Archive of Our Own

You first show up when he is in the middle of training with the Mandalorians.

Din is still grieving from the loss of his parents and his life before he started learning the Ways. It’s a cold kind of shock. His life was ripped from out under him, but the Death Watch had been so welcoming, so kind to him and the handful of other foundlings they’ve taken in from the Great Purge. He doesn’t want to say that they’ve replaced his family, but all the same, he felt like he belonged. There are those that fuss over him, in their own way, giving him a change of clothes and help bathe him as they steady his still-trembling hands. They coo and whisper to him in Mando’a and reassure him that he’s safe. He’s still in a state a shock the first few days, and it’s when he’s finally alone in his room that he breaks down sobbing, trying to stifle his cries into his blanket. A mandalore comes into his room, and although the helmet doesn’t betray any emotion, the hand that soothes him is warm and comforting, and does so, without fail, whenever Din starts crying again the other odd nights. 

He’d been eager to start training. He’s not used to not doing anything, and wants to busy himself with something. Although the Mandalorians are hesitant to let one so young start training so early, Din insists he earn his keep after growing restless. Who can resist those pleading eyes?

And so now he’s learning how to shoot. 

His grip is steady, but still falters after a minute from the weight. It fits too awkwardly in his small hands. His mentor, an aging but still spry Mandalore by the name of Savamar Rudrey, reminds him that he will grow stronger, and not to worry. Then in his periphery, he sees the shimmering figure of someone he might’ve known. Distracted, he turns his head to look at you directly, but his aim gets thrown off and goes far into the tree lines. Savamar shakes her head and realigns his aim, chiding him for his lack of attention. Din shifts his grip and shoots again. It hits, but it’s off-center. Still, Savamar praises him, ruffling his hair, and moves on to the girl next to him. As he keeps breathing in, out, then pulling the trigger, you move closer, leaning on a stack of crates, but even as you lean your full weight on them, they don’t shift. Din turns to look at you again, and you stare back. You give him a small smile, and motion with your head for him to pay attention to his lesson. 

He does, but frowns. He doesn’t know who you are. But you must know him. You wear the red clothes of his village. 

(You don’t know who he is, but you’re tethered to him for some reason.)

At that thought, his aim wavers and strays further from the center. He worries his bottom lip and tries not to look at you anymore. The wound is still too fresh, and he doesn’t want to start crying in front of everyone.

You glance at him curiously, wondering why he doesn’t seem interested in you anymore. You consider moving closer, but instead settle further where you are. He keeps peeking at you out of the corner of his eyes anyways, looking at his new clothes, how they are grey and brown and earthy and not the red that matches your own--

(Sur’ar, foundling, Savamar tells him. Focus.)

-- and he notices how mournful you look. Savamar catches everyone’s attention, telling the foundlings to go wash up before supper and return their blasters, but instead he swivels around to try and look at you properly.

But you’re gone, and there aren’t even footprints in the soft earth where you’ve stood. 

--

Some nights later, Din goes to sleep troubled, and wakes up suddenly, troubled again. But the hand soothing him and the voice shushing him isn’t Savamar. 

It’s you again, looking down at him kindly and pushing his hair back away from his sweat-soaked forehead. Din can see the roof of his room through you, and notices how the small rays of the morning dawn fails to make you cast a shadow. He gets up and grabs at you; how his hand goes straight through you confirms his suspicions, but his curiosity still gets the better of him. 

“Are you a ghost?” he asks, breathless as you seem to emit a glow in the dark. “My name’s Din,” he adds as an afterthought. You smile at his manners, then furrow your brows. You don’t quite remember your name. Before you can dwell too hard on it and then start freaking out, you answer his first question. 

“I suppose I am a ghost,” you answer slowly. “Does that… does that frighten you?” By the look of his childlike wonder--

(He is a child, you have to remind yourself. Despite the losses he had to go through and how each day the blaster seems to weigh less.)

-- you already know the answer before he says it. 

“No.” And it’s true. Din has had no reason to really be afraid of anything since he was taken in by the Mandalorians. You relax. “I think it’s kinda cool.” 

“Cool?” you amusedly ask. “How so?” Din shrugs as he sits up and wraps his blankets around his shoulders. 

“I dunno. Just is,” he says. 

