Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Mandalorian jerks awake, breathing hard. Fire, he'd seen, an incinerator trooper and - he spins just over ninety degrees to the right, where everything is righted when a soft sigh and the flick of one very green ear is followed by a shiver and a sleepy blink. 

“Sorry kid, everything’s fine,” He says, sagging back against the pilot’s chair. No doubt he’s managed to wake the kid, the chair’s internal mechanisms need to be greased. “Rough couple’a days.”

The child scrubs his face with the back of one chubby hand, the other fisted around the necklace he’d been permitted to keep. He makes a little grumble of agreement before holding out both hands in the Mandalorian’s direction. Said Mandalorian doesn’t think twice, pulling the child over carefully. The kid’s still nursing some pretty rough bruises from their most recent situation.

It’s barely been a day since they’ve made it off Navarro, and the Mandalorian knows they need to get supplies and find somewhere off the grid to recover. In the process, he supposes he’ll have to make a plan. They still need to figure out where to go, exactly, and he’ll have to find a way to take jobs, to fund this little trip. Most pressing on the agenda? They need to lose whatever remnant of Gideon’s men are after them by laying low for a while, like they had tried to do on Sorgan.

“Hey, no going back to sleep up there,” Mando tells him, peeling the child off his shoulder. It’s his fault for letting the kid up like that, but he needs the kid upright and on his lap for landing since he’s presently out of appropriate seating containers for an infantile fifty year old (again). “We’ll be coming out of hyperspace soon.”

The child whines again, threatening to cry, cranky and uncomfortable.

“I know,” He tells the child, as sympathetic as he can muster - which probably doesn’t seem like much. He’s always been stoic, no-nonsense. “We have to stock up, then we’ll find somewhere a bit more comfortable to rest. Alright?”

“Ah,” The child mimics, trying out the word despite blinking himself asleep and awake. The Mandalorian shifts him from laying against his chest and shoulder to sitting on his lap. Wide brown eyes take note of the control panel and he looks up at him. “Aha?”

“Sure,” Mando says, gloved hand patting the child’s head at the obvious ask to help pilot the ship. His idea of helping means he gets to hold onto controls as the Mandalorian manipulates them. He'll take it, for as long as the illusion works, “But we still have a little ways to go.”

He bars an arm around the child as a precaution when he disengages the hyperdrive, careful not to jolt him anywhere he’s still hurting. It’s easier said than done, considering the child’s size, and the fact that his midsection is one enormous bruise. Even so, the child is more asleep than awake, head lolling against his arm, so the transition must have gone smoothly enough. So much for being his copilot, he thinks, though the Crest lulling the baby to sleep was certainly far from a problem in the eyes of an equally exhausted Mandalorian.

Mos Eisley’s starport is just as old and slow as it was the last time they’d been here a few months back, and he doesn’t have to do any bartering to be placed in the hangar he wanted. The orange-red sand of Tatooine and the brightness of the rising suns wakes the child better than the Mandalorian could - but at a cost. The child is groggy and cranky, clearly far more content snuggling up in the cool air of the cabin to his guardian Mandalorian than facing a sunny desert morning.

They drop down to the cabin once the ship is safely landed. Grabbing an empty pack to fill with supplies, he slings it to his back before leaning down and plucking the kid up off the ground. “Ready?”

The child gurgles, a little more awake that he’s toddled around a bit. He lays his hand over the Mandalorian’s - no, he thinks, over their signet in a subconscious form of reassurance, feeling the ridges of the smooth ornamentation. “Seems like a yes to me,” He supposes, tilting his head toward the kid who grins, showing tiny teeth. 

His other hand is again clenching the mythosaur skull talisman, and the Mandalorian carefully pries it out of his tiny palm, tucking it into his shirt. “You’ll scratch my armor,” He tells the child. “That’s made of the same metal as this,” He taps his cuirass and the child puts a hand on it, then back to his necklace, but through his frock, making a sound that’s more like a chirp than any word.

"Glad we're on the same page," The Mandalorian agrees, as though the child is capable of more than nonsensical babble. He's rewarded with a slow blink, and the child's head drops to his shoulder as he opens the hatch. He’ll be asleep before they make it to the market.

The familiar mechanic is waiting, hands on her hips, a short ways from the bottom of the ramp.

"I don't know if I want your kind of trouble in my hangar," She says, with a hint of swagger. It's all bark and no bite. Her hair is frizzy, curled from sweat and heat. "Doesn't look like you were in a gunfight," She indicates the rather un-scorched ship, eyebrows rising.

"Just a tune-up and fuel. I'm here for supplies-"

"No hunting?" The mechanic sounds surprised.

“No,” He grunts. He’ll never take a job on this sandtrap again. "No hunting."

"You're injured," She realizes. How she knows is beyond him. He's literally only been standing there for a moment, holding the kid and waiting out this conversation so they can go to the market. She holds out both hands, offering, "Let me take the kid. Go do your resupplying."

"No!" He doesn't mean to snap, and clears his throat, saying mildly, "The child stays with me."

"Well, alright then." She steps into his personal space, rubbing the little one's back softly. "Don't suppose you’ll let droids work on your ship, so it'll take me awhile to do a tune-up anyhow."

"I-" He sighs. The trio lurks around miscellaneous scrap turned into a table, set off to the side. "They’re fine. Just... keep an eye on them."

"Wonders never cease,” She comments, sarcastic. He doesn’t budge, but she follows up with something softer. “I don't want to know what happened," She comments, "Do I?"

"Probably not," He agrees. Against him, the child groans, squirming.

He’d hoped it wouldn’t be, but it’s definitely on the mech’s radar. She asks worriedly, "Mandalorian, did the baby get injured, too?"

Hissing through his teeth, he answers, "Yes."

She whacks his right arm, below the pauldron. It hardly hurts, but it's not meant to. It succeeds in taking him by surprise. "Why didn't you say something?!"

-/

Peli, is her name, she tells him. She had a husband and a son once. Somewhere else. She doesn't say what happened to them, and he doesn't ask. Doesn't have to, really. He sees the way she talks to the kid, the way that gruff, rough and tumble exterior yields to something far more gentle. She took pride in being a mother. 

The child fights her, when it comes to being treated. His arms and legs kick out and belatedly he realizes he probably should have done this somewhere where it was just the two of them. She holds up a pressure injection containing a pain reliever and he screams louder than the Mandalorian has ever heard him, dissolving into tears and crying.

"He doesn't like needles," He tells the mechanic.

"What kid does?" Peli retorts.

"Just put on the bacta."

"He's more bruised than not. Bacta stings going on and you know it." It doesn't when you're on your deathbed, he thinks, but doesn't say anything to her comment. She's right. It helps, but it doesn't dull the pain. "He needs a pain reducer and I only have one option."

"I can go-"

"Just keep him distracted," She says, exasperated. The mechanic wraps the baby up in a blanket and lifts him. The bundle of green child squirms and arches well beyond the point of what could possibly be comfortable, trying to grab onto the Mandalorian.

Confused, he looks from the kid to the woman. "What do I-"

"Just talk to him for a few moments. Let him calm down. I'll handle the rest." She walks away and he hears a door close behind her. He and the child are alone. He’s not sure what to make of that.

The child is far smaller wrapped in a blanket and nothing else. He seems far more fragile, too, like a true infant. Though, in most ways, the Mandalorian doubted it mattered what the kid’s actual age was. He paces smoothly across the small living space Peli brought them to, the child making the saddest mewls ever heard in the entire galaxy into his cowl.

"We'll make it better, okay?" He really has no idea what to actually say to him, what he'll understand. "I know it hurts."

The baby makes another distressed sound, ears perking and drooping as if not sure what he needs, how to handle the stimuli, whining before crying some more. Mando sighs. Kid won't be stopping any time soon, it seems, so he helps himself to a seat on Peli's threadbare couch and lays the kid in the crook of his arm.

"Let it out, ad'ika ," He croons, not thinking. Though, he immediately realizes what he's said and freezes.

The child stops crying at the same time, looking up at him. As if sensing the shift that's occurred. It doesn't change the situation, the teary eyes and pain not receding, but the child doesn't take his eyes off the Mandalorian's visor.

"Well," He decides, warring with the combination of warmth in his chest and fluttering in his belly, "Sounds better than 'kid,' huh?" He's not sure who he's convincing, the kid or himself. Frankly, calling the kid this, assigning him this term of endearment is something he can't take back. And the kid will be returning to his people. Not today, probably not tomorrow, but eventually.

The realization hurts. It hits him suddenly, with a ferocity he's not anticipating.

But it's not the only thing that can't be taken back. He tilts his head to the right, looks down at their signet and sighs. In some ways, this ad , this child will always be a part of him. His, in a way.

"Ni cabuor gal , " He whispers, in the tongue he learned before he was permitted to take the creed. The language is as lost as his people, rarely used, but worth remembering. "Sa munit sa gar linibar ni."  

I will protect you, for as long as you need me.

They drift. At some point, the child is removed from his arms, but a calm voice and firm hand against his chest plate anchors him where he is.

"I'll give him back when he's patched up," Peli murmurs to a mostly asleep Mandalorian. "He's out like a light."

That wakes him up, and he nearly headbutts the woman standing beside him.

"I'll help," He says.

"You calmed him down," She hushes him, pressing her free hand against his chest again. "I just gave him the pain blocker, he didn't even move. I'll give 'em back as soon as I'm done."

"I-"

She rolls her eyes and fixes him with a stern glare. "Can't imagine either of you have been sleeping much."

"No, but I can-"

"Raising a young one is hard work, Mandalorian. Arguably worse than hunting, if you ask me. Put your feet up for a bit." 

He could push back, brush her off, but he doesn't, dropping his blaster on the small table in front of him. He turns sideways at her insistent look, boots propped up over the other armrest. It's a small piece of furniture, too small for him, but it's more comfortable than the pilot's chair of the Razor Crest, and he's actually lying down for what feels like the first time in a century.

Later, though he can't say exactly when, a weight is lowered carefully onto his chest, wrapped expertly in a blanket. His hand comes up and over the child without a thought, holding the babe securely. He doesn't hear what Peli is saying, hand stilling over the child, out again already.

"Looks like you might have some paternal instincts after all, womp rat."

She watches them a moment, nodding against something bittersweet, and leaves them to it.

Chapter Text

Waking is strange, it happens in phases. It’s not uncomfortable, it feels like rising to the surface of a deep pool of water, but at the same time, he feels almost like he's floating. It’s... Nothing hurts, he realizes. That would do it.

...Wait.

The lump of blanket-wrapped baby on his chest doesn't react when he sits up. "Kid?"

He cranes his neck and gasps, fingers sliding beneath the cowl, against the skin of his neck, trailing up beneath his helmet. The skin is smooth, not scabbed, not weeping blood and plasma as it had been before. He moves his feet and finds his joints don't feel terribly stiff either.

He pulls a glove off and finds the mottled burns are gone as well.

The sound of boots walking across the sandstone floor of the kitchen pulls him back from his stupor. "You up?"

"Yeah."

The suns have nearly set, the sky fading into a gradient of violet and orange, dark and light all at once. It casts dim shadows across the cool space of the mechanic's living quarters. He slept the majority of the day, undisturbed. It’s overshadowed by the entirety of the child healing him.

"I'll take the baby. Freshen up and join me in a bit."

He tilts his head in confusion.

"Willing to bet he won’t wake tonight. We'll talk about what he did when you've got your wits about you."

He rises, looking down at her in surprise betrayed only by the tightness of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. "You know?"

"Yeah," Peli admits. "Didn't know it could do that, but," Her lips pull to the left and then she's frowning. Concerned. The mechanic takes the child from him, settling his head where her neck meets her shoulder. She sounds tired in a way that isn’t from hard labor. "Yeah," She says, "I know."

Healed, it takes Mando no time at all to use the ship's fresher, to eat and groom himself in a way he hasn't been able to in a long time. He owes her. And, it sounds like he'll owe her even more after they talk, assuming she does know something about the child's abilities.

She's tracing the top of the child's exposed ear when he exits his ship, and while flighty, her droids don't withdraw when he passes. (They just give him an extra wide berth.)

"Want him back?"

He doesn’t nod. "He's fine if you don't-"

"Okay," She purses her lips. "They're cute when they're little like this," She says, mild and not quite probing.

He doesn't comment. 'Cute' isn't a word the Mandalorians utilize often.

Eventually, she asks, "Do you know who put the bounty on his head?"

"Yes."

Peli gestures for him to join her at a makeshift table, cards scattered across it like a game of Sabacc had been quit mid-hand. The seat is more like a barrel, but it's functional and sturdy. "And?"

"It shouldn’t be, anymore. I made amends with the Guild."

"And the Imperial who commissioned it?" She blinks slowly, raising her eyes from looking down at the child’s face to the approximation of his concealed irises.

Defensively, he pushes back, "How did you know they were Imperial?"

She shakes her head. "I was hoping you'd tell me I was wrong," Sighing, she supposes, "Enemy you know and all that, though. I guess."

He crosses his arms.

"Oh, cut it out," She says in a whisper-shout designed not to disturb the child in her arms. "The Imperials are power hungry mongrels and you know it."

"He's a child. I doubt he understands everything he’s doing."

"Not all of it," She agrees, bouncing the child when he huffs, squirming and settling. "He’s still moldable. To them that’s a weakness, to be exploited."

"By the Empire." The Mandalorian comments.

Peli looks down, then away. "Before the Empire's fall, they sought out ‘gifted’ children and snatched them up from their parents' arms, taking them away to be made into weapons for… well, whatever they were planning."

He senses she has more to say, and years of letting bounties reveal themselves lend to being patient. He doesn’t stare at her down, letting her take a breath and collect her thoughts. He wants answers, but now isn’t the time to push for them. Peli will tell him eventually. She wouldn’t be here, talking to him if she wasn’t.

“How they found out about our boy, I don’t know for sure. Rumor had it they could sense it or somethin’.” Her lips curl. “We knew because we’d seen it, he’d move things around, things like that. We kept it quiet. Nobody had to know, he was still little, so we just kept him in the house.” She sighs. “Lotta good that did. When the Empire came, they made a show if it: dragged everyone out into the street,” She waves her free hand. “The entire neighborhood. Turned our homes inside out, destroying everything, looking for ‘contraband.’” She quotes it with a crook of the hand not anchoring the little one against her.

The lines of her face grow deeper, shadowed by her frown. “Called themselves Inquisitors. Took the young ones, told the parents they were destined for glory. It was supposed to be a blessing,” She scoffs, “Honored, they’d been chosen by the emperor himself.” She spits at the ground, eyes hard. “Bunch’a bullshit propaganda. They just… told you how it was going to happen. If you fought them,” She exhales as if to gain some distance, but fails, “My husband-” She trails off. It isn’t as though she has to continue. The rest is obvious.

He bows his head, respectful. There’s nothing he can say to make it right, but he settles for apologizing anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Do what I couldn’t,” She says, rising and handing him the child, who sleeps on unaware. “You keep your boy safe.”

After what feels like a safe time has passed, he asks her, “So your son was…” He uses a free hand to gesture at the bundle in his arms. “Like him?”

She laughs. “Nah. I seen him lift toys with a wave of his hand, not heal somebody bleeding on my couch.” She grins, “Chargin’ you extra for that, by the way,” She smirks, and he knows she’s serious beneath the joke. “What is he?”

“The-” He breaks off, coughing to cover his blunder. He will not breathe a word about the covert, for the Armorer - and any survivors’ security. He grumbles, unsure, “I was told he is... a Jedi?” The word feels strange and foreign on his lips, the word coming out as a question rather than an answer.

“He’s a bit young to be a Jedi,” She laughs. “They’ve been gone,” She considers it, “Few decades, now.” She juts out her chin, shifting her shoulders. Rasps, “Order fell with the Old Republic.”

Hungry for knowledge, he queries, “They did?”

Peli frowns. “I don’t know all of it. One day they were gone, like they’d never existed. They don’t matter. The Empire, on the other hand,” She sighs. “Even if you offed the Imp after the baby, three more’ll take their place.” Her lips purse. “You'd think they'd take the hint, they lost the war." She shakes her head. "It only makes them more ruthless, desperate to rule over the pieces. They’ll try and make him a weapon. If he doesn’t comply, they'll kill him. Take it from Peli, Mandalorian. I don’t work in this skughole because I like it here.”

“That’s-” He wants to say it’s not likely, but he can’t. Look at how they’d beaten the child. Even if they’re aware of his abilities, they don’t care about him. Only about what he can give them. He grips the boy just the tiniest bit tighter, the need to protect strong within his veins.

"If you ask me,” She murmurs softly, into the rapidly approaching dark, “You’d be better off finding someplace safe and quiet, having a nice life with your son. Off the radar, away from everything.”

“He is not a Mandalorian,” He says, soft and slow. It feels sharp to admit, bitter on his tongue. “He needs to be with his own people. It’s what’s best for him.”

The mechanic sighs. “Sure,” She says, and that frown darkens her features again. He’s not sure who she’s trying to convince. “Sure it is.”

-/

The market is bustling when he visits before sunrise. It's not surprising, spending any length of time outside in the midday sun isn't particularly enjoyable, whether in a flowing tunic or a full suit of beskar. The child was still sleeping when he had left, and while he isn't particularly enthused about leaving him behind on this excursion, it would be impossible to stock up while cradling a child.

Realistically, he wonders how he would have done it with the child awake and toddling behind him. They'd be separated by the crowd for sure.

He almost doesn't miss being alone as he slips through the crowded marketplace with the ease of a shadow. Though, there is no looking over his shoulder and down, making sure he's still being followed, or stopping every time a stall has something shiny or tasty that catches the child's eye. He finds himself eyeing those things of his own volition. Wonders, as he stocks up on compact rations, restocks his med kit, secures himself a simple change of clothes.

What would his kid like?

The thought has him stopping dead in his tracks, the shopper behind him barely catching themselves before walking into a wall of beskar.

"Keep it moving," They growl, purposely knocking his shoulder as they go around, ducking their head as if to make themselves faster, in a hurry to finish their shopping. They are almost as distressed as he is about his life-crises interrupting. He shakes his head and grunts, almost apologetically. If he had looked up, he’d know they carry a staff, but it’s more ornamental than practical, considering they don’t need it to walk.

He doesn’t, mind already doubling back to the child’s hypothetical wants. The kid likes stupid toys, made of spare parts. He's a baby. He doesn't know better, he's distracted by anything that feels different or sparkles in the light or could potentially sound irritating. He doesn't need to get the kid anything, he tells himself. A Mandalorian buying children's toys… it's ridiculous. He buys food. Munitions. Intel on bounties.

But, maybe… maybe the kid needs something besides that frock he's been wearing (having a spare is practical), a new blanket (two, actually, since his captors keep making off with them when they kidnap him), and, well. If a recreational article finds its way into his shopping, he blames it on those trying to sell their wares. Surely they were just good at running their business.

-/

The Mandalorian returns to the hangar just shy of midday, dipping through the maintenance corridor instead of taking a direct approach. Swinging open the rust-laiden metal door, he's confronted by shrill, wailing cries. The pit droids look over from the corner where he'd say with Peli the night before, chittering. He doesn't need to know how to speak droid to know that they want him to do something.

He sees the silhouette of the woman rocking the baby, but more than that, the little one's upturned head, weepy cries and he darts into her quarters without apology.

He appears calm enough, but his voice betrays him. "Has he been harmed?" Mando asks, voice low, dripping in rage laced with anxiety. "What happened?"

Peli dodges the child's unintentional headbutt as he whips his head around, following the sound of the new voice. His eyes aren't even open when he swings his little hands out, reaching for what will surely bring comfort.

"He woke up in a strange place," She deadpans, not upset in the slightest. "Happens." She wraps her arm around the little one's midsection, now unmarred thanks to the bacta, supporting him with a hand on his bottom as he twists around entirely, his carrying on interspersed with tired grumbles and bleary blinks.

"He's been here before."

"Yeah, and how'd that go for 'em, huh?" She tilts her head, the implication clear. "Take him, would ya?" Softer, she nudges the child's ear with her nose as she holds him up for the Mandalorian. "You just need your dad, don't you?"

"That's not how it is-"

"I'm sure it isn't," She indulges him, waggling her eyebrows.

She doesn’t boast that she’s right as the baby's carrying on fades to distressed whimpers and a tight grip on his breastplate, when he's only soothed as the Mandalorian rubs his back and adjusts him so that he can push his face into the side of his neck, beneath the helmet. She hides her grin when the boy hums into his cowl, warm from the morning sun and somehow a shortcut to contentment for the distressed infant. He doesn’t even have to rock the boy, his steadiness a soothing constant.

"Enjoy these moments when you can cuddle away all his problems, Mando,” She grouses. “He won't be a baby forever."

You don't know that, the Mandalorian thinks. This one might be. Even so, he can't deny that holding the child does spark something inside of him. Protectiveness, maybe. Devotion.

It might only be temporary, but they are a clan, he thinks. This is nothing out of the ordinary. Temporary or otherwise, Mandalorians take care of their own. This child is both honor and duty.

Chapter Text

The child opens his eyes while Din is scanning the HoloNet. Connection isn't great, a product of old tech, new(ish) devices, and their distance from civilization, but he can access enough of what he needs, and it'll do for now. A quiet sigh across the hold alerts him of the child's wakefulness over in his bunk. Three entire days - close, but not quite as long his encounter with the mudhorn - the child had been mostly unresponsive. Save the crying fit, he supposes, but he couldn't say the child was actually awake. He could barely keep his eyes open after the Mandalorian had taken over for the older mechanic.

Surely it was more than just healing his injuries that kept him down so long, the Mandalorian hoped. He'd saved them all, too. From the fire. And he'd healed Karga. It was all in a short period of time. Certainly the child had worn himself out.

Not that it lessened the knot of guilt.

The child ambles slowly to the edge of the bunk and blinks the rest of the sleep out of those big, beady eyes before his gaze settles on the Mandalorian.

When he does not immediately earn the man's attention, he turns his head and chirps a surprised, dramatic, "Eh?"

Still, the adult does not regard him. Not with a tilt of his helmet, anyway. "Good morning to you, too," Replies the Mandalorian. Then, finally, he turns, giving the child a once over from behind the visor of his helmet. His voice drops, reluctantly affectionate. "About time you got up, womp rat."

The child coos, carefully lowering himself from the bunk to the floor of the cargo space and waddles over. When his claws touch the Mandalorian's leg, the man lifts the boy up onto his lap. He isn't wearing armor, only his helmet, and little green ears perk seconds before he's full blown snuggling into his Guardian's chest.

"Cool it," Mando chides, but doesn't actually stop him. The kid settles easily - sleeping that long causes it to take a while for the boy to be fully awake. Until then, he's content to fist a hand in the canvas of the Mandalorian's shirt and lean against him, allowing the man time to continue to search for a sign about where they should go.

A loud gurgle - from the child's belly, not his mouth - has the Mandalorian rearing back, looking down at the kid. Only the tilt of his head betrays his surprise.

The child coos again, smacking his tiny lips. If his caretaker doesn't get moving, there's a good chance the kid'll be gnawing on his shirt in about a minute. "Alright. I get it," He says, plunking the child onto a makeshift table made of junk-filled storage crates.

Less than ten minutes later, the child is sitting on a taller stack of crates designed to act like a chair, and the Mandalorian is breaking apart pieces of bread and handing them to the boy to chew. Normally, he would be able to watch the child from afar, not have to be so hands on with it. But the boy hasn't eaten in days, and there's a very good chance, considering what the Mandalorian has seen him swallow whole, that he'll do the same with anything put in front of him. The kid isn't starving, exactly, but the Mandalorian doubts he knows any better.

He's never seen the kid sulk so much at being handed a bite of bread versus the entire pillowy loaf, and frankly, it's not as though the Mandalorian can eat with his helmet on. The kid's going to get to eat it all. He wouldn't dare deny him that.

It doesn't take long for the child to get frustrated, bleating his angry insistence that be needs more immediately. The Mandalorian is far more patient, and the child can complain all he wants, he won’t be making himself ill. The boy eats the entire loaf and then some, his moody perspective altered by the small bites of meat being offered to him after the filling carbs. This is what he’s reduced to, the Mandalorian thinks, though it’s a detached thought, separated from any real embarrassment. He’s using a utility knife to slice rations and all but hand-feed them to an infant.

At least it’s a baby and not a bounty, he supposes. Things have gotten plenty weird in the past trying to keep bounties alive. This little guy might be a brat, and he might be a bounty (just not his bounty anymore), but at least the two of them have a bit of an understanding. As much as one adult Mandalorian might have with one adult-baby sorcerer. He rolls his eyes at that. No doubt the kid’s got powers, but until he finds someone to talk to about what he is, these powers are, and what they mean for him, he’s trying to reserve judgement.

Though…

He waits until the child has had his fill and is looking for a means to escape to scoop him up and bring him to the cockpit. The child makes the same cooing babbles he always makes when he's delighted by the stars, but the Mandalorian doesn't lose focus. The boy is deposited carefully onto the control panel, one of the Mandalorian's arms barring him on either side: one, to keep him steady and two, to prevent the child from touching every button he can reach. The third reason is so that they're closer to being eye to eye. Mando refuses to sit on the floor in his own cockpit, and the child would be all too thrilled to join him, thinking it was playtime.

But it isn't. This is serious.

"We need to talk about what you did," He begins, voice rough like gravel.

Dark eyes snap to his visor, and the child blinks, frowning. He can see the kid straightening his back, maybe levelling his shoulders, though it's hard to tell since his head is so big. The Mandalorian will take what he can get. Some part of him seems to get the message.

Then, his head tilts. Confused.

"This," He says, peeling off his gloves, letting them fall on the panel beside the boy, "Was not necessary." He holds out his hands, hoping the child understands what he's talking about.

Tiny claws, blunted, never sharp, snatch one of his hands and the boy inspects the skin on his arms, his fingers, carefully turning his palm over. "Uwa?" He asks, letting go and pointing at the Mandalorian's shoulder.

No, he realizes. The neck. He's pointing at his neck, where the lingering laceration was.

"Yes, you healed that, too." And a few damaged ribs, a torn muscle somewhere in his back, and probably some lingering concussion issues. Still, the cost the child paid for healing him is what flavors the bark in his tone, "And I don't want you doing it again."

The child's ears rise and immediately droop. Those blunted fingers curl into fists and he scoots sideways with a dramatic head turn.

"Hey!" The little doesn't budge, even at the sharp incline of his voice. His ears don't move, either. "Cut that out and look at me."

Nothing.

Stubborn little… The Mandalorian sighs. Rationalizing this to a child of indeterminate understanding is difficult enough when he's not frustrated. He takes a breath.

"Kid."

The child blinks, the Mandalorian can see the reflection of his face in the metal of the dash. It's blurry, but gives away enough.

"Don't be like this," He says to the boy, willing himself to keep neutral. He reaches out a bare hand, taking one of the boy's elbows, trying gently to turn him. "Look at me."

The kid lets his arm go limp, but doesn't turn until the Mandalorian physically lifts and swivels him. Then, he looks down at his chubby hands, refusing to meet his Guardian's gaze.

What can he do? He looks around, not wanting to treat the kid like an animal by baiting him with a reward. He's sentient. He knows a hell of a lot more than he lets on, that much he's sure of. Even if he's more or less a toddler.

He sees the peek of brown cording at the kid's collar and an idea forms. Carefully, he pulls the necklace over the child's neck to dangle between them. Big, suddenly watery eyes look back at him, hands twitching, like they want to reach for the small mythosaur skull hung between them.

But he doesn't. He sits there, looking heartbroken, like he's just lost everything.

Shit, Mando thinks. The kid clearly thought something else was happening here. "I'm not," He stumbles a bit, trying to get the point across. "You're going to get this back. I'm not taking it.

The child looks at it, then at him and it's clear he doesn't get it. But instead of tears, like the Mandalorian is dreading, it’s as if the child flips a switch. That lost, worried look is clouded by an escapist's aloofness. If he squints, it's like he's meeting the child all over again. He feels sick, the Mandalorian does. This isn't what he wanted. He just doesn't want the kid hurting himself over helping him.

"Ad'ika."

The child flinches at the sincerity. Din can't blame him, he does as well, face twisting behind the safety of one way transparisteel and beskar. But the child is looking at him now, without tears in his eyes - hopefully he's not in shock, he thinks - so he struggles on.

He replaces the necklace around the child's neck, but keeps one palm under the charm. Two little green hands curl over the sides of his fingers.

"For as long as you're with me, you are an honorary Mandalorian," He tells him. Smooth, he's thinking to himself. You sound ridiculous. "And Mandalorians do not leave themselves vulnerable." He resists the self flagellation - it's easy to slip into - of how he'd not been paying attention in the first place, out cold when the child used his abilities on him.

The child looks at the talisman, then up into his Guardian's face. "Ma," He says, attentively. Seriously.

"Mandalorian?"

"Mah," The child repeats, sounding it out as if to say, 'Yes, didn't you hear me the first time?'

"I'll be damned," He murmurs to himself. "Alright." Getting back on track, he continues, "When you heal me, it makes you tired. Exposed. We might be safe for now, but I'm not counting out anyone else coming after you."

"Umah-ha?"

"I have no idea what you're saying. You're easier to keep safe if you're not keeling over. If I need your help-" Which, he won't, he thinks, he's already made enough blunders, "I'll tell you."

How any of this works, frankly, that Mandalorian is at a loss. He'll likely have to keep repeating it until he's blue in the face, and hope that his overabundance of conversation eventually translates into results.

The child looks at their hands, the trio of them, then lifts one of his own, waving it as if to illustrate… Oh, he realizes. Is he asking-?

"I'm responsible for you. If you want to do… whatever it is you're doing with your mind, I want you to come to me, first. Got it? Unless we're in danger." Which, until recently, has been the only real reason he's ever…

Why, exactly, did the Mandalorians decide whomever found a child was responsible for raising it?

He blinks and the kid is waiting, looking at him, then back at his hand, a question in his eyes.

"We're safe," He says, waiting to see if the kid is actually going to do something. "Nothing crazy." If the kid figures out he can lift him (obviously a possibility considering the mudhorn), it’s going to make future confrontations a hell of a lot more difficult.

The child hums, squinting.

Who knows, maybe he can’t actually do it of his own volition. Maybe it’s just fight or flight, survival instincts kicking in? He was still recovering from his own injuries when he healed him, so…

The mythosaur skull hovers. But also, it doesn’t. It feels like a warmth, almost like a caress of his palm, invisible hands of something… something alive cupping the pendant with a sort of reverence. His eyes dart from his hand to the child, who does not shake with exertion as he has previously. The skull drifts toward him, toward the little one, and hovers before him. He lowers the hand that appears to be controlling this… sorcery? The Armorer had said that’s what his people were, but throwing the explanation to that entirely feels forced, like a cop-out.

Not that he believes the leader of his tribe to be a liar. There’s just… too many unknowns.

The child drops his hand beneath the necklace’s charm, and the invisible hands fade instantly. He holds it out, the skull comically large in his small hand, larger than both palms and fingers.

“It’s yours,” The Mandalorian confirms. “I’ll never take it from you. Not even when-”

“Bwah,” The boy exclaims, jutting out his chin (or at least, that’s what it seems like he’s trying to do, but it’s more like he’s tilting his head back). He babbles a bunch of indignant follow up syllables.

“What? We have to find your people eventually,” He tells the child. The boy pulls the pendant of his necklace to the side and reaches for him. The serious part of the conversation is over, and a kid on his lap is one not getting into mischief.

Once settled on the Mandalorian’s lap, the child looks up at the stars, blurring in the void of hyperspace. “We’ll figure out where you belong,” Din promises when the child returns the pendant to his mouth, suckling.

The Mandalorian assumes it’s some anxiety that causes the child to lay his (thankfully drool-free) hand over his own, to latch on, seek skin-to-skin contact as a form of comfort. As such, he uses his free hand to continue searching with his datapad, and a calm takes over the cockpit.

The child is neither anxious or insecure. He may not be able to explain it to his guardian, may not actually completely understand it himself - age aside, he’s still a youngling - but he already knows where he belongs. He knew, a ways back: When he lifted his hand to the one that reached out to him, when he finally felt hope after the bleak solitude that had been Aravala-7.

Chapter Text

They stay for five cycles, as a precaution.

The planet is inhabited only by wildlife, plants have claimed back the tiny remnants of a centuries gone civilization for nature. He has seen predators, but they rarely emerge from the thickness of the forests. If they do, they keep their distance. The ‘Crest is well hidden in the shadow of trees and fog. Though he checks the sky often, he does not hear or see any ships.

It’s… nice, he thinks.

He rises before dawn, every day. In the morning mist, he is able to strengthen himself, hone his focus; Revisit the drills he’d learned as a boy, master the Rising Phoenix as a man. In the crisp air, he is able to clear his mind, work his body to new limits.

But he is not the only one who trains.

The child does, well, as much as a child can without an instructor, he supposes. Some mornings, he returns to find a symphony of things hovering around him - the small collection of bits and baubles (perhaps an actual toy from Tatooine’s market) that make up the boy’s meager possessions. The child moves them from place to place, with the kind of grace an adult could only hope to have. The first time, he’d startled the child and everything had gone clattering. Now, the boy makes a show of circling him with things, lifting a water ration, pushing a crate across the hold as a makeshift chair.

Perhaps it is the Mandalorian’s influence being reflected back at him. Children mimic those that surround them, and all too quickly has the helmeted warrior realized himself to be the boy’s longest-lasting constant. These frequent, small actions do not seem to make the child tired. Only once has the Mandalorian injured himself enough to warrant the child’s concern and desire to assist, but he has not allowed such a thing to transpire.

Or, at least, he’d told the child no and been listened to. It’s a victory either way.

In the grand scheme of things, the child does not use his strange powers to do everyday tasks. He does not push or pull things in arguments - well, they’re more like the Mandalorian talking and him gushing angry runs of vowels and consonants. He struggles to pull himself up a pile of crates to reach something taller than he is rather than to bring it down to him. Perhaps he likes the challenge. Or perhaps, it is his species’ way of learning.

During the day, they explore, foraging plants, checking traps for small animals. He teaches the child to be silent, showing him things he doubts will be retained, but it fills the silence and seems to cull the little one's endless curiosity.

In the evenings, when it rains the most and the fog rolls in, he and the child sit on the gangplank leading out the back of the ship and listen to the sounds of the coming night. The child is strangely quiet sometimes, sitting still and listening to the sound of insects and birds that call out to their kind in the darkness. Sometimes, when the rain is only a sluggish drizzle they sit beneath a strung tarp and the kid eats before a smoky fire.

And at night, the child allows him a reprieve - he eats and tends to himself while the child splashes in a basin, his own hunger sated, soaking away the days’ muddiness while babbling happily. When he’s finished taking care of himself, he washes and dresses the baby before closing up the ship and doffing the majority of his armor.

Then, in the quietness of the moments that come after, he talks to the child. Some nights it’s stories of places he’s been, edited to be suitable for his audience. Others it’s projections from the holo-pad and articles read aloud with pictures the child gurgles over. And on the rare nights when the child is not as settled or has difficulty staying asleep, it’s in words that he’d been taught as a foundling, ones that he says twice in his head before voicing aloud to make sure he speaks them with the right inflection.

He lists things to the child. Rain. “Pitat.” Night. “Ca.” Thunder. “Orar.” Tells him he’s safe, to rest, the morning is coming.

Occasionally the child will return sounds, as if trying the words for himself, though he doesn’t retain much of it come morning. More often, the modulated voice of his keeper, low and smooth, speaking as though each of the words is a secret, is the advantage to turn the child toward sleep.

