004. GIVE A CARTE BLANCHE

( —to give one the freedom to do whatever one wants or deems necessary, especially with a particular task or assignment. )

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"I take back my consent, Mandalorian. Don't touch me anymore."

"Hold still!"

"Get off me, you miserable son of a—"

"Can you please just—ow!"

There was a certain level of tiredness that was associated with madness; maybe that's why Myra was so hell-bent on keeping the Mandalorian away from her injury. This was the day her exhaustion came in two forms: both mental and physical. It was when her brain screamed at her body to move and smoke the tension out but, her body was too fatigued to follow. 

She had arrived at a compact theory for her unusual lethargy. Being ever so accustomed to practising spells in the darkness, the glow of the morning had steadily affected her connection with the waters of Ichor. Her contact with the hunter's mind had gotten staticky; like an interface growing weaker. While blood started to steadily ooze from the wound, she found herself out of communication with everything around her—the sand, the wind, the fauna. As it was nearing sun-down, she knew it was then that she could truly start to recuperate.

Not too long ago, when the child, Mando and she were traversing through the deep ravines of the planet, they had arrived in a skirmish with another trio of Tradoshan bounty-hunters who was after the child and her. She had no idea how many bounty pucks her agent had given out and when Mando spotted the two tracking fobs after taking the unfortunate hunter down, she had given him a sheepish smile as if to say 'yeah, my bad.'

The agonizing prick of the lazer on her skin brought her out of her daze, tearing out a loud roar from her lips. She jolted back, shoving the Mandalorian on his back and peering at the sliced-open wound. He almost fell into the newly waked fire and wood and she really couldn't care. 

"Nothing's sealing it up," he growled, hefting himself up to his for what seemed like the nth time she had pushed him off. "So if you would just stop punching me every time I come close to—"

"No touching," she commanded sternly. "Learn how to treat a lady. At least, a witch."

"Come on," he groaned. "We've been over this a million times."

"I told you a million times more," she persisted, her tone unyielding and decisive. "Wait until dusk."

"Sunset is an hour away," he upbraided, pointing a finger at the dying, orange star at the fringes of the horizon. Bleeding gold and corals were splashed onto the blue and she almost never wanted the light of day to end. "And, you already lost a lot of blood and look terrible. If you die, I lose my credits."

"Oh, really?" She smirked, biting down barking laughter. "Are you sure you're not secretly worried about me, Mandalorian?"

"Don't test me," he muttered dreadfully. "The only thing I'm secretly worried about is getting your brains blown out in the desert by me."

She chuckled under her breath, breathing out softly. "See, now you're just convincing yourself."

He let out a sigh, mumbling out a, "Why me?"

She was irked that she couldn't look into his head anymore. His mask was doing nothing for her to understand his expression and the mere fact that she barely ever communicated on her planet was not helping.

The child in the cradle was silent and watchful the entire time. It's long ears dipped and rose as it gleaned the banter between them. She heard it give out an assortment of snuffles and coos, curiosity embedded in its sweet voice. She had never seen anything like it.

Lost in the enigma of the lone child, Myra failed to see the night roll in with the promises of cold winds. The coral sky was swallowed by an ocean of dark; a beautiful dark. Nothing like the ominous darkness that always seemed to engulf dreaded Iego. Her laughter lines were visible when a million stars scintillated and three moons starting to develop their curvatures while married to the stars.

With the waning day, Mando felt the witch's dying breaths tremble back into her. He watched her breathe easier and her swarthy skin arriving at its usual, intense glow. Every part of her was arising; her sullen cheeks filled the craters; her eyes stood out like two drops of gold in the darkness; her jawline sharpening; her bony figure starting to regain its svelte shape. It was fascinating to see her go from scraps to appeal, even with the seclusion that laid shrouding it.  

His gaze went to her movement when she unwrapped the cloth from her wound. Her eyes were shining with mischief as she looked at him, pulling a sleeve down her shoulder to showcase a small, six-fold spiral on her collarbone. 

"Watch," she said softly. 

In a captivating second, the tattoo glistened a majestic burgundy and consequently, the gradually blackening wound had started to repair itself. The muscles mended, the skin regenerated and soon, there were no remains of the wound ever-present. Just her dark bronze skin and the reformative ink. 

"That's disgusting."

She rolled her eyes at the Mandalorian, fighting off laughter and pulling the satin sleeve back over her shoulder. "I guess it doesn't work on some people."

"So uh," he asked quietly after a short beat, "what else can a witch do?"

She smirked, tilting her head. Suddenly, she wanted to have some fun with the usually silent hunter. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just answer the question."

