Starlight - Chapter Twenty-One: A Prophecy Fulfilled
Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC
Rating: Mature
Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence
Warnings: Explicit Language,Β Religious Trauma Allegory, Blood, Depression
Words: 6,039
Summary:Β βHave you ever been in love, Master?β she dares to ask.
The machine sits in his stoicism above her on the rotted chair, barely visible under trickling moonlight. She should know better than to ask such a thing. She should know better than to expect an answer. The room is as silent as death, and she waits for her own, untilβ
βYes.β
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Naboo, 3 BBY
The air is cold here, though where here is exactly, remains a mystery. Having finally woken up from a day longs coma, the little girl, known only by codes and a forgotten file on some database, follows a tall machine of a man. With breathing mechanically even, the movement of his cybernetic parts is like scratches on her skin.
She isnβt dressed for this weather, a simple gray tunic bags on her body, with matching boots and pants. It must have rained recently with dark clouds covering the sky and the familiar feeling of mud on the bottom of her soles. A cold will come from this in a few days time.
βBy all intensive purposes, you are no longer alive. From this day on, I will oversee your training,β the machine says, voice as ice and modulation which vibrates her core. βYou will address me as Master. You are to speak only when spoken to, and you will do precisely as I say. Am I understood?β
Over an entire foot taller than her, her neck cranes to meet what she can only assume are eyes.
βYesβ¦ Master,β she says, a cough of dehydration between her words. βMay I ask a question?β
βProceed.β
βWill I be an Inquisitor still?β
βYou, will be far greater.β
He guides her to the back of the building, a home of some kind. Whatever that is. Tiles are a faded kind of color, too hidden by the night to be decisively one thing or another. Furniture, or whatβs left of it, sits beaten and torn, wooden tables rotting, clothed seating smelling of mold. She sneezes at the expelled dust floating in the room.
βYou have been bestowed a rare gift through the Force,β he says. βWhen you place your hand on an object you are able to see itβs history, correct?βΒ
Her nod is short, always a step behind. βTo an extent, yes.β
βYou are strong, but your power is uncontrolled. While able to grab my lightsaber, you fell unconscious. What is it that you saw?β
βAt first nothing at all. It is difficult for images to clearly appear if I am not searching for specifics. It all happened very fast, and Iβm still not sure myself what happened. The emotions youβve associated with your object are very angry, and sadβ¦ It was painful. Many voices came after, all at once, mainly screams. It became overwhelming. I could only see your history once I fainted, like it were a dream. Flashes of you killing Jedi. Umβ¦ Master.β
βYou must learn to control yourself during these visions. You are of no use to me if you cannot disarm a Jedi without collapsing.β
βSoβ¦ why are we here?β
βThere are many strong negative emotions associated here,β he says. βYou will tell me precisely what you see.β
The girl sits on the floor, objects of the machineβs choosing circling her frail body like a sacrifice. One by one she lifts each piece into her hands, gripped tight in meditation. The whole ordeal isβ¦ confusing, to say the least.
The machine had emphasized the negative connotations with the area, but the results yield an opposite result. She would not be able to accurately describe this feeling, too foreign in her body for her young age. But as she grew should would recognize it as joy.Β
βThey were in love,β she says, setting down a porcelain box. The same couple appears in every object, a man and wife. Though on itβs own that carries its own confusion as well. If all her lessons served to be correct, Jedi werenβt allowed to marry. βDeeply. The Jedi gave this to her as a gift for some event or holiday, orββ
βAn anniversary,β the machine interrupts.
βPossibly,β she agrees. βShe looked very pleased to receive it.β
βYou can see her?β
βI can,β she nods. βShe was very pretty. I see the Jedi as well, though not as clear. I believe him to be the voice Iβm hearing, but not much is coming. Onlyβ¦ PadmΓ¨, I believe.βΒ
He instructs her to continue.
