Chapter Text
Fresh breaths of wind send sand swirling around Vitra’s feet as she stokes the embers at the hearth, warming cups of tea for herself, her father, and their guest. After the arrival of a new ship– another bounty hunter’s ship– Vitra thought that he might stay home with her, but Kuiil went off to the landing site anyway. Her father has made it a habit to greet the bounty hunters, offering his help to them in hopes to rid their planet of the Nikto and constant carnage coming with arrival after arrival of bounty hunter. It’s her father’s belief that they are in debt to any guest appearing on Arvala-7, but that rule is starting to wear Vitra out after so long. Many times they’ve faced bounty hunters more interested in demanding their belongings or threatening their lives after Kuill brings them back to the farm, rather than being grateful or asking for help on their assignment. Vitra is starting to wish he would stop bringing these strangers back, for his own safety. May the Goddess help him when he meets a hunter who refuses to listen to reason.
But this new bounty hunter that her father brought back seems different. A Mandalorian, the first she’s ever seen, maybe even the first that her father has ever seen. He’s quiet and seems to have some manners, not pulling any weapons on them, saying please and thank you, helping her father drag back some additional blurrg. He takes the tea that Vitra offers him with a quiet thank you.
“Many have passed through. They seek the same one as you,” Kuill says as Vitra hands her father his cup of tea. She sits back with her own cup, studying the Mandalorian’s ragtag armor. Only his helmet is made of beskar, the rest formed out of metal odds and ends and covered with chipped paint. The gray cape around his shoulders looks much like her own.
“Did you help them?” the Mandalorian asks her father. Something in his helmet clicks, and he lifts the cup to where his mouth would be. So that’s how he drinks, Vitra thinks, and finds herself genuinely impressed.
“Yes. They died.”
“Well, I don’t know if I want your help,” the Mandalorian replies. The surprised look on Vitra’s face draws his attention. He glances at her, head– helmet– slightly cocked.
“You do. Without my father, you’d already be dead,” Vitra tells him. The Mandalorian doesn’t look away from her, either considering her words or ignoring her completely.
“I can show you the encampment,” Kuiil interrupts, his hand settling over his daughter’s arm. Vitra’s own hand covers his silently. The Mandalorian watches this exchange before speaking.
“What’s your cut?”
“Half,” Kuiil replies without hesitation. Vitra’s eyes shift from her father, back to the Mandalorian.
“Half the bounty to guide? Seems steep,” the Mandalorian says carefully. Vitra raises her eyebrows at him, making sure her amusement doesn’t show too obviously on her face.
“No, we want one of the blurrg. We care for them here,” she tells him.
“The blurrg? Keep them both. One for you, and your daughter.” He nods towards Vitra. She nods back, sparing him a smile. He’s quite polite for a bounty hunter. After most of the hunters she’s met, it’s a refreshing change of pace. She prefers him than the last one, who killed one of their blurrg before running off with another. That particular bounty hunter is dead now, according to her father. Vitra wonders if the Mandalorian will end up much the same.
“No, you will need one to ride. The way is impossible to pass without a blurrg mount,” Kuiil explains patiently.
“I don’t know how to ride blurrg,” the Mandalorian replies, sounding either irritated, confused, or both. It’s difficult to tell from the voice modulator morphing his words.
“I have spoken,” her father proclaims, and that’s the end of it. Kuiil stands, walking to the exit of their ramshackle home. Vitra offers her hand to the Mandalorian as she gets up, but he doesn’t take it when he stands.
Just as she predicted, it doesn’t take too long for the Mandalorian to get even more confused and irritated. By the third time he is bucked off the young blurrg foal he brought with him on arrival, the Mandalorian is ready to give up. He brushes himself off with a grunt, straightening the chest plate of his armor.
“Perhaps if you take off your helmet,” Kuill suggests. Vitra agrees with the sentiment, but she knows better than to believe the Mandalorian would ever take off his helmet. She understands why. It’s the same reason she’s worn this headscarf all these years, even with no one besides her father to see her, even after her people were eradicated.
“Perhaps if you use your brain,” she calls to the Mandalorian.
“Perhaps he remembers I tried to roast him,” the Mandalorian shoots back, trying to keep himself seated on the blurrg’s saddle. Vitra grins.
“This is a female,” her father tells him. “The males are all eaten during mating.”
