it quietly and more softly, this time.

He tilts his helmet—the thing you've come to understand that he does when he's thinking, before he speaks again.“Why don't you catch up on some sleep? We've got another ten hours in this hyperlane.”

You nod at his suggestion and turn to leave the cockpit, still feeling dejected. His point is valid, there's no way you have enough credits to do anything special when this rust bucket of a ship is always in need of repairs. 

Down in the hull, you toe off your boots and remove a couple of outer items of clothing before settling into your bunk.

Cocooning yourself in your blanket, sleep takes you quickly. The dull hum of space pulls you into the deep, dreamless void of sleep. 

It's the silence that wakes you. The stillness. No vibrations from the hull. Just peace. 

Realizing that you have landed in Theed, you pull your tunic on at speed and are fumbling with your utility belt when you hear the thud of familiar footsteps approaching. 

“All good?” Din asks as he watches you cinch the belt around your waist and slip into your boots.

“Yeah, I slept like a fifty-something year old baby,” you say. “Shall we get this bounty unloaded?”

Din clears his throat. “Not just yet, no.”

You frown at him in confusion. “No?”

“No,” he clarifies. “There's something I want you to see first.” He lifts his arm and presses a button on his vambrace. There's the hiss of depressurized gas, a loud creak and then the ramp slowly descends, flooding the hull with daylight.

“Come,” says Din, holding out a gloved hand to you. “Let's go.”

Unsure, you reach out and take it. Din is never usually demonstrative. Touch is not something he's normally comfortable with. You found that out the hard way early on in your friendship, when you attempted to embrace him after he saved your life. He had shrugged you off as though you had burned him. But not now, now he's holding onto your hand as though you might be the one to run away.

With curiosity, you let him guide you down the ramp, your hand firmly clasped in his.

And when you stand at the bottom of the ramp, what you see makes you gasp out loud.

“Kriff,” you utter, as you survey the landscape around you. 

It's filled with tall, imposing pillars of reddish-orange rock. Structures like you've never seen before and you stare at them in wonder.

“I thought we were going to Naboo. No diversions because of the extra credits?” you ask, still staring at your surroundings.

“We are on Naboo,” says Din smugly, tilting his head towards you, “just a more remote part. Barely used up any extra fuel getting here. And we'll dock in Theed later.”

“Mandalorians,” you tease, giving him a friendly squeeze of the hand you had almost forgotten you were holding—almost. “Who knew they were dangerous and thrifty?”

Beside you, you hear Din snort—a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. He shakes his head.

“Where are we?” you breath, stunned by the raw beauty of geography.

“This is an ancient rock formation,” explains Din. “The Tethran Columns. Formed millions of years ago when Naboo was covered in volcanoes. If you listen closely, the wind passing through the rock fissures and fractures produces low resonating tones. The locals call it The Singing of Thethran.”

You pause, taking in his words. “How do you know all of this?”

Din laughs, a small and self-deprecating laugh. “I looked it up on the Holonet while you were asleep in the cot. You asked to see something beautiful,” he gestures with his arm in sweeping motion, “so here we are.”

His thoughtfulness makes you trip over your words. “Th—thank you. This means everything. It's so…beautiful.”

“Meshla. In Mando'a it means beautiful.”

“Meshla,” you repeat softly, before turning to look at him. “It—”

"Time to move," he said. His voice was quiet but firm. "We can’t afford to be out in the open too long. We keep moving."

There were nods of agreement all around.

Without a backward glance, they started moving, becoming a silent line of determined faces as they quietly untied their horses and to mount them before moving off into the mountainous country.

Libby, unsure of her place in all of this, waited and watched as Catfish easily mounted his horse. 

Was she going to have to ride with him again? Was he going to leave her behind to die out here?

As though answering her unspoken questions, he looked down at her from the saddle. “Up here,” he said. “Behind me.” 

He held out his hand to assist.

She blinked at him. Once. Twice. Unsure of how to proceed.

“Here,” said Ironhead, stepping up beside her, “if you don't mind me bein’ over-familiar, ma'am.”

Libby watched on, bewildered, as he lowered himself down and threaded his fingers together to make a foothold. “Use my hands,” he explained, “and I'll give you a push up. You need to swing your leg around onto the horse.”

