001. VALE OF TEARS

( ⁠—Life or the world at large regarded as a source of sorrow, strife, or tragedy. )

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𝐄mpty. Silent. Dull.

Din Djarin was beginning to feel like a ghost in a system of puppets. The ghost of his own machine, battling the odds, through the four-dimensional space, speculating, always speculating, if the blackness absolutely was a mask over a true spark.

Everything around him was a distraction, a cacophony to take the edge off from the real responsibility at hand—to unearth the one that fell into flames. For that to happen, he had to let go of the void that seemed to consume everything. Nothing seemed to subside with the passage of time. Not even the golden flames that haunted his dreams as he slept.

But of course, being a Mandalorian had its perks. He was excellent at hiding it, masking it everywhere; in his voice, with the helmet and his actions. But somehow, a single memory, a term, a sight was all it took to claw through the veil of confidence.

The child cooed softly from inside the pod, dark eyes curiously glancing at the Mandalorian. Its ears jolted up when he cast it a tentative glance, letting out another happy cry.

"What's got you all glad?" He asked, not expecting an answer in return. The child cooed again, a soft titter. 

As the Mandalorian fixed his amban rifle into the cabinet, his eyes caught the sight of a growing peak of scrolled papers, the glow of gold catching his eye.

Tenuous fingers unfurled the browning fringes of the paper, his breath catching at the note that he had read over a thousand times. The everpresent, gilded dust settled between the tips of his gloved fingers, a flame arising from he touched it. His mind flooded with pictures of her as if it were yesterday, dark eyes shining with mirth and teeth glistening with her smile. Never a fleeting memory, his mind still forged the feel of the touch of supple skin and the sound of her voice.

𝒴𝓸𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝓮 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉 𝓸𝓃 𝓎𝓸𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈, 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝓸𝓋𝓮! 𝓗𝓸𝓅𝓮 𝓎𝓸𝓊 𝓈𝓁𝓮𝓅𝓉 𝓌𝓮𝓁𝓁.

-𝓜

There it was. The usual feeling of chillness, a simple message had robbed away his warmth. As always, he knew it was futile to try and fight it away, the lancing pain in his head that flashed dark spots in plain sight. Underneath the beskar armour, he knew his skin had gone ashen and by tasting the tang of blood, he had bit into the flesh of his lips too deep.

Meek and lost, Din placed the note back into the pile and his wandering fingers dragging past the notes to the neatly folded of auric silk beside it, half-tucked into the ajar metal plank that he had used to house her items in. Strangely, her warmth lingered between the creases of silk and stretching within his coarse leather gloves as if it were her own slender hands wrapping between his.

It was obvious, that he missed the witch. No woman had been the object of his desire with the passing times, paths diverging and his heart listless. Though she was gone, her aura remained, delicate and sturdy, between the smidgeon of dust that resided on the floor of the Razor Crest or the misplaced item that laid scattered around the corners.

"Are you naked down there, Mando?"

He slammed the steel cabinet close as loud as possible to portray his irritation. People had to start respecting his personal space.

"Don't you have anyone else to bother, Circe?"

The complement of delicate was Circe Vanis. Like she intended to be heard, her voice would always be the loudest in the ship and elucidating every quality of a hopeless thespian, wondering what the hell he did to have her aboard his ship. Nevertheless, she was a great disturbance. Good at banter, a mouth that had to be washed out with soap and a great sport.

She was nothing like the witch she once was. Her eyes were smudged with disturbed rest, her ebony hair tied into haphazard knots and a twisted grin playing on her taut lips. Her skin was as pale as sheet due to the lack of sleep—she had been on babysitting duty.

"What's up, shellhead?"

"Your time," he finished easily, turning to leave. He was not in the mood to give a shit, craving some alone time. "Go away."

The Razor Crest housed the Iegoans temporarily and how much ever the Mandalorian despised them, they were the only ones who had dealings with Myra. For Myra.

"Every time I try to build a bridge, you burn it," Circe clicked her tongue with a dramatic sigh and following him to where the child rested inside the pearlie, repulsor-lift pod.

