ix.
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS

✶

"When you saw the dead little bird, you started crying / But you know the killer doesn't understand"
— Phoebe Bridgers, Moon Song

Judgement found Fallon back in the throne room, burning and blazing a thousand degrees, piercing the dome-shaped chrysalis of Sundari and the slope of the palace's glass ceiling, cutting golden shapes into Fallon's shoulders with incendiary precision. The smell of smoke lingered in her hair, upon her shoulders, ashy and carcinogenic and undercut by the scent of burned flesh. It choked Fallon like fog, like death.

It was accurate enough.

Fallon often felt like a corpse—like a husk, paradoxically filled with some sort of emptiness, as if there were something she was missing in herself, something that was the exact shape of a body (her body) with seams parallel to hers, with scars the same shade of silver as her own.

Or, she felt like she was trapped in a body just-slaughtered and still-warm, as if the last morsels of life were lingering on her fingertips, grasping for something they couldn't hold, begging for more heat, begging for more time. It was as if another face was pressing at the inside of her skull, aching to be let out, aching to escape, to split open her skin and replace it with theirs and claim her bones as their own. It was a violent feeling, and yet, it wasn't: she could feel herself, both victim and crime scene, and she could feel the viscera wet and hot on her skin. But still, like watching footage of an old war, long since lost, projected in black and white, she couldn't see the colour of the carnage—the red, the blood. She was distanced from it all, detached; and so, she did not stir.

But the sunlight was a different kind of interment, a different kind of purgatory—one she couldn't understand, even if she tried to. Fallon felt it bore into her back, her shoulders, blooming a bright blush beneath her skin—red and soft, it would later peel like an overripe fruit. She could also feel Satine's silent assessment from her throne, as the Duchess' pale eyes settled on the ash plastered to her niece's face, on the concrete rubble that dusted her shoulders. Fallon kept her gaze fixed on the ground before her, choosing a slow cremation over facing her aunt. At least this was warm.

Had Fallon done anything wrong? Objectively, no. Did she feel as if she had? Yes, yes, yes. She couldn't say it to herself enough. It had been mere minutes since the charred skeleton of the library had been stormed by Sundari guards, since Fallon and Hiro had been pulled from the building, coughing and spluttering, soot-covered and black-lunged. Since the two padawans had been tugged back across the courtyard, back through the crowd that had gathered like a forest—the sun began its trial then, coming swiftly as if through trees. The Mandalorians stood, watching, unmoving, the glow of the inferno bright in their hair, the horror on their faces catching the light.

Jedi, Fallon had seen the syllables gathering on their lips as she and Hiro passed, the word thick and black like tar. Her lightsabre gleamed in the afternoon sun, no longer hidden by Satine's cloak. It had never felt heavier on her hip.

          "I regret that your afternoon on Sundari was cut short," Satine said evenly, lancing the silence like an ulcer and shaking Fallon from her thoughts. "But I am glad that you both were here to react so swiftly and nobly to the incident—" At that word, incident, so cavalier, Fallon felt Hiro tense beside her, "—as I'm sure that, without your aid, we would have suffered worse casualties than a mere building. Such structures can be rebuilt—starting anew is not unknown to us on Sundari—but lives are not so salvageable. Thank you."

Fallon blinked. The crowd had parted for her like a criminal on their way to the gallows, judgment passed with no trial or trepidation—and as she had walked, the soles of her shoes tread upon pieces of broken glass, fragments of the stained-glass window she had admired just before the explosion. Fallon wanted to stop and examine the glass, to decipher what section of the mural it had been, to mourn the loss of such beauty. She had to settle for a passing glance.

Hiro nudged Fallon with her arm, flicking her sharply-drawn chin towards the throne. Fallon's thoughts were interrupted again, the chain broken. "Kryze," Hiro hissed. The side of her face had been grazed. Her blood dried dark.

Fallon blinked again. Satine looked at her expectantly, her hair threaded tightly from her scalp, so fine and silk-like it could have been strung to carry pearls. (Pearls would look nice on Satine, Fallon decided—they would have matched the white of her lilies, of her skin.) "Fallon? Are you feeling alright? You've gone pale."

          "I'm fine," Fallon said curtly, more so than she had intended. "I was just... distracted. Is everyone okay?"

Satine nodded. "Everyone is alive, Fal." Her words were petals, soft and gentle and kind, but underneath was a hidden firmness, like the features of a statue smoothed underneath a pale sheet. Satine was veiled at all times. She rose from the throne; a goddess, the hills and valleys of her dress shifted with her, the fabric like a spectre spooled into mist, blue and green and fading. "I've arranged for one of my personal starships to take you home."

          Home. Fallon's jaw locked at the word.

          "To Coruscant," Satine swiftly corrected herself, smoothing over her misspoken words like they were mere wrinkles to be ironed out of her dress. "Hopefully, your next visit will not be so short-lived."

          "Hopefully," Fallon repeated. The smoke and sun had combined forces, forming an alliance to cloud Fallon's head, choking thoughts and concealing memories behind phantom spots of floating light and colour. In the fresh air of the throne room, the girl found her reprieve: with every breath, every inhale, every exhale, those tricks were beginning to fade—and, in its stead, anger was taking hold.

In, out.

          There is a group that calls itself Death Watch, Satine had said, only an hour before. They are traditionalists, loyal to our old martial ways.

In, out.

In periphery, Hiro bowed her head, poised to depart. Fallon didn't move. There's nothing I need to concern myself about, according to Satine. And yet, she thought to herself, a building burns, and smoke has settled in my lungs.

In, out.

Anger began to unravel in the pit of her stomach, a loose thread picked and pulled taut, thickening, growing scales and fangs and venom. There was no room for pearls or petals here, not in the husk of her body, the cavity of her chest—nothing pretty grows in the dark.

How Fallon hated being kept in the dark.

          "Fallon?" Fallon lifted her gaze to meet Satine, forcing her jaw to loosen. Beside her, Hiro halted, her back to the Duchess and her eyes on Fallon. Dark and vulturelike, Hiro surveyed her like she was the next meal—like she was indeed a corpse, a piece of carrion, waiting in restless decay to be feasted upon.

Fallon was glad for the confirmation. It comforted her. "Yes, Satine?"

          "The outcome of our last holo-call inspired me to organise a small convention for you to attend, one staged with myself and a few other politicians." Satine's mouth drew into a smile, her lips flicking up at the corners. Just like Fallon's did. "They will all be women, of course. I believe you should have female role models, and I haven't grown so vast in ego yet that I believe I could satisfy this criteria on my own."

Fallon bit back a scoff. She already had her role models; there were almost too many to count. Adi Gallia. Aayla Secura. Depa Billaba. Luminara Unduli. Jocasta Nu. Alula Ajik. Nadya Saxon.