Many items follow. A broken frame to a HoloPhoto where she learned the face and the name of one Anakin. This is a name the machine does not seem to enjoy very much at all. So she will remember it for the rest of her days. A broken stem of a wine glass follows to reveal a story of a βChosen Oneβ, a turquoise vase showing beautiful things she wished to beg to know more of.
By the last of the items, her body is worn and tired, mind frazzled with the newly introduced information. Naboo, as she has learned, is quite the peaceful world. The machineβs aura scratches deeper than before once she sets down a piece of a yellowed veil, coming with the story of a marriage.
βHave you ever been in love, Master?β she dares to ask.
The machine sits in his stoicism above her on the rotted chair, barely visible under trickling moonlight. She should know better than to ask such a thing. She should know better than to expect an answer. The room is as silent as death, and she waits for her own, untilβ
βYes.β
This will be the the first of two instances where she does not fear the machine.
βDo you recommend it?β
All to be heard is the machineβs breathing, three inhales, three exhales.
βNo.β
Very well, a horrible thing it should be indeed.
βThen I pray it shall never happen to me.β
By the end of their time, she is helpless to watch the machine destroy every piece of history until it is ash.
---
Naboo, 10ABY
Her body awakens before her mind. Eyes shot open into darkness, her breath falls heavy, rocks in her lungs, fists gripped white until she calms.
Fuck, she mouths, dryness on her tongue.
That stupid helmet stares right at her to the left, always glistening in the soft glows of the hull where she rests atop nothing but metal and the shirt on her back. Her own, for once. To her right, the Mandalorian, without helmet and with his back to her. She cannot see him, barely a figure in the inches of their separation.
Gently, she touches his back with bare fingers, Beskar armor forgotten in favor of the plain brown suit.
He does not stir.
Maybe he is awake, just as she is. Maybe he is holding his stillness so that she may recognize her own awkwardness and stop. Or, maybe he is holding stillness so that she may continue without consequence.
Because Lumina is damn sure that the Mandalorian has never felt a kind touch to his body in all his years confined to his armor.
She moves herself to sit beside him, fingers raking through knotted hair, curls with lost pattern helplessly spinning in every direction.
Regression is a natural result of any human excursion to βgoodβ.
Whatever βgoodβ is.
---
A thick layer of fog blankets the grasslands of Nabooβs Lake Country. Color seems to have been stripped from the world, an overlay of gray casted over every inch of land as far as the eye could see. The sky, the perfect brightest blue the day before, left clouded and dark, the grass under her bare feet misted to wetness.Β
She can stare directly into the sky without pain, the the damp humidity has not yet gone from the atmosphere.
How awful it is that a place such as this can be victim to such gloom.
Dawn, has appeared to have died in Naboo.
Naturally Lumina blames herself. Dawn seems to die wherever she goes.
What a selfish rebirth she mocked to have on Arkanis.
Dusk, at least, survives. He carries on what his sister cannot. He allows her to rest, and takes care of the stars in place of the sun which threatens to burn out.
If it has not already.
Sunlight has always been a foreign friend, Luminaβs appreciated itβs presence more than sheβll ever admit to. Warm golden beams hugging her cold and wet body are always welcomed after a lifetime of flood and storm.
She walks to the lakes opposite the ship, itβs own metal body becoming one with the rest of misery. Itβs a good thing the Mandalorian remains inside, she would hate for him to become a reflection of this.
She swats the bugs that land on her skin, buzzing and chirps relentless to her ears.
It might be an omen.
Lumina finds herself at the edge of the lake, cross legged to watch the water. Equally grey as the world, itβs more of a fragmented universe, with barely glistening reflections of the little sun that is shed from above.Β
This is not what she was made for.
Embarrassingly, sometimes she thinks sheβll wake up and itβll all go back to normal. Not that there is a definition of normal, there isnβt, not anymore. But sheβs been trapped, and ten years werenβt supposed to have passed so soon.
