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Sweat pebbled at his brow, a stray drop nearly escaping the headband he’d donned earlier that morning, before he roughly dabbed at it with his sleeve.
Green eyes were narrowed in concentration. Brush carefully eased between the tight fixtures of the blade emitter and emitter matrix. While it was acceptable to use the Force to assemble and disassemble most lightsabers, since the alloy compound used in this particular shoto was rather unstable he’d erred on the side of caution and went about conserving and cleaning the saber manually.
Though to be honest, Feemor preferred the more hands on approach—even though some artisans turned their nose at the process. He’d started the saber’s restoration process several months ago, and was almost finished. All that was left was the crystal lens, which he’d clean with a special solution Madame Nu had found in a manuscript from the Old Republic Era. It was wizard at removing centuries of grime and other unknown substances.
“Knight Stahl?” Feemor glanced up, green eyes magnified by the goggles he wore.
A nervous looking senior padawan stood before him, fingers anxiously working at their braid. “Um…the Council of First Knowledge has been, um, trying to get ahold of you?”
Feeling a frown work across his face, Feemor placed the brush and saber hilt down, switching them out for his comm link…which was buried under several piles of flimsi.
10 missed messages.
Green eyes glanced back. “Of course. I’ll be down in just a moment.”
Feemor stared, mouth agape as Master Tyvokka informed him of his upcoming mission.
To Mandalore of all places.
Jaster sighed as they waited for the jetii kad’au taylir’ur to arrive. Next to him, his bu’ad was barely containing his excitement. Copper red hair bouncing as the ad waited impatiently, and he was sure Ob’ika would have vibrated out of his skin were it not for the firm hold Jaster had on his hand.
This entire mess started when that dikut osi’kovid Vizsla sent over several crates worth of beskar’gam and other miscellaneous artifacts, in his bid to claim Jaster’s bu’ad as his vodu’ad’ika.
That shabuir she’urcyin piece of osik! Knowing the way to his bu’ad’s marshmallow little heart! Bribing him with ancient beskar’gam!
Of course Ob’ika was ecstatic. Clan Vizsla was one of the oldest clans on Manda’yaim, with centuries worth of artifacts at their disposal. Infamously reclusive, Jaster had been itching to get his hands on their archives for nearly a decade only to be thwarted at every turn.
Leave it to his bu’ad to flash those big tooka eyes and give a rallying speech on the importance of beskar’gam, and suddenly Pre Vizsla himself was two steps away from adopting the ad.
And Clan Vizsla’s archives were suddenly open to the taylir’ika, and his ba’buir.
Jaster may have checked out several dozen manuscripts.
It was only fair, seeing as Ob’ika was up to his eyeballs in beskar—though that really wasn’t saying much. His bu’ad was rather short for his age.
But with the tentative acceptance of beskar’gam came the almost continuous influx of packages and crates from the rest of Clan Vizsla, who was just as enamored with the ad as Pre was.
It was in one of those ensuing packages that marked the beginning of the end for Jaster’s sanity, as brown eyes chanced upon an eerily familiar black hilt.
That nerfherder had sent over the dar kad’au!
Of course, Vizsla hadn’t been able to activate the blasted thing—even including a note that said the weapon hadn’t been used in nearly a century and they thought it would benefit from being restored and added as part of the Keldabe Library.
It was a blatant misdirect, trying to curry favor with Jaster into stealing Ob’ika—but he was petty enough to lead them on a merry chase and end this kriffing civil-war once and for all.
Only for Ob’ika to take one look at the kad’au and wince.
It had taken several minutes worth of rambling about jetii magic rocks and a semi-sentient saber, for Jaster to finally ascertain the issue. His bu’ad was a jetii’ad but one that had been placed into the ExplorCorps very early into their education. He’d only just started learning how to commune with the magic rock that was at the heart of every kad’au and had absolutely no idea how to go about conserving such a weapon.
Let alone which which seemed to be quite opinionated, and loud in the Force.
“I’m sorry, Jas’ba’buir…” Ob’ika had said, big blue eyes apologetic as he fidgeted with the sleeves of his bright green sweater. It had tiny appliqué convorees stitched on and Jaster made a mental note to send his compliments to Quin’ika. Ob’ika is too copikla for his own good. He’d have to get a holo to send along too. The kiffar would appreciate that.
“…I specialize in beskar’gam and textiles…I don’t know how to restore a kad’au.”
Jaster held in a sigh.
“But…” Ob’ika started, biting his lip, before nodding. “I think I…might know how to find someone who can?”
