sea may rise, sky may fall (my love will never die)

They land the Slave 1 near the plains where the fighting had occurred. Jango wonders what had happened to the Mandalorian ships that would have been left behind when his people were slaughtered. They’d probably been stolen or scrapped for parts.

“You ready?” Hermione asks from the ramp, watching him with caution. “I know you need to do this, but if you aren’t ready, we can wait.”

“I’ll never be more ready than I am now.” Jango answers, even though that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s ready. Hermione frowns at him, clearly recognizing that, but she doesn’t argue, merely turns and starts to descend the ramp, pulling her cloak tight around her to stave off the chill. Winter will be coming to Galidraan soon, and the chill of it is already on the air.

Jango heaves a sigh and follows her down.

There is a great, grassy mound in the middle of what had been the battlefield. Little, yellow flowers have started to grow upon what Jango knows to be a mass grave. He thinks Hermione’s steady, unyielding presence beside him is the only thing that keeps him walking, that means he can stand before the mound rather than turn and run. He drops to his knees at the base of the mound and bows his head.

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.” He whispers to the soil, grateful for Hermione’s hand squeezing down on his shoulder.

“What does it mean?” she whispers, not complaining when he leans back into her legs. She is his anchor, the only thing holding him down, keeping him from floating away into the heights of madness and vengeance.

“Not gone. Merely marching far away.” He answers, his voice choked.

“That’s lovely. It reminds me of a poem from my home world, would you mind if I recited it?” she queries, he considers it for a moment, but Hermione has never let him down, has never insulted him. She wouldn’t take this moment to disparage the dead.

“Go ahead.” He answers instead, she squeezes his shoulder again and sucks in a breath.

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you- Oh you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country’s foes.
Mild and gentle, as he was brave,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things: Where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to,
The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;
And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.

Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead, he is just away!

Jango doesn’t expect the words to cut him as sharply as they do, bringing to mind not just Myles, but Jaster, too. A low, keening sob rips itself from his chest and suddenly he cannot stem the tide. Behind him, Hermione merely kneels down and wraps her arms around him and simply holds on.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Hermione’s voice cuts through his grief and he sucks in a breath, chokes on a sob, and pulls himself together. He tries to shift, but Hermione only clutches him together.

“You are the one intruding on a sacred space.” A familiar voice answers, brimming with anger. Jango chokes on spit as he scrambles, trying to sit up, Hermione reluctantly letting him go.

“Myles?” Jango demands, pushing onto his feet and spinning to see his friend standing there, in his full armour. Myles startles, taking a half step back before rallying himself and standing firm.

“Jango?” he queries, voice choked and distorted all the more so for the voicoder.

“I thought- I- I-“ he struggles to breathe, his chest tight, his eyes stinging as tears form. “I-I-“

“Jango.” Hermione states, gripping tightly to his shoulder, she grabs his left hand and presses it flat against her chest. “Breathe with me.” She says, and he suddenly realizes that he can’t breathe, that his chest is too tight, and it hurts and- “Shh, shh, you are having a panic attack. Focus on me.”

Jango struggles, his thoughts rushing too quickly, but Hermione’s heartbeat is steady beneath his hand and slowly he matches his breathing to her own. She looks up at him, with kind, worried eyes and tries to smile and fails horribly.

“Better?” she asks, cocking her head to the side, he nods, swallowing thickly and sucking in a deep breath.

“Better.” He agrees, she sighs and nods her head.

“You knew it was possible you weren’t the only survivor.” She tells him, then she throws a glare over her shoulder at Myles, who hasn’t moved, before she looks back at him. “You don’t owe anyone anything for surviving, Jango. Not for surviving whatever happened here and not for surviving on the freighter.” He swallows again and nods, gently pushing her hands away and letting his gaze drift back to Myles.

“Did anyone else-?”

“Some.” Myles answers, reaching up to remove his helmet, and Jango winces at the scar he sees cutting across Myles’ face, it misses both eyes, but that doesn’t mean much. The scar isn’t from a burn, so Jango wonders what caused it, given the fight with the Jetiise and their jetii'kad. “We never learned what happened to you. The Governor died before we could interrogate him, and he burnt all of his data before we could get to it.”

“Oh.” Jango cringes, struggling to find his words, but he remembers Hermione’s presence at his side, and she reaches out to catch his hand, holding it tight.

