ii.
WHERE IS THE GLORY

✶

"Tell me what it is to be the thing rooted in shadow. / To be the thing not touched by light (no, that's not it)— / to not even need the light? I envy; I envy that."
—Ada Limón, Carrying: Poems

The girl reached up to run her chubby fingers through the woman's hair, separating the long curtain into uneven sections. The sun seared through, colouring the hair burnt-brick red, and if the girl tilted her head in the right direction it looked like blood pouring through her fingers.

It was a terrifying sight. She blinked it away, and began to plait the hair instead, tugging at the woman's scalp as she crossed the sections over each other haphazardly.

          "Careful, Fal," the woman warned, wincing but not stopping the child. She adjusted herself so that the girl could remain comfortable leaning against her back. "Whatever you do to my hair, I'll do to yours."

Fal looked up at the woman with a smile that stretched to the edge of the galaxy and back again. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and it made the woman's throat feel suddenly dry: it was a familiar expression. "I will be extra careful then, Bo. Extra, extra, extra."

"Bo" nodded, appeased. Legs crossed, she sat gracefully upon the throne room's steps. Back turned to the throne, her gaze drifted lazily across all that she could see—the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the throne that afforded bright, almost-endless sunlight; the murals etched into the stone floor that depicted myths of a Mandalore long past; the sharp curve of the arch that led deeper into the Sundari Royal Palace.

To anyone, even those who didn't agree with what it stood for, the palace was beautiful, magnificent, a work of art in glass and dark steel. But Bo couldn't look less uninterested.

(That wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate the palace; of course she did. But there was something unsettling about the lack of movement in the throne room—it made her uneasy. If she hadn't been accompanied by Fal, who was drawing close to three years of age now, she would never have set foot in here in the first place. It was too peaceful. She could practically hear the dust dance in the air.)

          "When will Sat-een be back?" Bo felt her hair go slack, and turned her head to look at Fal. The girl's hands were clasped neatly in her lap, long strands of red hair tangled between her fingers. (Small sacrifices.) "Sat-een." Fal sounded out the syllables slowly. "Satine."

          "She'll be back any second." Bo smoothed out the skirt of her dress, before twisting around and pulling the girl into her lap. Her arms crossed around her torso as she propped her chin on top of the child's head. "She's bringing a very special guest."

          "How special?"

          "Very special." Bo's stomach twisted like rope, tying and untying itself, over and over again. Over and over and over. She pulled out the lily that was pinned to her hair and slipped it behind Fal's ear. "In fact—" Footsteps approached, and the woman's eyes flicked up to watch the arrivals, "she's here now."

Duchess Satine stepped into the room, a vision in deep blue and green. Wrapped up in rich, heavy silks like the lilies that adorned her hair, she appeared celestial in the afternoon light. Backlit, bathed in sun, and boasting a bright smile—an uncharacteristically bright smile—it was clear to Bo the reason why her sister looked especially content.

It was the man by her side. Standing tall, he cleared six feet easily but seemed to turn convex next to Satine, instinctively leaning towards her, drawn in by her very existence. He was handsome, with high cheekbones and grey-blue eyes, and a half-smile that flickered on and off the thin line of his mouth. Chestnut-brown hair cropped close to his scalp, Bo caught sight of a braid hanging from the back of his head, and felt the floor of her stomach drop. The mark of a Jedi padawan.

Satine hadn't mentioned that.

Behind the happy couple was another man—bearded, dressed in sand-coloured robes—but Bo paid him no mind. One Jedi was enough.

She gently moved Fal off her lap and rose, gown flowing behind her as she made her way down to her sister. "Satine, this must be your. . ." Bo searched for the word, a half-entertained smile imminent. She cast her eyes to the padawan, noting the way he held his hands behind his back as if he were restraining himself—from doing what exactly, she couldn't quite decide. ". . . friend."

          "Yes." Satine's smile didn't falter, and in the sunlight, she was ethereal, her hair like spun gold and eyes polished steel. "Obi-Wan, this is Bo-Katan—and my niece, Fallon."

Bo nodded her head in his direction, and Fal gave a little wave. Satine cleared her throat expectantly, and eyed her sister as if to say is that it? Bo indulged her, offering a brackish smile as further acknowledgement. "Lovely to meet you, Obi-Wan."

          "And you." His voice was smooth and self-assured, though Bo didn't miss the sideways glance he slanted towards the man behind him. "Satine has spoken highly of you."

          "Likewise." Bo nodded again. "I believe it was my sister's plan for us to take a walk through the city."

          "Yes." Obi-Wan offered his arm to the Duchess, chin tipped up as his eyes glazed over the glass ceiling. "It has been quite a while since I was last here."

Bo turned away as Satine took the Jedi's arm, and offered her hand to Fal. "Come on, my little Fal'ika."

Ever obedient, Fal slipped her fingers into Bo's and carefully treaded down the steps, following Satine and Obi-Wan out into the sun.

Self-contained not only in its political alignment, Sundari was sewn into the surface of Mandalore, encased in a dome-like structure that kept the stronghold-of-a-city safe from intruders. The last decade or so had placed a target on Mandalore's—and Satine's—back, and thus, the citizens needed all the protection they could get. The planet isolated itself from the rest of the galaxy, constructing a cocoon to protect its tender flesh as it undertook a metamorphosis that would see Mandalorian past erased and its present unsure. The new regime had emerged as "New Mandalore" and, despite more than ten cycles having passed since the Civil War, it was still silk-delicate. Still fallible, still fragile—like glass.

How easily glass could break, Bo thought. Especially in the wrong hands.

She and Fal trailed behind Satine and Obi-Wan, with the bearded man lingering just behind the Duchess and her beau. Bo had never understood her sister as much as she'd wanted to—they'd been close in childhood, allies more than anything else, comrades more than sisters, but the last ten years had seen an end to that. The trust between the two had been tempered by time, and trauma—but weakened by Bo's sharp tongue and savage loyalty to an era long forgotten. That fragile alliance hung in the air, heavier than the headdress Satine wore so proudly. The one that made her look as beautiful and innocent as a flower.