"And every time it burns, I regret you weren't on it," the Mandalorian mumbled.

It was strange to see the kid never grow. It continued to babble and coo incoherently, his only way to understand its emotion was the perking of its inhumanly large ears. It's tiny green body remained swathed in the tough, brown clothing and the Mandalorian did not have a clue as to why it remained so close and silent. 

Circe cackled in a high-pitched tone, impressed. "This is why you're the only one I can handle on this trash bucket of a ship."

He found a vague, tasteless smile stretch on his face underneath the helmet, ignoring the insult to the Razor Crest. "What, does Hyllus scare you?"

His question seemed to hit a nerve, dark eyes flashing on him with a squint. "Suck my dick, Mando."

"I have standards."

"You mean Myra," she muttered under her breath and Din ignored the caustic sting that followed her words. 

"Besides, our ex-girlfriend's father should scare the living shit out of both of us."

"There is no our, or us," he bit out through his teeth, his hands cracking into tight fists as soon as the words hit a nerve. "Goddamnit. Why would you even say it that way?"

"Because it's true," she said, lifting a side of her lips to a smirk.

"Fuck off."

"Touchy."

How much ever he found Circe annoying, she was the only reliable source on the ship. Hyllus was a lost cause, much like his daughter, never going anywhere as close to the child. Circe, on the other hand, had nothing 'princess' about her, just fierce independence and a muliebrity, too.

"Well, hey, we're both exes to a smoking hot witch, right?"

He released a breath, his skin reddening under the helmet. "Do you have to make things so uncomfortable?"

"Just so you know, I got the better sex."

He sputtered out the first words that hit his tongue, flabbergasted. "I don't—what—no!"

She smirked. "You could never top her, could you?"

"Circe," he warned, his voice bordering on a hiss. He felt sweat trickle down his forehead in exhaustion and embarrassment.

When he thought that she had shut up for good, she settled next to him on the bench and widened her eyes, hinting at the mischief.

"Do you know what Myra was scared of?"

His voice was hoarse but masked to casual by the helmet. The number of times Circe brought up the topic made him numb to the burn.

"She wasn't scared of anything."

"Oh, but she was. Don't tell but, she was scared of... sex."

Din had to smile. Only, it was in disbelief. "Sex?"

"Why does it sound like you're smiling, tin can?"

He cleared his throat and made sure his voice was quieter than the white noise around him. "I just... we never had a problem."

"Mm, you really are a bottom."

"None of your business."

"Okay, okay. I'm serious," she pledged with eyes, shaking her head. Her dark eyes shone with humour. "Things were great—she liked me. I liked her. One thing led to another, we were in bed and—"

"Do I need to know the specifics?" He asked wearily.

"No, that's for my mind only," she winked, once again prodding at his ill temperament. "So, the next thing I know, she's got her hands around my neck, choking the life out of me."

That cleared the last thing on his memory when he thought of the lost witch. The first time he had shared intimacy with Myra, he had found himself in the exact situation as Circe. Only now did he realize, it all made sense.

She sighed out a small laugh. "You're luckier than you think, Mandalorian."

He looked at her. "Really?"

"She loved you back," she said, a faltering smile lifting on her lips as she fiddled with her nails. Her once magenta tattoos had blackened with the loss of her faith, her fingers tracing a small one that had inked on her thumb.

"I know she's not dead," she affirmed in a tone he had never heard her use. "I can feel it. You can definitely feel it. Even if she was, Hyllus wouldn't be here."

"What do you mean?"

She turned to him with a cocked brow. "Who do you think Myra and Hyllus are? Do you think Myra was human before her Transference? No child could've lasted as long as she did before she earned her name."

Din felt his ears ring. "They have royal blood."

She scoffed. "You're stupid if it weren't obvious."

"This would be easier if you weren't an asshole and told me yourself."