(Satine Kryze.)

          "Must we discuss this now? I have to return home." Fallon sharpened the word between her teeth, letting it leave her lips like a snake slithered through the grass, hidden, scales shiny, as slick and as green as the blades that parted around it.

Satine was not tempted—she already had all the shiny things she could possibly want, all the pearls and petals and planets. What could she fashion out of snakeskin? What new shape could she convince it to take? Expression intact, Satine continued: "I hope that it might open your eyes to the true nature of war—to what business goes on behind the scenes. The politics underneath the gloss, all the lightsabres and the droids and the so-called glory."

Satine's voice ran like water. Fallon looked at Hiro, and Hiro looked at Fallon. Their stare was slick with the very gloss the Duchess spoke of. Impervious, impenetrable. For once, Satine would not wear Fallon down. She would not be allowed to find a way to trickle in.

          "That sounds lovely, Satine."

          "When everything is organised, I will send for you. It won't be too long—I imagine you'll be returning to Sundari sooner than you expect."

          "I'm sure it'll be enlightening," Fallon said coolly. Her eyes didn't leave Hiro's. "Take care, Auntie."

Hiro began to walk. Fallon followed, her footsteps heavy. The sun glared at her from above, pursuing her even through glass and iron and skin. What it thought of her—what its final judgement was—she did not know.

✶

          "They must think we're stupid," Hiro decided the moment she and Fallon were settled into the starship, claiming a booth in the corner of the crews' quarters as if there were any other passengers to contend for the space with. She dabbed at the side of her face with a damp cloth, slowly working off the dried blood. "Satine calling it an 'incident', the Sundari guards telling the civilians that it was 'just structural'—we saw it. It wasn't 'just structural'."

Fallon nodded in agreement as she slid into the booth. Not unlike the Sundari Royal Palace, the starship's interior was sleek and polished, its decorations delicately crafted from glass and steel. From the booth Fallon was afforded a view of the rest of the room, of the gentle starlight that filtered through the glass shields adjacent and settled upon any surface it could find. Like gossamer. Like dust. "You're right." A pause. Fallon scrunched her nose. "But we should try not to dwell on it—I doubt we'll get any answers, no matter how aggressively or righteously we ask the questions."

Fallon's anger had not yet dissipated; serpentine, it sought to leave the dark cavern of her stomach, to snake up her throat and tongue and leave her lips fully and viciously realised, in venom and in tone. It wanted to bask in the sun, in the heat.

But she had left the sun behind in the throne room. And Fallon had never been one to acknowledge her anger, let alone share it.

Besides, Hiro had enough anger for the both of them. "But it's obvious that something else was going on there."

          "I mean, it was a bombing. There has to be some kind of motivation behind it, some kind of message that someone decided just had to be said in fire and smoke. Otherwise, there's no point."

          "Who did it?"

Fallon worked her jaw. "I have no idea."

          "But you do, don't you?" Hiro tilted her head to the side. Her words had an acerbic quality to them, like acid corroding flesh, coaxing it tender off the bone. "I was watching you. You recognised the hologram in the library, the symbol. It was a bird," she added, an afterthought.

          "It was a shriek-hawk," Fallon said slowly. "Jai'galaar, in Mando'a. It's a type of predatory bird native to—"

Hiro scowled. "I don't care about the Mando'a, Kryze." Of course she didn't. It couldn't be used to curse someone out, so what was its purpose? "What does it mean as a symbol? Who uses it?"

          "I—" Fallon frowned. "I don't really know." But the words were like a wasp in her throat, thrumming, needling her flesh, stinging it numb: Death Watch.

Hiro didn't blink. "You do."

          "Hiro—"

          "Don't be shy," If Hiro was offended that Fallon had tried to brush her off, she hid it well—just like she hid everything else. Even her eyes didn't betray her; they were an endless brown, a fresh grave where Hiro could bury all her grievances and leave them to rot. "Tell me."

Fallon sucked in a breath. "It's the symbol of—well, I think it's the symbol of—this organisation called Death Watch."

          "Death Watch?" Hiro sat up straight, leaning towards Fallon over the table, cloth and clotting blood forgotten. "Cool name."

Fallon slanted her a dry look. "They blew up a building, Hiro. Innocent civilians could've been hurt. You yourself were hurt." Her eyes caught on the blood. She stood, moving to the row of cabinets set into the wall beside the booth in search of a medkit, of something sterile to replace the scent of blood. It cut razor-sharp and metallic through the air.

Hiro watched her, masked. "It was just an observation. What's their deal?"

          "They're traditionalists, like the political faction opposing Satine's pacifist regime. House Vizsla."

          "Except with explosives."

          "Except with explosives," Fallon confirmed. Finding a handful of bacta patches, she returned to the booth. "I don't know how long they've been around for, but they're really scaring Satine. I was watching her face when we were first in the palace... she seemed worried. Properly worried. I've never seen her like that before."

          "Casual terrorism targeted to your capital city with the purpose of undermining your rule would do that to you, I guess." Fallon gestured for Hiro to come closer, and she complied, sliding around the booth. The interest was bright and hawklike on Hiro's face; no slipcover could conceal it, no mask or façade. "Does she know who's involved with the organisation? Does she know why they're doing what they're doing?"

Fallon peeled back the thin film that kept the bacta patch sterile. "She says she has leads." She watched Hiro's expression as she fixed the patch onto the side of her face, gently pressing the gauze into the wound. "Isn't it obvious what their intentions are? They're traditionalists, loyal to the old warrior ways of Mandalore. They probably want things to go back to what they used to be, before Satine rose to power."

          "Fair enough."

Fallon lifted a brow. Her hand moved involuntarily, fingers wilting like a flower, curling into themselves and crushing the film. A thin layer of bacta residue settled into the lines of her palm, sticky and viscous like sap. "Fair enough?"

          "Did I stutter?" Hiro patted her dressing, then shrugged. "Old Mandalore lasted thousands of years, won thousands of wars. They must've been doing something right."

          "Since when have you had an opinion on Mandalore's history?"

          "Old Mandalore's," Hiro corrected, with mild distaste. Finding her attempt to lie back in the booth impeded by her lightsabres, she placed them on the table, adjusting them so they were aligned perfectly, parallel. "I understand them, okay? I understand where they're coming from."

          "I don't understand you."

Hiro rolled her eyes. "They left a very bloody legacy, you don't have to be a scholar to know that. And it would've been our legacy, if it weren't for your aunt."

          "Or the Order."

          "Or the Order. Whoever's fault it is, it doesn't really matter. We have to deal with it either way."