“You are Jango Fett.” She whispers into his ear, squeezing his hand. “Your name is Jango Fett, you are a person, you are Free, and you matter.” She tells him in the language of the Amavikka and he knows, but it doesn’t help with the shame that he feels. The shame and the fear and the hopeless rage that he’s felt since he last was on this planet. He can’t form the words. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Jango. If you don’t want to tell him, you don’t have to.”

“He deserves to know.” Jango argues, looking at Myles, who is frowning at them, before he turns back to Hermione. “As far as they know, I just gave up and left them all to rot.”

“If they believe that, then did they ever know you?” she asks him with a dark frown. “They were your people, you bled for them, would have died for them. Did they know that?”

“I- yes, they knew.” He admits, reluctantly, but certain. They all knew. They all would have died for each other, for him, just as he would have gladly died for them. Just as he killed for them.

“Then they know that you didn’t abandon them, Jango.”

“Jan’ika.” Jango startles, looking up to find Myles has gotten closer to them, his eyes burning with grief and anger. “What happened to you?” Myles asks, but Jango shakes his head. He can’t answer. Doesn’t have the words and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet.

“He survived. That’s all you need to know.” Hermione states, placing herself between Myles and Jango, and if Jango hadn’t already seen what she was capable of, he’d question her sense of self-preservation, but Hermione doesn’t need him to protect her. She never has.

“Listen-“

“No. You listen, I don’t care if you think you’re entitled to know everything there is to know about Jango, you’re not. If he wants to tell you, he’ll tell you when he’s ready. You don’t get to push.” Hermione snaps, stepping forward and right into Myles’ space, but Jango’s distantly amused to note that his friend takes a small step back. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll turn you into a frog and you can bellow your rage about it till the end of time!” she snarls, her wooden stick slipping into her hands.

“Oh, you’re one of them!” Myles exclaims, his voice coming out in a squeak.

“One of whom?” Hermione demands, her eyes shining with power.

“A wizard, like Harry.” Myles admits, taking another half step back, only Hermione doesn’t follow him, her entire body tense and frozen.

“Hermione?” Jango murmurs, stepping forward.

“Harry.” Hermione whispers, her wand disappearing back into the holster on her wrist as her arm drops back to her side. “Harry.”

“Hermione?” Jango asks again, reaching forward to grab her hands and squeeze them. “Who is Harry?”

“My brother.” She murmurs, her eyes slowly rising to meet his. “I thought- but if it’s him then-“ suddenly Hermione is pulling away from him, her wand in her hand again as she raises it, shoving it under Myles’ chin.

“Hermione!” an unfamiliar voice yells, startling them all. Hermione tenses, turning slowly before letting out a squeal and running across the plains, all but throwing herself into the arms of the dark-haired stranger standing on the dirt road. Jango watches as Hermione wraps her legs around their middle, the stranger’s arms coming up to wrap around her in support.

Jango watches them spinning around happily, their laughter filling the air, and he’s happy for them. For their reunion, the way he’s happy for his own with Myles. For the knowledge that more than just he survived. But he doesn’t feel whole, still feels like there is a giant piece of him missing, and now that he’s here, where that piece was torn out of him, he’s not sure if he’ll ever feel whole again.

“Are you alright?” Myles asks, slowly stepping forward to put his hands on Jango’s shoulders and appraise him. Jango can’t help the way he flinches under Myles’ grip, doesn’t miss the way Myles jaw clenches when his friend picks it up.

“I’ll be alright. K'atini.” He promises, though he doesn’t feel it, he knows Hermione won’t allow for anything less.

“So,” that unfamiliar voice cuts in, they must be Harry. “This is Jaster’s son, huh? Heard lots about him.”

“I hadn’t gotten around to telling him about that, yet.” Myles mutters with a sigh, but Jango barely hears him.

“Jaster?” he exclaims, chest tight. “Jaster is dead.”

“Jaster is very much alive, thank you. I didn’t face plant myself in exhaustion on the daily for an entire year just to have someone disparage my works.” The strang-Harry says, with a frown. “He’s back at the base, sulking, dreaming, praying, and waiting.”

“Jaster is here?”

“Oh, Harry, your saving people thing!” Hermione exclaims with a soft laugh.

“Me? What about you?! Or did you just stumble over Jango here in a spaceport?”