On this particular night, the child is neither worked up or distressed. He’s laying in his spot on the large futon in the hold - the one that the Mandalorian had to air out when removing from storage because it had been a small eternity since he’d been in one place for so long. Trying to get the child to sleep in a container, regardless of the number of blankets, was near impossible when his Guardian slept on a comfortable mat on the floor, able to make one complete roll without falling off. The child was strangely polite about it, though, bringing his one blanket, curling up in the corner of the mat, staying out of the way. He couldn’t deny that it was easier to roll over and place a hand on the child’s back in the throes of a nightmare than to try and stumble blindly to find him in a makeshift crib. He does not wake from as many nightmares in this cool, damp climate himself, though he hardly feels like it’s a coincidence.

When he lays beside the child, facing the boy on his side - the child is closest to the side of the hull, a protective place that neither of them argued about - the child waits expectantly. They’d already done their usual bout, he’d told the boy a story about a planet on the other side of the galaxy, one that had no shortage of bugs he’d have enjoyed capturing (and likely eating), but the alert eyes staring back at them are far from soft and sleepy.

Which means dimming the lantern sitting on the floor just at the edge of the futon will only result in childsplay. Little hands searching for him in the dark. Coos and chirps of sound. Questions he can’t discern the words to without looking at the child for context (and even then he’s still mostly stumped when the child isn't asking for food).

He dims the light almost entirely instead of turning it off. “What is it, ad’ika?”

In reply, the child pats his chest. He knows what that word means, at least. It's almost the only word that his guardian has assigned to him in two cycles. It isn't that he says it often, though, more observational on the child's part. Proof of development.

"Okay," The Mandalorian says, moving closer. It’s obvious what the child wants. He starts small. Repeats the same words he usually does in the language of the Mandalorian, followed by their meaning in basic. Night. Sky. Rain. Thunder, when one ear perks at the sound of it close by. If he were alone, he might be scared, but the child fears very little with the protective presence close by.

With the child within arm's length, he branches off. Hands. The child curls his rounded claws over his, and the Mandalorian runs his far bigger fingers over the child's knuckles. Feet. The child giggles, ticklish, and the Mandalorian can't help the crack of a smile hidden behind transparisteel. It goes on, until the child is quiet, his eyes losing that expectancy.

And then, a hand comes out. The child catches the side of his helmet. "Buy'ce," The Mandalorian translates.

The boy frowns, as though he knows that isn't the word he's looking for. He wiggles closer, bringing his blanket with him. His hand is warm, noticeably so, when he touches Mando's shirt, pressing his palm against his chest.

"What?"

"Ah," The child says. He withdraws his hand and plants it on his own chest. It's not a word, but he understands the designation. It's enough. "Ah!"

"Yes, ad'ika, that is what you are."

The expectant look is back and the child taps the Mandalorian's chest again. He can see the child's head tilt, in the dark.

"Me?" The child doesn't argue against it, and he seems to be coming along understanding some things. He points to himself and the child coos. That would be a yes.

"Din," He says, but his voice doesn't have the inflection of Mando'a and the child looks at him in confusion. The boy has maybe heard it once, twice before. That time is permanently hazy in his memories. "That's my name," He clarifies.

Belatedly, he realizes that telling the child his name could have consequences. When they eventually leave, they'll be in populated areas again; the boy cannot scream his name to a crowd. Even his given name may cause suspicion if Gideon has friends.

The child does not try to say his name, however, just pats his chest again.

"What are you asking?"

"Ah," The kid taps his own chest.

"Yes, that's you, ad'ika." He pauses. "That isn't your name, though."

The child burbles, indicating that Din is correct in his attempts to translate the little one’s gestures and sounds. That little green hand stays on his chest, though, and it takes the Mandalorian a moment to wrap his brain around what the child really wants.

It hits like a sucker punch when it does.

"I don't-" He clears his throat, as though there is a physical impediment preventing his speech. "We should go to sleep."

The child sighs - not in a disgruntled way - babysoft and without judgement. Normally, the child would be further away, but his breaths are already evening out and his eyes are closed when the Mandalorian turns the small lantern off entirely. His hand stays, and the Mandalorian doesn't risk waking him up by pushing him away.

Minutes that feel like hours later, the Mandalorian rolls onto his back, looking up at the blackness of the metallic ceiling. With his repositioning, the child is pressed between his arm and his ribcage, head almost in his armpit, and he rubs his face against his guardian, unconsciously seeking that comfortable warmth.

His left forearm is brought to rest across the perpendicular top of his infamous T-visor and he exhales a reluctant sigh. The word fills his mind and he turns it end over end in his thoughts, adam's apple bobbing as he wets his lips, considering.

This is just temporary, he reminds himself. He cannot be...

Still, he mouths it. Lips pushed out initially, then pulling back for the second syllable like a secret. He cannot remember the last time he'd used the word. Does not remember a time where he could have embodied its attributes, much less aspired to. But now, here? In the dark, with the child curled against him?

He hates how much he wants it.

Hates that there is nothing he can do to make this child a Mandalorian, that genetics, race, and time are working against him. That he will do what is right, even if it destroys him to do so - and that his self destruction is more immanent with each second they are near each other. Hates that he has to remind himself of his mission, what is right, what he has to do. He has to find the child's people. Returning him to them. Let them raise him in their ways.

He will have to bow out, step back. Not now, but then. Sometime, looming heavily in the future.

Even if they are enemies, even if they would raise him to take up arms against him and his kind, he must proceed onward. He will do it for this one. Not simply because creed dictates he must. No. Because he wants what's best for this child. Over all else. Even if it means-

The Mandalorian sighs, in the dark. Wills his heart rate to settle. Enough, he tells himself. Blood pounds in his ears. The child sleeps on, unaware.

He cannot be this child's buir.

Chapter Text

The first morning it isn't raining in nearly a cycle, he finishes his drills early, slinging the child to his front with a sling made of excess canvas and takes to one of the old overgrown trails he'd discovered while hunting weeks before.

The child is still sleepy-eyed, making annoyed squeaks until he's settled against the Mandalorian's armor. The cadence of his steps and the illusion of being swaddled lets the babe nod off, leaving the armored warrior with his thoughts. If this place is as quiet and safe as it's been these last few months, perhaps he can include it in his rotation of places to lie low in the future if need be. Exploration would help confirm it; Thus, here they are.

The skies begin to cloud as the trail lifts upward, mud shifting to wide, flat, uncut stone beyond the forest.

He sees a mountain before him - narrow and jutting, nestled between less severe ones. Like one big, smooth rock. Artificial. There are no signs of life, and as the stone steps twist and turn, naturally uneven, he takes sweeping glances all around, checking his HUD. Whomever was here before is long gone,and there is no evidence of a village, a community. Only this strange spire remains as evidence.

The child perks, ears twitching. Even with his helmet on, the Mandalorian can smell the sea. It's an ocean. It's not just the wind he's hearing, but the crashing of waves.

Only patchy sweetgrass grows this high in elevation, endless blades of pale blue green. There are no other plants, no wildlife as the Mandalorian and his charge make it to the base of the stone jutting up in a seemingly unnatural gap between mountains. At the top, the stone steps level into a circular shape that surround the the perfectly round spire, which is not nearly as wide as it looks from afar. Curls of indigo moss scrawl around the bottom from the dampness of the salty mist, branching around the side of the stone like a seaside embrace.

The child has never seen an ocean. He realizes it when the child babbles, then bristles when he tilts his head out to the open air and is assaulted by the mists, tongue peeking out curiously, confused by the taste.

"This isn't water you should drink," The Mandalorian cautions. "Too much salt."

The kid blows a raspberry into the wind, squinting. Seems like understanding enough. He wriggles around in the sling until the Mandalorian lets him down. It's chilly up here. He'll let the child stomp around in the spray for a few minutes, there are puddles in the natural dips of the stone, then wrap him up in his cloak on the way back. Seems like a good enough plan. The ocean below is far too wild for him to consider taking the child close to the cliffs to see the view.

Perhaps elsewhere, there will be a beach. The concept of the child and wet sand crosses his mind, and he decides it's likely safer to stick with rocky riverbeds. This little one has four less digits than a human and still somehow manages to get his hands into everything.

Like now: he barely has his eyes off the child for a moment when the ground trembles. He looks down (the kid was just at his feet, where did he-) and scrambles, the stone pillar rising into the sky and twisting with the creep and shuffle of some internal mechanism.

The child's voice sounds like it's descending through a tunnel, a gleeful laugh that lasts for all of a second before shifting into unabashed terror, a shrill scream. The Mandalorian curses, taking two steps at a run, seeing the narrow opening newly exposed, and steps through it without a second thought as to the dangers below, only pausing long enough to pull his rifle to his front. The puddle he steps through to do so ripples, ancient glyphs distorted by the movement of the water pooled over them. He is too preoccupied with the child's safety to notice the fading glow against the stone.

-/

Everything is pitch black, but the fall wasn't bad. He'll be bruised come morning, but that's not the issue. That fall couldn't have been great for the kid. The Mandalorian cannot worry about that right now, however. There is something with them in the dark. He hears the snap of teeth and the terrified whimper, the sound of tiny feet slapping against stone, trying to get away.

He activates his HUD, catches sight of the large-mouthed, giant lizard-like beast advancing on the child and activates his flamethrower, drawing the creature's attention before charging up his rifle. In the light created by his attacks, he sees the child continue to back away. The boy squeaks in fright when he hits the wall. The Mandalorian charges the beast, activating a smaller grappling hook to pull its maw towards him and away from the little one, using his speed to land atop the beast's back. He executes it with the blade tucked into his boot, slamming it between the creature's eyes, the vibration of the blade cracking its skull. The beast's pained roar aborts as it slumps, defeated.

"It's dead," He barks quietly into the dark. The child makes a tiny answering squeak, the entirety of him trembling when he's swept up into his guardian's arms. "Have you been harmed?"

The child does not seem to be, he does not flinch at being touched, and his tremors ease as he's shifted to rest in the crook of the Mandalorian's arm. Both hands clench his necklace, his ears are dropped, but the man holding him reads that as fear, not injury.

A quick scan tells Mando that there is no way up and out, though his jetpack survived the slide unscathed. His shoulder will pay for the angle of correction to prevent his weight from pressing the unit to the stone, but he'd rather triage himself than worry about the fine electrical components.

Satisfied they are alone, the Mandalorian switches on his headlamp. Dark graphite toned sheetrock rises around them on all sides, indicative of some kind of nature-formed cave, not whatever artificial structure they'd slid through. Water trickles down the stone, and both he and the child are damp, though there is not enough water to soak the linen beneath his well-fitting armor.

The child nestles into his side, seeking the warmth afforded by body heat, eyes closed and forehead far more wrinkly than usual. Discomfort or worry, the Mandalorian can’t quite tell. His cloak is only water repellent, not resistant to moisture. Thus, it hangs limply behind him, unhelpful. Belatedly, he wonders of the child can get sick, then reminds himself that the pain relievers he procured back on Tatooine work universally. It will have to do, though he should get the child somewhere both warm and dry as quickly as possible. At the very least, start a fire.

Wind brushes the child’s ears and the Mandalorian turns in the direction it comes from, though he can’t feel it himself. The stone beneath his feet is solid, and the cave seems to have a singular opening, the space otherwise oblong with an underground lake set off to one side. The child shivers, arms pulled inside his tunic in an unconscious effort to retain warmth.

"Alright," He says, for the kid's reassurance. His even, measured words usually soothe. "Let's find a way out of here."

He moves slowly, thankful not for the first time that he's hit the ground hard but uninjured. The walls trickle with evidence of water above them - he really hopes this cavern isn't beneath that wild ocean - but they seem firm enough, and he cannot hear the rush of the sea. The sound of his boots against the rock, errant drops of water, and the child's tiny breaths are the only sounds he hears.

In an alcove carved out of a natural bend, the Mandalorian's headlamp reveals a glint of ivory amongst graphite. Bones. Brown-black and tattered, faded robes among them. He leans down to discern age, to try and figure out how long the humanoid remains have been there. It doesn’t appear that the lizard-like creature had been the one to remove the flesh from these bones, the humanoid is posed as if to indicate a stop for rest, almost.

Before he can stop the child, the boy reaches out, fingers brushing the burlap fabric, beady, wide eyes focused on a red and black relic that peeks out, glimmering from the light of his headlamp, on a string that is curled between decayed digits. The child freezes, ears jerking up, extended arm gone rigid. The Mandalorian feels a chill - a pinprick, his danger-senses, instinct - but he cannot process it.

Instantly, the child lets out a shrill howl, body bowing back, pushing against his guardian as though he's being tortured by the arms holding him.

He nearly drops the wiggling kid, that's how hard he's struggling. Finally, he manages to get a firm grip on him, and suddenly the boy is reaching up with a hand - the Mandalorian blinks down, sees his eyes rolled back into his oversized head like he's been possessed - and suddenly he's choking.

"No," He gasps, and it lacks bite. He can barely get his lips around the word. It wouldn’t have been audible over the child's screaming, anyway.

He's been choked before, but it's nothing like this. This isn't sloppy or scrappy, this is absolute. He needs to focus, snap the kid out of it - he backs away from the remains, staggering. His air supply is cut off with such vicious totality that his vision is already going hazy at the edges. Somehow he's backed himself to the other side of the tunnel-like cavern, his hand coming up as he does, trying to take the child's hand, cover it, do something to make him stop. It's hard to lift, dead weight, numb. His vision blurs beyond sight - he's going to lose consciousness and that means he's as good as dead - and it's only a few more seconds before they both hit the floor.

The wailing stops. He doesn't notice, body convulsing from lack of air, synapses firing wildly to abate impending death. When he comes to - it could be minutes, could be hours - the light is muted, his headlamp bent at an awkward angle. There is no movement around him, he lays in perfect silence a moment to be sure. Then, he gasps - though breath has long since been returned to him - and scrambles to feel his neck, gloves touching skin beneath his cowl. There is no pain. It does not hurt.

"Kid?" He barks, hoarse until he clears his throat, and damn if it doesn't still hurt a little now that he's speaking. No wonder Cara said he could've killed her. That was no joke. So why the hell did he-

As if coming up for air (that's a bit too literal, he thinks, if he were a weaker man, he'd cringe at his own line of thought) his mind volleys into alertness, recalling the incident. Those big bright eyes were rolled back, he looked like he was seizing, that couldn't have been - he knows it in his bones, the child wouldn't-

"Ad'ika!"

His head whips around the alcove, the path ahead, back in the direction they came.

Nothing.

Chapter Text

He is being carried. There are hands, holding him. They are rough, but not unkind. He knows there is pain, but it is difficult to focus on. Before pain, there was fear, but it was someone else's, and it told him he had to fight and it was hazy, and then there were other enemies and he couldn't stop them all. But he - he knows with great surety he’s done something he shouldn’t have. That he didn’t want to, but he did.

"An interesting choice, young one," Says a man who has no need to speak loudly to be heard. He does not sound impressed, but rather surprised. In a way, it is almost both. "There were others far better suited to this task than I.”

The young one's hands fall to his chest, clutching the pendant there, beneath his tattered clothes. The man’s eyes do not soften, nor would the child realize if they had, trying and failing to hone in on what’s before him.

“There is much for you to learn. Fear and anger are easily manipulated by your enemies. You use them as tools, balance them against your purpose and carry on despite them. This is...” The words wash over him, but they do not sink in. The one who carries him sighs, as if just realizing it. Perhaps he had been hoping the child were better at listening, or caught off guard by the child’s stage of development. “It seems a waste to imbibe an underdeveloped mind with such wisdom,” There is something stern to his voice, “But,” He dares to yield, “Perhaps it is I who will be surprised once more.”

The one who carries him does not make any sound as he walks, so it is exhaustion and not a familiar cadence of boots, the jangle of weapons and armor that lulls him to the point between alert and asleep. Eventually, a wide palm comes up, smoothing down over his face, squeezing his hands to reinforce his small but mighty grip. "Rest, youngling. There are challenges yet to come."

He opens his eyes, catching the glint of metal tipped in his direction. Then, he sleeps.

-/

The Mandalorian finds bodies not far from where he’d woke up. Crushed rat-lizards half the size of himself with serpent tongues and rank with the smell of venom. Definitely poisonous. It looks as though they've been pushed into the rock walls with enough force to break limbs and leave them mangled.

There is one, however, that is not pushed into the wall. It has been pressed into the ground, the rock cracked beneath it. It is bloodied, fangs dark with venom, a scrap of brown fleece wedged between its pointed teeth, and claw marks - messy, blunted ones over its eyes and face. The child had fought. Not with its powers alone.

His stomach drops and he curses under his breath, raising his blaster and rushing on. This was a trap. It had to be. And yet, he had not seen any ships, there was no evidence of any other advanced civilizations on this planet. Dazedly, he remembers the relic. Perhaps it was another kind of sorcery, something or someone trying to turn his foundling against him? Perhaps that is why the boy had-

He cannot bring himself to think about it, still shocked by what’s occurred. He knows his kid, and his kid would never do this. Whatever or whomever is responsible - at this point, he's seen enough inexplicable things happen, the impossible isn’t a barrier anymore - he will find out. They’ll wish he hadn’t.

Moving with fury is easy, he shifts from prey to predator with a grim sort of satisfaction. There are more of the strange reptilian rodents. They snarl and attempt to overwhelm him, but he is not a tiny child. Thinking of it in those terms makes his anger sharper. His blaster fries their brains and he is gone.

The faint breeze that had moved the child’s ears, given the impression that there is more to this cave system, some connection to the surface, whistles as he ventures on. The rocky terrain gives way to natural skylights and open sky as he continues. He is able to switch his headlamp off but just barely, the sky is cloudy and the threat of rain looms. The Mandalorian should not feel this sense of foreboding: this is the natural weather pattern of the planet. They have been here for months.

Too long, the hunter inside him says. You’ve grown comfortable. You’ve been here too long.

He has since discovered that watching over a foundling means finding himself in situations he would not normally put himself into: social situations, domestic situations, leaping headlong into obvious dangers he would typically avoid. But those discomforts, those inconveniences pale in comparison to what he stands to gain, and now, they are trivial in comparison to what he could lose. It has been a long time since he has felt the dull knife that is losing this child flaying him open. The feeling festers, uncomfortable and hot, unpleasant, a stark contrast to a sharp pain that numbs with time. When the opening is wider above his head, the path beneath him narrows to a ledge that trails into a dark abyss. It pulls at him, somehow.

He doesn’t like it.

Really, he doesn’t like any of this. Hunting - he shouldn’t call it that, but his skillset is what it is - by gut feeling, without any sort of evidence to spark his instinct is a dangerous game. A gamble. And that is one thing the Mandalorian despises. Calculated risk is one thing; He’ll weigh his options and accept the consequences. But this isn’t a payout, a bounty escaping isn’t the worst case here. For all he knows, the child could already be-

There are things to consider, though: the child’s blood is not anywhere. He did not find any blood on the deceased animals in the cavern that did not belong to the child’s assailants. That isn’t to say the child couldn’t have been poisoned or bit, suffered a broken limb or other injury to that extent. Both creatures he’s encountered are large enough to eat the little one, bones and all.

Just the thought makes his stomach roil. He forces himself to focus.

The sky above him darkens, the winds light as they sweep his cloak up and behind him. It’s almost dry. Something tells him that won’t be the case for long, for the winds are equally heavy with the implication otherwise. As the first few drops of rain begin to fall, the Mandalorian hears something.

From above.

The creature is skeletal, appearing ancient. Whatever those rats were, that he’d killed earlier? Those were likely this thing’s prey. It keens in predatory anticipation, dipping it’s maw over the edge of the skylight, looking down on him with a yellow-orange eye, pupils narrowed to slits. He does not move, waiting to see how quickly this new threat comes, the beast’s head is far larger than he is, and he knows it could easily swallow him whole, to say the least.

It roars, rearing back, and the Mandalorian realizes it has wings. This dragon makes the wyvern-like beasts on Navarro look domesticated. What it doesn’t have in poisonous fangs (that he can tell), it makes up with size. Its leathery extremities are torn - he hopes by age, not battle - but not unuseable.

When the beast does not move, does not lunge at him, the Mandalorian takes an exploratory step forward. The statement is clear in its reptilian gaze: he is a guest in this creature’s territory. He moves quickly and carefully, never once turning his back to the creature, even as the skylight above recedes. He sees the shadow in the path ahead, hears the shrill cry and the ripple of wings as the beast moves to the next opening.

As he ventures forward, it watches. Assessing. Calculating. It has a predator’s patience.

The Mandalorian knows far better than to fight a battle he can’t win. The dragon’s skull is more external than internal, and it has a plume of bony protrusions that stick out over head and spine that fade from ivory to rust at the ends. His blaster is useless against an enemy like this. Assuming the beast is, in fact, an enemy.

Not that he’s about to ask it. Really, he’s okay with never finding out.

What feels like hours of tense forward momentum is probably more like several minutes of brisk progression. The narrow walkway curves and opens into a far more impressive canyon, rock ledges - maybe natural, maybe artificial, he can’t really be sure - dot the open space as if to create a pathway for something with a greater leg span to leap across to reach an endpoint across the way.

This is not a jumping puzzle for just anyone, he realizes as relief and fear rush in. Relief first, because he sees the child, small and green and rubbing at his eyes, hopefully uninjured. Fear isn't far behind, though, because he is not the only one to see the child. The dragon does, too, and somehow, no doubt thanks to his abilities, the child is at the very end of this strange path. Did the child’s abilities let him cross the platforms? He doesn’t want to know. That isn’t the important thing right now.

The most pressing item at present is the dragon, outraged about the unexpected guest in what appears to be her nest - if the spiky eggs beside the child are any indication. She roars, furious, and that officially rules out the happy possibility that the dragon had taken his small charge under her wings for safe keeping.

Well, he thinks, deadpan, this is probably going to hurt.

She's really not going to be happy that there's about to be two unwelcome guests in her nest, but the Mandalorian has no way of protecting the child at this distance.

-/

He wakes to a cold breeze over his head and that same feeling from before curdling his blood. It claws at him from inside. Screams at him to run, fight, escape, by any means necessary. The feelings aren't his, but they are overwhelming, and he cannot push it off. Like last time, there is no physical presence, no real threat. Just these feelings.

Tiny hands tug at oversized ears, pressed down flat against his head, eyes scrunched shut. He doesn't want this, he thinks, beginning to extend a hand outward. He doesn't want to hurt-

Everything becomes muted, the strange feelings that aren't his falling away as though a blanket has been thrown over them.

The man speaks to him again, but he does not see him, no matter how wildly he looks around. "Think, child. He will not survive if you lash out wildly. He'll fly to you, and he will fall."

The child squeaks at that, scrubbing at tired eyes to see the one who always comes for him, no matter what. It's not so much as though the words make sense, entirely. It's more like he can see it, in his mind, what the man means. He shudders. There is fear again, but it is his, and it is familiar.

"What will you do, youngling?"

He looks around. Last time, there had been something. He touched the robe of the dead man, a flash of red and- Something caused it. Now, the child doesn't exactly understand cause and effect, but he feels things, knows what evil feels like.

He closes his eyes and all the feelings flow in again, both his and not. It hurts but it isn't his. He tries to push it back, to figure out where it comes from. It makes him tired to do so, and as if it knows that, it tells him he should sleep but that is not what he wants, either, it's just too-

The sound of contact draws his attention outward. The Mandalorian tangles with the beast, grunting in pain, jetpack firing loud as he does his best to evade the creature's talons and teeth mid-air, trying to get to him. It happens again and again, the Mandalorian fighting like desperately to keep the giant beast away from him. To keep him safe.

An echo of the man's voice - the one who has been talking to him this whole time - seems to remind him that this isn't a fight his protector can win. There is a sense of urgency here, he has to move quickly if either of them are to succeed. The dragon is drawn to the place he stands in, a ring of dried sweetgrass stamped flat and wove into a curved barrier. He does not know what is beside him, but he senses life within the withering, spiny husks. He senses their pain, their fear, too.

They are trapped, like he is, forced to feel something that isn't theirs, either. But they cannot move. He can. He pats the shells as he moves through the nest, as if to give comfort, to reassure as he passes.

At the center, there is something red trapped beneath scales and straw. He feels the pull of the stone and crystal, feels the cold tendrils of hate and bitterness. He does not like it. It is not his. He does not feel this way.

"What will you do?" The man asks him, almost curious as to his choice.

The child bends, picking up the object with both hands. He screams, pained, but he does not close his eyes. The wind seems to pick up of its own volition, as if sensing some kind of disruption and pushing back. Despite it, child pushes on to the end of the nest, careful not to touch the strange artifact to any of the eggs, eyes narrowed in distrust, open discontent.

The man watches him from a place beyond the physical realm, but not without concern, though he seems to want to hide it. The child can feel it, just like everything else, all around, both his and not his, good and evil and loud.

He looks over the edge of the platform, scrambling over the limits of the nest, holding the relic over the edge of the abyss. It tells him not to let go, tries to push him to leap with it, to submerge himself in the feelings it's trying to press upon him. He does not understand it all, but he understands the intent, what it wants. To consume. To take. To hurt.

Whomever designed this relic must not have anticipated a child. He does not want power. He wants safety, to feel protected. To protect his own. Love. He does not desire independence or power, is not greedy or selfish in ways that matter to the ones who left this item here once before, be it to test or recruit or lead astray.

"I see," The man rumbles, though to the child it sounds like approval. He doesn't have to gesture for the child to get the idea, it's as if he's barely there at all. "Well?"

The relic falls from his tiny fingers, squealing - though perhaps it’s only heard in the child’s mind. The ornamentation dents and falls away as it bounces off sharp protrusions of unforgiving stone. The wind squalls and lifts him up, up into the air, vengeful, but then something shatters below and the wind disappears as unnaturally as it had come. The effort he's exerted hits him full force and doesn’t realize that he's falling.

He hears the scrape of claws against metal then arms that wrap around him, tight and strong and true.

The man who helped him chuckles, and this he hears most assuredly in his mind, over the sound of the Mandalorian shouting for him, trying to make sure he’s alright. "Your buir cares about you very much, verd'ika. Try not to worry him so much, hm?"

Chapter Text

Din spins fast, shoulder and back hitting the wall of stone, cutting the power to his jetpack to forego burning himself as he does. The flame emitted by the propulsion unit isn't enough to burn through beskar, but it is enough to burn the places between his armor, and he's had enough of being injured for one day.

The child is limp, sweat on his brow, tunic torn, but he breathes easy, eyelids fluttering as the Mandalorian cycles his pack and breaks their fall. Above him, the dragon rests protectively over her nest, blinking down at him with a sudden lack of ferocity. She chitters and calls out in a question, almost sounding forlorn. Her head tilts and she huffs, not advancing upon him as he returns himself and his ward to the narrow path he'd started on.

He hears the sound of crackling, and then more, softer whines. The large creature rises, carefully moving around her clutch of hatching young. He freezes when she cranes over the gap, a testament to her size. She huffs once more, shaking her head as if to relay concern for the child in his arms.

This, if it’s not too good to be true, might be the only thing that’s gone their way today. The Mandalorian will take it (albeit warily and with a grain of salt). The creature dips her head and he tries not to step back while still holding the child as protectively as possible. It does not seem to want to harm them, but it is still a wild animal. She blinks at them for a long moment.

Then, the child opens his eyes. Regardless of the threat before him, the Mandalorian's gaze is drawn down, down to the tiny fingers that curl possessively around one of his own. The child looks exhausted but does not indicate any injuries as he shifts about. His grip on the boy is tighter than usual, but the child doesn’t fight it (thankfully). He does reach a hand out to the dragon though, and that is insanely alarming, because the beast looks though she intends to allow his touch.

She does almost exactly that, raising her head. The bony, rust colored surface beneath her maw gives away a hint of sapphire, a metallic, out-of-place blue accompanied by the jangle of chain.

It's a collar, he realizes, as the child - seemingly unaware of himself, eyes barely open - uses his latent abilities to relieve her of it. He's murmuring something, practically unconscious, though not in the same way as he had been before. Before slipping out of awareness entirely, he pulls the item on the chain toward them with his powers, yielding a strange medallion of some kind. It looks decades old. Din catches it gingerly as the boy's hand falls, squeezing him against his chestplate tightly, both arms barred by one of his own, just to be safe. Nothing malevolent happens. He exhales a breath he’d deny having been holding in relief.

There is an emblem pressed upon the drive, chipped and worn, something circular, with a sword of some kind rising up in the middle, almost recognizant of the path up between the mountains. He looks back up. The dragon grunts, carefully slinking back over her nest, wings settling protectively around still-hatching young, turning her back to them completely.

She does not turn when the Mandalorian activates his jetpack, nor does he look back at her as he rises, pulling his mostly dry cloak over the child to shelter him from the coming storm. He's not walking back. After the day they’ve had, he’s decided he’s never coming back here again.

-/

They make it to camp an hour later, both of them soaked to the bone. He decides he's done with rainy planets, as soothing as rain on durasteel might be for sleeping, he's ready for sand and heat. He's willing to bet the child is as well.

Speaking of, the child is groggy and faded, clutching to him like he's a lifeline, grip hard on his fingers, then his cloak when he'd turned him to be better protected from the elements. If being wet bothers the boy, it's only for the chill. He manages to start a fire with the kid lying on the bunk, mostly asleep, and heats enough water for them both to scrub down before closing up the hatch and enacting ground security protocol just in case.

He plans to take care of himself first, the water is scalding and he'd rather be done by the time he wrangles the little one into his basin of bathwater. It's a quick, efficient thing, and he slips into the fresher long enough to take care of his hair and face before returning to their main living space.

The child is rubbing his eyes blearily when the Mandalorian looks over to him next. The boy sits on the edge, not trying to get down, as if waiting for permission to come. When he thinks his guardian isn’t looking he looks at his hand in concern, flexing and releasing, curling his fingers into a tiny fist.

It's strange, one moment the child is so alert and perceptive, his awareness practically other-worldly, and then there are times like now when he realizes despite all that, at his core, the boy is simply a child. A child he knows nearly nothing about, other than that he is special. Can do special things. And, as a result, it seems he is similarly impacted by specific things others would not be.

He had always assumed the child would be weak to weapons, physical attacks, not… mental ones. It was clear whatever that was, when he touched the amulet, it was designed to attack him, possess him somehow? Why would a group of sorcerers target their own kind, exactly?

It doesn’t make sense at all.

He shakes his head, trying not to think any more about it. Not now. He doesn't want to deal with anything that’s happened - he’s not sure he’ll be able to, frankly - until both of them rested, gathered their bearings. It's for the best.

Well, there is one thing he has to handle. Arguably the most important of the issues, as it were, but it’s the easiest on the list, which surprises no one more than him. He moves slowly across the hold, coming to a stop just before the child. He tilts his head, and unbeknown to the child, one of his eyebrows rises in a silent question. He offers both his hands to the little one, a role reversal of sorts.

I want to pick you up, this gesture says, without saying anything at all.

The child looks up at him, in surprise and a bit of discomfort. He wonders if the kid knows what happened, and it hits him that he hopes the child does not. He doesn’t want the kid to have that memory. The child keeps looking back to his hand, though, but the Mandalorian realizes that there’s ichar on it. The child had killed that rat-thing. Several rat-things, as it were, but only one seemed to be mauled by the child’s blunted nails.

“Were you scared?” He asks, lifting the child carefully when he is not given permission, but is not turned away. The boy frowns, not making a sound, not fighting him either. His unspoken answer is an emphatic yes. At least, that’s what Din thinks.

He goes through the usual routine to bathe the child, removing his clothes, testing the water to make sure it’s neither boiling or freezing, carefully easing the boy in. Instead of allowing him time to splash around and tire himself out, the Mandalorian goes right for the soft flannel he uses to wash him and begins with the hand he can’t seem to look away from, the one that had clenched and sealed off his guardian’s throat in a vice grip with his sorcery then used to defeat a foe bodily. He knows which one bothers the child more, though. He is far smarter than the average child has any right being, a privilege of his physical age.

“There are ways to strengthen your body, so there must be ways to strengthen your mind,” The Mandalorian murmurs, wiping away the gore. “I’m sure your people know ways, they’ll teach you.”

The child’s ears droop.

He pretends not to notice, if only not to have to consider what that might mean. The child watches him carefully, pliant and agreeable instead of his usual flailing and screeching. “But, you did well. You got one of those rats with these,” He indicates the claws, pushing one finger down against the child’s palm and they curl over his finger reflexively.. “Your mind is strong, kid, but it’s not the only tool you have. Don’t, uh,” He sets the flannel aside for an equally soft towel to dry the kid with, “Don’t forget that.”

They both pointedly ignore the data-drive sitting beside his armor in the bunk, the Mandalorian settling the child - now washed and dressed once more - against his chest to breathe quietly into his collarbone. He won’t eat anything, not tiny morsels of bread or meat, not even a larger hunk of the loaf that would normally have him crowing with delight.

Eventually, a hand touches the skin of his neck, not quite at his adam’s apple, but it’s the child who flinches at the feeling of him swallowing beneath his fingers.

“I’m fine,” He says aloud. Gruffly. In case it needs to be said.

Not even such assurances persuade the child to eat, nor him attempting to hand feed the baby rather than press small pieces into his hands. If the child were hungry, the Mandalorian supposes, he’d eat by the fourth or fifth attempt in as many minutes. Instead, he doesn’t show any signs of moving from his place, face pressed against his shoulder.

“Alright,” He says, giving up. “I’ll eat, then.”

He’s not expecting a reaction, so the lack thereof doesn’t put him out. Instead of preparing additional food for himself, he’ll eat what the child will not. The child doesn’t flinch when the blanket is draped over him entirely, though the Mandalorian can tell from his idle motions, the quickness of his breaths, that the baby does not sleep. It would be easier if he did, it wouldn’t make the Mandalorian feel the prickle of concern that he does when he pulls off his helmet. The child freezes at the sound, but stays still and his Guardian’s free hand comes up to stroke the back of his head through the fleece.

“I’m trusting you not to look,” He tells the child, who likely has no idea of the significance of his words. This child is a part of his clan, and despite what’s happened today, he feels it’s important to remind them both that he trusts him. Besides, if the child were to make a move to potentially see him, it would be easy to stop him with a touch of his hand. Despite this, he doubts it will be necessary. The child is subdued. His voice is gritty and rough without the vocoder to enhance it, but he gives the instruction anyway. “Stay just like this, ad’ika.”

The familiar term of endearment makes the child melt in obvious relief, little fingers kneading the material of his threadbare undershirt, blinking silently into the darkness created by the blanket draped over him. Above, his guardian eats slowly. The ration is not the most delicious food he’s ever had - certainly captured game would be better - but he’s famished from the day’s adventure. He finishes what he’d pulled out for the child, and then another protein ration more.

When he’s had his fill, he replaces his helmet and rises. Carefully, he cradles the child with the length of his forearm, hand resting on the little one's head. He could lay the child down in his own corner of the bedding, but the thought passes in a matter of seconds. The child's not moving. Would he? Surely if the Mandalorian dictated it. It's obvious the child expects it, if the way he tenses is any indication.

So instead, the Mandalorian toes off his boots and lays back onto the futon without relinquishing his grip. The child exhales, heavy, and forces himself to let go once the Mandalorian lays back. It feels like a pit opens in his belly - the Mandalorian's, not the child - to allow him to move away. It's very clear what the child needs, having had a tumultuous day. His protector is able to channel his emotions into training and shooting and labor should they threaten to overtake him. The child's options are significantly more limited.

He waits, letting the child scoot over to his corner, curl himself into a tiny ball. The ship's night cycle has only just begun - it's actually rather early for either of them to be laying down for the night, come to think of it - but the Mandalorian remains silent, willing his breaths to become slow and even as though he's fallen asleep.

The first hiccough and sob comes moments after the child is tricked into believing he's asleep, the little one worming his way beneath his blanket to muffle the sound. Considerate, but at this point the child's self-imposed solitude just eats at him. The kid has been alone long enough. He can't let the kid carry on like this. Not for something that wasn't his fault.

