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The meeting ends the same way the last dozen have, a room filled with upset Mandalorians staring directly at Bo-Katan Kryze, clearly unsatisfied with the arrangements being made. Even those wearing a helmet manage to convey their anger, postures radiating open disdain.
Swallowing back a sigh, Bo-Katan nods her head in dismissal, watching the clan leaders filter out of the war room. They had won the planet back from the Empire, but the amount of work that remained was staggering. Settlements to expand, salvage to pick through, wounded to heal- the list seemed endless.
The hardest part of reclaiming Mandalore came in the form of unrelenting stubbornness, seemingly inherited by every single karking Mandalorian in the galaxy. I’m going to rewrite the Resol'nare and make compromise the core tenet.
“You’re tense,” the Armorer says in a low voice, appearing suddenly at her right hand. The same hand that had been crushed and wrapped in bacta for weeks. The same hand the Armorer tended to personally, bandaging so tenderly with undivided attention. Focus.
Ignoring the phantom pain running down her arm, Bo-Katan turns towards the only other person left in the room. The Armorer is in her usual garb, furs and leathers impeccably clean, the familiar smell of beskar oil and torrent wisp pine following her.
Bo-Katan tries to clear her head, bringing herself back to the conversation. What had the Armorer said? Tense? More like itching to push a head through a duracrete wall.
The Armorer is, of course, accurate in her description. The Mand’alor is fully aware tense is a fair way to describe the frustration coiling inside of her, but that doesn’t stop Bo-Katan from sneering.
Flashing her teeth, Bo finally lets herself feel the anger that had been boiling in her chest during the hours of pointless negotiations, unable to prevent the growl that slips out. Like tamer redirecting the ire of a rancor, the Armorer raises a hand in deference.
“So much unguided anger,” The Armorer intones, voice void of judgement. “You would bite the very hand that feeds you.”
“What if the hand that feeds means me harm?” Bo-Katan snaps, words sharp as they cut against something raw within her. “What if the offered aid seeks to poison?”
The Armorer considers her, helm tilting in thought. Her gloved hand, still risen between them, reaches forward- inching closer to Bo-Katan’s face. The Mand’alor doesn’t flinch, but she also does not hide her teeth.
“Then you will starve on your pride,” the Armorer says evenly, bringing her hand to rest on Bo-Katan’s shoulder. Right above the pauldron she made herself. “What ifs cannot sustain a soul.”
Bo-Katan scoffs, but the grip on her shoulder tightens enough to give her a shake. The Armorer doesn’t let the rebuke slow her, “Not every act of kindness is an act of war. Not every gesture is meant to harm.”
The words cool the white hot anger sitting heavy against her chest, pulling memories Bo-Katan would rather forget. I wish I was good at something other than war.
“What is eating you, Lady Kryze?” The Armorer asks, letting go of her shoulder to pull away. Without thinking, Bo-Katan reaches for the other woman, taking her hand into her own.
“I don’t want to fail them,” or you, “but I feel as though I already have. We have won the battle but the scars of war linger. I have brought us together, but I don’t know how to keep us from falling apart.”
The Armorer shifts closer, keeping her hand in Bo-Katan’s. The Mand’alor feels a flush of embarrassment at enjoying the small physical contact, but the Armorer makes no indication it bothers her.
“You offer our people hope and aid, but you fear their stubbornness to be self-sustaining will make it hard for them to trust each other?” The Armorer asks lightly, irony clearly not lost on the woman. “I have heard this concern before.”
Bo-Katan scowls, but this time she has to fight a smile. “Are you making fun of me?”
“I would never commit such an act of treason,” the Armorer says, but Bo-Katan can hear her matching smile. “I am simply here to offer my Mand’alor help in whichever way I can.”
Bo-Katan huffs indignantly, but squeezes the Armorer’s hand in thanks. My experiences make me wary of help, but the same can be said for almost everyone on this planet. I need to lead by example.
“Perhaps I shall accept your help.” Bo-Katan sighs, realizing that the Armorer has forced self-reflection unwillingly upon her. Looking down, she takes in the sight of their entwined fingers. “And your hand.”
The Armorer reacts just enough for Bo-Katan to see her shock, but it is quickly hidden back under a layer of cool calm. “Then you shall have both.”