(That wasn't the case. As compassionate and just as her sister was, Bo knew the truth. The soft lines of Satine's face had hardened, bit by bit, loss by loss. There was something wicked beneath all those words, beneath all that talk. There had to be—there was no way Bo was the only one with that hidden rage. There was no way she was that unlucky.)

(There was no way that she was alone.)

Bo cut her eyes to the space between Obi-Wan and her sister. It grew smaller and smaller with every step. Satine's grip on his wrist was silently desperate, and even if she would not speak those words, Bo knew what her older sister wanted to say.

Don't leave me.

Bo had always believed that sacrifice was noble. She supposed that Satine had made her own, in her own way, and that said sacrifice stood right beside her. Bo's idea of a sacrifice was a life—in theory, it would be her own, willingly given to benefit Mandalore, to restore it to its former glory. She imagined that, in Satine's case, it was still a life; just one that she had chosen to let perish in her endless pursuit of peace.

She would never understand, Bo decided, as a sharp twinge of anger punctured her chest. She looked back at Fal, closing her eyes for a moment as she pushed all thoughts of sacrifice out of her mind. There was no good in punishing herself further, she decided. She smiled instead. "Fal, let's walk a little faster."

          "Why? Are you going?" Fal's eyes widened in an instant. She grasped at the side of Bo's dress, gathering fistfuls of royal-blue fabric in her hands as if she intended to hold the woman down on Sundari herself, a gravitational force in the form of a two-year-old girl, an anchor for the both of them.

          "No, kiddo. Not yet." Bo gave the child a taut smile. Her answer was a half-truth; she was spending less and less time in Sundari now, and more hidden away in the darkest corners of Concordia, mulling with like-minded associates who had no desire to place their faith in New Mandalore. It wouldn't be long before she left for the last time. Whether she would take the child with her or not, she still wasn't sure—all that she had left on Mandalore that was her own, was Fal.

Bo had been scared, terrified, when she'd first felt the child growing inside her. She had never been the gentle sister, of petal-soft smiles or sweet dispositions; motherhood had always seemed more cut out for Satine. Everything good always was.

She hated how much Fal looked like her sister. In the same way she could read Satine's expression as if every emotion the woman felt was laid out in scripture before her, Bo could read Fal's. The girl was a carbon copy of her aunt, glacier eyes and silent speech and all.

If she looked at the child now, she would know what Fal wanted to say. Don't leave me.

Bo knew what she wanted to say, too.

(Ni ceta. I'm sorry.)

(I kneel.)

Bo exhaled sharply and cast a glance to her sister.

          "Sundari is beautiful," she heard Obi-Wan say ahead of her. Bo gently disengaged Fal from her side and edged closer, her footsteps silent over the glass walkway.

          "With many thanks to you, Obi." Obi. Revolting. "I wouldn't have been here to rebuild it if it weren't for you." Satine gave a light smile to her companion, and then to the bearded man. "And your master, of course. Qui-Gon."

The man bowed his head respectfully. Bo took another long stride, concealing her souring expression. She wanted to hear what the Jedi had to say about Mandalore. She wanted to hear why they thought they had any right to speak of it.

Her ancestors had hunted Jedi for sport. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon looked more and more like prey every passing second; each moment they continued to exist, Bo felt more like a predator. Not just in the way she wanted to corner them, to show them how offensive their presence was to her territory, to her pride, on her—well, Satine's—Mandalore, but in the way that she felt alienated. When Obi-Wan was around, it was like there was no-one else in the world for Satine. Sundari was empty, save for her and her Jedi knight in shining armour.

Bo was just on the outside looking in.

She resented that.

Satine's laugh broke her out of her anger-fuelled daydream. Bo's gaze narrowed with sharpshooter focus as her sister threw her head back, as Obi-Wan lifted a brow with a boyish smirk. In an instant, Bo shouldered past the one named Qui-Gon and split the couple apart, gently pushing away Satine but harshly shoving her precious Jedi padawan.

          "May I ask what the Jedi are doing on Mandalore? The Republic have no jurisdiction here—they are only allowed to operate based on mutual respect, as sanctioned by our government." Bo tilted her head to the side, challenging Obi-Wan with a knife-sharp smile. "And permission, of course. Which I do not believe you have."

The space between Satine's pale brows creased as she drew them together, her smile fading as her lips formed a firm line. Sometimes, Bo could see her mother and father in Satine's eyes. Most often—like now—she could not. "They are here at my behest, at my invitation. I have not seen Obi-Wan, nor his master, in years. I owe it to them to remain in contact, considering what they have done for me, and my people."

Bo's nostrils flared. "Our people."

          "Yes, of course." Satine waved away her misstep, but it did nothing to placate her sister. "Our people. Either way, my dear sister, they are our guests, and rightly we should treat them with—"

          "They are Jedi." Bo sensed Obi-Wan straighten beside her, felt the air shift as he unclasped his hands. Would he fight her? Was he that foolish? Was she? "Do not make a fool of yourself."

Satine's expression was unreadable. She took a step forward so that she could face Obi-Wan, and offered him a light, strained smile, looking right past Bo as if she didn't exist. "I apologise for... whatever this is, Obi. Perhaps Bo-Katan is right. Perhaps you should go."

Obi-Wan nodded, slowly, then all at once. He was worse at the game than his lover was—Bo could see the conflict pass over his handsome features like a shadow. The man looked as though he wanted to argue, but he was smart. Smarter than Bo had given him credit for. He knew he was dismissed. He accepted it. "We can always convene at a later time. Thank you for having us. Master, shall we depart?"

The three turned to see Qui-Gon crouching in front of Fal. The child giggled, extending her hand to the man. In the air above her palm floated Bo's lily, its cream-coloured petals unfurling like paper in the still morning air. The Jedi Master watched the girl with subtle interest, before levelling his gaze with his padawan.