And he stands by that. If the kid was to blame, he’d talk to him, even if he doesn’t understand the kid’s powers himself. There was just something not right about that cavern, something chilling and creepy: which means a lot, coming from him. The kid wouldn't hurt him on purpose, he reminds himself, and feels awful for doing it. It had something to do with that red and black talisman. It did something to him. Was that something terrifying? Yes. Was the Mandalorian afraid of the child, in that moment? …Yes, he realizes. He was.

The child's powers… he is powerless against them.

And it only furthers the point that the child must be kept safe from those who would exert their cruel motives, their own agendas upon him. The child deserves the chance to make his own choices, good or bad. That is why he has to find his people. He needs to grow up with people who can help him resist such things. What good is he, telling the kid to stop? How does he reach through all that?

He can't. He doesn't have those mind powers, he's sure as hell no sorcerer. Thinking like this only makes him feel as powerless as the child does, so he forces himself to stop. He has to focus on what he can do. It's how they've made it this far.

The child cries on in the dark. It continues to chip away at his resolve, which was admittedly weak to start with, but there’s something he can’t abide in the child’s shuddering breaths and tragic sobs.

"Alright," He finally exhales into the dark, turning on his side to face the child's back. He's already reaching for the boy as he murmurs, "Come here." The child stays rigid, but he’s no match for his guardian and protector who scoops him up and turns him around, pulling him into an embrace that’s sorely needed at this point.

As if realizing he has the Mandalorian’s permission, the boy sobs louder. Louder than he had, months before, when he'd been injured. If the Mandalorian hadn't known what the child had been through (at least, somewhat, he reasons) today, he'd have thought the child to be nursing some horrific injury. He hadn’t seen one, but-

Wait. Was there some mental injury? Is that a thing with these Jedi?

Panic jolts him just enough to sit up, bringing the kid with him. It has him toggling the lights, brightening them just enough to see.

"Kid?" He holds the child out at arm's length. The boy keeps crying, harder now. "Hey," He brings him closer to his visor. "Hey!" He barks, voice sharp with concern. "I need you to look at me."

How the hell does he even tell if the kid is? Babies - age aside - are pretty resilient, right? He refuses the urge to sigh and looks over the kid. He'd been pretty despondent, but he was reacting alright enough to stimuli.

The child kicks it down a notch, looking at him with teary eyes, sniffling, but he listens well enough.

"Are you hurt?" He asks, not sure how else to phrase the question, making sure to keep eye contact as best he can, considering his obvious limitations. The child has never had issues with it before. He doesn't have a problem managing it now, either.

He taps the child's forehead, as soft as he can. "Here? Did…" He trails off, not sure how to proceed, or if the child will understand what he asks, anyway. It comes out in a messy admission. Just, "I need to know that you're okay."

The kid is curled up, almost in the fetal position, scrawny legs drawn up to his chest, arms curled together, over his necklace once more. Come to think of it, the child hadn't let him remove the necklace when he was bathed, either. He can imagine the kid curled around his pendant, and though he can't say for certain, he's got a feeling the child is waiting to be rejected. It's - he's projecting, but -

It's a feeling that he remembers with such stark clarity that he knows immediately why this whole thing riles him so. The kid might not remember what he did, or maybe he does, but honestly does it even matter? More than likely, the kid knows something happened and it was wrong and now he thinks - because he's a foundling, that's how they think, he would know -

The protectiveness that blooms in his chest is undeniable, stronger every second he spends with the kid. He'd thought that earlier might have soothed his fears, told him everything's alright, but the day’s likely been a blur for the kid, and he’s seen what happens when the child uses his powers. No doubt there’s been a lot of that today. That the kid is even conscious is improvement enough, he probably doesn’t realize everything that’s going on. Still, the kid needs reassurance, so they’re going to have to talk it out, both now and probably come first light.

He gives in to a sigh, crosses his legs at the ankles and sets the child in the ridge they make, fingers threading together behind the boy's back to keep him upright.

"Let's get a few things straight," He says, willing his voice to be steady. "Until we figure out where you belong, it's you and me, kid. We're a clan, remember?"

It's unsettling - both humbling and empowering all at once - the way the child looks at him. It's as though he holds the sun. It's not - he doesn't deserve this, half of the kid's problems are a result of what he's done. A shaky left hand pats a knobby right shoulder, the child recognizant of where the beskar pauldron would be on the Mandalorian it he'd been wearing it himself. Maybe the child does get it, sort of. The kid has definitely heard him say something about it, at least once.

"You do," The Mandalorian says, swallowing. "Good. That's good." The tears are mostly done now. "Clans are like families. So I look out for you, got it? No matter what."

The child points at him and waves his hands, gesticulating. It's crude, but the Mandalorian gets the picture.

"Yes, even so. You've saved me twice, we'll call it even." More than, really.

The child chirps, still sounding rather sad, and points at him some more. Then points at himself, then waves his hand out, away from them almost in a defensive arc, as if to push something away.

"You're the child here. I'm supposed to be protecting you." He feels like he's voiced that before. Recently.

The child blows a raspberry at that, disagreeing. Then, he squeaks, as if remembering he's supposed to be miserable.

"That's what you want to argue about, huh?" He keeps his tone playful. Teasing. It's hard to keep up, emotions - his and the child's - all over the place. "Fine," He says. "We can look out to each other, but I call the shots." He holds out both hands to the kid. "Now c'mere."

The kid looks at him, woefully confused. It’s the second time he’s done this, but this time it’s clear they’re not getting up.

"You know what a hug is," He grouses, voice rough through the vocoder mod, the eye roll just barely noticeable for the wryness of his tone. "Get over here."

The child gets.

Chapter Text

From the time he was a child, even before his parents were taken from him by war and destruction, Din Djarin knew life wasn't fair. He'd lost so much to get where he was now. How far was this from the life his parents wanted for him, he had wondered, many times, in the dark of the night.

Now, when the thought crosses his mind, he stops before he considers the answer. Not because it is too difficult or he doesn't want to, but because he realizes that his parents may have had different hopes and dreams for him, but in the end and overall, they were rooted in the same things.

The same things he wants for the little one snoring into his chest.

Safety. Happiness. Something better than this.

When he twitches, the Mandalorian's hand stills. He shushes the boy with a reminder of his presence, a brush of fingers against the soft fuzz of a wrinkled forehead. It's easy to do. He doesn't even have to think about it, already returning his hand to the child’s back, lost in his thoughts once more. It's instinct, part of it, but the other part is trusting the kid, and trusting himself. That's why he knows the boy needs to be on his chest, instead of tucked into the crook of his arm. So when he inevitably wakes, the child sees him first, feels his heartbeat second, and knows he's safe and sound.

That selfish feeling of wanting to hold onto this child rears its head something fierce in moments like these, when all he can hear is the child's breathing and the sound of his own heartbeat, loud in his ears. Part of him hates himself for it, because he'd never wanted this. This wasn't in the cards, he'd never desired a partner, he was content to provide for the foundlings from afar, to fund their upbringing. He was such an awkward child, and even know he knew his social skills were significantly stilted.

It's the product of war, of fighting and fighting and fighting. For peace. For freedom. For things that mean nothing.

For this, the tiny soul clenching his hand, someone who blindsided him - flipped the whole galaxy on his axis. This little one who means everything.

He doesn't hate himself for wanting it. He hates that he realizes it's an excuse because of his own awkwardness and self-doubt. He isn't the galaxy's best guardian. He doesn't think he'd ever be the best. His lifestyle certainly isn't ideal, but… he tries. And the kid likes him well enough (he pushes away the thought that it's only because he's the one who the kid's been stuck with, that isn't the point right now).

But it's selfish of him to want to keep the child. He needs to be around others like him, have a family that can support him throughout his lengthy lifespan. The Mandalorian cannot give that to him. He does not want to live forever, he is content with what time he's been given, with the knowledge that he's cheated death a time or two more than most. But if it was for the kid, if he had the choice, he knows - blindly, irrationally, he knows - he'd do it.

But life is not fair, and he will not be granted the choice. Best to cut the cord sooner, give the child room to grow and forget him, than to leave him alone and defenseless. He thinks about this often, trying to face his emotions lest they blindsided him once again. It works a little, but it doesn't stop him from foolishly wanting something he cannot have.

The boy is a Jedi, he tells himself, as he has a thousand times before. He cannot be a Mandalorian.

-/

The child is thrilled to see the stars again. The Mandalorian is not similarly enchanted. Instead, his focus lies with setting a course for a fueling station out of the way, big enough to slip in and out of without anyone asking questions. With their course locked in, he pulls the medallion-like drive from their pursuits the day before from a pouch on his belt.

The child perks, recognizing it. He clambers over to the Mandalorian's seat, pulling himself up onto his guardian's lap. It doesn't take much fussing about to reveal the holodisc inside the medallion, and even less still for it to communicate with the old ship. Somehow he doubts it's a coincidence as he tucks the child against him carefully. Just to be safe.

Amidst static, a man who is humanoid but not human begins to speak with a rough voice, mildly accented. He does not belong to the child's race by a long shot. That doesn't entirely surprise the Mandalorian, but in some ways, he feels like it should have.

"I apologize for the test," The man says. "It was a necessary precaution. The artifact you encountered would sway a corrupted heart and you would have been lost before you ever received this token. And yet, I-I was not certain your ward would be able to access a Holochron."

He pauses, as if to collect his thoughts, and the Mandalorian catalogs the word 'Holochron' for later research. "I do not have much time left." He sighs, his I apologize that I will not be able to answer your questions, Mandalorian-"

Said Mandalorian sucks in a breath so that it doesn't become a gasp. They're sorcerers, he reminds himself, apparently they just know things-

"The Empire has seen to the end of the Jedi, made us the villains to hide their treachery. By the time you-" The man coughs, and though the projection is tinted blue, the Mandalorian recognizes blood seeping from a massive wound in the man's side, the way he wipes it from his mouth with a shaking hand. The projection shakes his head. "There will be none of the old order left. It will take what I have left to leave you this message."

"Eeeeh?"

"Yeah," He agrees, equally as slow. "That doesn't sound good."

"I've given you coordinates-" He's rambling, trembling now. "The child's kind - they were strong with the force, wise and rare. It was their strength and their destruction. Only he remains. A prize to some, a trophy to others, and a tool to those who seek to further their cause," The message hisses with static. "Go to the coordinates I've left. It should be safe there," He coughs again with a bloom of static, "-have some of the answers you seek."

The Mandalorian can hear the alarming sound of the man's death rattle between words, but he's too busy trying to process what's been said to consider how truly close to death the Jedi was, making this recording.

"May the force be with you."

There’s a burst of static before the holodisc cuts out, and both he and the child blink at the blank space where the projection had been. The child slowly swivels his head back, ears rising and falling, half cocked as he blinks upward at his Guardian. The Mandalorian looks down at his charge.

The child's ears twitch, and a clawed hand curls into the fabric of his unarmored side.

"That's a lot to unpack," The Mandalorian comments mildly, almost for the child's sake. Almost. He's reeling. They'd been on this planet for months and some sorcerer just… knew they'd happen upon his message. Knew it would be a Mandalorian who would make sense of it all. Did they see him, or something? How does that even work? Did they have visions? That seemed in the realm of possible - and not in the kind of possible aided by spice. Mind powers, visions… they seem in the same league of abilities, all things considered.

Which, considering, he pulls the medallion that the holodisc came from off the dash of the ship, searching it both inside and out. It's chipped and scratched. The Mandalorian scans it with some assistance from his helmet when a physical inspection comes up short. Nothing. No coordinates. It's just some banged up tin in faded blue and white.

He looks down at the boy again, then offers him the medallion on a whim. Maybe he'll know what to do. Maybe his powers can activate it, or something. The child takes it, turning it over in his hands, scrutinizing it carefully. Then, maintaining eye contact with his guardian, the child holds it over the armrest of the pilot's seat and lets it drop to the floor, rolling away with a clatter.

The Mandalorian tilts his head.

"Beh," The child says, frowning. His tiny hands go to his necklace, pulling out the charm and putting it in his mouth as if he's trying to make a statement.

"Oh-kay," Din drawls, and lets the subject drop.

-/

He listens to the recording again once the child is asleep for the night, bent over, elbows on the control panel, fingers steepled in like they'd outline the bridge of his nose if he were without the helmet. Even with the child asleep and this being but a mere projection, he would not take off the helm to listen to it. It just didn't feel right.

It plays on a loop. Each time, he listens and hears more. The sound of breath with broken ribs, the way the wind whips amidst the static, almost as if there's another voice present. And then, the words.

"The Empire has seen to the end of the Jedi."

He pauses, leaning back in the chair, pulling out a datapad and trying the holonet. The Jedi don't exist there. There's nothing good or bad. It's as if they never existed. They've been around for a while, according to the armorer. Why would ancient history be erased?

He continues listening.

"There will be none of the old order left."

He's beginning to suspect there's something hidden in the message. The wording is strange. Going on what Peli had said, months back, about her child, and now this other sentient species, and his words on the kid's species - he'll contemplate that in a moment - the Jedi themselves aren't a race at all. They're like the Mandalorians, but with a different creed, perhaps? It makes the most sense.

There was an old order, it was wiped out, but perhaps there is a new one? But where? Is that where these coordinates - however the hell he's supposed to figure those out, assuming the geezer didn't croak before he had a chance to leave them - were supposed to lead?

It's all just more questions. He resists the urge to growl and continues on.

“They were strong with the force, wise and rare. It was their strength and their destruction."

What is the force, the Mandalorian wonders. He gets the wise part. Something about still being an infant after fifty years suggests a long life, and the kind of wisdom afforded to demigods. He's met long-living sentients before, and known they looked at someone with a gaze that knew far more than they let on. The child's gaze isn't like that - not yet - but he knows more than the average infant. It's obvious, to him, at least. Perhaps force was the term for his abilities?

"Only he remains."

The Mandalorian stops the recording. He knows the rest. He knows the threats against the boy, knows there are supposedly coordinates to a place of indeterminate danger - the words 'should be' are code for ‘definitely not’ in his book.

He’s not surprised that the child is the last of his people. Considering how long they stay children, mortality rates must be high, especially in this tumultuous galaxy full of war and chaos. But if there is a new order of Jedi, and this child - his child - is the last of his people and his people followed that path, he must find and return him to them in their place. The plan doesn’t change, unless the man’s posturing was just embellishment. He will find out soon enough. If there are Jedi out there in the galaxy, he’s got the right skillset to find them.

And if there are not… he refuses to think about it. He will not allow himself to hope for such foolish, selfish things. He will stay in the moment. He must.

For his own sake.

Chapter Text

This refueling station isn't his favorite place to stock up on supplies. If he were solo - if he could trust the child not to let himself out of the ship or attempt to fly it away - it would have been preferred. At present, it's a nuisance. The child is curious, dangerously so, and unafraid because he feels protected. Meanwhile, the Mandalorian has had to tell fifteen different sentients of at least six different species that he would not sell him this 'prized specimen' for their lunchtime meal while the child blows raspberries and chirrups over everything that glints and gleams in the dusty, stagnant tradehub.

They need supplies. He needs work. Light work, specifically. Solo gig. Meager pay’s fine. Thus, he ends up in front of a display of odd jobs. Neither the New Republic or the Bounty Guild’s reach seems to extend this far. The kid seems entranced by the projection - it’s in color, not the solid blue tinge that his datapad has, being old and in need of an upgrade. He’ll take the few moments he can get to plot their next course of action while the kid gums at his cloak and squawks over the fluorescents.

Most of the jobs listed are sentry duty or escorts: seems about right, smuggled goods normally come from ridiculous spaceports out of the way. He can’t bring the kid and he can’t leave him, either. That’s out. Per usual, the Mining Guild wants security details - because there isn't a rock in this Galaxy they don’t think they own in some capacity. He’s too big of a target, and there are too many Imperial sympathizers amidst their ranks. Pass.

The kid becomes antsy after about two minutes of him evaluating prospective work opportunities, squirming.

"Stop," He urges the child, bouncing him on his hip. The child doesn't, worming his way up to the Mandalorian's shoulder and squeaking indignantly when the Mandalorian plucks his tiny-fingers off the side of his helmet. "Behave, ad'ika," He murmurs, in that deep rumble that expects both compliance and relays hidden affection all at once.

The child yields to him, half chastised and half soothed by the gloved thumb that runs over the top of his small hand in a wordless thanks. His ears still perk and drop, head swiveling to and fro as if looking for something.

"Well," The Mandalorian decides, after a moment, "Looks like we're going after a smuggler who didn’t make right with his partners. Won't pay much, but it should cover fuel and food for a while."

If the child cares, he doesn't indicate as much, looking over Din's shoulder. Unprompted, he squeals happily, wiggling some more. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the child waving at someone.

He turns slowly but there's no one there. This portion of the spaceport is far quieter than the rest of it. It’s shaded by the main spire of the What has gotten into you, he wonders silently, grunting as he shifts his weight to keep the child from falling. The child laughs on, still wiggling.

He returns his gaze to the board, and this time, he pays attention.

Footsteps. Light and quick. Young or small, he thinks. They bump into the crates stacked up outside a nearby alley. Both, the Mandalorian revises, hearing a childish gasp and giggle. He sees a shock of emerald green hair poke out from around one of the lower crates.

But before the little stalker can peek out entirely, an old astromech droid is pulling what is definitely a child away by the collar of his jacket, bumbling something that sounds rather annoyed. Not that Din really knows much about what droids perceive feelings-wise.

Head tucked beneath his chin now, his little one gurgles something cheery and waves to the green-haired boy as he tries to drag his feet with little success.

The other child - who looks both human and not - stops his whining argument with the droid ("I felt something weird, I had'ta check it out-"), raising his own hand in a wave, face splitting into a wide, boyish grin. "Bye!" He hollers.

The Mandalorian doesn't move, waiting for the child's reaction, hoping it doesn't trend toward tears. He's rewarded, it does not. The little one blinks a few times after the boy and his droid have gone around the corner and back into the main drag of the spaceport, then, his little arm drops back to the Mandalorian's vambrace.

"Let's get the intel so we can go," He tells the child and receives a coo in reply. The little one still looks back in the direction the other kid had gone, and the Mandalorian is reminded that he hasn't had anyone of real interest to play with since Sorgan, all those months ago.

He doesn't dwell on it for long though, he has other things to concern himself with. The downside of taking the child with him to collect the puck is that he's knowingly exposing a weakness. He's used to the child's weight on his hip now and refuses to carry the boy around in some sort of papoose with others around. He's a warrior, not a nanny, but having a child in his arms certainly won't be convincing.

The upside is that the cantina he needs to visit to pick up the bounty info just so happens to dead. Not many people at the watering hole, though he does spot the green-haired boy from earlier nestled between the droid and a Twi'lek.

As if sensing them, the boy swivels in his stool at the bar, perking immediately. He tugs on the Twi'lek's arm and the woman turns, looking down to him and it makes sense, he realizes, why the boy didn't seem entirely human. The pale green color of the woman's skin and the prominent (and exotic) coloring of the boy's features suggest she's his parent. Huh.

"I take it this the friend you were trying to make when you ran off earlier?" She asks the boy, with a welcoming smile in their direction. Her brows dip and her smile shifts to something knowing when she looks back at her son. “I don’t think he’s old enough to play with you.”

“But Mama, I-”

One of the Twi’lek’s eyebrows rises, and her eyes narrow. “Yes, I’m sure you had a great reason,” She drones, exasperated. “Which is why you’re pulling the ‘mama’ card, mister ‘I’m-too-old-for-that.’”

The boy flushes and shrugs, trying for his winningest smile. It seems the mother is unfortunately immune, and the droid snarks something in its native language that the Mandalorian ignores, sidling up to the cantina bar and its only visible worker.

The mother rubs her temples as the Mandalorian deposits the child on the other side of her, leaving a chair in-between. The boy takes it as an invitation to switch to the chair on the other side of his mother, but that wasn’t the Mandalorian’s intent. It was more due to the fact that the actual bar itself isn’t all that big. Really, he doesn’t want to entertain discussion, and he's not big on socializing. He just wanted to get the child something to eat (and distract him) while he collects the intel on his bounty, and then they’re out. While he’s relatively certain any remnants of Gideon’s men aren’t actively looking for him, considering his extended time off the grid, he still feels the weary paranoia that comes with being followed. It’s a survival sense that feels like a noose around his neck but chronically saves him.

“I’ll watch him while you conduct your business,” The mother comments, when he lingers behind the chair he sets the kid on, ordering him bone broth with a polite-enough bark. “Seeing as my kid’s obviously smitten-” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly at her son who is laughing, cooing back at his kid.

“You’re a hunter?”

She laughs, stretching in her seat like she’s at home, and not in a seedy cantina just this side of unknown space. “Not so much. Just recognize one when I see them.” She tips her head back, chin jutting towards a dark booth in the corner where two others sit, faces shadowed. “Used to work with the one with the horns. He’s harmless, intel’s usually good. Used to smuggle for him on a planet called Lothal.”

Weighing his options, he decides it wouldn’t be any worse than letting the barkeep keep an eye on him, and it’d probably cost less, too. “I won’t be more than a few minutes, and I'll compensate you for your trouble.” He rests a hand on the child’s head, but the little one is too busy blabbering baby nonsense to the older boy. He tilts his head towards the Twi’lek. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” She agrees, much to the consternation of the droid beside her. She pats his head in a placatitude that seems to offend more than anything. “Hush, Chopper. It’s only for a few minutes and he’ll be right back to bothering you.”

The droid fusses and sighs, but doesn’t move over towards the kid, and that’s enough for him to nod and step back. The child pauses, looking up, and the warrior pats his head once. “No funny business, got it? I won’t be long.”

“Ahhh,” The kid says, and the boy beside him giggles like it’s the funniest thing ever said.

“Good,” He agrees, pulling credits from a pouch at his belt. She waves him off, instead.

"Entertaining my kid is payment enough, Mandalorian."

As he’s walking away, he sees the mother get up and move to the other side of the child, grabbing the too big spoon that comes in the broth delivered. Her boy grumbles about wanting to feed the child, but he’s thwarted by the wiser among them and redirected to the meal he’s forgotten in the meantime.

He does his best to keep them in eyeshot, but knows it’s a moot point when the only place left in the half-moon booth is with his back to the bar. It’s only a few minutes. He can multitask, he tells himself. The child isn’t that far away and the bar is empty. He can hear them carrying on from here. It’s fine. He waits for the trio carrying on about smuggling routes and goods to acknowledge his presence before he slides into the booth.

-/

The child is well behaved. Startlingly so for one so little, with beady eyes that meet hers with a sincerity that seems impossible for one of his age. Doesn’t mean he’s not a mess, or that she doesn’t have to pat his chin dry every few bites. Really, these cantinas aren’t equipped for young ones.

“That good?” She asks, leaning in as she coos at him. The child giggles and reaches toward her hand with the spoon. “You’ve got quite the appetite,” She laughs, looking over the boy to her own. “I remember when you were this little,” She tells the boy appreciatively. “You were never this good though.”

He puffs out his lower lip, pouting.

“Don’t give me that,” She says, spooning more food into the waiting child’s mouth. “You were barely a year old when you started pulling pranks with Chopper. Your aunt and uncles all have grays thanks to you.”

“Ba!” The child manages to grab the spoon with the Twi’lek distracted, dumping a spoonful half onto the hem of his frock and half onto the wooden seat.

“Not a word, Jacen,” She harrumphs, reaching for the napkin left by the barkeep. “You’re gonna make me into a liar,” She tells the child, conversationally. The child pats her cheek gently, latching onto one of her fingers when she pries his opposite hand from the spoon. “You know any words you can tell me?”

“Ah,” He says, pointing at his chest. “Ah!”

“Anything else?” She asks, ignoring her son’s commentary that that isn’t a word at all. “I bet,” She coos as the child pats his chest again, puffed up and smiling.

“Is that right?” The mother asks. She turns to see what the Mandalorian is up to, and it seems he’s still being looped in by the smugglers. They’re keen on someone tracking down a ‘partner’ who dipped out of a deal to keep profits. She wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what they’re regaling to him, based on the tone of their words.

“I like his helmet. It’s shinier than Aunt Sabine’s.” The boy leans back on two legs of the chair, pushing his feet against the underside of the bar, craning his head to get a better look at the back of the Mandalorian in the booth. When he wobbles, the droid scoots over and promptly rights his seat before he can fall back, grumbling his own thank you to himself in binary.

“Don’t let her catch you saying that,” She reaches out and grabs the bowl before the child can try to wear it in their distraction, regretting telling her son that this boy was easier than him. Kids were still kids, and they were even more difficulty when they were hungry. “And don’t lean back like that. Chopper’s not going to save you again.”

“I wasn’t falling,” He grumbles, tucking back into his meal for the umpteenth time. “I was fine.”

“Uh-huh,” She meets his gaze knowingly, then doles out another spoonful of soup. “What do you think, little one?”

The child isn’t paying attention, though, having turned back toward the open entry that steps up into the main drag of the trade-hub’s marketplace. His ears perk, bat-like and alert.

“Hey, kiddo, you okay?”

“Mama.” Her boy is clutching both hands against the lip of the bar, suddenly fearful. “I feel cold.”

“Like cold-cold, or cold-”

“Second one,” He murmurs. The little one puts a hand on the older boy’s arm, clawed fingers pushing against his skin gently. He shudders. “Wait,” Momentarily stunned, the boy looks at his new, smaller, greener friend. “Can you feel it, too?”

The child blinks at him, then looks over to the Twi’lek, then finally over at the Mandalorian.

“Guess not,” He muses softly at the lack of confirmation. Sadly. “I thought you might-”

Two shadows are cast over the entry, menacing and distorted by the lights that line the walkway outside.

“Keep eating,” The Twi’lek encourages. “Stay calm.” She looks over her shoulder, under the guise of checking on the Mandalorian, but really, she’s checking the newcomers. One male, one female, judging by body types. Both wearing black.

“Karabast.”

Green eyebrows creep up into the boy’s hairline. His bravado is gone, but still, incredulously, he says, “Mama, you said we weren't allowed to say-”

The sound of them behind him is menacing, a shift and two hands curling over the backrest of his stool. Beside the boy, the droid doesn’t dare move, though he’s tense - as much a droid can be tense - expecting a fight.

“I thought I sensed one,” The female comments, a cool edge to her voice, “But it seems like it’s our little day, isn’t it, brother?”

“Whatever you’re thinking,” She barks, loud enough to draw the attention of the booth in the corner, “You’re thinking wrong.” The Mandalorian’s blaster is trained on the man leaning toward her boy, the smugglers - Vizago and Hondo - slinking down lower, as if to hide. Figures, she thinks.

“We know what we sensed,” The male snarls, reaching for her son.

“Jacen,” She urges and warns, the meaning wrapped somewhere in the tone of her voice.

But before the man can grab on, both black-robed figures are on the other side of the room, pulling themselves out of a crater made in the duracrete walls. The little one is watching them with something akin to suspicion, ears flagging between curiosity and concern, a single hand outstretched, as if reaching out. He’s squinting, has not made a sound, tilting his head as he watches them shake the stars from their eyes and growl in anger. She looks to her boy and startles. Jacen is still frozen. He didn’t - he wasn’t-

She can process later. There’s more pressing matters at hand.

Like the tell-tale warging sound: Two of them, in near-perfect sync.

“Mama-”

She closes her eyes and removes her fingers from where they’re curled around her blaster. The Mandalorian is already firing at them, stepping directly in their path. The supernatural throw leaves him unphased. Plucking up the child, she wraps her other hand around her son’s arm, yanking him off the chair and towards Vizago, the other exit. “You have to go. Now.”

“Who are those guys? Why do I feel cold? Like-like-”

The droid beeps, pushing the boy while extending another arm, looking up to his master with a shake and blink. She hands him the baby, who squirms, blinking at her and then reaching towards the Mandalorian, worried now. “Spectre Three, take them and go. We’ll run a diversion and catch up. You know what to do.”

“But-”

“It’s going to be fine,” She tells her son, raising her blaster, eyes narrowing as she checks the far exit and positions herself to cover them. Then, recalling the group in the corner, she shouts, “He can’t take them alone. Vizago. Hondo. Get over here and help us out.”

“Hera, I don’t think-”

It doesn’t hold as much weight as it used to, but she hasn’t lost that edge to her voice, that rigidness in her tone. They’ll listen, she knows they will. “That’s an order!”

Chapter Text

The Twi’lek is shouting, but he can’t focus on her words, too busy trying to dodge the bolts that bounce back at him. They’re parried, bouncing against the red blade of an energy sword of some sort and flying back. There’s more blaster fire now, coming from his left, and he sees both children being ushered out by a droid, the woman using a table to shield them from both sight and deflected bolts.

“The kids-”

She nods, and there’s something steely about her now, the softness he’d seen in her originally falling away. “If that’s beskar, it’ll hold. Don’t let them hit you where there’s not,” She hollers over the sound of gunfire and the slashing of blades, ducking as a shot scorches the table she’s using as cover. “If they’re what I think they are, their lightsabers have two blades and spin,” She calls out as well.

“Someone knows their stuff,” The man comments, yellowed eyes narrowing. “Wait. Where’d the kids go?”

“I’m on it,” His partner calls, turning on her heel and taking off.

“Hondo-” Hera is cut off mid-order.

“Hondo is not chasing that woman. That woman would kill Hondo.”

Rolling her eyes, the Twi’lek scoffs. "Coward. Fine, I’ll do it. Mandalorian-”

The ceiling is too low for him to utilize his jetpack, he thinks, shooting twice before stepping behind the bar. He ducks, freeing his rifle from the strap on his shoulder, lining up his shot while the humanoid parries blows from the other side of the cantina. “I’ll go after them, right after-”

Din takes the shot. His aim is true, and their assailant is distracted: a perfect combination for his disruptor round to hit his mark. But then, it’s as if time stops. Before he’s able to feel the sickly dread creep up in his belly, almost too fast to be seen, the man brings up his other hand, the one not using the saber to deflect blaster bolts. The bullet stops, millimeters short of his palm.

The man smirks. Behind his helm, the Mandalorian’s eyes widen in fear. That’s the kid’s power. These people have the same powers as his kid. They’re Jedi?

“GET DOWN!”

The Twi’lek somehow manages to tackle him in time to prevent the shot from hitting both of them. He blinks the shock away along with the spots in his vision.

“Time to go,” She says, pulling him up in time to see the horned smuggler volley something at their enemy, then two more somethings, thrown underhand and allowed to bounce along the tiled floor of the cantina. They duck down again, in anticipation of the explosion.

It comes with a vengeance. The barkeep is still hidden behind the counter, bloodied and dazed. The Twi’lek apologizes, throwing him a pouch of credits that won’t be nearly enough to cover the damages, and looks immediately toward the exits. There’s alarms going off in the distance, no doubt whatever authorities this port has - likely droids, if he were to guess.

“We’re going,” The Devaronian murmurs, muffled by the smoke. “Hondo, let’s just go. You-” He points at somewhere that the Mandalorian is sure is meant to be him, but he emerges from the smoke hugging the wall versus the center of the room, the Twi’lek hot on his heels. “Forget the bounty. Stick with Hera.”

“Hera?”

“That’s me,” She says, pointing off in the distance where there are alarm-lights flashing. “See you two next time.”

“Hondo would almost say this was fun, but I am too old for this.”

“You and me both, buddy,” Comes the grunt of Vizago - the Devaronian - at his side. “This is why our types work alone.”

“No-no-no, Hondo is a pirate, and you-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” The horned smuggler says, unwilling to have the argument.

The Mandalorian’s jetpack roars to life - though it's deafened by his heartbeat pounding in his ears - and he kicks off. Below him the Twi’lek points in the direction she suspects they went in and darts over to cut through an alley, blaster at her side, almost hidden if not for her tense body language. Smart.

It’s easy to find them. The woman trailing them is being sneaky, not trying to create a fuss. It’s too bad. There’s about to be one. Jedi or not, instinct screams at him to get the boy away from these two, that they’re in danger. He can only imagine the woman - Hera - feels similarly, but he pushes those feelings away. He doesn’t have time for stress and worry. He has to put this threat down, find out what the hell it wants, what any of this means.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The black-robed woman croons to the children. “I just want to talk.”

He shoots at the space between her feet and she snarls, looking up at him with yellowed eyes and a severe expression, stringy hair slicked back.

“Step away from the kids,” Hera hollers, blaster raised. His kid doesn’t look scared, but the older one does. “They’re not yours to take.”

“Tell you what,” The woman rounds on her, away from the younglings. The droid beeps and pushes the bigger one, then all but drags him away as he had earlier. “I’ll let you keep yours. The green one - the all green one - is worth more to my master. Yours was just… a beacon. Reaching out, as he was.”

The words are on his tongue. No deal.

Hera gets there first. “Yeah, gonna have to pass on that, too. I know what your kind does to force sensitives.”

“You have no idea,” The other woman tosses back. “How could you? After all, your-”

The Twi’lek aims at the circular handle of the lightsaber, rather than the spinning blades, extended and spinning like a shield. The hardware is not resistant to blaster bolts like the blade is, and she screams, dropping the weapon and cradling her injured hand for just a second before thinking better of it and shoving her hand out.

“Mama!”

How the child moves isn’t human. It isn’t Twi’lek, either. He jumps over his droid, pushing his hands out and together in what seems like a ritualistic clap. The black-robed woman is thrown back by a targeted concussive force - the impact is focused at her head and neck, and the sound of bones breaking is audible - before harm can befall the elder boy’s mother. The boy’s target hits the durasteel decklates, twitching. Din has a feeling she won’t be getting up, but it’s clouded by the wispy feeling of mild shock. He’s also-?

Hera interrupts his line of thought, calling orders to her droid. “Chop, the ship. Now. Get them to the ship, now.” She pauses. Her tone eases to something more motherly, dropping the bite for just a second. “We’re right behind you.”

The Mandalorian looks at her, and they meet each other’s gazes in a nod. The other one swoops down from above, his lightsaber helicoptering and propelling him onward. He manages to dodge and kick his attacker in the back, but it’s not enough to land him. Instead, the Mandalorian charges the prongs on his amban rifle and shifts his weight.

The jolt is more surprising than it is damaging, but it’s enough to make the other man fumble his grip on the lightsaber. He pushes a hand downward to counter his fall, prevent it from harming him, and the last thing the Mandalorian sees is unnatural yellow eyes and a feral grin before he’s shoved back by the same powers he’s watched his small, fragile child wield for months now.

Some extra power to his jetpack counteracts the force exerted on him ever so slightly, and then, without warning, the power levied against him terminates abruptly.

The Twi’lek runs him through with his own accidentally discarded blade. “You alright?” She asks, deactivating and dropping the weapon with no small amount of disgust.

Din drops to the ground, cutting the fuel to his pack when he’s close enough to land nimbly. “Fine. The-”

The sound of an explosion, shouting and shooting cuts him off.

“Damn it,” The woman - Hera, he reminds himself, breaks out into a sprint. “Spectre Three, report!”

Incredulously, she growls, “Chopper, what do you mean you couldn’t get to the Ghost-”

They race around the corner and onto one of the outer edges of the port, lined with ships, and there are troopers… many of them sprawled out across the durasteel lined street. More, still, firing upon the Razor Crest... as its flight sequence starts?

“That’s my ship!” He exclaims, momentarily stunned.

She’s interrupted by blaster fire in her direction as a second ship looms low overhead, firing at the one down the way. “You stole-” Her brows pull up and her lips curl inward. “Yes,” She hisses, furious. “I see you. That’s a pre-imperial ship. I haven’t seen one of those in-” She looks to the Mandalorian when more Droid-speak cuts her off. “Okay. Jump as soon as you can, get to the rendezvous point and don’t be followed-” She growls. “Absolutely not. I-”

He puts the pieces together around the time he drags her back into cover with a rough grip on her forearm. “Did your droid just steal my ship?”

“My droid is saving our kids’ lives. Be grateful he didn’t blow it up.”

“What? Your droid took my kid.”