Vitra leans on the wooden bars crisscrossing together to form the blurrg corral, watching as the Mandalorian does his best not to get thrown. Vitra herself does her best to keep in the occasional chuckle. She was only eight the first time she rode a blurrg by herself, but of course, she had been under the guidance of her father far longer than this Mandalorian has.
Within seconds, the Mandalorian is sent flying again.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says, walking towards the edge of the corral in a huff. “You’re sure you don’t have a landspeeder or speeder bike I could hire?” Vitra opens her mouth to reply, but her father cuts her off.
“You are Mandalorian! Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur. Surely you can ride this young foal,” Kuiil berates. The Mandalorian sighs, turning back towards the agitated blurrg.
“Approach with good intentions,” Vitra advises him. He glances over his shoulder at her, or at least, his helmet looks in her vicinity before he turns his attention back to the blurrg.
Vitra thinks he may have taken her advice this time. The Mandalorian approaches the blurrg at least somewhat calmer than he was before, hands at his sides and fingers spread, muttering gentle words to the creature. Vitra is content to sit back and watch. She thinks this would make a good sketch, if she had her journal with her. She would draw the blurrg with its mouth open, teeth gleaming, with the Mandalorian sat atop it, his back straight, the reins knotted around his hands, his helmet held tall.
“Well done, Mandalorian,” Vitra says once he finally gets the hang of it, having managed to stay seated on the blurrg for a good fifteen minutes. “You’ll be taming Mythosaur in no time.”
“Don’t patronize me,” the Mandalorian replies, but he doesn’t sound very bothered. He’s much more focused on not getting tossed again.
Vitra doesn’t have to ask her father to accompany himself and the Mandalorian to the encampment. She adjusts her scarf, cape streaming over her left shoulder, as she rides beside the Mandalorian and her father towards where the Niktos have made their hideout. The sun glints off the Mandalorian’s beskar helmet as she considers asking him if he actually has ever seen a Mythosaur. It seems unlikely- it’s probably more likely to see one of Vitra’s own people alive and breathing than to ever glimpse a Mythosaur. After riding for half an eternity, they stop on a ridge overlooking the encampment. Nikto sit and stand around below, shooting the shit, unnoticing of the trespassers above. There are a few bodies strewn about– fallen bounty hunters– and Vitra manages to pick out the last one that ever visited her and her father, the one that killed their blurrg. She feels a mixture of guilt and satisfaction at the sight.
“This is where you will find your quarry,” Kuiil tells the Mandalorian, motioning towards the encampment. Vitra watches as the Mandalorian pulls out a small bag, likely filled with more credits than she’s seen in her life, and offers it to her father.
“Please, you deserve this,” he says, but Vitra knows that her father won’t take it. Not just because of his philosophies, but because credits are essentially useless on Arvala-7. The Mandalorian should keep them since he actually has use for them.
“Since these ones arrived, this territory has been an endless stream of mercenaries seeking reward and bringing destruction,” her father says stoically, eyes still on the encampment. The Mandalorian glances at her for a response, but Vitra says nothing.
“Then why did you guide me?”
“They do not belong here. Those that live here come to seek peace. My daughter and I, we both seek peace. There will be no peace until they're gone,” Kuiil replies.
“Then why do you help?” the Mandalorian asks. Neither herself or her father met a bounty hunter so willing to pay them for their help, so interested in knowing why they do it. She wonders if those traits are because he’s Mandalorian, or because of who he is outside of that creed.
“I have never met a Mandalorian. I've only read the stories. If they are true, you will make quick work of it. Then there will again be peace,” her father says, sounding almost reminiscent. Reminiscent of times when it was just them on this quiet planet, working the vapor farm, caring for the blurrgs. Vitra misses such times as well. “I have spoken.”
Her father urges his blurrg around and glances at Vitra, waiting for her to do the same. She gives the Mandalorian one more smile. He holds out the bag of credits to her.
“Take it, if your father won’t,” he says. “Though I still have trouble believing he’s your father.”
Vitra can’t help her smile, shaking her head as she refuses the bag. “He has spoken,” she tells the Mandalorian, and then urges her blurrg on after her father.
-
“Do you really think he’s the one?” Vitra asks as she and her father settle down for their last meal of the day. Her father passes her a bowl filled with water to rinse her hands in before they eat.
“He is better than any yet,” Kuiil replies. Vitra sighs, drying her hands on her cape before looking dully at her plate of food. It would really be a shame for a Mandalorian to be cut down like this. There are so few left. She knows what it’s like to be a dying breed.
