Chapter Text
The door slams shut, and Din turns to face himself in the mirror of the refresher. If he would remove the helmet, he would see reddened eyes and the telltale bags which lie beneath them. Between his fifty-year-old foundling’s toddler-like tendencies and the strange dreams he himself has been having, the Mandalorian finds himself exhausted unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
His quarters are littered with the various parenting books he’d picked up along his travels. They vary in language and species, giving different advice depending on the region he’d found them in—but there’s one warning each text has in common: “your child will exhaust you.”
Din hadn’t believed them. Or, he hadn’t believed the parenting guides could have really been speaking to him. After all, he was the best bounty hunter in the parsec in his day! He could find even the most elusive bounties, could overpower the strongest fighters and outsmart the trickiest opponents. Maybe he’d take a few hits along the way, but he always came out on top. He was the mighty Mand’alor who had conquered the Moff and earned the Darksaber. Surely, he could conquer parenthood, too, right?
Wrong , Din thinks to himself with a sigh, as the baby begins fussing outside the refresher door, having found out his Buir’s hiding spot. So miserably wrong .
And as if this fussiness wasn’t enough to test Din’s patience, the recurring dreams he’d only occasionally had are starting to really, truly interfere with the fleeting sleep he’s supposed to be getting. Nearly every night, his rest becomes—well—restless with these swirling images of...someone… He isn’t entirely sure who.
He can see her hair...the color of her skin...he can hear bits and pieces of her melodic voice. He’s had enough dreams to make out the color of her gown, as well as the sheer finery of it. It’s shiny and silky, and he knows it would be smooth to the touch if he were to reach out and brush his hand against the material of it. The embroidery (what little of it he has been able to make out) is skillfully made, with threads that shine like gold itself...
Whoever she is, she’s interfering with Din’s precious sleep. Which (Din would argue), is already a dangerously low amount due to the child’s increased fussing at night.
He’s never angry at the child for his fussiness; after all, Grogu isn’t like other children. For one thing, he’s a good fifteen years older than Din. For another, he’s the sole light of Din’s life—and Din’s entirely sure he knows it. Even with these recurring dreams he’s been having, he only devotes so little time to them before focusing on his foundling, who seems fussier than usual lately.
Well. Maybe ‘fussy’ isn’t the right word. The kid’s obviously not upset, rather the opposite; he’s more excitable these days. Like something’s coming, and he knows it.
With all his might, Din wishes he understood. He knows logically that something big, some sort of change must be coming—for maker's sake, that's just how linear time works, but Grogu is simply too excitable nowadays for Din to believe it has anything to do with the changes he desperately needs.
After having found Grogu's people, Din tried to focus on his duties as Mand'alor. He really, truly did try. But he just couldn't bring himself to focus on his newfound responsibilities. Not only had he been tasked with cleaning up a nearly inhabitable planet, but the man had nowhere to start and no one to help him. No royal advisors, no loyal subjects… Hell, if anything, he had more chances of a mutiny forming than he did of a proper royal court, what with Bo-Katan's crew of lackeys coupled with her thirst for power—the very power Din was currently wielding…
Needless to say, the man’s got a lot on his mind.
It was a welcome surprise when Skywalker had contacted him, telling the infamous Mand'alor that his child had been behaving in a very similar way since their separation. Din had rushed to Grogu's hidden whereabouts, all but snatching him up and flying into the sunset, their reunion the very image of a happy ending.
Happy endings don't last forever , he thinks to himself, straightening in the mirror. Because after the Happy Ending comes something new ... Maybe the 'something new' could be good-a change for the better , he reasons with himself. And besides , his internal monologue continues as he opens the fresher door and kneels to pick up his green baby. If Grogu can find enough reason to be as excited as he is, maybe it's the very beginnings of something after all.
You pace in your bedroom, rubbing the knuckle of your index finger against your lips, a habit you’ve inherited from your mother. Maker above, your mother... and your father…
You knew something was wrong, knew deep down in your heart that they were uncomfortable once they found out about your soulmate’s...background. But you never thought they would attempt to interfere with fate themselves.
It’s not like there haven’t been warriors sitting upon your family’s throne before! Your great-great-grandmother assumed the throne wielding a greatsword instead of a royal scepter, and that was before she led an army across the country to defeat an opposing force.
Granted, none of your warrior ancestors had ever been Mandalorian, but shouldn’t that make it all the more exciting? The fact that your soulmate is the stuff of legends? The fact that he would be the first of his kind to sit upon the throne? Shouldn’t that make him a formidable suitor? A formidable king, even?
By now, you’re fuming in the way that only young women are capable of. How dare your parents seek to anger the gods? How dare they hold your life hostage in their hands? No , you think to yourself, turning to your expansive wardrobe. Nobody will be changing my fate .