Ducking out of cover, Hera hollers, “Chop says your kid is the one who hand-waved the hatch open, so technically your kid took my kid, and my droid, AND your ship. Can we please argue about this later?”

He resists the urge to rub his temples - a metaphorical token of exasperation - and sighs. “Can that bucket of bolts even pilot a-” He’s silenced by a fierce green glare, fury and focus and mothering, a stark contrast from the gentle, encouraging woman previously before him. Din readies his rifle with a disintegrator round and fires into the mob of troopers instead of arguing. “Alright.”

“My ship is around the other side of the hub. Think you could give me a lift? Your ship doesn't have much for onboard blasters, and if they managed to get a tracker on the hull, the kids will be in trouble once they drop out. We need to be right behind them.”

It doesn’t strike him until they’re in midair and he’s streaking across the hub with this woman in his arms that there is a droid he doesn’t know piloting his ship. With the kid. And this lady’s kid. “Your droid is programmed with nurse-droid protocols, yes?”

“What?” She stares at him, her lekku swaying as they move. “Chopper’s an astromech unit. He can fly a ship. He’s not a nanny.”

“Will he harm the baby?”

“Is this the conversation you want to have while we’re being shot at?” She quirks an eyebrow and he doesn’t relent, even as she indicates her ship, down at the end of the row. Her timing is a touch off anyway, they haven’t been shot at in at least twenty seconds, the whipping wind picking up as they jettison across the port. “Look, he’s raised a couple kids,” She says, looking away. “He won’t harm yours. He's actually pretty good with babies.”

“I have an armory on that ship.”

“As I’m thinking you can tell,” She says, as they drop down in front of the lowering gangplank of her ship, “Neither of our children require conventional weapons. And my droid’s going to be more preoccupied with self preservation, so he will not be raiding your armory for a battle.” Quieter, she mumbles, “Not unless he’s feeling particularly ornery.”

“What was that?”

“Calm down, would you? It’s going to be fine.” He sets her down gently. It’s a contrast to how gruff he seems to be otherwise. “We just need to get rid of whomever those Inquisitors had following us.”

“Inquisitors? Those were Inquisitors?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s not actually annoyed with him. With such a young child, it’s doubtful he’s ever seen them before. “What did you think they were?”

“Jedi.”

The Twi’lek flinches, closing her eyes. She reaches blindly for the panel at the top of the hatch and it closes behind them. Dutifully, the Mandalorian follows her when she begins to move again.

“Those - with the red blades - they’re evil. The Jedi aren’t evil.”

Red, he thinks. Red, like the temple, like the talisman that caused the child's hands to close and invisible hands to wring his neck. “How do you know?”

“Because I know-” Her eyes flutter closed. The Mandalorian sees it: the sadness that layers her tone and weighs down her shoulders like it’s a tangible entity. “Knew Jedi.”

She leads him to a cockpit with four chairs, one with peeling paint, one less worn from lack of use, and the two in the front - captain and co-pilot - with crackled wear across the cushions.

“We’re going to be in hyperspace a while.” She toggles the startup sequence as if it’s second nature. He realizes it likely is. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the gaps, okay-” She blinks at him as they take off, and he looks back at her when he realizes her gaze hasn’t left him even as she programs their jump.

“What?”

“You know my name, it’s only fair that I know yours.”

“People call me Mando.”

Hera rolls her eyes. “You Mandalorians just love being difficult, don’t you?” He doesn’t budge, tilting his helm as she looks ahead, then back. “Really? Fine. Mando it is.”

Chapter Text

Hera runs a tight ship, the Mandalorian can tell. It's a large vessel, made for a crew. Lived in. She and her boy spend a lot of their time here. They likely live on the ship, he figures quickly. The place is clean despite its age and well looked after. He's contemplating asking her to contact her droid, to make sure that everything is alright aboard his ship, that the kid is okay, but-

She seems to have a sense for it, toggling the comms and contacting him securely.

"Chopper?"

The droid makes a couple of fussy beeps. They're subdued, a bit. More than they had been before things went sideways in the cantina.

"You don't speak binary, do you?" Hera asks, as if expecting tension to leech from his shoulders.

"No," He answers, voice rough and jagged.

She tips her head in a nod. "He-"

Static buzzes, and the Twi'lek's child interrupts, "Mama, he threw a whole platoon of scout troopers out of our way like they were nothing. I've never seen anything like it!"

"A whole platoon? I think you're embellishing, mister," She says, though it's gentle.

The droid must corroborate the kid's story though, because Hera leans back in surprise.

"He threw back the troopers and collapsed," She recounts, giving the Mandalorian a wary, reluctant gaze before rebuking her droid, "I thought you said he was sleeping!"

"He," The Mandalorian interjects without really thinking, "That's normal. If he does too much, it makes him tired." His tone is almost hedging. He wonders if that was a problem her child had, too, but doesn’t want to ask any more questions.

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "Your kid's done this before?"

"Only when there are lives in danger." He thinks of fire and feels the tingle of the since-healed injury to the back of his head and neck, but shakes it off imperceptibly.

After another series of droning beeps, Hera hums something approving to her droid and informs him, "He ran a diagnostic on the ship. No tracker, but that doesn't mean they can't track the kids using the Force."

His confusion must be amplified by the helmet, somehow. She stares at him, deadpan, as she continues.

"Chopper, you know what to do. Keep them safe. Spectre Seven?"

The child perks, his voice crisp despite the static. "Yes, Mama?"

Sensing his fear, her tone rounds out, warm and soft. "You're being very brave. Keep an eye on Spectre Three, okay, love?"

If the boy's voice wobbles, neither child or parent comments on it. "Copy, Ma- I mean, Spectre Two."

"Good."

When the comm dims to faint static (she leaves the line open, and points out the toggle on the dash so he knows where it is) she scrubs a hand over her eyes and sighs.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you know anything about the Jedi or the Force."

Silence fills the space between them as he contemplates.

"You don't, do you?"

He exhales, "Not really."

"Alright. Keep an eye on the controls and I'll get us some caf." She rises.

"I'm fine."

Hera sighs. She's shaking her head, as if she's not terribly surprised by it. As if she knows how he’d react, somehow. "If you're sure."

"I am."

-/

This isn't her first encounter with a Mandalorian, he realizes.

"Your clan doesn't remove their helmets in front of others?" She sips at her caf daintily and course corrects. "Well, if you need privacy, let me know. I have plenty of rooms you can use, just say the word. The jump will take a while."

"It's fine," He rumbles, surprised by her lack of questioning. Most people asked. Not that he minded the lack of personal questions (far from it), but the understanding… it's not normal. "This is the Way,” He murmurs, and there is something almost comforting in the familiarity of it.

She hums, offering back, "The Mandalorians I've encountered do, but I don't see many, not anymore." In an equally soft confession, she murmurs, "Some aided us, during the war."

He doesn't comment, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"So," She begins, shifting gears after another check in with her droid: both children are asleep now, and everything else is as fine as it can be, "He’s a cute little one. Let me guess. He's what? A standard year?"

The Mandalorian almost snorts, but it comes out as a chuff, a laugh aborted at the last second. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," She urges.

"Fifty." And when her brows furrow, he elaborates, “Years.”

"Alright," She agrees, "I wouldn't believe you. Assuming you're human under all that metal, that'd make him older than you."

There’s not really any way he’d know that, unless Hera thinks he sounds young. Still, he dips his head and tilts it at the same time in an awkward confirmation. "I've had him for about that long," The Mandalorian says. "A year."

"What happened to his parents?"

The question jars him. "I don't-"

"Start from the beginning."

"It's not necessary."

Those green eyes flicker, almost, from soft to devastatingly hard. "I told you that I know a hunter when I see one, Mando," She urges, driving home the point that she's aware that his name is something different, not that the fact was a secret. "You're not exactly parental types by nature." It doesn't have the sting of an insult, but it still rocks him to the core. She's not wrong, and they both know it. "Start from the beginning," Hera repeats.

The Mandalorian's hands aren't clasped together in his lap, but loose, stacked one on top of one of the other. This woman is a mother. A fiercely protective one, by the look of it. To tell her the whole story could jeopardize their already rather tentative arrangement.

Not that they technically have an agreement, as it were.

His jaw opens and closes, and he draws breath like he's going to speak twice before she puts him out of his misery. "Who set his bounty?"

"They were Imperial," He admits, sounding breathy, like someone had run him through.

She nods, still infinitely understanding. "But you didn't go through with it," She concludes. It would be so easy to agree with her. And yet… he just knows she’d be able to see through his lies. More than that, however, he knows there is no honor in occluding the truth.

"I… did," He admits. That's harder to think about than much else. Some days he wonders if he'll ever be able to bear the weight of this beskar, if using it to shield the child from harm might somehow allow him to atone.

There is no kindness in Hera’s reply. “I thought Mandalorians disliked the Empire." Her tone is biting.

He doesn't deny her; It's true. Himself included. "The usual work wasn't paying. Guild leader put me up to it."

"That's a lousy excuse."

"All they gave me was a fob and his age, promised a bigger reward for bringing the asset back alive. I didn't know it was an infant until I got there."

She hums again and looks out at the stars streaking. "Okay," She relents, voice going softer. "How did you find out? That he could-" She breaks off, gesturing with a single hand.

He nods, as if the momentum of the movement will make laying the rest of his sins out for examination a little easier, somehow. "He saved my life."

She recoils, and he does the same. Internally, though; Externally he doesn't so much as flinch. He deserves to feel rebuked and judged, deserves the way the words taste like battery acid and rankor all at once. He will never be able to undo what he's done, he will only be able to continue onward and try not to make such mistakes again. He remembers that it could have been peaceful, an impossibly small palm stretched out in the violet twilight, desert sand and stone all around. The boy had wanted to heal him. Would that have changed the trajectory of all this?

Hera’s soft question interrupts. “After?” She guesses.

The Mandalorian hangs his head.

Angry now, she berates him, "Did you even stop to think that that was what they wanted with him?"

He clears his throat, strangely hoarse. "No questions. That's the Guild code."

"No wonder you were taking Imperial work. Sounds like your Guild's run by one." Her tone is icy and harsh, like a biting wind.

He doesn't argue that, not entirely. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was, once." But Greef Karga isn't, not anymore, if he ever was something besides silver-tongued and greedy. He'd be lucky if Stormtroopers didn't shoot him on sight for what happened on Navarro.

She looks him over, doesn't ask what it was he got for the bounty, what manner of riches would prioritize them over a child's life. Instead, she sees the core of the issue, asks the real question.

"Was it worth it?"

It might be a minute, or it might be ten that he thinks it over. The Mandalorian isn't entirely sure. Her question is simple in some ways and astoundingly complex in others. Was it worth the beskar? To his tribe, yes. To himself personally, when seen what it was laid against? Now, he wasn't so sure. The cost to his tribe? No. The Imperials may have done the killing but he all but gave that order, even if they hadn't chosen to interfere, even if he'd died that night, in that wagon, at the hands of the Guild. But, for the Child, despite his suffering up front, what he might have now, what he stands to gain if Din can see this through-

"Yes," The Mandalorian decides. His voice is pinched. "And no."

Really, it shouldn't matter to him. This woman, her opinions shouldn't have any sort of weight, shouldn't press against his mettle. She is not a part of his tribe. They have no relation, and though she has been kind, she doesn't know him or his circumstances. Just because she also has a kid doesn't mean he needs her approval-

That's why, he realizes. Begrudgingly, of course. She's a mother. She's got experience he doesn't. It didn't matter before. With Omera, keeping the boy for any length of time had never been his intent. Is that natural? He wonders. Does he want her to think good of him, that he's done right by the child? Is that it?

He doesn't know right away, and the pressure to figure it out is uncomfortable, like a foreign weight in his belly. He forces himself to make heads or tales of it.

It shouldn't matter. It can't matter. She's not a Mandalorian. She wouldn't understand, and it doesn't change his course of action. Certainly her goal is to do right by her child, in any case. Just the same as him, now.

And, bottom line: The man he was, the man who accepted and collected that bounty? For how they overlap, how much they appear to be the same faceless, nameless 'Mando,' Din feels like, in some ways, they couldn't possibly be more different.

The drone of space, the borderline unbearable stillness between them is interrupted by a tiny chirrup of sound, the groan and bleat of a cranky, uncomfortable child waking with a static overlay. It’s softer over the comms, but he’d know it anywhere.

"Easy," He hushes the child as the droid beeps out a question with attitude. He ignores it. "It's alright," He affirms, steady and low, with a calmness he doesn't feel. "Go back to sleep, ad'ika."

A faint hiccough through the static is followed by a sigh of relief from the droid - he doesn't have to know Binary to understand that tone - tells the Mandalorian his attempt to placate the child was successful.

The silence in the cockpit wavers, and the severeness finally bleeds from the Twi'lek's face. Just like that, the hostility lessens.

"What did the Mandalorians tell you about the Jedi?" She asks after another moment, voice placid and smooth once more.

"They're an ancient race of sorcerers who fought with the Mandalorians of old."

She raises a single eyebrow in surprise. “That’s it? You never heard any stories?”

“No."

“The Jedi weren’t sorcerers, they didn’t do magic,” Hera begins, soft and slow, carefully selecting each word. “Well, not exactly. They’re sensitive to the Force. I can’t give you the whole story, but the Force is energy that binds all living things. I’ve seen it used in many ways.”

Her eyes - bright and wide, a combination of more green than blue - flutter closed. “Jacen’s-” And then, because she doubts he knows her child’s name, she revises, “My son’s father was a Jedi Padawan who escaped Order 66. That’s the one that was given at the end of the Clone Wars, to force the clones to kill the Jedi.” She sighs, as though it’s been a long time since she’s considered telling that story. In actuality, it was the first time. Alive, Kanan Jarrus, her husband in everything but name, wouldn’t have wanted her telling his story. It was too painful and it wasn’t hers to share. But now, Hera, her friends, their son were the only ones able to further his influence. She didn’t want to give away needless details, but the man in the co-pilot’s chair desperately needed some education. It was palpable in his body language, the way he leaned forward just enough to display interest, but rigidly as not to give too much away. Hera had some experience with his type. “A Padawan is an apprentice to a Jedi master,” She explains. “He wasn’t a master, technically, though he eventually took on a student of his own during the Rebellion. They-” She doesn’t continue, though he can see her lips move, as if trying to parse what she has to say.

He’s dead. They’re both dead, Din surmises uncomfortably, not needing her to go on. He can feel the desire to ask on his tongue, desperate for any knowledge or wisdom they might have imparted upon her. He can’t ask though, he can see the difficulty she has broaching the subject. Instead, he tries for something safer. “Your son-”

“I can’t train him, but I can protect him,” She says. “I don’t have it, what they had. It’s not hereditary, not always,” She adds, “But our son is like his father, just the same.”

“No one showed him how to do that-” He reaches his hands out uselessly, as if to mimic the sort of clap the green haired child had done.

“No. It’s instinct. The Force-” She sighs. “I don’t understand it entirely myself, but they…” She trails off. “It can guide them. Others who have returned to the Force in death. Sometimes, when they need it most, a Force user can tap into that. It’s not specifically one thing.”

“I see,” He says, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’s fooling either of them.

Hera changes direction. “Those Inquisitors, the red-bladed warriors. They’re Imperial, or, at least they were. If they’re not…” She shakes her head. “Inquisitors hunted the remaining Jedi during the war. I don’t know if they’re the same, but they looked like it.” She sighs. “And Imperial or not, they’re-”

“They’re what?” He questions, when she doesn’t answer, not liking the worried curve of her lips, the spark of concern in her eyes.

The response comes reluctantly. “I’m really not the greatest source of information on this,” She admits. It doesn't sound like there's anyone who actually is, Din considers as she continues. “There’s a Light and Dark side to the Force. Good,” She motions with one hand, “And evil,” She gestures with the other, like balancing a scale. Following?” He nods. “Some of their abilities overlap, from what I can tell. Some are plain good, some are plain evil. It’s about intent, I think. I don’t know much, other than those blades are turned red through malicious intent. Something about bleeding the crystals that power them.”

“So those Inquisitors are evil?”

“Yes,” Hera agrees. “Evil force users are called Sith. They’re the enemy of the Jedi.”

Unable to stop himself, he blurts, “I thought the Mandalorians were the true enemy of the Jedi.”

“They warred with each other in the past, but the Jedi I knew? One of the Mandalorian houses aided them - all of us - to stop the Empire’s tyranny in return for help the Jedi had given them.” She looks at him strangely as he considers, trying to make sense of it herself. “Why does it matter?”

“I have to return the child to its people.”

“By that you mean the Jedi.”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh,” She doesn’t seem terribly moved. “The old order from the Clone Wars is pretty much gone,” She says. “The Jedi Masters have been executed or died from old age. What’s left are-”

“What you said, if one managed to escape, there could have been others. If they took on students-”

“I have travelled across this Galaxy for years and rarely have I encountered a Jedi.”

“You knew two.”

“Yes, and they were hunted for their abilities from the moment they made themselves known. Like our children,” Hera reminds him. “Carrying that title is like painting a target on their backs. Do you want that for him?”

“Do you?” He swings his head around, away from the viewport and looks at her. “Your child moved in a way I’ve never seen anyone move. Broke that woman’s neck with a clap of his hands. He’s not hiding it.”

“There is always a choice,” She replies, terse. “Always. Protect, defend, fight, or flee. Whatever my son chooses, I will support. No matter what.”

“And?”

Hera swallows. “He wants to be a Jedi. Like his father.” She lifts her chin, the picture of defiance despite being coerced into the admission. Looking at her, it seems like anything but a concession. Primly, she asks him: “Yours?”

Not for the first time, she outmaneuvers him with ease. It’s as if she knows what he’s thinking, but wants him to say it. Perhaps she let him back her into this corner, because her admission is one that’s kept close to her heart but it’s known all the same. What does the child want? Surely, he realizes, that must matter. But the child is too young to make any such decision as to his fate, and the Mandalorian cannot - may not live long enough for him to be of age to make such a determination.

“He is not strong enough to be raised as a Mandalorian, so I must make every attempt to return him to his people,” The Mandalorian answers gruffly, repeating, “This is The Way.”

This time, there is no comfort in the truth.

Hera turns her disappointed gaze back towards the swirling void of hyperspace.

Chapter Text

They drop from hyperspace at the same time as the Razor Crest, and it’s as Hera predicted - the Inquisitors’ ship wedged between them. Not long after, three TIE-fighters drop from hyperspace in front of the Mandalorian’s ship, and it’s a battle.

“Take the aft gun,” Hera instructs him as her droid warbles in binary, concerned. He’s already to his feet, the doors leading to the rest of the ship sliding open with a hydraulic whoosh. “We’ll give them space to make another jump and take these jerks out before they can follow.”

“Copy that,” He agrees, no argument.

It’s been a while since he’s been in a ship this large - the Razor Crest can handle a head-on battle, but it’s not made for space combat - the model having been previously commissioned for patrols. The Ghost’s shields don’t seem to be jarred by a few pot-shots directed towards the hull. His ship would be rattled, he thinks as he’s propelled by some of Hera’s ‘out maneuvering,’ almost missing the step-down into the gunner’s pod.

The port her droid uses to interface with the turret is more used than the rest of the controls appear to be - they’re worn but not greasy from hands or gloves wrapped around the handles. It’s been a while since this ship’s been used in battle, he supposes, which is likely a good thing considering it houses a child.

Using the gun is second nature, and it’s easy for him to target and destroy the first TIE. He manages to knick a second, though it doesn’t blow up. He flicks the toggle for the comms - belatedly, in his hurry to reduce the number of targets in the air - and is assaulted by the yell of the Droid piloting the Crest in high-pitched tones.

“Just make the jump,” Hera orders the droid. He can hear her hitting the triggers on her control panel, the squeal of the ship’s weapons firing. “I’m hailing-”

More ships exit hyperspace with a deafening thuum. It’s not actually loud, but in the vacuum of space, it’s almost something he can feel, like a wave rippling across the space between them. They’re not allies, that’s for sure. Another clutch of TIEs accompanied by a transport.

The droid toggles the Crest’s warp drive, the Mandalorian hears the sound of it initiating, but it stalls. Both children shriek from the abrupt change in pressure and the roll of being pulled out of hyperspace mid-launch. Then the comms go dead, severed. The ship is closer than it was before, between them and the Inquisitors.

“Spectre Three,” Hera calls out, over the comms. Then, more concerned, “Chopper?” Her fists bang the dash when he doesn’t reply. To the Mandalorian, she relays, “If they hit your ship with any kind of disruptor, they likely took him offline. I was communicating through him, not your ship.”

Din bolts from the turret, all but sliding across the durasteel deckplates of the ship and into the cockpit. He tunes her comms without her input. “Try it.”

“Spectre Seven, come in right now,” Hera breathes, shrilly. “Spectre-”

A gasp, the sound of something being shuffled, and the child - his child - crying in the background - that’s pain, not fear, he knows the difference, he thinks - distorts the sound. “I got it, s’okay,” The boy encourages, face tilted away from the dash-mic, before he turns back and calls, “Mama?!”

“I read you, kiddo. Where’s Chop?”

Static hisses over the air. “I power-cycled him, but he’s gonna be offline for at least three minutes.”

“Okay,” Hera says, to him, the Mandalorian, and not her child, not yet toggling the speaker. “Not great, but not bad. He can get them out of this. He’s a good pilot.”

“He’s a child.”

“He’s my child,” Hera clarifies with conviction. “He’s been my co-pilot since he could keep himself upright.” She toggles the speaker. “Do you have jump coordinates?”

“They were scrambled when they pulled us out.”

“Okay. Drop back to heading two-three, and follow my lead.”

“Copy that,” Jacen answers, and if not for his childish tone, the undeniable youth in his voice, he’d assume the boy to actually know what he’s doing. As it stands, he doesn’t have much hope, but if the droid’s offline, they’re dead in the water unless the kid does something.

“Take the gun up top,” Hera commands. “That way you can see,” Her voice hitches almost imperceptibly, a mix of understanding and yielding - this is a compromise that will allow him to be of the most use but still informed, “And cover them while I guide him.”

As he’s ascending the ladder to the top turret, he sees a flaming TIE streak over the dome, narrowly missing them. “That’s not staying in position, Spectre Seven,” Hera’s voice chimes as though expecting him to pull something like that. “Your aim was off. If they’re limping, they’re not completely out of the fight.”

The pulse of lasers and a muted whoop later, the TIE that had been behind them is gone. “Fixed it,” He comments brightly. Then to the child, though he's been quiet for a bit, he says, “We’re gonna be fine.”

“Check your shields,” Hera tells the boy as they press in, trying to position themselves defensively against the squadron of mostly imperial ships. “And don’t get cocky.”

“This thing doesn’t really have shields, and the navi-computer is shot,” The boy informs them. It must have been damaged by the power-surge that pulled them out of hyperspace. “How are we going to jump?”

“Chopper will be back up in ninety seconds,” She coaches him. “You’re going to stay close and let us cover you. I have a plan.”

“Mama, not to sound mean, but your plans-”

“The plans are good,” A new voice cuts across the comms. “We just make ‘em more exciting.”

“Ketsu,” Hera breathes out, relieved to hear an ally. Another ship drops hyperspace, startling one of the TIEs out of formation and into Din’s shooting lane where it’s handled swiftly. He doesn’t think about it as he hits the trigger. “We need to get the Razor Crest clear to jump.”

“This is nothing compared to the fun we used to get up to,” She hollers back, easily targeting and removing another ship from view. “What’re we up against?”

“They’re after Jacen,” Hera growls, but doesn’t mention a word about the child.

“Say no more.” Her flight style shifts from casual engagement to aggressive. Perhaps this Ketsu person understood what that meant, knew this had something to do with Inquisitors? “Make the jump with them. I’ve got backup coming. Nobody will follow.”

“Ketsu,” Hera warns this time. She feints away from a run by the remaining targets and the Crest follows suit, nimbly spinning left and back.

“Go. Find Sabine. Her last missive was interesting.”

Uncharacteristically, the Twi’lek blurts, “I’m not leaving until you explain what that means, but-” She sighs, reigning it back in. “Jacen, Chopper should be online by now.”

“Chop? Why aren’t you - ughh.”

Tranquil, almost, Ketsu interrupts the child’s fussing. “They have a lead.”

“Hang on-” A loud thunk, like the droid has been bashed hard to spark a loose circuit, echoes across the comms, followed by the droid booting up. “Welcome back, Chop. Get us coordinates!”

The response doesn’t have to make sense for him to know the context. “What do you mean you can’t?” Hera scoffs as the droid talks back, but the sound of him working to restore the navi computer since he can’t program the jump on his own is subdued. It’s obvious from the way he sounds that being hooked up to the ship when it was pulled out of hyperspace may have damaged him, somehow.

Gasping and curious, Jason murmurs, “Hey, wait, what’s this? It looks like a locket.” He sounds far away, as if he’d left the pilot’s seat for a moment.

“Don’t mess around with things that aren’t yours, Jacen!” The mother’s voice is sharp.

“But, he gave it to me. I think-”

“I don’t care. Stay focused.”

The Mandalorian stops firing for a second. It must be the relic, from the temple. He couldn’t tell what to do with it, but he’s not like the child, or this boy. He doesn’t have their powers. Maybe that’s the key to finding them out?

He hits the toggle for his comm. “It has coordinates on it. Of somewhere that's supposed to be safe. Can you see them?”

Alarmed, Ketsu veers around their largest vessel’s missile run. “Wait, you have someone new with you?”

The comms shift from public to private, closed circuit within the ship. “What do you mean ‘somewhere safe?’” Hera asks, terse.

“We found it at a temple on the last planet we were on. The Jedi who left it for us to find said it pointed to somewhere safe.”

“You said you didn’t know anything about the Jedi.”

“I don’t,” Din stresses. “I didn’t know what it was until we’d escaped. There were other issues at hand.”

Scoffing, Hera relents. “There’s never a Jedi temple that doesn’t try to kill you.”

“Wait. Is,” He trails off, “Is that a thing?”

“Get used to it,” She offers back, flipping the comms back on. “Jacen, do you see coordinates?”

“There’s nothing on it.”

“Feel,” She urges him. “Draw on the Force and tell Chopper what they are. Ketsu-”

“One way out, coming up. Remember what I said.”

“Sabine. Right.”

“Knowing you people, you’ll probably run into her without even trying.”

“What can I say, our luck goes both ways,” The Ghost’s pilot laughs. “Thank you.”

“You owe me,” Ketsu hums, but it’s sarcastic at best. Her voice shifts to something firmer. “Incoming ships, we need to disable these ships so General Syndulla can make her escape.”

Surprised, he can’t help but query across the public channel, “General?”

“I’ll tell you later," She hollers, trying to hush him. "Jacen, those coordinates?”

“I can’t,” He cries. The sound of gunfire barely eeking by the ship makes Din wince. “Too much is going on, they’re going to-”

“You can do this. Close your eyes and breathe.”

“But-”

A soft, questioning chirp interrupts their conversation.

“Is that a baby?” Ketsu asks incredulously.

At the same time Jacen gasps. “He’s doing it, We can see them, they’re being programmed into the computer-”

“Chopper,” Hera warns, expecting them to be transmitted to her.

The affirmative beep is background noise.

“Locked on, good work, Chop.” Hera confirms. She’s toggling switches in the cockpit, the comms open wide now. “You make that jump the second you’ve got confirmation, Spectre Seven, and don’t you tell me no.”

“Got it. Jumping…. Now!”

-/

The droid is an ornery old thing, but he does manage to fix the shorted navigation on the Crest in under an hour and coordinate a safe way to attach his old gunship to the freighter. It's not ideal, but his ship is pressurized and the old gravity mods are probably the most in-tact part of the old girl - something the Jawas didn't get the chance to strip back on Aravala-7. The droid - Chopper, Hera reminds Din after it gives a disgruntled bleat at being referred to as any old bucket of bolts again - gives them coordinates at the edge of the Rim, and despite his thundering heart and anticipation of everything going wrong, his ship magnetizes and seals to the Ghost without incident. There is no one dropping out of lightspeed behind them. The quiet is loud in his ears.

With confirmation that both sentients and her droid are safely aboard the larger ship, Hera re-activates the hyperdrive with the Razor Crest in tow. After some indeterminate amount of time, as if deciding it's all-clear she rises, chair swiveling as she does. Her fingers close over his shoulder, just above the beskar and it jolts him back into the present. He doesn't realize he's been staring at the closed circuit monitor that shows both children safe in the cargo hold.

"Come on," Hera says. "Looks like we're going to be in hyperspace for another thirty hours. This temple - or whatever it is," She rolls her eyes, though he can tell her ire isn't directed at him, "Is way out there."

He follows her wordlessly to the ship's galley, the two of them entering from one side as the droid ushers the boys in from the other. Chopper cradles the wiggling baby with two extremities, the child chittering in recognition when he sees the familiar gleam of beskar associated with his Guardian.

The words are soft on his tongue, uttered so quietly he doubts the child hears. Gratefulness that the child is here, relief that this little one is safe. For a moment he wonders if the child really understands the danger he was in, but tiny claws sink into his cowl and the child tucks himself beneath the Mandalorian's chin, holding tight.

"It's alright now, Ad'ika," He whispers, and the child trembles in recognition that things were, in fact, not alright before. Even if the child doesn't understand entirely, he most certainly feels some kind of comfort being back with his guardian.

The droid is making some sardonic commentary when Din rumbles a quiet thank you in his direction. It stops the astromech unit in his tracks. The snarky thing rolls up in front of them both, Mandalorian and child, babbling in binary, sounding an awful lot like he's scolding the armored warrior. It ends after a moment, and Din almost thinks he can make out a reluctant - surprised, maybe? - You're welcome amidst the whoops and bah-bahs the droid uses to communicate.

Somehow they wind up corralled to the booth bolted against the wall in the corner and he's shifting the child to rest better against his shoulder. One large ear is tilted towards the rest of the room but tiny fingers stay wrapped around that skull of beskar strung around his neck. Only then does he realize that at the opposite side, the Twi'lek is listening to a very dramatic retelling of their entire battle from the little pilot's point of view.

And, in the center of the table lies the relic from the temple, scuffed and worn and blue. Jacen reaches towards it, closing his eyes in a sleepy sort of focus - meditative, perhaps - and Din watches as the talisman rises, hyperspace coordinates appearing like a holovid would, if one had a projector.

Looking on, incredulous, he bites back the quip that this sort of magic was precisely why his people called the Jedi sorcerers.

Chapter Text

The Mandalorian will not allow Jacen to sleep in the room allowed to him, nor will he allow his child to have what Jacen dubs a 'sleepover' in his bunk.

"He's still a baby," She offers, in the warrior's defense. "And you both need sleep."

"But mooom," The boy whines. "It'd be fun. And we're not doing anything until-"

"It's still a no, Jacen. Get ready for bed and we'll watch something before you fall asleep." He stomps off grumbling, but years of parenting children (both hers and not) tell her he'll be asleep the moment she pulls the blankets over him, before she cues up the holo at all.

She leaves Chopper in the cockpit and begins down the hall, stopping in front of the room she'd gifted to the Mandalorian and his boy, the 'guest' quarters the Ghost used for an ever rotating cast of guests. It's with a sense of familiarity that tugs on her heartstrings that she bumps her hip against the doorway, resting just outside it.

Leaning casually, she asks, "Need anything?"

The child burbles quietly, eyes soft in the dimmed light of the room, but it's the Mandalorian who hums in the negative.

"You've been more than accommodating," He says, voice soft and worn. Only half the food has been eaten and she had no doubt he'll wait until the child is asleep to care for himself.

There is no doubt in Hera's mind that she could certainly do more, that this man has only allowed her to provide for the most basic of needs. This is hardly accommodating in her books.

"Well," She supposes, equally gentle - because his voice is, and she wonders how much of that is to do with the baby nodding off versus just the kind of man he is. She can’t get the image of him cradling the child close and murmuring affirmations of their safety from her mind. She didn’t doubt the truth of his story any longer. After all, she’s seen quite a few men change for the better in her travels. Men who were worse than he could ever dream of being. "If you need anything at all, my cabin is the last one on the right, before the cockpit. Don't hesitate to come get me."

He gives a thoughtful grunt of thanks in reply and she hears the doors close as she turs away. Entering Jacen's room the Twi’lek finds her son both asleep and fully clothed. It's a struggle to get him into pajamas, but he snuggles into her side once that fight is over and she hums softly to him until he's well and truly asleep, leaving the dimmed running lights on as she slips back out into the hallway.

She lays down for what feels like hours, but she knows it’s only been minutes. Years and years of this sort of thing - new strays, new journeys, a path, a purpose - reawakens dormant instincts. Though, parenthood kept her sharp, her partner's child having her intellect, his serenity, and the double-whammy of both their charm, it's with a deep seated feeling of longing that she finds herself returning to the cockpit, coveralls abandoned for the soft shirt and canvas pants beneath.

It's not her partner she yearns for this night. No, she'd found herself handling his departure with purpose, found the son he'd help create to be a gift and his legacy in equal measure. They'd always been two cosmic entities with intersecting orbits, a rare collision course. Of course she missed him beyond words…

… but this is different.

It's not just Kanan - Jacen's father - she sees in her son, its-

"If you're watching this recording, then, I owe you an explanation…"

Tears blur her vision, and her shoulders tremble despite how she curls in on herself, but her eyes stay trained on the holovid. They watch it together in silence, only once. They do not visit it often, and they don’t ever watch it unless they’re together. Sometimes it’s every night for a week, sometimes it’s once every few months. The closest appendage to her extends, Chopper taking her hand in a clamp-ended extremity and tightening his hold just enough to show his support without causing pain.

Here, alone, there’s no one to hear the warble of agreement the droid echoes to a muffled sob. No one there to make fun of the cantankerous droid for having a burnt-out logic chip for being so sentimental, no one but Hera, who knows he misses it the way she misses the chaos and the life their rag-tag crew brought to their ship.

They’d won the war, not that anyone knew it, some days. They’d signed up for this, wanting to make things right, wanting to give everyone in the galaxy a chance at a better future, free from the tyranny of the Empire and they had. And in the process, they’d gained so much, but…

All of it: their victories and their defeats. All of it came with a cost.

In terms of the bigger picture, it was worth it, and she knows it. Hera does. In her heart she doesn’t regret her decisions, the bonds she’s made, the hard choices she’s faced or the feelings she’s felt along the way. And yet, sometimes, she just wants things back how they were. It’s selfish, and it’ll never truly be, but it is what it is: reason enough to part ways with the New Republic’s command and head out into the Galaxy in search of what comes next for them. It’s a decision she never, ever, thought she’d make, but...

She’s done her time. She has different priorities now: Raising one son and-

“... I can’t wait to come home.”

The sound of boots outside the cockpit a moment later startles them both, Twi’lek and droid turning to see a shiny visage in the doorway.

Hera swipes under her eyes. “Come in,” She offers. “We were just-”

“I didn’t mean to intrude, I heard-”

She laughs; It’s a watery thing. “Take a seat if you’re going to be up a while.”

He sits politely, hands pooled in his lap, helmet purposefully turned to look out at the swirl of hyperspace and away from the tears she wills back under control.

“Not many people catch me like this, so I hope you’ll keep it between us,” She jokes. Her eyes are glossy but her resolve is admirable.

“Was that-”

“My partner? No,” She says, softly. Then, “You were standing there for a while.”

“I heard you come out of your quarters,” He admits, like a naughty child. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

She shakes her head. “His name is Ezra,” She whispers. “Kanan - Jacen’s father,” She elaborates, “Found him on a planet called Lothal. He was…” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing, smile curving her lips despite the bittersweetness of it all. “Special. Like your boy.”

“Like yours, too,” He offers, voice gravel-worn. It’s not the point, but she can see him making an attempt at conversation and her chest feels lighter from the tears, like it’s a little easier to share. It’s clear he’s connected the dots, the way he straightens just a little and tries not to regard her with an overwhelming curiosity. She’s not sure she’s ever met such a polite Mandalorian.