The dead space between Bo's lungs felt emptier than ever. She was frozen. Qui-Gon rose and took Obi-Wan to the side. Satine picked up Fal and joined the Jedi in their congregation, turning her back on her sister.

She was always on the outside looking in.

Bo took a deep breath, turned around, and walked away.

They didn't look back. Neither did she.

✶

Thirteen years later, Fallon Kryze looks back at her opponent as he leaps forward, leg extended in a flying kick that could've knocked her out cold. She dodged at the last possible moment, sending her fellow padawan spinning onto the training hall's cold floor. Around them, there was a chorus of excited voices: younglings lined each side of the room, watching with unparalleled enthusiasm. The floor was so well-polished that she could see their reflections, crystal-clear, in her periphery: she could see her own, and see her form, her posture, in all its textbook-perfection.

She could also see her opponent's blood on the floor.

Knuckles scraped raw and skin glistening with sweat, Fallon gave her sparring partner a handful of seconds to get to his feet, affording him a courtesy he would never see in battle. Once she was sure he wouldn't fall over, she closed in again, and dodged his advancing attack, ducking under his arm and resurfacing behind him. His momentum thrown, he tumbled forward. Fallon seized the opportunity with aching fingers, affording him not a moment of her own, precious hesitation. She counted two, three, four punches that she managed to land in his side. Fallon heard his breaths, ragged like glass catching in his lungs.

Good. He was tired.

Fallon took his moment of weakness as a moment to recover. She hadn't been wholly victorious in their match—her adversary had pounded a good number of his own blows in, and Fallon had to force herself to ignore the grating pain in the back of her skull, the ache in the hinge of her jaw.

It was worth it.

Her partner swung back around, half-recovered and half-tenderised meat, blood trickling from the corner of his lips in thin, vein-like rivulets. The boy circled Fallon, smearing blood against his forearm as he wiped his mouth clean, his eyes glittering with challenge. The lights that hung high from the ceiling above them cast his hair gold, and it was almost distracting. Almost.

          "Come on, Rook." Fallon's hair, tied high on top of her head, tickled the back of her neck. "Do you want me to hand you your ass in front of these children?"

Chrysaor Rook grinned, his smile both wicked and charming. He said nothing and instead continued his circuit around Fallon, moving slowly like an apex predator, moving slowly like he was closing in for the kill.

She didn't mind this attempt to intimidate her (with an emphasis on the word attempt), for two reasons:

          1) She knew Chrysaor far too well to be intimidated by him.

          2) Opportunities like this were a two-way street. He thought himself a vulture, circling his easy-pickings meal of Fallon carrion, but from where she stood, he looked nothing more than a sitting duck.

Besides, she liked to look at him. When she wasn't scrutinising every inch of his existence for weaknesses to exploit, she forgot he was just like her; in moments like these, he was more machine than man, an automaton perfectly modelled after a teenage boy who was meant for more than peacekeeping, and much more than bloodstained combat demonstrations for children half his age. Handsome in a way that felt almost ancient, Chrysaor was a collection of sharp objects, from his chiselled features to his piercing eyes—a golden green-blue—to the hardened lines of muscle that made up his body. Fallon supposed he was the laureate Mandalorian: beautiful, in the deadly way, and lithe, like he was built for constant movement. Constant grace.

Constant violence.

If that were true, though, he was yet to fulfil his purpose. As much of a threat as he appeared as he circled her—as dominant and awe-worthy as he must look to the younglings that cheered his name—Fallon had never known Chrysaor as violent. Yes, she could sense the temper that hid like a wounded animal beneath the surface, that lurked beneath tanned skin and lay dormant in his silvery veins, but she had never seen him act in anger. Fallon imagined it would serve him well if that hidden animosity were weaponised, but she knew him well enough to understand that it would never see the light of day as long as he remained loyal to the Jedi Order. He had surrendered that ferocity, that fury—that Mandalorian disposition—the moment he stepped foot on Coruscant.

Perhaps even the moment he was born.

Of course, so had she.

          "Daydreaming, Fal?" Chrysaor asked, finally speaking as he came to a standstill. Ironically, combat was the only circumstance in which he could stay still: otherwise, he was a boy in perpetual motion, always moving, always charged with a palpable electricity that supported his gilded reputation as endlessly persevering. Fallon, always the silent critic, would rather use the word relentless, though it would never be an insult.

His words snapped Fallon out of her thoughts. She blinked a few times, working electricity back into her fists. "About destroying you? Always."

He smiled, flashing her two rows of perfect, straight teeth. Smile lines creased his cheek both sides of his lips, and something inside Fallon's chest writhed. "I was thinking of something a little more tender." A pause. A heartbeat in her chest. "No, hoping."

          "Shut up, Chrys." Enough of waiting for him to make his move. Enough of his magnetism.

She leaped forward, her elbow the sharp point of a vertex, her fist clenched tight. Chrysaor raised a forearm to block his face and the girl took her chance. Dealing a low kick to his gut, she jumped back in anticipation for a swift retaliation: it came as expected, though she wasn't fast as she thought she was. She failed to dodge it and he hooked his ankle in the back of her knee. Fallon buckled, twisting out of the tangle of their limbs.

Once again, he was faster. Arm curling around her waist, Chrysaor fell, and brought her down with him. He rolled over on top of Fallon the moment he made contact with the floor, fingers closing around one wrist to pin her down, his free arm pressed against the soft of her throat.

Fallon's eyes flickered to the side, landing upon the expectant faces of the younglings surrounding them. They hadn't come here for a bloodbath, and that certainly wasn't Chrysaor's intention, but she knew they wanted closure. They wanted to see someone win, even if being a Jedi wasn't meant to be a competition.

Even if battles—small ones, like these—weren't gold medals to be won.

Fallon looked back up at Chrysaor, his face barely an inch from hers. She could taste his blood on her tongue, metallic, and sharp like the knife's edge of his jaw. She blinked, conscious of the way his eyes were glued to hers and slewed out a heavy breath as she thought of an escape.