“That’s not a good enough reason,” you prod. Din furrows his brows. “Why is it cool I’m a ghost?” He searches for a reason. 

“Well…” he trails. You look at him expectantly. “Okay, I don’t know,” he admits. “What can you do?” His question catches you off guard. You think. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, honestly,” you say. “I just now discovered I can touch things, but only for some period of time.” Din nods eagerly and you search for something else to say. “And, uh, only you can see me, I guess. I can go through walls and other objects, so that’s cool,” you add on. 

“Any wall?”

You nod. “Any walls. Although it’s dangerous; you never know why a door is closed until you ask.” There’s been one too many instances of… well… Secrets being shared, you’re sure.

“Where are you from?” You purse your lips. The memories slip through your hands like water, but you get flashes. The smell of blaster fire. Screaming. Smoke. Warm blood and white hot pain. Red. 

“Not sure.”

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” he asks. Oh boy. Din is nearly vibrating from excitement, and you guess he’s got more questions. At least that means he won’t press you for more questions.

“It’s like, uh, it’s not really a place,” you struggle to explain. “It’s, well, I guess it’s dark? It’s, um,” obviously this wasn’t working, and with how confused Din looks, he wasn’t going to get it any time soon. You look down at the blankets underneath you, and come up with an idea. “Okay, so you know how when you sleep, there are times you don’t have dreams?” you ask. Din nods his head. “It’s all dark and time doesn’t seem to really exist because you’re awake, then asleep, and then boom! Suddenly it’s morning? It’s like that. So for me, it was maybe a couple minutes ago when I last saw you.” Din nods, face dead serious.

“I understand,” he says, almost solemnly, and you crack a smile. He yawns, and you’re aware of how early it is, and how his awakening was because of fitful sleep. 

“Alright, Din, go to sleep,” you urge gently. “‘This is the Way’,” you quietly mock, getting up so that he has room. He climbs back under the blankets and settles in, and you wish you were corporeal enough to tuck him in. The child has grown on you quickly. Maybe you had a connection with him before you died. His eyes droop sleepily as he lets out another large yawn. Before he finally falls asleep, he asks one more question. 

“Why are you here?”

He falls asleep without waiting for an answer, and you’re glad because that’s another question you don’t have an answer to. 

--

Din is practicing his aim again deep within the forest when you suddenly appear next to the target. His hair has gotten longer and he’s a little taller, but you haven’t changed at all. 

“You’re learning fast,” you note. Although there are stray shots here and there, there are quite a few that have hit the center. 

“Thanks,” he chirps, preening at your praise. You motion to the blaster in his hands. 

“That yours?” you ask. He suddenly looks sheepish as his cheeks flush and tries to hide the blaster behind his back. You click your tongue. “Did you steal it?”

“I didn’t steal it!” Din says, pouting. “I just--”

“Let me guess, ‘borrowed it’?” you scoff. Din nods. 

“Yeah! They only let us practice for an hour and a half every day,” he complains, excited that he thinks you’re on his side.

“Some would say that’s enough,” you reason. “You’re young- you have more chances to practice as you grow older.” He sighs dramatically and walks over to a stump to put his borrowed plaster down and then walk over to look at his shots on the target. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “but I wanna practice now.” You quirk an eyebrow. 

“Why do you want to train so bad?” you ask. Din lets a flash of grief flash over his face before he slides on a mask of determination. 

“So that I can get better!” he says. 

“Why?”

“So I can be a Mandalorian!”

“Why?”

“So I can… So I can…” Din loses steam as he kicks at the dirt. 

(He wonders what happened to the other kids in his village.)

You falter. Great, now you feel bad. You crouch down to his eye level. 

“Hey,” you say gently. “It’s okay.” What is okay, you don’t know exactly. “It’s okay to not have a reason to do something.” 

“It’s not that,” he sighs, with a weariness as if he were a hundred years old and not a young child. “I do, it’s just that…” You shush him. 

“No matter your reason, are you ashamed of it?” you ask. He shrugs, but shakes his head. “Is it a bad reason?” No. “Are you lying about it?” Another no. “Then keep your chin up, foundling,” you say teasingly, lifting his chin with a finger as you grin at him. 

“You can tell me some other day.”