Libby nodded in acknowledgement at the plan. Carefully, she stepped her well-worn boot into his waiting hands.  Simultaneously, she reached out to grasp Catfish's gloved hand. His grip was surprisingly firm as he took hold. 

“Hurry up,” urged Redfly's impatient voice, “you're wasting time.”

Ironhead tutted and rolled his eyes as he  pushed her upwards. Using Catfish's hand, she maneuvered herself onto the horse's back, settling in behind him. Uncomfortable, but seated.

Ironhead quickly mounted his own steed and looked across at Redfly. “We're all ready now,” he said quietly.

Redfly rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, before digging his heels into his horse's flanks with a sharp “Git up!” 

The horse shook its mane before stepping forwards.

“Not much of a horse rider then?” Catfish addressed over his shoulder to Libby.

“Is it that obvious?” she replied sarcastically, wondering how to stop herself from sliding off the horse's back. “I grew up in a city. We only had handsome cabs. Never sat on a horse—until now.”

He merely snorted in response. “Well, when you're ridin’ as a passenger, you gotta put your arms around me, ma'am,” he said. “So that you don't fall off.”

With a click of the tongue, and a firm “Walk on” his horse began to move forwards, following the others. Libby lurched violently, unprepared for the movement, and steadied herself by grabbing at his midriff.

She could feel Catfish quietly chuckle as she secured herself. His chest heaved as he buried his amusement.

With masks pulled up to both protect from the dust and act as a disguise, the riders walked in the setting sun, their hooves muffled against the sandy earth. In lieu of having a scarf of her own, Libby tied one of her unused petticoats around her own face to keep the dust at bay.

The thud of horseshoes was broken only by the distant, mournful howls of coyotes. The moon, rising in the sky, hung low and heavy. As the sun sank below the horizon, it cast just enough silver light to guide their way.

Quietly, stealthily, they moved, keeping a close eye on every checkpoint along the route, scanning for any signs of soldiers or lawmen that might be hunting them. It was as though it had been agreed, without needing to say it aloud.

Libby wondered whether there were any search parties looking for her, or whether the wagon train had moved on without her and would she just be considered another one of those unfortunate souls that didn’t reach their final destination. More attrition on the western routes.

Ironhead lagged a little behind the group, his hand resting casually near the revolver at his hip, his sharp gaze seeking shadows, watching for movement.

Bugs ranged slightly ahead, blending into the darkness with ease.

And Pope and Redfly kept to the side, watching the ridgelines, the gullies, the outposts where danger could be hiding.

The steady sway of the horse beneath her and the rhythmic clop of hooves on the dusty ground worked magically.

At first, Libby tried to stay alert, her eyes scanning the distant shadows, her ears straining against the night sounds. She knew that they were moving further away from her lifeline on the wagon train and she felt afraid. But it wasn't long before exhaustion caught up with her.

The soft creak of the saddle leather, the muted thud of hoofbeats, the distant howl of coyotes weaving through the night, and the warmth of Catfish, all blurred together.

Libby’s head began to droop, drifting somewhere between memory and dream. The sight of the new schoolhouse shining in the afternoon sun swam between snaking wagon trains. Unaware of how far gone she was, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She woke with a jolt, her face pressed against Catfish's warm, dusty back. His free, gloved hand was clasped around hers, keeping her tethered to him. For a moment, she was disoriented by the gentle sway of the horse, the faint sounds of hooves, and cool early morning air against her cheeks.

She blinked groggily and looked around.

The early morning sky was pink and gold; the sun was beginning to rise in the East, stretching long, golden fingers across the hills. The world around them slowly came into focus. She could see the dry scrub, the pale, dusty ground stretching ahead, the faint silhouettes of the gang still moving steadily onward.

Catfish felt her stir against his back and grunted.

"Where are we?" she croaked, her voice hoarse and cracked from sleep and dehydration.

"Mornin', sleepyhead," grinned Catfish, twisting his neck to see her. His voice rumbled through his chest and into Libby's cheek where her face was still pressed. She sat up properly, blinking against the brightness of the new day. Her body ached from the long ride and the rough sleep.

"We’re about an hour's ride from the safe house," Catfish continued, his tone gentle. "A little, deserted place that folks don't ask too many questions about."

Libby licked her dry lips and glanced around. The terrain was flatter now, but still desolate. There were no towns, no real cover, only endless scrubland and a few twisted trees reaching toward the sky. The others rode in tight formation, their eyes sharp, constantly scanning the horizon.