          "Yield," he said. If she had been up against Hiro, the word would have been filled with a venomous satisfaction. If it had been the fourth horseman of their merry Mandalorian crew, Nadya, it would have been a single-worded order, commanded with brutality and expectation.

But it was Chrysaor, and when he told someone to yield, he meant it in the most merciful way possible. Defeat was a tragedy, a fall from a height. Hiro would throw you down like a ragdoll. Chrysaor could be as equally determined, but in comparison, he would kindly ask you to climb down.

Fallon blinked again. She could feel a renegade curl of his hair brushing against her forehead.

          "Yield."

Automated perfection or otherwise, he was still just a boy—he was still flesh and bone like her, and thus, he was still vulnerable. Fallon's movements were unpredictable, nothing like the forms she had learned from holograms or the moves Kil had taught her clandestinely—she ripped her wrist free of Chrysaor's grasp, ignoring the pain that surged through her arm like lava, and closed her hands around his forearm.

He jerked back as she twisted, palming the gold-marble skin of his arm in opposite directions, her eyes cutting away as his flashed in pain. She pulled her knee up, slamming it into his gut and sending him arcing back.

Fallon was on her feet in seconds, clamping her fingers around Chrysaor's shoulder like a vice and launching herself upright. Snaking that hand all the way around his throat till she had him in a chokehold, Fallon pulled the boy tight to her chest, the back of his head pressed against her ribcage.

Something within her—not frozen, but white-hot—revelled savagely in this feeling of victory.

The younglings inhaled all at once, with so much vigour they could have sucked all the air out of the room.

          "Yield," she regurgitated Chrysaor's words back to him, to the children, staring down at the top of his head. He felt slack between her fingers, too slack—

          "I yield." He afforded Fallon—and the younglings—a moment to register her victory, before he unhitched himself from her grip and slipped free, almost as if he had never been restrained at all.

Fallon took a deep breath, letting her arms hang idly by her side as exhaustion flooded her body, trading places with resolve and permeating every iota of her being. She turned to the younglings, forcing a smile, and nodded towards the archways from which they had entered. "That's enough for today. Back to your clans."

The children, satisfied with the blood on Chrysaor's lips and the tell-tale flush of exhaustion that coloured Fallon's cheeks, left in a single file line, leaving the two padawans to themselves.

Fallon turned back to her partner, wiping her forehead with one hand and offering the other to Chrysaor to help him up. He took it with silent grace, pulling himself to stand, and it was as if they hadn't fought at all.

She supposed they hadn't. It was just a practice match. There was no ill intent on either side, no secret vendetta or Separatist agenda in sight. Still, Fallon felt inadequate. Her chokehold had felt so strong, so powerful, yet he had pulled himself free without issue. It was as if he had just been waiting, a cold-blooded reptile underneath the surface of the water, for Fallon to take her victory—then snatch it away with a flash of teeth and leathery scales.

Chrysaor was anything but cold-blooded—Fallon knew that. Had he marked her as pathetic because of her shoulder, serviceable but still healing? Was he just going easy on her?

He would never undermine you, she assured herself. Never on purpose. It was just pity.

(But where is the glory in pity? Where is the glory in a hollow victory?)

          "So much for tender." His fingers brushed against her knuckles as he dropped her hand and raised his own to palm the blood off his forehead. He was pretty in any colour, whether it was the gold of the sun or the red of his own blood. Fallon felt shame in noticing, but she pushed the feeling aside in favour of indignation.

          "You went easy on me."

          "Maybe." Chrysaor dropped into a crouch, peering at his clean, aureole reflection on the shiny floor. He could see a cut on his forehead, courtesy of his best friend. He would soon be proud of the scar.

          "You shouldn't have."

          "Is it that hard for you to believe you won fair and square?" Chrysaor arched an eyebrow, the curve of it stark against the honed bridge of his nose, the angular slant of his cheekbones. "Kil must be getting to you."

          "Don't do it again," Fallon said, as if it were an accident, as if Chrysaor ever let anything happen by accident. His eyes were on hers again.

          "Your shoulder is injured." The corners of his lips twitched. "You needed a win."

          "Yes, a real win. Not one born of pity."

          "I could never pity you," Chrysaor scrunched his nose, finally looking away as he rubbed his palm over his jaw. "Although, you are kind of pitiful."

          "Utreekov," Fallon slapped his arm gently, head shaking as she moved for the curved archway the younglings had ambled through just minutes before. "I've had enough of you for...forever, I think. Forever and a day. I'll see you in ten cycles when I'm ready to deal with you again."

          "Fallon." He caught up to her in barely a full step, his height on his side as it always was, one stride worth three of hers. His hands, rough and calloused—but filled with tenderness, the tenderness he had so jokingly asked of her—curled around her arm. "Fallon, wait."

She stopped in the archway, conscious of the many Jedi passing by the main corridor up ahead. "Yes, Chrys?"

He seemed to relax at the use of his nickname, like it was a reassurance she wasn't mad. (As if she could ever be mad.) "Something's up."

          "Nothing's up." Adrenaline took a convenient leave from her body, renouncing its occupancy and leaving phantom pains all over. Her shoulder, throbbing, was the worst offender.

          "Fal—"

          "I'm completely fine, Chrysaor. Don't worry." She placed her hand over his, her thumb brushing briefly against his scarred knuckles. "I just...I don't want to settle into this routine."

          "Itching for the battlefield?" That brought a smile to his lips.

          "Oh, yes. Blood, guts, glory." Fallon rolled her eyes, though there was a firmness in her voice that solidified the space between them. "It's all that I live for."

          "Sounds violent."

          "That's how I like it."

          "Oh, I know." He dropped his hand, folding his arms behind his back. "But are you sure?"

          "Yes, Chrysaor."

Chrysaor nodded, satisfied. Fallon gave him one more smile before turning, cutting him off from her line of vision, and continuing down the hall.

