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This, Tarre thought with some annoyance, was incredibly inconvenient—though that was putting it mildly, this was a devastation, a disaster, but to think that way would be to lose his control—he should have known better than to investigate the Sith temple on his own, but he’d thought it completely inert.
It hadn’t been, though Tarre still found the results of its power baffling. What good would being thrust into the future be, when he had arrived with none of the power of his influence coming with him. It seemed very short-sighed of the Sith, but he had often been unimpressed with Sith rationale, now was no different.
Around him, the barren desert of Mandalore made it clear just how much the galaxy had changed, and not, from everything he could tell, for the better.
He turned his attention back to the pair who had stumbled over him shortly after he’d escaped the Sith temple. They had allowed him to join them while they had continued to flee from unnamed assailants. Part of Tarre wondered if perhaps the unnamed assailants were a better bet, yet the Force insisted that he stay right where he was. He would trust the Force for now, at least until he had the answers he wanted.
He had considered staying a random Mando’ad, nameless and unimportant. But in the end he had found himself telling the truth. Lies and fabricated pasts had never been strengths of his, and he saw no reason to change that now.
He was who he was, a future he didn’t belong in would hardly change that.
It had taken nearly an hour to convince his two new companions of his place from the past, but he’d succeeded.
And it made it easier, now for Tarre to demand the much needed answers to the questions that had plagued him ever since he’d found himself here.
So far, he had not liked any of the answers.
“What do you mean, the Jedi helped with the orbital bombardment of Mandalore?” he demanded, the words all made perfect sense on their own, but strung together, however, their meaning… he wished he did not understand them. “As a preemptive strike.” It was a tragedy no matter how it had happened, but those two words, preemptive strike, resonated in his mind with a fury.
The Jedi—though Tarre suspected that most Jedi would not be found in Mandalorian armor, not if he was understanding the new dynamics of this galaxy correctly—shifted uncomfortably.
“I can’t tell you what they were thinking,” Obi-Wan told him, though it felt like a pale excuse. “But… but from what we do know they thought that Mandalore was intending to continue their pattern of conquest. The galaxy was in no position to survive another Mandalorian conquest.”
“Thought,” Tarre repeated, anger rushing through him. “They acted on mere suspicion. On fear.”
Another shift of discomfort. “Some of the history surrounding the situation is… vague. Perhaps… perhaps they knew more than history tells us now.”
Of course it was vague, but not because they’d known more, but likely because they’d known even less. The Republic and the Jedi were not particularly good at admitting that they were wrong, and trying to murder an entire people and glassing their planet was not a good look for them. No, undoubtedly what information there was would simply blame the Mandalorians for bringing their fate down on themselves, regardless of the fact that such a thing could hardly be true.
“I see.” He stared at the Jedi for a moment, there was still rage flowing through him, as hot as his blood. But he wasn’t inclined to take his anger of this new history out on a Jedi who held no blame, no matter how deeply devastated the Jedi’s actions left him. “What’s your name, boy? And why are you here?”
The Jedi narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a child,” he said, voice curt. Tarre found his eyes flitting down Obi-Wan’s body. Even covered by armor as it was, it was clear that that at least, was very true. Obi-Wan was far from a boy. “And my name is Obi-Wan. I’m here because the Republic sent me and my Master…” he hesitated, and Tarre expected that he would not like the answer. “The Republic sent me and my master to restore the New Mandalorians to power.”
“New Mandalorians?” Tarre repeated, the title sending a chill down his back though he could not quite imagine why.
Obi-Wan swallowed. “They’re a pacifist faction, initially from Kalevala; they’re… sponsored, so to speak, by the Republic.”
Republic puppets, Tarre translated. Would this future never stop growing more and more wrong.
Obi-Wan glanced to the side where the young woman who was with him was sleeping. The leader, Tarre assumed, of this pacifist faction.
Disgust filled him. Was this what Mandalore had come to?
“She’s Mand’alor?”
“Not quite,” Obi-Wan hedged. “The Mand’alor, or the last one to have used the title, uh, he disappeared after an… incident.” The way Obi-Wan said incident made it clear that whatever this incident was it would only be another devastation to add to the ones that already bore down on him. “She’s the Duchess.”
