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“You can't do that,” the Mandalorian says, and Fay can feel the frazzled, tangled scrape of her emotions like gravel against her skin, too loud.
The accusation makes her roll her eyes, though, and she steps over the still, breathing body on the ground at her feet, ignores the woman’s raised blaster to crouch down in front of the unconscious teenager, crumpled and breathing shallowly. Poison, she thinks, grim, and presses her fingertips to his curly dark hair, letting the Force flow through her the way it wants to.
“I did it regardless of your opinions, Mandalorian,” she says without looking over her shoulder. “You should be glad you're not joining him. If your soul were even one ounce darker—”
The tip of the blaster settles against the back of Fay's head, and the woman says, viciously low, “Get your hands off my brother.”
Fay pauses, startled, then deliberately lifts her hands, slowly rises to her feet. She turns precisely, facing the woman, and cocks her head consideringly. “We may be on opposite sides here, Mandalorian, but I only want to help him. He’s been poisoned.”
There's a hesitation, just a moment’s worth, and then the woman lowers her blaster. She reaches up, hauling her helmet off, and the wealth of golden hair spilling over golden armor gives Fay pause, even as dark eyes meet hers.
“Tor's doing,” the woman says plainly, and jerks her chin at the man Fay just dealt with, the squad groaning on the ground around him. Her pretty mouth tightens, and after another bare second of pause she says, “I was rescuing Jango, but—there isn't a doctor or medic within a day’s travel, and I don’t think he’ll make it.”
“I can burn the poison out of his system,” Fay offers, and—it prickles, just slightly, down her spine, like an attraction she can't afford in the middle of this war. But the gold is familiar, captivating in a way she can't shake. Tarre told her stories once, of Mand'alor the Indomitable in his golden armor, and she used to dream of it.
The rise of a golden beast on the other side of this war, a woman from Clan Fett with the loyalty of thousands bound up in her ascension from political prisoner to one of the candidates for the empty throne, feels like a deliberate echo in the Force, though Fay has no idea why.
Arla Fett smiles, just a little, crooked and quick, and her gaze flickers to her brother, holds there for a long second before she closes her eyes. “Clan Fett honors its debts, Jetii. You do this and you're tying yourself to the future Mand'alor. Your Republic might not take that well.”
They likely won't, Fay knows. Debts to Mandalorians aren't simple things, but bonds of obligation. If she saves this boy, she takes on some part of the responsibility for his survival, for any of his future actions, makes herself a proxy to their clan. But—
Fay is a Jedi. She can't let a child die in front of her.
“The Mand'alor at my service?” she asks coolly, raising a brow. “I believe most people would do anything to put themselves in this situation, Lady Fett.”
Arla snorts, then reaches out. She takes one of Fay's hands, raising it to her mouth, and the brush of warm lips over her knuckles, lingering, intent, makes Fay's breath catch. It’s clear Arla hears the sound; her mouth curves, and she looks up at Fay from under long lashes, stroking her thumb up the side of Fay's fingers.
“Then please, Master Jetii,” she says, low. “Save my brother, and I'm at your service. For anything you desire.”