✶

Sometimes, the four walls of her quarters were welcoming; they were home. Sometimes—more often than not these days—they were suffocating.

Fallon supposed that it was the jarring transition from the freedom of open galaxy to the confinements of the Jedi Temple. The last three months had seen her dash through all the ins and outs of the cosmos, to Geonosis and Naboo and back again. She had barely been allowed a moment to catch her breath—the injury to her shoulder marked the first break she'd had in a long time. Even still, she understood the moment she was fit for the battlefield once more, she'd be shipped out without a second thought.

That was the responsibility of a Jedi in wartime. Fallon had no desire to reject it.

She closed her eyes and pressed her head back into the firm fabric of her bedroll. If she focused, she could hear the sounds of Coruscant, of the speeders, pedestrians, industrial bustle. If she focused, she could pretend it was Sundari.

The last time the girl had set foot on Mandalore was nearly a cycle ago. She was desperately homesick; her trip to Phindar had been the closest she'd been to her home planet in three hundred and thirty-eight rotations. Her duty as Kil's padawan had barely seen her skim the neutral systems, though she was relieved that her home hadn't had a conflict requiring Republic intervention. If Duchess Satine was anything, she was determined to keep Mandalorian matters contained within Sundari's dome-shaped ectoplasm.

Fallon respected that. Her visits to Mandalore had been at best, infrequent, and at worst, non-existent: she knew that the only reason she had been able to visit at all was because of Kil. He too was partial to Mandalore, and he took his padawan back with him whenever he could. Her fellow Mandalorians, Hiro, Chrysaor, and Nadya, hadn't been so lucky. Part of her wondered if they were stronger because of it. The Order dictated that a Jedi had to forego all attachments: most assumed that by this, it meant you had to let go of friends, family, or daresay, lovers. For Fallon, it was an entire planet.

The others were already a million steps ahead. At least, it felt that way.

She had been a late bloomer. Hiro, the invisible force of nature, had been brought to the Temple at seven months old. Strict and stern Nadya, eleven months. Chrysaor, just over a year. Fallon had been nearly three years old—and she had only been discovered as force-sensitive by chance. The memory of that day was like a footprint in the sand, slowly-but-surely eroded by the coming tide: she could recall the glare of the sun, the feeling of soft petals between fingertips, the gentle smile of a bearded man. If she searched the depths of her memory, she could unearth a flash of red-gold hair, or a clandestine kiss exchanged between Satine and a man whose identity she couldn't recall. But it was all blurry, like it had been held up to the sun: light flooded in on all sides, over-exposing the image and leaching it of all colour and worth.

It didn't matter. She was here now. Throwing herself into her studies and her training had reaped enviable results: she was the top of her class, beating Hiro by a hairs-width, and she was her master's pride and joy. Kil was well-respected in the Order, having been close friends with the likes of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luminara Unduli in his youth, and so his validation was integral to Fallon. Under his guidance, Fallon had flourished. During the larger-scale battles—the ones that ravaged planets, or culled civilisations—she had performed spectacularly, receiving praise from Jedi masters and clone captains alike. But in the small moments, the quiet ones, like her spars with Chrysaor or her patrols with Hiro, she always seemed to screw up.

It was like those damned four walls: suffocating, constricting, inescapable.

Haat, ijaa, haa'it. Fallon took a deep breath, opening her eyes just as she heard a knock at the door. She was up in an instant, waving the door open with a flick of her palm.

Chrysaor leaned his head against the doorway, fiddling with his hands. He didn't know how to be still, how to just exist. Fallon placed a hand on his shoulder. "I thought we could go for a walk," the boy said.

          "Where to?"

          "Wherever you want to go."

✶

They decided on a casual circuit around the Jedi Temple. Fallon and Chrysaor walked side by side, their strides a split-second out of sync. They kept their conversation quiet, their shoulders bumping together as they passed by other padawans and masters.

          "How was Phindar?" Chrysaor asked. Every time her shoulder brushed with his, his arm would go jittery, charged with electricity. Fallon found it interesting to watch, feeling a charge of her own.

          "Phindar-y." Fallon smiled at a padawan she hadn't seen in a while—Bariss Offee—before turning her head to look at Chrysaor. She took a moment to consider a proper response. "It was hot. And it hated my shoulder."

Chrysaor laughed. It was in moments like these that Fallon was further assured he wasn't a robot, that he was truly flesh and blood. There was life in there somewhere—she had decided long ago she would tease it out of him, coax Chrysaor Rook out of his gilded shell and into the sun. "You complain, but you're luckier than you know. Quinlan has been running the underworld again."

          "He didn't take you with him?"

          "Nope." Just like that, it was gone. He was back to being perfect, the emotion schooled completely out of his face. "He'll be back in four rotations."

          "I'll be gone in two."

          "Feels like an eternity, doesn't it?"

          "A little." Fallon gave a half-nod. "Well, if eternity was a purgatory in the form of the Jedi Temple, then yes."

Something glittered in Chrysaor's eyes. "Am I about to hear your speech on the glory of war?"

          "There is no glory in war."

          "Tell that to our ancestors, Kryze."

          "If only I could." Fallon worked her jaw as they rounded the corner, moving away from the padawan quarters. She could hear the carpet that lined the floors of the Temple as it scratched against the soles of her shoes. "I would rather tell it to the ones still living. I miss Mandalore."

Chrysaor sighed in agreement, raking bruised fingers through his hair. "Me too. I haven't been back in over a cycle, now."

Fallon flicked him a look, eyes settling on a cut under his eye. She wondered if she had given him that. "Do you remember the park by the palace? Where the sunlight streams through the dome at dawn?"

          "Yes, of course." His eyes were distant. "My mother lives in an apartment overlooking it. I haven't seen her in so long."

Fallon nodded sympathetically. Chrysaor's mother, Selda, was one of few Mandalorian aid workers allowed to engage in the Separatist-Republic war. She often flew in and out of active battle zones, administering medical aid and relief supplies. It was all that Duchess Satine would allow.