"I'm only a juvenile," she shrugged, finding the words in her to answer. "There are many spells I am yet to come out with. Until now, I have mastered abjuration, conjuration, divination, enchantment, illusions, trans—"

"Okay, okay, you're boring me," he jumped to cut in, shaking his head. "What have you not done?"

She raised a suspicious brow. "Why?"

"Fine, don't tell me," he turned his gaze away simply and fixed it on the child. He was irritated that he wasn't getting an answer and Myra almost laughed out loud. 

"I don't care anyway."

"If you didn't, you would have never asked."

He sighed. "You're exhausting, you know that?"

"It's how I exhibit compassion," she teased. "You're special, Mandalorian. You're my first."

Upon hearing her words, Myra heard his slow heartbeat pick up its pace. She had reason to believe the Mandalorian was red under than helmet, awkward from the unimplied innuendo. She could finally discern his thoughts—thoughts she suddenly did not want to see—and feel the warming of his skin under the pads of armour. 

"Stop it," she unknowingly spoke from between her teeth. 

Mando's thoughts were turning into redundant circuits, about her and just her. The feel of her skin against his, a hand braiding into her hair and soft breaths that would leave her; she was already shaken up. She couldn't help but feel disturbed, detesting her appeal again and wanting to blaze the attraction away. When the Ichor manifested in her, why couldn't it have absolved her of this unneeded substance she had to carry?

The Mandalorian was instantly confused, his thoughts zipping back into linear motion. He was finally clear-headed, his focus on her. "What?"

She blinked at him. "What?"

"You asked me to stop." 

"Stop," she gulped to settle herself and provide an answer, "moving?"

He was evidently not satisfied with her answer. Tried to figure her out, why she had said it and another thousand thoughts starting to jumble his heeds. As he moved to lift his hand above his head to stretch out the tension, he let out a grunt and shrunk it back down. 

"Are you alright?" She asked, concerned. 

It was then that she glimpsed at the wound that had resembled her former one, tearing through his cotton material and his tan skin. As if on cue, he tugged out the electric laser from the ground and began the slow, gruesome process of burning away the infection from the cut. She flinched into herself at the sight.

"Do you have to?" She requested softly, wanting to make it easier. The child curiously peered from the cradle, giving out a subtle coo of inquisitive. 

"I have to," he grunted, pain leaching out through his voice.

She stared at his wound and stretched out a hand. "I know a spell that can relieve..."

"Don't touch me, witch," he muttered, recoiling away. 

She dropped her hand abruptly and turned aside, helpless to his constant contempt towards her. Neither could she stomach the stench and sight of burning flesh. 

The Mandalorian must've seen the revulsion twist on her face.  

"You don't even have a heart," he mentioned, "how is it that you're this weak at the sight of gore?"

It was supposed to be childish, meaningless taunt. Except she took it to heart, looking away with a notorious glare. The Ichor jabbed into her, wanting to burn the Mandalorian for insulting her but, she held it back. It prodded at her to hurt him in the worst ways possible. It was wrong, she told herself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. 

In her mire of confusion, the inches tall child had gotten off the cradle and walked over to the hunter with a hand stretched out. Its eyes started to sink shut but before it could proceed to add to Myra's curiosity, the Mandalorian grabbed it by the waist and stuffed it back into the cradle.

"Did I finally shut you up?" He spoke to her, once again, smug and playful. 

She didn't bother to return his comical essence, looking into the horizon with an insipid look. Her eyes decreased in a glow, shaking her head. "I'll stay up for the night. You need your rest."

Hearing her statement, he leaned back into the flattened rock to comfortable settle himself to take a nap. He glanced at the baby, who was no fast asleep, before turning back to her smugly. 

"So, witches don't nap?"

"Only when they want to," she replied flatly.

That did it. He realized that something had upset her and his inquisitive mind had begun to ponder. He hadn't taken off his helmet as expected, leaving it on and lolling his head to the side. He wasn't asleep just yet, she could feel his eyes on her. Watching her every breath and twitch of a muscle, unnerving her. Before his mind could wander places, she strived to stop it. 

"Sleep," she ordered in a small voice.

His neck straightened. "How did you—"

"Shut your trap and sleep." 

And he did. She watched his fingers rest from their fists and his breaths slowing. His head laid over the rock softly, flickering into slumber. 

If only she wasn't as snooping as her father. Myra couldn't help but perceive his dreams, seeing the blurry visions of a troubled, young, tan-skinned boy and the darkness of a closed hatch. Worry was heavy in the boy's chest when a loud blast rung in his head and screams; immediately, she withdrew the Ichor from his head and breathed out deeply.