Jaster had accepted the offer, leaving everything in Obi’s capable hands.
Which is why, three months later they were waiting for a Republic ship to land. Supposedly containing a kad’au expert that would be able to restore the weapon to its former glory.
Doubt it. Chimed a pessimistic voice that sounded an awful lot like Jan’ika.
Jaster tried to think positively.
Ob’ika was excited. The incoming jetii apparently having written several papers on how changes in saber styles were reflected in different armor designs. If nothing else, putting up with some stuffy old grump was worth his bu’ad’s happiness.
The ramp lowered, hydraulics hissing steam and obscuring the figure that began their slow descent down.
Jaster expected a lot of things when he was told a jetii was coming to Keldabe. He expected a stuffy, possibly cantankerous, old being wrapped in jetii mystique and beige robes.
He didn’t expect big green eyes, or shaggy blonde hair.
He didn’t expect the being that was a couple of inches taller than him, gangly limbs wrapped up in an oversized cardigan.
He didn’t expect Feemor.
Meshla jetii. His heart murmured, and Jaster couldn’t help but agree.
Feemor wasn’t in the best mood when the jedi transport touched down in an airfield outside of Keldabe.
The flight had been rough, stabilizers old and leaving the ship to rock and shudder every ten minutes. Any attempt to meditate had been derailed, thoughts about the upcoming mission swirling about in his head, and leaving him too wound up to achieve the proper headspace.
He’d slept fitfully, and forgotten to bring his durasynth lenses, which meant that he had to scrounge for the old pair of glasses he hadn’t worn in five years—though thankfully the prescription was the same.
So it was tired, semi-nauseated, and with the beginnings of a headache—that Feemor began his descent onto the air-strip. A contingent of armored mandalorians, and one bouncing youngling waiting for him.
The youngling he recognized immediately, having caught the holos Madam Nu and Master Kortra carted out anytime they managed to capture an unsuspecting victim. Corpsmember Obi-Wan Kenobi. 9 years standard. Adopted by the be’ad’alor. He’d been on Mandalore for nearly a year now.
The figure next to him was a little harder to discern, with that metal bucket on their head—though thankfully the red cape was rather distinctive. The Mand’alor.
It would make sense if Kenobi was there, then his…grandfather?…would be there as well.
Feemor continued. Steps slightly unsteady—he’d always hated space-travel. When he was just a few feet away, he stopped. “Greetings Mand’alor. Corpsmember Kenobi.”
As he rose from the bow, he tried to discreetly blow a lock of hair out of his eye. Judging from how the Mand’alor tilted his helmet, Feemor wasn’t as subtle as he would have liked and his ears burned. This was why he didn’t do diplomatic missions.
“Su—“ The Mand’alor began, vocoder making his voice even lower and sending shivers running down Feemor’s spine. Though that was probably from how cold he was—his thermoregulation was shot after that one mission to Ando Prime.
“Su cuy’gar, Master Feemor!” Little Kenobi exclaimed excitedly, bouncing in place. The orange sweater seemed to swallow the boy whole, tiny loth cats embroidered on his collar—making him look even younger than he was. “I read your thesis on the adaptation of makashi to soresu, with the advancement of non-Sith combatants following the end of the Great Sith War and how soresu complimented more mandalorian fighting styles!”
Feemor felt his brows rise as the child rambled without even pausing to take a breath.
“I wanted to ask if you had any thoughts on mandalorian weapons reflecting jedi saber styles, with the two having a symbitic relationship as forms and structures evolved? I know that beskar alloys started to shift to better accommodate lightsaber damage and—“
“—and that more styles evolved in order to address the shift in armor. Including the introduction of new weapons, which made the endurance form outdated in comparison to forms like ataru!” Feemor finished, excitement coloring his voice. Forgetting all about his audience, Feemor allowed himself to be dragged away by a youngling that barely reached his waist. Already deep in conversation on complimentary evolution between saber designs and armor styles.
Neither jedi noticed the way a certain mand’alor stared at them, their buyce trained on one jedi in particular.
To say that Obi-Wan and Feemor got on, would have been an understatement.
They’d allowed him a few days to rest and recuperate, before Obi-Wan dragged him to his work room in one of the library’s lower levels. “I’ve been keeping the dar kad’au with me since it’s really excited to be near someone who’s force-sensitive, and it was really upset.” He explained, rolling up the purple striped sleeves of his cardigan.