“Kanan and I, for how little we knew about what we were doing,” She begins eventually, worrying her lip. “We raised him to be thoughtful and kind. To do the right thing.”

After a few moments of pensive silence, despite the tension from earlier lingering between them, she’s surprised to hear the Mandalorian ask, “What happened to him?” In a careful whisper.

One eyebrow rises in an elegant arch, and she swivels her seat to face him better. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I have a fifty-year-old baby in my protection,” He deadpans, voice wry despite the vocal modulator. He too turns, but not nearly as much, turning his head to deliver a sarcastic, “Try me.”

She laughs, palm pressed over her heart, clear and bright, swiping at tears that escape the corners of her eyes. The Mandalorian tilts his head, watching her carefully. “He orchestrated a plan to free his homeworld from Imperial control, blow up their forces, and destroy the blockade over the planet. He’d offered himself up in exchange to spare the lives of the innocent people planetside. The last I heard from him, he’d managed to get some very powerful allies to help him remove the Grand Admiral leading the Imperial forces. He guided their jump and… That’s that, I guess.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, looking to his hands, clearly unsure as to what to say. He’s not the type to coddle, and she respects that.

“It’s fine.” She pats his shoulder and he flinches. Right, she recalls. Mandalorians. “I know he’s out there, somewhere. He’s just lost.”

“How?”

Like the question that slips from his lips, her answer is simple, slipping from her lips with a conviction that’s seemingly impossible despite her emotional state. And yet, it isn’t. She’s seen impossible things happen. This is nothing by comparison.

She smiles. “I have hope.”

He regards her for a long time, not judgemental, she doesn’t sense the same hostility she’s used to from most Mandalorians she’s crossed. There’s no doubt in her mind he’s deadly, she’s seen him in battle. But like so many others that cross her path, are pulled aboard her ship in moments of chaos, she sees beyond his exterior. He’s strangely polite, soft spoken and kind - never yelling at Jacen despite denying him what he’d wanted. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her, if he sees a mother or a pilot or a war vet, or the strange combination of all three that she balances on a daily basis.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t tell her, doesn’t give any indication as to the results of his study with words nor body language.

“My name is Din,” The Mandalorian tells her, voice still that raspy-soft tone, gritty and young-sounding. He seems a bit surprised to be saying it, she thinks, but he follows through. “Din Djarin.” He offers her a hand to shake.

But she reaches out, grabs his forearm instead. Offers him the Mandalorian variation, sees him react with something akin to shocked respect, his posture straight as reciprocates. Her eyebrows rise and fall in a mild challenge, and neither shy away from the solid purchase their hands make on the other’s forearm. “Hera Syndulla. Welcome aboard the Ghost.” She tilts her head. “Officially.”

-/

The child is unbelievably cute. Cuter still is the way he is so obviously enamored with the Mandalorian, following him around as best he can despite obvious difficulties with ladders and doors. Hera listens to the grumbling of her own child - Chopper isn’t taking it easy on him, he never has where Dejarik is concerned - but filters out his begrudging annoyance at losing to focus on the squirming child she’s bouncing in her arms.

His guardian has long since gone off to salvage supplies from his own ship and freshen up, as they have roughly another twelve hours in hyperspace before a six hour jettison towards the coordinates revealed by their children. It’s better to be safe than sorry, and Hera’s preferred method of travel doesn’t involve being forced from hyperspace with an extra ship in-tow because they were careless in the distant reaches of space. The child coos, ears perking when Jacen howls excitedly behind her back.

It’s easy to fall into old rhythms, settling the little one in the crook of one arm while she prepares food for Jacen with the other. The child - if he has a name, it's unknown - babbles while she works and she hums in time with his questions, focusing on her task instead of contemplating the strangely knowing look in his eyes, the one that lends to the child being far older than his appearance suggests.

What the Mandalorian said is odd, but she knows of species that take longer to grow to adulthood, just… never quite on this scale.

The holotable shorts for a second when she sets a plate down in front of Jacen, and Chopper rubs his inevitable victory in her boy’s face.

“We’ll be in my quarters,” She tells them, already headed to the hall that houses the crew quarters.

The child doesn’t seem perturbed by his lack of toys, though she distinctly heard Din mention something about bringing him something back when he returned from their ship. She figures his settling down means he’ll be ready for a nap soon. In fact, that the child would likely nod off was probably the only reason why the protective warrior allowed his boy to stay with her.

She rubs his fuzzy head with delicate strokes of her gloved fingers and the boy hums, content, allowing her to lay him down on a blanket she’d procured from Jacen’s old things and wrap him up in a swaddle. He’s a calm baby, soft spoken and curious. In all the time she’s seen him he’s been gentle and at ease, battle excepting. Even then, though, she hardly heard any complaints from him. Any other child would be shrieking as if they were being murdered from start to finish, she’s sure of it.

Of course, Chopper barges in as the child is just about asleep, his struts banging against the opening door, already barking at her that there's incoming communications - Dark, sleepy eyes blink open and Chopper is looming above him, beside her bunk.

He jerks back when the child mewls, then panics when the boy wails far louder than either of them expected.

"Oh, it's alright," Hera coos, plucking the child up, blankets and all. She hears the sound of the sonic shower in the refresher stop too fast, hears the silence that follows. "You're fine," She tells him and he warbles sadly, her words falling on deaf ears. "Come on, little guy," She rises, Chopper beeping insistently about the transmission. "There, there. I know. Chopper was too loud, he didn't mean to wake you." The Mandalorian will be in here any second if she doesn't calm the kid down, she's sure of it, because there is no way he's not acutely aware of the baby crying thanks to the echoing of the vents. There is hardly any such thing as privacy on this ship, certainly not since everything had been baby-proofed in anticipation for Jacen a decade ago.

Chopper makes some sarcastic apology - at least he apologizes at all, she supposes, it's more than he usually offers - and connects the holo call without another word on the matter.

"Jeez, Chop, I was beginning to think you were going to leave me hanging here," A purple-haired woman quips, with just the smallest hint of a smile. She pauses a second later, but recovers fast despite her surprise. "Is that a baby?"

Hera takes her eyes off the weeping baby, face pressed into her chest, still crying rather loudly, and smiles with the kind of tired grace she's had since she'd taken her first round of kids on, years ago. "Hi, Sabine."

"Sooo," Sabine drawls, "What're you doing out in Wild Space with an infant?"

"It's a long story," Hera tells her, all business despite her continued rocking of the boy to calm him down. "Ketsu said you had a lead?"

"And you've been talking to Ketsu?"

"I tried for you and got her instead. The news, Sabine."

"Well-"

The baby lurches, arms reaching towards the door. When she shifts her gaze away from Sabine, she meets the armored man's gaze. "I'll take him," The Mandalorian says, politely enough.

"And another Mando?"

"Sabine-"

The Mandalorian freezes, flinching back like he's been burned. As if sensing the tension, the child cries louder, flailing in the direction of his guardian, one hand outstretched. Shaking it off, Din plucks the child from Hera's arms and pulls him in protectively, as if the projection of Sabine could harm them.

"Tion gar gai?" The woman asks, in crisp, fluent Mando'a. When that doesn’t warrant a response, her gaze narrows. "Who are you?"

Both child and adult look at her, and though despite the helmet, she can see the shock in his posture and nods for him to go. Simultaneously she does her best to give Sabine a glance that says 'now is not the time.'

She waits until Hera's posture lessens, the fading sound of footsteps heading down the hall to speak. "That was weird."

"He's wary. I seem to remember all of you Mandalorians being like that at first."

Hologram or not, Sabine’s scoff isn’t missed. "Spill. Who is he?"

"An ally."

"Why's he got the helmet on? Are you-"

Hera's eyes narrow. "No, I am not being held hostage on my own ship."

"Did he give you his name? Are you sure he’s-"

"Yes."

"So, who is he?”

After resisting it for so long, her eyes roll spectacularly before she sets her jaw and presses, “Assuming you two cross paths, I’ll be sure to introduce you. Now can you please tell me what is going on?”

The woman on the holo nods, sighing out tension in an effort to get back on track. “I’ll send you coordinates once we figure out which planet to land on. Judging by how good the connection is, we might actually come pretty close to one another.” The droid comments snidely that if someone didn’t wipe his memory every time they hit hyperspace he might be of more help to the conversation instead of a glorified comm unit, and the woman laughs. “I miss you, Chop.”

He grumbles something that might be an answering statement, but it’s garbled and not meant to be heard. Hera uncrosses her arms, having tucked her hands into the crook of the opposite elbow without the baby to hold. “What’s your lead?”

“Pieces of flotsam that look like they came from an Imperial Stardestroyer.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of that around.”

“Hang on.” Sabine backs away from the console she’s using to make the call and the sound of rapid typing in the background is the only sound for a few seconds before she says, “Chop, project this for Hera. Please.”

A piece of hull - a large piece of ship framework is displayed by the rendering Chopper is sent by the younger woman. “Okay, so what’s so special about-”

“Chop, it goes the other way.” Sabine presses, “This isn’t funny.”

The droid’s optic is trained on it, despite the fact that the file itself is imprinted within his systems. It’s as if he needs to see. Hera frowns, skirting around to the other side of the droid, kneeling beside him.

“It’s from the Chimaera,” Sabine says, as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious. Part of the telltale coil of the beast sprawled with great artistry across the underbelly of the destroyer is visible along the bottom of the wreckage, battered and dented but unmistakable. “We’re close, Hera. We’re so close.”

Despite the hope she holds in her heart, the pilot forces herself not to react pre-emptively. “Has she sensed anything?”

“Nothing.” She crosses her arms instead, and though the holo is blue-tinted, she can imagine the bright colors of the younger warrior’s armor, the uncanny Purrgil stylized on her pauldron, stubborn as she’s always been. “But-”

“I know.” Hope or not, logic suggests that finding their lost family member alive is highly unlikely. They’ve discussed it many times before, but, even still...

“I know he’s out there, Hera. No matter what, I’m going to bring him home.”

Chapter Text

Together they sit in the room they’d been given, Din cross-legged on the floor, back against the bunk with the child half-wrapped and quiet against his chest. Not asleep like he should be, no. Instead, the little one keeps trying to stay awake, jerking each time he nods off, pulling back and looking up into Din’s visor as if waiting for him to say something, to explain.

That woman was a Mandalorian, without a helmet. Not of his tribe.

He knows they exist. Has known, but the possibility of crossing another Mandalorian is so rare he simply doubted it would ever happen. Their numbers are nothing. His Covert - they’re nothing like this woman and her brightly colored armor, her brilliant hair and blazing eyes. His people are ghosts. Urban legends uttered on backwater planets, stories told in stale cantinas. They secret themselves away amidst the shadows of war and defeat, bolstering their ranks and reclaiming their strength, waiting for the time when they might reclaim that which is lost to them, away from the trophy hunting and persecution they’ve faced for the last several decades. They are not bold, honoring the old ways. Their only Way. This has always been their path. His tribe walks the way of the Mandalore. She is not the same. Though rooted in similar notions, they do not traverse the same path. It makes him uneasy to see a Mandalorian be so free. It feels careless.

The child slumps in toward the center of his chest as he dozes off this time, only managing to catch himself with a scrabbling grip on his guardian's chest plate. Din lurches, though the child weighs hardly anything, distracted and surprised. He lifts the boy, tipping him over his shoulder to place on the bunk behind where he sits, cross-legged on the floor.

It's a waste of effort, because the child growls to himself, huffing his own frustration and dropping off the low bunk to land stealthily on the ground. He makes soft little chirps of concern, then lets himself back into Din's lap by ducking beneath his arms. The suit of beskar rises and falls with his sigh, and he lets the child settle.

Standing on his crossed legs, trying to keep his balance, the boy waits for him to make eye contact. When he does, the child tilts his head slowly, gaze patient and steady, knowing full well he’s looking Din in the eye. Ridiculous, he thinks. He knows where the kid got this particular move from, who inadvertently taught him this wordless question that can mean just about anything if done with the right context.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t tell the child he’s fine. Saying anything would acknowledge that he isn’t. Instead, he forces himself to breathe slowly, to try not to let the tangle of emotions bear down on him.

The boy blinks up at him once, twice, then reaches for the Mandalorian's hands instead. He uses them to turn around. After he settles, his back to the beskar, he pulls Din’s hands around and in front of him. They both look down at tiny claws resting in far larger hands. The only sound in the room is their breaths: the child’s even breaths, relaxed and safe, and Din’s forced to match lest he give more away.

He curls his fingers down to touch the tips of the child’s fingers within his fist. Eventually, in the long silence that follows, his mind clears. He can hear the murmurs of the holocall in the cabin down the way, the inner workings of the ship. The sound of small footsteps down the corridor don’t surprise him, but when they stop in front of their assigned room, Din lets his eyes open and looks to the door.

“Are you guys meditating?” The green-haired boy asks. “Can I join you?”

“We-” He wants to say the child is asleep, but he’s not loose and relaxed. His posture isn’t quite tense, but it’s very clear the child is alert, though his eyes remain closed and he doesn’t jerk at the added stimuli. Worst case, he can kick the kid out if he needs to, or he’ll lose interest quickly without something to do. “Sure. But be quiet.”

“That’s the first rule of meditating!” Jacen whispers loudly, before slipping into the room, sitting on the floor - on his knees, not cross-legged - and exhaling slowly. “It’s really important for a Jedi.”

The Mandalorian grunts something in the affirmative, mostly to acknowledge he’s heard the kid and to discourage any further talking. He doesn’t close his eyes with the other boy in the room, does not allow himself to relax, and is grateful the kid didn’t close the door behind him.

The sound of breath is once again the only sound in the room, but it doesn’t last.

“He senses your discomfort. That’s why he’s tense.”

“Kid-”

“The Force is… weird. You can feel things. Know stuff most people don’t by reaching out through it.” When he doesn’t reply, the hybrid child continues. “He can tell you’re worried about his future, that you want to do what’s right. That you want to reunite him with his people, but-”

“How?”

One teal eye opens. “I mean, that stuff’s just obvious. I can try to connect with him, if you want. He’s willing. And since we’re both strong with the Force, it won’t be too hard at all.” Then as an afterthought, he adds, “It doesn’t hurt or anything, I promise.”

The temptation is strong, Mando can admit that to himself. If the kid can tell him what the little one is thinking, it might be useful. Maybe he can tell him something about where he comes from. “Is that something you-” He exhales, trying to be as neutral as possible. “Your mother-”

“If it can help, she’ll be okay with it. It’s not like it’s dangerous, it’s mostly just like meditating, but deeper.”

“And you’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Well,” He says. Then, “Okay.”

Jacen dips his head and his eyes close. The child in his arms doesn’t react when the larger boy extends his hand, palm out, and his brows dip towards each other in concentration. Din swears he can feel it, as if a wave pushes around and through him, like when the child uses his powers: gooseflesh that unfurls across his skin. It fades in seconds, the overall experience more strange than uncomfortable. His boy relaxes against him after a moment, as if drifting off to sleep. He still breathes easy and comfortably, and the Mandalorian doesn’t want to interrupt whatever the other boy’s doing to ask questions, so he waits.

He loses track of how long it is, adrift in honed focus, a meditative state of sorts afforded to a hunter skilled in their trade. When Jacen gasps, he’s watching. He blinks open his eyes and reacts as if he’s just remembered he has to breathe. His eyes aren’t trained on Din, though. He’s looking at the child.

The Mandalorian didn’t realize that he’d returned from their communal trance-like state as well.

“He’s really happy with you,” Jacen begins, moving his legs out from underneath himself. “I couldn’t see too much, I think a lot of it he didn’t want me to see, or maybe he couldn’t show me.” The boy makes a face of regret, his expressions so vivid as he speaks.

“Is there anything-”

The larger child shakes his head. “I think he wanted me to tell you that you make him feel safe and that… he’s grateful. He’s been scared and lonely for a really long time.”

He wants to ask how much exaggeration went into it, but tiny claws curl over his hands when he threads his fingers across the child’s belly, and a soft coo confirms things. He swallows thickly and tightens his grip on the baby, meeting those bright blue-green eyes.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Y’know, it’s really hard to be force sensitive, even without all those bad guys out there after you. It must have been really weird not to know what it was when you saw it.”

“He showed you that?”

“Kind of? It’s not like I can actually see things,” Jacen admits, rubbing the back of his head and grinning. “That’d be more like a vision, but I’ve never actually had one of those yet.”

“Sorcerers,” He scoffs, good-naturedly under his breath, too softly for Hera’s son to hear.

Rising to his feet, Jacen stops long enough to pat the boy on the head. Down the hall, Hera is leaving her room, and his name is the first she calls, echoing down the durasteel hall. He pauses in the doorway and turns back. “Before I go. There’s one other thing he wanted me to tell you.”

The Mandalorian nods, steeling himself. Kids always had a strange way of saving the worst bits for when they’re about to make their escape.

Jacen doesn't seem terribly worried about that, though. He leans against the doorframe, still smiling ear to ear. A dimple appears on one chubby cheek, there and gone when he speaks. “His name. It’s Yasa.”

Before he can formulate some type of response, the child is gone, running down the corridor to see what his mother wants. The little one still in his arms doesn’t move, relishing the contact. He hears Jacen tell his mother what he did, much to her surprise and concern, but tunes more than the beginning of their conversation out, focusing on the boy.

After a minute of mulling it over, he lifts the child and spins him around so they’re face to face. “You tired of me calling you a womp rat, huh, kid?”

The child titters, belly shaking with his tiny giggles at his guardian’s tone. He blows a raspberry as Din appraises him.

“So,” He hedges, tentative. “Yasa.”

There’s an unfathomable brightness in the child’s eyes when they snap to meet his gaze, an immediacy to the action that tells Din that it’s right. That name belongs to the child, and names are powerful and important. A Mandalorian knows that most of all. He doesn’t say it like a command, instead testing the sound of the name upon his lips.

Instead of yielding to the flurry of thoughts that rack his brain, he nods when the child does not look away. “I like it.”

-/

From very early on, he’s always known the child to be cognizant of far more than one who is the age he looks would be. They’ve drifted closer, both by necessity and consistent interaction. He’s been providing for the kid for a long while now, been his protector, his main source of stability. Their relationship is what it is because they’ve both contributed, somewhat.

Hera’s boy changes things. Markedly so.

He doesn’t plan to use the child’s name often, treating it with the same hushed reverence that his tribe treats all names. The boy knows it, if he’s managed to communicate it to Jacen, and the slight rumble that is ad’ika is first on his tongue, having nearly the same effect attention-wise. But now, the affection is known, because there is an alternative.

But if he’s honest with himself, there’s always been. He could close himself off, but he won’t. Because it’s not about him. That isn’t what the child needs. He’d been right. He was what the Galaxy gave this child, and that meant he’d see his own destruction to help him find his way.

And that might be the case yet. He’d seen yellowed eyes and red blades in his sleep. If those… if they’re the true enemy of the Jedi, and half of those on this ship qualify as Jedi, then they’ll come. If they can sense the children through whatever powers they have, they’ll come.

A small hand touches the side of his helm, but he feels it like the child has touched his cheek, skin to skin. It’s a strange sensation, a magic that, despite Hera’s insistence otherwise, he cannot call anything else. He looks into those dark eyes, dimmed with the reduced light of their temporary lodgings.

What does the child feel? He wonders, aware of the thought for what might be the first time. How does he perceive all this? Not as an adult, but not as a baby. Then, as a youngling, perhaps? He’s very much self aware, his communication limited, and yet-

“Be,” The child babbles. “Buh-”

He tilts his head, regarding the child’s focused features, the way his frown seems to deepen, as if he’s trying to speak but not quite able to grasp the right word.

“Let me guess,” He whispers, voice rough from the little sleep he’s had, it coming in fits and starts, slow breaths interspersed with longer ones, the occasional twitch. “You’re trying to tell me I’m thinking too much.”

The child moves, no longer standing beside him on the bunk but plopping down near his armpit, still easily in sight next to Din where he lays, arms propped behind his head on the meager pillow. Helmets kind of negate the impact of something like that, but he’s never been one for that kind of comfort, anyway. Didn’t really do comfort much at all. He-

He sighs, the child does, and closes his eyes, much like before. It’s not meditating, he doesn’t think, but the child leans against him and breathes, slow and calm. It’s easy to fall into the same pattern as the child, whose breaths are loud without the filter of a helmet, unlike his own.

It’s impossible for him to know when he slips from awake to asleep. One minute he’s adrift, attuned to his breathing, the next he’s aware of a great sense of peace and security lingering on the outskirts of his mind. It isn’t his own, separate from his sense of self, almost, but some part of it feels natural, intrinsically like his own state of being. It’s like looking into a mirror, almost. No, he thinks. It’s more like a reflective pool: still, glassy water. Cool and rounded at the edges.

Somehow, Din knows. It hits him slowly, though he has no logical explanation for this realization. He simply accepts that if he were to open his eyes, the child’s hand would be outstretched and his face would be calm, almost as if he too were sleeping.

Chapter Text

This is not the desert planet he’d had in mind when he and the child left the rainy one they’d spent time upon last. The northern hemisphere appears to be the hottest part of it, while the southern half seems to fade into something hazy white and likely snow capped. At least that was how it looked when they broke through the atmosphere. Perhaps there was something more temperate towards the equator, but the coordinates they’re going off of and the overgrown landing zone they target suggest that heading south will not be their plan at all. He'd adapt fairly quickly to the temperature shift, being forged in far hotter temperatures, surrounded by sand that burned into glass. He just prefers the dry heat to the thickness of the air attributed to humidity.

And it is exceedingly humid.

Jacen is intent on leading, but a quick glance from his mother has him scoffing and retreating, staying close to her side. The droid leads instead, scanning as he goes, grumbling something that isn’t polite for common discussion. At least, that’s what the Mandalorian assumes, based on the way Hera rolls her eyes and growls for him to keep moving. He toggles his HUD to be safe, looking for tracks along the narrow paths leading away from the vacant landing zone and towards mossy jungle that ebbs and flows across hills and onward.

“I bet there’s a temple hidden somewhere,” The boy says, looking up to his mother. “The logo on this-” He dangles the chain and the medallion in front of her, as high as he can reach, “Is the Jedi symbol. Aunt ‘Soka taught me, remember?”

Hera nods indulgently, casting her gaze back to him, bringing up the rear. “Yes, but if I take my eyes off of you for even a second you’re going to wander off.”

“Will not!”

"Right," She says, disbelieving. "In any case I'd prefer if you held my hand so I knew exactly where you got off to."

"Mom, that's ridiculous."

"I'm sure it would be for a good reason, but I don't want you wandering out of sight until we've determined if this place is relatively safe.”

Indignantly, he prattles, “But the Mandalorian said-”

The bickering devolves from there, Mandalorian and child following along behind them as they carry on. It’s interesting enough to Din that neither of their new companions refer to him by name. He appreciates it. It’s strange enough to say it after being anonymous for so long - a faceless mando, a legend lost to time and space.

“Y’know, the Jedi are a lot like the Mandalorians - your Mandalorians,” Jacen murmurs, falling back but heeding his mother’s warning not to stray from the group.

He freezes. Right. Sorcerer, Force, everything’s weirdly transparent. It’s still very unnerving. Not for the first time he wonders if that’s how it was so easy for his little one to adapt to him, but the child doesn’t give him that knowing stare. He’s looking around, ears tilting as he listens. It’s safer - and more comfortable - to think about the child’s clear advantages to hearing than it is to think about what mind-reading properties he may also possess, but he doesn’t quite have that luxury..

“Stop bothering him,” Hera warns.

“It’s fine,” He says, realizing the boy is still looking up to him, his pale features smattered with green-tinted freckles that appear in the sun. “How do you figure?” He asks Jacen instead, because the kid’s an open book and - more importantly - a first hand source who doesn’t seem to know how to lie to save his life. Hera stops, brows furrowing as she turns to regard his face, eyes landing somewhere around his eyes but not spot-on like the child in his arms would would. Din almost feels guilty taking advantage of Hera's child’s innocence.

But the kid’s also kind of doing the mind-reading sorcery thing to him, so they’re even, he supposes.

“Hidden in plain sight. All one has to do is know how to look.” He ducks his head at the incredulous tilt of a gleaming beskar helmet.

“He’s his father’s son," Hera interjects. The baby in his arms coos in agreement because of course he does.

Meanwhile, the half-Twi'lek grumbles, “You say that every time I say something wise. If I had a teacher. I’d be just like him!”

She shakes her head. “You're already the best of us, kid,” She puts her hand flat between his shoulder blades and urges him on.

“I think there’s probably more Jedi than Mandalorians out there,” The Mandalorian says finally. He should feel cowed to talk to the kid’s back, but there’s no doubt the child is listening to him.

“There aren’t any real Jedi left,” Jacen retorts, looking over his shoulder at the Mandalorian. With a wisdom well beyond his years, and a serenity that’s out of place with the high pitch of his voice, he continues. “What’s left of them simply try to do right by those who came before, to create a future for those who will come after.”

-/

As the sun sets and the air seems to thin at the loss of heat, they stumble upon a village built that splays down from one of the rolling hills. It seems to be a trade hub of sorts, an open-air market that’s not quite large, but attracts sentients from the rest of the area. Most of them appear human, but the appearance of an armored warrior and a Twi’lek don’t appear to bother them immensely. Most don’t bother with them unless they browse, and even then, Din prefers to linger behind with the droid, watching the area and letting the kid look around in the safety of his arms instead of making small-talk.

There are no inns in the area, which makes sense considering the village is mostly huts. It’s not a big deal, the night air is warm and they retreat beyond the market to a place where they can make camp. It’s easy to set a fire (though it’s more for the children’s comfort than necessity) and divvy rations, and Hera makes no qualms about accepting the dozing child when he picks up a ration pack and makes for the treeline.

His HUD shows no persons or animals on the scanner, so Din allows himself the courtesy of sustenance and even wastes a small amount of water to rinse his face. They’d come prepared and water didn’t seem to be an issue judging by the storm clouds stacked ominously in the distance, slowly creeping closer. Hera had packed a tarp that would prevent them from getting wet in the event of rain, but that still didn’t mean they’d enjoy being stuck in a storm.

When he returns less than an hour later, there is a man, tallish but bent over himself halfway, leaning on a cane. “It will rain heavily before long,” The strange man informs Hera, face shrouded by his white cloak. His voice is rough from disuse. “Can’t be good for the young ones.”

“We’ll manage,” Hera offers, gentle, carding her fingers through her son’s hair as he sleeps, head on her thigh. Yasa is resting in her other arm, but he knows that her blaster is within arm’s reach.

“I would be able to accomodate you,” He says softly. “My encampment isn’t far. At least to put a roof over your heads until the storm passes.” As if to punctuate his words, the sky ignites in a flicker of maroonish-gray. There is no thunder, but the wind brushes his boy’s ears, and he makes a tiny squeak as if sensing the shift in the weather somehow.

She looks up through her eyelashes before she tilts her head to him as he approaches, light on his feet. The man doesn’t seem to be too surprised to see him approach, lifting his head a touch so that his face is visible in the firelight, though covered it may be. The Mandalorian doesn’t nod his assent but she takes his lack of dismissal to be a confirmation.

Hera smiles, gentle, almost. “That’s very kind of you. I promise we’ll be gone at first light.”

“We don’t get many off-worlders,” The man says, “And I am a bit of an outcast myself. You’re all welcome to stay for as long as you’d like.”

The fire was never any great production, and they smother it without issue and follow the cloaked man. Chopper is the loudest among them, wheeling along the beaten trail that leads away in the direction the sun had set, hours ago. Hera takes point, Yasa in her arms, finally starting to doze as she hums and rocks him. Somehow he’d been sidled with the larger child, though logic suggested that it’s more so that he’s better suited to carrying the larger child and still being able to use his blaster. In his arms, Jacen sleeps, apparently finding the masked warrior to be a safe alternative to his mother. More than that, the Mandalorian finds himself surprised that the other woman trusts him considering they’d just met, and yet, he can’t help but find that their tentative understanding comes with just that. So long as they do right by each other, they'll continue to trust each other’s judgement.

The man leads them to his home - a thatched hut at the edge of the jungle, facing out toward open plains of pink-brown grass - and they make it inside just as it begins to rain. His hut is both above and below ground, cool with the smell of earth, though it isn’t unpleasant. He turns on a small solar lantern he’d left propped against the entrance amidst other junk scattered around what appears to be a make-shift perimeter of his habitation.

His living space is compact and lived in - the hut is a single room, with an adjacent sleeping area that’s built into the ground to provide cool comfort, a workbench with an assortment of tools and venting for a generator, and a cook area that’s a fire pit that exhausts through a small hole in the ceiling. At present, the firepit is covered with a bucket to collect the water that drips in.

Their host unravels a blanket that smells like wind and sky from a basket and drapes it over his futon, offering it for the children. At Hera’s behest, he carefully lowers the larger boy down onto the blanket - a sleepy blink and a kiss from his mother puts him out like a light. In exchange, his tiny charge is offered back to him, and the boy coos quietly, jostled awake. He does not fuss, sucking on the charm of his necklace, but claws dig into Din’s soft clothes around his clavicle, and the child’s eyes are strangely sharp. He’s paying attention.

Hera presses her shoulder against Din’s armor, a move designed to be familiar but not too familiar. “My partner and I appreciate your help…”

“Ah, my manners,” The man says, removing his cloak. He’s wearing large goggles much like those that Kuiil wore when working on a project, and the lower half of his face is covered by some kind of mesh-like scarf. “You can call me Morg,” He rasps, coughing, though it's dry. His back straightens a bit when he drops to a mat across the way from them. Carefully, he rotates his shoulder as if to loosen the joint before probing his left knee and lower leg. “And you?”

“Hera,” She supplies. “This is Mando. We’re scavengers,” She lies. “Looking to find scrap to get the credits to fuel and repair our ship.

“Scavengers? I’m afraid there’s not much by way of scavengeable materials around.” Morg curls in on himself to take a sip of a flask that’s slug diagonally across his chest with a leatherette belt. “Not unless you go a day’s journey north. There’s an old shipwreck that might have some resources. Last I knew nobody’s stripped ‘er entirely yet and not many are willing to make the trip up.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he adds, “Of course, the temple is up that way, and most people say it’s haunted.”

“Haunted?” Hera asks. Yasa fidgets as she does, one tiny hand reaching out to grasp her sleeve. She looks over at him with a helpless smile before turning a more serious gaze back toward their host for the evening. “How so?”

“Voices, spirits, that sort of thing. The villagers will tell you it’s a one way trip.” He crosses his arms.

“And you?” Din asks quietly, watching the water drip into the collection basin covering the firepit.

“Me? Oh,” He strokes his chin over the scarf. “I’ve never been,” Morg says.

Hera hums noncommittally.

The Mandalorian hears what she doesn’t say. He’s thinking it himself.

Liar.

Chapter Text

Din wakes in the same position he’d fallen asleep in only a few hours ago after Hera had risen from her own short slumber, detangling herself from her son, still curled up in the center of the futon to take watch. The sun is about to rise, and the skies have begun to clear, if the pale orange glow to it is any indication. Their host is asleep across the way, breathing deep and even as he rests against the opposite wall.

Meanwhile, Yasa sleeps fitfully in his lap, wrapped up in his cape, ears twitching. A tiny foot kicks against his thigh, and the boy's usually tranquil features are scrunched; He's breathing heavily.

The forlorn bleat of sound he makes when the Mandalorian plucks him up from his lap is followed by a strangled whine and he nods to Hera as he rises to his feet, feeling the bite of the ground from resting on it too long. It's a familiar enough sensation and he shakes the aches loose.

He does not coddle the boy - at least, he makes every effort not to, he thinks. The galaxy is cruel, and the boy - though young he seems - already knows this. The motion of the Mandalorian's measured, confident steps and the cool air of morning, crisp and smelling like their surroundings: leafy jungle and open plains, serve to rouse the boy enough to prevent his fussing from escalating further, into tears and screams.

"Nightmare?" He asks his charge, despite knowing he cannot answer meaningfully.

The little one pulls back to hum a whimpering syllable that seems to confirm it. He seems sad still, head returning to Din's shoulder, still curled up tight. It's an indication that the child will fall right back to sleep so his guardian keeps walking around the hermit's property until drowsy blinks and infantile coos yield to sleep itself.

Din makes several extra rounds to make sure the boy doesn't rouse, the expanse of his hand barely fanned out to cradle the entirety of the child's back. It's logical, he tries telling himself. But it's unnecessary, that logical part of his brain replies. And yet, he cannot help himself.

The droid comes barreling at him on a collision course, seemingly out of nowhere, babbling an angry series of bahs and wahs. His furious speak goes right over the warrior's head, though he jumps back and snarls softly at the droid to watch what he's doing.

The droid takes another pass at him, still rambling angrily but also not yelling as the Mandalorian had recalled him doing on the ship. Chopper extends a sparking appendage that Din is able to evade with ease before deflating, slowing, and approaching the tent as though nothing had happened. It doesn't sit well with the Mandalorian, though the child in his arms doesn't so much as shift. That just makes the cantankerous little menace lucky.

They follow the rude astromech into the hut. The Mandalorian intends to tell Hera to watch her droid, that if he comes at them again, he'll find himself scrapped.

But something - no, everything about Hera is different, all of a sudden. Beneath the demure-seeming sweetness lies something different. Something hard and unyielding, as if her baseline as a kind and nurturing (by his estimation, at least) person had been combined with the commanding, battle hearty woman he's fought with both at the tradehub and in space itself.

What changed, the Mandalorian wondered.

Her eyes are locked on the droid. Unlike outside, he's nearly silent as he moves, the sound of his chassis muffled as if he does have the ability to damper the sounds he makes to function. He wheels around carefully for some reason, as if looking for something. Perhaps he's capable of scanning? Din isn't sure. This unit seems to be a bit of an anomaly.

After a moment, the tension fades. The droid rolls over to her boy and begins prodding him with a manipulator. At least it isn't sparking, like it had been when he'd come charging at them.

"I think he's got a wire loose," He murmurs to a now tranquil-seeming Hera. His mind scrambles to try and recognize anything that would indicate the reason for her concern.

She doesn't give it to him. Instead, her gaze slides to the left, regarding him. "His logic chip has always been questionable at best."

He isn't sure if she's joking, and stares after her. She doesn't seem to mind, and goes back to watching as her boy rises from the sleeping mat. He pouts at how early it is, but her gaze seems to broker no argument and he stumbles to his feet.

There's ration bars and water exchanged, and she sends Jacen outside with the droid to freshen up - to let the cooler air of morning wake him the rest of the way. Only as the child goes, does the Mandalorian notice that Hera's gaze falls on their still-sleeping host. It's like she's looking for something. He just isn't sure what.

-/

Morg leads them into the jungle, leaning on his walking staff. It's not quite a cane, but it appears heavily used. Whatever details had been carved into the dark wood have been washed away by hand grease and use. The man would be tall if he weren't hunched over, as if trying to display how battered he is, weathered by age. Yet, his steps are light. Din watches him skillfully navigate his way across thick tree roots and across streams without so much as a wobble. It's subtle, but he wonders if it and the oversized cloak are meant to distort his image. He hasn't seen the man's face, nor even a trace of skin to determine his age. It's smart. Practically Mandalorian, though his people are far better protected by beskar.

He considers pointing it out to Hera after a time, but the opportunity passes before he can get her to drop back far enough. Morg rises to his full height and stops.

"This," He coughs, as though they'd been in a dusty cavern, not a humid jungle, "Is as far as I can take you. The shipwreck is several klicks north, keep following this path. Should be visible from the sky once you hit the grasslands, so your droid will know where to land the ship." Hera had ordered Chopper to go and retrieve the Ghost. It would certainly beat walking back, and prevent the droid from having to jettison himself over knotty roots and vines his struts would undoubtedly get stuck on, she had explained.

"Thank you," Hera says, attempting again to offer him credits.