So much for being nosy.

∞

"Please don't die on me, Mandalorian."

The Mandalorian, Myra understood after a while, had no regard for his personal safety. As the darts of electricity trickled off his armour, she realized how stupid he had been to chase after a thirty-foot Sandcrawler twisting with Jawas. Those red-eyed, black-hooded, short thieves were the reason for his anger—they had stolen integral parts of the Razor Crest. 

"I'm not dead," he grumbled at her. "I'm pissed off."

"And awfully fragile."

"You're fragile, witch," he snapped.

She laughed. "And so is your ego."

He got off from the loamy ground, looking to the child who cooed at them again. He let out a tired sigh.

"Those thieving bastards."

"Hey," she complained, grasping the cradle with a hiss, "there's a child in the midst."

"I don't think it can understand us."

"Nevertheless, a baby."

"It's fifty years old."

"Still a baby," she insisted. 

"I'm not arguing with you," he decided, walking towards the leftover scraps of his ship. The cradle sensing his movement followed him obediently and the child peeped from the cradle to throw her a look. It held out a tiny hand as if wanting her to follow them.

Letting the Ichor flow through her, she called a quick enchantment in her head and allowed the newly imprinted tattoo on her wrist to come alive. The waters took her in with pulverising effort and spit her out next to the Mandalorian. She leapt out gracefully, joining him as he strode into the ship. 

He let out a surprised jump when she did and then, realized to his relief it was just her. Suddenly, a spurt of annoyance through his carotids. "Is it that hard for you to be normal?"

Myra nodded, serious. "Yes."

The Mandalorian continued to angrily slam drawers and empty cupboards upon entering the ship. He had disappeared into the cockpit and returned with newfound irritation, leaving a dent on one of the metal lockers in fury.

"They destroyed everything," he growled out, his voice hot with wrath. "Didn't leave anything behind."

"I'm sure it's not lost," she tried to pacify him. "We can request for guidance."

"Who, the farmer?" It sounded like he was a disappointed and lost cause.

"I can bring us to him," she nodded. 

Hope seemed to bloom in the hunter as he turned to look at her. She leaned next to him with a small smile playing on her lips, folding her hands over her chest.

"Are you sure you can?" He asked, his voice a downed whisper. There was so much anticipation in his tone, she couldn't bear to refuse him. She grinned wider. 

"You need my help?"

He let his head hang, probably wearing a hangdog look. "Yes, I do."

There was a small call from the child who had managed to stumble its way up the entrance hatch and peer into the ship. She couldn't help but snicker in an undertone, going to rub a finger over his ear. It leaned into her touch, opening its mouth wide with a smile. 

"Ready for a trip, little one?" She asked softly. 

"Wait, you're going to teleport it?" He sounded concerned, scared even. 

"It won't hurt the baby," she appeased him with a confident grin. "I promise."

That was all it took. This time, the Mandalorian took permission to touch her and she allowed him with a cheeky smile. She fastened a secure hand over the shut cradle which held the baby and shut her eyes. 

One minute they stood, the next they were off. The Ichor twisted around Myra, lifting the lapels of her dress and soon, the three of them were sucked into a vacuum. Like being forced through a tight rubber tube, the waters lead them to where they were; pressing against one another; bones feeling crushed and soon, spewed out into a new mass of land.

"I'm never allowing you to do that again," he coughed out loud. He couldn't see for a quick second, shaking his head and feeling something heavy strewn over his chest. 

"Oh, give it a rest," Myra panted out, trying to force herself upright and spotting something hard underneath. She came face-to-face with a lacklustre helmet, her own face staring back at her at the visor. She continued to see through the blackness, hoping to at least catch a tiny glimpse of his face.

"The kid," he groaned.

"The baby!" She gasped out suddenly, pushing herself off his chest and straddling him unknowingly while searching the field for the pod. Upon finding it, she clambering towards it. 

Meanwhile, the Mandalorian's head was a mire of uncontrolled thoughts. His heart was aflutter, slack-jawed and puffing loud with the sensation of her frame against his. She had a feverish warmth to her, arcing at the right places and just so goddamned charming. Brainless witchcraft, he found himself thinking.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she mumbled at herself, unlocking the pod and peering in to see the child in the midst of small, pealing laughter as if it had enjoyed the deadly trip. 

"Aw," she cooed, nuzzling the edge of its chin, "did you like that, little one?" It laughed when she did. "You're the only one here who seems to appreciate me."

The Ugnaught farmer appeared to greet them, looking up at them in all curiosity. He had been enjoying his time alone until they had teleported themselves here. He was a little disturbed but equal parts concerned.