--

You’ve become better at hanging around longer than before. You don’t know what it is exactly, but you spend less time in that dark space that feels like sleep. But now you’re wishing you weren’t because you’re crammed in the same foxhole he’s in.

Ah, that’s right. Din Djarin is training. 

You’re not fully corporeal, so while there is room, there’s not a lot, and as a result, you’re half, well, half in him. It’s weird. You shudder and nearly gag. You can’t feel him, per se, but it makes your skin crawl. 

“What are you doing?” Din hisses at you, trying to stay quiet as his eyes dart around to see if anyone heard him. 

“Trying to get out,” you say, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which it is. Obviously. You still haven’t really figured out this ghost thing, and you have to grab at the ledge of his little hideout three times before it doesn’t go through, and you haul yourself up.

And then you promptly scurry back in, smothering a yelp even though you know in the back of your mind that only Din can see and hear you. He looks at you questioningly. 

“Sarlaac,” you squeak out, and you know that if you were alive, you would’ve probably died from fear. Dirt falls through you as stomping gets closer and closer. 

“Shit.”

--

You watch with pity as Din gingerly sits himself down on his bed, bandages wrapped around his torso and several bacta patches all over his body. 

“Well this sucks,” he says. He tries to cross his arms, but stops short and winces when it pulls on his wounds. He opts to put his hands in his lap. 

“I thought it was rather funny,” you note nonchalantly. “Getting your ass beat by Savamar, who’s what, 60? 70? was the highlight of my day.” Din scowls. 

“You could’ve helped me,” he pouts. You raise an eyebrow. 

“I think that if I did help, people would start thinking that you’re one of those jeti things,” you reason. 

“You mean jedi? Aren’t they a myth?” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Same thing. I don’t know.” You pull a stool out from his small desk and move it to sit in front of him. “You should rest,” you say. “Nothing that sleep and meds won’t fix, hm?” You push a stray curl out the way with a gentle touch. “Your training doesn’t stop just because you got pounded into the dirt by a grandma.” Din rolls his eyes, but slowly moves to get under the covers. 

“Savamar isn’t that old,” he points out. “And careful, she might hear you.” You roll your eyes and pick up a stray pillow and hold it threateningly over his face. 

“You know she can’t hear me,” you say, “and shut up and go to sleep before I smother you to death.” He rolls his eyes again. Ah, to be a teenager again and not care about authority. 

“Yeah? Then maybe I’ll become a ghost like you, and I can finally kick your ass,” he says. 

“I look forward to it,” you respond mildly, throwing the pillow at his face. “And watch your mouth.” He giggles. 

(Savamar wonders why there’s always a singular voice coming from his room, and wonders why a chair is always pulled out for someone to sit in. But Din Djarin is an exceptional student, and everyone has their vices.)

--

“Who are you?” Din lashes out. He swipes at you, but you just watch him tiredly as his hand goes straight through you. It would’ve been easy to avoid him, even for you. He was still trying to figure out his long, gangly limbs from his recent growth spurt, bits of hair forming on his chin and upper lip, and you’ve still yet to age a day. 

“Din--”

“Answer my question!” he interjects. He stalks up to you, and you find yourself looking up at him. Huh. Since when was he so tall? “What are you to me?” You step back and shake your head. His yelling is quite angry, but rather… desperate. He’s looking for something. Were you this bad when you were a teenager? “Who are you?”

“Din, please--”

“You’ve been with me since I got here,” he says, voice low. “And you know so much, but I don’t know who you are.” He turns around and sighs, holding his head in his hands. “I don’t remember much from my childhood,” he murmurs. “So much has changed since then. All I keep seeing are my parents’ faces, then the Mandalorians coming to get me, taking me out of that village.” Your heart twinges when you notice he doesn’t refer to it as his village. “But you. You’re here. You’ve been here from the first day I got here. And I recognize the clothes. From the village. Surely you must have some answers.”

“Din Djarin--”

“So please,” he whispers. “Tell me.” You stare at his back in silence, and Din starts to think you’ve gone away again when you let out the biggest sigh he’s ever heard from you, and finally turns around when a rock hits him in the back of his head. “What-- Hey!” You’ve got your hands on your hips and the sternest look you can muster on your face, and his voice falters and almost cowers away from you. 