Fallon said nothing. Hiro pinned her with an unimpressed look, clearly having expected more; whether it was a rebuttal she desired, or something else, Fallon didn't know. "I'm not saying Death Watch is right, I'm just saying, I understand them. Just because something is new—like Satine's government, no offence—it doesn't mean it's automatically better. If the old ways served Mandalore to stand a thousand years, why wouldn't it stand a thousand more? Besides," Hiro added, shrugging, "it's like an inheritance. It's all I have."

          "You have me."

          "And you have your aunt, and your cousin, and your political faction—an entire world that waits for you if you ever left the Order." Hiro recited the list as if she had rehearsed it beforehand. She then rose, slipping out of the booth and moving soundlessly to stand by the glass shield. The light cast her skin iron-pale.

          "You have Adi, and Nadya, and Chrysaor too, even if you refuse to admit it. And I might have Satine and Korkie, but I don't know my parents."

Hiro's head snapped to look back at Fallon. Her eyes narrowed, her carrion meal found and ready for the taking. No consolation prize Fallon could offer would satiate Hiro's appetite. "I don't even know the blood I came from, Kryze, the bones. You might not know your parents, but I doubt Satine would keep them from you if you asked. And at least you know your name stands for something, however shiny and new and flammable it is." She turned back to the glass, excising all emotion from her face, shedding her feathers and paring off her talons. "Mandalore's legacy is all I have—and it must be the same for them, for Death Watch. They've picked up the pieces of what their predecessors left behind, simple as that. They're proud of it, and they should be."

          "What they left behind is wrong, Hiro—we're Jedi, we can't be proud of it. It's violent, and brutal, and inhumane—"

          "You really are a Kryze," Hiro snapped. "How many more words do you have in that mouth of yours? How many more can you say until you run out? Are you afraid of what you'll find under all that talk?"

Fallon winced. Her ego hurt, but clearly there were more important wounds to attend to.

          "I might not be as verbose as you—do you like that word, Fal? Verbose?—but I know looks and actions, whispers, rumours. I know how the other Jedi at the temple see me. I know how they see all of us."

          "Hiro, that's not—"

          "—True?" the girl finished for her. Hiro's words had a bite to them, every sound and syllable full of teeth. "But it is! Don't you get that? Maybe it's not so clear on Planet Fallon, where the world is perfect and at peace and pretty boys like Chrysaor Rook exist purely to orbit pretty girls like you like you're the sun, but some of us—Nadya and I—have to deal with what our ancestors have left us. Why shouldn't we get to be proud of it? Why shouldn't we deserve that right?"

The bacta was dry in Fallon's palm, crusted like blood. "If you're proud of it, then you condone it."

          "Then maybe I do condone it," Hiro said coldly. "The Order has already decided exactly who they think I am—exactly who they think I'm going to be. I might as well be a Sith."

          "Hiro, just take a deep breath. Please. In, out."

Hiro laughed her vulture laugh, shaking her head. "I adore you, Fal. But you're so blind. You and I can play Jedi as much as we want, but they'll always see us as Mandalorian first. And because of that, we're always going to be watched carefully. For insubordination, disloyalty, defiance, whatever you want to call it—whatever word you want to use to sugarcoat it. We'll be on leashes for the rest of our lives, like dogs." A pause, and Hiro finally appeared to take a breath. Her entire body was bent on spite, disregarding all other necessary functions to serve her self-directed purpose. "Maybe not yet for you, because you have Kil to protect you, but I can already feel it: Adi is constantly on my back."

Fallon said nothing.

          "But they're right, in a way. I am a dog—" Hiro said wickedly, feasting on the viciousness of her words, hungry for more, "—a mutt, born from undesirable breeding, nosing around for scraps. For honour. For glory."

          "The Order isn't about glory."

          "Then I'll find something that is."

Fallon froze. So did Hiro: she paused, then blinked, then turned back to the shield. In the glass, her face reflected pale and bluish, hypothermic. For once, Hiro wore no mask, and Fallon could see her for exactly what she was: scared. Fear spread across her face like rot, like a bruise, finding and consuming every feature, dark and tender and breakable.

          How can someone look breakable?

If Fallon reached for Hiro now, took her curves of her jaw in her palms and pulled, the girl would fall apart, masks and skin and smiles all shattering like glass upon the starship floor.

Fallon stared at Hiro's reflection for a long time, unsure of what to say. Finally, she found her voice. "You don't mean that, Hiro," she managed.

Hiro didn't reply. The space between them grew like a tumour; dark and slick and suffocating like oil, or grease, the silence swallowed Fallon and Hiro whole. Like an ectoplasm, as thick and as dark as tar, it encased them, embalming them in a grittiness that couldn't be worked off the skin without revealing bone, binding their limbs wrist-to-wrist, ankle-to-ankle, imprisoning them inside a cocoon that couldn't be escaped without some form of violent transformation, some kind of metamorphosis.

Not even the sharpest of knives could cut them free. Not even the sharpest of words.

Fallon didn't know what else to say. So she said nothing at all.

✶

They parted in the same silence, Hiro walking one way, Fallon the other. The Mandalorian starship had sliced through the atmosphere, opening the sky like a wound and allowing the dusk to bleed onto Coruscant. Incendiary, the sunset steeped thick through even the gilded-haze of clouds and the crosshatch of starship traffic that enmeshed the Coruscant sky; even through the grime and the grease of the city buildings the light reflected, bursting like a bruise in red and blue and yellow.

They landed at the Coruscant Spaceport, a facility located in close proximity to both the Senate Building and the Jedi Temple. Hiro disembarked first, and Fallon watched her go: the girl took a straight path back to the temple, no back alleys or sidewalk digressions, her strides swift and light-footed as they always were. She was Hiro the whole way, recognisable even if her words were not, with her baby-bird hair dark and ruffled, her twin sabres gleaming gold in the rising dusk. She did not look back; she did not falter, not even once, not even for a second.

Fallon could have run to catch up with her; she could have called her name, called her back to her side.

But she didn't.

Fallon watched Hiro until she disappeared into the crowd; until she melted into the shadows cast by the Coruscanti sunset; until she could no longer be separated from the dark. Then, Fallon began to walk, taking a different route back to the temple—one that tracked a journey through the alleys still touched by light. The sun here was weaker than Mandalore's despite the dome encasing Sundari, its light unclean and yellowy, like plaque. But with Hiro gone, Fallon was friendless and so, she welcomed the sun's company. It followed her back through the city, brushing the crown of her head, waxing her hair a gentle gold.

She came across a vendor a few blocks away from the temple. His stall was set up close to the alley corner, leaving only enough space for him to sit on a small stool and a few stacks of crates; with a well-practiced smile, he showed Fallon his products, a selection of street foods, various snacks and beverages imported from all over the galaxy. It was near day's end, he explained to her, so his freshest and most popular products had long been sold out.