Before Din could crack into another retort with her, he was interrupted by loud footfalls crashing down the ladder and the inky, brigandine clothing of the king on the ship coming into view. Instead of the usual moroseness that hung around his head, there was anticipation; a joy that wasn't revealed in his face but in his actions.

"We're on the atmosphere of Tattooine," Hyllus announced. "There is something else."

The Mandalorian rose up from the bench, much like his conviction.

The Circe he saw was a far cry from the always trifling one. Her eyes were set into caution, her back straightening as she looked harder at Hyllus, their eyes speaking the words they couldn't speak.

"What happened?" The Mandalorian spoke up, breaking the silence.

Dark eyes that resembled the one that plagued his nightmares fell on him with a barely perceivable smile. It swelled with confidence, as Hyllus released a long-held breath.

"Something's changed. I can feel it."

∞

"He continues to mourn for her."

The Fates, similar to distressed mothers who were exhausted of yielding tender allusions to their inconscient daughters, had drawn their mailed fist upon them. Hence, the mothers' cruelty remained unmatched; the demons of a witch's life, the end that would arise, the silent, traitorous whisper that nestled constantly at the back of her mind. But at least, the Fates would grow hesitant of strangling, their clutches would numb and eventually, resulting in their fall. A moment in life when her actions who be decided, not be another, but the flow of time.

But, love was not as such; it would thrive in it's toughest, ultimately crease at every ending of the soul, so much that one could not exist without the other. Even so, the Fates were powerful but, love was unstoppable.

Mother Helena eyed the optimistic witch sourly upon her remark. On cue, her fingers gripped the wooden staff, carved from the roots of the Elder tree that grew on the sanctuary grounds, feeling the Ichor's rage course through her.

"Love," Mother mocked in distaste. "What a pity."

It happened upon Luna the True, that the answers were going undiscovered and her state of anxiety turning to panic. Her bones rattled under her skin but she kept her opinions straight with no hints of hesitation.

"The Destined One has no need for something as childish as love," the old witch pronounced, her eyes set ahead on the practice floor that sprawled onward. "Let him mourn. He will soon forget."

To the fore, a golden witch trained to be the champion of her own destiny. She fought twice as hard as her contestant, her face hardened in a stony grimace as she powered forward with her aureate lightsaber shining in the crisp daylight, caging the duo in an ovoid gleam. Her movements were as fluid as they were suave, her snowy-silk drape swaying against her dusky skin as if they were cicatrices gushing out of her.

"Their markings say otherwise," Luna the True insisted. Her dark eyes were watchful of her mentee, following her every tilt and angle with caution.

"Glyphs can often be born out of emotion," Mother said easily. "The mind is the only truth of a witch."

"So you intend to keep her away from him? From what she wants?"

Myra the Golden, oblivious to the conflict, grinned in triumph as she twirled the lightsaber between her fingers, an expert move to showcase dominance. Her opponent who had been pinned to the mushy ground, looking up at her in defiance. The dance of swords had been concluded and yet again, Myra had emerged the victor.

Luna pitied her naïve disciple. Out of the choices infused away from the Circle, she had chosen the one that led her to it. It should have been her greatest benefit, only now, it was her greatest misfortune.

"The Mandalorian simply disrupts her symmetry with a silly sentiment," she hissed. "Our golden witch is meant for greater things. Besides, partners are overrated."

"She's so young," Luna exhaled out in reason. "So much more to experience rather than be confined to the Circle."

Mother was amused. "So this is about her livelihood?"

Luna was persistent in her verdict. "This is about her choices. Options which she should be open to."

"As you said," Mother said with a compliant smirk, using the witch's words against her. "She's much too young to make her choices."

Myra, still beaming, outstretched a helping hand; a move of compensation. Luna concealed a smile upon her student's merciful display which only seemed to tick off Helena.

"The Ichor wanted something else, Helena," the weary guide alleged with her eyes thinned in a plea. "It had a different course for Myra. You had no right to—"

"I have every right!"

In a moment of mercurial fit and annoyance, Mother Helena rose her voice. So loud that the reverberation caused an eerie silence to follow.