The hermit denies her. "A morning walk in the fresh air is enough payment for me," His voice trembles from overuse. "Safe travels with the young ones. Avoid the temple," He reminds them.

"Got it," The Twi'lek confirms, voice even, as if she's taking his advice. They'll swing wide and do recon, but neither of them are put off by the warning they'd been given the night before. They've both had experiences with these kinds of temples. It isn't enough to belay their course of action.

Jacen lingers at the Mandalorian's side when the spindly man hobbles past. The armored warrior waits, his child quiet in his arms, ears flicking slowly. Listening.

He looks sound, scouting for whatever has alerted the little one. He finds nothing, and eventually he adjusts the child's weight in his arms; Yasa leaning to pat Jacen's cheek. The boys exchange a glance.

Din can hear the man rustling branches and breathing heavily as he walks away from them, back the way he'd came, back to his hut on the outskirts of the settlement. He looks up to see Hera watching her boy carefully.

"Everything alright?" Din asks her.

"Yes," She says, as though mulling the word over. She frowns.

Jacen considers. "He kinda-" Yasa interrupts, shrieking loudly and squirming as a brightly colored frog - small and nimble - drops down from a tree and onto the green hair that covers the half human's head.

"Don't give it to him unless you want him to eat it," The Mandalorian warns Jacen as he catches it in his hands. "Those are his favorite snack."

They laugh, and Jacen releases their surprise guest onto the forest floor, much to the little one's disappointment. The green haired boy doesn't look back anymore. Several other frogs, of different colors and patterns blink, looking up at the hermit as he passes them. It seems there are a great number of them in this part of the rainforest.

The wind is mild, through the trees. It encourages patience.

Not yet, It says. Not yet.

-/

Together, they herd Jacen through the jungle. It’s more like they indicate the boundaries by which he may roam, constantly keeping an eye out for his wandering and calling him back with sharp tones before he can get too far. Always a troublemaker, her boy. Not that Hera’s surprised.

The Mandalorian - Din’s child is quiet by nature, curious and interested in the flora and fauna they pass but small enough to carry and still willing to indulge in being held. Hera misses those days, when she could cuddle the child to her breast. How quickly it had happened, the tiny babe had grown into a striking combination of his parents: inquisitive, intelligent, and so full of charisma. There are still fleeting moments in which she sees him as her baby boy instead of the independent young man he’s becoming.

It squeezes Hera’s heart like a vice, bittersweet: Watching him flick too-long strands of hair from his eyes and smile back at her with that lopsided grin that belonged to his father. To see the gentleness with which he treats the curious beings they encounter: tiny frogs and small rodents, mammals with too many eyes, instantly connecting with them like Ezra. Even though her son had never met his father or his father’s student, he was like them in so many ways.

No matter how many times it tugs at her heartstrings, she would never, ever, trade away the pain. She would watch, and she would be grateful. They live on in him, now. Through the will of the Force.

At least, Hera thought, Kanan would. Ezra… no matter how bleak it seemed, Hera felt it, like she felt the warmth of the sun, or the giddiness in her belly when she soared through space behind the helm of the Ghost. She knew he was alive. He was out there.

And, for some reason that she couldn’t explain, she felt like they were close. The hermit, Morg…

He was familiar. There was something about him that made no sense to her. Perhaps he was someone she’d helped before, under some other alias. Her knee-jerk reaction had been swift, the biometric scan she forced Chopper into amidst the rest of his recon had confirmed the bent man hadn’t been the man they were looking for. He was too old. Sure, she’d gotten that from his lumbering shuffle, the way he held himself, how he talked, but it seemed off.

Hera isn’t force sensitive, but she has no shortage of instinct. If something seemed strange or out of place to her, it usually was. But the old geezer’s secrets were his, she supposed. Whatever his reasons were, why he’d lied about coming up towards the temple or the shipwreck, she suspected those reasons were rooted in good.

A lot of her trust in the Force - in something she can neither feel, hear, nor relate to, despite knowing that it’s there - is akin to deciding that if something was meant to happen, if there was something she was to know, it would reveal itself. It just… contradicted everything about her investigative nature. Hence Chopper doing some scanning to make sure it really wasn’t someone they were looking for. If it weren’t what was clearly a Jedi-oriented task, she might have pressed the old man.

No, she thinks. She absolutely, definitely would have.

But, there was a reason she’d left Chop behind. She jokingly calls him the muscle now, with the real muscle systems away from anywhere resembling the Outer Rim. She can certainly handle her own, but there’s a difference between fighting when everyone can defend themselves and protecting a ten-year-old. Hera would prefer not to do any fighting, but her kid’s made his choice (really, he’s just always been sure of it, like the sky is usually blue and Chopper is a menace) so this is their path. It’ll still be their path when she finds what they’re looking for.

She’s heard plenty of rumors. Ones she doesn’t want to tell the Mandalorian, who hefts her kid up and over a downed tree by the collar as if he’s weightless before he can fall back on his rear end. Rumors of Luke Skywalker resurrecting the Jedi Order. Rumors that her boy had heard, but felt odd about.

Whether that was the Force or the ol’ Syndulla gut talking to her child, Hera (and certain other parties close to her) were certainly inclined to agree. Besides, by the time that the man-child that is Skywalker finally gets his act together and creates this school for whatever force-sensitive children that are out there, Jacen would be a bit too old, anyway.

It’s hard to tell with him clomping along through the jungle, chattering excitedly as he starts to feel the temple beckoning them closer, but he’s growing up fast. She smiles down at him - he’s still only as tall as her elbow, but he’s due for a growth spurt any time now, she’s sure of it - and lets him take her by the hand.

The trees become more and more sparse, up ahead, like there’s some sort of clearing. For how they tower above her, she cannot see the sky, or any presumed temple.

“There’s something up ahead,” The Mandalorian says. She notices the way the child in his arms doesn’t look when a frog watches them warily from a nearby vine. The back of her neck prickles beneath her head-tails and she looks around. “A structure,” The warrior clarifies. He’s very clearly manipulating his HUD to get a reading. “Probably the temple.”

She tightens her grip on Jacen’s hand. He might feel the pull, but he doesn’t understand the Jedi lesson that not everything Jedi related is about him. It’s hard, when there’s so few of them. Or, at least, she’s expecting that, but he stops in his tracks, teal eyes focused on a large stone that’s cut into a square. There are smaller ones in the clearing, knobby roots pushed back around it.

It’s at least three times Hera’s height and almost perfect cube, the smaller, cracked stones they’ve been stepping on to get to it littered amongst the trees and flattened into the soil. She studies it, then looks to where the Mandalorian indicates with a point.

“This looks ancient. These engravings on the side of the stones look pretty consistent to other Temple ruins I’ve seen,” Hera comments.

Jacen jerks her forward, hard, as if forgetting their hands are attached. She lets him lead her around the large stone, to see the scars its trajectory left on the earth. Perhaps there was a battle here? Morg had mentioned a shipwreck.

“Mama,” Jacen whispers. It has the same awed, worried edge to it that it had in the cantina, with the Inquisitors about to loom over them. Well, almost. He’s worried, but it’s not for their safety.

The Mandalorian can’t tell the difference like she can. She hears him pulling out his blaster, already on alert, and her fingers flex over the small one she keeps holstered around her leg. “What is it?”

“Look,” He points.

It looks to be ivory in color, sunbleached and covered in vines, the flora claiming it as their own. It’s huge, rounded along the top. She looks to the north immediately, eyes narrowing as she scans whatever horizon lies above the treeline. Carefully, she pulls her fingers free from Jacen’s grasp, holding her palm down to indicate that he should stay put as she steps forward.

“What is that?” The Mandalorian asks, stepping out around the stone, the baby protectively held against him, green head tucked beneath an armored forearm. He stands at Jacen’s side, stopped by a hand that catches his cloak and holds firm.

The boy shakes his head and looks up into the Mandalorian’s impassive helm. After a moment, Jacen points to the northeast and Din drops his viewfinder over his hud immediately. “Imperial,” He says, following a scan. “Looks like a Star Destroyer.”

“I know,” Hera says. After a moment in which no one moves, Jacen relinquishes his hold and continues walking. The Mandalorian follows, looking around carefully for signs of trouble.

“A purrgil?” Din wonders aloud when he’s close enough to see the dead being’s eye hole in its skull and the way the crumpled bone-structures of the beings many tails trail behind it, snarled and tangled in its crash landing. “It’s been here a while,” He comments, stepping in close.

Jacen laces his fingers with his mother’s again. “Ten years,” Hera says sadly, pulling a comm-link from her belt. Looking down at her son she asks, “What do you think?”

“He scanned it,” Jacen answers. The answer doesn’t appear to make her feel better.

“It was beat up,” Din comments. “Looks like it landed sideways or rolled.”

Hera looks at him. “On the hull. Did you see anything? Ornamentation, something decorative?”

He flinches at the sound of desperation in the pilot’s voice. It’s sharp and pinched, not at all the cool leadership he associates with her, or the nurturing tone she saves for the children. “Let me look,” He acquiesces, unsure what it is she’s looking for. His hud isn’t great for this sort of thing, though it’s better than standard binocks. He brings his vision into focus on the jagged edges of the ship’s hull. The jungle hasn’t claimed it yet, whether it’s something in the way the Empire built their ships or coincidence, he isn’t sure.

A moment of thorough investigation later, he queries aloud, “Looks like there’s something on the hull, but I’m not sure. Snakes?”

“Thank you,” She says to him when he flips the attachment on his helmet back to its resting position. The sparkle in her eyes is most assuredly gratitude. He notices the comm in her hands and tips his head curiously as she begins to speak.

“Spectre Three, send rally coordinates to Spectre Four and Fulcrum One.” She looks to Din and nods in a way indicative of respect. At her side, Jacen exchanges a look with the child, whose eyes are wide as ever, looking out into the distance.

“We have eyes on the Chimaera.”

Chapter Text

“Temple first,” Hera insists.

“But-”

The Mandalorian feels Yasa’s foot kick against the unarmored side of his arm. It’s not heavy, might not have been purposeful at all, but the way the boy looks up at him and chitters quietly most assuredly is. “Your mother’s right,” He agrees with Hera, which seems to align with the child’s wishes, if one could call them that. He considers saying that the temple is the safe place they'd planned to investigate from the start, but it hits him that they don’t exactly have a plan. This whole situation is half-cocked and more meant to get the kids off the radar of the Inquisitors. So as long as that continues to happen, they’re in the clear.

Ideally the temple will have weapons or information, something that can help them. Then maybe they can go checking out shipwrecked Star Destroyers.

“Chopper is going to meet us here. We’re not going up to the shipwreck until we have backup.” Hera's eyes drift over to Din. “He and Yasa didn’t sign up for this,” She reminds Jacen. “This is our mission, but right now, our priority is to make sure that they’re safe, remember?” Sighing, Jacen allows himself to be led around the monstrous skeleton of the purrgil, looking at it curiously.

Behind him and coming up the rear, the Mandalorian watches as the child in his arms reaches out to it, tiny palm resting on the bone, trailing over it as they pass. The child closes his eyes and concentrates, so Din stops. Careful as not to disturb him, he holds still and watches.

“This was one of the purrgil who helped save Lothal,” Jacen calls out, more to the Mandalorian than the child. “They came and destroyed the Imperial fleet, knocking every ship but the Chimaera from the sky!” He holds out his hands, excited. Eyes bright and wide, he continues, gushing, “Ezra used the force to tell them to take them away from the planet so the people would be free, and-”

“He told the purrgil? These things destroy ships, kid,” The Mandalorian says. “They’re a pilot’s worst nightmare. But they couldn’t-”

Yasa chirrups quietly, blinking his eyes open and looking up to the Mandalorian. As if he believes him. What else can the Force do, Din wonders.

“The Force answers when we need it most,” Jacen answers his wordless question, previous excitement gone in an instant. “But,” He continues, “It comes at a cost.”

It isn’t lost on Din that though not an orphan, Hera’s son is well acquainted with the harshness of the Galaxy. Not for the first time does the Mandalorian consider asking the boy if using his powers has similar consequences, if it saps him of strength or leaves him vulnerable like it has Yasa when he performed miraculous feats.

But if the boy can hear his thoughts, he doesn't reply, and Din is left to follow him and Hera to the temple.

Unlike the last one the Mandalorian had found himself in, this temple is sunny and open. Inviting, in a way. Almost cheerful, if not for the oppressive heat, bolstered by the humidity.

Hera doesn't look terribly thrilled about the prospect of entering this place, but she doesn't hold Jacen's hand anymore, either. "I don't think that there's anything here for us," The boy says, looking at his mother, obviously disappointed. "I kinda hoped that maybe-"

"Maybe you can help them instead," Hera suggests from where she stands, facing the Mandalorian's back as he slowly walks the perimeter of the open space. He tenses, listening as she continues. "Is there a good place to meditate?"

"Oh, uh, let me see!" He quickly looks around pillars and peeks into open doorways. "Don't worry," He calls over his shoulder. "I won't wander off unless the temple does something."

"Uh-huh," She exchanges a glance with Din then, as if to relay her disbelief in that line of thought. She moves to follow him. "Don't mind me keeping an eye on you."

The child doesn't squirm or react as though he wants to be let down to explore, so Din wanders carefully through dilapidated stone structures, around the outside of the temple with the child clutching his breastplate. There are plenty of hollows and no enemies to speak of, but there doesn't appear to be any information, much less a Jedi.

Eventually, Jacen runs up to him. "I found a good place to meditate," He says, extending his hands, intending to take Yasa from his arms. "Can I?"

"May you," Hera corrects him.

Jacen looks up into the Mandalorian's helmet. He grins."So..?"

Hera rubs her temple with a gloved hand. "He's allowed to tell you-"

"I don't think it's a good idea," Din says, almost mumbling. His posture changes as he recalls the feeling of an invisible hand closing around his neck. As if sensing his distress, the child warbles sadly. "He didn't mean it, but," He trails off, his gaze finding Hera's. Her eyes darken.

"There's a lot you don't know, Jacen," Hera reminds him.

"You can say that about anybody," He quips back.

"Even so," Din interrupts, but offers a compromise instead of flat out rejection. "How about you lead the way?"

The half-human child hums in approval and points to a doorway Din definitely didn't see the first time he walked around. "Through here,” he says.

-/

One minute, he's holding the child, and the next minute, the child's gone. As though he'd slipped through his fingers like grains of desert sand. Yasa had been very adverse to being set down, even to wander around the enclosed space Jacen had found for them to meditate. He'd shrieked as though the dusty wood tiles that composed the floor of the room they'd been led into would harm him if he so much as touched them, so Din had allowed him to stay, to curl up against and continue to cling to his cuirass, ears brushing the underside of his jaw when they perked.

Jacen seemed to meditate with strange ease despite his age, and Hera kept watch. Din, not a Jedi but somehow dragged into this, was more of an involuntary participant, though he could center his thoughts well enough and had no issues with keeping quiet.

But it was at that very last second when the child relaxed against him, fingers going lax, the boy falling asleep despite his attempts otherwise, that the Mandalorian felt as though the boy all but vanished.

Strangely enough, though, he finds it difficult to open his eyes. Had someone sabotaged them? Perhaps this was a trap of some sort, and they’d sprung it. Hera seemed strangely familiar with the concept of Jedi temples trying to murder visitors. Sincerely, he hopes that isn’t the case.

“Sabotage, no. A conversation, this is.”

He flinches wildly, swiveling his body to look behind him, though he cannot see. “What have you done to me?”

“Nothing done, have I. “ Din stills. A moment later, the croaking, higher pitched voice continues, gnarled by age. “Blind, you are not. Nothing to see there is.”

Deciding that trying to see is pointless, the Mandalorian focuses on the voice instead, trying to pinpoint its origin. It sounds like it comes from nowhere and everywhere, all at the same time. “I don’t believe you,” He finally responds.

“Mmm,” The voice considers his words, mulling them over slowly. “Belief.”

“What about it?” He’s able to stand without issue, so he does, stretching his hands out in front of him. His HUD is unresponsive, and he’s sure his eyes are open now.

“Many things, belief is.” The voice hums, almost amused. “A weapon for some.” He pauses. “For others, armor. Like yours. Mandalorian.”

Scoffing, he replies, “Yeah, and? Is this a philosophy lesson?”

“A lesson, yes. But ready to learn it, are you?”

“Sure.” His voice lilts like he’s talking to a bounty, indulging them to get to the point. It’s something he saves only for the toughest, most irritating ones.

The voice laughs at the Mandalorian’s quick insistence. “No, Din Djarin. Ready, you are not.” A pause. Then serious, it says, “Much to learn, have you.”

“Wait. How do you know my-”

The ground beneath his feet illuminates with golden crackles of light and slips away. With it, Din falls. He cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched as light assaults his vision. The sensation akin to falling upwards. He lands on lilac-orange sands and stares at the canyon that rises around him, the sunset off in the distance. He’s been here before.

This is Aravala-7.

And that is-

He barely has time to dodge before a weapon comes down at him, buzzing and red. He rolls backward into the dust and manages a good look at his opponent. Humanoid, maybe human, maybe not. Wide and large, with yellowed eyes. Not either of the two Inquisitors he’d seen before. And there, in the man’s arms…

The child - Yasa - wails, loud and piercing.

“You cannot defeat me,” The Inquisitor says, his voice reptilian, smooth in a dangerous way. His fingers are exposed, nails filed to imitate claws, digging into the child’s robes. Yasa continues to cry out, obviously in pain. “But if you run, I have my prize. I will not follow you.”

Pushing up to his feet, it’s only quick thinking that saves him from a downward strike intending to catch him in the back of the neck. He manages to trip up the Inquisitor and they fall, the child hitting the sandstone with a thunk, bouncing out of the enemy’s arms, suddenly silent.

It’s hardly a fight. The Inquisitor uses the Force to throw the Mandalorian back before he can so much as step in the child’s direction. Din feels a heavy weight against his chest, crushing him against the canyon wall. The Inquisitor draws up his weapon, reactivating the deadly crimson blade.

“But more than a prize, I do so enjoy suffering.” He turns toward the unmoving child, tilting his head, posture tense, a predator about to strike.

Din sees it in his mind’s eye before it happens, but that makes it no less horrific: the way the Inquisitor grasps his weapon like a dagger and plunges it into the child’s chest. Simultaneously, the power that had been pushing against him releases him and he tumbles to his hands and knees, eyes stuck on the child’s smoldering body. There is no possible way he could have survived such a thing. The blade itself would have scorched through infant-sized internal organs. There’s no way-

He sees red, charging the other man. His attack does not lack finesse, despite his shock, but the Inquisitor takes the blow to the face, and allows himself to be thrown back. He spits blood and smirks as he rises, calling his lightsaber to full power, intending to throw it while it spins like a deadly boomerang.

Something stops him. Without warning, he drops the weapon at Din’s feet, hovering too far above the ground for his toes to touch. He sputters, grabbing uselessly at his neck. Against all hope, Din looks back. The child’s face is twisted with pain and exertion and anger. He screams shrilly, tri-digit hand twisted aggressively and constricting further still. The Inquisitor drops to the ground in front of Din, eyes glassy and unseeing.

Din pays the dead enemy no mind, scrambling over to the child who lays face down against the stone. The wound doesn’t bleed, the fabric of the child’s robe smoking as the edges around the wound burn.

“No,” He says, mind frantically trying to figure out why this is happening. The child’s eyes are closed. He does not move. “No!” He shakes the boy. It’s clear he isn’t sleeping, not with the gaping lightsaber wound in his chest.

This can’t be happening, he thinks. It feels real - he can feel the ground beneath him and the child’s cooling body and… and - “No,” He tells himself, despite how real it feels, how his hands and chest quiver in panic. He’s in the Temple he wound with Hera and Jacen, the child is - was… He’s here. This is like the last time. It’s a trick, some kind of magic that warps things, and it’s targeting him. He needs to snap out of it. “This isn’t real. This is an illusion.”

“Believe that, do you?” The voice is back, and Din looks around to the tops of the canyon, the horizon lines both in front of and behind him. “Feels real, it does.”

“That’s not the point,” Din growls. “I’m in the temple,” He says, more to himself than to the voice. The illusion of Aravala-7 disappears in a flash, the child’s dead body vanishing from view, just as much a lie as the rest of it. Some trick of the mind. Tentatively, as if realizing something, Din ventures accusingly, “And you’re a Jedi.”

“Ah! Know one thing, do you. Very good. A Jedi, I was. One with the Force, am I.”

“Are you who we’ve been sent to find?”

“Am I?” He pauses, almost for dramatic effect before tutting, “Doubtful. Knew about where you are, I did. A vision, another Jedi had. Told me, he did. And here,” The Jedi voice says, with satisfaction. “Are you.”

Din shakes his head. He’s in a room that looks much like the temple room he’d been in before, except he is alone. The window on the far side of the room lets in sunlight. Still, he’s alone. “I need to find your people,” He says.

“My people?” Another laugh. Din clenches his fists. This isn’t amusing. “No, amusing, it is not,” The voice agrees with him, as if he’d spoken aloud. “Master Jedi, none left there are.”

“They don’t have to be masters. Just Jedi.”

“Ah. Just Jedi, say you?” He ponders it. “Ah. Few left, there are. Equipped to care for the child, less still. Could not-”

“He belongs with his kind,” The Mandalorian interjects before there can be any argument.

“And believe the Jedi they are, do you?”

“Yes,” Din answers, with absolute certainty. “He must be reunited with his people. He will never be a Mandalorian.”

“Ah,” He hums again, but this time with disappointment. “Then believe we are done, do I.”

Chapter Text

He is not without knowledge or feelings. Nor is he blind to motives; He does not lack empathy. He has lived a long, long time.

He will live a long, long time.

Though his body is tiny, and his manner is small and infantile and crude, Yasa knows much. He has seen much. He has lost much.

More still, he will lose.

He has dreamed - not in specifics, not in a way he can put to a language that the sentients around him will understand. Dreamt of men swathed in black both physical and not, seen and felt the fathomless heat of blades with hearts of bleeding red. Seen them, in snatches. Felt them, always, lurking out of view. Not always near, but never far. Like shadows.

The concept of time to a child who will live centuries does not vary from that of the ones around whom it lives, what it is exposed to. Except he had never been exposed to much beyond experimentation and being locked away.

One of his first manners of survival was to remain hidden. A message translated in cool numbness, by the Force. Not whispered by a loved one, stressed by a protector. No one ever told him anything. No one spoke to him. No one has ever… wanted him. He brings death and chaos. A prize, a possession, a pet. A conquest. Not a being deserving of free will.

Or at least, he had believed it so.

Now, he knows he is not. He does not know what he is, has never seen another like him. Has not ever known that to matter when he has seen his solitude interrupted by many different beings across many, many years. Somewhere, deep down, he always knew he never, ever would.

He had known it before the sadness of the man in the message from the dragon’s lair. Knew that whatever he had been meant for, whatever world he had been brought into changed, not long after he’d been born. While he’d been too young to recall anything, the part of his memory hazy and yellow-white, unknown even to himself.

Fear, he remembered. Loneliness, better still. Darkness that was as oppressive as it was safe, for it was not safe at all. The Force, that for so long had compelled him to wait, the only constant he’d ever had. Only now does he know what it is, thanks to the other child, the younger one who is gifted not unlike himself. The Force has always been his compass. A wordless guide to see him on his way.

It had been a soothing resonance that blurred the hours trapped in darkness, that eased the ache of poking and prodding, that sent tendrils of feeling and energy and goodness to help him stay his course. Not to lose hope. There was a sort of togetherness in it, something faint and buzzing, all around. It was easy to drift in. It helped him learn patience, to see beyond what his eyes were capable of. To understand.

It had put the Mandalorian in his path.

And the Mandalorian had not wanted him, just like the rest. But, he was not the same as the others, their edges blurred and hazy with darkness. He was not bright, because nothing had ever been bright, but he was kind.

Never before had the force spoken to him. But with the Mandalorian on his knees, and the beast barreling towards him, intent to kill, he’d heard a voice.

“What will you do?”

He had heard many voices. This one was unlike any he’d ever heard. It had been nowhere and everywhere, masculine and feminine and without gender all at the same time.

The Force had never offered him a choice before, but Yasa had been able to see them with otherworldly clarity: He could do nothing, and the Mandalorian would die. The beast would turn upon him, then. He too would perish, small and helpless.

And then, it would be over. Yasa did not fear death. He would be one with the Force that had guided him, living on in everything and nothing, all at once. He would not suffer. He would not be experimented upon. He would not have to hurt or live or fear.

It would have been easy to let go, to stay in his pram unmoving, to fall, helplessly.

But in that slowed-down space between seconds, Yasa had remembered something. Something he did not feel, had never in the presence of the Mandalorian: fear. The Mandalorian would not harm him. He was lost, adrift in the same way, without a true purpose. Alive, but not living.

Most of all, Yasa could sense it, beneath armor and weapons and biting words. The Mandalorian was kind and bright and good. The child who had been urged to wait was through with waiting to be told. He’d lifted his hand and reached out for it, instead of it reaching out for him. He made the choice.

It was a course set in motion. One path of many, one path that would branch further still. He knew, beyond the Force, that it was the right choice.

And the right choice is rarely the easier one.

-/

The child sees it in a dream, before it happens.

All of it.

“He must be reunited with his people. He will never be a Mandalorian.”

He cannot make words vocally, but he does understand intent, and can project it. Can hear what is not said: The child cannot stay with me. Yasa does not know of the voice - it is not the same one that had spoken to him in the dragon’s lair - but he knows the sound of failure, the sadness that flavors the tone.

Most of all, he feels the rejection in a way that is nearly a physical pain, pushing out from his core. The Mandalorian’s desperation to find someone, anyone, to relinquish him to.

And thus, he wakes crying, desperate and on edge, refusing to be anything but held. Perhaps, if he does not let go, it will not come to pass. But then, they come to the temple. The Mandalorian does not waver from his usual resolve. His hands are gentle and kind, his gaze protective and searching beneath dark transparisteel. Nothing feels different except the creeping sentience of the temple, reaching out towards the rest of the world.

Yasa did not want to come here. Not after what he’d dreamed. It was real - no, it would become real.

But he cannot stop it. In the space between awake and asleep, he feels the Mandalorian go slack beneath him. Numbly, he feels the way the hands holding him fall away and he bounces to the floor. He does not cry.

Hera plucks him up, handing him to Jacen while she tries to understand what’s happening.

Jacen looks down at him strangely, and it is as easy as breathing to hide his feelings away behind blankness, to become smooth like a river stone in the Force. The boy sets him aside once he sees that he’s awake, reaching out towards the Mandalorian both physically and with the Force, trying to deduce what the temple’s will has done.

Neither of them notice his tiny steps, for they are hardly a whisper upon weathered stone. The Temple senses his desire to leave and grants it. The Force does not whisper to him, because he does not wish it so.

Instead he wishes, in a way that he’d never wished before, to just be left alone. And yet, as he toddles out into the world, one tiny hand clings tightly to the skull of the mythosaur. He does not want to be the Mandalorian’s duty. He wants something that he has never considered wanting before.

Yasa wants to belong.

-/

It’s nearly dark, the sky a pale blue-orange, sun fading through the trees. Nothing hurts, he’s not even stiff. But it isn’t the pale light of the night sky he sees first. It’s worried electric green eyes, too close to his face. He almost headbutts the Twi’lek sitting up.

“Thank goodness,” Hera says. There’s a lantern that hadn’t been there before in the center of the room. Things look normal enough - normal considering he’d what, passed out? - but instinct tells the Mandalorian that something is wrong.

“What is it?” He asks, but she shakes her head, clicking her comm unit instead.

“Chopper, come in.”

The reply is short and clipped, and he hears Jacen yelling in the background, loudly. It sounds like they’re searching for something. No, he thinks, as the boy hollers the end of a question at the top of his lungs from what’s likely a few meters from the droid’s input. They’re not searching for something. They’re searching for someone.

He has Hera by the collar before she can move the communication device from chin-level. “Where is he?” Din demands.

She doesn’t fight the grip. “He disappeared right after you passed out.”

“Passed out?”

“Why, exactly, do you think you’ve just woken up on the ground?” She removes his fingers with a stronger grip than he expected, one eyebrow arched elegantly. “Jacen stayed with you until Chopper got here with the ship. He couldn’t sense him anywhere on the temple grounds, but it,” She looks away. “We were distracted when you went unresponsive. He must have slipped away then. We’ve done scans. There’s no trouble.” With a balanced edge of worry and confidence, she says, “We’ll find him.”

“Why would he leave? He’d been clinging to me all day.” Irrational, angry thoughts threaten to overwhelm him. Hera wouldn’t betray him, he’d hoped. What reason would she have to do so? She had a force sensitive kid who could communicate, and that kid was absolutely hers. The reactions they had to the Inquisitors, the knowledge she’d shared, that wasn’t fake. Why is this- “The temple,” He begins, head swiveling to try and look around her, as if there might be some clue as to what happened. “Did it take him? No doors or secret passages-”

“Jacen can’t sense him. If he was on the temple grounds, he definitely would have been able to.”

“What if he’s wrong?”

Hera shakes her head. “He’s not. He ‘asked’ the temple, and the temple said no.”

“How does that work?”

“How does any of this work?” She questions back, angry and not in the mood to impart more scraps of whatever Jedi information she’s accumulated over the years. No, he thinks belatedly. Hera isn’t angry. It’s frustration and worry that flavor her words. “I don’t have a clue. One minute he was here, and the next he was gone. He wandered off. We don’t know exactly how long he was gone before we realized it - it couldn’t have been that long, but he’s not exactly tall enough to see at a distance.”

“We need to go looking,” He returns hoarsely, rising to his feet.

A firm hand pushes on his chestplate. “Not until I’m sure you’re good.”

“It was the temple,” He urges her, brushing her hand away with a strong sweep of his arm. “It was asking me questions, I think. I feel fine now.”

“Anything useful?”

“They talked in circles. Nothing useful,” He says, irritably, but with his own concern clawing at his chest. “Let’s just go.”

“Are you sure?” Hera’s eyes narrow, intense. “My-” She searches for the word to describe her son’s father and falls short. “Kanan said the masters spoke in riddles. Maybe there’s something?” She receives no answer but the deadpan glare of an emotionless helmet. “Well,” She continues, almost apologetic, “Think about it. Maybe something will be of use to us.”

Din rises, already flicking on his HUD to see if there’s any tracks still viable and stalks out into the coming night. Hera pulls a flashlight from her belt, coming up on his right side. His gut pulses anxiously, indicative of something ominous to come. Hera gives him a serious look and pulls her blaster, willing to follow his lead.

Apparently they’re thinking the same thing.

Chapter Text

He watches the child for a long time. Notes the sullen posture of the tiny creature, the way he walks aimlessly until he hits a stream he cannot possibly navigate without help due to his size and then chooses instead to sit. Not even the multicolored frogs that jump from leafy plants into the flowing water distract him from his silent investigation of the trinket in his hands.

When the sun begins to sink beneath the treetop canopy, he finally exhales loudly enough to draw attention and steps into view. “Perhaps,” He says, raspy but not terribly so. His voice seems to clear with each and every word until it sounds thick and forced to be lower than it should, “You should come with me for the evening.”

The child’s eyes narrow, inspecting him as if to determine whether he’s a friend or foe.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, especially when it gets dark.”

A frog croaks and the child looks up, startled.

“You’re not using it,” Morg says, resigned, but not surprised. “That’s dangerous when you’re alone.”

The child exhales with a bit of a sulk and pushes out with one hand. It’s petulant at best, meant to drive him away, but the hermit tilts his head, not moving from his position despite the effort exerted towards him. When it doesn’t work, Yasa looks at his outstretched hand and then back up at the man, blinking in confusion. He’s still hunched slightly, but he doesn’t look rattled. His walking staff is still upright at his side.

As if nothing’s happened, the old man asks calmly, “Will you allow me to take you back for the evening? Your companions will likely come that way looking for you. You’ll be safer with me in the meantime.”

A questioning sound leaves the little one, followed by a head tilt.

“The Force is a valuable tool,” The hermit answers, voice dipping lower. “No matter how vulnerable you seem, it will always be there for you and you will never be completely defenseless. Now then.” He approaches slowly, crouching when he’s within arm’s reach of the boy. “Shall we?”

When he doesn’t meet with any resistance, the man plucks him up carefully, settling him against his shoulder. He does not slouch as he walks, and his staff does not touch the ground. Instead, he steps sedately over the brush as if he could do so with his eyes closed. Yasa looks up into his goggles and the man removes them, letting them clatter to the forest floor. He’s not an old man, at all.

His eyes are the color of midnight, sapphire blue.

-/

“Over here!” Hera’s call is shrill and loud in the dark. She waves her flashlight, their signal to each other that they’ve found a lead.

They’ve been looking for hours now. The moon looms high in a clear sky, obscured by the trees that weave together overhead. As it’s gotten darker, they’ve had to search closer together to prevent separation and from leaving Jacen vulnerable in the event of dangerous animals lurking in the dark.

Hera sits at the edge of a stream they’d crossed over earlier to get to the Temple. When the Mandalorian gets close enough, she shines her light on the muddy ground beside the creek bed. “Footprints,” She says, slowly.

He’s already got his HUD activated. He sees the steps lead from over a large root and come to rest at a spot beside the water, a larger indent from where the child must have sat down. The thermal imprints of bare feet at the water’s edge are fading but still visible. “He was here,” Din says. “Couldn’t have been more than a few hours ago.”

“But where did he go from here?”

There’s nothing but the sound of birds in the night as the Mandalorian scans, looking for further tracks, waiting for them to register on his overlay. It’s been nearly impossible with how long it had been since the child took off. There is nothing else left to follow, and the ground itself was uneven with gnarled roots. “His footprints end,” Din says, voice tightly wound but even, as if balanced on the tip of a dagger. “I don’t see any sign of him leaving this spot, but he’d make tracks, unless-” He eyes the creek. The water is too deep and the current is steady. The child is not a strong swimmer.

They exchange another look, and Hera’s prepared to wade into the knee-high water despite what finding him in it would mean. In the distance, Chopper calls out. “Bah boh bwah!” The droid hollers, and Jacen comes scrambling across the roots and soft soil in the dark, stumbling but not falling.

“We found these,” He says, holding them out to Din. The Mandalorian inspects them, curious. “They belong to the hermit, Morg, I think.”

Hera is already barking an order at Chopper. “Bring the Phantom,” She says, indicating the shuttle that docks within the whole of her ship. It’s smaller, stealthier, and the Ghost is sitting in a field not more than five minutes away if the astromech uses the thruster built into his frame. “You should be able to bring it down over the water.”

The Mandalorian looks at her as the droid leaves without comment. “What is it?” He asks, as if to confirm they’re on the same wavelength.

She shakes her head. “I don’t like this,” The ex-general says. “I feel like we’re missing something important.”

-/

This is a relatively peaceful planet. In fact, from the sky, if they hadn’t known what they were looking for, it might have seemed like an overzealous bonfire. In a practiced move, Hera shifts the control yoke so the Phantom edges a safe distance away not to draw attention, but no one looks up at the tiny ship when it passes by. There are plenty who could, however: stormtroopers and their commanders seem to be rummaging through whatever remains of the hermit’s shack, reduced to cinders.

The Mandalorian grips the shoulder of the pilot’s chair, as if to steady himself. “Now what?”

“They’re searching for something,” Hera considers. “But why Morg?”

“I don’t know,” He answers. “Let’s go back to your ship and regroup. We won’t find anything with this many footsoldiers milling about.” His voice sounds small. Defeated.

Hera puts a hand over his, still fisting the seatback. She squeezes once and releases. “It’ll be alright,” She says.

“Aunt Sabine should be coming, right?” Jacen murmurs. Since they’d gotten into the Phantom and the boy had finally had the chance to sit down, he’d been dozing off and on, but for now he’s awake. “I think we need her help.” He gives his mother a meaningful glance.