“A safe house?”

“Yeah, there are a few dotted around. Often abandoned because they failed at farmin’ and such like. It's hard to live out here in isolation.”

He cast another look at her. "You alright?" he asked, his voice low with something approaching concern.

She nodded weakly. "Just thirsty," she admitted.

Without a word, Catfish reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his old, battered canteen, passing it to her. She took it with shaking hands and drank gratefully.

As she handed it back, she caught the way Catfish was looking at her, not just with concern, but with something deeper. Softer. Something like awe?

Their brief connection was broken by Pope's sharp voice calling back, "Keep your eyes open! We’re close, but this is the stretch they like to patrol!"

At those words, a tension rippled through the group. Hands checked weapons, posture straightened, and the pace quickened. Catfish turned back to face the front, eyes scanning the horizon.

The sun continued to climb, casting shortening shadows across the dry earth as the morning began. Several small dots began to materialize in the distance, becoming a cluster of buildings, a barn, and a modest house surrounded by a couple of fences. It was a solitary place, nestled in a hollow between hills, and looked peaceful, even inviting. Libby hadn't set foot in a house since leaving Independence and the idea of being in one filled her with excitement.

The group pressed on, the hooves a steady thud in the otherwise quiet. Libby leaned on Catfish, her body still stiff from the long ride, but her senses were now alert. 

Redfly, leading the group, glanced back over his shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. “Just a little longer,” he called, his voice gruff but steady. “We’ve made it this far; no point in slowing now.”

Sitting behind Catfish, Libby kept her head low, her eyes scanning the land around them as the group moved forward. She tried to ignore the discomfort, keeping herself focused on the conversation that drifted softly from the men around her.

It was a casual, but low, exchange. Their voices blended with the sounds of the horses, and Libby could barely make out individual words. The topics ranged from the weather to the condition of the horses, and even to idle comments about the surrounding landscape.

She noticed how Catfish’s low, gravelly voice contrasted with the sharper tones of Redfly. Ironhead's voice, though rare, was more measured, often punctuating the conversation with a statement or observation, his tone thoughtful. It all felt so... normal, yet there was an underlying tension that Libby couldn’t quite shake.

Despite herself, she found herself listening closer, trying to pick up any snippets of useful information. They weren’t talking about her directly, but she knew they were speaking in code in front of her. 

She had nothing to lose, so she ventured a question. “What's going to happen to me?” 

“What do you mean?” queried Catfish over his shoulder.

Libby cleared her throat. A combination of dust, sleep, and nerves seemed to have lodged in her chest. “To me. Are you planning to leave me here at this place?”

And suddenly, Catfish understood. “No,” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the surrounding landscape.. “Your fate is still up for discussion.”

“I won't give you away,” said Libby quietly. “If you let me go. I won’t say anything. You have my word.”

“I believe you,” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder.

With that, the both lapsed back into silence, Libby clinging on just a little tighter.

As they approached the building, the group fell into a heavy silence, instinctively slowing their horses to reduce the sound of hooves and the plumes of dust trailing behind them. Tension in the air felt thick. Libby felt her heartbeat quicken as the quiet creak of saddles and the occasional snort from the horses seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

Then she heard a sharp click. Her eyes flicked down and she saw that Catfish, like the others, had drawn his weapon. The barrel glinted in the sun, the motion was smooth and practiced, like something he'd done a hundred times before.

They were ready for anything. Ambush, betrayal, bloodshed. Despite the morning warmth, Libby shivered.

The ranch sprawled ahead as they trotted through the open gates. Eerie silence. No smoke curled from the chimney. No dogs barked. No movement stirred behind the shuttered windows.

Redfly raised his hand and the group came to a halt. One by one, they dismounted, weapons still drawn. Their boots crunched on dry dirt as they moved in a slow, cautious sweep of the grounds, checking every dark corner.

“Clear,” came the call from Ironhead, stepping out of the  crumbling barn.

“Nothing inside,” said Pope, reappearing from the house, his voice low.

Relieved but still wary, the group holstered their weapons. They led the horses toward the corral, loosening saddles and checking hooves. The animals were as exhausted as their riders, covered in dust, sweat-streaked, and eager to rest.

