Jaster Mereel - Blog Posts

For the fairytale tropes: tricking a knowledge spirit. That just screams Jaster

“I will not help you find anything that is not already yours,” the spirit warns, and it’s a sharp thing, a threat.

Jaster doesn’t let himself be moved. “It is mine,” he says, and it’s more or less true—the Darksaber is his by right, by tradition, even if Tor is the one who holds it right now. Seeking out a Jedi, a being purely of the Force, is a risk, will test his ability to obfuscate, but to bring the Mandalorians together and end the civil war, it’s worth it.

The Zabrak stares at him for another long moment, then inclines his head. His body shimmers, and the unearthly blue bleeds away as he steps out of his Temple, approaches the edge of the stairs. Ghostly light becomes tan robes, dark skin, long black hair, and he steps out of the nexus of the Force where all Jedi live and into the real world.

“If it is yours, how was it taken from you?” he asks, and Jaster smiles.

“It’s an heirloom, and it was stolen long ago,” he says, precisely the truth. It simply wasn’t stolen from him. Tarre's descendants stole it from a Jedi Temple, long before the Jedi retreated fully into the Force.

The Jedi weighs his words for another moment, apparently finds truthfulness in them, and starts down the steps. Jaster falls in with him, trying not to stare, and asks, “You’ll help me retrieve it, then?”

“Your words are the truth,” the man says bluntly. “And in return, you have my word. I will remain until it is in your hands once more.”

Jaster doesn’t smirk, because that’s unbecoming, but he grins a little more widely than is likely seemly. “Thank you. I'm Jaster.”

“Agen,” the Jedi returns. “What was stolen from you, that you would go so far to retrieve it?”

“The Darksaber,” Jaster says, and now that he has Agen's word he doesn’t hesitate to admit it.

Agen stops dead, staring, and Jaster takes two more steps before he stops, turns, looks back. He raises a brow, still smiling, and says, “I never lied. Your word holds.”

There's a long, breathless moment, and then Agen snorts, amusement rising in his face. “You're correct,” he says. “My word is my bond, even now. You are clever with your words, Jaster Mereel.”

“And you are as quick as you are lovely,” Jaster returns, offering Agen his hand. Agen takes it, and Jaster wasn’t entirely sure what to expect of a Jedi, but his touch is warm, familiar, soft skin and calluses and a strong grip. He smiles, raising Agen's knuckles to his lips, and says, “Come, Agen. The Darksaber awaits.”

“Tarre will be most disappointed that he was not the one to answer your summons,” Agen says, and keeps walking down the stairs before Jaster can even begin to comprehend the implication that Tarre is still alive.

I wish you'd write a fic in which for once Myles is the one who gets to give Jaster grey hair! I feel for him lol.

“I cannot believe you,” Jaster says, muffled where his face is buried in his hands. “One week of leave and this—this—this is how you come back?”

Myles weighs whether he should be ashamed of himself, considers that last time Jaster got himself kidnapped because he pissed off a culty group of guardians around an ancient shrine, and promptly decides he regrets nothing. “I was only the Sith Emperor for three days before true love’s kiss broke the spell, it was fine.”

“Fine,” Jaster repeats, pained, and raises his head, leveling an incredulous look at Myles. There’s possibly more grey in his hair than there was a week ago. Myles should likely feel bad about that. He doesn’t. “Fine. Myles, you conquered a planet.”

“It was a small planet,” Myles defends. “Practically a moon.”

“You raised a fleet of Sith ghosts.”

“Revan was a lot politer than the stories say,” Myles says mildly, and only partially for the way Jaster practically twitches at that, his desire to shake Myles down for every single detail warring with his need to yell. With great amusement, Myles watches his jaw twitch, the vein in is forehead throb, and doesn’t grin, but—it takes more self-control than anything has in a very long time.

“You,” Jaster manages after a long moment of struggling with himself, “raised a fleet of Sith ghosts, took over a planet, threatened the Republic into handing over a Jedi, and then married him.”

Said Jedi, leaning back against the wall and looking entirely unbothered by this whole thing, raises a brow but doesn’t comment.

“That’s slightly out of order,” Myles says, and it’s kind of a defense. “We met before the Sith…incident. On my first night of leave. And Agen realized what was going on and broke the spell eventually.”

Jaster closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Myles is intimately familiar with that expression and the headache it’s meant to ward off, mostly because his beloved Mand’alor inflicts it on him frequently, and he tries hard not to let his smile slip into a smirk.

