Chapter Text
“You know… you are allowed to wander,” Fennec informed him during a brief conversation regarding palace maintenance. “The convectors line the interior of the roof along with the cooling vanes.”
“I could lend a hand.” Making necessary repairs to his own ship had made him handy with a hydrospanner and competent will all five forms of welding. Lack of resources landed him in port, not lack of skill.
“That wasn’t a veiled request, Djarin. But if you’re interested in helping, I won’t say no. Work begins tomorrow morning.”
“How do I access that area? Is there a service shaft?” He’d been on the roof twice. Both times he’d arrived by jetpack. He wondered briefly if there was access from the exterior. It seemed unlikely given the state of security and reflective shielding. Boba didn’t like surprises. If there had been an access port from above, it would have been sealed long ago.
Fennec opened her mouth to reply but then stopped abruptly, her lips instead forming a devious smile.
“What?” He knew that look.
She turned without answering and began to saunter away.
“Fennec-“
“You’ll figure it out,” she threw back over her shoulder, sounding pleased with herself. “Just watch out for the Jawas. We might still have a few scurrying around up there.”
He could take care of a vermin problem. But first, he had to find his way. The thought of roaming where he wasn’t explicitly invited made him deeply uncomfortable. This was no doubt why she’d issued the challenge. He weighed the self-imposed responsibility of following through versus pushing his boundaries. He wasn’t unwelcome, he knew. He fell into a small, inner circle of trust and was keen on protecting that trust. What was built over time could be shattered in a moment. It meant he stuck to his suite or Boba’s throne room when he wasn’t in the kitchen or hanger bay. He’d seen more than his fair share of the inside of the bacta tank, conferred with a band of employees in the enormous holographic map room, and regularly enjoyed Boba’s company in the privacy of the Daimyo’s quarters. The remaining ninety-five percent of the palace remained a mystery he was content to ignore.
Finding the route to the cupola was a search worthy of a hunter. He missed last meal winding his way up from the ceremonial concourse, through a switchback maze that wound itself through the old cells of long departed monks. Many times, he was forced to retrace his footsteps when the ramps led down rather than up. He stopped once to glance out a window into the central shaft of the palace. The prayer flags had been replaced by new, more modern synthetic fabric in a unified color scheme. Gone were the tattered remains of Alkhara’s era. They hung from the circulation wheel, slowing making their rotation above the cavernous space, forcing cooler air to cycle. Warmer air escaped through a vented ceiling into the hydroponics level above. All species of vegetation grew in potted troughs. He noticed although the bay didn’t expand to encompass all the area available, the beds within it were well maintained. He wondered absently who it was who had such a green thumb. The staircase ascending into the maintenance corridors was easy to find from there. The freestanding spiral had no railings and was centrally located. All the rooms he inspected were thankfully free of Jawas. He set himself to work on the two squeakiest machines, one clunking and one squealing, before running diagnostics on the others.
“I heard you were up all night,” Boba greeted him in the morning, unbegrudgingly parting with his first cup of caf. He poured himself another as Djarin settled himself on a kitchen stool, rotating the mug in his gloved hands. He’d never considered the kitchen cold before but without the mid-morning fire lit, it was just as chilly as the rest of the subterranean chambers.
“Got lost.” He smirked under his helmet. It wasn’t a lie.
Boba chuckled. “There are still parts of the palace I haven’t explored. Mostly the mines. There are also a ridiculous number of meditation cells.”
Din sat up a little straighter.
“That surprises you.”
“Yes,” he finally admitted. He hadn’t been present for many of the covert relocations, but he knew securing the premises was the first order of business upon arrival. Know the grounds. Purge unwanted inhabitants. Eliminate unnecessary entrances and exits. Guard the necessary ones. Hide.
“It’s an ongoing process.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Thank you for the repairs.”
“Happy to do it.” The sentiment was sincere. Putting himself to useful work beat being bored. He was without current bounties and the court related assignments recently had been few and far between. He’d give it another day or two before making any further decisions on the bounty front. Things often popped up without much warning.
“You are welcome to explore,” Boba reiterated, his gaze suddenly serious. “You don’t need an excuse. Productive or otherwise.”
“Fennec said as much.”
“But you still feel uncomfortable with the idea.”
He shifted on the stool.
“Why? You’ve been given permission.”
The mug in his hands had a chipped rim. Almost too small to see.
“Djarin?”
“I don’t want to see anything I’m not supposed to.”
Boba was momentarily taken aback, his expression closing off. What was relaxed one moment was now hardened. “You think I’m hiding something from you.”
“No,” he retorted, almost flinching at the tone of his own voice. The imploring nature twisted his gut and the regret that grew was profound. He flogged himself for not choosing his words more deliberately. “That’s not what I meant.”
The Daimyo waited, his expectation clear. His patience was a kindness not conveyed in words. A explanation is what he desired and he was willing to give his friend the time needed to formulate a response.
Din did not disappoint. “In the covert, we were taught to seclude ourselves unless we were gathering together in public spaces. Usually for a common purpose. It reduced the chances of….” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to his own helmet. “Accidents.”
He sighed, not entirely approving, but he did understand. It was also heartening to know that in some fashion Djarin considered this his home, regardless of the baggage associated. “Old habits die hard, especially when the ramifications of a misstep are dire. I certainly won’t fault you for that. But you also need not worry about it here.”
“It might take some time.”
“Whatever you require.”
They passed the remainder of the half hour in companiable silence. Boba turned his attention to the formation of the daily fire, his back to his friend. Djarin took the opportunity to sip his caf, his helmet pushed upward just far enough to accommodate. The lord of the palace had only one parting comment before slipping out to don his own armor for the day. “In the event we were ever overrun, knowing the ins and outs could make all the difference.”