Duchess. It was a very Republican title, just another sign of her puppetry.
“This incident. It was with the Jedi, wasn’t it?” Tarre said, voice blank.
Obi-Wan blinked, looking surprised he’d guessed. It was obvious though, from the discomfort he’d seen in Obi-Wan’s face. It was the same discomfort he’d shown when he had discussed the Dral’han.
This incident. One that had led to a Mand’alor that had run away.
“What happened?”
“The True Mandalorians… they were, they were framed. The Jedi didn’t ask enough questions. They were told to surrender or die.” And when faced with such an option… well, that wasn’t much of an option at all. “Most of them died. But the Mand’alor. Not him. He killed six Jedi with his bare hands before they subdued him. He… he was given to the governor. There’s rumors that he was, well, that he was sold.”
Tarre froze, the words a shock to his system despite the fact that he should have been inured to such things by now. “Sold,” he repeated. Fury coursed through him and Obi-Wan stepped back, eyeing him warily.
“The Jedi didn’t know,” Obi-Wan protested, voice rising in pitch a little. “I swear.”
Tarre could only hope that was true. His faith, however, had been heavily damaged since his arrival in this desolate future.
“Well then.” He nodded to himself. He could see his steps laid out for him, one after the other, leading to an inevitability—and he would make it an inevitability—of a restored Mandalore. “We’re going to find him.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “We’re?” He shook his head vehemently at the words.
“The galaxy has changed,” Tarre said, though it felt obvious to him just why he’d be bringing Obi-Wan with him. “Drastically, from the looks of it. While I’m sure I could hunt him down, it would add unnecessary difficulties to the process. You’ll help me navigate this future.” He glanced toward the sleeping young woman sleeping again. “You’re clearly on the run, regardless. No one will look for her off planet.” Not that he had any great desire to bring her along, but he would, if he had to. And at least this way, she would not have a chance to regain her power while Tarre was away.
“You want me to… to abandon my mission to go find the Mand’alor.” Obi-Wan’s jaw clenched as he quickly put together just what Tarre was planning. “You want to install him as Mand’alor again.”
“Clearly,” Tarre said dryly, though he was pleased that Obi-Wan could follow the track of his thoughts so easily. Though, that could be problematic if the Duchess showed the same acumen. He would have to come up with a convincing lie. “This perversion can’t be allowed to continue.” He would take the mantel himself… but his time had passed. He would advise, but the role was no longer meant to be his, that he could feel in his bones.
Obi-Wan shook his head, the action emphatic. “I won’t do it.”
Tarre looked at him, saw hesitation in his eyes, even if his voice had carried that sense of finality. He stretched out with the Force, surprised when he found a twist of conflict, far stronger that his tone would have indicated. Obi-Wan didn’t approve of what had happened either, Tarre realized. He wanted to help fix things, to make Mandalore better.
Perfect.
“You will,” Tarre repeated. “Because you know that this can’t be allowed to continue.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to follow the conflict in Obi-Wan back to it’s source. “You feel like Mandalore is being stripped of its heritage, don’t you?”
Obi-Wan looked away, and Tarre could sense a swirl of shame, as though Obi-Wan saw this empathy as weakness. “We’ve hidden with traditionalists a few times,” he said finally. “There’s… there’s something missing from the New Mandalorians, a lack, as though their passion was stolen from them. It’s… it feels wrong. The whole planet does.”
“Passion is the lifeblood of a Mandalorian.”
Obi-Wan flinched—but then, even in his own time, the Jedi had been wary of passion, no doubt Obi-Wan struggled with the passion inside of him that called to the passion of Mandalore—but nodded. “I know. I’ve seen it.”
Good.
It was no wonder that the Force had told him to stay with these two.
Obi-Wan was going to be exactly what he needed.
“Then you’ll help me find the Mand’alor.”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, but then slowly, hesitantly, he nodded.