“Something like that.” Hermione answers, looking away from Harry, and smiling at Jango, though he can see the shadows lurking in her eyes, the same as lurk in his. “So, Jango, are you going to introduce me to your father?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. Jango almost swallows his tongue as he remembers what he’d told her, very drunk on one of her potions as he came down from the spice withdrawal.

“My buir, my dad, Jaster would have loved it if I had taken you home to meet him.”

“Oh, no.” he breathes, she grins.

“Oh, yes!”

Myles leads them away from the grassy mound, up into the mountains and into a very inconspicuous looking cave. Jango stares wide eyed as they step through the cave entrance and he suddenly finds himself inside the foyer of what seems to be an apartment complex.

“How-?” he starts to ask but Hermione huffs beside him and turns to glare at Harry.

“Did you pull this out of the trunk?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot on the ground. Harry hesitates, clearing his throat.

“Uhm. No. I used a ritual to re-create the apartment from the trunk, just out here.” Harry answers, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. “The original apartment is still in the truck. I know I’m not as good as you are, but I’m passable.”

“That wasn’t what I was concerned about.” Hermione admits frowning. “The apartments in the trunk are designed to become unstable if removed from the trunk. But that intentional instability won’t apply to a space created from scratch in ritual.”

“I knew there was a reason not to take it out of the trunk, I just couldn’t remember what it was.” Harry admits with a laugh. “Well, I’m glad I remembered that much at least.”

“Where is buir?” Jango interrupts before either of them can continue discussing whatever magic went into creating this. He'll let himself be awed by it all later, but for now he has one mission and one mission only. Harry frowns at him, sharing a look with Myles before he sighs.

“Up those stairs,” Harry finally says, pointing to a stairwell tucked into the corner of the entrance way. “Third floor, seventh door on the left.”

“Thanks.” Jango mutters, turning to approach the steps, but he stops as he feels Hermione’s hand slip into his own. “Hermione?”

“Trauma changes people, Jango. I’m sure you know this already, but…” she hesitates, her brown eyes wide and concerned. “Go easy on yourself and go easy on him.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nods, smiling softly when Hermione presses a feather-soft kiss to his forehead. “You are Jango Fett, and you are Free.” She whispers to him in Amatakka, then pulls away from him, turning to return to her brother’s side.

He frowns, as he realizes she left something in his hand, he glances down to find the blue of a calming potion. He huffs and tucks it away in his pocket, then he sucks in a breath, turns back to the stairwell and braces himself for a reunion he never expected.

Jango hesitates at the door, seventh on the left, on the third floor. The Manda chants quietly in the back of his mind, the way it has been since Hermione’d bought him through the last of the Spice withdrawal. He’s never been particularly well versed in the Manda, but it feels anticipatory to him, quiet, muffled, like if it breathed, it would be holding its breath.

He breathes deeply and reaches out a hand, knocking gently at the wood. Silence answers him, not even the slightest sound from the room beyond. He hesitates, heart clenching in his chest. Is Jaster even still his buir? After everything that he’s done? Except, he knows Jaster is still his buir, only a child can disown a parent, not the other way around, but that doesn’t mean Jaster still wants to be his buir.

He rubs at his face, feels a stone settling in his stomach, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as he reaches out to knock once more. There is still no response. The Manda is noisy now, angry, incessant, and he doesn’t know what it wants from him, only that it makes his heart ache. He presses one hand against his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of the shirt Hermione had transfigured for him after they were Free. He knocks at the door with his other hand, tears burning when there is still no answer.

He heaves a weary sigh, collapsing to his knees in front of the door. He rubs at his chest, maybe a little too hard if the sparks of pain beneath his fingers are any indication, but his heart hurts and he doesn’t know how to ease it and his buir isn’t answering him and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Buir.” He breathes, the sound barely audible, as he struggles around a lump in his throat. “Buir,” he states, a little bit louder, his throat suddenly feeling as dry as the wastes of Mandalore. “I’m sorry. I-I understand if you don’t want to see me, I-I messed up. I-I should have known something was wrong and I-I screwed everything up and I destroyed your legacy and I-“ he struggles, the words slipping away from him. “I-I shouldn’t have come back, I shouldn’t have. I’m dar’manda. I lost my armour. I failed our people. I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t- I wasn’t good enough, and I-“ he startles as the door in front of him swings open suddenly, he jolts back into the wall behind him, cowering away from the tall figure in the doorway.

