Chapter Text
When the call of the Mand’alor is put out, it is no jubilant cry across the galaxy. It isn’t a broadcast to every holopad or communications station, a sign in neon lights declaring the turn of the Mandalorians’ fortune. There is nothing loud or triumphant, nothing even quite noticeable.
Instead, it begins as whispers.
The Mand’alor calls.
Mandalore rises.
The Darksaber is found.
The whispers are planted in cantinas, hostels, starports, murmured to those who wear the armor or once may have. It takes time to spread those whispers, longer for anything to come of them. Mandalorians are a guarded people, moreso after their destruction. Rumors of a risen leader sound too good to be true. But one by one, they find their way home.
One Mandalorian arrives. Then she leaves to return with her tribesmen, and their numbers grow. It’s real. That tribe reaches out to the others they know of. The Mand’alor truly calls.
A man stands on a farm, surrounded by animals and carefully cultivated land, his family watching from the window. He eyes the Mandalorian in front of him with distrust. “I haven’t worn the armor in years,” he says. “Not since the Purge.”
“The Mand’alor extends cin vhetin to those who exchanged their heritage for survival,” the Mandalorian says. “Put the armor on and honor your Creed.”
The farmer glances towards his family. “... What’s the name? Vizla?”
“No,” the Mandalorian says. “Djarin.”
The whispers have to be amended when their numbers grow to the point of needing more space. Scouts are sent off to search for a new home until they return with reports of an abandoned base with plenty of room. “Rhetaphim-3, sir,” they say. It’s built into the side of a mountain, its entrance only accessible via landing platform.
Their numbers continue to grow. Different tribes, different colors, from all over the galaxy. Many bear their original colors from before the Purge, wearing old armor untouched over time. Some tribes appear the same, others are mismatched. Some arrive with a whole load of children, some come with a single foundling. Some Mandalorians refuse the call altogether. But over years, the numbers continue their growth.
The tribes are always greeted and welcomed. They send warning of their arrival and then are met first by their Mand’alor, a man clad in shining beskar, the Darksaber at his hip to validate the claims. Sometimes his foundling is present, a small green creature with big ears perched on his shoulder with his own beskar vambraces and cuirass, both with the signet of a mudhorn, of their clan.
It’s the first sign that this is going to be an experience.
Din Djarin wakes with a start.
His heart is pounding and his skin is drenched with sweat as he jerks himself up, breath coming out fast as he balances on one elbow, body wrenched over. He takes deep breaths, the sound of blaster fire fading from his mind, the screams of Mandalorians as they’re shot from the sky, facing massive black ships--
He squeezes his eyes shut again, willing the images of bloodshed away.
“Buir?”
Din starts again, then stares down at Kuiil. The boy stands beside his bed, claws hooked over the edge and on his toes to stand tall. He looks up at Din with large dark eyes, reflective of the dim lights. Din swallows and sits up, running a hand over his face and through silver-streaked hair before holding his arms out. Kuiil jumps up onto the bed and takes a step into his hold, letting out a purr when Din drags him against his chest in a tight hold.
“Bad dream?” he whispers into Din’s shoulder. His voice is a growl, rasping against him.
“Yeah. Dream. Did you...”
“Woke you up.”
Din leans back against the wall, calm in having the boy’s weight against his chest. He’s gotten so much bigger in the last five years, becoming a solid weight, grounding when he lies on Din like this. Din holds him with one arm, stroking his back with the other, and Kuiil pushes up on him. Their eyes meet before Kuiil shoves their foreheads together, and Din grunts at the impact before pushing back.
“No helmet,” he grumbles.
“Sorry.” Kuiil grins.
After a few moments, they part, and Kuiil burrows against his chest instead with his face shoved into Din’s neck. They lie there together for a time until Din has felt the sweat evaporate beneath his clothes and his heart has calmed. He still feels the unsettledness of being startled awake, and their rooms hold the quiet stillness of a world before dawn. His fingers tangle in the back of Kuiil’s tunic before he gets up, holding him tight, and starts to pace. Their minds mesh together with complete ease, so familiar and comforting to feel like they’re one and the same.
“... Luke is coming,” Kuiil murmurs into him.
Din nods. “Right.”
“I missed him.”
“Mhm.”