Sheβs been so delusional.
Things were supposed to be different. She was supposed to be different. Great. Greater.
He promised.
What good is the word of Anakin Skywalker?
Why should she have believed a single thing he had ever told her? Built on betrayal, all he has done is betray. He has betrayed the Jedi, the Sith, his wife, his friends.
He betrayed her.
Then again.
He saved her.
Time and time again. Heβs managed to save her. Whether this is inadvertent or not, she fears sheβll never know. But, if he had ever made a promise to keep her safe, it is the one promise he managed to keep.
Despite his hatred.
Well, she thinks, plucking at the wildflowers, maybe not the only promise.
The Sith are destroyed, after all. Regardless of what Gideon and all the rest believe of her, she is not Sith. Not by any official standard. Lumina is not nearly strong enough to fulfill what she always believed to be her destiny. Thereβs not enough hate, not without him around.
The addiction is stronger than death sticks. There is comfort in the Dark Side, the anger has kept her warm, alive, worthy. But the anger is fading, or it has already faded and sheβs clinging to something she doesnβt know.
Maybe this is why he died. Heβd been more enveloped than she was, how could he live with no greater temptation than hate?
It would ruin the mythology of it all. She must be one of the only living people now who know the truth of Vader. Who know his name, his past, his pain and suffering. The townspeople, they celebrate the hero who was Anakin Skywalker. They wouldnβt believe her otherwise, not without evidence.Β
Of which she has none.
Even still. What did they know of that man to begin with? Any and all records of Jedi were destroyed, censored, hidden away to the Emperors personal archives. The Jedi arenβt supposed to exist anymore. Not in mind or matter.
Though it could just be Naboo. Coruscant has never thanked Jedi in their celebrations of freedom after all. He could just be a talking point, a known personal contact to their precious Senator, spoken and ignored like the others mentioned.
In hopes, thatβs all heβll ever be. A bullet on a list. If this is his legacy so be it. Vader doesnβt deserve the credit. Not for peace across the galaxy.
Balance to the Force.
A prophecy fulfilled.
It isnβt fair. Call her childish, or deranged, or selfish. It isnβt fair.
How could he have died to bring balance to the Force, and still have left her so broken? How could the Force allow Vader, the machine, to destroy so much, and still remain a hero? Why should he have greatness attached to name and she not even have the pleasantry of the latter?
After all he has done, after he has bathed her in waters of darkness against her will, why is she the one to suffer?
Isnβt there supposed to be peace?
Why is she forgotten as a ghost?
The water reflects the perpetual state of dismay and grief held by the girl, a shaky calmness when showing her own image.
Standing, it would be best to head back to the ship, or at least away from right here. Luminaβs reckless. The Mandalorian would say so a hundred times over to anyone who bothered to ask. But she doesnβt know better, even ten years later.
So she jumps.
---
Cold. Is the first thing that comes to mind.
Itβs not Hoth, but this would have been a smarter idea yesterday. But the rush of muffled silence when the water fills her ears and threatens her lungs brings the most delicate kind of peace.
The weightlessness is intoxicating, the feeling of freedom in her soul breaking boundaries she hadnβt known she held. Palms outstretched, she moves with civility and grace, floating in the middle of nothing. With nothing but the Force, the lousy guide itβs been.
Maker, she could drown right now and be satisfied. Sheβs lived a poor miserable life, and the Dark Side has been her only friend for so long. It would be a just and melodramatic end.Β
She wonβt.Β
Sheβs stuck it out this long out of pure spite, and death is scarier than anything else. But if drowning memories were an option she would have taken the change ages ago.Β
The sobriety isnβt fun, she continues to toe the line of acceptability and dive into itβs dark pool. And sheβs tried and tired. Sheβs tried and itβs led to nothing but boredom and indifference. Why should it matter if she tries to be any different than what she is? The whole damn galaxy is broken and evil and worthless.Β
Well, maybe not all of it.