“We can find him,” Din whirls, defensive. “We don’t need her.”

Hera purposely continues their course to avoid it from looking like they’re circling the burn site. “Oh, don’t be a-” She looks at her child, then back to him, and finally takes a slow, steadying breath. “Don’t be like that,” She rephrases. “We’re all tired and stressed. We’ve had a long day.” They pass over a small village and she slowly begins turning around. In the silence that follows, she says, “Sabine isn’t going to judge you.”

“She’s not like me.”

“No, and neither are we, and neither is Yasa. This is your kid we’re talking about here,” She barks, motioning for Chopper to take it from here so she can turn around and address the Mandalorian properly. “If it were Jacen, I’d be doing anything to find him. Even working with people I didn’t particularly trust.”

He gestures silently to himself, as if to ask what it is, exactly he’s been doing. The words he manages to speak come out harsher than intended. Din thinks, That’s what’s gotten me into this in the first place. He says, “He’s not my son.”

The Twi’lek’s stare shifts from furious to dumbfounded without so much as a blink of her wide green eyes. “Is that what you think? Because he’s not your own flesh and blood?”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Din snaps, provoked. “The child needs to go back to his kind. It’s my duty to see that task through. He’s not-”

Hera interrupts before he can repeat himself. “Why? Because you’re afraid of the commitment?” She scoffs. “Newsflash, buddy, you’ve already caught feelings. You care about him, and he damn sure cares about you.”

“It’s temporary,” The Mandalorian assures her. He wills back his anger. “We’ll find the Jedi, and the child will be placed in their custody. That’s what must be done. The child is to be a Jedi.”

Hera shakes her head. The words are rehearsed, like orders given by a superior. “And what if he wants to be a Mandalorian?”

“Like I said earlier,” Din growls, “He can’t.”

The ship sails on in silence for a long moment. Jacen’s quiet voice cuts through the tension. “You didn’t say that earlier.”

“What?”

“I said: you didn’t say that earlier.” His brows pull together in a look that’s equal parts knowing and confusion.

The Mandalorian rounds on the child, but his posture lessens ever so slightly as he faces Hera’s son. He can feel her gaze on him, a silent threat. It’s unnecessary. He would not ever harm a child. “I said it at the temple.”

Curious and considerably more understanding, the boy asks, “To who?”

Din exhales slowly, irked by the child’s insatiable curiosity and pointed questions. It doesn’t do anything to abate the complex tangle of emotions at war inside him. Roughly, he answers, “I didn’t get their name.”

-/

Chopper wheels quietly through the ship, turning and looking back at the boy practically on top of his struts he’s following so close. In the background, the Mandalorian and Hera are having another spectacular blowout over involving Sabine in their search effort. Presently, Hera is reminding him that she’d already contacted the other Mandalorian because they’d found the Star Destroyer earlier in the day. Just because they were this part of wild space didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be able to come in time to aid them in their search, but she is coming either way and if she arrives and they still need help, he’ll be taking it.

“Bah bua?” He asks in Binary.

“Yes, Chop, I’m sure.” The child casts a glance over his shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

The droid opens his mother’s bedroom door with a turn of his manipulator in the control panel, then points with his free one towards the drawers beneath the bunk. In Binary, he agrees. He does trust the boy. He knows to trust the boy with this now, despite what his processors say otherwise. And then, begrudgingly, he bleats something defensive about how this isn’t the first time he’s helped an organic with their obtuse magical plans.

“I know.” He pulls the drawer open carefully, listening for footsteps, even though Chopper’s keeping watch in the doorway and the yelling is still going on.

There are three drawers beneath his mother’s bunk. Two hold clothing. The third also holds clothing, but not only just. He pulls the drawer out all the way, carefully pulling out a leather duster that has very clearly seen better days. He places it on the bed. It isn’t the article he wants, but rather what’s concealed beneath it. It, like the worn duster, didn’t belong to Hera. It had belonged to his father.

“Does it work?” He asks, peering into the drawer.

Chopper makes an affirmative chirp, but cautions him not to use it.

“It’s not mine,” Jacen tells him. “I can’t hear it. Aunt ‘Soka says you can hear it if it’s yours.” He gives Chopper a toothy grin. “But I think we know whose it is now.”

“I hope you’re right about this,” The droid bleats in Binary. Hera will be murderous if Jacen is wrong, but Chopper knows somewhere deep down in his circuits that Jacen is right.

“I am,” He says, handing the astromech the two pieces of what is very clearly an old lightsaber for safekeeping in his internal storage compartment. He shrugs, palms pushing up towards the ceiling. “Have a little faith in me, Chop. I’ve got a good feeling.”

Chapter Text

Din doesn’t sleep.

He eats, because it is necessary to keep up his energy. When he does, he shucks his helmet off in an almost violent motion, sending it careening across the room to land harmlessly on the bunk. It wouldn’t be wise to damage it by throwing it across the room to clang and clatter against the closed door, though the impact might help express some of the fury he feels, and it isn’t as if the beskar would truly be damaged by the durasteel walls.

Anger lurks beneath his skin, but... it is not simply anger. It's fear, too.

He knows, realistically, that the child is not helpless. He’s been alright for far longer periods alone, by Din himself. Regardless, he’s still a child. And he was still, somehow, unbelievably, permitted to wander off. He wants to blame Hera and Jacen, even that stupid voice or the temple, whatever, but he knows he can’t. The child isn’t normal. If he wanted to wander off, he would, especially without someone like Din who knows him, knows how he is.

But why? He racks his brain and for the life of him, he just cannot figure out why.

The fear that the child had been with the hermit inside the structure when it had been razed by Stormtroopers - though, why were they and that wreck out this far into Wild Space? - lingers. Something in his gut says it’s not true, that hasn’t happened… But what if it did? Each bite of his ration tastes like ash.

And Hera. He’d never been so mad at anyone, not recently. She didn’t understand. It would be like another Twi’lek needing to be called because she was incapable of fulfilling the basic requirements to be a member of her people. It was a matter of honor. And this other Mandalorian, this Sabine Wren? She’s an outsider. Regardless of clan or house. She does not practice his way, and therefore he does not recognize her within his tribe’s structure. She'll be lucky if he recognizes her as a fellow Mandalorian, he thinks.

He does not need anyone’s help to find hi- the boy. Hardly able to finish what Hera had thrown at him with a biting, "If you're going to be of any use, at least eat something," Din perches himself at the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands. His fingers tangle in his hair, a rare novelty for someone like him. He resists the urge to tug at it, willing himself to focus so he can sift through his turbulent thoughts.

He has to do what's best for Yasa. That's what a Mandalorian's duty is to their foundling. He cannot be a Mandalorian, and he is the last of his species. The Jedi are the boy's future. They're his best chance.

For a while now, he'd been entertaining the possibility that if there were none, if the boy were truly alone, that he would keep him, somehow. He needs to stop that. It’s counterproductive for all parties involved. He has a mission. He needs to complete that mission at any cost, and return to find his tribe.

That is the Way.

He must set aside his worry, his fear, his personal feelings for the child. He's let himself become soft. He's become conflicted in his duty. He has to set his feelings aside. This is not about him. He needs to live that, not just tell it to himself in the dark of the night.

When he returns to the galley from his temporary cabin, his footfalls are lighter on the durasteel, devoid of the anger they’d held when he left. Hera looks up just the same. She’s curled into the curve of the booth in the corner, a steaming mug of caf in front of her on the dejarik table while the ration she’d pulled out for herself remains on the counter, untouched.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” She says, without prompting. She doesn’t attempt to meet his eyes, though her voice does not lack sincerity. “I don’t understand, but that isn’t your problem.”

Din lingers in the doorway, watching her.

“I had Chopper release your ship from the mag-seal. I don’t want you to feel coerced into staying with us because of Jacen’s abilities. If you’d like me - just me,” She emphasizes, “To help you find Yasa, I’d like to help you. Jacen would, too, I’m sure, but-”

“You have your mission,” He answers slowly. “I’ll find the boy.”

Silence stretches between them, long and prickling. His dismissal is probably worse than a refusal, he reasons, even though he can’t help but stand by it with a cool indifference. It’s the truth, after all.

Hera exhales into her caf, and her shoulders round in defeat. Din wasn’t expecting her to back down. She speaks measuredly, her tone evenly weighted as if giving a debrief. “There is a Jedi in the New Republic. Rumor has it that he’ll be starting a school once he completes his own training.”

“What?” Of all the things she could say, the Mandalorian hadn’t been expecting that. Almost floundering, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

She sighs. “Because the school will neither be ready to accept children for years, and…” Hera trails off. “The Jedi isn’t…” Whatever she’s trying to say doesn’t make it into words. “He means well,” She reasons, “But he isn’t going to be Jacen’s teacher, and Jacen knows that.”

Crossing his arms, Din voices the only logical thought that’s crossed his mind since she’d dropped this bomb on him, “But he could be Yasa’s.”

“He could be,” Hera agrees, but her voice is cool. Resigned. “If you’d like, I will take him back with us and present him to the Jedi.”

“You have reservations,” Din realizes, trying not to get ahead of himself. He needs to be rational. This is a tempting offer, but he needs all the information he can get. The pilot’s body language says plenty. “You don’t trust him,” He accuses. “Why?”

She takes a sip of her drink, fingers rubbing the mesh ring of heat resistant material that keeps the metallic mug from burning her hands. “It’s not-” She sighs. “Luke - the Jedi - has done great things for the Republic - the Galaxy, really. But he’s not a Jedi like Kanan or Ezra. Not in the same way. He’s still figuring out his path, and I don’t really think he’s ready to teach anyone.”

“And you’re an expert on Jedi because you knew two of them,” He muses.

“I met a Jedi Master when I was a girl, and what I know is probably better than you’re going to get anywhere else,” She wills herself to remain civil, but a combination of grief and longing turn her words bitter. “If you were meant to find Luke Skywalker,” Hera scoffs, “Your boy probably would have sensed it and found him already.” She crosses her arms as well. “He’s stronger with the Force than Jacen is. Jacen isn’t helpless, but he hasn’t been living with the Force for the last half-century. Yasa has.” She looks up into his eyes, as best she can despite the helmet. “If you believe he needs to be raised by a Jedi, I will respect your wish for the child, because the child trusts you.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that you’re going to take him to this... Skywalker?”

Hera’s gaze is stern. “I’m a woman of my word.”

At that, the Mandalorian relents. “I know,” He admits, reluctantly enough. He doesn’t doubt that, even if he’s displeased that she had withheld this information. “But if the Jedi does not-”

“If Luke doesn’t accept him, or will not accept him until he’s older, I will raise him as my own.” Her green eyes are thoughtful but stern. She doesn’t miss her mark this time, pinning him with her gaze. “But, if you leave him in my care, you will not see him ever again.”

Din swallows, the motion perceived as a tiny nod of acknowledgement, recognizing the seriousness of her words. “That would be for the best,” He replies, voice strained. Quickly, he adds, “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah,” Hera says, looking back to her now lukewarm mug, and bringing attention back to the matter at hand. “It doesn’t mean anything if we don’t find him.” Hera Syndulla is many things, but a fool is not one of them. The Mandalorian will take her up on her offer. Of that, now that the conversation has come to an end, she has no doubt. She can see it in his stilted motions, his innate desire to give up control of the runaway hovercraft he’s found himself on. It’s disappointing, she thinks after he leaves.

She expected better of him.

-/

Morg moves with speed the child hadn’t anticipated. He dives through the trees in the night, careful not to make a sound. That his home had been razed does not seem to strike him with surprise. If anything, it makes him adjust his grip to something tighter. He does not look for more than a blink or two at the pillar of flames rising up into the night, simply turns and heads back in the direction from which they came.

But instead of moving towards the Temple, he continues beyond it. The child feels the presence of it at the edges of his mind, calling out, willing to grant entry, but the hermit does not acknowledge it, either. He stops only once, briefly, leaping in a way the humans the child has seen have never been capable of, to rest in the safety of trees hundreds of meters tall.

Quietly, he produces his flask and opens it, offering the child water by pouring it into the small cap before taking a swallow himself. “You have seen men like these before,” He says quietly into the night. His voice is higher now. “They have come after you,” He continues quietly.

Unable to speak in words, the child makes a sound that could pass as an affirmative.

“They’re going to continue to come for you and others like you until they’re wiped out,” Morg informs him, leaning back against the tree trunk. “I’ve seen it before.” He trails off, but remembers himself before he can get too lost in memory. “That path is full of fear and pain. The ones who fight now do not understand what they’ve been twisted into, because they do not know anything else.” He sighs, as if mourning them, in a way. “But I will do everything I can to prevent them from taking you,” He promises the boy. “You, or anyone else.”

His blue eyes close and the child can feel him reaching out through the Force. It’s strange, though. Yasa has not felt him in the Force previously, never sensed anything from him. In fact, it’s almost like he’s completely hidden himself away.

In the split seconds after, he reaches out and the child feels it, stark and white. Instantaneous. Brighter than anything he’s ever known. Bright, like the man who had carried him in the dragon’s lair, but this time the man holding him is not a manifestation of the Force. This man is alive.

No more than ten seconds pass since the hermit reaches out before his eyes open once more. He rises without the evidence of the weary weakness that seemed plagued him the first time they met. It’s even different from moments before, the way he stands, confident and tall.

“Hold on tight,” He tells Yasa. They move quickly, as if there are invisible enemies behind them, nipping at their heels. There is a graceful urgency to Morg’s actions that almost remind him of the Mandalorian. At that, he fists his claws a little tighter into the hermit’s brown robes. They’re soft, without armored plating, warm with body heat instead of the cool whisper of beskar. Without stopping, the man takes his free hand and pats the child’s back.

“Everything will be alright,” He says, sensing the child’s emotions without so much as a look in his direction. “He’ll come around.”

-/

The child wakes to find himself wrapped in the hermit’s outer robes, and they are not running through the treetops any longer. The trees here are thinner, yielding to a grassy field that stretches for kilometers. The shipwreck is far larger and visible above the trees in the distance, almost the same color as the fog.

The man does not appear to be fatigued despite how far they’d traveled through the night. The sky above them is gray-blue, the edges warming with the threat of the rising sun, though it’s still more dark than anything.

“It’s about time you made it,” A female voice calls out to them.

Through the mist, the child can just barely see a white hood with two crests, one on either side of the being’s head that the fabric falls over. Her face is shadowed but far darker than the cloak, though her face has white markings as well. She sits atop a boulder, legs crossed and eyes closed.

“It’s good to see you, Ahsoka.” He grins.

The Togruta drops her hood and levies a serious look at the hermit, though her piercing azure gaze falls over the child as well. Then, she smiles. “As it is to see you, Ezra Bridger.”

The corners of the man’s - Ezra, not Morg - eyes crinkle, relaying the smile that curves his scarf covered mouth. He sounds younger, almost. Not like a hermit or an old man at all. Unfiltered, almost. “How’d you make it here without Sabine?”

Gesturing towards the child, she says, “We’ve been looking for him. Everyone’s split up.”

His face twists in concern beneath the scarf. “Everyone?” Ezra grits his teeth. “It’s not safe here.”

“I know,” She answers serenely. “They are after the children.”

“No,” He refutes. Ezra’s eyes are hard. “Not these ones. These ones are after me.”

Chapter Text

Ezra tries to hand her the child, but she shakes her head. “What do they possibly want with you?” Ahsoka asks. “If anything, they’d be after me.”

“You’ve never used the Dark Side of the Force. Not like me.” Regret doesn’t flavor his words, Yasa can tell. The subject he speaks about is frightening, but it’s experience that keeps bright man’s words even and calm.

“That was a long time ago,” She tells him. “And your presence in the Force is-”

He interrupts, “They think that if I was open to it once, I could be convinced again. I don’t want to bring that down on everyone else. Hera’s suffered enough, and-” He breaks off. “I met him.” Briefly, without warning, the child can feel his longing. It’s for the boy, for Jacen first, Yasa can almost see it in his mind’s eye. But it’s not only for Jacen. It’s for himself, too. And for Hera, most of all.

Ahsoka’s mouth turns, lips curling into the slightest frown. “Ezra, this isn’t a good idea.”

“There are four of them here. Only one is well trained, but they have almost two battalions worth of troopers on the planet. The leader says he works under a Moff in the Outer Rim, but something about that doesn’t seem right. I’ve been monitoring them for a while now and they’ve never made contact with anyone that high up in the Empire. I crossed paths with these guys once, further out and they’ve been following me since.”

“Then why did you bring them here? You knew we’d find this place eventually.”

“Yes,” Ezra answers. “You. I had a vision of you and Sabine finding me. Not-” He casts his hand in the direction that Jacen is in, fingers pointing like a compass towards the tiny spark of light as though it’s true north in the Force. “I don’t want to put them in any more danger. You need to take the boy to Hera and convince them to go.”

Something bludgeons him from the side, taking out his legs and knocking him on the ground without warning. He barely manages to cradle the child properly as to buffet him from the impact of the fall. Above him, manipulator arms wave frantically, and a familiar droid hisses in angry Binary.

“Chopper?!”

Saluting, the droid greets him, even going so far as to offer an appendage to help him back to his feet. More than that, he tolerates the embrace of the organic unit, even going so far as to pat him once awkwardly on the arm. Sentimental fleshbags, the usually angry droid thinks.

“I can’t go back with you,” Ezra presses, looking to Ahsoka while Chopper protests angrily. “You and Sabine can stay and help me if you want, but I don’t want them caught up in this.”

“Chopper?” A young voice calls out from the fog. “Aunt ‘Soka?”

The droid makes the equivalent of a human sigh, projecting his exasperation as he rips open his internal storage compartment. Ahsoka steps forward to take the child from Ezra now, without being prompted. “Bahbah bua bahbah. Bah bwah bua bah,” Chopper says, gesturing in the direction of the child calling out for them.

“Take it and go,” Ahsoka relents and the droid begrudgingly agrees, despite his grumblings that Ezra should stay. “Jacen said it was never meant to be his, and I am inclined to agree with him.”

Yasa watches from the woman’s arms as Ezra takes the small cylindrical item from the droid, sees the way he swallows thickly, looking down at it as though he’s seen a ghost. His voice betrays the subtlest loose ends of grief. “How?”

“Sabine pulled it from the wreckage of the Dome, about a year after everything happened. Apparently Governor Pryce had locked it up in a blast-proof box. We think it was meant to be given to someone over her head, but she never got the chance.” Ahsoka says.

“Bahbua bahbah buah,” Chopper says, softer. Hera doesn’t know.

“Don’t tell her.”

“I won’t,” Ahsoka says. They both look to Chopper, who waves his manipulators in the air but doesn’t carry on long, agreeing under duress.

The calls are louder now, more urgent. “Chop? C’mon, where are you?”

“You have to go. Hera won’t be far from Jacen.” The woman waves to the droid. “Go on, Chopper.”

The droid runs into Ezra’s legs again for good measure, but obeys. He turns to Ahsoka and reaches out both manipulators to take the child in an awkward grasp. Yasa goes willingly as the droid continues barraging him with fast blips of Binary.

“I know,” The man answers. His longing is more pronounced. “I want to come with you, Chop, but I can’t. It won’t be safe once they find me and now, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s not safe for them now,” Ahsoka reminds him. “The Inquisitors have seen him, too. It’s how they met,” She indicates the little one as Chopper maneuvers his appendages to make sure he’s holding the boy securely. For his part, the small, green child watches quietly, taking everything in with eyes that remind her of a master she now knows to be deceased. Though, perhaps it’s simply something to do with his species, or the pale green skin. “Chopper, take him back to the Ghost. I’ll return with Sabine as quickly as I can. Don’t tell them. Not even Jacen, even if he says he sensed it.”

“Thank you,” Ezra says, grateful for their secrecy.

She covers her montrails with her hood, dipping her head in a nod as she rises from the stone. “May the Force be with you, Ezra Bridger.”

-/

Sabine doesn’t like any of this. Since they’d landed on this world, the hair on the back of her neck has stood on end, and gooseflesh threatens to erupt down her arms. She’d come out here to explore the site Hera had told her about when they’d landed, since the Mandalorian (whose name was Din, Jacen had so helpfully informed her) very vehemently did not want anyone looking for the child in his care. Hera had managed to get him to accept at least some help, but had politely asked both Sabine and Ahsoka - the newest, and therefore least trustworthy in the other Mandalorian’s eyes - to go scout elsewhere.

She could tell that Hera was riled up, but her heavy gaze had said now wasn’t the time to talk about that. Instead, she walked along what was supposedly some hermit’s shack - or at least the ashes that remained of it. Apparently the hermit had found the Mandalorian’s foundling around a nearby stream. They didn’t seem to think he’d kidnapped the boy, but Sabine hadn’t been there so she wasn’t ruling out any possibility. And, Hera did say she felt like there was something… off about him. That she’d caught him in a lie.

Shaking her head, she returns to the main issue at hand. That there are Imperials out this far can only mean one thing: something they want is out here. Something valuable.

But, wherever they were, they were long gone now. Despite this, they had made sure to take extra precautions. She and Hera had been careful to encrypt their comms but still made sure that their new Mando friend could still communicate along their frequency. It was far less secure, but the chances of another Mandalorian out this far were unlikely.

She walks along the boundary of what she assumes to be the man’s property, though it seemed highly improbable that there was any sort of land ownership on a low population, backwater planet such as this. Most of it was covered in gadgets and gizmos, dented parts and nothing of note.

She kicks a rusty bolt into more junk, which, judging by the plume of dust kicked up by the tin she’s managed to knock over, means there’s something the Imps haven’t touched. They only burned the hut, not the surrounding workbench, and they clearly missed the pile of junk in the corner against the south east corner of the perimeter.

Dropping to her knees, she begins rooting through the bits and baubles, looking for something, anything that might help her even remotely figure out why they targeted some hobbling old man. Nothing jumped out at her, really. There were some miscellaneous - but mostly dead power cells of smaller sizes, some wires, a few strange trigger-like items that didn’t appear to be imperial or like anything else she’d ever seen, and some scraps of cord that were blackish blue.

“Anything of use?” Ahsoka asks, appearing as if she’d flickered into existence behind her traveling companion. Sabine presses her hands over her chest, knocking over miscellaneous materials out of a container they’d been tucked into carelessly who knew how long ago.

“Jeez,” Sabine pulls off her helmet and looks back at Ahsoka with her orange eyes. “Warn a girl before you sneak up on her, would you?”

“I wasn’t silent,” The Togruta tells her. “I landed using your jetpack.” She removes it from her back and hands it over to the Mandalorian woman who seems suspicious all the same. “You, on the other hand, seemed pretty focused,” Ahsoka says.

“The Imperials should have torn everything apart, but they missed this part of the property. I was wondering if there’s anything we should know about.”

“Probably not. But I know somewhere there might be something for us to see.”

“I take it you went up to the Chimaera?”

Ahsoka doesn’t quite smile, but the look on her face is positive enough for Sabine. “Something like that,” She says. “Since we only detected Imperial activity to the South, we agreed that Hera should move the Ghost further North.”

“Makes sense,” considers Sabine.

“I don’t get the feeling that we should linger here, though,” The older woman says. The lines across her forehead are more severe as she frowns. “I have a feeling something is coming.”

“Do you think it’s him?”

“No,” Ahsoka says, sure to maintain eye contact. “This feels… dark. There’s fear and anger, reflected at me in the Force. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s Imperial, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s cloudy.”

“Do you sense any Inquisitors?” Sabine doesn’t really need to ask the question, but she does anyway. It doesn’t hurt to be sure.

“We wouldn’t be standing here if I did,” Ahsoka assures her. She offers Sabine a hand to stand. “Come on. We’re the furthest ones from the rally point, and the child is definitely not this far out.”

Letting the other woman haul her up, Sabine considers motioning to the Phantom. The Ghost’s smaller shuttle is hidden about five klicks out, well hidden near a small stream to the west. She stops herself before she can. Sabine has spent enough time with Ahsoka these last few years to know when the force sensitive woman is on to something.

-/

Voices cut through the comms. The first is bright and cheery like sunrise. “Spectre Seven reporting in,” He sounds excited. “We found him. He’s okay.”

A woman speaks next, her voice deep, almost like a sarcastic drawl, though it’s clear she means what she says. “Good work, kid. Any sign of our friend Morg?”

“Negative,” A droid replies.

Another woman speaks, though judging by the feedback, she’s likely in close proximity to at least two of the others who have spoken. “Alright. Stay on your guard, Spectre Three. Everyone meet up at the rally point.”

The faintest beeping at his side draws his attention away from his audio input. A massive hand draws out a tracking fob. The din of it is louder now, louder than it had been when he’d landed last night, and louder still than when he’d checked in with those with whom he is currently employed.

It’s not exactly a perfect situation, but he wouldn’t be the first to take a job from what remained of the Empire amongst his kind. Besides, he thinks, checking to ensure no one humanoid or otherwise can see him before removing his helmet to splash water on his face from a babbling creek, this isn’t something he’d stumbled into unknowingly.

This is a mission for his people. It wouldn’t be pretty, but when had the ways of the Mandalorians ever been anything but violence and bloodshed to protect their families? He’d lost more blood than he could ever cry tears, and he’d kept on despite it.

The Imperials had ordered the slaughter of their people over a child. A child, he knew, that had escaped with the aid of a fellow tribesman. He didn’t exactly condone the steps Din Djarin had taken to recognize his mistake, but the other Mandalorian had in fact recognized his error and made every effort to atone. He had been willing to die for his cause before the Tribe broke their vow of anonymity to protect him and the foundling.

They had planned to evacuate the planet when the attacks became bad enough, to go elsewhere and start anew with those who remained. But he couldn’t allow it to happen. Not after what he’d seen. Who he’d seen.

Moff Gideon.

Gideon has the Darksaber. The symbol of power that once united his people - of all of them, not just his tribe. And that bastard had used it to cut down his brothers and sisters in the name of power, power that he planned to use in the name of the Empire.

Paz Vizla refuses to stand for it.

One bounty is worth it, he tells himself. He’ll happily live with the blood of some bounty on his hands to remove some of the oppression that has been brought to bear on his people for the last three decades. If that makes him the bad guy, if someone - he snorts to himself, because there’s hardly any of them left - takes issue with his actions, he’ll accept the grudge they hold against him.

Because he remembers the old ways. He remembers what the Empire did then, before it was ever the empire at all. And he lives through what it’s death rattles do, even now.

Besides. The Imps who commissioned the bounty don’t work for Gideon at all. They want to see him dead almost as much as Paz does. And they’re not asking for him to bring in some child.

His bounty is fifty years old.

Chapter Text

Though he refuses to pace at the rendezvous point like a caged animal, Din cannot help but allow himself the anxious tapping of his left foot. He’s already refused himself the comfort of going out to meet them on principle. He had to, he tells himself. Distance is necessary. It’s not about you, he thinks, over and over again, hoping at some point it’ll get through his thick skull.

He’s had all night to think about this. He’s had all the time in the world to consider his course on the last planet, before everything got spun sideways by these enemies of the Jedi. Din’s course has always been tragically linear. His mission, his duty to the child - to his foundling - is to give him his best chance.

When Hera had revealed that yes, there was a real, live Jedi in the Republic - one who planned to teach younger Jedi, at that - how could he not give the child to them? It’s the most rational option to crop up and the first thing to make sense in all of this.

The child - Yasa deserves better than living bounty to bounty, constantly having to look over his shoulder with someone like him. He could pretend otherwise. He’d been pretending for a while now. Din has to make the right choice now, before it becomes even harder for them to separate. Even if the child doesn’t realize it’s what’s best now - and Din knows he won’t. But for however many years he’s been alive, he’s still a child. He doesn’t understand everything - he hardly understands Galactic Basic, Din thinks ruefully - so it’s up to him to make it right. He owes that to the child. So he will. He’s made up his mind.

Yasa is a Jedi. Din knows that like he knows the weight of beskar, a weapon in his hand. He will accompany Hera, present the boy to this... Skywalker. If the Jedi will not yet take the child, then he will leave him in Hera’s care, with another youth who has his abilities in common.

The Ghost’s transport shuttle docks and lands, but he doesn’t spare it a glance. The other Mandalorian sidles up beside him, and the woman doesn’t last a minute before she yanks her helmet from her head, shaking out short purple hair.

Weak, Din thinks. Willing himself not to flinch, nor even to look at her, Din forces himself to look out towards the looming Star Destroyer.

“So are you just going to ignore me, or-”

The other Mandalorian swivels, hands going to his belt. He sizes her up with the subtlest nod that most would miss, as if administering a test. She doesn’t.

“Okay, great,” She says, as if she’s talking to herself. She doesn’t bother looking at him anymore, gritting lamely, “Good talk.”

They stand together, roughly five paces apart, for a long while, waiting for Hera, Chopper, and Jacen to return with Yasa. The tension is palpable for the first bit. Then, it just feels awkward.

“Your armor is colorful,” He says after a long, stony silence.

“I’m an artist.” Sabine replies. Hearing an inhale she’s sure is about to become a scoff, she adds, “And an explosives expert.”

“Huh,” Din replies.

She turns her head to look at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

She groans, rolling her eyes. “What about you?” She motions to his pauldron. “That’s some serious metalwork. That your clan symbol?”

At that, he does flinch. Sabine visibly tenses, aware that she’s just poked a sensitive topic. “A mudhorn,” He informs her.

“Signets are important to your tribe," She comments. "It being revealed is a right of passage, right? I remember my mother telling me that it's like a trial."

He nods once.

"Did you take it down by yourself?"

If Sabine Wren thought he'd flinched before, it was nothing compared to the way he jerked now. He steps back, visibly recoiling, his hand cupping the metalwork.

"No," He answers, morosely. Sabine follows his gaze to the path leading south, away from the shipwreck.

"The child aided you," Says Ahsoka. What she doesn't say is how she knows, and Din doesn't ask. Sabine supposes he must already be reeling from her line of questioning and has determined silence as the best option, but she’s known the other woman’s kind long enough to know that, crazy enough, she speaks the truth, even if she has no explainable way of knowing it without the Force.

The helmeted Mandalorian appraises Ahsoka, no doubt a withering glare directed at her from behind his helm, but the Togruta doesn't speak further. In fact, she doesn’t even look at him. Her eyes are closed, but everything about her seems to sharpen. Her eyes open only a few seconds later. They’re a bright lapis blue that Sabine’s never been able to reproduce properly with paint.

They exchange a glance, Sabine’s eyes narrowing at the sudden and pinched seriousness etched into her friend’s features. “What is it?” She asks.

Ahsoka blinks once in the other Mandalorian’s direction and then back to meet Sabine’s amber gaze. “Remember what I mentioned to you, earlier?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I think it’s after the children.”

This earns her a full turn, the Mandalorian radiating concern and fury in his posture as he faces her. “Inquisitors?” He demands roughly.

Peacefully, as if completely disconnected from the situation, she says, “I do not think so, Din Djarin. At least, not yet. We need to get the children off this planet for now.”

Sabine shrugs awkwardly, sure Ahsoka has only left him with more questions. Her tone is apologetic when she murmurs, “Her gut usually isn’t wrong. Believe me when I say we can trust her.”

What choice does he have, Din wonders. He’s been chasing tall tales and mystic forces with enemies on their heels every step of the way. He has no idea what he’s doing. Not for the first time, he wonders what the Armorer thought he’d be able to accomplish for this child, if anything. At least soon he’ll be able to fulfill his duty the best he’d ever be able to. And then - he grits his teeth, his fists, wills himself not to let himself feel anything - then, Din will walk away.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, but the truth rarely ever did.

-/

Jacen rams her in the side just before the first blasterbolt flies, the Force instinctively telling him to step aside and shove her to keep them all out of harm’s way. Chopper whirls around, but he has no ranged tool on him, and he’s held back by his struts getting caught on the vines and plants that line the forest floor.

The next shots that ring out come from above, and there’s the sound of a jetpack along with it. The repeating blaster ramps up, firing wildly but far enough away from them to startle rather than hit them. This isn’t an inquisitor. This is a hunter; She can hear the rapid beeping of the tracking fob. It’s very clear they want their prize alive.

Hera closes her eyes and exhales, then slides her blaster to Chopper across the ground. Arming her droid isn’t her favorite decision - he has a reputation for being more than a little trigger happy - but he’s protective of his family, and that’s the more important part right now. She looks down at Yasa who stays quietly cradled to her chest, confused but not afraid, then to Jacen who is both. Then she nods to her astromech.

There’s no tracker on Jacen or Chopper. Chopper has managed to deactivate countless ones on himself: one of the benefits of being a droid. Jacen’s always had Chopper or Hera, his aunts and uncles, blood family, any number of people willing to stand between him and an enemy. Jacen isn’t unaccustomed to war or violence, even though that isn’t what she wants for her child, but he’s never been hunted like this. She won’t be able to keep him safe if they all stay together.

She can’t risk contacting Sabine or Ahsoka. No doubt their comms are compromised. Chopper and Jacen can go for help. Her fully mobile, force-sensitive son should be the best equipped to escape. This guy isn’t an Inquisitor, Hera reasons. Jacen would have said something.

The only person who would logically have a tracker and a bounty on them was the child in her arms. Din had said he was hunted, and Hera highly doubted that anyone was foolish enough to come out this far looking for her. And, even if it wasn’t entirely her fault, what had happened, how the child wandered off weighed heavy on her heart. But more than that, she thought, was the fact that she offered to take him in. This was what she was bringing down upon herself by choice. She didn’t regret it.

“Go,” Hera whispers, and Chopper stealthily rolls up to Jacen, grabbing his hand with the manipulator that isn’t holding a blaster. “Follow Chopper.”

“But-”

“They’re not after you,” The pilot tells her boy. At this point, her droid requires no instructions. He’s already pulling on Jacen’s arm with the urgency expected of the situation. “We’re counting on you to get help.”

He frowns, very clearly unhappy. It’s a look he absolutely got from his father, but the eyebrows are all her.

Before he can speak, there’s more shots fired, closer now. Hera ducks as she emerges from cover and runs in the opposite direction, darting through the brush and making a racket about it. Once she moves far enough, she hears the sound of the jetpack following them. All she has to do is stay in high cover and keep moving. The longer and further she can make it without them being captured, the better it is for Sabine and the others to come to her rescue.

And she knows she’s going to need Sabine. The bounty hunter doesn’t bait them, hollering out into the unassuming forest. Instead, he’s cocky in other ways. Flashy with his weapon. He doesn’t obscure himself from view, as to make sure his quarry knows what comes for them. Who comes for them. A Mandalorian.

He does not attack with Sabine’s effortless, elegant artistry. He doesn’t move like a shadow like Din, his attacks are not cunning. He has the subtlety of a Star Destroyer, much like the one Hera’s been serpentining closer and closer to. That’s her best bet. The rainforest doesn’t go on forever, and hopefully the wreck of the ship that she’s been hunting for will provide enough cover to keep them out of the hunter’s reach.

Almost as she thinks it, Hera loses her footing, the earth beneath her sloping down without warning, jagged and scarred by pieces of the nearly decade-old wreck that had been torn off upon what was obviously an unplanned and likely deadly re-entry into the atmosphere. Clutching the still silent child to her chest, they tumble and roll meters down into an artificial gully created by the crash. It’s roughly ten meters across, and the trees that had been sloughed back by hunks of the emergency ion engines never did regrow.

When they stop moving, Hera takes inventory in seconds. The child growls, a soft sound that’s pained, not hostile, as if he’s cognizant of the danger they’re in. Despite a twinge in her shoulder, an elbow that’s been wrenched too many times, and what is surely scuffed knees beneath her flight suit, she’s alright.

One of Yasa’s ears bleeds from where something sharp had nicked it. He doesn’t reach for it, but she can feel him squirming against her, hands locked tight over his chest. She doesn’t get a second to ask him if he’s alright though. The sound of the jetpack is closer now, no longer muffled by the trees. She curls defensively around the boy. It’s not loud, even though it’s close. The man’s voice is.