Kuiil doesn’t comment on his response, but Din feels the tiny flare of non-amusement from him. He does have a significantly better, closer relationship with Skywalker than any of his Mandalorian training masters, particularly in regards to fighting style. Mandalorians don’t shy from battle, from close combat, more than willing to go toe to toe with an enemy and be locking arms. Raw strength is just a requirement. The kid, on the other hand, prefers fast. Speedy. Acrobatic. He’ll leap out of the way until there’s an opening to strike in, using the Force to both move and predict.
It isn’t Mandalorian.
Not that the kid cares much. Neither does Din. As long as his son stays alive. He’s Mandalorian in the ways that count.
Kuiil is wearing his cuirass -- pure, shining beskar, much cleaner than Din’s and untouched by years. It’s the very last bit of Din’s payment, melted down and reforged into protection for the child he’d turned in. Their mudhorn signet is welded to the top right corner, still marking him without a pauldron. His vambraces are taken off for sleep, missing now.
Din paces. The kid, for all he’s grown, still likes being held. Din rubs his back, then steps back towards his bed and looks down at the table beside it. Sitting on top is a black circular object, smooth and shiny, able to fit in his palm to record holograms--
Then, there’s knocking at the door.
Both look over. “Come in,” Din says, and grabs his helmet to slip on.
The door opens and a Mandalorian steps inside. He nods his head in respect. “Sir, Skywalker is here,” he says.
Din looks at him, then down to the kid when he grins. “Yes!” Kuiil cheers before squirming. “Buir, we can go.”
Din hesitates, then puts him down on the ground, crouching. “Go get him, go to the training gym and start,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Kuiil frowns up at him, grabbing his hand. “But… you always join,” he says. “Don’t you want to come?”
“I just have to do something first. I won’t miss anything.”
The kid doesn’t look satisfied, but he doesn’t argue further, either. The Mandalorian guard has disappeared and Kuiil starts towards the door.
“Kuiil.”
He looks back.
“Armor,” Din says, pointing towards the kid’s bed against the other wall. “You don’t leave without it.”
“I… remembered,” Kuiil says. He gives a sheepish smile before he dashes over to the bed and grabs his vambraces off the top. He clips them on, and then he’s gone again, disappearing through the door and out into the hallway. Din watches.
Damn jedi tricks.
He shakes his head, then turns and walks back to the table beside his bed and picks up the recorder. He sits down, looking at the buttons, and sets it back on the table before turning it to face him. Real quick, he thinks. Just to have it done.
He hits record.
Kuiil adores when Luke comes to train him. It’s a relief to have someone else like him around, someone with the same powers and capabilities that he has. Their beginning was rocky, but as far as Kuiil is concerned, Luke is simply part of their family now. Not their clan. That’s a filled up thing. But he has so many bavodu’e as it is, what’s one more?
Luke Skywalker is just another uncle who happens to use the Force instead of beskar, and no one can change the kid’s mind.
Kuiil makes his way to the landing platform, which leads right into the base’s hangar. He stops in the doorway and looks around, standing high on his feet, as a few Mandalorians pass by. They look at him, some giving nods of acknowledgment while others don’t take notice. He smiles at the ones who see him. Some are changing the guard, others are frequent flyers unused to their night cycle. Kuiil usually waits about for a pilot who may have some stories to tell from the galaxy, but now he searches for one ship.
He’s so focused that his sight glazes over the parked Razor Crest where it has sat for some time. He closes his eyes and reaches out, feeling for Luke’s presence, distinguished from the others. He sees the X-wing, then, and makes a dash for it. Luke has his helmet off and is climbing down when Kuiil reaches him, and he barely turns before he has an armful of the kid. Luke grins as he catches him and Kuiil throws his arms around his neck in a tight squeeze. “Su’cuy!”
“Su’cuy.” Luke laughs, then lets him crawl up onto his shoulder. He has no convenient jetpack to help Kuiil stay in place, but there is the hood of his cloak, and Kuiil hooks a leg in it while his top half drapes over his shoulder. Then Luke is glancing at him with a slight smile as his astromech lowers from the ship.
“What?” Kuiil says.
Luke smiles more and shakes his head before he starts walking. “Sometimes, you… seem a lot like Master Yoda. Artoo, stay with the ship.”
Kuiil grins, balancing with Luke’s walk. “I am?”
“The same species helps. How are things?”
“Good!” Kuiil relaxes down against his shoulder as they exit the hangar, instead going through the halls. He watches to be sure they go the right way. “It’s… quiet. Really boring.”
“Boring, huh,” Luke says.
“No more people have come. Buir says there might not be any more Mandalorians.”