Libby stood quietly by the fence, watching events unfold, feeling lost and unnecessary.

“Who's taking first watch?” asked Redfly as they walked into the deserted house.

“I—I will,” volunteered Libby, raising her trembling hand slightly. “It—it seems only fair,” she said, quailing under the hard stare of Redfly. “I slept for a chunk of the ride here—”

Redfly snorted derisively at her suggestion, cutting off whatever else she might say. “No.”

"I'm not going to give you away," she said, gathering her courage again. She took a step forward, lifting her chin as she addressed him directly. “I can watch and raise the alarm.”

"You'll squeal the instant someone approaches. Go running to give us up," he countered, stepping forward to match her. "Catfish, you can take first watch."

Catfish groaned loudly, slumping in protest as the others gave him sympathetic looks, but grateful that it wasn’t them losing more sleep.

"You can cook," Redfly added, turning his dark gaze back on Libby.

Libby, growing irritated, planted her hands on her hips, her stance becoming defiant. "I'm not a cook," she said with a cool edge, her chin lifting even higher.

"But you're a woman," he snapped, the words out before he could stop them.

Libby’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so because I'm a woman, I should know how to cook? What next? Wash your clothes? Darn your socks? Mend your temper?"

Redfly’s face flushed, a flicker of shame, or fury, rising with the color. His fists clenched at his sides, and he opened his mouth to retort.

But before he could speak, Ironhead stepped between them, holding out a hand.

"Enough," he said firmly. "We're not going to survive the day if we’re too busy tearing each other apart."

There was a moment of silence. The air was tense and thick. Libby crossed her arms but didn’t argue further. Instead, she chewed furiously on her tongue. Redfly looked away, jaw tight.

Ironhead glanced at each of them in turn. "We all have something to offer. Let’s remember who the real enemy is."

Catfish muttered something under his breath, before casting a furtive look at Libby and shuffling to his post, rifle slung lazily over one shoulder.

Libby took a step backwards. "Fine," she said cooly, "but if anyone complains about the taste, they can eat dirt for the rest of the week."

Ironhead gave her a brief smile. "Deal."

Whilst Libby sorted through the limited supplies of dried, salted meats and coarse grains she had obtained from the saddlebags, she tried to think of something that might pass for palatable. Nearby, Bugs crouched low, coaxing a small fire to life in a discreet hollow near the edge of the ranch. They couldn't risk using the fireplace because smoke was a giveaway; even a thin trail could be seen from miles away in the open country. But they needed warmth and they needed food. 

As she sifted through the bags, her thoughts drifted to the nights on the trail and being huddled in a wagon circle beneath the stars. The meals were homely, stuck to the ribs, but comforting: johnnycakes, biscuits, rice and beans. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling. They kept the ever-present hunger at bay. Despite the way she’d snapped at Redfly earlier, she'd had done her fair share of cooking on the overland route in a need to feel useful. And over time, she’d picked up a few basic recipes, just enough to get by.

She reached for the large bag of flour, its top sealed with a twist of string. Working by feel, she mixed a rough dough in a tin bowl, adding water and a healthy pinch of salt. There was no leavening, but once cooked on the griddle, the flatbreads would be good enough. She’d make enough for breakfast too; they kept well if wrapped and stashed properly.

Next, she measured out the rice and dry beans into the heavy Dutch oven. It would take hours to soften the beans, but there was no shortcut with food like this. She added a few scraps of salt pork for flavor, then poured in enough water to cover the mixture and nestled the pot among the coals Bugs had laid.

She would need to keep an eye on the heat whilst the others slept to make sure that the water didn't boil off and ruin everything. That would be disastrous.

Libby sat back on her heels, wiping her flour-covered hands on her skirts. The scent of woodsmoke was rising now and it tugged at something deep in her chest. She glanced toward the wooden building where the others were sleeping. All was quiet.

The plait that she had been wearing in her hair since her capture, which was the style she usually wore to bed at night, was starting to come loose. Strands of hair had escaped their confines and so she untied it and let it hang free. Giving it a brief comb through with her fingers, she knew that having it down was impractical—it would soon be tangled and knotted without regular brushing, but she would try to master it later.

Knowing that Catfish was still awake, and posted on the front porch, and with nothing else to do but wait on the beans to soften, she dusted off her hands and made her way toward him. It was almost an impulse that carried her there.