It took a great deal of effort to convince the duchess—and the title disgusted him—to leave Mandalore. His efforts were eventually helped, inadvertently, by the attack of a group called Death Watch, forcing Obi-Wan to grab the duchess and flee on the first available transport.
One that Tarre was more than willing to control the cockpit of, though he quickly pulled Obi-Wan in to join him.
He had more questions.
Obi-Wan was hesitant to explain just what Death Watch was, clearly wary that Tarre would side with his descendants.
“They’re monsters,” Obi-Wan whispered. “They’ve bombed hospitals, killed innocents, traditionalists and New Mandalorians both. They want conquest again.”
Tarre personally had little issue with the idea of conquest, though Mandalore was in no position for such an endeavor. He accepted, instead, Obi-Wan’s assertion of their unworthiness to lead Mandalore.
No, the Mand’alor he wanted, was the one that he was chasing after.
Neither Tarre nor Obi-Wan told the Duchess exactly where they were going, though he could sense the way the guilt continued to grow in Obi-Wan.
He did not act on it, however.
Tarre couldn’t help but be pleased. “There were once Mandalorian Jedi,” Tarre said, several weeks into their hunt for the Mand’alor, Jango Fett, or at least that was the name that Obi-Wan had given him.
“Not anymore,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “And not ever again, I think. Or at least not now. We’ve turned ourselves into enemies. There’s too much death between us, I think.”
Tarre considered it, but then finally nodded. “I suppose there is.”
It was a shame. Obi-Wan would have made a beautiful Mando’ad.
He still might, perhaps, if Tarre could help him see the beauty of a culture he had been taught to fear, been taught was nothing more than senseless violence. There was an… appeal to the thought, of keeping Obi-Wan here on Mandalore, of keeping Obi-Wan with him.
Already, he could see that Obi-Wan had learned to see past that propaganda. But there was a difference between seeing such a difference and being able to break free.
The Jedi, like the Mandalorians, were far different from the Jedi he’d known.
Weakened, puppets to a Republic that was motivated by greed and selfishness.
Obi-Wan had tried, earnestly, to explain the necessity of it. The Jedi were feared, he explained, and were in too tenuous a position to separate themselves from their role, dependent on the Republic to feed their children and help the galaxy.
“There are things they can do,” Tarre pointed out, “to begin returning to a state of self-sufficiency.”
“And have the Senate wondering if we’re reaching for power?” Obi-Wan retorted.
Yes, Tarre thought, the galaxy was a very different place now.
But just like he planned to restore Mandalore, he could restore a select group of Mandalorian Jedi as well. Starting with Obi-Wan.
The search for the Mand’alor continued, aided by a sense that Tarre had always felt. A feeling of belonging and connection with his fellow Mando’ad.
Three months later they finally found him.
Jango Fett was a broken man, Tarre thought, regret twisting through him. Struggling to free himself from the mindlessness of spice, he was in no state to help take over Mandalore.
It was, at least, something that could be fixed.
And it did have the temporary benefit of keeping Jango unable to kill Obi-Wan, which was a response that Tarre should have thought to consider.
“You’ll be in charge of helping him through his recovery,” Tarre decided, watching Obi-Wan carefully.
Obi-Wan stared at him with wide eyes, aghast. “And have him try to choke me out at every opportunity he gets?” he demanded, looking incredibly displeased at the idea.
“To help him realize he doesn’t want to kill you,” Tare corrected. He suspected that it would not be quite so difficult as it sounded.
There was something about Obi-Wan. Something that called, both to the Jedi side of him and the Mandalorian side.
Jango Fett would feel it to, of that Tarre had no doubt.
Especially if Tarre had anything to say about it. Which, of course, he had quite a bit.
Jango was mildly in awe of him, at least once Tarre had convinced him of the truth of his claims on being that Tarre Vizsla and that it was not a fever dream brought on by the spice detox.
It was not hard to allow Jango to catch sight of him and Obi-Wan sparring—movements lithe and graceful and vicious, as though Obi-Wan had learned that there was no such thing as a fair fight. It was a sight that could not help but impress a man who was born to be a warrior. It was not hard to set up moments for Jango to overhear Satine and Obi-Wan arguing—too easy, in fact, Satine wouldn’t keep buying Tarre’s reassurances that convincing Jango to support her return to Duchess would help her win this war she was so unwilling to fight in.