They turn the corner and Luke sidesteps a passing pair of warriors with a muttered “Excuse me.” They give him a glance. He looks at Kuiil again. “Where is your father?”
“He said he had to do something. But he’ll come.”
“All the Mandalorians, huh? You have a lot here. Many more than I realized were alive.”
“Buir said a lot of them came back. They took off the armor, but decided to wear it again.” Kuiil shifts. “We didn’t do tha -- no, left. Our tribe still wears it all. Buir says some people follow the Way differently.”
Luke nods.
They come to the gym, one of the base’s larger rooms with mats spread around to serve as practice rings. Kuiil throws a hand out to flick on the lights, all snapping to life to brighten the empty space. Luke’s footsteps echo as they walk towards the nearest mat, where they both sit down. They face each other, a few feet between them, and both stop to take a breath.
They bow their heads. With ease, their minds connect.
While being active in his bond with his buir is comforting, normal, being able to connect with Luke -- with another Force user -- feels natural. It’s an interesting feeling for another mind to reach out to his of its own accord, while his father doesn’t have the capabilities to do so. It’s a more intimate connection, almost, with easier communication, even if he’ll always prefer what he has with his buir.
Focus, little one.
Yes.
Show me.
Drawing up memories has become second nature. Some time ago, Kuiil would have practically launched his memories at Luke, but instead he takes one by one, showing them to Luke through their connection by his own choice and strength. He thinks about the tribe that joined three months ago and the celebration that had followed. He shows the games he and his friends have been playing, and how they’ve changed the rules so it works better. How he and his buir have meditated together and that it makes his father relax a bit more, not so pent up like he always is.
There.
What else?
Kuiil frowns to himself. He shifts, eyes still shut, feeling Luke’s gentle concern through the connection. Nothing.
Something bothers you.
He digs his nails into his legs, taking a breath. Buir had a dream, he thinks. I had the same. There was a battle. It looked like a war, there were so many ships, so many people were dying and… and so many Mandalorians were hurt. I don’t know if -- if it was a vision, if buir was there, if…”
Their connection breaks, and Kuiil doesn’t realize that tears have already formed until he opens his eyes. Luke looks at him with soft, sad eyes in return, then holds his arms out. Kuiil sniffs and gets up, walking into his arms, hugged against Luke’s chest. Kuiil sniffs again, closing his eyes, sinking into the warmth.
“I hate dreams,” he whispers. “I-I hate… I hate them.”
“Can you tell me what else happened?”
Kuiil swallows. “It was a weird planet,” he whispers. “It was… there were so many ships. And there was… there was lightning, lightning hit everything, it messed up everything. People were dying. Mandalorians were dying. And something was happening on the gr… ground, it felt bad, and..”
He cuts himself off. He takes a shaky breath and instead snuggles against the warmth coming from Luke. Luke is quiet, just holding onto him, and they sit there in silence.
“You said I’ll live longer,” Kuiil says. He looks up at Luke. “That I’ll… live a lot longer than buir does.”
Luke is hesitant. “You’re 62,” he says. “From what I know of your species, it’s… young. Master Yoda reached 900. It’s…”
Kuiil looks at the floor, swallowing. “I don’t want to live without buir,” he whispers.
Luke’s arms tighten. “I know,” he says softly. “It’s not something you have to fear. You don’t have to fear this dream.”
“The dreams come true,” Kuiil whispers. “The… the Force ones. The visions. They’re always so clear. I remember them. I don’t w-want to… to…”
“They aren’t always true.” Luke runs his nails over Kuiil’s back with gentle pressure. “You thought he woul -- that I…” He pauses, and Kuiil looks up at him. “You thought I would kill him. That didn’t happen. Dreams are… dreams. Things change. Details don’t always line up. I had… my dream of you two was different.”
“You…”
“I dreamed of a Mandalorian with a powerful child he didn’t understand,” Luke says, his voice quiet. “One he couldn’t save from the influence of the Dark Side. What it showed me wasn’t the situation. I let fear control my actions, and while it let me meet you, I did terrible things that I regret.” He sighs. “Dreams aren’t always true. It’s easy to misinterpret. Fear of them will drive you to do more harm than good.”
Kuiil looks up at him, then takes a deep breath. “But if…”
The door slides open with the sound of whirring mechanics, and his buir walks into the room. He’s fully armored, jetpack on his back, blaster at his hip and charges on his belt, the Darksaber hanging from its clip. He stops, looking at them, then walks over. “Skywalker.”