You throw your plainest cloak on (which, to be wholly honest is still quite opulent), hoping it covers the fact that you are the second oldest daughter of the throne, and begin packing a bag, one that will simply be slung over your shoulder. A sewing kit, a few pouches of gold coins, a journal, and as many Basic-to-X language dictionaries as you can fit.
You grit your teeth.
Nobody will be changing my fate. Nobody but myself.
You swallow the lump in your throat and blink away your tears as you adjust the cloak one last time before stepping onto your windowsill and beginning your descent.
The night is clear, Mando notices as he steps out of the dingy tavern and into the street. He’d wanted to wait until morning, but the kid was so insistent that they go that night. He’d wanted to see the dingy tavern and the streets of the kingdom right then and there. He’d also wanted to stretch his tiny little legs, and who was Din to deny him?
It’s late. Late enough for him to be one of the only people in the street. The stars are out, he notes as he looks up, Grogu following his gaze.
“Look,” he murmurs to Grogu, pointing a gloved finger towards the sky. “There’s The Armored Woman ...she was one of the first Mandalorians to ever forge beskar, making her one of the first Mandalorians ever, actually.”
Grogu coos; his big, brown eyes following Din’s finger as he traces the stars that make up the constellation.
Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Grogu thinks, forging a Force connection with his Buir, cooing happily aloud.
“Sure pal,” Din says out loud. “Do you want to walk or be held?”
Held. Held close.
So Din holds him as he slowly makes his way back to his new ship, the Chariot . He walks leisurely; letting himself enjoy the slight weight of Grogu in his arms and the cool night air. He murmurs the story of The Armored Woman to his child, the same way his adoptive buir once had when he was but a boy.
He spots a young woman draped in a fine cloak, clutching a carrier bag, trying (and failing miserably, might he add) to appear inconspicuous as she hurries down the cobbled streets, long empty by this time of night.
He notices her before she notices him, but makes the mistake of brushing the young woman off and thinking nothing of it.
The kingdom looks different at night.
You’re not used to this vast emptiness of the streets; you’ve only seen them at their busiest. People tripping over themselves amongst the hustle and bustle of the city just to catch a glimpse of you and your royal family. You wonder if anyone will recognize you, and if they’ll treat you any differently. Surely they’ll be kind at the least , you figure. It is proper etiquette to treat a young lady with courteousness, regardless of circumstances.
You walk somewhat aimlessly, unsure of where to go to find help from someone trustworthy—someone who won’t take advantage of a young, admittedly inexperienced princess. You need to get off this planet. You don’t know how you’re going to go about it, but you’re going to find someone who will lead you to your fate.
You stop in your tracks once you see him, thoughts derailing as you openly gape at him. Because, well...It’s him. The Mandalorian. Your soulmate. He’s the striking image of the armor-clad figure in your dreams; he even has the strange green baby in his arms!
You grin, a wild happiness consuming you and acting on your behalf. You’re running toward him before you even realize it. This is it , after all. The moment you’ve been dreaming of since you were a child. It’s...it’s…
...a little underwhelming if you’re being totally honest with yourself.
You’re excited, of course, but it’s nothing like the books and countless personal accounts you’ve read said it would be like. It’s... too exciting. Not calm enough. Something about this is wrong; something feels disingenuous. There’s still doubt in the back of your mind, even as you run full speed ahead towards this Mandalorian, your bag bouncing painfully against your side.
But surely a healthy amount of doubt is, well, healthy , right?
The Mandalorian surely thinks so , you think dryly as you skid to a halt in front of him.
He is less than enthused about meeting you. At least, that’s what you’ve gathered from the blaster he has trained on your chest.
The pitch-black t-visor stares down at you above the sight of the blaster.
It’s a small thing, the blaster. Much smaller than the frightening images you’ve come to associate with blasters. But truthfully, it could be the size of a thimble and you would still be paralyzed with fear if the sights were set on you, and they currently very much are.
“Give me one good reason not to shoot you,” he growls. His voice sends shockwaves of fear (and, is that.. .something indecent? ) through you, and your mouth opens and closes like a fish before you finally find your voice again.
“Because you’re my soulmate!” you blurt out. “At-at least, I think— thought you were…”
Soulmate, he thinks, remembering the phenomenon, remembering his brothers and sisters by creed who had found themselves having the fabled soulmate dreams. How his training had always implied the existence of a soulmate—the protection and potential converting of a soulmate, should they not be Mandalorians themselves.
Slowly, Din’s fellow Mandalorians, the warriors he had grown up with began leaving one by one in pursuit of their soulmates. Some of them returned shortly, others never at all—but those who had returned were always greeted with celebration, for it was a great honor to receive the soulmate identifying dreams for a Mandalorian, as it was every warrior’s duty to pair off and raise more warriors at some point. To force a new clan.