"Myra the Golden," he bowed to her, "I hope you are well after the mission."

The lonely farmer knew his tradition and folklores. Myra was pleasantly surprised when he addressed her with a bow, thinking back to when witches were viewed as the messengers of the beyond, knowers of everything. They were an association who had descended from an ancient order called the Jedi Order, choosing to move on as a fellowship and their own ways. Witches and the Jedi had gone hand-in-hand for generations, how they had respected the residence of the imminent energy fields in all living creatures. She had learnt about the Force at a very young way, how it had connected to the Ichor and brought balance to the galactic history of the universe. 

After the arrival of the Sith Eternal and the Imperials, witches and sorcerers had been seen as those who followed the dark side of the Ichor and the Force. People scorned and had been never allowed to vocalise, suppressed by society. Until now, they had lived in secrecy and dwindled in numbers.  

Myra smiled, nodding at him. "I am well." 

"This is what is causing all the fuss?" He asked, amused and looking at the child who had left the pod and chasing around a reptile with giggles. 

"I think its a child," Mando input without a single glance.

"It is better to deliver it alive then."

"We came to receive your help," Myra stated, truly desperate. She had to be in Nevarro by now, boarding her cruiser to the patron who had reported necessitating a witch. 

"Anything," the farmer accepted, looking up at the Mandalorian. He was busy fixing his electrocuting vambrace which fizzled off bolts of electricity with his meddling. 

"The ship is destroyed," he spoke on cue, "we're trapped here."

"Stripped," the farmer corrected, sauntered ahead of them to grab a screwdriver that would be of help for his fixture. He passed it to the hunter. "Not destroyed. The Jawas steal. They don't destroy."

"Stolen or destroyed," Mando mused, indifferently. "Makes no difference to me."

"They seem to be protected by a crawling fortress," she recalled out loud. 

"There's no way to recover the parts," Mando added in all negativity. She tossed him a swift glare while listening to the old farmer.

"Well, you can trade."

"With the Jawas?" He scoffed in incredulity. "Are you of your mind?"

"I will take you to them," he accepted, not taking the Mandalorians refusal into consideration. He looked to Myra with a soft look in his eyes. "I have spoken."

"Thank you," she told him as the Mandalorian walked away with an angry, disbelieving shake of his head. "Really means a lot."

"Your ways are paramount, Myra," he said in a gratuitous voice and taking her hand between his scaly ones. He flipped it askance, viewing the current swirling magenta tattoos embedded on her wrist. 

"Extraordinary," he whispered. "I've never seen a witch's ink in a very long time." He looked at her strangely. "How old are you?"

She smiled tightly. "My faith forbids me from saying it, for a witch's wiseness is determined from her experience."

"I understand," he said, nodding.

"This one means something," she told him, getting on her knees to look him straight in the eyes. The farmer nodded at her in understanding, inspecting the mark closer. "I'm not sure who to ask. My mentor left I know not where and I'm willed confused."

"This one's new," he figured out.

"Yes."

"I was right. You are different from the others." He looked to the Mandalorian who watched the child leap after the reptile. His eyes were filled with recognition, nodding as if he knew. "When did you meet him?"

"A day ago," she obediently answered.

"My dear," he muttered, running a tough finger through her skin. "This is a moon glyph. It appears once in a witch's life."

"Truly?" She said, fascinated. The symbol was an inverted, open triangle, the crest and trough of a wave passing through it. It was thick and swirled around her wrist intricately.

"This one depicts balance," he informed her. "Parity. The sense in judgement."

"Is there something I must do?"

"Partnership goes a long way, Myra," he advised in a warm voice. "I trust you know what I mean. A witch can only survive so long isolated."

"You want me to find another," she whispered in understanding. She continued after a beat, sighing. "It's too much of a risk. For the other rather than myself."

"A witch's company is sacred and strong," he said, ousting the doubts from her head. He placed a finger over the skin on her chest. "You need to trust in yourself."

Myra's mind began to think erratically and she wasn't sure if it was her or the Ichor's doing. She was unnerved by the prediction that the man had given her, knowing she was better off alone rather than causing trouble in someone's life. A witch's path was irregular, impulsive and dangerous. Who would she find to deal with her unlikelihoods?

She had asked the Ichor and found herself looking at the Mandalorian, but the answer was the one thing she wasn't able to recall. 

X X X

{ UFF, they slay me entirely. who else is rooting for these two and their little green kid, I sure am! wavyonce , you freaking goddess keep writing and keep being the queen you are <3  }