Before Mother Helena's colours had been revealed, a soft, faltering smile curved in her unusually tranquil face. As if it were a fog of red, Luna sensed dubiety in the Mother of Whispers. Swathed in ultramarine robes to represent her superiority, Helena's hasty footfalls receded away from the viewing deck.

The Circle resided within a palace, overly large and ostentatious to the point of coercion. It was the perfect depiction of those who lodged inside, springing from the earth like the very filth that provoked them. Mullioned windows and a lotus replenished lake that was housed in four-corners of sandstone, every room on the interior was immersed in sunshine from the first caress of daybreak to an obscure twilight.

Myra's light eyes had detected the friction between her elders, keeping her gaze peeled on Luna. The cerise witch, in turn, had a pleasant nod for her student. Before Myra could make a move to join her mentor, someone had meddled with her attention.

"Mother," Myra murmured, tucking her chin to pay her respect.

The training boundary was a concise space that was at the farthest corner of the sedentary pond, orange trees nourishing the sides as it overlooked the vast ocean and the rocky terrains of the archipelago. Myra stayed arrested at the hub, her long fingers continuing to playfully weigh the lightsaber and Luna shook her head sadly. Still a child.

As Mother Helena swept forward from the rims of the pond, a stunned Myra had approached her speedily. Luna watched their cloying interaction with vague apprehension, holding her head high to conceal a glower.

"Balance," the Mother of Whispers mused. "Your balance still falters, my dear."

Myra's smile fell. Luna sucked in a delirious breath, offended for her student. The young witch's mind that had been hastening with delight collapsed into a spindly disorder of second thoughts, her chest swelling up with hurt.

"Helena," Luna spoke up, her tone curt; holding a warning. Myra looked to the openly planned balcony come deck on the opposite end, engaging the crazed eyes of her mentor.

"A witch's mind has no room for doubt. No room for hesitation," Mother continued, ignoring Luna's warning. "There is only belief."

"Yes," Myra nodded, her thoughts defeated. "Of course, I understand."

"Luna made you soft," Mother noted with a simper that fed into Luna's dread. Upon sensing the upcoming conflict, Luna made her way down to her student's side, ready to take the bull by its horns.

"Raised you like her daughter," she drawled, "rather than her student."

Myra was Luna's daughter, even if they were not bound by blood. She had seen her blossom to a wise witch, crossing the limit of age, and a snapshot out of time. She had protected her as an infant, nurtured her as a girl and pridefully watched her flourish into a witch who stood by her morals.

Myra's voice faltered. "I was—just—"

"A king as your father and a concubine as your mother," Mother clicked her tongue, trying to irk the young witch. "Unfortunate. Vulnerable. Why must the Circle indulge in your sad upbringing?"

Myra looked away, her jaw tightening with the audible gritting of her teeth. She gathered the courage to approach the question with a levelled tone.

"My past does not define me."

"Good," Mother Helena smiled, satisfied with her answer. With the verve that Myra had to please the Mother of Whispers. "Precisely. Whatever your past has been is nothing compared to what lies ahead. You have a spotless future."

Luna begged to differ, stating otherwise before her student's thoughts went helter-skelter.

"Your past is always your past, Myra," she returned in a hard voice, attempting to help her disciple take the meaning. "Even if you forget it, it remembers you."

A jarred Myra took a wavering step back. As if she had given up trying to figure things out, her mouth buckled and her face completely fell. She was just a ball bouncing, she realized, appearing free to the beholder and yet, always hampered by a tight rope. Luna's smile broadened as the witch blinked, refocusing.

"The Circle requires you on Tattooine," Luna continued, her voice nothing but diplomatic. It Myra wonder if it were true. "The spirits of the Force are more paramount compared to here. Some of the greatest Jedi have stemmed from the desolate planet."

Mother Helena was silent, leering at the cerise witch in what one could only tell was apprehension. But she was desolate—there was no lie to be detected in her monotone.