Feemor smiled down at the youngling, his excitement thrumming in the air and Feemor couldn’t help but notice their sweaters matched today. It was much cooler in the lower levels of Keldabe’s Library—no doubt as a measure to better preserve the delicate artifacts stored in the numerous workrooms and offices of the Mand’alor’s archaeologists and conservators.
Obi pulled out a small duraplast card attached to a bright yellow lanyard he wore about his neck and waved it in front of the scanner.
“Um, I, uh, know that you might want your own workroom, but…um…” Obi started, soft blush turning him a splotchy red and Feemor had to resist the urge to coo. A second piece of duraplast was held up, nearly smacking him in the face and Feemor accepted it. “…I uh, made this for you…”
“I would be honored to work beside you, dear one.” Feemor said, voice serious and Obi simply nodded. Though the soft feeling of contentment that leaked into the Force made his heart warm.
The dark saber was loud.
Over the last few centuries, the kyber apparently had become semi-sentient. Aware of everything that was going on around it, though not always understanding—which meant a very opinionated and chatty saber crystal that seemed ecstatic to have force-sensitives in the immediate proximity.
Copikla jetii’taylir’ur. It hummed. Tion’tuur jetiise bralir copikla taylir’ur’e?
Obi blushed as the saber continued to hum several things in mando’a. None of which Feemor could translate.
Copikla taylir’ur. Ganar riduur? Be’mand’alor ashnar solus aliit’e be Manda’yaim. Kotyc mando’ad. Jat’aani. Copikla shebs. Copaanir riduurok?
“Um…” Obi started, face so red that Feemor genuinely worried the youngling was in danger of overheating. “Kad’ika, did you, um, want Feemor to uh..” He swallowed. “…clean? Clean you up, um, I mean?”
The saber vibrated excitedly, sending out strong impressions of Lek! Lek cinarin! Kyber etyc!
At his questioning head-tilt, Obi-Wan was quick to reply. “Kad’ika said yes. Their kyber is really dirty.
It thrummed in agreement. Despite himself, Feemor felt a soft smile curl his lips. “Kad’ika?” He asked, voice teasing.
Obi-Wan blushed even brighter, the saber vibrating in amusement.
It turned out that even though Obi had no idea how to care or restore the weapon, he couldn’t just let it sit alone after it had spent so long without anyone to talk too.
Keeping the saber nearby as he restored pieces of beskar’gam, eventually turned into Obi-Wan rambling on about his cleaning process, and why this type of solvent was better for this particular alloy. Or how this design could be dated back to this era, while this design was a reproduction.
Tangents about his restoration process turned into conversations, which later turned into the saber apparently having formed a force-bond with the youngling who couldn’t hope to pronounce their name, and so had happily dubbed it Kad’ika.
Feemor thought it was the most adorable thing in the galaxy.
“So…that didn’t work.” Feemor frowned, looking at the hilt in consternation.
He’d tried to do a scan with the force, hoping to use the most non-intrusive method to assess the overall state of the object. Only every time he reached out with the force, the saber seemed to slip from his grasp. Oily, and far too smooth for him to even get a semblance of a grip on it.
“Figures you’d be made out of beskar.” He huffed, blonde hair once again falling into his face before he moved it.
Feemor cracked his knuckles.
He always did like a challenge.
Jaster had thought to surprise his favorite bu’ad with lunch, as he normally did every Taungsday.
And if there was a little extra, enough for a meshla jetii that was good with Ob’ika and an expert on kad’au, it was just a coincidence. No matter what that brat Jan’ika said.
Swiping his keycard over the scanner, Jaster grinned as the doors slid open. “Su cuy be’copikla bu’ad! I have lunch! Did you want to eat in he—“ He started, only to trail off at the vision before him.
Feemor looked up, fluffy blonde hair looking like a marshmallow puff with the bright pink headband that matched the sweater the jetii had donned. His eyes, big and green and beautiful, were practically glowing behind the magnifier lenses he wore.
“Oh.” he said, voice soft and Jaster couldn’t help the rush of butterflies that swarmed inside his stomach at the sound, “Hello Mand’alor Mereel.” The man pushed the sleeve of his sweater back up, revealing a freckled arm and Jaster swallowed. “Were you looking for Obi-Wan?”
Why didn’t I bring my buy’ce!? Jaster groaned. Sure it would have looked strange for him to visit his adorable bu’ad with a bucket on, but osik! This jetii had no right being so adorable or so wonderful with his bu’ad!