The Mandalorian is doing far better than she is. The child is getting there, slowly, but surely. There is fear, and if unrecognized itβs only a matter of time until it becomes hate. And Maker only knows where it could lead from there.
She canβt let that happen.Β
Not again.
Theyβve been lucky as of yet. Made with better care, with time and patience and given reparation for their trials in another.Β
But luck never lasts.
She canβt teach him to be good, not when she cannot be good.
But better.Β
Her feet kick to the top, it isnβt too far and the light guides her way. Her head breaks surface first, a welcomed gasp of air follows.
She can at least be better.
If only a little.
For him.
---
βPatu.β
An unexpected greeting⦠but welcomed nonetheless.
βHey buddy,β Lumina says, pushing hair out her eyes. Bobbing in the water, she peeks over the grass. The sky isnβt any brighter, but the new coolness of her skin fights the humidity. βWhat the hell are you doing?β
βPatu.β
Heβs really quite the conversationalist, must get it from his father.
βWhereβs the tin can?β
He squeaks now, bending until he nearly falls in. If he werenβt so cute sheβd actually make fun of him for it. She still might, the kid hates bathing and the near death look in his eyes once he figured out it was water has her remembering heβs just a baby.
Lumina lifts herself onto the grass, which continues in itβs dampness, water trickling down her body back into the pool of the lake. A rock digs into her shin as her legs pull above the ground.
βShit,β she hisses.
Of fucking course.
Grogu whimpers next to her, toddling over, clawed hand outstretched.
βSave your energy,β she calms, shaking her head. βIβm not worth it. You use the Force only when itβs important.β
Itβs not taken well, obviously.
βI know you want to help, but youβre not strong enoughββ Wrong words. Bad words. βYou are. Youβre plenty strong already. Strength isnβt a good goal. What I mean isββ Stars, it really isnβt that big of a cut but the blood mixed with the waterβ¦ itβs not pretty. βWhat I mean is,β she sighs, washing away the mixture with handfuls from the lake. βYou donβt know how to properly control yourself. If you always pass out after accessing the Force then youβreββ
Useless.
Weak.
A liability.
Of no use to me.
βNot allowing yourself to grow,β she finishes, wringing out her hair into the grass. βThereβs a reason we work with little things first. You canβt jump the gun so fast, itβs bad for your connection, and your health. Trust me.β
The worst fear is that she really is just talking to herself. A weird egotistical projection that the kid really really doesnβt care about, but physically cannot tell her to shut up.
βI know you want to be helpful. You are,β she says, knees to her chest. βYouβre so helpful and you do such a good job. The best job. No one is as good as you.β
It might be a projection.
βAnd then youβll be able to help out your dad, and he wonβt care about some nobody more than you, and he wonβt get rid of you, and youβllββ
Itβs definitely a projection.
βYouβll be okay,β she sighs, patting his whiskered head. βI promise.β
Maker help her, heβll be okay.
---
βYou are good at disappearing,β the Mandalorian says behind her, the shadow of his figure overcast her body.
She doesnβt look up, chin on her knees. The child sits by her feet, pulling up grass and tossing it in the air like the galaxyβs saddest confetti. βHow long did you know I was gone?β she asks.
βWell,β he says, looking down either way. βI woke up when you scared yourself awake. And when you walked out, I figured you wanted alone time. But, he wanted to see you so, I let βem out.β
Her head nods, slow. βAh.β
βShould I ask why youβre wet? And bleeding?β
She shrugs. βFell in.β
Lumina isnβt a very good liar.
βAnd the blood?β
βIβm accident prone. It looks worse than it is.β
βCan you walk?β
βI should hope so, βs just a scratch.βΒ
βAre youβ¦ okay?β He asks last.
The question whether it is of her mental or physical state, hovers in the air for interpretation.
Prepared to be met with a snarky comment, Mando crouches to her level where the child toddles to his side. But, it wouldnβt be Lumina if she couldnβt managed to surprise him, even now.