“You only think that because he’s Mandalorian,” Vitra points out. Her father looks up at her and spares a very rare smile.
“Just as I think you are special for being Kavahmai,” he tells her. She can’t be annoyed with him when he smiles. He does it so little these days, with the invasion of the Nikto and bounty hunters. It’s a look that reminds her of her childhood.
“I am special,” she says. “There are no more Kavahmai.”
-
Vitra sees him approaching before her father does, though she has no doubt that Kuiil knows he’s there. The Mandalorian has returned to them, alive, with some strange floating sphere beside him. Vitra waves hello, and the Mandalorian waves back. He stills a few feet from her, and when he stops, the sphere stops too.
“I thought you were dead,” Kuiil says from where he stands, repairing one of their moisture vaporizers.
“We both did,” Vitra says to the Mandalorian. She looks over to the floating sphere and notices something small inside, a little green creature with long ears and big eyes. “This is what was causing all the trouble?”
“I think it’s a child,” the Mandalorian tells her. Vitra cocks her head to the side, then holds out a tentative hand towards the child. Three little claws grasp her finger, and she grins.
“Not a child. Looks more like a baby to me,” Vitra says. She squats down, smiling at the baby as it coos. “Young for such a big bounty.”
“Better to bring it in alive then,” her father says, looking over the child critically. Vitra frowns, but says nothing. It’s none of her business what the Mandalorian does with the child, but it seems cruel to hand something so small and helpless over to someone who can do whatever they please with it. She hopes that the buyer has good intentions, though she doubts it.
“My ship’s been destroyed. I’m trapped here,” the Mandalorian tells them. Vitra raises her eyebrows, standing back up.
“And we thought you came because you enjoyed our company,” Vitra teases. She wonders if he’s rolling his eyes behind that helmet.
“Stripped, not destroyed. The Jawas steal. They don’t destroy,” Kuiil says. Of course the Jawas got to his ship. Serves him right for selling this child off, but she can lend a little sympathy his way. Do Mandalorians have homes, or was his ship all he had?
“Stolen or destroyed, makes no difference to me. They’re protected by their crawling fortress. There’s no way to recover the parts,” the Mandalorian grumbles. Vitra glances down at the child, noticing that it has somehow slipped out of the cradle. It becomes enchanted with a frog, and once in possession of the creature, the child immediately stuffs the animal in its mouth, resulting in the Mandalorian promptly tells the kid to spit the frog out.
“You can trade. My father and I know the Jawas here. We will help you,” Vitra says. The Mandalorian glances at her.
“Trade with Jawas? Are you out of your mind?” the Mandalorian asks. Vitra can’t believe he’s so shocked at the suggestion of it. Jawas were made to trade with, after all. Besides, she spent her childhood with Jawa children. They aren’t so bad, if you don't mind kleptomaniacs.
“My daughter and I will take you to them. I have spoken,” Kuiil decides. The Mandalorian looks back at Vitra as her father heads to the blurrg corral.
“Don’t look at me. You heard him–”
“Yeah, I got it. He has spoken.” They both turn to look at the child, which has once again put the frog in its mouth. They watch with interest as, a second later, the child swallows the creature whole.
-
Vitra accompanies the Mandalorian and the child on the back of the carrier that her father pulls with his blurrg. She sits beside the child’s cradle, waving her pencil in front of it, her journals tucked away in her bag behind her. She had planned on getting some drawing done, but playing with the kid is more fun. It coos, trying to reach for the pencil, and she grins.
“Don’t get attached,” the Mandalorian warns her, watching the two of them. Vitra hands her pencil over to the child to give it something to play with. The child ends up tossing the pencil, which hits the Mandalorian’s armor with a thunk.
“I should be telling you that,” she replies. “You’re really going to hand over this poor thing to some, what, war lord?”
“That’s the job,” the Mandalorian tells her, offering her back the pencil. The sun glints off his helmet and almost blinds her as she leans forward to take it. She adjusts her scarf so that her eyes are in shadow, protected from the sun.
“I prefer a scarf. Less eye-catching, you know,” she says. She didn’t mean to make it sound like a suggestion, but she thinks that might have been how the Mandalorian took her words. The Mandalorian looks away from her as they approach the Jawas and their crawling fortress. She recognizes a majority of them, some of them being friends that she grew up alongside.
“This is the Way,” the Mandalorian tells her evenly. She doesn’t respond, looking back to the child, one hand held out like it's trying to reach for her pencil again. Vitra figures that if someone suggested she wear a helmet instead of her headscarf, she’d reply somewhat similarly.