For a second, just a heartbeat of a moment, he’s back on the freighter and he’s 15 again, small, and naked, terrified and angry, and the slavers are looming over him, so much larger than he is, especially without his armour and-

“Jan’ika.” His buir’s voice cuts through the memory, he jolts, his breath coming in quick little gasping waves, his eyes wide as his gaze darts about before meeting his buir’s, where his buir has knelt down in front of him, in the doorway. “Jan’ika?” his buir murmurs, cautious and concerned, and Jango lets out a strangled little whine, tears burning in his eyes as he takes in the face of a man he never thought he’d ever see again. His buir reaches for him and he flinches, shrinking away, tries to disappear into the wall, unable to help it and unable to stop the way his heart lurches when he sees the heartbreak that flitters across his father’s face.

“Ni ceta.” He exclaims, wrapping his arms around his middle, feeling suddenly cold though couldn’t say why. “Ni ceta. Ni ceta.” He tries to say something else, but the apology is all that comes out, all the words he knows in all the languages he’s ever learned have suddenly failed him and he can’t help but sound like a broken recording. “Ni ceta. Ni ceta.”

“Udesii, Jan’ika, udesii.” His buir says, voice as soft as Jango has ever heard it. He tries to listen, tries to obey, but he can’t, he feels wound too tight, but also like he’s seconds away from shaking into tiny pieces and he doesn’t know why.

He struggles to breathe, then remembers the potion Hermione had given him. He hadn’t wanted to use it, because he remembers the last time, how chatty happy he’d become for the 10 minutes the potion had lasted. But he doesn’t think he’s going to get through this conversation any other way, so he sighs, pulls the vial from his pocket and pops the cork, downing the contents in one quick gulp, so as to avoid the horrendous taste. He relaxes a little as he feels the potion start to kick in, the yawning lake of panic and fear receding in the face of the potion's magic.

He sucks in a breath and slowly raises his eyes to meet his buir’s concerned gaze, he hesitates before he reaches out with a shaking hand towards Jaster. He watches as his buir’s eyes narrow, before his buir slowly reaches his own hand out to meet Jango’s, the pair of them squeezing tightly the moment their hands connect.

“I’m sorry, buir!” Jango exclaims, the words coming easy to him now that the panic is nowhere to be found. “I messed up and our people paid for it, and I lost my armour and they sold me into slavery, and I thought I was the only one who survived, and I just wanted to come back, and get my armour, and find Tor, and kill him, and-“

“Udesii, Jan’ika.” His buir interrupts, his expression pinched. Jango frowns at him and shakes his head.

“I am calm.” He promises, because he feels a bit like he’s in the eye of a storm. He knows the potion won’t last for too long, so he has to get everything out before the potion wears off and the panic and fear and shame settles back on him and chokes him. “I’m calm, I just have to get everything out because you might not want to be my buir anymore after you find out, and I’d rather find out now because it’ll hurt less than finding out later after I've let myself have this and-“

“Jan’ika.” Jaster interrupts again, his voice commanding for all that he looks like Jango just punched him. “You will always be my ad. Even if you were to ever call me dar’buir, to me you’d still be my ad.”

“Oh.” Jango murmurs, then he frowns. “But I kriffed everything up and got made a slave and got addicted to Spice and-“

“Jan’ika.” Jaster says, voice barely more than a whisper. “You are and always will be my ad.”

“But-“

“Can I hug you?” Jas’buir asks, hesitant, almost scared, small, and Jango never wants to hear his buir sound like that ever again. He gives a slow nod, uncertain how the calming potion will hold up, but he doesn’t feel like making himself shrink when Jaster pulls him forward into his arms, so Jango will take that as a win. “Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Jango Fett.”

Someone keens, like their heart has been ripped out of their chest and it takes him a moment to realize it was him. His fingers clench in his buir’s shirt and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go.

“Buir, you can’t-“

“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Jango Fett.” Jas’buir repeats, and Jango’s ashamed to realize he makes that keening noise again.

“Buir, I’m not worth-“

“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Jango Fett.” Jas’buir says again, the next thing Jango knows he’s crying, and he can’t seem to stop. All the while he can hear his buir repeating the gai bal manda over and over again.