“Well, if you’ve been listening,” you stress, “you would’ve heard me trying to talk to you. But someone kept rudely interrupting me! I’ve had enough of your teenage tantrums and angst, Din Djarin,” you scold. He blanches and stands, hands up in surrender. 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t think that you would, well, I don’t know--”

“Just because I’m dead does not mean I don’t have feelings!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in the air in exasperation. 

“No! That’s not-- I didn’t mean that!” he quickly backpedals. “Sorry!” 

“Din Djarin, you are coming of age in nearly a month, and I’m starting to think you have the emotional maturity of a mudhorn!” you lecture, wagging your finger at him. “You keep hanging on to the past as if it were some great weight upon your shoulders, instead of using it to grow. I know you’ve been troubled by it! What would Savamar say about this?” He sags at the mention of his mentor, but his lips quirk up in a smile. 

“Rangir?” he says. You rack your mind for what it means. Your Mando’a is certainly not up to standards considering Din was the only one you spoke to. You gasp when you realize. 

(Cin vhetin, Savamar would say. It means ‘fresh start’. When you swear the creed, you will henceforth be judged by what you do. The past will not matter, foundling.)

“‘To hell with it’?” you almost screech. You go to slap him, but he dances out of your way, face filled with mirth. You chase after him, racking through your mind for some kind of insult that you can shoot him with. “The mouth on you-- You are--! You are ch-chaavla sa sheb-shebs be’strilli!” Rough as a strill’s backside. Din mocks your butchered Mando’a and ducks a swing. You fume as you throw another rock at him, but he catches it and tosses it back to you, laughing harder when it hits you and your spluttering face.

“What a time to be corporeal!” he chokes out. 

“You hope you’re happy with yourself!” you huff. He nods as tears form in his eyes. 

“Oh, I definitely am,” he says, making a face at you. 

You put on a face of anger and embarrassment, but you can’t help but smile at his amusement. It’s been a while since he’s had so much fun, the stress of his coming-of-age pulling him down alongside his further training. He runs away from your glare and into the surrounding forest, and you chase after him with empty threats of violence. 

His questions remain unanswered, but in your heart you know that you don’t know the answers to that. 

--

You don’t know how long it’s been when you see him again. 

“Looks good on you,” you comment idly. You feel exhausted for some reason, which is saying a lot since you haven’t felt the need to sleep, eat, or anything really since you’ve reappeared in the world. But somehow, you feel eons older. You wish you could sleep. Din jerks his body around to look around, the cold gaze of his beskar helmet landing on you. He’s much taller now, and broader than you remember. Maybe it’s how his new armor makes him more intimidating. 

“Where have you been?” he demands. His voice is gruffer, deeper, maybe from his modulator, but you can’t know for sure. You push off the beam you were leaning on to take a seat next to where he’s standing. He’s looking in some kind of weapons wall on a ship. You raise a brow. 

“Nice to see you, too,” you scoff. You look around. “New ride? Was it a gift or did you steal it?” Din ignores you. “Uh, okay. If you did steal it, not judging,” you say defensively. “Well, that’s a lie, I’m always judging you, but regardless--”

“Stop.” You freeze at the cold tone of his voice. He turns back around and fiddles with the blasters on the wall. Did he always have so many? And since when was he afraid to look at you?

“Look, Din, sorry I missed the ceremony--” you start, but Din raises a hand and you stop. 

“Do you…” His voice his hoarse and you can only imagine what kind of expression he has under his helmet. “Do you know how long you’ve been gone?” he asks. He looks at you over his shoulder. “Do you?” he presses. You set your mouth in a hard line and shake your head. “It’s been… It’s been years,” he answers for you, and your heart drops. “Everyone is gone, and I thought you were, too.” 

“What do you mean?” you ask, standing up. “‘Everyone is gone.’ Din, what does that mean?” He doesn’t answer you, and his silence is harrowing. You don’t need a verbal answer anyways. At a closer glance, many of the blasters have the names of the Death Watch carved on them. The one he holds has Savamar Rudrey etched neatly on the barrel. The same one that he used to practice in the forest all those years ago. 

And Din Djarin stands as the lone survivor once more. 

“I’m a part of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild now,” he declares, no pride in his voice. You glance over the frozen faces of quarried forever embedded in fear and then to the tower of pucks on the table behind you.