There had been a time in Din’s life when he would lay in bed at night, hoping it would be the evening he would finally have his first souldream, featuring the characteristics of his fated partner…
But that was many years ago. Now a grown man, Din had no time (nor real desire) to entertain the notions of a soulmate—and even if he had, the adoption of his strange, green child and the role of Mand'alor had taken precedence over any and everything else. Including soulmates.
“You must have thought wrong,” he grunts, sheathing his blaster, realizing the girl in front of him is less than threatening. “I don’t do the whole ‘soulmate’ thing, kid.”
He begins walking, and you watch him as he goes, the very beginnings of panic worming around in your belly.
“M-mandalorians don’t do soulmates?” you echo, your voice sounding uncharacteristically and impossibly small.
“This one doesn’t,” he replies without looking at you. If he had, he’d see the way your eyes light up, and the way your smile slowly returns to your face. Grogu catches it, his curious gaze trained on you even as his Buir begins walking away.
“But others do ?” You prompt, jogging along to catch up with him. “ Other Mandalorians receive soulmate dreams?”
He sighs, finally looking over at you now that you’ve caught up with him.
“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ and you can tell from his voice alone that he is unenthused by the conversation topic.
But you continue, relentless in your quest, slippered feet stepping against the cobblestone street as you walk alongside him..
“And you know where other Mandalorians are?”
His blank t-visor stares back at you, imposing and unforgiving and devoid of anything other than unnerving neutrality. But he doesn’t answer you.
“If you’re not my soulmate,” you start, the grin growing on your face, “then another Mandalorian must be my soulmate! And you can help me find them!”
There’s a pregnant pause before he deadpans, “Why would I do that?”
“I can pay you!” You start, excitedly. “Upon my return to the palace—er—this city , of course,” you continue. “But until then, I can be useful! I’ll pull my weight, I promise.”
You follow him as he walks, undeterred by his silence.
“I’ve received the best education the country can offer, and I’m well-versed in many languages other than basic. I can mend and alter clothing and—and even make new clothes for the little one.”
Mando stops in his tracks, his helmet tilting.
Now you’ve gotten his attention, he realizes as he looks at the worn, brown cloak the child is wearing. Yes , Grogu says to him in his...strange, silent way. New clothes! New friend!
“...What else could you do for him?”
The Mandalorian’s cadence slows, as if he’s hesitant to even ask, to allow you to convince him of your usefulness. You, however, seem downright delighted at the chance to sell your skillset to this Mandalorian, the one who, as far as you’re concerned, will certainly lead you to your soulmate.
“All sorts of things! I can sing to him and tell him stories! I know all about child-rearing, and-”
“Sorry, kid,” Mando interrupts, having made up his mind. “I’m not hiring at the moment.”
But stories! Play! New friend, Buir!
Din wishes that this nonverbal communication went both ways somehow, so he could tell Grogu to cool it, that his responsibility to him is more important than this girl and her quest. Not to mention his responsibility as the Mand'alor and his own quest to find and unite his people. The man simply has too much on his proverbial plate to continue entertaining the idea.
But then you look up at him with a pout and your impossibly large, earnest eyes, and he feels something selfish stirring in the pit of his stomach. It only makes it worse when you say, “ Please , sir. I’d do anything for your help.”
He sighs and tilts his helmet in the opposite direction, looking at the kid, who is giving him the biggest, most sly grin he has ever given his father.
Din looks back at you, and you hold your breath.
“Alright. Fine. Your job is to stay on the ship, watch the kid when I can’t, and to do whatever else I tell you to do.”
You nod excitedly, hanging onto his every word.
“In return, I’ll…help you find your soulmate while I search for my people.”
The Mandalorian’s voice is begrudging, but you’re resolute in your giddiness.
“Yes, yes, yes, of course, Mando!” You squeal with all of your excitement, clapping happily. “Thank you so much—you have no idea how much this means— ”
“Don’t mention it, kid,” he interrupts again, walking off.
You trail alongside him, positively glowing in your enthusiasm.
The Chariot’s ...not what you were expecting. It’s dingy, and there are no windows save for the cockpit. The exterior is rusted and dismal, and the interior is beyond minimalistic. Your new quarters are the size of your refresher at home in the palace, and the new refresher is...cramped, to say the least. And you've got to share it. Something you've never had to do before.
You do your best not to let your surprise at your new environment show, but the Mandalorian manages to notice.
“Not what you’re used to, Princess?”
The nickname makes you jump, and you have to remind yourself that you’ve never actually told him about your…occupation. But you know he has no way of knowing that, and you hastily say, “No, no, it’s fine. More than fine, actually!”
You smile brightly at him.
“It’s perfect.”
And it is , you think as you flop onto your new bed.
It really is.