But Fallon still found the uj cakes. Unlike the bakery, where they were stacked in little piles like beskar ingots behind a glass display cabinet, the vendor's uj cakes were individually wrapped; yet, even behind its thin, plastic packaging, she could see the pores of its spongy surface, the amber-like gleam of spiced-syrup, the chopped nuts and dried fruit embedded in the dough like half-unearthed treasures. Or landmines.

There was no iron heart stamp.

For a moment, Fallon considered purchasing a cake or two. She could see it in her head: she would take the snacks back to the temple and present them to Hiro, a peace offering of syrup and spice and sentimentality. Hiro would accept the gift, as graciously as she was capable of, and the spongy dessert would siphon away all her animosity, all her hurt, softening it and sweetening it, rendering it digestible.

Fallon put down the cakes. Hiro was not a child; at least, she could not be fooled like one. And she wasn't fond of Coruscant's uj cakes either, and the last thing Fallon wanted to do was offend her further by giving her a pale imitation of Sundari's. You cannot have Mandalore, but this is the next best thing. No, that wouldn't do.

She flashed the vendor an apologetic smile and went on her way.

✶

The temple library had always been a second home to Fallon—another second home, at least. In order: Mandalore, Coruscant, the temple library. Technically, it should not have counted as a separate place, as it was located on Coruscant; but to Fallon, it had always felt like its own little universe, a world within a world, a secret stitched neatly into the seams of existence, hidden safely under the hem. Fallon, upon her arrival at the temple, asked around for her master. Finding him absent—off-world, according to a passing padawan, but expected back soon—she showered, washing off the sweat and smoke and shame, then made her way to the library, her steps swift and full of scholarly purpose. After her shower she had pulled her hair into a bun, tying it up with the ribbon, and though she had run it under hot water, and scrubbed it till her hands were worked a pale and fragile pink, it still smelled of smoke. Not everything could be cleansed, she supposed. Not everything could be absolved.

The library greeted her warmly, its sweeping stone floors and grand columns a familiar and welcome sight. Fallon smiled at Madame Nu, the chief librarian, as she passed; it was only them in the library and a few other Jedi, a small enough number that Fallon could count them on one hand. Most of the usual occupants would be having dinner at this time. For this, Fallon was grateful—she had the library, more or less, to herself.

With the sky now dark and infinite with night, the library lamps had switched on automatically, filling the cavernous space with warm, clean light, every inch of the library begging to be illuminated, to be seen and known and understood. Fallon went straight to the aisles, each finely-carved from sand-coloured stone, each holding shelves upon shelves of holobooks. They glowed in a bright, speaking blue; a colour that could only be found in nature in the wildest of animals, the rarest. In fiction, it could be found on every page, luminescent in the eyes and hearts of heroes, in the spells and simples of witches, in the teeth and monstrosity of beasts.

Fallon's fingers brushed across the spines of every record, like an ache caressing the body. She picked them out like bones, as if she were a child—a normal child—discovering a dead animal for the first time, in the damp earth, at the edge of a forest perhaps, poking and prodding the skeletal remains with the sharpened point of a stick. The animal that first came to mind was a shriek hawk; she herself had never seen one, dead or otherwise, but she could imagine it well enough, the gleam of its bones, picked clean and free of both flesh and decay.

With the stick, she drew the impression of life, of what it had once been, the outline of its breast and feathers and wings. Her strokes were far too severe, too sure, for a child that had never seen a shriek hawk in flight; she knocked the bones out of place, scattering the skeleton, making a monster of it. (What a monster it would be if it were alive, re-animated, living but a corpse; what a mess of flesh and feather and bone, all in the wrong places. Or perhaps, all slanted just slightly to the side. What was worse? Imperfection, or the grotesque?)

She collected what volumes she deemed interesting and piled them in order into her arms. Then, she carried them back to an empty terminal, each record shining with the blue unknown, and set them down. The minutes turned to hours as she examined each record, clearing through her pile one by one; an archaeologist, she slowly uncovered the past, brushing away the dust and dirt to find something of value. Something bright, shiny. In her earlier attempts at researching Mandalore, she had searched for culture, for customs and traditions, for clothes and homewares to furnish and fabricate her understanding of the past. Now, she searched for weapons, for war—how both had been made, by whom and why. Once, she had wanted to know how Mandalorians had lived.

Now, she wanted to know how Mandalorians had died.

She was disappointed to find there wasn't much to discover. The archives—which had never disappointed her before—were filled with volumes apparently pertaining to the wars waged by the Mandalorians of past, but upon closer inspection, Fallon found nothing substantial, only summaries and half-hearted recounts of whatever had transpired. The Mandalorian Wars were the sixteen years of conflict between Mandalore and the Galactic Republic was the longest continuous sentence she could find, and the wars in question had been thousands of years before her time. Amidst all the glory and gore, no one had bothered to preserve anything, to write even a single line of history down for those that would come after. There was not even enough for Fallon to make assumptions; not even enough to stitch together the scraps herself, to jigsaw the truth into something tangible, something real, something she could hold in her hands. All Fallon knew was that the Jedi had won, and the Mandalorians had lost.

Hiro was right. The legacy, the expectations—it was all they had.

All she could glean from the archives was the identity of the helmeted man in the mural back on Sundari, the one wielding his black-edged blade in stained-glass glory. His name was Tarre Vizsla, and he was the first Mandalorian to have been accepted into the Jedi Order. From what little Fallon could surmise, he had been the only Mandalorian Jedi for a millennia until his descendant, one Kil Vizsla, was discovered as Force-sensitive and subsequently inducted into the Order. After Kil came a flood of Mandalorian brood; first the wolf-hearted Nadya. Then, Chrysaor, all things golden. Hiro next, savage as a shrike. And then, of course, Fallon.

It had never occurred to Fallon that her master, of all people, had been the first Mandalorian to train in the ways of the Jedi in nearly a thousand years; she had expected more to have come before, and more to have come after. Who had taught Kil about Mandalore? He had always been curious—as was his padawan, an intrinsic trait he had done nothing but encourage—and he had never hesitated to share with Fallon the history of their home. What she knew of Mandalore he had known first.

But where had he learned it from? Certainly not the archives; there was not enough information there to construct a sentence about Mandalore, let alone an understanding.

She was practically an infant; once again, the child in the forest with a stick in her hand, poking, prodding, excavating the truth with the most rudimentary instrument she could find. Fallon rose, and pulled the stack of holobooks back into her arms, moving towards the aisles with a sigh on her lips. Sliding the holobooks back into place, one by one, bone by bone, she could see the hawk once again. Ribs, skull, breast, sinking back into the earth, swallowed up by soil, perhaps where it had always belonged—

          "Fal." A familiar voice.