“They really don’t like you for some reason,” her father calls from his place on his blurrg, trying to hail the agitated Jawas. They mumble angrily amongst each other, motioning unbelievingly at the Mandalorian.
“Well, I did disintegrate a few,” the Mandalorian mumbles. Vitra slaps the beskar on his shoulder.
“Shame on you. I grew up with them, you know,” she says disapprovingly. “You should drop your rifle. It’s upsetting them.”
“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion,” he responds. Vitra rolls her eyes before motioning towards some parts the Jawas have arranged outside, what she’s guessing are parts from the Mandalorian’s ship.
“Then you won’t be getting your parts back.”
“. . . fine,” the Mandalorian finally says, dropping his rifle as he gets off the carrier. The Jawas murmur indignantly, pointing at his blaster.
“The blaster, too,” Vitra tells him. He huffs before leaving it beside his rifle on the carrier.
Vitra lets her father and the Mandalorian deal with the trade, staying behind to sit with the child. After all, she won’t be around it for very long, and she has a feeling the poor thing won’t live much longer either. Some of her Jawa friends join her, crowding around the carrier, chatting away about the Mandalorian, his vaporizing rifle, their attempts at making a good honest living while bartering stolen parts. . . just your average Jawa conversation.
“Hello, hello,” Vitra greets them as they form a little circle around her. “It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry about the Mandalorian and your losses.”
The Jawas reply with their preferred array of conversation topics. A few of the younger ones look at the child with interest, but scatter when the Mandalorian yells at them to leave it alone. Vitra waves him off, and urges the Jawas back. She lifts the child and settles it on her lap.
“Be gentle. It’s only a baby,” she tells the Jawas, allowing them to get a good look. The child giggles at the attention, looking up at the Jawas with round black eyes.
Vitra looks up when the Jawas start to chant “suga” together excitedly. She raises her eyebrows at her father, who shrugs to her in response. Something heavy settles in the pit of her stomach as she thinks about what the Jawas have in mind for the Mandalorian.
“The egg? The mudhorn egg?” she asks as the Mandalorian and her father join her by the carrier. The Jawas rush away to join their ranks, happily murmuring about their dinner.
“Yes,” her father says. The Mandalorian says nothing, ducking down to grab the child from Vitra’s lap. He returns it to its cradle.
“You’re not going to bring that kid with you, are you? It could get hurt,” Vitra points out, standing as the Mandalorian begins to walk away, the cradle floating behind him like a loyal pet.
“What, and leave it with you? I’ll probably never get it back,” he replies, and then continues on his way.
“He’s going to die. For sure this time. And that child. . .” Vitra watches the two departing, heading toward the mudhorn’s lair. It reminds her of something from years ago: an ugnaught and the young girl that always trailed after him.
“Don’t worry yourself over matters that do not concern you,” her father tells her, sitting down on the carrier heavily, as if the situation troubles him too, but he considers it better to keep quiet. Vitra sits beside him.
“You once saved a child all alone, on the run from the Empire,” Vitra says softly. Kuiil sighs, patting his daughter’s hand with his own, wrinkled and calloused.
“We do not know if this child is wanted by Imperials,” Kuiil tells her. Vitra keeps her eyes on the Mandalorian and the child until she can no longer see them. It’s true, the Mandalorian never said anything about Imps, but she has a feeling. And rarely are her feelings ever wrong.
-
The Jawas are preparing to depart by the setting of the sun. Her father tries to reason with them, but they’ve long given up on the Mandalorian and the egg.
“Don’t leave yet. Just a little longer!” Vitra calls to them, but even her closest friends are heading inside the crawling fortress, having lost interest with nothing to trade and no egg to enjoy. Vitra can’t exactly blame them. She’s starting to lose hope that the Mandalorian will return, too, and the child with him.
“Daughter, look!” Kuiil says. Vitra turns around and watches as the Mandalorian appears, clearly banged up, but in possession of both the egg and the child. Inside its cradle, the little thing seems to have fallen asleep. Vitra hopes it really is just asleep and not dead. “Mando!”
“I have it. I’ve got the egg,” the Mandalorian says. The Jawas rush out of their fortress, excitedly snatching the egg from his arms. “I’m surprised you waited.”
“I’m surprised it took you so long,” her father replies smartly. Vitra smiles, resting a hand on her father’s shoulder.