          "Last I heard, she was on Christophsis. Maybe you'll be stationed there," Fallon said, though she regretted the words almost instantly. The last thing she wanted to do was instil false hope in Chrysaor. Sure, she had to let go of Mandalore, but it was a planet: her affection for it was unrequited. Chrysaor, however, had to let go of his own flesh and blood. She didn't want to make it any harder.

Fallon came to a stop and Chrysaor halted almost immediately after, like a clock just a second out of time. She hated that—the fact that he knew her so well, that he was so attuned to everything and that everything encompassed her and that one day it wouldn't and that one day she would have to mean nothing to him. (One day, he would have to mean nothing to her.)

She tried not to think about that as he turned to her, his eyes meeting hers. "Is everything alright?"

          "Yes." Fallon said. Her brows knit together. "No."

          "Talk to me."

She took a deep breath. "Is it hard for you, Chrys?"

          "What do you mean?"

She folded her arms, fingers dancing over an old burn scar on her elbow, where she'd slipped and dropped her training lightsabre. It was nearly five years old now, but the mark was still raised, a silver mound on the smooth terrain of her skin. "Is it hard for you to be a Jedi?"

The hallway was empty, though Fallon became conscious of the sound of approaching footsteps as Chrysaor floundered, flummoxed as he searched for an answer. "I don't know what y—"

          "Padawan Kryze." A voice stilled them both, and Fallon tore her eyes away from her best friend to look over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood, hands interlaced behind his back, with a seismic formality, his presence compelling Fallon's posture to straighten and her jaw to align with his in a nod of polite acknowledgement. Beside her, Fallon felt Chrysaor do the same. "Master," she said, respect and admiration in her tone. She didn't even bother to attempt to rein it in. "What can we do for you?"

          "I only need you for this task, Fallon. Chrysaor, would you give us a moment?" Obi-Wan said. His lips barely moved when he talked. Everything about him was resigned. "I will return Padawan Kryze back to you safely, I assure you."

Chrysaor nodded quickly and moved away, all long-legged strides and corded shoulders. Fallon watched him go.

          "What can I help you with, Master?" Fallon asked, shutting out all thoughts of Chrysaor.

          "Duchess Satine has requested a hologram conference with you," the man replied, as he began to lead her down the hall—the opposite of the direction Chrysaor had departed. They passed the small, gratuitously-windowed corridor that led back to her quarters, and further down towards the labyrinth of multi-purpose rooms. "I believe it is a common occurrence for you?"

Fallon nodded, noting the heaviness with which he had said her aunt's name. Satine, like a weight, like a grave. "It is, Master." He didn't say it outright, but she knew he wanted more information. "We speak monthly, if we can."

He hummed gently in satisfaction—a soft hmmph, a sound she had heard her aunt make many times—and they continued in silence for another few paces.

Fallon was generally good at keeping her head down, at minding her own business, but the museum of ancient history that was Satine and Obi-Wan was one of very few things she found possible to ignore. Every time she spoke to either party, she listened carefully for any clues, any hints, so that they may point her like a beacon to what they had once been. If she were feeling bold, she would attempt to steer the conversation towards the matter, but Kenobi and the elder Kryze were frustratingly gifted at remaining on-track.

She had to admit, in all her impatience, the selfish reasons as to why she wanted to know about the romance: she wanted to know Satine, and to understand her.

It was like exploring an ancient tomb. The excavation of her understanding was a slow, steady process—Fallon had to be careful in what she unearthed, in how far she wanted to go. The last thing she wanted was to disturb the wrong dust, or knock down the support beams that kept the ceiling up.

The last thing she wanted was to be trapped, walls caving in, in the burial chamber of Obi-Wan and Satine, forced to face the mistakes that had sent them to an early grave. Maybe there was another reason that scared her so much, kept her skittish and hesitant in uncovering the whole truth.

She didn't want to think about it. (Him.)

          "How is she?" Obi-Wan's voice cut open her subconscious and Fallon blinked back into reality. She shifted her head to face him.

          "Excuse me?" The high of her cheeks flushed. "How is who?"

          "Satine." There it was again. The weight.

          "Oh." A pause. "She's fine."

The Jedi master nodded, and Fallon got a good look at him. She could understand what her aunt had seen in the man: it was laid out before her, in the regal slope of his nose, in the implicit kindness of his eyes. Even though he was around the age of her own master—close to forty, but not by any means old—she could not imagine him as younger, as the knight in shining armour of Satine Kryze's daydreams and deepest, darkest desires.

He did not ask her anything else, nor did she wish to ask anything of him—not this time around, at least—so they proceeded in silence, passing through the carved-marble grandeur of the Temple without a single word exchanged between them. When they finally reached their destination, a non-descript room sandwiched between other identical ones after a queue of left, rights, and straight-aheads, Obi-Wan spoke.

          "I'll leave you to it." He nodded imperceptibly, and Fal bowed her head in return.

          "Thank you, Master."

Obi-Wan turned to leave. If Fallon squinted, she could just make out the miniscule ripple beneath his beard, the hinge of his mouth, when he tightened his jaw. "You look so much like her."

          "I've been told that many times," Fallon said automatically. She had been—by her cousin Korkie, by her master. Even by Satine herself. "It's the eyes, I think."

          "Yes." Obi-Wan said, and then he was silent.

A beat. Two, three. Fallon felt something coil up in the pit of her stomach, something heavy, reptilian. "I'm sorry." She wasn't sure what she was apologising for—for her aunt's actions, for the Jedi creed that kept him separated from her, for resembling Satine in the first place—but it seemed to placate the Jedi.

He turned fully and walked away.

Fallon waved open the door, and took a deep breath before stepping inside. The room, large but windowless—and thus, constrictive—was set up for her already, with a large holoprojector placed in the middle of the floor. Satine was waiting for her, sitting upon an illusory throne of bright blue light. Bathing the room in a wash of steel blue, customary of the standard-issue holograms sent as Jedi correspondence, Satine looked like a ghost.