It took several moments before Jaster realized he’d been asked a question. “Oh, um, lek. We, uh, usually have lunch together every Taungsday.”
It felt like that one time he’d accidentally electrocuted himself with his tripwire, as the jetii offered him one of the sweetest smiles he’s ever seen. Meshla jetii. His heart murmured. Jate ade. Meshla jetii. Riduurok be’jetii?
”I’ll go get him.” Feemor said, before he turned. Gangly limbs hopping off the stool and Jaster swore!
It just figured that he’d have the cutest shebs Jaster had ever seen!
Feemor worked the brush in between the fixtures of the lower hilt, happy to listen as Obi rambled.
“—and you know, mando’ad’s receive their beskar’gam after they’ve passed their verd’goten. A right of pasage!” He hurried to explain before Feemor could ask. “So it’s seen as an extension of every mando’ad! It’s a huge part of mandalorian culture—clans keep and pass on different sets, or reforge it to better fit newer additions so that ade can feel the support of their aliit as they grow and learn!” Obi continued his work, carefully stitching leather scales back onto a kama. “I actually think that’s why the phrase ‘Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la’ says they’re not gone! Because their armor is still here!”
The brush paused, as he processed everything Obi had shared. He turned, green eyes bemused. “So…beskar’gam is similar to a jedi’s lightsaber?” He asked.
Obi-Wan nodded. “Hmm!”
A cold feeling shuddered down his spine as he realized just how grievous a crime the Order had committed against the mandalorians.
“Knight Feemor!” Madam Nu exclaimed, a happy tilt to her lips. “How is everything? How is little Obi-Wan?”
“He’s uh, he’s good. Everything’s good.” Feemor said, barely resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair. Even through the comm, Madam Nu’s look of disapproval was evident. “Is there a problem?”
Hesitantly, he explained.
Jaster stared at the packages that waited for him. “What are these?”
Jango shrugged, even as Myles looked a the shipping invoice. “It says it’s from the Jetii’yaim on Coruscant.”
A head of curly hair peaked over the pantoran’s shoulder. “Hmm…nothing on its contents though.”
Myles pressed a soft kiss atop the dark curls, not even looking up from where he was studying the piece of flimsi. “Scan says its safe though.”
How mysterious. Jaster thought, finally giving into his growing curiously and opening a box.
He stepped back in awe.
To Mand’alor Mereel,
It has come to our attention that mandalorian armor is considered sacred to the True Mandalorians, on the same level that our lightsabers are sacred to us. As part of one of your central tenants, we understand that armor is occasionally passed down so that it can be reunited with the original owner’s aliit, which is interesting as we often place the lightsabers of our fallen in the Hall of Sabers so that the crystals may sing together, crystal and owner reunited even in death.
We are truly horrified to realize that we have committed such an atrocious act against you, albeit unknowingly and have decided to correct it. As we speak, the Librarian’s Assembly has begun to catalogue every piece of beskar’gam the Archives possess, and return them to Mandalore so they can be returned to their owners’ aliit.
Our two peoples have historically been at odds with one another. I don’t think we should continue with this tradition.
Sincerely,
Madam Jocasta Nu (Chief Librarian of the Temple Archives, Jedi Order of Coruscant)
Over the next few months, Jocasta received several mandalorians who shyly presented the indomitable librarian with lightsabers. Contrite and apologetic.
For those too scared to brave the dragon’s lair, sabers were carefully placed where they’d be found. Notes attached explains how sorry they were, that they hadn’t been returned earlier.
The artisans were ecstatic, throwing themselves into conserving the weapons so they could be placed in the Hall of Sabers and Jocasta couldn’t help but smile.
There was an extra power cell in the pommel cap.
Green eyes narrowed in thought. Why would Tarre Vizsla have included an additional power cell?
They usually made the hilt even heavier, impacting traditional fighting styles—though he knew his former grandmaster kept an additional cell in his own saber. Maybe he needed to give Master Dooku a comm.
“Um…Knight Stahl?” He turned around, only to be met with a fidgeting Mand’alor.
“Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor!” Feemor enthused, hoping he’d gotten the pronunciation right! Obi had been practicing with him for three weeks.
Mand’alor Mereel froze. “You…you’ve been learning mando’a?” He asked, a soft smile starting to curl his full lips, and Feemor couldn’t help but notice how handsome it made the normally severe face.
His ears heated at the thought, and he shyly scratched the back of his head. No doubt ruffling his already messy hair even worse. “Obi has been teaching me.” Feemor admitted.