“Get up,” He snarls at them, voice modulated through a helmet. He’s three times as wide as she is, and his repeating blaster is old but well maintained. She doesn’t doubt it’d rip her to pieces in seconds if he was serious about ending them. She looks up and over her shoulder as he holds the fob out towards them. It beeps almost as one tone now, a high-pitched whine. It’s an older model, she notes. Perhaps-

“You look a little young to be fifty, Twi’lek.”

She rolls her eyes, tucking the child against her, silently willing him to remain just as quiet as he’s been since he’s been found. Her fingers gently stroke his back. She can work with this, even if she’s infinitely offended that he’d even suggest it. She dusts herself off as best she can with a single hand. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

When he tilts his very large blaster - Clearly, he’s compensating for something, Hera thinks - she adds, “I surrender,” and makes a show of spinning around slowly. She’s not armed.

Still, he says nothing. Evaluating her.

“I assume they want me alive. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep my son with me.” She peels back the top part of the covering the boy’s been wrapped in to keep warm. The boy doesn’t make a sound, nor does he meet the newcomer’s helmeted glare.

“He doesn’t look like a Twi’lek,” The Mandalorian argues, voice flat and hard.

Hera gives him a look that asserts her lack of faith in his intelligence. “You ever heard of adoption, Mandalorian? The galaxy’s a pretty twisted place. No shortage of orphaned younglings, last time I checked.”

He scoffs. Her statement very clearly offended him, for whatever reason. “Whatever. Keep it quiet and I won’t leave him here in the woods.” Angling his gun, he motions for her to walk and she complies. He doesn’t bother with binders. His finger’s not even a second away from the trigger, and the weapon’s automatic. It’s not necessary.

“My crew will come, you know,” She says after a while of walking in silence. He doesn’t comment. She tries again. “What’d they promise you for my capture, anyway?”

At that question, he hits a button on his vambrace and a sinister voice gives the go ahead. In her arms, the child shivers as the Mandalorian speaks to what is very obviously an Inquisitor. Hera isn’t Force sensitive, but she’ll never forget the way her loved ones who are have reacted to them in the past, much less the rotting ooze that curls their voices. The conversation doesn’t take long. The hunter moves so that he stands beside her, his gun still pointed at them with an angry confidence she recognizes from her days working with Fenn Rau and the old Protectors.

He fixes her with a look that transcends armor, finally answering her question:

“Something credits can’t buy.”

Chapter Text

At first, Hera had expected the Mandalorian to walk south, toward the direction of the hermit Morg’s burned hut, but it seemed he was instead taking a scenic route around and to the North as to prevent from being detected by anyone that would be looking for them. Not for the first time was she grateful that Din’s boy - well, she thought sadly, perhaps she’d be better off considering him hers now, instead - was quiet. In fact, every bit of him resonated sadness. Her instincts made her want to hush and rock him, to hold him close and kiss his brow and promise to keep him safe. She can’t do this how she wants here. So, Hera does what she can: she cradles him firmly against her, keeping his head beneath his chin.

“It’ll be alright,” She says to him softly, earning a shove in the middle of the back from her captor with the end of his oversized weapon for her trouble.

“Quiet.”

She rolls her eyes and tips her head down to look at the boy. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if expecting something bad. She exhales.

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” She finally says, eyes on the Chimaera’s skeletal remains, the countless pieces of it scattered before them, the ship easily ten times taller than the oversized trees they walk through. Hopefully his answer will let her glean more information about him, since the armor leaves most of it a mystery. It’s devoid of any useful markings. Hera has had enough encounters with Mandalorians to know most of them are usually fighting each other, so she’s not about to tip her hand just yet. “You don’t want to do this.”

This time he shoves them with his hand, and it’s far more forceful. “I said quiet.”

Hera rolls her eyes and trudges on. There’s more and more flotsam as they continue onward. She sees broken consoles and twisted pieces of durasteel, snaked with vines. She cradles the back of the boy’s head when he begins to shake, mouth twisting against her shoulder before he breathes hotly against the fabric. Of course this place would bother him. Kanan had said that the Force left echoes in places of great joy or pain.

Regardless of which side they’d been on, Hera is no fool. There were good people who had been tangled up in the Empire’s clutches. Whatever Ezra had done, however he’d pulled it off, his plan to free Lothal from the Seventh Fleet had killed thousands of Imperial troops. No doubt that meant such a thing had happened here as well, or even on the ship before. She truly had no idea.

The point was that the feeling, all those deaths, those people and their fears had to have lingered. She could feel it, too. In a different way. With the sensitivity afforded by empathy.

She stops in front of a mostly intact block that must have been barracks, gnarled with moldy half-shielded mattresses scattered around. Untouched. There’s even weapons, rusted and likely no good, all of it left sprawled across the ground, battered and broken. Nature can only reclaim so much.

“Faster,” The Mandalorian instructs, shaking her from her thoughts. “This isn’t a sightseeing tour.”

“Sorry,” Hera says, trying a different approach. She speeds up her steps. “I just haven’t seen this ship in a long time.”

“This ship?” The Mandalorian spits. “Right.”

“They called it the Chimaera, the flagship of the Seventh Fleet and Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Be grateful.” Hera’s eyes narrow. She’d never been the kind to wish death upon anyone, really, but there was a cold place in hell next to Arindha Pryce with his name on it for what he’d done to the Rebellion. To her family.

-/

Jacen breaks through the tree-line with Chopper hot on his heels. The droid is waving his arms and shouting in Binary the moment he sees them all waiting near the Ghost. The kid is panting, effort put into his sprinting run. Standing between his aunts, Din takes a tentative step forward, then another, running to meet him. Sabine follows not far behind.

The female Mandalorian shouts over the astromech, “Chopper, Chop! Slow down, I can’t understand you when you get all riled up. Where’s Hera?”

Skidding to a stop in front of Din, Jacen looks up into his silver-gray helm. “There’s another one.”

Jolted by the sadness that accompanies the child’s words despite how each word is punctuated by a gasping breath, Din demands more information. “An Inquisitor?” He peers around Jacen, looking for Hera and Yasa. “Where is he?”

In the midst of a very different conversation, Sabine interrupts Chopper sharply, able to translate his Binary rambling. “A Mandalorian? Out this far?” She holds out a hand to stop the babbling droid. “You.” She turns on him. “Did you have help? Is this some kind of game to you?”

“What?” Offended, Din takes a step back. “There’s another one?”

“Don’t act surprised.” Sabine is instantly defensive, one hand going to one of the twin blasters on each hip. “You had a friend come help you retrieve the boy, and he took Hera, too.”

Chopper bleats something that sounds like he’s not agreeing with Sabine, but Din’s eyes narrow behind his helm. “I didn’t. Figures you’d accuse me,” He scoffs. “How do I know they’re not with you?”

“Hey,” Jacen hollers, seeing them both take a step towards each other, Din stepping carefully around Jacen with a swish of his cape. Sabine steps close enough that Din can see the amber-orange glint of her brown eyes. “Hey!”

Neither listen.

“Fine,” The boy scoffs, holding out both hands and pulling them apart with the Force before they come to blows. They both twist to look at him in shock, his face furrowed in concentration as he tries to keep them separated. “I don’t think this one is with either of you,” Jacen says. “But he has my mom and Yasa and we need to get them back without beating each other up.”

“I agree,” Ahsoka says, approaching from behind Sabine. “What do you know about him?”

Chopper divulges what little he knows, mostly that they’d seen armor and a large automatic weapon. “I don’t think he wants to hurt them,” Jacen adds. “He felt… conflicted.”

“Your powers are growing,” The non-human says, her lips upturned ever so slightly as if to smile. “I felt that, too.”

“So,” Din deadpans, “You’re a Jedi, too?”

“No,” Ahsoka refutes, an easy calm about her. “But I know the Force.” She raises her head, looking him in the eyes as though his face is uncovered. Her gaze narrows as she lays a hand on his shoulder, the edges of her outermost fingers brushing against the signet’s raised plating. She blinks down at her fingers, then back at him with a soft smile. Then she withdraws almost reverently, fingers smoothing over his pauldron thoughtfully.

Sabine looks at Ahsoka, the question obvious on her face.

“It’s nothing,” She says to the Mandalorian woman.

“That’s not true.” Sabine looks to the other Mandalorian in their midst. “He did something.”

Ahsoka ignores her. “Your boy is strong with the Force, Din Djarin.”

“He’s not-”

“He wears your pendant,” Ahsoka’s eyes are dark. She doesn’t let him argue. “And I am not unaware of the way Mandalorians regard their foundlings.”

Sabine’s eyes flicker to him, hostility bleeding from her posture immediately. “He’s your foundling?”

“I-” Exhaling, he nods once. “Yes.”

Disbelievingly, she says, “And you want to give him to Hera, to take to some Jedi just because he can use the Force?”

“Sabine,” Ahsoka warns, though her gaze is on Din, appraising him. “We’re wasting time. Get your bag of tricks.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” She answers, spinning on her heel and jogging in the direction of the ship. She’s still not happy, but she’s willing to follow the Togruta’s lead begrudgingly enough.

When they’re alone, Jacen and Chopper having followed Sabine, Ahsoka looks off into the distance, evaluating the steep, broken peaks of the grounded Star Destroyer that look like mountains against the treeline. She drops her hands, letting them be covered by the wide sleeves of her robes and plants her staff into the dirt. Her lips quirk up and to the left in a sad smile.

“Not every decision will be yours to make,” She says to the morning breeze. Whatever she sees, Din doesn’t think it’s the ominous wreck of an old Imperial ship. Her eyes are soft, her gaze faraway, as if recalling a memory. These words are for him, though, he knows it in his bones. “This isn’t about you.”

-/

The Force is a finicky thing. Everything moves and is moved, there is life in everything, both seen and unseen. Ezra takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it go. The comm link at his side goes off, the sound of voices chattering, guards being dispatched near what would become a rendezvous. He pushes it away, removing everything from his consciousness that isn’t the Force. He’d gotten better at this when he was still a Padawan, but now he could drift the majority of a day while feeling like he’d simply blinked.

He falls into himself, finds his center, the Force moving through and around him. He feels its will, a benign thing by nature, though decidedly neutral. He senses a pinprick of light far away but getting closer. Kanan - his Master - had always said he could feel Hera in the living Force like a beacon. That she’d always lit his way home. Ezra once thought that was the mushy talk of a man in love.

It had been, but… like a lot of things that Ezra had come to realize, Kanan hadn’t been wrong.

The child with Hera is a true neutral, light and dark in equal measure. Ezra feels him like he’d felt himself, once: a blank slate. Unmade and impressionable. He wonders briefly if he’d been like this as a boy and if anyone had known, then lets the Force sweep the thought away. It doesn’t matter right now.

Ezra pushes outward through the Force, feeling his presence unfurling. It expands, rippling across the overlook he’s perched himself on and down below. He feels the heartbeats of the troopers, the breath-like rustles of blades of grass. Further still, he senses trees and streams, crests and dips in the terrain. Drawn to her comforting presence, his consciousness finds Hera first - brilliant and honest - and then the child - innocent yet wise, his aura eclipsed by sadness. The man with them: frustrated and resigned, pained by wounds that his mission won’t heal. Trailing behind them is Sabine, a volatile prism, chaos and color, confident and kind and proud. Ahsoka: what a Jedi should feel like, Jedi or not. Harmony, peace, awareness wrapping around her like the cloak that conceals her. She freezes when she senses him, Ezra can tell, prodding gently against him, warm, wise, and fond.

Then, there is Jacen.

Jacen, who is his mother’s daring brilliance and his father’s charm and wisdom. Jacen, who reaches out to him in the Force without hesitation, like he already knows him. Ezra can feel his excitement and worry, his courage and resolve not to fall victim to his fears. He pushes against the child’s mind gently, not trying to connect with him - the distance is much too far. Instead he urges calmness, he exhales trust and faith and hope, willing the Force to project his feelings as much as it will allow.

The Force ripples, allowing him to reach further still.

He feels it then, a cool pressure, coiling and uncomfortable at the base of his spine. They came to this planet searching for him, and Ezra has spent a long time willing himself not to be found. Letting them come to him, thinking him a dried up myth, a legend past his prime.

But he is not. He has been patient, lying in wait. He felt the shift when those who sought out his tutelage to grow their powers to use for evil, to resurrect some semblance of the Sith eased back to try and coax him out. He feels them now, knows they are distracted by what feels like an easy target in a child who seems helplessly small yet powerful at heart.

He feels the ominous twist, like the spark of ozone before a lightning storm. But more than that, he feels someone he had overlooked before. Closed off but not proud, gentle but pained. Conflicted and guilty. All feelings that aren’t unfamiliar to him. No, Ezra thinks. He remembers what it felt like to be afraid of the truth, and the kind of paths that led to such anguish and emotion.

A lesson will be learned today, he realizes. And that lesson will be painful, laced with suffering. A long time ago, Ezra learned that he couldn’t save everyone. The paths he can choose are infinite and yet still so limited. He forces himself to relax, lets his affinity to resonate within it burn brightly, and lets his emotions be stripped away.

He is prepared to do what must be done, now he reflects and hopes the Force will aid him, that it will help them all find a way.

Chapter Text

Both Inquisitors are human. One reaches out and grabs Hera by the elbow, jerking her hard. She staggers but refuses to fall, quick to correct her footing. The Inquisitor levels their lightsaber at her, eyes a tarnished yellow, their lips curled but not smiling.

“We wait,” The other man greets the Mandalorian, his voice gruff and baritone. He’s also tall and slender, though not as tall as the first. He has muscle to him, and doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned about brandishing his weapon. “We sense something of great interest to our cause.”

The child’s ear twitches against her collarbone and Hera tries not to let them notice her stroking the back of his head, needing to move her hands to disperse some of her dread before it can overwhelm her. She hopes with every ounce of her being that doesn’t mean they’re going after Jacen, too, though she’s sure that Ahsoka and Sabine will be able to fend off any “siblings” these Inquisitors happen to have. She didn’t know how many of them there were, and that was a problem. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, certainly Ahsoka hadn’t seemed to notice them.

“Are you its caretaker?” The second one - who doesn’t have a weapon asks. His voice is soft. Almost gentle. It makes Hera warier than the first.

“Yes,” She settles for saying, speaking demurely. She waits for his attention to pass and it does. The child murmurs a few intelligible syllables against her collar. His tiny hands curl into the neckline of his tunic as he pulls out the mythosaur skull made of beskar and holds it tightly in one hand. He shudders and holds still after that.

The air is thick with anticipation. Hera is certain she’s not the only one feeling it. She bounces the child when he murmurs some more, and it’s the Mandalorian who turns to her. “Shut that thing up.”

She pulls him away from her chest to look into his eyes. “Stay calm, alright?” She asks him and he blinks at her, his wide brown eyes soft. The child makes a questioning sound and reaches towards her face, blunt claws trailing down the side of her face. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The child coos and Hera draws him close again, biding her time.

Sure enough, some sound, like an explosion draws their attention and the one who’s had his lightsaber drawn and powered up the entire time takes off in the direction of the woods. As he goes, Hera gets a good look at his clothes. They’re imperial officer blacks, a standard uniform. It must be old, because the color looks faded compared to the lush greenery and yellow white of the pieces of the Star Destroyer that unfurl around them. Overhead, the sound of a transport makes Hera turn.

She looks to the Mandalorian as the two Inquisitors approach the landing ramp. Taking a risk, she speaks. “You don’t want to do this,” She tells him quietly. “I promise you.”

“Huh, well I’m sure these people have a bounty on you for no reason,” He drawls sarcastically through the helmet.

“You and I both know what they are,” Hera says. “And I don’t have a bounty on my head, I promise you.”

“Right. You and every other bounty I’ve ever had has been perfectly innocent. I’m sure it’s all a case of mistaken identity. That’s why the tracker lead me to you.”

“It’s not me,” She says with great emphasis. He looks at her, an impassive helm, and she wonders what his face looks like beneath the mask. His body language tells her enough about his expression. It’s unimpressed.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” The Mandalorian sneers.

There are more explosions now, and the ground shakes in a way that has nothing to do with the ship powering up behind them.

“My friends will come.”

“We’ll be long gone.”

“We will,” Agrees the muscular Inquisitor, his eyes Mining Guild yellow. He pulls out a scanner and holds it up while the Mandalorian looks away at the trees that sway with the concussive blast of the explosions in the distance. Whatever the Inquisitors want with her, he clearly doesn’t want to see.

She doesn’t need to be able to see his face to know what he’s feeling. She’s spent years trying to free the galaxy from having to feel defeated and hopeless and cornered. The Republic was trying but it’s small and broken, newly reborn, still fragmented by the remains of the power she’d helped to remove from the vast majority of it. She wasn’t foolish enough to think they’d gotten it all, and maybe they never would. She’d keep trying, in her own way, by doing what she did best.

This Mandalorian might be her enemy right now, but she could tell they were on the same side. She just needed to convince him somehow.

It doesn’t hurt him, but the boy flinches when the scanner runs over him. “Is it in good health?” The Inquisitor asks her.

“I’m your bounty,” Hera says. “That’s what the Mandalorian said.” Then, unimpressed, she asks, “So does it matter?”

“You know it does,” The Inquisitor smiles sharply at her. At that, the Mandalorian turns. “Take the 'bounty' to the ship.” He looks off into the distance. “I believe my brothers may need a hand.”

The child cries then, looking over Hera’s shoulder towards the open hatch of the transport shuttle. An interrogation droid hovers menacingly as if waiting for them to board. The Mandalorian grabs her by the forearm with a grip hard enough to bruise.

“I know you don’t want to work for them,” Hera hisses quietly. “I have friends. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure I can-”

“You can help by being quiet.” He jerks her forward hard.

Trying not to allow them to reach their destination too quickly, she says, “You don’t understand. They’re after the boy. He’s the bounty.”

Fury coils his body tightly, and disgust drips from his words, his grip making her bones creak it’s become so tight.“You’re that desperate to escape that you’d say it’s your son? He’s a baby. He couldn’t be the bounty.”

“He’s not my son,” Hera admits. The child blinks up at her. “Please, I know you don’t want to work with these Imperial sleemos. Help us.”

He considers it, she can feel the way his pace slows. It doesn’t stop, though, and they quickly reach the ship’s ramp. The moment they’re inside, the ship begins to rise into the sky. “That’s not the point. Whatever you’ve done is on you. You’re the one who brought the boy into this.”

“Believe me when I tell you I am not.” She looks up at him with an intense scowl on her face, purposefully angling herself away from the mind probe as best she can to shield the child from the sight of it. “And you’re making a terrib-ugh,” The rest of her words are interrupted by the blunt end of a lightsaber making contact with the back of her head, knocking her out. The last thing she notices is that large hands have reached out and grabbed the child.

A different Inquisitor, a man with milk-white skin, jet-black hair and yellow-gold eyes who wears newer clothing complete with a cape plucks stares at her in distaste. As if inconvenienced, he nudges her to the edge of the transport and out with one polished black boot, uncaring for the distance she falls to the ground below. They’ve gained quite a bit of altitude

The bounty hunter stares in shock, watching her fall while the child wails.

“You have done us a great service, Mandalorian,” The Inquisitor motions for a Stormtrooper to approach from the hatch leading towards the cockpit. “Your tracking skills are as the stories say.”

“What are you doing? You just threw the asset off the ship!”

The laughter makes the Mandalorian go rigid. “You fool, that was not the asset.” He reaches toward the tiny green child, who shakes and squeezes his eyes shut. “But this one, on the other hand-”

Roaring, the Mandalorian bellows, “You said he was fifty! This kid isn’t-!”

“Some species do age differently than others, and the biometric scan doesn’t lie.” In mock sympathy, he tells the hunter, “He’s fifty years old, all the same.”

The Mandalorian wraps both arms around the child tightly. “This was not part of our arrangement.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re the one who said you were willing to do whatever it took to bring down Gideon. This,” He croons, reaching a hand out towards the child, “Is the Way.” He laughs, and now there’s no sympathy, only mocking. He steps forward as the Mandalorian takes a tentative step back. They’d tricked him, the Mandalorian thought. These damn Imperials! “Thank you for your services.” He reaches out to take the child.

“I don’t think I want to do that.”

“I think you do.” In a lunge, he flicks the double-wide handle in his hand until it becomes one elongated grip. The light that spills from the blade is a perfect crimson, a bright bloody red. “I don’t often give warnings, so consider this a token of goodwill. Give me the asset, and we can pretend this never happened. I’ll still give you the Darksaber after we destroy Gideon.”

“I-” He frowns, sighing. It wasn’t right, but he’d taken this mission on for a reason. He knew no one else would be able to do it, that no one would be willing to make the sacrifices necessary to restore what was theirs, that they didn’t have the numbers... The Inquisitor’s face twists in glee. Of course. He knows that already.

Another step forward. The Inquisitor’s face has a pale glow from the blade. “I do not possess infinite patience.”

“I-” He looks down at the child, his huge eyes still screwed shut. He has to do this. Even if he rips himself apart to do so. “I’m sorry, kid,” He says, grip relenting. The child squirms. “This thing is bigger than both of us.”

“A wise decision,” The Inquisitor dips his head and the red blade disappears. He reaches for the child whose one tiny hand scrabbles for purchase on the armor covering the Mandalorian’s chest. “Let go, you stubborn little mynock,” He purses his lips, and finally jerks the child hard enough that his tri-fingered hand comes free. “Stubborn, aren’t you? We’ll put a stop to that soon enough.” He croons as the child growls.

“What’s so special about the kid?” The Mandalorian asks, voice resigned.

The Inquisitor grins, eyes bright and enthusiastic. “You have no idea.” With one arm barred across the child’s stomach, the Inquisitor leans toward the Mandalorian hunter.

He realizes what’s about to happen when it’s already too late. The Inquisitor readies his saber at the same time the Stormtrooper in the doorway opens fire. The first shot goes wide. The second hits his arm, singeing him through the canvas of his soft armor. The third hits his helmet and his head snaps back from the close-range impact. He staggers back and the Inquisitor is there closing the gap between them.

“Thank you for your assistance, Paz Vizla. “Regretfully, your services are no longer required.”

Before the buzzing blade can pierce the Mandalorian, the inquisitor startles, staring down at his arm. The child’s teeth are dug in, jaw clamped on the man’s forearm with a painful force “You little wretch!” He bludgeons the child in the face with the pommel of his saber, bloodying his face where the metallic edges scrape across delicate skin. The child relinquishes his bite, and that’s enough time for the Inquisitor to throw his arm back and reactivate the double blades.

The child throws his right hand out, pushing against the air, blood streaming from tiny nostrils and a cut below one wide eye as he strains to prevent the dark Jedi from eviscerating him... with only his mind?!

Paz feels all the air leave his lungs at once. The Inquisitor’s blade is not moving. The man struggles, jaw clenching, veins in his forehead and throat growing more pronounced. More Stormtroopers pour out from the hatch leading to the cabins and cockpit of the ship, weapons at the ready.

He can move his mouth though, ordering a terse, “Shoot him, you idiots!”

The blaster bolts come more rapidly this time from far more ‘troopers, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent them. Still, he tries to reach out for the kid, trying to salvage this betrayal all the same. What had he been thinking? After everything the Empire had done, why had he been so foolish as to believe-

His fingers catch on something, fingers curling around something too solid to be an arm, blaster bolts peppering him in the chest and bouncing off. The child’s dark brown eyes meet Paz’s wide eyed gaze through his visor. Then, the hand at his side, the one pushing back the Inquisitor’s blade, comes up in a swift motion. With both tiny, trembling palms, the boy pushes. Paz feels the tension of whatever he’d grasped on the boy’s tunic pull loose and suddenly he’s thrown out the open transport hatch and sent into a freefall.

They had gained altitude during their exchange, so Paz manages to get his jetpack to respond well before he comes even remotely in danger of hitting the ground. He turns his attention to the wrecked Destroyer behind him. There’s no way he’ll be able to catch up to the ship by himself, and even if he did, there was no way he’d be able to do anything to help the child. They had barely been off the ground when the woman was thrown from the ship. Maybe she was still alive. She’d had friends with her. Maybe he could help them fight off the Inquisitors. If nothing else, he could probably ambush the remaining ones before the transport circled back to pick them up. It wouldn’t make it right, but it would be something.

When he lands on solid ground and reaches to pull his dented but whole repeating blaster from his back, he realizes he’s still too tense, his nerves rattled over this encounter. The dull throbbing of blaster bolts having ricocheted off his armor is hardly anything to him, so he shakes himself loose in a practiced motion, trying to wrestle back some control. This situation was bad, but it should be salvageable. He’s faced worse odds.

Though, when Paz uncurls his fist and sees the familiar pendant caked with blood, the leather cording ripped and tangled between his fingers, he knows the weight of what he’s done. Or rather, what he’s just undone.

Paz sinks to his knees in the dirt. Worse odds, huh? He couldn’t possibly have been more wrong.

Chapter Text

Each trooper Din guns down is assigned a number. The first takes a blaster bolt to the weak patch on the chest. He’d been taught that the ‘trooper armor, though heavily modified - and significantly weaker - had been heavily Mandalorian inspired. The specifics of that don’t necessarily matter. They’re not real warriors. Their armor is cheap. Mandalorian armor does not have these weaknesses.

The second and third taste the flamethrower built into his vambraces. He can hear the appreciative whistle from the other - from Sabine standing off to his left, two blasters in her hands. She moves like water, fluid and agile. Her movements are well trained. Her grenade tosses are a kind of precision he can begrudgingly appreciate.

They are not the same, but beneath the paint on her armor is beskar. And within her blood, the heartbeat of Mandalore. But his Tribe does not rely on blood. Blood serves the body, the heart, the mind. Those are what make a person a Mandalorian, more than any blood or genetics could ever try. She doesn’t so much as look behind her, doesn’t flinch when shots go wide into the treeline where Ahsoka and Jacen remain silent. He can see it in her stance: She grins beneath the helmet.

She leans on her jetpack for acrobatics too much, he thinks, though he watches her take a decent fall without aid and keep moving. Din’s fourth kill receives a bolt to the neck, beneath the lip of his helmet. He doesn’t have time to choke on it. His blood sings with the thrill of battle, the violence his frazzled emotions craves. It balances him. All he knows is fighting, he thinks, in one blurry moment - three troopers come at him. He rolls, reaches for his vibroknife. Rises, ducks under a swinging punch, stabs the first in the armpit. Five. Twists the blade, pulls it out. Throws it at the one to his right with enough force and precision that it buries itself to the hilt in the next one’s left eyehole, shattering the black tinted visor. They scream until they don’t. Six.

The seventh receives blaster bolts from both Mandalorians. The rest are dead by Sabine’s hand.

Ahsoka steps into the clearing, child and droid in tow. They move on. The droid babbles something. “There’s a ship coming into range,” Sabine says. “Transport, definitely our-” She does something with her HUD - Din can see it, the subtle focus and adjustments as she toggles layers of sensor readings. She flinches and kicks off all in one motion jetpack roaring to life. Still, Din can hear her yelling, “Hera!”

The ship moves too quickly for Din to think he has a chance of catching it, and he doesn't have the heart to call after Sabine. There's no way for her to reach Hera in time from their current distance.

That doesn't stop her, though. She streaks through the air, darting through the trees and then following the topography down. "Mama will be okay," Jacen says, looking from Din to Ahsoka. "Right?"

Ahsoka closes her eyes in a blink that lasts only a second too long. "I think so," She answers, though concern flavors her tone. It's a stark contrast to the way she's spoken since Din met her hours ago. She casts her gaze in the direction of the transport, frowning. "Right now we need to figure out where they're going. There have to be others around. With any luck we can follow one of them back to their base."

-/

No thought goes into the motion. He leaps up, higher than a human should be able to, fast and agile. They are not looking at him, and he knows they have their prize. He cannot prioritize one life over another, but this one is in far more jeopardy than the one left aboard the Inquisitor’s transport shuttle. Reaching out, he manages to catch her securely and bring them both safely to solid ground.

There is a dark green-brown mark where she’d been struck, and her headtails are limp, slumped against him like the rest of her. He closes his eyes and carefully lays her down, stopping only to pull off another layer of robes, carefully wadding it up in a cushion for her head. He focuses both hands over her face, as if to cup her cheeks without touch and closes his eyes, looking inward. The Force ebbs and flows around her, through her, like it always has. She’ll hurt, but she’s not injured badly. He sighs, relieved, opening his eyes to see hers fluttering.

Hera groans, but a hand is there, cool and gentle on her forehead, stroking down the uninjured side of her head. “K-Kanan?” She slurs dazedly, eyes opened to slits and already rolling back.

He pulls down the scarf covering his face long enough to drop a kiss to her forehead. He wants to speak but the words won’t come. He wants her to know he’s here, but he can’t. Not while they’re still in danger like this. Not when the inquisitors want him, too. Still, he can’t help but feel the pang of emotion he knows he needs to keep at bay for just a little longer and lingers.

A shrill yell and the obvious click of a safety being flicked off pull him from his thoughts. “What are you doing?” Sabine snarls, furious. “What did you do to her?”

Reverently, Ezra strokes Hera’s face, careful to avoid the mottled bruising near her temple. He does it only once and steps back, still crouching beside her. His hands go up in surrender. Belatedly, he realizes he’s not wearing a hood anymore, that part of his ensemble is the makeshift pillow beneath Hera’s head.

“I asked you a question,” Sabine reiterates, her voice venomous. “You’re the hermit. Morg,” She presses, before waving him along with her blaster. “Answer me.”

He can’t seem to tear his eyes from Hera’s face. Distance made it easier, he thinks, shoulders rounding. He knew this would be near-impossible. If he meets Sabine’s gaze now, he doesn't know if he'll be strong enough to walk away again. Not after everything.

But he has to.

“I need you to let me go,” He says, as low and scratchy as he can, trying to pretend he’s still someone else, trying to deceive her.

It doesn’t work. Doesn’t stop her sharp inhale or the way she yanks off her helmet and throws it into the dirt. Sabine isn’t easily fooled. Though, Ezra's attempt was weak at best and he knew it.

It takes her a moment to find her words. “I did that last time,” She argues, voice quaking towards the end. Visceral, as always. “And it took us this long to find you.”

“This is the last time,” Ezra begs. He still doesn’t look at her.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?” Sabine steps toward him, reaching for his shoulder and he flinches away, rising to his full height. He’s much taller than her now, almost as tall as his master had been. She steps back, having to look up into his eyes for the first time. “I can’t let you go.”

“You have to, if we’re ever going to keep them safe.”

“Why?” She sounds desperate, but refrains from reaching out. Ezra isn’t sure if she’d latch onto him or push him away in her rage. “If Hera finds out I-” Something in her face breaks, angry and fragile. “I can’t do that to her again. You told me to come find you, and I did-”

“You did,” He agrees softly. “I don’t - I didn’t want to do what I did. Not then, and not now. But I can’t come back to her and leave again, Sabine. She’s already lost me once.”

“You have to promise me,” Sabine says. “Not ten years. Not ten days. We’re not leaving this planet without you.”

“I don’t know if I-”

“Promise me!” Tears spill from her eyes against her will, angry and relenting all at once. “You have to meet Jacen. He-” She looks at him. “He needs a teacher.”

Ezra smiles, a twitch of the bandana covering his face. He’s already met the boy, sort of. “I know.” He steps forward once, hugging her tightly, so quick that she doesn’t have the chance to bring her arms up. “I promise,” He whispers. “Let me handle the Inquisitors.”

She frowns. “You know that’s not how we do things.”

“They built a base on the other side of the shipwreck. They’ll take the child there and await orders.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. The Inquisitors are looking for a teacher, too.”

“Ezra-”

He shrugs. “You and Ahsoka should be able to keep them safe and rescue the kid. I’m sure you have explosives.”

She pats her armored satchel. “Of course I do.” She looks down at Hera. “She’s going to be furious at me regardless, you know.”

“It’s my fault,” Ezra says, eyes bright. “You know why-”

Nodding, Sabine swallows before saying, “I do. This is the last time I’ll cover for you, Ezra Bridger.”

“Thank you, Sabine. I owe you.”

That earns him a laugh. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

He dips to pick up Hera while Sabine grabs her helmet from the ground. “Take care of her for me.”

“I will.” She punches his chest gently before accepting the Twi’lek into her arms. “May the Force be with you,” She tells him.

“It is,” Ezra says, stepping back as Sabine powers up her jetpack, bending her knees just a little to help push off, cradling Hera against her chest. “It’s with all of us. I’m sure of it.”

-/

“Hera.”

Sabine's fingers are cold against the warm skin at the Twi'lek's temples. Under the Mandalrian's worried gaze, Hera groans as her eyes open.

"C'mon," The younger woman urges. "Now stay awake this time, okay?"

"This time?" One eyebrow arches expressively as she presses her hand delicately to her throbbing forehead. "How many times have I done this, exactly?"

"Twice, but it seems like the third time's the charm," She teases, fake sarcasm curling the edges of a tender smile. "I'm gonna help you up, okay?"

Hera only staggers once, but Sabine rights her easily. "Where are the others?" She asks, already more alert. "And the baby, they took him-"

"I know," Sabine says. "Everyone is meeting us here."

"There are three of them, Sabine. I haven't seen this many together since before Attolon."

"Yeah.” The Mandalorian woman looks around, hears the rustling of trees, the sound of boots crushing bramble into the ground.

She’s expecting it to be Jacen who comes flying through the brush and prepares to keep a shaky Hera upright. It’s not. Lightning-quick, she replaces her helmet on her head and dashes in front of Hera with both her blasters trained on the glint of a weapon emerging from behind the treeline.

“Stop where you are,” She snarls. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Sabine, stop,” Hera says, focusing without difficulty. “Come out,” The Twi’lek instructs instead. “Drop your weapon and don’t try anything.”

The Mandalorian that steps out of cover and into the clearing with them is twice as wide as she is with armor, and at least another head tall. He looks like a ballistic weapon in deep blue armor and weaponry to match, but his posture is reduced, shoulder slumped in defeat. He holds the barrel of his repeating blaster up, toward the sky then shucks it aside, hitting the hydraulic release for the battery pack that allows it to continuously fire until the internal components melt or his hand falls off the trigger. The weapon and battery pack hit the ground with a surreal clang.

“Where is he?” Sabine demands. He holds one hand up, gloved palm flat, but the other is clenched.

“This isn’t the time to be difficult,” Hera tells him, taking charge of this impromptu interrogation.

He exhales heavily, trying to assess the situation too little, too late. To Sabine, he says, “You’re not from our tribe.”

“Clan Wren,” She pushes back. “Answer the question.”

“I-” He shakes his head. “He-” The captive Mandalorian gestures to burns on his armor. “I didn’t know. I thought it was you,” He swears to Hera, his voice quiet but full of anxiety. “I never would have...”

Sabine hears the sounds of footsteps, of others approaching from a similar direction. She sees Hera’s eyes narrow, sees her lips part like she’s about to speak, but she doesn’t hear the words.

All Sabine sees is the Mandalorian before he. He opens his palm, and the pendant falls, suspended in midair from its cording. Bloody. He says, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Dar’manda!” She accuses him in the language of their people. Soulless. Without honor. One who has forgotten their way.

The accusation hits like a blow and the Mandalorian staggers before Sabine reaches him. She does, though, and the Mandalorian goes down as dead weight, not fighting her when she jerks him onto his belly while wrenching his hands behind his back.

“Is he yours?”

“No,” Sabine says. In front of them, Hera turns to face the newcomers that reveal themselves from the brush. Ahsoka first, then Jacen. She yanks the talisman from his fingers.

“Hey!” The Mandalorian says, just as-

“What’s going on?” Ahsoka asks. “I thought I heard-”

Din steps around him. “Paz? What are you-”

Sabine can feel her heartbeat rattling her teeth, her spine so straight it feels like it could shatter. She rises from where she presses one Mandalorian into the dirt and stops before the newcomer. Silently, she holds up the pendant.