The Duchess spoke first. "Fallon, it is good to see you."

          "You too, Aunt Satine." It was devastatingly formal. The Kryzes exchanged pleasantries before Satine launched into her spiel, one that Fallon had encoded to memory since the second time she'd heard it.

It was the same colour of New Mandalore dogma, just adjusted to a different shade every time Satine tried and failed to convince Fallon of its merits. I remember when Jedi were truly peacekeepers, not glorified soldiers, Satine would say. Fallon would reply with something like, I wasn't alive then, Auntie, how do you expect me to remember that as well, and then Satine would say I can't expect you to remember the past but I can expect you to change the future, to which Fallon would sigh and tell her to tell that to Korkie, who was in the Royal Academy of Government and actually had a decent shot at "changing the future". Satine would then say, Korkie already knows. Fallon's response was Oh, I can't imagine he doesn't, and then Satine would flash a backlit glower and it would go around again, perhaps three or so more times, a political carousel of failed coaxing and campaigning.

Obviously, Fallon took no issue with New Mandalore. She was all for peace—despite the warrior ways of Mandalore past, she felt no particular thirst for violence, and even if she did, hypothetically, she would never make the mistake of making casualties out of innocents. Not that she had thought of it of course—she wasn't like Chrysaor, who was constantly reciting the details of every war that had ever been fought, all the way back to the creation of the cosmos, and deciding in his head exactly how he would have won it, negotiating himself a victory through space and time—but it had to be said, especially in wartime.

To Fallon, Satine was polarising. She was constantly stuck in a state between satisfaction and apprehension—the intersection of two overlapping circles, between perceived peace and perceived war. The woman was either confident in her governing of Mandalore, staunch in her faith that pacifism was the be-all, end-all to the planet's bloody history, or silently afraid of shadows lurking beneath the layer of lacquer her government had slicked like sap over Mandalore's imperfections. Fallon was not aware of any threats Mandalore might be facing, so she assumed that the surficial fragility of her home was just that: a mirage of apparent faults that would disappear the moment you tried to touch it, to feel it brittle between your fingers.

Either way, Satine felt as if the point had not permeated Fallon's senses quite yet, that for some reason Fallon was gunning for an all-out galactic war. That the cosmos would fall in flames and Fallon would reveal herself, smiling above the ashes, as the mastermind of all the chaos.

It was insulting, and the assumption alone was enough to tempt her. (She had made a joke about it a few holograms back. It had not gone well.)

          You're creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, Satine. Fallon had grinned like an old god. Oh, there it is! I can feel the itch in my fingers! They're desperate to feel blood, warm and sticky and glorious on my skin!

It was the type of humour Fallon usually saved for Chrysaor. Unsurprisingly, it did not have the same effect on her aunt. Satine had looked pained. Not the type of pain Fallon imagined she had worn when she and Kenobi parted, but a how-did-she-turn-out-like-this-where-did-i-go-wrong type of pain. Fallon had assured the woman she was not to blame—Satine hadn't raised her, the Order did.

The Duchess changed the subject almost instantly after that.

          "How are your studies?" Satine's voice, cool and commanding, glitched for a second as the hologram flickered.

          "They're good." Fallon said. "Very studious."

Satine smiled wanly. "And your shoulder?"

          "Healing up nicely. I'll be back on assignment with Kil before I know it."

          "How is he?" Fallon didn't miss the brief look of disdain that crossed Satine's face. Kil was of Clan Vizsla, and therefore, House Vizsla—the political faction that opposed New Mandalore's rule. Of course, Kil had renounced all political standing or association when he entered the Order, but the name Vizsla was still sour on any true Kryze's tongue. Fallon was exempt.

          "He's fine, I suppose. I believe he's on Felucia currently, but I can't be sure."

          "And how are your friends? All well?" Satine asked, her steel features softening. "Selda's son? The Wren and Saxon girls?"

Fallon nodded, glad for the opportunity to talk about something she actually cared about. All she had was the Order, and her friends: Hiro, in all her brutality, beauty, and glory; Chrysaor, as loyal to Fallon as most Jedi were to the Order, and then some; and the precise, perfect Nadya, who preened herself with prodigal satisfaction. Fallon had wound herself tightly around them, fashioning herself a noose out of their love—or loyalty, it was synonymous—with no intent of ever letting go.

That would pose a problem when it came to the Trials. She would deal with the issue when it presented itself. (Kil had told her of the difficulties he had faced in letting those he loved go; the thought of it terrified Fallon, and the act of avoiding said thought was a Herculean effort on her part.)

          "They're great." Fallon smiled, "Hiro and Nadya are on Geonosis. Chrysaor is here with me at the Temple."

          "Chrysaor?" Satine arched an eyebrow, lips rolling into a thin line—it was a telltale sign she knew something, something that Fallon would never say aloud. "And how is he? I've always liked that young man."

          "He's..." The space between Fallon's brows creased as she pulled them together, searching for an appropriate answer. "He's restless."

          "I can imagine. His mother is right in the middle of a warzone." Compassion was woven through Satine's words, a tongue second in fluency only to Mando'a. "But that's war."

Fallon's eyes narrowed. "She's helping people, Satine."

          "People who only need that help because of the war," the Duchess replied. "You must remember that—especially with your commitment to the Jedi." The way Satine said commitment, as if it were a promise Fallon would inevitably break, made Fallon uneasy. The snake in her stomach uncurled slowly, shedding its skin.

          "What do you mean by that?"

          "The Jedi aren't meant to be warriors. They're supposed to be peacekeepers. You forget that."

          "The Jedi did not start this war, Satine." Fallon could hear the petulance in her own voice. "In fact, we're trying to end it."

          "There is no honour in fixing a problem that you created, Fallon. It's called accountability."

          "I never said anything of honour."

          "Actions speak louder than words." Satine's expression was unreadable. "Do you call yourself Mandalorian?"

Fallon hesitated. "Yes."

          "And what do you think that means?"