The boards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped onto the wooden floor. Then, without a word, she slid into the empty chair beside his.

Catfish tilted his head towards her, hearing her arrival, and tipped the brim of his hat with a lazy flick of his fingers. "Howdy, ma’am."

“Hello,” she replied, immediately noticing how stiff and formal she sounded next to him. His easy drawl made her words feel too formal. Too crisp and too sharp.

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that settled between people not yet familiar, but not entirely uncomfortable. Not that she was sure that she should feel comfortable next to her captor, but she had come to seek him out all the same.

The late morning air was cool and still, the only sounds were the occasional rustle of scrub and the squawk of a bird of prey.

Finally, Catfish spoke, voice low and casual. “You ever think ‘bout goin’ back east?”

The question caught her off guard.

She glanced at him, but he was staring out into the wilderness, unreadable. "Sometimes," she admitted after a pause. ‘“I miss the weather. The rain. The unpredictability. It's tougher out here than I thought it would be.”

He chuckled softly at that, the sound barely more than a breath. “Ain’t much to miss, as far as I’m concerned. But I reckon you left more behind than I did.”

Libby lowered her eyes. “I left nothing,” she said quietly. “Apart from my library of books.” Her voice caught slightly. She missed them. They had been her sanctuary and her compass when she was adrift.

Feeling suddenly exposed, she pressed on. “I’m not from the East Coast. I’m actually from England.”

Catfish turned his head slowly to look at her, properly look at her this time, as if seeing something he’d missed before. “Well, darn,” he said, his eyebrows lifting and whistling between his teeth, “I thought your accent was mighty fine. Figured maybe Boston or one of those other fancy places out east.”

Libby gave a dry laugh. “Not quite. Just London, I’m afraid. Far more rain and fog.”

He nodded thoughtfully, like he was turning that over in his mind. “So what made you cross all that ocean just to end up out here in the middle of nowhere, on a wagon train?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because saying it out loud always made it too real.

“A chance,” she said at last. “To be something more than what was expected of me. Teach children who’ve never held a book. Build something of my own. Have my own schoolhouse.”

Catfish didn’t say anything right away, but she caught the shift in his posture, he became less guarded, more attentive.

Feeling more confident, Libby continued on. She had nothing to lose and hoped that in making a personal connection, it might help her chances of survival. “My name is Mrs. Elizabeth Green,” she said, her voice soft and steady.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Green,” he replied, more politely than she’d expected. There was no mockery in it, just quiet respect.

“And are you out here alone?” he asked after a moment. “Where’s Mr. Green?”

“Captain Green died in Africa while serving his country,” she answered quietly. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, his tone shifting, softened by something like genuine sympathy. “Army life’s a rough road.”

“You were in the army too?”

His face hardened for a moment. “I was.”

Libby gave a small, humorless smile. “If you’d met my husband, you might not feel so sorry for my loss.” The harshness of her words made Catfish sit up and take note. “He was never home. Spent more time at his gentleman’s club than he ever did with me. Cold. Detached. Belittling. Always entertaining army friends in his study. He knew how to have a good time with them. I was just a token spouse in a loveless marriage.” She sniffed, her voice edged with a bitterness that still hadn’t faded.

Catfish looked slightly taken aback, not by the story, perhaps, but by her honesty.

“If I had a wife like you waiting at home,” he said after a pause, more to himself than to her, “I reckon I’d never be able to leave the house.”

Libby turned sharply to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Pardon?”

“I mean it,” he said, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “You’re real pretty, and you’re smart. What’s not to like? If you were mine, I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

Libby blinked, caught completely off guard by the bluntness of his words. Was that a compliment? It was so unpolished, so unexpected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, the right response refusing to come.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, noticing the shift in her expression. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just... I was trying to say something nice. Pay you a compliment, is all.”

She smiled then, soft and a little self-deprecating, hoping to ease the awkwardness. “Thank you. Though I’m not sure how anyone could find much to like about me right now. My clothes are filthy, torn in places I’d rather not think about, my hair’s a disaster, I smell like the Devil’s armpit, and I’ve got dust in places I didn’t even know existed.”

He laughed. It was a low, rich sound that rolled from deep in his chest, and for the first time, his whole face lit up. The lines around his eyes deepened as they crinkled, and for a moment, he looked younger, freer as though the weight had slipped off his shoulders.