Fallon leapt, and so did the holobooks: out of her arms they tumbled, a flood of fluorescent blue light, bleeding from her fingertips, spilling onto the library floor. Two pairs of hands reached to pick them up, palms colliding, fingers tangling, skin and scars enmeshed. Fallon's gaze met Chrysaor's, her eyes wide and his ichor-gold.

His hands found purchase on the holobooks first—crouching, he arranged them into a neat pile, a stack of three, and offered it to her. She reached for it, her fingertips grazing over his knuckles, and in an instant, his grip loosened. The volumes fell again, a flash of blue, brief and blinding.

          "I'll get it," Fallon said. She scooped up the holobooks, rising. Chrysaor rose with her, and in a single second, she became acutely aware that his eyes hadn't left hers. Not for a moment.

She could feel her heart heavy in her chest, playing parasite, inching up her throat to nest in her mouth, burrow under her tongue, thrum between her teeth. Chrysaor stood still, silent.

Fallon cleared her throat. She knew him: he needed her words first, before he could find his own. "It's late."

A pause. "Yes," he nodded. "Just past midnight."

          "And yet you're here."

          "Yes," he said again. "But so are you."

Fallon worked her jaw as she shifted away from him, finally returning the volumes to their rightful places. In the corner of her eye, he was backlit, surrounded by blue light like mythology shrouding a hero; so bright she couldn't help but look, but so intense she was forced to look away. The paradox of Chrysaor Rook. "I needed to research something."

          "You smell like smoke."

          "Still?"

Chrysaor arched a brow. "What do you mean 'still'?"

Fallon cleared her throat. "Don't worry about it."

          "I'm slightly worried." He tried for a smile, the lines on either side of his mouth creasing gently, but Chrysaor had never been one for half-measures.

It showed.

          "Chrys, what are you doing here?"

          "I went looking for you." His hair glowed blue in the light, casting deep shadows into his face, making something beautiful out of him, something moonlit, ethereal. "I saw Hiro. She snapped at me."

          "She always snaps at you."

           "It was worse, this time. I genuinely think she could have ripped the flesh from my bones with her teeth."

          I am a dog, Hiro had said, nosing around for scraps. For honour. For glory.

          "You're lucky you're standing here, then."

          "I am." He looked at her then, his eyes thick, syrupy, like oil on water.

Fallon winced. "Chrysaor—"

          "Fallon, please, listen." He lowered his voice, taking her hands in his. "I don't want to force you—that's the last thing I want to do. But I can't—" Fallon forced herself to look away, fixing her gaze on their hands intertwined below. "—I need to know if you feel the same. I need you to say it."

She blinked. "You know how I feel about you."

          "No, I don't."

Fallon could feel the words, deep in the pit of her stomach, sick, monstrous, waiting to be said, waiting to be slain. She wanted him to hear it; she wanted to press a knife into his hands, guide the point of the blade with her own, have him slice her open and pull out the truth like innards, pull it out out out and force it into the light. Dark was the corpse, dark was the cavern of her body. Darker still was the desire.

          "I don't know how to say it."

          "Say it in any way you can." Chrysaor was desperate. His hands tightened around hers, constricting, serpentine. "Please."

She chose her words carefully, whittling them between her teeth, feeling their cut slice her tongue; these were the only weapons she would ever put into his hands. This was the only act of violence she would ever let him commit on her behalf.

          "You were right." Fallon finally lifted her gaze to meet his. "It's always been us."

His hands slipped free of hers, and found her face instead. "Go on."

          "And I—" Fallon inhaled sharply, jaw softening against his palm. They were so close. Her lips were barely an inch from his; she could feel his breath on her cheek, warm and sweet. "And I—" she started again, her hands searching for something to hold. They settled on his waist, on the small of his back. At her touch, he tensed, his body a rope pulled taut, strung to snap.

Strung to break.

But he didn't move away.

          "And I—" she began, one last time, "—I wouldn't want it any other way. I'll never want it any other way. If the world as we knew it ended, I want to be beside you."

Satisfied, he edged closer, head bent down to press her lips to his, eyes closed, face beautiful, honeyed, golden—

A figure appeared in periphery, blurry and hazy over Chrysaor's shoulder, limned by shadows in the library's dim light.

Kil.

Fallon broke away from Chrysaor, drawing his hands down from her face as swiftly as she could, praying her master hadn't yet seen them. Chrysaor was a second out of time, a creature in slow motion; it took him a moment to realise she had pulled away, that she had brushed past him, that she had left him behind. Fallon was across the smooth stone floors in an instant, reaching Kil's side before he even realised she was there. Before Chrysaor even realised she was gone.

          "Master, I've been searching all over for you."

          "And I you, Fal'ika." Kil blinked, but if he was surprised, he didn't show it. Clasping his hands, he lowered his voice. "I heard of your adventure on Mandalore. I imagine you have lots to ask me."

          "I do."

          "Fortunately, I have lots to tell." He smiled, and Fallon felt at ease. Then, he cast his gaze over her head, to the boy she had left behind. "Do you need a minute, child?"

Fallon turned, her eyes meeting Chrysaor's. Guilt punctured her lungs. "Yes."

Kil nodded. "I'll wait in the hall. Be quick." He left.

Fallon scanned the room to make sure she and Chrysaor were alone. Finding no-one—not even Madame Nu—Fallon spoke. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

Chrysaor nodded, stomaching her words. "Is it important?"

          "Very."

          "Would you have kissed me if he hadn't interrupted?"

A pause. Pull out the truth. Out out out. "I don't know." Fallon stepped forward, taking his hands in hers, turning them over so his palms faced up. She could see the scars, the crescent moons, smiling. Smiling, but silver, sewn over with new skin, with time.

Good.

          "I meant what I said," Fallon brought his hands to her lips, pressing kisses to his palms, to his scars, "But I'm sorry." She dropped his hands gently. Whatever she had wanted Chrysaor to cut out of her, whatever tumour, whatever disease, was long gone. All that was left was emptiness. All that was left was a husk. "As long as we remain in the order, this can't happen. This can never happen."

          "I wish you had kissed me," Chrysaor said quietly.

          "I would've been offering something I can't give you, not really, not in the way you want." She put the thing in his hands, the knife. Would he carve her open, let her entrails glisten in the sun? Or would he defend himself? She was sure she knew the answer. "You never would've forgiven me."

He didn't reply. "I'm sorry," Fallon said, one last time, and then she was turning away, and she was walking, and she was leaving, and she was gone.

✶

Focusing on something other than Chrysaor was easier than Fallon thought it would be: she only had to think of other things, worse things—Hiro, Satine, the shriek-hawk—and Chrysaor was as good as buried. Even someone as bright as he could not shine through six feet of earth; he was hidden well, under all that decay. It was the last place anyone would ever think to look.