Obi-Wan helped of course, and Tarre could not help but watch, gaze keen, as Obi-Wan stepped in to gently help bring Jango back to health.
He saw the change in Jango, as Obi-Wan ran fingers gently through Jango’s hair during the worst moments of withdrawal, murmuring soothing words in Mando’a, accent slowly shifting to match Jango’s own, though Tarre was quite certain Obi-Wan was unaware of the shift. But Tarre could see the way Jango’s eyes first softened and then grew sharp and considering, watching Obi-Wan with want in his eyes.
It was even better than Tarre had hoped for.
And then he used his coup de grâce.
-_-
Some part of Jango still felt like he was on a spice trip. It was the only thing that explained what was happening to him.
It was the only thing that explained why there was a man claiming to be Tarre Vizsla, a Jetii padawan intent on nursing him back to health, and the New Mandalorian duchess trying to convince him to support her rule who had brought him onto their ship.
Had to be a spice trip.
But if it was, it was one that didn’t seem inclined to end.
One that Jango almost didn’t want to end.
Not when there was a Mand’alor there, acting as though Jango was not unworthy like a message from the Ka’ra itself, calling him back to a home that Jango didn’t deserve to go there.
Not when there was a beautiful man—dressed in armor and so easy to forget what he was—who touched Jango so gently, like he was precious. One who would run a hand gently through Jango’s hair and sing him Mandalorian lullabies when the fevers and fits became too much. If Tarre was a message from the Ka’ra, from the long dead Mand’alors—from Jaster—than Obi-Wan must have been a message from the Manda. A call back to home, to the last place he’d felt this safe.
That the Manda would use a Jetii to send such a message was the only reason Jango couldn’t accept it.
The only thing that didn’t fit the rest of the spice-trip-that-wasn’t was the Duchess. Dragging Jango away from the warmth, the softness, that he felt with both Obi-Wan and Tarre.
It was perhaps a good thing, keeping him from falling too easily into something he did not want.
Because every time he found himself falling easily into Obi-Wan’s comfort, Kryze would appear demanding Obi-Wan’s attention or pleading her case to Jango. Reminding him that his people were dead, that it was his lust for battle that had brought him there. That he had to understand why peace was their only option. Why she was Mandalore’s only option.
If Jango had hated her and her policies before, he loathed them now.
He was surprised when it was Obi-Wan who snapped before he did. “Just stop it, Satine. I can’t blame Jango for not supporting you. Not when you’re making your case like this. The death of his people are not your bargaining chip. It’s a tragedy, not a bullet point for your list.”
“You know I’m right, Obi-Wan. Mandalore needs pacifism. He should know that. Should want to help the rest of us avoid his fate.”
“Satine, you’re—“
“Obi-Wan,” Jango murmured, voice hoarse with how rarely he spoke. Obi-Wan turned immediately, cutting himself off.
“Jango?” he sounded surprised. But then, Jango didn’t know if he’d ever actually used Obi-Wan’s name in those rare times he did speak.
“Water?”
Obi-Wan moved smoothly into action, finding him Obi-Wan’s own canteen.
Satine’s eyes were bright with fury as she met Jango’s eyes.
Jango kept his own face blank, his own victory he nestled warm in his chest.
He had to stop this, he told himself. Had to stop pressing into Obi-Wan’s hands, had to stop stealing his attention, had to stop letting his gaze follow Obi-Wan around the ship.
But it was difficult difficult to stop when Obi-Wan was one of his few distractions. And oh was he distracting.
He tried to change his focus, instead focusing on Tarre, who was at least an acceptable distraction.
It was not as successful as he’d like. Especially when it took him only a day to realize that Tarre’s gaze too often went to where Jango was trying desperately to stop his gaze from going.
There was want in Tarre’s eyes. A want that Jango felt deep in his own gut.