“Welcome to the club,” he said with a grin, his voice laced with warmth. “Out here, we all smell like that. You'll fit right in.” He paused, his tone softening. “And for what it’s worth... I like the way you look with your hair down. Looks real pretty like that.”

Libby looked at him then, her smile lingering. There was something disarming in his sincerity, something oddly reassuring in the way he looked at her.

Libby’s cheeks flushed slightly, though she was still unsure how to react. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

“You’re welcome,” he said, a warmth in his tone that made her stomach flutter despite herself.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments, but Libby couldn’t help the questions that were welling up inside her. “I—is there a Mrs. Catfish?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Is anyone worried about you out here?”

“Mrs. Catfish?” He snorted at the idea, his lips curling in amusement. “That’s funny. And no, no one. My parents are gone, haven’t seen my brothers or sister in years, and there’s no Mrs. Catfish.”

She absorbed his words attentively, noting the emptiness in his tone when he spoke about his family. It was a predicament similar to her own—no close kin to speak of. The silence stretched on until Catfish broke it again, his voice lower, more thoughtful.

“But I do like the company of women,” he added, his words seeming casual, “unlike your husband.”

Libby’s head snapped up, startled. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was sharp, offended by the sudden accusation.

Catfish didn’t flinch. His tone remained neutral, almost weary. “I said, I’ve kept the company of women—unlike your husband. Just never found one to settle down with. Serving in the army isn’t the life for anyone chasing domestic bliss.”

Libby recoiled, as her new-found compassion for Catfish evaporated in an instant, her thoughts spinning. Her anger rose. “Are you insinuating that my husband preferred the company of men?” she asked, her voice rising with a note of disbelief and horror. “How dare you be so presumptuous? You know nothing of my marriage!”

She bristled, her emotions tumbling over each other in a flurry of anger and confusion.

Catfish let out a long, quiet sigh. “I know what you just told me. And that was a man who was not interested in his wife.

I’m sorry,” he said, and this time the regret in his voice felt sincere, even heavy. “I guess I thought you had an inkling. It’s not so rare as folks like to think. No matter what the big book tries to teach us. Men living in close quarters, long stretches together… Sometimes… well, sometimes things happen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And some men just prefer men. That's just how it is.”

Her first instinct was to lash out again, but the heat of her anger began to cool under the simplicity of his words. She sat silently, his voice echoing in her mind. I guess I thought you knew.

And slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. Captain Green had always been distant, always more at home in the gentleman's clubs than with her. He had never shown any romantic interest in her, and their marriage had always felt mechanical, devoid of passion. His love-making, if it could even be called that, had always been perfunctory—duty rather than desire. She had assumed that he was just standoffish, but now, in the light of Catfish’s blunt observations, she wondered if her husband had been living a double life she had never known about. That she was a decoy: a front of Victorian respectability to show to the world.

Libby remained silent, her thoughts whirring as she processed this new perspective. Maybe she hadn’t known her husband at all, not in the way she had thought.

They sat in quiet contemplation for a while, neither knowing what to say next nor how to break the uneasiness.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a lengthy pause. “I think I knew, on some subconscious level, that something was wrong with my marriage. I just thought it was me. That I was… barren and undesirable.”

Catfish snorted softly, muttering under his breath, “Believe me when I tell you, you’re not.”

Libby caught the words and looked at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “No?”

“No,” he said more firmly, clearing his throat. “I think you’re pretty. Prettiest lady I've ever had the good fortune to meet. And smart to boot.”

She tilted her head, her expression a mix of skepticism and sarcasm. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, especially since I’m the only woman out here for miles.”

“I’m not,” he said with a sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I made a mistake kidnapping you, but I’m not making one now when I tell you that you are the most beautiful lady I ever saw.” He reached out, his hand finding hers and taking it gently. “I wish you knew how much I want you, and I wish you wanted it too.”

Libby’s heart raced, her mind spinning from the intensity of his words. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. Not from someone who, just a day ago, had been nothing but a rough, gruff captor. He had been someone she had every reason to fear. But now his words were both unexpected and unsettling, stirring something inside her that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

She pulled her hand away, her breath catching in her throat. “I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, struggling to collect herself. Her stomach churned with a mix of confusion, fear, and something else. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

Catfish’s expression softened, and he lowered his gaze to the ground, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not right to put you in a position like that.”