“That’s… good,” you note. You swallow. He’s cold and unwelcoming, and you wish you could see his face again. “Din--”

“Stop calling me that,” he bites, voice cracking. You frown, and collect yourself. 

“And what would you like me to call you?” you ask cooly. 

“... Mando will do.” He knows you won’t stick with that. 

“Mando?” He nods. “It’s a bit… dehumanizing, don’t you think?” More silence. “I see.” You hope that this is just the continuation of his teenage angst. A wave of exhaustion washes over you, and you settle back down in the seat. Mando, as he is now called, polishes the blaster with fervor, over and over again in one spot even though it’s already shining. 

He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. You’ve seen him, known him, since he was a child and even those awkward and cringy teenage years, scolding and praising him as he learned to stop tripping over his feet and haul heavy rifles. You’re the one to chase his nightmares away after the Mandalores gave him a stern, but well-meaning talk about working through his nightmares and telling him ‘it’s just a dream’. You’ve begrudgingly given him answers and tips on assignments and tests, pestered him to do his chores, all that and more to make sure he has earned his goal of becoming a Mandalorian. Through all that, it hurt to see that you weren’t there for the ceremony, but your timing has always been unorthodox. Had thought that maybe you would appear tomorrow. But tomorrow turned into the next, then the week after, then months. It had taken him almost five months until he had given up on you showing up again, given up on one of the last connections to his past life. 

But in his life, you’ve been a steady presence that he’s grown to rely on. After the day he’s lost everyone again, he can’t lose you, too. 

So he’s kept hoping that you would show up. Whether that be at a cantina to whisper to him about a new job or scold him about how unkempt his hair must be under the helmet, Mando found himself turning to see if you were behind him, hearing a phantom whisper Din Djarin in his ear. He wishes he hadn’t been so curt with you. He wants to start over again, but what has happened has happened. 

By the time the Mandalorian stops fiddling with the blaster of his long-gone mentor and gathers the courage to face you, you’re gone as well, and he tries to tell himself that he doesn’t miss you and that his heart doesn’t ache. 

--

Mando is just starting to make a name for himself in the Guild, but that doesn’t soothe the gnawing hunger that plagues his sleep. You appear in the dark, a soft glow just barely illuminating the room. While he tries to sleep, tossing and turning, you try something you’re surprised you haven’t attempted before. 

You leave him to go look somewhere else. 

You drift through the walls of his dingy little ship and head for the market, glancing about for any food that you could snatch. It’s not very busy, considering it was a weekday and late in the day, hours after everyone has tried selling and haggling their goods. Unfortunately, there’s mostly scrap here, so you give up wandering the stalls to head for the nearest cantina.

It’s much too crowded for your tastes, but it hurts you to know that Mando is starving. You note with some kind of sick pleasure that those who walk through you shudder as if there was a strong chill. You walk through the bar to the other side, scouring the shelves for--

There they are. Rations. 

You bend down to peer at them. You honestly don’t know what he likes anymore. The few times you’ve managed to show up, he’s never eaten, nor mentioned anything about it. But beggars can’t be choosers, and if you don’t do something, he will literally be a beggar. Even if you know his pride won’t let him. You grab a random handful and haul ass out of there, cursing when you go through a wall and rations don’t follow. You head back inside, scoop them up, and squeeze through the door after another patron, ignoring the exclaims and screams of shock as they watch rations fly through what seems empty air. You forgot that while others couldn’t see you, they could see other things. 

Like the ration of shredded mystery meat and dehydrated bread that you dropped as you swerve to avoid running through someone. 

At least that provided a distraction. The haggle of people diving to claim the lost ration left you with a clear path to leave the market. 

When you get back to the ship, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that you don’t feel tired or out of breath at all, and you drop the rations onto a nearby table, startling Mando awake. You smile proudly and motion to the pile. 

“Eat up,” you say.

“What is this?”

“Uh oh, you’re worse than I thought you were,” you say with mock concern, and toss a ration over to him. “Rations. Spooked a fair bit of people, but don’t worry, no one was following.” He wants to ask, you know. He’s looking at the rations in his hand, to you, to the pile on the table, and he does the math in his head. 

At least a week and a half’s worth. Two, if he makes them count. 

“I thought you were very much against stealing,” he says, humor in his tone. You roll your eyes. 