βYeah,β she nods, finally meeting his gaze. βIβm okay.β
This, he manages to accept.
βOkay.β Standing again, he holds the child in his arms. βYou should get inside, youβll get sick just sitting out here like this.β
All she can do is nod, and heβll never understand why that would mean so much to her.
---
After washing herself clean of dirt and debris, Lumina sits inside the Razor Crest, glaring at her bag of weapon and mystery. Itβs not as lethargic as the lake, warmer sure, but the lack of dramatics and focus on detangling the mess that she calls hair is more annoying than anything.Β
The thought of cutting it crosses her mind for only a moment.Β
Her leg rests on Mandoβs thigh where he wraps her in gauze. It doesnβt bleed anymore, but the sting is irritable and he doesnβt necessarily trust her not to pick at it.
βI could cauterize it,β he offers. βBut thatββ
βWould feel like literal hell,β Lumina finishes, shaking her head. Unfortunately, it ended up being a bit deeper than she would have enjoyed. βItβs fine like this, wonβt kill me.β
βAre you sure you donβt want bacta?β
Nodding, she answers: βWe only have one patch left, shouldnβt waste it. β
βNot wasting if it helps you not get infected.β
βItβs fine, Mandalorian,β she says. Possibly too quick, too defensive. βIβve had much worse to far less of a consequence.β
His helmetβs gaze moves quickly to her shoulder, only to return to her leg, tucking the end of the wrap. If he should give this much care and politeness to the rest of the universe, she wonders how he manages to get anything done at all.
βYou can ask about it, if you want,β she says after a moments silence. When the health kit is packed and placed away, when the child cautiously floats his ball, anxiously awaiting her approval. The nod she gives is discrete, done with Mandoβs back turned. With his attention to them, the sphere falls once more.
The Mandalorian pays it no mind.
βWe should head out for the last bounty,β he says instead, tossing a puck in his hand. βItβs Outer Rim, tripβs nearly half a day.β
The flowers from the night before lay next to the carbonite occupying an obnoxious amount of space. They should get water soon, though that does come with the condition of having something to put water in to begin with. And the hope that that thing wonβt shatter with one wrong turn of the ship.
Sheβll make do with enjoying them until they rot.
Until yet again, the death of dawn strikes in her presence.
Sheβll pray for the safety of dusk.
βAre we leaving now?β she asks.
βThat was the plan,β Mando responds. βIs that okay?β
Her nod is silent but still too telling to new emotions.
βYou donβt want to go,β he observes.
βItβs hard to wanna leave a place like this.βΒ
The back door of the ship is lowered, soft wind entering their little abode. Delightful days havenβt returned yet, a fitting atmosphere, she supposes. Suitable for the anniversary of a sour death, and the so-called birth of a girl stripped of radiance and hope.
Haunted on a date given by the rising sun as the stars disappeared back into the invisible cloak of the sky.
Sheβs never been ready to be an adult, but she finds herself in itβs clutches regardless of opinion.
This is a perfect day.
βGotta move on eventually,β the Mandalorian says, blissfuly ignorant to his dialogue.
βI know,β she mouths, meeting his gaze. βWhat comes after that?β
βNevarro for drop off, and thenβ¦β he trails off.
βYou still want to find that Jedi.β
βI want whatβs best for him.β
Another silent nod.
βLuminaββ
βIβm not trying to fight,β she interrupts.
He sighs. βOkay. Me neither.β
Itβll be fine, she says to the child through the Force.
Or herself, as another projection.
βCould we leave tonight instead?β Lumina asks suddenly. Plans. Plans are hard and she needs time. βAfter sunset?β
βThatβs specific.β
βI donβt know if Iβll ever be able to come back here again,β she shrugs, βI wanna enjoy the night one last time. Please?β
He agrees without hesitation, a flaw sure to be exploited at some point. βNot much to do though.β
Luminaβs smile is rare and genuine. βWe can do nothing.β
---
Nothing, turns out to be a very glorious thing.