Myra apprehended the words of Helena in Luna's thoughts. They were stern, the orders placed forward for Myra who had no choice but to acquiesce. How much ever the Ichor drew her in, lapping against her fingertips in the stimulation of voyages, Myra had no heart to leave.

"I am not leaving this place," Myra said.

"This is best for you," Mother Helena accepted, rolling her staff around her fingers. "A generation of Jedi sorcerers have arisen in those very lands."

"I will be training... by myself?" Myra asked.

"I heard it is as liberating as doing it with a mentor," Luna shot her a smile. "Don't worry, child. The Ichor will ease you."

Myra pleaded with the Ichor, trying to glimpse into the Mother's mind but the Ichor was unreasonably obstinate. It's refusal fragmented her faith.

"I will be with the waters if anyone needs me," Myra murmured slowly; carefully.

"Of course," Luna admitted before the Mother of Whispers could intervene once again. "If the Sights are kind, you will rest for the night."

Myra's thoughts were exactly what she wanted to see; calling to her intuition and strange with familiarity.

∞

The waters of the Ichor were like sleepy darlings, laughing in their sleep, envisaging paradise. Unlike the torpid spirits, Myra was not anywhere as close to the forging rest. Her thoughts wandered elsewhere, in the past and future, delaying midst the curtain of reality and fantasy.

Every night, Myra found herself strolling the banks of the Ichor in which she had mysteriously awakened, her last memories were of engulfing flames, the heat licking away a portion of her flesh like a famine ridden current. She vaguely reminisced gnashing silver vambraces, wrapped around her limb, tighter than lassos, never letting go. Sadly, the vision always seemed to end there. In a cliffhanger, a Gordian knot which never allowed her to look beyond it or past it.

The lake grazed her fingertips, caressing coolly, sluicing in their wake. The mystic, transparent yet, opaque waters ascend up her fingers and swaddle around the strange tattoo around her wrist, defying gravity itself. They haloed her wrist, distorting the perfect perse of the ink, forming a fluid barrier around it.

Look in, the dozy waters whispered to her in a newfangled melody. Look deeper.

Aware and amused, she allowed herself to relax and welcome the Sight between her eyelids. Every energy furore that enveloped seemed to increase tenfold, the ebbing waters carrying her in like an ocean's course. She began to perceive, inhale, listen and for the first time in a while, feel.

The screen of forgetfulness that had stretched between her mind and reality tore to scraps. Instead of the usual beleaguering flames that hungrily lapped against her skin and the mysterious silver that awakened after, she had been gifted with softness; fragility; yearning.

It was beautiful, finer than any blanket that she had laid under. She was soon to realize that they were indeed another's arms that swathed her, feeling the straight bones bend into her dark, marble skin. This touch was lighter than a witch's, heavier than a woman, lankier than a child. A man, she conceded. Why was the Ichor showing her this?

Eyes revelled in her vision, smiling and coloured a brown that was warmer than dark sands on the beach. In those swirling hazel eyes, she saw her own reflection, a gentle smile on her face and golden eyes shimmering with an excitement she couldn't place. It was the best dream she did not wish to wake up from, didn't want to look away and those darkened eyes to be the last thing she saw. Fingertips trod over her skin, tracing her tattoos in a rhythm she couldn't remember until the touch morphed into the tangible chill of the waters.

I don't want you to disappear when I wake up.

They curled around her, tight and secure, tearing her away from the figment of her desire; the delusion she wanted to be real. He's not real, she convinced herself.

No, he can hear me, a small part of her—an unknown part of her—seized back. He can hear me, please hear me.

"Myra," a delicate voice dragged her out of her reverie.

Unable to dwell in the sweetest visions the Ichor had gifted her with and the indelible stain on her soul, Myra forced herself to release the clutches on the Sight and ripple back with the tide of the waters.

When awareness filled her body, the shackles of water that had undulated her wrist had been snatched back into the lake below, falling into her back with large spasms of breath.