“It’s not stealing. I’m merely borrowing it,” you throw his words back at him. 

“Sure.” But he gets up and tears open the packet and rehydrates the bread with a few splashes of water from his canteen as he rumages for utensils. “And I’m not a Mandalorian.” You groan and point a finger at him. 

“Din Djarin, you are--”

And then you disappear, leaving Mando very confused, but leaving his stomach very happy. 

Even if the mystery meat makes his stomach ache a few hours later. 

--

You appear as soon as Mando stumbles onboard the Razor Crest a month later, holding his side as he digs through his things for a med pack. Blood trickles out of his helmet down his neck. There couldn’t have been a worse time for you to show up. Whatever words  you were going to say die in your throat at the sight of him. 

“Let me see,” you immediately order, putting your hands on your hips as you follow his path around the ship. Din shakes his head and looks away. Away from your motherly stance and scolding eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts, pulling off his cape and bits of armor as he gingerly presses the bruises on his torso. “Nothing sleep and meds can’t fix.” You roll your eyes as you stop to stand in front of him with a raised eyebrow. 

“You’re bleeding,” you say bluntly. 

“Really?” he replies sarcastically. “I didn’t notice. Thank you so much--”

“Your head is bleeding,” you correct yourself. “So hurry up. Take off your helmet so I can take a look.” He shakes his head. 

“I can’t,” he rasps, almost automatically. “No living thing has seen--”

“--your face since you swore the Creed, yadda yadda yadda,” you interrupt. “‘This is the Way’,” you scowl to yourself under your breath. You sigh. “I’m not a living thing, and head wounds are dangerous.” You physically see Din, or Mando, as he preferred to be called now, tense, his shoulder drawing taut. He turns to look at you and your translucent form in what you hope is consideration. “I’ve been dead for years, so I think you can spare this one loophole.”

“Still, it…” The hesitance in his voice makes his voice sound young and afraid.

(You wonder if he forgets that you aren’t actually here, that you’re long dead and your body is somewhere else. Did you ever get buried?)

 “It’s not right. This is not the Way.” There’s that awful phrase. Maker help you now. You change tactics.

“Din,” you plead softly. The way his head tilts at the mention of his name makes your heart ache as you repeat, voice breaking, “Let me help you.” You slowly walk over to him, and the fact that you can’t see your reflection in his helmet never fails to make your heart drop, a grim reminder of what you are. But you push the uneasiness aside in favor of a different kind of unease. Perhaps anxiety. About what?

You haven’t seen the face of Din Djarin since he was young. 

You gently press your fingers to the sides of his helmet, feeling how the cold and unforgiving beskar under your hands, and slowly pull it up and off his head as more and more of his face is revealed. His facial hair has definitely grown in more since he was a teenager, and he looks older. Fine lines decorate his face, his eyes indescribably deep and etched with heartache and loss that’s been following him around forever. 

It almost feels wrong, you think, that he’s grown so much and you still look the same since the first time he saw you, but you look into his eyes, so unguarded and afraid, and your heart aches for the child lost in the wake of nightmares and loss. 

“Ever the drama queen,” you finally say after giving him a once over. His pupils are fine, and the bleeding is nothing more than a slow crawl now. Most of the blood was coming from his nose anyways, which you were certain was broken. You run a hand through his hair affectionately, carefully avoiding the cut on his forehead. “A simple bacta spray will do. Have you been eating your vegetables? Drinking your bantha milk?” Mando rolls his eyes and pushes you, and you laugh as you press his helmet back into his hands. “I’m just saying! Those rations you’ve been eating? Can not be good for you.” He smiles back at you, bloodstained and crooked, but it’s charming in its own way. He heads into the refresher to put on the bacta spray.

As always when you’re with him, something is left unsaid. Your time with him grows shorter, you know it. There’s been greater gaps in time in your visits, and they grow shorter and shorter. There’s a part of you that is glad of it. You don’t know if you could handle seeing Din Djarin grow older and older still, see the lines in his face deepen as more heartbreak and more loss tear him apart under that cold beskar. But your non-existent heartbeat stutters at the thought of leaving him alone. If being gone for a couple of years had made him distrusting of you, what would it be like if you were gone for good? Mando leaves the refresher, helmet back on.