Nothing turns out to be laziness for the first time in either of their existences. With gentle body traces, and stolen kisses in the dark. With unspoken promises, and no signs on impending betrayal.
Nothing, turns out to be everything.
---
The Mandalorian awakens for the second time that day without Lumina by his side. This is not something he questions or fears. Just the same as that morning, the Razor Crest is left in total darkness, a glint of his helmet across his body, the child asleep in his bedchamber.
In passive movements, he fits the helmet over his head, powering nightvison for a glimpse of her.
To no avail, of course.
He doesnβt expect different.
Clocks indicate a later time on the screens in front of his eyes, a steady orange light in the corner of his vision. βLu?β He asks.
Just in case.
Thereβs no response.
Obviously.
He steps out of the ship in blinking consciousness, yawn stifled by his covering. Whatever was the presence of the sun earlier is completely gone now. The moon and glowing bugs becoming the only suppliers of light.
Footprints, footprints, footprintsβ¦
Ah, wonderful.
He follows the illuminated signal of movement around the shipβs body, endingβ¦ directly in front of the side.
Interesting.
βLumina?β He asks, to the complete entity of fuck all in front of him.
βOh, hey,β her voice says.
βWhereβ¦β
βLook up.β
Her head peers down at him from the top of the Razor Crest, a little wave casted in his direction.Β
βWhat are you doing?β Mando asks.
βWhat does it look like?β she responds.
βIf I knew I wouldnβt ask. Howβ¦ how did you get up there?β
βClimbed,β she says as he stares at the shipβs completely smooth surface. βAre you going to keep yelling at me or are you going to get up here?β
It really isnβt much of a question.
---
Side by side, their legs stretch across the Razor Crestβs roof, the pressure of their weight rested on their hands as they lean. βI love stars,β Lumina sighs, elegantly flopping on her back. βDonβt you?β
Heβs too silent for too long not to warrant any kind of look.
βI donβt know,β he says eventually.
βYouβ¦ donβt know, if you like stars?β
His answer is a shrug. βI donβt see them enough to have an opinion.β
βYou donβtβ¦β she repeats in a trail, as if sheβd forgotten the language. βYouβre joking, right?β
A sigh follows, in classic Mandalorian behavior. βThereβsβ¦ thereβs always something turned on, up here,β he says, tapping the side of his helmet. βSo, I donβt see them.β
βLike what?β
βNight vision, heat sensors, DNA tracking, scanners, general data,β he lists. βItβs like light pollution.β
βCanβt you turn it off?β Lumina asks, sitting up again.
βI do in the ship. The visor is tinted, even with it all off itβs too dark to see out here.β
Whatβs left is silent, if only for a moment.
βSo take it off,β Lumina says.
There arenβt enough words in Basic to accurately describe his stare.
βIβm being serious,β she adds.
There arenβt enough words in every language of the entire galaxy.
βI know what you look like.β
If the universe were made of glass and hanging on a string, it would have shattered.
βWhat?β He asks, devoid of emotion.
βYou have brown hair,β she says. βAnd itβs a little curly. You also have a beard, and I know itβs dark because I saw your razor my first day on the ship. You scratch under your helmet when it gets too long, and then you shave it but you keep the mustache. When we were on Sorgan, I saw the back of your neck. Your skin is tanned but not nearly as dark as mine.β
Her throat clears, palms rubbing on her thighs.Β
βItβs actually impressive considering you never really see the sun. But that means thatβs your natural color. Therefore, logic dictates you have brown eyes.β
Itβs a tally on the list of times sheβs scared of him.