"What did you See?" Luna asked her, grappling her elbow in a terse questioning. Myra leapt back with frenzied eyes, soaked hair sticking to her neck and focusing on the dark gaze of her teacher.

"I—I was—" she stammered, confused.

"What did you See, Myra?" She insisted, impatient.

"Someone," she tried to form words with her mouth that felt like it was filled with sawdust. "I Saw someone."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know," she muttered, looking back to the scintillating waters that flickered a glossy white from the daylight above. Rejoicing for something, celebrating a peculiar restoration.

Luna freed her grip from Myra's elbow, her hand still floating mid-air as if contemplating something. Her dark eyes fell on Myra in disappointment.

"You didn't look deeper."

"What was that?" Myra asked indifferent, wringing the water out of her hair and scrubbing away the settling moisture on her skin. The vision had been that profound, that true.

"A witch never seeks her past," Luna explained. "You let the gift from the Ichor slip past your fingers, Myra."

"I have Seen enough," Myra sighed, rising to her feet and trotting away. The mangrove trees that had gallantly grown around the cave in abundance made it hard for her to waddle her way through the muddy dearth.

"That wasn't my past," she said. "That was a dream."

"The Ichor doesn't instil dreams," Luna followed her in a haste to make her foolish student understand. "It bestows the future. The past is rare—you have to understand, dear."

"My future is with the Circle," Myra argued, turning swiftly on her heel to face Luna with a fiery glare. Luna stumbled back in the unexpected halt, matching the golden witch's agile wrath with her own.

"Why can't you let me have what I want?" Myra continued, upset burning in her words. "You held me captive in the Cathedral for years. I never asked why because I trust you. Now, finally, I have a chance to prove myself worthy of something."

"I want you to learn, of course, I do," Luna asserted. "But, you have options that are better for you. Choices that are more rewarding."

"What is more rewarding than abiding by the Ichor?"

"Love?" Luna tried softly, her skin paling further.

"Love," she scoffed instead. "And who will I, a witch, love?"

"You think you just fell from the sky on Ahch-To?" Luna berated with her gaze dimming. "No, you made a ridiculous choice in the past that led you here. You overlooked something so... pure in your quest to prove your worth."

Myra cocked a brow. "Overlooked what?"

"That soul in your vision," Luna explained in a frustrated sigh.

"I overlooked a man who I loved," Myra stated in disbelief; almost dazed. "That's impossible."

"Try to understand, dear," Luna breathed out, cupping a hand over Myra's cheek to get her to look at her in all her truth. "The Circle is not for you. You have so much to learn rather than be imprisoned here for the rest of your life."

Myra bared her teeth in disagreement, "I'm not imprisoned."

"Yes, you are," Luna shook her head. "There's no leaving the Circle once you make the choice. The Mother of Whispers manipulates you now. Tattoine is your way out."

"Tattoine will be my flourishing."

"Or you might find yourself back to where you started."

"How could you say such a thing?" Myra hissed, pushing her mentor's hands away from her face. Disgusted, she looked away.

Luna's lips curled to a frown. "I am trying to protect you."

"You are trying to keep me away from my faith," Myra declared, opinionated. "I can't believe you, Luna."

Luna slumped into herself, exhausted beyond reason and always knew Myra's stubbornness would be the bane of her existence. Her eyes cast down into a dejected gaze, lips setting into a firm line.

"Well," Luna said, defeated. "There is only so much I can say."

Myra took a step back, nodding. She showed her back on her weary mentor, turning towards the Circle that laid beyond, unyielding and faulty.

"My choice is made. I will leave for Tattoine tomorrow."

Luna's choice was made, too. And Myra was not going to modify it. This time, for the first time, Luna was going to be the master of her student's future.

"So be it."

X X X

{ i should probably think up a prologue. should I? this whole chapter summed up - 

din:  i think i should just stop with personhood and become an abstract concept 

circe: is 'no' an emotion because I feel it

haha catch me memeing my way through this book to avoid heartbreak and also, you'll be needing oxygen tanks for the next one, gawd, i hate meeeeee }