“I’m surprised that you’re alive,” she tells the Mandalorian. She wonders if he’s smiling back at her under that helmet. She thinks probably not, but it would be nice if he were.
A few moments later, the Mandalorian is spinning them a strange tale while they head towards his ship, now in possession of his ship’s parts.
“It raised its hand, and the mudhorn. . . it couldn’t move,” the Mandalorian tells them, looking down at the child. “I wouldn’t have been able to kill it if it hadn’t done that.”
“It seems you are in debt to this little one, Mandalorian,” Vitra says, following his gaze to the sleeping child. “It’s still asleep. You’re sure it wasn’t hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” the Mandalorian replies. Vitra smooths her hand over the child’s forehead. It doesn’t even twitch. “Not physically, at least.”
“Explain it to us again. I still don’t understand what happened,” her father says, riding his blurrg and guiding their carrier.
“Neither do I,” the Mandalorian replies. Vitra looks down again at the little thing, a child, a baby. How could it have the power to hold back a mudhorn? Even she, the supposed priestess-deity to her people- when they still existed- could never do such a thing. Not that she had ever exactly tried to awaken the power of the goddess, but nor has she tried to hold a mudhorn back from charging.
-
Her father and herself get right to work as soon as they reach the Mandalorian’s ship. A Razor Crest, a model that she’s never seen before. Still, she figures it works much the same as any other ship or droid that she and her father have fixed up in the past.
“There's no way we're gonna get this to work without a full maintenance facility. This is gonna take days to fix,” the Mandalorian says irately from somewhere to the side of them. Vitra ignores him, focusing on the circuit board in front of her. She’s been doing work like this since she was a child. In a strange way, it’s really no different to her than riding blurrg.
“How about you come help us, Mando?” Vitra says, tossing a wrench his way. He catches it before it can conk him on the helmet.
“My daughter has spoken. There is much work to do,” her father agrees. Without any other prompting, the Mandalorian joins them.
The hours go by swiftly, smoothly, quietly– almost enjoyably, for such extensive work. Her mind travels from topic to topic as her hands work without a second thought. She thinks about the Mandalorian’s arrival, how he managed to actually collect his bounty, and then she’s thinking about this child, how something about it just feels. . . off. Almost familiar, in a way that makes her nostalgic. Not nostalgic from her childhood on Arvala-7, but for those five years she lived on Kavahm, those five years she spent with her people before they were lost from her forever. She remembers a painting of the previous Indrai , Lady Ikrti, who died the moment that Vitra was born– a gold scarf about her head, dark skinned, but with one purple eye, just like Vitra herself. After long hours of considering the child, the Mandalorian, and her past, Vitra has to take a breather. She sits back on her heels, watching the child as it rests. The Mandalorian catches her looking.
“I told you not to get attached,” he tells her. Vitra tries to look annoyed, but can’t help the fact that her smile won’t fade as she looks at the sleeping baby in its cradle.
“I’ve never seen any other children besides Jawas, you know. It’s a shame, that someone is so desperate to get their hands on it,” Vitra says as she tucks a loose hair back into her scarf. When the Mandalorian doesn’t speak for a long time, she assumes he’s gone back to work, back to ignoring her, which was working well for them before.
“You seem very interested in it,” he says after a few more moments.
“I am,” Vitra says, turning to look at the Mandalorian after he speaks again. He’s stopped working too, looking directly at her. “There’s not much else to take interest in here, so my father tells me stories. In fact, he has taught me everything he knows. And I’ve never heard about, let alone seen, such a thing as this child.”
Once again, the Mandalorian doesn’t reply for a long time, like he’s thinking something over very hard. For a hopeful moment, Vitra thinks he might tell her he’s seen a Mythosaur, as if that would help her deal with the uncertain future of this innocent child.
“If you’re so interested in all that, why don’t you join me?” he asks. This prompts Vitra to stand as she turns to look at him, eyebrows raised, far more caught off guard than she would’ve been if he’d started talking about Mythosaur. “What? I see what you can do. I could use a crew member.”
Vitra’s initial thought is to agree, without hesitation. Her notebooks are in her satchel, and all that’s left of her belongings at home is a change of clothes. This life with her father is too solemn, too immaterial, to have much else. But the thought of running off seems childish. And then, the more she thinks about it– the more she thinks about abandoning her father alone on Arvala-7, leaving behind their vapor farm and the blurrg and all she’s ever known since she left Kavahm– the more she feels an urge to laugh. So she does.