Kil led Fallon to his quarters, waving open the door with a flick of his wrist. Fallon entered first. Though there was a lamp overhead, sweeping its clean, clinical light over Kil's possessions, the room still felt dark and cold and small; Fallon supposed it had something to do with the walls, round-cornered and continuous, gleaming black as obsidian, absorbing all the light that came upon it. The blinds were drawn, but the light still found a way to filter through, cutting pale, silvery lines into the room, dividing the surfaces of Kil's desk and bedroll with moonlight so keen and sharp Fallon was sure that if she touched it, she would pull her hand away in ribbons.

She thought of her skin, leaping apart at the light's touch, then knitting itself back together in the dark. Reworked, regrown. Then, she blinked, her gaze settling on something far more interesting.

Upon his desk was a set of armour—Mandalorian, she knew it in an instant—all laid out, an exoskeleton of dark metal. Entranced, Fallon stepped forward to examine it, not even thinking to ask her master's permission: she reached for the armour, taking a piece of it in her hands. One of two matching vambraces, it was cool to the touch. Light, too, more so than her lightsabre.

She did not notice that Kil had waved the door shut. He stepped up to stand beside her, peering over her shoulder, a titan darkened even in the light. Fallon ran her fingers down the metal, finding it familiar, comforting. "What's this made of?"

Fallon didn't have to wait for his answer; she knew it the moment the question left her lips. "Beskar," she remarked, and Kil nodded, pride in his eyes. In periphery, the light seemed to shift around him, repelled by the space he occupied, repulsed. Fallon did not notice. She inspected the rest of the armour, the chest plate, the shoulder pauldrons, the iron heart. The metal gleamed night-dark, absorbing all her attention, all the light.

          "Do you like it?" Kil asked quietly, as Fallon held up the iron heart to the light. Small and finely-forged, it looked like an amulet, something one would wear around their neck for good luck. Fallon knew better—it was a piece of the armour, protective as well as symbolic. If you wore armour like this, you didn't need luck.

          "I do," Fallon found herself saying, even though her initial curiosity had since been replaced by something else. A hollowness, first, and then an uncertainty, like a clew of worms wriggling in her stomach, feasting, decomposing, decaying. Beside her, Kil shifted, a cloaked arm reaching out to the desk. Fallon put the iron heart back in its place and turned her attention to her master.

He held out the helmet. Fallon took it, a small smile twitching at the corner of her lips. It was undeniably Mandalorian, by shape, by design. Fallon traced the T-shaped visor with her thumb, the glass smooth and pristine. She turned the helmet over, around—

Fallon froze. On the helmet, painted in blood-red lacquer, was a familiar symbol: the shriek-hawk.

She put the helmet down immediately, turning to Kil. Horror gripped her slowly, then all at once: a conquering force, it made itself a home in her body and refused to leave. "What is this? Why do you have this?"

          "A family heirloom," Kil answered. Fallon jerked her head to look at him, brows narrowing. Her master did not look well; she had not noticed it before, in neither the hero's light of the library nor the dim glow of the temple corridors, but she could see it now. He could have aged a decade between the last time she had seen him, mere days ago, carved more lines around the corners of his eyes, leached more colour from his skin. Fallon had never seen him in such a state. His delicate, diplomatic self-construction was failing him. She wanted to know why.

But she did not ask.

          "It once belonged to one of my ancestors," Kil continued. The rings under his eyes were as deep and as dark as a grave. "It is quite finely made, don't you think? I am lucky to have the full set."

Fallon shook her head. "Master, the symbol—it means something horrible. Please, you have to get rid of this before someone sees it."

Kil laughed. The sound—warm and familiar and nothing like the armour laid out before them—comforted Fallon, corroding away the lump of anxiety in her throat. "I do not wish to dispose of it, Fallon, but you have always been clever—cleverer than I, even. I'm sure together we might devise something to do with it, another purpose for it to fulfil."

          "If it is a family heirloom, master, then I am more than willing to put my wits towards a solution for you." Fallon laughed as well, but the sound felt forced, as if it had been strangled and yanked through her teeth.

          "I'm sure you will not disappoint me. You never have." Fallon preened in satisfaction at those words, the armour now nearly forgotten as she let her shoulders slack, her jaw loosen. "Let us talk first, though. Ask me what you wished to ask before."

Nearly forgotten, but not quite. "I—" Fallon's eyes flickered back down to the armour, "Master, I—"

          "Tell me what happened on Mandalore." Kil clasped his hands together, smiling kindly. "I have heard the day's events from Prime Minister Almec, but I'd like to hear your side of things."

His voice had always been a comfort to her, a remedy. Placated, she began to speak. "Hiro and I intended to spend the day as civilians. We were just walking around the city, around Sundari, having races—" it sounded so childish now, so immature, "—and buying snacks, souvenirs." Fallon reached up behind her head, unspooling the ribbon from her hair, pulling it free. "I wanted to go to the library. We arrived, and then... And then, it exploded."

          "And?"

          "And Hiro and I rushed in to help. We were not meant to expose ourselves as Jedi, but we couldn't just stand by and watch the place burn." Fallon fidgeted with the ribbon, guiding it around her wrist, over her knuckles, through her fingers. "We figured—well, I figured—it was an accident. But there was this symbol, inside."

Kil looked at her, his gaze a scalpel. "It's the same symbol as the one on that helmet, master. Your helmet." Fallon stared down at her hands, at her ribbon. "I'm not sure if I'm right or not, or if I'm even close, but—I think it's the symbol of this organisation called Death Watch." With her eyes on the ribbon, she did not see Kil shift. There were many things she did not see. "I believe that they are comprised of loyalists, traditionalists, whatever they're called; the old warriors of Mandalore, the ones the government had exiled to Concordia. But I have no idea how they've come to be, to form, or why they're attacking Sundari.  That's what I wanted to ask you about. I don't understand any of it."

Kil smiled. "First, I have a question to ask."

          "Of course, master."

          "Why have you not asked Satine this?"

Fallon lifted her gaze to meet her master's. She struggled to find the words for a moment, the right syllables and sounds just out of her reach. Hiro's words returned to her again, a ghost she could not exorcise, a guilt: are you afraid of what you'll find under all that talk? The shame came first, and then the anger—and in that anger, Fallon found the words to say. "She tried to hide it from me. I do not think she thinks I am capable of handling it, or even discussing it." A pause. Fallon frowned. "It's frustrating."

          "And rightfully so." Kil nodded. "I understand. I hope you know I would never hide anything from you. You are an accomplished and intelligent student—and Jedi—and you are in no way undeserving of the truth."

Fallon flashed him a small smile. "Thank you, master. If only my aunt felt the same way. Now—" She cleared her throat, "tell me. The truth, as I deserve." A wince; that was perhaps the haughtiest sentence she had ever let leave her lips.

Kil laughed. "Accomplished and intelligent, yet you must remember your place."