Perhaps they both needed a distraction, both needed to be saved from their own unworthy desires. Obi-Wan was a Jetii, he wasn’t for them.
But oh, what if he could be?
The thought plagued him as Jango slowly regained his strength, as Obi-Wan slowly started pulling away as Jango needed him less.
There came with the retreat a low wariness, as though Obi-Wan was remembering that Jango was dangerous.
Jango couldn’t help but press at that wariness, reaching out one day and letting his fingers brush against Obi-Wan’s neck. He wanted to press his lips there, he realized, the thought only surprising in that there was no surprise at all.
“I killed six of you,” he murmured, “with my bare hands.”
Obi-Wan was frozen beneath Jango’s finger tips, breath caught in his throat. “Are you planning on making it seven, Jango?”
Jango let his fingers trail down, dipping into Obi-Wan’s collar bone before letting his hand fall away. “Not right now.”
Obi-Wan stepped back, gaze meeting Jango’s own for a long moment before Obi-Wan turned and left.
Jango couldn’t be quite sure whether he was disappointed or not.
If he’d found himself wanting Obi-Wan before, it was only made worse when Tarre decided that he and Obi-Wan needed to spar.
Tarre was all smooth, controlled lethality, as though the ferocity of Mandalore had been distilled and placed inside this one man.
Jango could never take his eyes away as Tarre demonstrated the beauty of the fight. How Kryze could watch it and see only brutality he would never understand. No, the Manda sang through him. It was almost comforting to feel a desire for someone that wasn’t Obi-Wan.
Though watching Obi-Wan fight did nothing to stopper the desire he was feeling for the man.
He was lithe and graceful. He had not been born to fight, not the way so many Mando’ade were. No, Obi-Wan had carved himself into a fighter, he had turned himself into a weapon. And oh, he was a beautiful weapon.
He tried desperately to focus on Tarre, but it seemed as though Tarre saw right through him, always bringing Obi-Wan in close, pinning him down and then looking up and meeting Jango’s eyes, the look in his eyes taunting Jango with how much he wanted to be there. Pinning Obi-Wan or pinned by Tarre he was never quite sure.
Perhaps both.
But he kept himself under control, refused to be swayed.
Refused to fall.
Refused to admit that it was already too late.
But when he watched as Tarre pulled Obi-Wan in for a kiss, he knew he was done for.
-_-
Kissing Obi-Wan was a revelation. Obi-Wan moaning into the kiss and going soft and maneuverable, as though he was made to be Tarre’s.
He waited until Obi-Wan was completely lost to the pleasure of it before drawing back, pushing a dazed Obi-Wan into Jango’s arms.
The want was clear in Jango’s eyes and Tarre circled him, coming up behind him. Leaning forward to whisper in his ear. “You’ve imagined it, haven’t you?”
Jango nodded, movement slow and reluctant as though he didn’t want to admit to something he must have seen as weakness.
“It’s even better than you imagined.”
Obi-Wan was staring at both of them, almost trembling in Jango’s arms. He’d realized what was happening, and yet he stood there, pliant in Jango’s arms, lips parted in an unknowing invitation.
“Go on,” Tarre murmured. “I’m willing to share.” He leaned even closer, voice dropping so that Obi-Wan would not hear the next words. “Or are you saying you don’t want to give him a reason to stay.”
Jango let out a wounded noise, as though Tarre was offering something he’d never thought he could have.
Watching Jango kiss Obi-Wan, Tarre found, was almost as pleasurable as kissing Obi-Wan himself.
Obi-Wan as pliant in Jango’s arms as he’d been in Tarre’s own, quiet whimpers of pleasure like music to Tarre’s ears.
He reached out with the Force, stoking Obi-Wan’s pleasure, pressing against the passion he tried so hard to keep under control until Obi-Wan was nearly as desperate as Jango was.
Beautiful, Tarre thought. So very beautiful.
It was easy to wave his hand to the door, locking it with the Force, before shifting to circle the kissing men until he was behind Obi-Wan, guiding him and Jango gently to the bed.
“We shouldn’t,” Obi-Wan gasped between kisses, despite the fact that he was crawling into the bed, trying desperately to keep in as much contact with Jango as he could.