“Really? Laughing in my face now?” the Mandalorian asks, sounding more curious about her reaction than annoyed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Vitra apologizes, making herself cut off her somewhat hysterical response. “I appreciate your offer, Mando. But I can’t very well leave my father all alone here. I have spoken.”
Despite what she told him, Vitra has this feeling that the Mandalorian is smiling at her, the ends of his mouth just barely turned up, just barely amused.
-
“I can’t thank you both enough,” the Mandalorian says when the sun rises once more, his ship completely intact now. Vitra arranges her and her father’s tools on the carrier as he speaks. “Please allow me to give you a portion of the reward.”
“You already know what we’re going to say,” Vitra replies, grinning, standing up and dusting her hands off on her skirt.
“We cannot accept. You are our guest, and we are therefore in your service,” her father finishes for her. The Mandalorian glances up at his ship, and then back at the pair before him.
“I could use a crew member of your ability, and I can pay handsomely,” the Mandalorian offers. Vitra raises her eyebrows, but now looks to her father. She already knows what he’s going to say. It’s almost like she can read his mind sometimes.
“I am honored, but I have worked a lifetime to finally be free of servitude,” Kuiil tells the Mandalorian. Vitra can’t help but feel a little disappointment, regardless. She thinks it would be good for her father to get out of here, to see places other than the dusty scablands of Arvala-7.
“But as for my daughter,” her father continues. Vitra’s head immediately snaps back to him. He’s already looking at her, waiting to meet her eyes. “What, did you think I couldn’t hear the two of you? My girl, you have spent too much of your lifetime wasting away here. If you would like to accompany the Mandalorian, as his crew member, I would encourage it.”
“Dad, I can’t leave you here alone,” Vitra says, kneeling down beside her father. He pats her cheek good-naturedly. There is more pride than sadness in his eyes– both for her. Vitra remembers the first time she saw those eyes. Starving, dehydrated, barely able to make her feet take one more step forward, and out of nowhere, an ugnaught on a terrifying creature she had never seen before. She passed out the moment she saw him, and woke up in the house that would become her home, with the man who would become her father tending to her.
“I won’t be alone. I have the blurrg,” he tells her. Vitra gives him an unbelieving look. “You are the last of the Kavahmai. You should not be trapped here, caring for an old man. You cannot tell me that this is truly what you want.”
“But Dad–”
“I have spoken,” he interrupts. “Vitra, if you wish to go with the Mandalorian, I would like for you to.”
Vitra sighs, considering her options. Sure, she's felt the urge to visit other planets, to learn about the galaxy from words spoken from someone other than her father, but every kid dreams of that, and when they grow up, they learn what is realistic for them. Now, it seems that exploring the galaxy is what her father wants for her, instead of remaining on the moisture farm. And it's true, she is the last of the Kavahmai. After suffering so, having lost what she lost, shouldn’t she at least be allowed to have this? To experience freedom?
The Mandalorian seems nice enough. He thanked her for the tea- he says please and thank you. He listened to her and her father’s advice, offered payment twice, never attempted to hurt them or take anything from them. Vitra reminds herself he’s a bounty hunter, planning to sell that child away to the highest bidder. Her father seems to trust him though, and when would she ever get a chance like this again? With the departure of the child, it will be a long time before a ship lands on Arvala-7 looking for passengers. After watching her father’s eyes a moment longer, she stands, turning to the Mandalorian.
“If you will still have me, I would like to join you, Mandalorian,” Vitra says. The Mandalorian doesn’t seem like he needs to consider this partnership.
“I already suggested it once. I haven’t changed my mind,” he replies, before turning back to her father. “Thank you. All I can offer is my thanks.”
“And I offer mine. Thank you for bringing peace to our valley,” her father tells the Mandalorian. “Care for my daughter, this is all I ask. If she is to work at your side, the least you can do is look after her.”
“I can handle that,” the Mandalorian responds, glancing at Vitra. She smiles, and then looks at the child, and smiles at it too. It makes a little screechy noise that she figures means it’s happy.
“Good luck with the child. May it survive and bring you a handsome reward,” her father says. “And my daughter, good luck to you as well. You are always welcome home. I will wait for you.”
Vitra hugs her father one last time, thinking of the decades that she’s spent by his side, raised by him, as his daughter. She manages not to cry somehow, and leans down to kiss his cheek. Her father is giving her a gift. This may be her only chance to leave Arvala-7, but this may be the last time she sees her father as well.
When she leans away, he says to her, “I have spoken.”