“You’re the one that--”

He stops short, and sighs. 

You’re gone again. 

--

“Are you happy?” you ask him. 

He doesn’t turn around to face you, and he doesn’t answer. 

--

“How old are you?” Mando asks. Hyperspace is bright in the windows of the Razor Crest as he heads to Nevarror. Something in your heart aches and settles. 

“Before I died or right now?” you ask dryly, slowly turning in the seat behind him in the cockpit. Your attempt at humor falls short. 

A pause. 

“Before.” 

Silence and the thrum of engines and the humming of stars. 

“Not sure. My memory has… gaps,” you answer. It’s true. You really don’t remember your life before your death. Even still. Even the flashes of what you think were real have long since stopped, especially since most of the time you’ve been in the space between sleep. “It’s something I can’t explain.”

“What’s your name?”

“At this point? Anything you want it to be,” you sigh. You hope that your tone lets Mando know you’re tired of his line of interrogation. He goes quiet for a moment as he addresses something on his navigation. 

(Blaster fire and screaming with smoke filling your lungs as a searing pain goes through you. There’s something pulling at you, at your soul as it rips from your body, and there’s that empty expanse of sleep and death and dark that makes you shake.)

Then:

“Why are you still here?” The question is soft and unsure. 

(I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know Idon’tknowIdon’tknow--)

“You ask too many questions.”

--

In that space between sleep and death, something stirs in the Force.

--

“This is the last time we’ll see each other,” you say after a moment of silence, staring down at the Child, which miraculously, looks back straight at you instead of through you and at the wall of the Razor Crest behind you. Might as well say it. You knew that the time would come when you could stop visiting this mortal realm; you just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. It had felt like mere seconds when you had come to your revelation. Mando looks at you. 

“What?” he asks incredulously. You shrug. 

“You were always full of questions,” you muse, purposefully cryptic, holding out a finger for the baby to take a hold of. It’s fingers wrap around yours. Curious. “Questions I could never answer.” 

“Wait,” Mando says. He shifts so that he’s on the other side of the cradle, staring at you. “What do you mean-- How do you know--?”

“I’ve been suspecting it for a while,” you say, tilting your head up so that you can look at him. “I think you know it too. I don’t quite know how, but I think this child,” you say, looking back down at the impossibly wide eyes, “this child is where I leave you.” You hum and smile as it gurgles at you. “I suspect he will be like a son to you. You’re a softie at heart.”

“He looks nothing like me,” he deadpans. You snort. 

“You sure about that? You may be ugly enough to be his father,” you tease, giving him a look of mock disgust, but your face softens. “Aliit ori’shya tal’din,” you say to him firmly. Family is more than blood. “You of all people should know that.”

You really don’t know what kind of reaction you’re expecting from Mando. Perhaps an attempt at a hug or him falling to his knees begging you to impart more of your wisdom, if you had it your way.

“Your Mando’a is still awful,” Mando says instead, but you know he’s listening with an open heart.

You use your free hand to place it gently on his helmet, focusing so that it makes solid contact as you feel yourself fading. “I’m proud of you,” you say. “Your journey has not been an easy one, and I’m sorry I cannot answer all your questions. But when I go--” you feel yourself choke up, and you’re faced with the answer to a question you didn’t even ask of Can you cry? “When I go, you must keep going.” You look at the child, and then you realize what his reasoning was as to why he wanted to be a Mandalorian. The reason he couldn’t say all those nights ago. They seem so far away now. Foundlings. Children who have no one to turn to. Children who are lost. Children who need guidance. But perhaps this child will be the one guiding the Mandalorian, whose heart has been so carefully guarded for all these years. “This is another chance. Cin vhetin.”

“I- I-” he stammers. He takes in a deep breath, and steels himself. “I understand,” he says after a moment, but he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. For a second, you’re back on that distant planet, rays of morning light seeping through you as a child asks you a million questions. As you pull your hand from your hold on his helmet, his head trails after it before he really lets you go. 

“This is the Way,” you recite. You hate those words, but you know what it means now. What it means to Mando. You tilt your head, and pull your finger back to you, slipping out the child’s grip as you look at Din Djarin for the last time, but do so with the knowledge and reassurance that he wouldn’t be alone anymore. 

“This is the Way,” he says, and you smile.