“But not before, of course, you gave every corner of the holonet enough material to sustain the one-credit romance novel industry for the next decade.”

“I've been informed that some of the offerings that have already come out are surprisingly decent,” Agen says, and Myles is going to kiss his husband square on the mouth.

As soon as they’re out of the office, maybe. If he tries it right now, Jaster's head might explode, and that would defeat the purpose of torturing him with this for the rest of his natural life.

Jaster stares, blank-faced, at Agen, like he expected nothing but still had his hopes crushed regardless.

Myles doesn’t laugh in his Mand’alor’s face, because it’s much more fun to laugh behind his back. “Revan said he’d visit after the honeymoon,” he says, perfectly mild. “And Agen knows that Jedi you were making eyes at—”

“Mace Windu, my lineage brother,” Agen puts in dutifully.

“I was not making eyes at him,” Jaster says, all deep offense and indignation, like Myles can't see him grab for a stylus and scribble the name down on the edge of a pad. “And I am not giving you time off for a honeymoon. In fact, I don’t think I'm ever going to give you so much as a single solitary day off ever again, if this is what happened after one week of vacation—”

Myles rolls his eyes. “I'm taking my husband back to our rooms,” he says, pointed, right over top of Jaster. “And you are not going to bother us for at least three days, or I’ll tell Arla that you chased off her first girlfriend.”

Jaster's face leeches of color. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try it and see,” Myles says, unwavering, and steps back. when he offers an arm, Agen takes it delicately, practically radiating amusement, and Myles smirks back at him, then turns precisely and leads him out the door.

The last thing he hears from inside is Jaster's long, despairing, heartfelt groan.

[On AO3]

Could I please request a drabble with Mace meeting Jaster? Time travel shenanigans would be loved and heart-eyed, but are not required.

“A Jedi is hiring a Mandalorian for a job?” Jaster asks, one brow raised, and can't help the thread of incredulity that creeps into his voice. “Perhaps you're confused, Jetii, but our people have been enemies for millennia.”

“I'm well aware,” the Jedi says, unmoving. Jaster has, admittedly, never been quite this close to a Jedi, and he can't help but be faintly impressed at the man’s stoneface, particularly given the bright-eyed Chalactan girl peering around his side. Her hands are hooked into his sash without any apparent fear of being shaken off, or any apparent concern for her Master’s dignity, and Jaster finds himself reluctantly amused despite the man’s temerity.

“Oh?” Jaster asks, leaning back in his chair. His blaster is within easy reach, and the Jedi is far enough away that Jaster has the advantage. “Bold of you to approach me with a job offer, then.”

“Is it?” the man asks, and reaches up, folding his hood back. Jaster stills, startled, because he hadn’t thought there were Korun Jedi—Myles has always been very insistent that the Korun people have their own Force traditions, and outsiders aren’t welcome to step into them. He’s a handsome one, too, tall and broad shouldered, with a lean strength to him that even the loose, comfortable robes can't hide. Steady, he meets Jaster's eyes, and says, low, “It seems to me, Mand’alor, that our status as enemies means no one will suspect me of having hired you.”

Ah, Jaster thinks, smiling. Like that, is it. He hums, then says, “Jango, who don’t you show this lovely padawan the gardens? I'm sure she would like to see them.”

“What?” Jango demands, outraged the way only a fourteen-year-old can be. “Buir, I'm not leaving—”

Jaster levels a pointed look at his son, and his mouth snaps shut. He scowls, deep and affronted, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You shouldn’t be meeting with a Jedi alone,” he says grumpily. “Myles is going to yell at you.”

“Myles will survive,” Jaster says, though it’s likely true. “Master Jedi, I hope you don’t object to speaking privately.”

“Of course not,” the Jedi says, perfectly calm, and glances down at his padawan. “Depa. Be polite.”

That is, Jaster reflects wryly, an incrediblyfamiliar tone of voice. He’s willing to bet the girl gets herself into almost as much trouble as Jango, given how practiced it sounds.

And, on cue, the girl beams up at her Master without hesitation. “I'm always polite, Master Mace,” she protests, perfectly, wickedly innocent. Mace doesn’t answer, just sighs, and Depa laughs, rising up on her tiptoes. She hauls him down, no thought given to dignity, and plants a loud, showy kiss on his cheek, then hops back two steps and turns that smile on Jango, who freezes like he was just dipped in carbonite, his eyes going wide.