Libby sat up straighter, her thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of everything. He was a man who had kidnapped her, a man she had every reason to hate and fear. And yet… the way he spoke, the way he seemed to care, it was confusing. She didn’t know what to think or how to feel.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and defiance. “I’m not... I’m not someone who’s just going to... fall into your hands.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Catfish replied, his tone more solemn now. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just that…” He paused, searching for the right words, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s just that you’re something different. Something real. And I'm not sure how to handle that.”

Libby swallowed hard, her chest tightening with emotion. She turned her head slightly, unable to meet his gaze for a moment. “I don’t know who you are,” she said quietly. “And I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Trust me,” he said quickly, his tone urgent. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. But I'm bein’ honest with you, Libby. Honest in ways that maybe I shouldn’t be. Especially with my fellow outlaws just feet away from us, but believe me when I tell you that I will protect you out here and get you to your schoolhouse.”

They sat in thoughtful silence, both of them uncertain about what came next, unsure how to navigate the complex web of feelings that had somehow woven itself into their strange, uncomfortable bond.

After a long moment, Libby spoke, her voice softer than before. “I don’t know if I can forgive what you’ve done to me. Kidnapping me,” she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “But I… I can’t ignore that you’ve shown me a kindness. Even if it’s just in the small things.”

Catfish nodded, his expression unreadable. “I can live with that,” he said quietly. “Just… don’t forget I’m not the monster you think I am. I’m just a man. And I’ve been stuck in this world for too long.”

Libby took a shaky breath, her emotions swirling. “I don’t know what to think about you yet,” she whispered, “but I’ll figure it out.”

Catfish didn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t know how to handle the fragile truce between them.

Feeling exposed and a little off balance, Libby reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the strip of worn fabric she used as a hair tie. With practiced fingers, she gathered her hair, smoothing it back from her face, then began to braid it with quiet precision. The effort required gave her something tangible to focus on. She could feel Catfish’s gaze on her whilst she worked. It was steady, unwavering. It wasn’t intrusive, but present. Still, it made her pulse quicken, the quiet intimacy of the moment as her hands moved deftly.

“Libby,” she said quietly, but with purpose, as she worked.

“Sorry?” Catfish raised an eyebrow.

“My close acquaintances call me Libby. I prefer it to Elizabeth. It sounds so formal and stiff.”

Catfish eyed her carefully, before giving her a small nod and a tentative smile. “Miss. Libby it is, then,” he affirmed, before returning to the task of watching the horizon, but with a softer gaze than before.

Libby reciprocated with a small, soft smile of her own, as her fingers continued to work through the ends, tying it off with a small piece of twine.

"Oh, the beans!" she gasped suddenly, breaking the silence. "I nearly forgot."

She quickly stood and hurried off to the Dutch oven where the beans and rice had been simmering slowly. As she removed the lid, the smell of the slow-cooked rice and beans filled the air.

She stirred the pot carefully, her thoughts still tangled in the conversation she had just had. Of the way he had spoken to her. His rough, but gentle words. A simmering undercurrent of something between them.

The beans had softened just enough, and she added a bit more water to keep them from burning. Her hands moved of their own accord, her mind too preoccupied with other things. The fire crackled nearby, and the afternoon air, hot and dry pressed in around the ranch.

As she worked, she heard movement from behind her, the sounds of the others stirring in the late afternoon sun. It wouldn’t be long before they would need to eat. She ladled the beans and rice into neatly stacked tins, the rest of the meal, Johnnycakes and biscuits, stacked on a small, cracked enamel plate.

She moved to the fire and called out softly, “Dinner's ready. Time to wake up.”

The others groaned in response, the familiar sounds of tired men emerging from their sleep. One by one, the gang members came to life, stumbling out of their bedrolls. Bugs, still rubbing his eyes, slumped forward, the first to reach for a plate. 

“I'll go and relieve Catfish,” he said hoarsely, as he lifted a tin from Libby's hands. He walked, his stiff joints wrote with each step, across the yard and through the ranch to the front porch.

Barely a minute later Catfish appeared, looking tired and worn out. He took a seat around the fire, watching Libby as she worked. 