Mand’alor Mereel’s smile grew. “Ob’ika is quite the competent cabur.” He said, voice warm and deep and making Feemor feel like he’d drunken a cup of Hoth chocolate.
“He…he is.”
They stood there for a moment, neither saying a word and Feemor wished that the Mand’alor wasn’t always in armor so that he could get a better sense of him. As it was, all he could pickup was a vague feeling of contentment and affection. And one other emotion…though it was hard to distinguish just what it was.
A mixture of fondness and appreciation, overlayed with notes of admiration.
“Oh.” The mand’alor said, suddenly remembering something. “I had this, made for you.”
A box was placed before him, and Feemor glanced back up to see a soft blush working it’s way across tan cheeks and wow…
He’d known that Mand’alor Mereel was a competent warrior and outstanding orator. That the man had worked hard to unite the clans and defend his people. That Obi-Wan had nothing but praise to offer for his adoptive grandfather—who always managed to spend time with the boy, despite his busy schedule.
He knew that he was a scholar, having read the Supercommando Codex during a lull.
He knew all of those things.
What he didn’t know was that the Mand’alor could manage to be so cute. That his nose was slightly crooked or that his eyes were an intriguing shade between brown and amber. That his voice was so deep it seemed to reverberate within Feemor’s very core.
He didn’t know that Mand’alor Mereel’s smile could send a horde of Alderanaanian moths a flight within the pit of his stomach. Or that the man was several inches shorter, though broader than he’d ever hope to be.
He didn’t know Mand’alor Mereel could be so beautiful.
Ears burning hotter, Feemor broke eye-contact in favor of studying the box. It was rather simple, sides plain and unadorned but for a small silver latch.
He opened it.
“A knife?” Feemor asked, green eyes darting up only to return to the object. It was beautiful. Tiny effigies and swirls carved into the hilt and along the spine of the blade, the almost luminescent shine of beskar.
The mand’alor simply nodded, and Feemor’s heart beat a little harder. We should make him butter tea and sand cookies. It murmured. We should ask him to carry our lightsaber.
“T-thank you, M-mand’alor.” He said, trying to get his traitorous heart under control.
“So…you accept?” The mand’alor asked, voice tinged with something that almost sounded like hope.
All Feemor could do was nod, the gesture rewarded with a bright smile that made his insides go to mush.
“Jate.“ He said. “Well…I have a meeting I need to get to.” You could have written odes about those shoulders, they were so broad. “And, I think you should call me Jaster.” The mand’alor—Jaster—winked.
Feemor swallowed. “O-okay…Jaster.”
Xanatos hummed as he listened to his brother’s latest comm.
It looked like he’d have to pay a visit to a certain mand’alor, to ensure his brother’s honor of course.
And meet his adorable nephew.
What did one gift to a 9 year old that was obsessed with ancient Mandalorian armor?
Pre waited impatiently, limbs trembling with excitement as he stood outside the gates of Keldabe, gift clutched tightly. It was a book on early mandalorian beskar’gam he’d managed to find at a rare book seller. According to the merchant, it was written by a taung goran before the Sacking of Coruscant, and he just knew that his copikla vodu’ad’ika would like it.
As he was waiting for the guard to clear his identity chit, his eyes caught the devastatingly gorgeous being also waiting to be admitted through. Dressed in plain black robes that did nothing to hide the silky sheen of black hair they’d gathered in an elaborate knot. Delicate face complimented with the most adorable knife of a nose he’d ever seen.
Pre smiled flirtatiously. “Su cuy’gar, meshla. Come here often?”
A snort was his answer, though those plasma blue eyes finally turned his way. “I should say not. I’m here to see my brother and nephew.”
It was only then that Pre noticed the wrapped presents held in the stranger’s arms. “Really? What a coincidence. I’m here to see my cousin!”
They smiled at one another, before exchanging comm numbers.
A copikla vodu’ad’ika, and the number of a meshla verd?
He mentally fist-pumped. Score One for Pre!
Feemor greeted Obi without glancing up, only to fall off his stool as the youngling happily exclaimed. “Hi Fee’ba’buir!”
No one had taken the time to explain to him that being gifted a weapon—especially a personal weapon like a knife—was the first step in a traditional mandalorian courtship.
Nor had anyone thought to tell him that by accepting said weapon, he was also accepting the courtship.
Feemor grinned as he hugged the knife closer. He needed to track down the ingredients to make butter tea.
Tarre smiled as he watched his jetiise.
It was nice to know that Mandalore was in good hands.