She is, Jaster thinks with amusement, a very pretty girl. He wonders how quickly Jango will manage to stick his foot in his mouth this time. Within ten minutes, judging by last time. Jaster doesn’t precisely have high hopes for their interaction, but at least this isn't the daughter of a high-profile client that Jango is going to offend. The Jedi needs them, not the other way around, and given Jedi morals, he likely won't turn to the Death Watch the instant he’s insulted.

“Depa,” Mace says, a warning, but Depa ignores it, grinning at Jango and folding her hands behind her.

“I would love to see the garden,” she says cheerfully. “Jango, was it?”

“Jango Fett,” Jango says, only a little mulishly, and takes a careful step forward, like he’s worried she’s going to bite him. “It’s this way, I guess.”

He couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if he tried. Jaster rather suspects he is.

As the door slides shut behind their two witnesses, though, Jaster's amusement fades slightly, and he turns his gaze on Mace, narrow and thoughtful as he considers the man, his presence on Mandalore, the quiet, entirely understated way he arrived.

“This isn't a mission from the Jedi Order,” he says, weighing. “I might even go so far as to say they have no idea of your presence here.”

“They don’t,” Mace says bluntly. “I'm here on my own business, and acting on information the Jedi Council isn't privy to.” There's a pause, and then a rueful curve just touches one corner of his mouth. “Believe me, Mand’alor. I do not go behind the Council’s back easily. This is vital, and I'm willing to provide the funds to prove it.”

Jaster smiles, a little humorless, a little thin. He’s not fond of being played, and this sounds very much like Mace is trying. “I have plenty of credits, Master Jedi. Why should I find yours any more appealing than anyone else’s?”

Mace doesn’t hesitate this time, just raises his chin. “Because I have something that is far more valuable than credits,” he says calmly. “I can provide you with information.”

It is, Jaster will admit, a tempting prospect, but he’s still wary. “Jedi information? Access to the Archives, perhaps? If I wanted dry Jedi tomes on political law—”

“No,” Mace interrupts, flat, and takes two steps forward, until he’s right across Jaster's desk. “Far more important and immediate information. Such as the name of the traitor who will kill you. And the location of Jango Fett's older sister.”

Jaster freezes, hardly daring to breathe. Arla was gone by the time he’d made it back to the Fett homestead on Concord Dawn, and no trace of her has ever surfaced. Jaster has been looking, because Jango speaks of her endlessly, but—

“That,” he rasps, voice half-caught in his throat, “could be considered blackmail, Master Jedi.”

Mace tips his head. “Proof of my desperation,” he says, and there's no self-consciousness to it, just blunt honesty. A pause, and then he says, faintly rueful, “I’ll give you her location whether you take the job or not. The Death Watch has her.”

Jaster was afraid of that. He breathes out, slow, careful, and—the willingness to offer up half of his bargaining chips makes him more inclined to trust Mace, even if a flicker of wariness still remains. “And the job is?”

Mace doesn’t waver, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. “I want you to assassinate the senior senator from Naboo. Sheev Palpatine. He’s a Sith apprentice.”

Of all the things that Jaster was expecting, that most certainly wasn’t among them.

It takes him a long moment to scrape together a coherent response, another still to get the words right. “Apprentice,” he echoes. “Usually, an apprentice follows a master. Who is the Sith Master, then?”

“A scientist and a banker,” Mace says coolly. “Palpatine is the more dangerous target, and a better duelist. I can handle the Master, but the apprentice I would leave to someone more adept at assassinations.”

It would hardly be the first time the Mandalorians have been hired for such a thing, and Jaster is more than willing to do it. Knowing that Mace will be fighting his own battle allays some of Jaster's fears as well, and he leans on one arm of his chair, considering the man.

“A fraught mission,” he says, “on both parts. You have a plan, I assume.”

If anything, Mace looks amused at that. “The Jedi do not plan,” he says, a trace of humor in the words. “I trust the Force to see me through, however. And as I am training Depa, I will have all the time I need to see things through.”

Jedi, Jaster thinks, and doesn’t roll his eyes. Quite. “And would you care to tell me where you got this information, Master Jedi? Particularly about a traitor within the ranks of the True Mandalorians. I must admit that one surprises me.”

Mace is silent for another moment. “From the future,” he finally offers. “I traveled back with the help of a Force nexus. In the time I came from, the True Mandalorians were wiped out, and the Sith won.”