She caught his gaze briefly before she focused on serving the others, the quiet understanding between them now more palpable than before. As the men took their food, grumbling with sleepy hunger, Libby noticed Catfish’s eyes following her movements. To the casual observer, it might've looked as though he was hungry, but his eyes lingered, and not on the food.

She caught his gaze again as she set a plate before him.

Their eyes met for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, but intense. Libby’s stomach fluttered in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. She quickly looked away, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, before picking up his fork, his focus still partly on her, but he said nothing more.

Libby sat down next to him after handing out the last of the food, their shoulders brushing briefly as she settled herself. 

As the others ate, she glanced at Catfish again, her heart racing with the unspoken tension. His lips were slightly parted, but he seemed content, focused on his meal. Yet, there was a shift in his demeanor, something in the way he regarded her. It made her feel both exposed and safe, the way an unspoken understanding could settle between two people who were still so much strangers.

She took a bite of her own food, her mind restless. The awkwardness had shifted into something else entirely, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it just a fleeting moment? Or something more? As she chewed thoughtfully, she felt his eyes on her once more.

This time, when she met his eyes, there was no retreat. Only a silent acknowledgment of something shared—something neither of them had words for yet.

Summary: Din comes to inside a hollow tree trunk on Nal Hutta and wonders where the kriff he is and just what happened.

I was inspired by the whole scene of Grogu caring for Din and the snuggling under his arm to wait it out.

Din groaned softly. He could taste something earthy on his mouth, like…like dirt?

Dirt with a hint of…fish?

He swallowed and gagged slightly at the odious taste on his tongue.

As he lay there, he felt his senses slowly returning. He felt out of sorts with his body. Every cell screaming at him. He felt sore everywhere, all at once. Especially his head—that felt like he'd suffered a repeated blunt-force trauma.

How long had he been here?

He couldn't answer that question, it could be hours, it could be days. The stiffness in his muscles made him think it was more likely to be several day cycles.

Carefully, he tried to prise his eyes open. Attempting to peer through the visor, Din was temporarily panicked—all he could see was darkness. 

Was he blind? 

His breathing quickened and his pulse rate soared at the thought he might never be able to see again. A cold realization washed over him with that thought. He was blind and all alone in the Hutt's lair.

He would never escape from this place. Not without his eyesight.

Never getting away from this place would mean that he would never see Grogu again. The thought jarred, and his gut twisted tightly into a knot. He tried to suppress the surge of emotion that welled up within him.

Focusing his efforts elsewhere, he strained his eyes and his vision swam into focus behind the visor. Shapes appeared out of the inky blackness and he relaxed. He was not blind, but it was dark. Very dark.

Where was he?

As a man of logic and reason, Din tried to piece his memories back together. To pull the threads out of thin air and stitch the tale into a whole.

He had fought the Dragonsnake. Its bite had pierced his flightsuit. He had barely escaped its deadly clutches with the help of Grogu and the Anzellans. Recalling running through the swamp, he remembered his dismay at realizing that their ship was too small to carry him with them. But he had also known that his end was almost upon him and bought them time so that they could escape safely, whilst he…he drew his last breath and succumbed to the poison flowing through his veins.

Din breathed heavily as the memories rolled over him. He should be dead.

Why am I not dead?

The thought swirled around in his head.

Why aren't I dead? And where the kriff am I?

He cautiously reached out a gloved hand, his orange-tipped fingers meeting a solid, but uneven surface. 

Was it wood?

It wasn't durasteel. It was definitely organic. 

Definitely wood.

As his mind flowed with more questions, Din noticed regulated breathing. Another living creature in his space. 

A light purring noise. The soft hum of sleep. 

Snoring? 

Feeling unsure, he craned his neck to look down for the source of the noise. There, nestled tightly into the crook of his arm, as though using it as a comfort blanket, was Grogu. Eyes closed. His breath rising and falling rhythmically.

Din's panic melted into instant relief and awe. He was awed that his child hadn't climbed aboard the spacecraft, but was here, right by his side—where he truly belonged.

Din lay back down flat to take a moment of reflection. Overcome with a wild rush of love and affection for his sleeping foundling, Din quietly and softly, reached out with a tentative finger to lightly stroke his small, wrinkled brow.

In his sleep, Grogu snuffled, murmured, and burrowed deeper into Din's body, unconsciously seeking comfort by his father's side.

Turning his head away, Din lay quietly for a moment, basking in the unbreakable bond between father and son.