“Djarin,” Luke says.
“Buir,” Kuiil whimpers. He climbs out of Luke’s arms, then leaps up into his father’s. He’s caught and he burrows his face into buir’s shoulder, curling into him. He pushes into his mind, melding them together, and buir’s arms tighten around him as their beskar clinks.
“What is it?” he asks, voice soft.
Kuiil doesn’t answer, holding onto him, and Din frowns. He bends to one knee, easing off the weight, and looks at Luke. Kuiil is pulsating with emotional distress, pushing it onto Din, and he hesitates before he’s putting up a shield. Luke gets up to a knee as well, frowning.
“A bad dream,” Luke says. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Din says.
“Not every dream is a vision. Not every vision comes true. It may be something to… it might be nothing to worry about.”
Din glances at him, then turns his gaze down onto Kuiil. Luke’s presence is… tolerable for him. The memory of fear, anger, rage at losing Kuiil is burned into his mind, never lessening, still able to tense his muscles. But Luke is… the kid adores him. He’s helped the Mandalorians since in ways that no one else could have. No other could have lended as much support during the attack against Gideon. Din would be dead without the help he’d provided.
The Mandalorians may not revel in a jedi visiting their base, in his direct interaction with their Mand’alor and his foundling. But the Nevarro tribe, the Mand’alor’s tribe, are vocal to defend his presence. That he was instrumental in reclaiming the Darksaber. That he is no enemy.
“Din,” Luke says. Din looks at him. Kuiil is quiet in his arms, his breathing soft. “Still here?”
“Yeah,” Din mutters. He runs his hands over Kuiil’s shoulder and hears the kid sniffle, face pushed into his neck, and takes a deep breath. “I’m good.” They lapse back into silence, but Din looks at Luke again. “I need you for something.”
Luke looks up at him, slightly frowning, but he nods. “Sure.”
The door behind them opens, and both turn to look. A few Mandalorians file into the room, some helmeted and some not, teenage boys and girls shuffling into the room with yawns. Some glance towards the three but only find space to start stretching. Two more come through the door, then a young man, his armor recognizable.
Jaylen Tero gives them a small wave. Din nods. Then the young man is ordering the others to stretch before their training session, and Kuiil starts to squirm to get free. Din lets him slip out before he’s getting up, and the child just leans on his leg.
“Hey.” Din looks down at him, and Kuiil looks up. “You should go see if your friends might be awake now.”
Kuiil frowns up at him, but he slowly detaches himself and starts towards the door. His feet drag a little, but he seems to pick himself up and instead slips through the door, out of the gym. Both men watch until he’s disappeared, and then Din turns back to Luke. “How is he doing?” he asks.
“Good,” Luke says. “He’s been on a good path for some time. He’s emotional, but…” He shrugs. “That’s just who he is. He’s still a child. He’s had good control for a long time now. I’m more concerned about some of my other students than him, and that’s good.”
Din nods. Then, he pauses. “Do you think he’d ever… do it again?”
Luke looks at him with furrowed brows before he shakes his head. “Kill someone like he did? I don’t… no. I don’t think he will. That was self defense, a terrible situation. And he seems nothing short of happy now.” He pauses. “... He’s capable of it. But everyone is capable of dangerous things.”
Din bites his lip. It isn’t the reassurance he’s seeking, but what more can he really ask for? With a grumble, he starts to walk off the mat, and Luke follows.
But then the door flies open again. The person who comes through isn’t another trainee, instead a member of the Rhaatal tribe with rustic red armor, out of breath. “Mand’alor!” he calls, running over, and when he reaches them he’s bent over and panting. “Mand’alor--”
“What is it?” Din says.
“We received a transmission from a ship.” He thrusts out a datapad, bent over with a hand on his knee, before he forces himself to straighten. Din grabs it and looks down at the message in Mando’a. “Transport carrying multiple entities, some injuries and casualties. They’re… asking for clearance. There’s a -- a name, there, at the bottom--”
But Din has already seen it, staring at the letters of a name.
Ari Tero.
And it feels as though his lungs have stopped working.
For a moment, all is silent, until his arm is grabbed and he realizes Luke is calling him. “Mando,” he says. “Who is it?”
“Ari,” he whispers. “It’s…”
Luke stares at him. “The girl. Who Gideon…”
Din nods, swallowing.
“Go. Mando. Go.”
He doesn’t react before he’s sprinting out the door, dignity be damned, heading for the hangar.