“We should,” Tarre corrected.
“Please, Obi-Wan,” Jango pleaded. “Give me this. Give me you.”
Tarre kissed at Obi-Wan’s neck, reveling in the shocked gasp of pleasure it elicited.
“Just the once,” Obi-Wan finally conceded, though Tarre was more than certain he’d be able to change Obi-Wan’s mind on the matter. “Just… just this time.”
It was sheer pleasure, Tarre using the Force again to stoke both Jango and Obi-Wan into an almost frenzy of passion.
When it was over, Obi-Wan was practically passed out between them. Tarre leaned over him, pulling Jango into his own kiss. “You did well,” he praised.
He felt the way Jango soaked up the praise, watched as his arm snaked out to pull Obi-Wan closer, as though trying to prove that he could do just what Tarre wanted, that he could help keep Obi-Wan there with him.
Oh yes, this had been a brilliant idea, even if Tarre did say so himself.
“How could you?” Kryze hissed.
Tarre raised his eyebrow at the accusation. How could Obi-Wan have not done everything he’d done when the Manda was calling so sweetly for him, dragging Obi-Wan into its embrace.
“I’m sorry Satine,” Obi-Wan murmured, “I had to do what I thought was right.”
“Qui-Gon will never stand for this,” Kryze argued. “He knows what Mandalore needs.”
“He’s an aruetii Jetii,” Jango drawled, nearly sprawled on the throne he’d won. The shaking, drawn out version of Jango had turned into nothing more than a memory, Jango strong and beautiful. “He has no voice here.”
“Yet you gave Obi-Wan a voice,” Kryze snapped, as though it was some sort of trump card.
Jango’s smile was entirely too vicious. “He’s not aruetii, nor is he Jetii.” Jango’s gaze landed on Obi-Wan. “Isn’t that right, cyare?”
They had never actually spoken of Obi-Wan staying and Obi-Wan’s eyes widened at the declaration. “I…” For a moment the hall fell completely silent, as Obi-Wan struggled with himself. It was a risk, a gamble, to put Obi-Wan on the spot and demanding he make a choice. But Tarre trusted Jango’s judgment. If he thought Obi-Wan was ready to be pushed, then he would follow his lead in this. Finally Obi-Wan shook his head, the movement slow, tentative. “No, I’m not those anymore. I’m… I’m yours.” He glanced at Tarre, communicating wordlessly that he was Tarre’s as well.
Tarre had never questioned that, not since the first time he had pushed the three of them into bed, worming his and Jango’s way into Obi-Wan’s heart where he’d known Obi-Wan wouldn’t be able to rid himself of them.
Obi-Wan stepped forward, slowly kneeling at Jango’s feet, and Tarre never ceased to find it a beautiful sight. “I would swear myself to you, if you asked it of me.”
Kryze let out a strangled noise, stepping closer as though she would pull Obi-Wan away herself. Tarre stepped into her path, blocking her from reaching him. “Obi-Wan, you can’t.”
Obi-Wan ignored her, staring straight into Jango’s eyes.
Jango leaned forward, hand coming to Obi-Wan’s hair as he pulled Obi-Wan’s head back, the position almost intimate. It was not the standard position a Mand’alor would take to receive the oath of a Mando’ad, but Tarre thought that for Obi-Wan, it was a worthy exception from tradition.
“Do it, cyare. Make yourself mine. Make yourself Mandalore’s.”
Obi-Wan’s pupils had gone wide with arousal, his natural reaction to Jango when he touched him like that, when he spoke with that deep authority.
It was with a shaking voice—though one caused by something entirely different than fear—that Obi-Wan said the vows, sealing his fate to Mandalore’s.
Mandalore, Tarre thought, would never be what it once was. But it was not what it had been when Tarre had arrived in this time either.
It was growing stronger, beginning to prosper again.
He turned his gaze to the sky, letting out a quiet hum.
They weren’t ready to conquer yet.
But soon they would be.
The Republic had tried to destroy them once. They wouldn’t give it the opportunity to try again.