βAm I wrong? I couldnβt point you out in a crowd, and I donβt know specifics. I couldnβt say how big your nose is, or how wide apart your eyes are, or if your ears poke out, or anything that would be useful in a line up. But I donβt care. I told you, you can keep that thing on for the rest of your life, I donβt care. Iβm never going to ask, and Iβm never going to look. I know what I know through chance and basic reasoning.β
She lays down again, arms crossed under her head. βIβm not going to look at your face. Thereβs no one around. Take it off. Look at the stars.β
For once, the sound is welcomed.
---
He lays beside her, some odd feet apart. One turn, one moment of wasted thinking is all it would take.
βIf you look Iβll have to kill you,β he says.
And she laughs. She laughs and laughs and Maker he could swear she wipes a tear from her eyes. Itβs wild and bright and if he werenβt so panicked about the damn situation heβd appreciate it a hell of a lot more.
βIβm serious,β he adds.
βI know. I know. Itβs not that itβsβYou actually sound like that.β
He blinks. βWhat?β
βI thoughtβ¦ The helmet doesnβt change your voice as much as I thought it did. Just threw me off. You still sound like you.β
βWhat were you expecting?β
βI donβt know. Something less deep.β
βHuh,β he scoffs.
βItβs not a bad voice.β
βLumina.β
βYeah?β
βShut up.β
Through a smile, βOkay.β
---
In his own admittance, itβs all bright and wondrous. The light of the moon and stars dancing down from the sky. The black canvas casted in a rare brilliance devoid of any other source to pollute vision. The breath of peace that floats in the air, landing gently on the worldβs soil.
βWhatβs your favorite planet?β Lumina asks.
βNone of them,β Mando snorts.
βPlease. I bet youβve been to nearly all of them. There has to be somewhere you find more tolerable than the others. If you had to pick anywhere, where would you stay?β
βThereβs no where very Mandalorian friendly,β he says, answer prepared in his back pocket.
βGood thing Iβm not asking the Mandalorian. Iβm asking you.β
He looks at her almost expecting a stare in return.
βIf you didnβt have the armor,β she continues to the sky. βWhere do you think youβd be right now?β
βDead in a ditch.β
βYouβre so funny,β she deadpans. βCβmon, tell me.β
βI donβt know. Iβ¦ I guess Iβd be somewhere quiet. Away from everyone.β
βHermit,β she says without pause.
His eyes roll, wordless. βBut, if the whole, Mandalorian thing, never happened. I donβt think I wouldβve left at all.β
Lumina hums. βDo you miss it?β
He shrugs. βI miss things being easy.β
Sheβs silent. βIf I could choose, I would live here. Well, ideally not here exactly. But somewhere just like it. Without the memories so I can make it totally my own, and Iβll never have to think about anything ever again.β
All he does is nod, and she is grateful for the silence.Β
βWhatβs the worst planet youβve been to?β she asks next.
The answer comes without hesitation. βAnywhere with snow.βΒ
She laughs, βAll of them?βΒ
βAll of them. You?βΒ
βTatooine,β she says definitive. βNothing good has ever happened on Tatooine.β
βEver?β
βI met you there didnβt I?β Her right hand, in the shape of a gun points at the sky, one eye squinted to stare down the imaginary barrel. She shoots, mimicking the blaster sound. βCase and point.β A smile trickles in her words. βIβve been to every piece of hell the universe has to offer, and I still say Tatooine is the abomination of it all.β
Like clockwork, the air claps beyond the mountains, as dark clouds roll in.
Lumina flinches, sitting up. βLooks like they agree.β
---
The stars die as a result, as all things do, the overcast of gloom returning for itβs encore. Yet again, beauty and light dies in her presence. Yet again she finds herself to blame for supernatural despair and agony.
βYou canβt let me have one thing, can you? Both of you, you canβt leave me alone,β she says to the sky, without anger and without fear.
But wrought in hidden pain.
The attempt to speak to the dead is silenced by another roar from above, and a droplet appears on the toe of her boot.
She laughs.