          "Of course, master. Please, continue." She corrected herself: "Begin."

          "First of all, you have to understand the origins of the Death Watch. They began as the opposition to the Duchess' government." He looked older with every word he spoke. "Mandalorians have always been warriors, ever since anyone can remember. You know this. Warriors, soldiers, crusaders—whichever word you which to use, whichever word serves the narrative... That is what Mandalorians were. And it is what some believe we still should be."

Fallon blinked.

          "We waged wars across the galaxy, starting conflicts with anyone who dared challenge us, our eminence, our power. At times we even went up against the Galactic Republic itself—and by extension, the Jedi. We made natural enemies of them. Eventually, Mandalore, the planet itself, was driven to ruin."

Fallon knew all this. "So?"

          "So, a group of politicians—" His expression soured just slightly on the word, another thing Fallon did not see, "—rose to power. Their platform was based on a reform for Mandalore; a change from our warrior ways. A transition into a new era of peace."

          "But not everyone agreed."

          "No." Kil had been as still as a statue, but finally he moved, unhooking his lightsabre and laying it upon the desk beside the armour. "It sparked a civil war, a brutal one that killed many Mandalorians. When the dust settled, and the smoke cleared, your aunt took power, and established the New Mandalorian government. Those who disagreed with the new regime were exiled to Concordia. They were expected to die out, but I suppose they grew to form the watch. They wear armour like this, as a physical display of their dedication to our old ways."

Fallon bit her lip. "Wait a moment. If Mandalorians—" Mandalorians, she said, as if she wasn't one, "—were 'natural enemies' of the Jedi, why did they let one join?" Why did they let you join? "His name was Tarre Vizsla, yes? The man with the black lightsabre?"

          "The Darksaber," Kil corrected. "It is called the Darksaber. And Tarre Vizsla—my ancestor, which I'm sure you have deduced—joined the Order to bridge the gap between our culture, and the Jedi."

          "But it didn't work?"

          "Not quite." His grey hairs glinted silver in the light. "You have seen how we are treated, even after all this time."

Fallon nodded. It made sense, and still, something did not feel right. "Where is the Darksaber now? May I see it?"

Kil shook his head. "It's gone. Tarre was once the ruler of Mandalore, and he maintained his reign with the weapon—but after his death, it was taken by the Jedi. Then, hundreds of years ago, it was stolen by members of House Vizsla. A reclaiming, of sorts—a reparation." He paused. His stare was an anomaly, both necrosing and full of life. "It hasn't been seen since."

          "A shame," Fallon said distantly, "I only saw its likeness in a mural, but it was a beautiful weapon."

Kil nodded in agreement. "It is."

          "Master, I am sure you are tiring of my questions, but might I ask you something else?"

          "Of course, Fal'ika."

           "How do you know all this? I looked in the archives—that's why I was in the library—but I couldn't find anything like this in there."

          "I learned it on Mandalore myself."

Fallon knit her brows together, confused. "I thought you were raised in the temple."

          "I was. But when I was young—near your age, actually, fifteen—I was sent on a mission to Mandalore."

          "Are you trying to make me jealous, Kil?"

          "Not intentionally, but I see I'm succeeding nonetheless." He smiled. "Without my master, too—I had to be granted special permission from the Council to go alone."

          "What was the mission?" Fallon watched Kil, her eyes bright with interest, a light that could not be blackened, not even by the abyss of his walls.

          "The civil war I have just spoken of, it began to concern the Senate, and then the Council. They sent Jedi representatives to both sides of the war. The Vizslas have always been traditionalists; because of my heritage, I was chosen to join their ranks."

          "Who was sent to the other side?"

          "Obi-Wan Kenobi and his master, Qui-Gon Jinn. They were assigned to protect the Duchess, especially—she was not as reserved back then as she is now, and her mouth ensured there was always a target on her back."

Fallon exhaled, both a breath and a half-laugh leaving her lips. She had once thought of Obi-Wan and Satine's love as a tomb, something old and dying, if not already dead. If not already in some state of decay. She supposed she was not wrong—the way Kil told the tale, Obi-Wan and Satine were young, naïve. (In retrospect, they were not the only ones.)

Their love was as good as dead, she supposed, if it had laid dormant since their youth. Other things, however, were not as lifeless: somewhere, in the back of her mind, something began to reform. Bone by bone, a shriek-hawk began to reassemble itself, ribs clicking into place, beak fusing to skull, skeletal wings taking ghostly shape. "Who told you all of this, though? If the Mandalorians, the Vizslas... If they hated you—sorry, if they hated Jedi—how did you convince them to trust you?"

          "My name, its legacy—they were reluctant to extend it to me, but they couldn't deny me it." Kil's voice was gentle, but what she took for softness now, sweetness even, she would later realise was venom. (Later, she would realise a lot of things.) "The man who owned this armour—Tor Vizsla—would have deposed me if he had ever known what I was." A beat. Two. "What I am. But I have a brother who accepted me." He chuckled to himself, "Or, rather, he learned to accept me."

          "You're so lucky, master. I—" What Hiro had said before returned to her; all of it, all at once. It took Fallon a moment to sort through all the scorn: at least you know your name stands for something. Fallon felt a twinge of jealousy towards Kil, then, a wasp's stinger needling her heart, filling it with venom. "I don't know if you know the answer to this question, but I'm going to ask you anyway."

Kil flicked her an amused smile. "Ask away."

          "Who were my parents?" Fallon asked. "I don't know why I've never asked this before, but I suppose it never really mattered to me. I've always had you, and Satine, and with Hiro and the others, I've never really needed anything else. I was never even meant to need anyone." She worked her jaw. "But something must've happened to them, right? My mother, and my father? I've been allowed to meet Satine, but not them. Why?"

He did not answer her questions. A silence settled between them as Kil moved to open the desk drawer. It was wide, singular, and shallow: inside, was a datapad. He took it out and stared down at it, seemingly configuring it. It turned on, casting his face in a bright light, filling his eyes with a pale glow, like quicksilver. "This is your mother."

Fallon took the datapad, her jaw slackening. On the screen was a photograph—a portrait, of sorts—of two women, standing side by side before a mural. A mosaic. Recognisable in an instant.

The throne room.

One of the women Fallon knew immediately: elegant, petal-soft, platinum blonde. She wore her crown of lilies, her dress sewn of hills and valleys blue and green. She was younger, in the portrait, much younger—she could not have been older than twenty. It was clear that even since her youth, Satine had been made for grace, for elegance, for rule.

The woman next to her was not so soft; not even close. She stood with the confidence—the command—of a god, but her beauty was not as universal, nor as palatable, as Satine's: each of her features alone were too strong, too sharply-drawn. Her eyes, long-lashed, but too piercing. Her cheekbones, high, polished as keen as any weapon. Her lips, full but downturned, pulled down by some invisible weight.