Something cold slides down Jaster's spine, and he rises slowly, comes to his feet to face the Jedi. Mace meets his eyes, holds his gaze, and—

He looks tired, Jaster thinks, calculating, considering. Tired in a bone-deep, weary way that Jaster had managed to miss before, buried as it was by his determination. Traveled back from the future, through time itself, and Jaster didn’t know such a thing was possible.

Not possible for most people, he thinks, watching Mace. And not optimal even for this one.

“Very well,” he says after a long minute of silence. “But on the condition that you stay here and provide your information throughout the mission. I won't have a Sith kill my men because you think you have better things to do.”

The relief that slides over Mace's expression is subtle, but—Jaster catches it easily. “Agreed,” he says. “We will rely on your hospitality, Mand’alor.”

“Jaster, please,” Jaster says, and moves around the end of his desk, taking Mace's arm. Muscled, he thinks, and that’s likely a good sign. Not a useless Jedi, hopefully. Not if he’s certain he can take on a Sith. “I think the use of first names is allowable now that you're my guest.”

“You have a liberal interpretation of guest,” Mace says dryly, but he doesn’t pull away as Jaster leads him out of the office, and Jaster is willing to count it as a win.

[On AO3]

So in the baby-wan AU (hilariously, it is tagged that, but that post has gotten too big to keep reblogging lmao) where Obi-Wan travels back to a 7 year old body with all the PTSD, the first time Jaster (his new Mando’buir) mentions that a little Mando’Jetii should have armor, Obi-Wan mentions that he wants bracers (they’ll have to be plated so he can flex his wrists) made of cortosis metal, and Fay agrees very sagely, informing the very confused Mandalorians that Jedi can’t wear much (if any) beskar because it messes with their connection to the force, but cotorsis is a metal that deactivates lightsabers on contact.

Jaster, who now knows that his newest son cannot use beskar and will never train with a lightsaber, decides then and there to hunt down enough cortosis for bracers and greaves and a small midsection wrap (meaning not quite plates, so much as criss crossing wraps of metal that’ll curve around his midsection with the hope that the cortosis would stop a saber and deactivate it in time not to be cut) and maybe a beskad too, so he can still have a weapon himself after a saber has been deactivated.

This unfortunately means that he will not be sparring against other Jedi unless they trade their sabers for a beskad, but a few of his friends will happily comply with that to get him some solid practice.

They also have a small flashback when Jaster asks why Obi doesn’t want a helmet and will refuse one if offered. Mainly, a flashback where he stutteringly tries to explain the mask Ventress put on him and what it did and why it was scary and that he was like that for over a month while people thought he was dead and she hurt his friend and- yeah. Jaster gets his first taste of Jedi PTSD and some of the most fucked up shit you can do to a living creature both in one go. He is horrified and now Obi-Wan is being plied with kisses and snacks by many verd’e.

Jango immediately teaches his baby brother his favorite bad words. He’s only 14 so he knows ALL the best words that’ll have Jaster yelling at them, but Jango is an adult now so Jaster isn’t as stern when telling him not to say them, which takes ALL the fun outta it, so he has to make sure the baby knows to tell Jaster all the cool new words he’s learned. It’s important.

While they’re on Mandalore, Obi-Wan gets fitted for his first armor (which are made of leather for extra protection before he’s old enough for metals) and Fay gently rebuffs the need for weaponry (the nice female Mandalorians fawn over her thinking she’s young till they realize she’s over 1200 at least and met Tarre a few times lmao, Fay is living for pretty woman fawning over her tho) but eventually accepts a baton of cortosis with the understanding that force suppressants exist and if she was suppressed, she still wants a way to turn off a saber. They’re a little shocked when she tells them she can turn off someone’s saber mid-battle with just the force, which shocks them because they thought Jedi had ways to keep that from happening. They do, she’s just stronger than that.

Fay keeps giggling when she tells the council they finally have another Mandalorian Jedi in the order again. They sigh really loud at that and tell her she better figure out their political situation so they can help get rid of the terrorists they said they had a group of now, so they can make the planet safer for Obi-Wan and any other kiddos that end up there. This, of course, is how Agricorps end up involved as they should, lmao.

Yall…

I just read the fic friend of humanity by bluestone_dragon recently (which, absolutely amazing fic btw, if you haven’t read it go do that rn) and I’ve also had tiny (humongous) Star Wars hyper fixation going on. And it just made me think.

What if instead of percy getting thrown into the Witcher, he was thrown into Star Wars? Specifically the mando civil wars.

Like, guys

The haat’mando’ade would adopt all of camp halfblood so fast it’s not even funny

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48449791

Fic link if anyone needs it ^