Lumina moves like a dance, turning on the ball of her foot to the side of the ship. As if the metal roof they stand on isnβt tens of meters above the ground, with no care or caution that one wrong slip could crack her head open.
Β βCareful,β Mando warns, his helmet clicking on he follows close behind.
βCalm down, itβs just a little rain,β she says, finally looking at him again.
The gods must be listening though, the only explanation for the downpour of Nabooβs waters which follow.
βWe need to get inside,β he says without room for argument.
Wind whistles between them, a screech of suffering.
βMaybe, yeah,β she says. Self preservation be dammed, but she flinches at a lightning strike caught in the distance. βWill the ship be safe?β
βIβll raise the shields, weβll be fine.β
But lightning flashes again, and Lumina may not fear much but what she does sure is a fucking plague on her stability. A single bolt hits the center of the lake of her morning baptism, branches extending like horrid vines.
Death should be easier to witness.
Her death, was easier to witness than this block of her escape.
In her steps to the Mandalorian, she tumbles on the wet durasteel.
And falls.
But her body never meets the ground.
The Mandalorian, who she is now convinced to be a saint bless in holy water, grips her hand. Her body is in limbo, magically teetering on the edge of the ship, breath heavy. They stare at each other, time nonexistent. Her heartbeat picks up, matching the heaviness of the thunder that bangs.
He could still let her fall, all he needs to do is let go.
He should let her fall.
But he doesnβt.
And still, sheβll never understand why.
Why he holds on, why he cares.Β
Why, despite this noble rescue, she has fallen regardless.
Lightning flashes again, and again. Illuminating the Mandalorian in quick successions, his silver Beskar pure white. Like a star he holds her up, keeps her steady. Grounded. Safe. He catches her, just as he always had.
And what she does not know, is that he watches her all the same. Returned to Tatooine, the explicit body of hell that it is. That in his shock, while Lumina is drenched in blackened waters, he sees her no different than the girl he had met. The girl who captured his attention and heart without knowledge, Who now, after all their fighting and betrayal and secrecy, keeps him trapped beyond hope of escape more than ever. The sky above them flickers in new bolts of lightning. Their gloved hands threaten to slip and fly away with losing traction.
But they hold on.
Itβs a flood of confusion and dismissal and tragedy that this is their inescapable fate. That this, whatever it may be and whatever it has yet to become, has no other to blame but themselves. Chance after foresaken chance theyβve ignored the opportunity to avoid all of this. To go about their lives and never think of the other ever again.
This is what true terror must be. Not the tortuous exploits of childhood theyβve both faced, not her idolization of the machine who had saved her, not the fear she holds of herself that dammed to hell she cannot escape no matter how desperately she try.
But knowledge.
They can never turn away now. Not without guilt and raw want and brokenness. She should never desire such a thing, and neither would he. Not anymore. Not ever again.
Itβs a terrible thing.
This is the lasting curse put upon her. This is how she remains trapped under the clutches of the machine, because Stars she would rather die than tell the Mandalorian anything.Β
So this is it.Β
This, by her own convincing, solidifies her dependency in the Dark Side. In fear, and anger, and hatred. In everything she has tried to push away. That he, her glorious so called father, hero of Naboo, has prevented her to ever experience joy and love without guilt and self punishment. He could never have such a thing, so why the fuck should she?
How could she? After everything she has done and surely will continue to do.
But when Mando pulls her back on, they stand static, hands connected between them. And neither can make a move to separate in fear of acknowledgement of their revelations.
Thereβs no hope for their pride. There never was. Not when the moon and the stars are witnesses to their truths.
Wordlessly, he pulls her body to his, flying down to the ground.
Entering the Razor Crest, their hands drop. A feeble attempt of neglect. They understand quite clearly, in their own respective ways the circumstance theyβve created.
Theyβre ruined.
Completely and utterly ruined.
---
Chapter Twenty-Two: Secrets Untold
Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverxΒ @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blogΒ