But together, they made a beauty whole and concussive. Fallon could not look away. Not from her eyes—a clear green that bore right into Fallon's—and her hair, a fiery red. It was cut straight to her shoulders and fell in perfect curtains, pinned back only by a single calla lily. Her dress was not nearly as exquisite as Satine's; it was a simple blue gown, one that flowed from her tapered waist like ice melt.

Fallon was entranced. Kil broke the silence: "Her name is Bo-Katan Kryze."

          "Bo-Katan Kryze," Fallon repeated. She knew the name—Satine's sister. Inhaling sharply, Fallon peered closer at the image, her hands trembling: everyone had always compared her to Satine, and although the resemblance was striking, now that she knew what her mother had looked like, she could not deny how similar they were. The Kryze blood ran strong; Fallon had the same almond-shaped eyes, the same downturned lips, the same sharp jaw. The same look of determination that was intrinsic and yet so strong and unfaltering it could have been forged from beskar.

She was her mother's daughter, through and through.

Fallon forced herself to look away from the portrait. "What happened to her?"

          "The Duchess exiled her to Concordia, just like the others."

          The Duchess exiled her to Concordia. She knew the answer before Kil's lips even moved to speak: she had heard this story before, years ago, mentioned briefly by Satine, as if it was nothing. As if her exiling her own sister—her own family—was nothing.

Fallon's knuckles whitened around the edge of the datapad. "Tell me what happened."

          "Bo-Katan was aligned with Satine, at first." said Kil. He watched her like she was an insect on display, pinned down and dissected, trapped behind glass. (She did not notice this, either.) "But after the civil war she grew to be discontent; in her discontent, she became fixated on the old ways, and defected to House Vizsla."

          "And—" Fallon struggled to find the words, "And—and Satine exiled her? Her own sister?" A pause, a silence like an open wound, "My mother?"

          "The pregnancy didn't help things, either. Satine needed a clean slate to start her new regime. Your mother dirtied it by giving birth to you. She was only seventeen."

          "Who was the father?"

          "A traditionalist, I believe. Satine did not like him—she blamed him for radicalising Bo, for turning her away from New Mandalore. He was most likely exiled, too."

The sadness came first, an inescapable pain, sharp and true as a blade. It sliced at her first, making ribbons of her skin, before slipping further into her flesh, finding muscle, organs, bone. From these wounds came memories, thick and dark, gushing like a flood—a woman, her hair blood-red in the sun; a lily, delicate in Fallon's hands. Fal'ika, a voice said, the sound soft, tender.

Fallon carved the wound wider. Another memory came, the blade hilt-deep: dancing on the steps to the throne, twisting and curving, like a sapling in the wind. A woman, the same woman, smiling wryly from the floor, her legs crossed, her arms extended to embrace her child. Look, buir! Fallon dances, and the throne room blurs. Look! She jumps, then falls, a flash of blonde hair and bright sunlight.

There is a cry, perhaps her own, as Fallon is gathered up in someone's arms. You are her mother, Bo, another woman says, her voice hard, like stone. Satine. Yet you are so careless! Do not let her jump if you cannot catch her.

          Bo. Fallon blinked. Bo, bo, bo. It all began to run together. Bo, bo, bo. Buir. Bo. Buir.

          Buir, the word in Mando'a for mother.

Her mother, Bo.

          "Fallon? Are you alright?"

Fallon snapped back to the present, looking over at Kil. "I'm fine, master. Sorry, I just—" She handed the datapad back to him. She could not look at Satine again. Her own sister. "—I remembered something—I got distracted."

          "I know this is a lot of information to take in at once. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Fallon shook her head. There was no wound, and yet, she bled. "Satine—" the name tasted bitter in her mouth, each syllable wrapped in thorns, "has organised a convention for me to attend, between herself and other politicians of the Senate."

          "Yes. I was told to tell you that it is being held tomorrow."

          "I do not know if I will be able to face her. Tomorrow, or ever again." Fallon clenched her jaw. "It disgusts me. I can't even fathom it."

          "Perhaps you should discuss this with her, then; ask her about it."

          "I don't think there's anything she could say that would make me forgive her. This is incorrigible."

           "At least try. It could be healing, for you, cathartic, to know the truth. Or, rather, the truth as she tells it."

          "Yes, I agree. But I am not sure if I am strong enough to ask."

           "You are strong enough to do anything, Fal'ika."

          Fal'ika. Fallon smiled, the word a suture in her chest, stitching her back together, slowly but surely. "I think she called me that: Fal'ika."

          "Yes. She loved you, just as I do."

Fallon smiled again. "How will you ever let me go, master?"

          "I will burn that bridge when I come to it," he replied. "I hope you know that you are my greatest success. I could have a thousand padawans after you and none of them will ever make me nearly as proud."

          "You flatter me, Kil."

          "I tell only the truth. Now, if that is all, then I suggest you return to your quarters and rest. You have a big day ahead of you."

Fallon nodded, moving for the door. She stopped mid-way, and turned around, hands clasped behind her back. "Master, just one more question."

Kil lifted a brow.

          "If you had been able to choose a side, back then, in the Civil War—without the Council watching you, without any sort of allegiance to the order... What side would you have taken?" A pause. "Your family's, or mine?"

Kil deliberated for a moment, running a pale hand down his face. "I would have chosen the right side."

           "And that side was...?"

          "You may decide for yourself. Remember you have been told, of what we were. Remember what we have become."

Another platitude. Fallon laughed lightly, "I will get your answer one day, master."

She stepped towards the door again. Stopped again, too. "One last thing."

Kil chuckled. "Yes, my child?"

          "I want you to know—" Fallon flushed a light pink, "You are just as much my family as Satine is, if not more so. You have never disappointed me. You have never let me down." She looked to her hands, and began to unwind her ribbon from around her wrist, "I know I have many years to go before I can even dream of being capable of passing the trials—but I will cherish each and every one of them."

Kil's other smiles had been flickers, viper-fast, easily-missed. But this, this smile, came slowly like the tide, inevitably. "Thank you, Fallon."

She left, turning the corner. Memory still twisted a knife in her chest, but she was not as naïve as Satine seemed to think; a knife was a weapon, and Fallon knew how to use it.

✶

AUTHOR'S NOTE

lots to unpack there. i love one (1) shitty jedi master

anyway like i said there's a lot to unpack this chapter and to be honest i'm kind of drained so i'm not going to outline it all. it's like 11k words long and i'm so sorry for making you sit through it but please share your thoughts!! especially on hiro and chrysaor <3 and kil. you'll notice hopefully that he tells fallon satine exiled bo but from what we've seen bo left mandalore willingly. 🙂🙂 HMM.

at least next chapter we meet lux!

thank you for reading!