          "I..." Fallon frowned. The blue light of the hologram felt like acid on her skin, a solvent corroding her down to the bone. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

          "I want you to be honest with yourself. Can you be a Jedi and a Mandalorian?"

          "I don't see why not. If you believe to be Mandalorian is to be a pacifist, then a Mandalorian can be a Jedi. They are—we are—peacekeepers."

          "Soldiers, you mean."

Fallon's jaw tightened. "So were Mandalorians. You can't hold onto the Jedi Order's past and wield it like a weapon then pretend that our planet has none." The snake poised to strike. "It's written in our temples, in our textbooks, in the lines of our family's faces. You can't just pretend that there has only ever been New Mandalore."

          "That is not what I'm trying to do."

          "Isn't it?"

          "I just want you to see the war from all sides, Fallon." Satine ran a ghastly hand down her face. "The Jedi—the Republic—take the conflict from one side, one angle, and cast it in their own light. That is how you are made to perceive it. But—"

          "—Where is this going, Satine?"

          "—But, if you were to look at it another way, with another light, it would appear differently, would it not?"

Fallon blinked. It was difficult to imagine: in the room, the only source of light was Satine, and no matter which way Fallon looked at her she appeared the same, unfaltering and phantomlike and inevitable in all her ambitious glory.

          "I suppose so."

          "You see only with the light that the Order allows you, Fal. They show the best parts of themselves in that light, and hide all their worst in the dark."

The serpent hissed, backing down, and Fallon unstuck her jaw. She looked towards the door, feigning an interruption, and spoke with haste, "I have to go."

          "Fallon—"

          "I will see you in a fortnight." Fallon let the words tumble off her tongue as she flicked off the holoprojector, wiping her eyes with shaking hands before heading for the door.

✶

Fallon found Chrysaor again in a secret spot sandwiched between two Coruscant building complexes. Sitting upon the steps of the hideaway they had discovered nearly two cycles ago—the one that lead up to a small, rundown park, with a boxy fountain frequented by small children for special-ops water fights—he looked peaceful, his back straight beneath the woven cloth of his shirt and his head tipped up towards the sky.

          "How did it go?" The sky was stuck in the stasis between day and night, where the sun had just slipped beneath the chrome-and-steel horizon but the quartet of Coruscanti moons hadn't yet risen. It was the colour of the bruises on his cheeks, covering his golden curls in a lilac sheen.

Fallon sat beside him without ceremony, her cloak trailing the uphill slope of steps behind her like a woven shadow. "It was the same as usual. Hard questions, no easy answers. She's relentless."

          "But you care for her."

          "Of course I do," Fallon said indignantly, "but it doesn't mean she doesn't get on my nerves. It's just how family is."

          "I suppose so." Chrysaor turned to look at her, eyes dark in the growing night. The moons would rise any moment. "You asked me something before, Fallon."

          "Did I?"

          "Yes." He smiled small. In her periphery, she could see his fingers dancing an erratic rhythm against his kneecap. "Tell me again."

          "I don't remember."

There was silence for a second, as the two looked heavenward, past the crosshatching of speeder traffic and the ash-like blanket of clouds. In slow procession, the moons of Coruscant began to appear in the sky. One, two, three, four.

          "Tell me again," Chrysaor repeated.

Fallon turned to slant him a look. His head was tilted up toward the sky, but the angle wasn't quite right; his face was dark, concealed. "Is it hard for you?"

They were so close that she could feel the current that flowed through him, jumpy and continuous. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he stilled.

          "It changes every day."

          "Is that so?"

           "Yes." His head came down to hers, cradling her safe and sound between his cheek and shoulder. "But I know that I want to be the best of the best. I want to be remembered."

          "As a Jedi?"

          "And a Mandalorian."

          "Can you be a Jedi and a Mandalorian?" Fallon repeated Satine's question, hands clasped in her lap.

          "It depends what you define either of those as."

          "And what's your definition?"

          "I'm. . ." He paused to laugh sheepishly. "I'm still working that one out." The tremors that rippled through his shoulders shook Fallon's teeth. "I'm so many things, Fal. Mandalorian, Jedi, student, boy. I want to sort everything I am into little boxes, so I can take them out and be them whenever I please. But I can't just not be Mandalorian, and I can't just not be a Jedi."

          "So you have to put them in order."

          "So I have to put them in order." Rather smoothly, he slipped a gentle arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his chest. "But what goes first? What do I choose? What is centrifugal to who I am—who I want to be?"

He was asking her questions that neither of them could answer. He seemed to realise this.

          "Who do you want to be, Fallon?"

The girl looked up towards the moons, gently dislodging her head from his shoulder. She didn't move from his arms, though, and instead folded herself into them, tightening like a knot that only the sharpest of knives could cut through. She was silent for a while, just thinking.

          "I want the one who takes my life to see my death as an honour."

Chrysaor laughed gently. "Do you mean that? Truly?"

          "Yes. More than anything."

Fallon was silent again as Chrysaor worked careful fingers to peel back the sleeve of her robes. His fingertips found the puckered skin of her shoulder, and he traced the epicentre of the burn with his thumb. The exploration was a common ritual; when the cuts and grazes on his face turned silver, she would have her own chance to examine them.

          "You're not planning to leave me anytime soon, are you?" Chrysaor asked jovially, but there was an underlying curiosity that even he couldn't conceal.

          "No." Fallon shook her head as he fixed her sleeve. She leaned deeper into the cavity of his chest, head nestling in slope of his shoulder so that she could look up at him. The moons had risen perfectly now, and found themselves in the exact places they were meant to be: she could see all of the boy, backlit, beautiful, in perfect light and shadow.

          "If it were possible, I never would."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

it's a big one (": sorry for the massive exposition dumps again. this chapter ended up being nearly 9.5k words—i don't think i'll have many heavy chapters like these. i was planning on splitting it but i didn't want to drag out chrysaor's existence. in the next chapter we meet nadya and focus on kil.

also yes i'm in love with bo-katan