The logic of the declaration stayed with him. Knowledge often led to strategic advantage, never a detriment. He made the conscious and deliberate decision to approach it systematically under the pretense of a security inspection and dedicated himself to the process with single-mindedness. With the exploration of the dome as the gauge for time spent, he allotted himself five days. Day one, the hangar, workshops, and animal pens. Day two, the power plant, towers, communications dome, and dissipation grid. Day three, the ground level and subterranean structures. Day four, the mines. Day five, the exterior, including all sentries and sandstorm warning beacons. He would reexplore all familiar places, with the exception of the upper areas just visited, and permit himself the luxury of extra days if needed.
“Mind the sacrificial pit,” Boba grinned mischievously at the end of the preparatory report. Then he walked away just as Fennec had, knowing something Djarin did not and taking an exorbitant amount of joy in it. He shook his head in the aftermath, disturbed by how closely the two mimicked body language on occasion.
The citadel, he reflected, was larger than some cities he’d navigated. Like every other city, there was old architecture and new, sometimes side by side. Some parts were better maintained than others. There was room for thousands, but between the residents and the employees, it felt deserted. It didn’t take him long to realize despite that fact that there were eyes everywhere. Discrete surveillance was situated at every juncture, next to every vital mechanism, and down each corridor. Micro droids randomly patrolled. All Jawa tunnels had been collapsed and sealed. It was a fortified city, achingly empty of people but full of history of which he was not aware.
He took a break after the second day. His legs needed to recover. He’d viewed the sky bridge as an unnecessary connection between the two main structures and difficult to defend. After taking the spiral staircase, his opinion changed. He contemplated better defensive measures as he inspected another three stories of abandoned living compartments.
The last day in the interior took him to the oldest portions of the complex, a vestibule connected to a lecture hall. The lighting shifted as Din passed through the archway and into the auditorium. His forward momentum stalled as his gaze swung upwards toward the vaulted ceiling. Natural light from the twin suns filtered its way down through the phototubes, simple technology that required no upkeep. For a moment, he basked in the rays. The artificial illumination in the remaining underground rooms paled in comparison. When his gaze fell, he gasped.
The farthest wall was covered in books from floor to ceiling. He took another step forward but once again, his feet refused to carry him into the hall. Dust mots hung in the air and the silence was complete. He dared not breathe. It was desecration to enter this tomb, to disturb this stillness, to share an existence with this much wisdom. He was in another world, another time.
Instinct snapped him back. Boba was standing at his shoulder, a similar sense of awe reflected on his face. “Behold the jewel of the monastic order, touched by neither pirate nor slaver. Truly a miracle.”
“I’ve never seen so many books in one place.”
“Go. Have a look.”
“I can’t.” He still felt rooted to his position, avoiding an unspeakable transgression.
“Nonsense. You’re permitted,” Boba reminded him.
Even as he reached to touch one at random a few moments later, he paused and pulled his hand away. It felt like taking his helmet off. Tentative. Unsure. Not… right. Too intimate for his own skin and vulnerable for his soul.
“Would you like me-“
“No.” The answer was on his lips immediately. He could do this. With the same deliberateness that came with planning his days, he chose to follow through. The book he selected was leather bound and the spine handstitched, virtually indistinguishable from others in the massive collection. The dust flew off the top as it slid out and creaked open in Din’s hands. The old animal hide stretched in ways it hadn’t in several decades. It seemed to exhale and relax. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen a single book, let alone a multitude. He’d never been to the great library on Coruscant. Or the repositories of the Inner Core. They were foreign, far away, and inaccessible. If he reached deep, he could recall his mother reading from a book, the same book, each morning.
Boba peeked at the pages. The illustrations were of flora and fauna. None found anywhere on Tattoine. At least not in the modern age.
“What language is this?” He was fluent in several spoken languages and proficient in a dozen more written forms. This was staggeringly different than anything he’d encountered.
“Something dead, no doubt.”
Din reverently reshelved it, hesitant to pull another.
“This one might be more to your liking.” Sidestepping brought him to another case. He raised himself up on his toes and put forth an arm as far as it would reach. The prize he retrieved was smaller than the previous and free of dust. It appeared just as old. Much of the lettering on the cover was gone. Only “rda” remained in flaky leaf. He placed it in his companion’s hands.
Gloved fingers treated it gingerly, an unidentified treasure deserving of every respect.
Boba didn’t immediately withdraw, his own hand keeping Djarin from opening it. “Read it later,” he instructed. “It’s yours.”
He felt his mouth go dry. “It’s- I…”
“If you won’t accept it as a gift, then accept it as payment. Either is acceptable.”
“I haven’t earned it.”
“As an advance for the security appraisal, you have.”
“I can’t,” he managed.
“Those words again.”
“But you read it often yourself.”
“Noticed that, did you?”
He nodded. “I don’t want to deprive you of something you love.”
Boba sighed, a longsuffering but not unaffectionate sound. “A compromise then. It can remain here where I can easily borrow it whenever I so choose. But it belongs to you.”
His response came after thoughtful consideration. It seemed ungrateful to say no. “Vor entye.”
“No, no debt. Enjoy it. Knowing that it rests here for safekeeping.”
“What is it?”
“Poetry.”
His brain tripped over itself. “Poetry?”
“Kom’rk tsad droten troch nyn ures adenn. Dha Werda Verda a’den tratu,” Boba recited from memory.
Eyes grew wide as they plummeted to the cover, so startled he almost dropped the book altogether. “This is-“
“One of the earliest known copies. Worth a Mand’alor’s ransom. Appropriate, don’t you think?”