Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything was so bright.

He was breathing heavily, far heavier than a simple gun fight should be having him feel. His ears were ringing. Had a blaster always been that loud? He could feel the breeze blowing in from the window behind him, the cool air was making the sweat on the back of his neck chill, the curls of hair there sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

He wasn’t really looking, but his mind was cataloging the bodies in the room. Everything was far brighter than they usually were. The trooper lying a few yards ahead of him was lying in a pool of his own blood, the wound he’d sustained already having weeped through his armor.

The blood was a very bright red.

He screwed his eyes shut.

Just for a second.

He opened them again. He was facing a table, his borrowed helmet sitting on its shining surface.

He was frozen.

He couldn’t put the helmet back on.

He’d broken his Creed.

He couldn’t breath.

And then Mayfeld was moving in front of him. Din took a breath, then tensed. Mayfeld, former enemy, tentative ally, had seen him without his helmet. The first person to see his face in over thirty years, and it had been Mayfeld. The knowledge loomed over Din, nearly tangible, dark, and heavy. It tasted metallic on his tongue, or maybe he had just been clenching his jaw so hard that he drew blood.

Either way, Mayfeld knew now and Din wasn’t sure if or how he was going to deal with that.

But then Mayfeld was standing in front of him, Din’s borrowed helmet in his hands and he shoved it towards Din, urging him to take it.

“You did what you had to do.”

Din looked down at the helmet in Mayfeld’s hands, then back up towards Mayfeld's face. He couldn’t look the man in the eye, not that he had ever been good at that with the helmet on let alone off, so he chose to focus just above the man’s sparse eyebrows instead, asking the man a question he wasn’t sure he even knew he was asking, waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.

Mayfeld was looking down, eyes fixed to the cafeteria’s floor. He nudged the helmet towards Din again.

“I never saw your face.”

Dumbly, Din took the helmet. His hands acted on impulse, years of reaching for a helmet ingrained into his very being.

He turned away from Mayfeld and placed the helmet on his head.

It felt like a sin.

When he turned back, Mayfeld was facing the mess hall entrance. Gun in hand and ready for a fight.

Din stood there, in dead man’s armor, feeling like the old Din Djarin was dead too, his beskar and Creed stripped from him.

But he couldn’t stop for a funeral.

Where one Creed was broken, another must be saved.

Grogu needed him.

By Creed, he was as Grogu’s father.

Therefore, Grogu was as his son.

They were a clan of two.

He needed Grogu as much as Grogu needed him.

This was the way.

Chapter Text

The message was sent.

He had been filled with rage when he spoke, barely contained fury lacing his words, daggers pointed straight at Moff Gideon's dark, black heart.

Now, he was cold, empty, all of his anger and frustration had been poured into that message and now all that was left were shadows, deep, dark, and lingering.

He turned towards the back of the ship.

He barely registered the furrow between Dune’s brows or the stare Shand let linger a little too long as he turned from them without a word.

Fett had gestured earlier as they were leaving that there were a couple of small quarters in the back. The rooms, if you could call them that, looked like coffins that had been stuck horizontally into the wall, two beds on each side of a walkway, one stacked on top of the other like bunk beds...or a crypt, if one was feeling morbid.

Din felt a little morbid.

He was going to continue to walk past them, when he saw a note sitting on one of the lower bunks. He probably wouldn’t have paid it any attention had it not been for the familiar word written in a neat, tidy script.

Mando'ad

The word sent a small pang through his chest. He hesitated, briefly, before picking up the note. It could only be for him.

It was from Fett.

Fett’s Mando'a was clearly rusty. Apart from the greeting, he continued the rest of the note in Basic. It was simple, straight to the point, just like the man who wrote it. He wrote that there was a storage box in the back, housed in the same room that had the vac tube and the sonic shower. Fett kept a few spare necessities in there, a razor, some socks, a sonic toothbrush, etc. If there was anything in it that the Mando'ad needed, it was his for the taking.

Fett signed off with a formal Vor entye. Din’s eyes lingered on the word.

It was not an accident that Fett used Vor entye instead of the more casual Vor'e. It made Din uncomfortable, just as the entirety of the note did. He was glad Fett had written a note, rather than spoken with him in person. Fett might have been saying that he owed Din a debt, and this offering was a small way of repaying the Mandalorian, but it still made something heavy settle deep in his chest. The Razor Crest was gone, he wasn’t just in Fett’s ship for a short trip, about to be dropped off again. No, his ship - his home - was gone. Nearly every small comfort, what little of those he had, had gone up in flames.

Din looked down at the note again.

His discomfort was compounded by seeing his adopted language, a language he hadn’t had reason to see or use in a long time. At any other time, seeing his Tribe’s mother tongue would have warmed him. Now, so soon after breaking his Creed, it only filled him with shame.

Din folded the note, placing it into one of his pockets. He wanted to crush it into a ball, throw it across the room, and forget he’d ever read it, but Din wasn’t a child. He wouldn’t disrespect Fett’s ship - his kindness and hospitality - by performing an act of rage, as small as it would be.

He picked up the duffel bag he had used earlier to stow his beskar. Someone had folded it and placed it at the foot of the bed, the same bed that Fett had left his note on. He supposed that made this his bunk for now. The bed looked just slightly more promising than sleeping on the metal floor or upright in a chair.

After the day he’d had, he felt like he could sleep for a week.

He was looking forward to passing out, but he resisted the urge and continued on his way towards the back of the ship and walked into the small room that housed the vac tube and sonic shower. The door swooshed closed behind him.

He stood still in the room, leaving the lights low, and let his shoulders sag. The lights above him buzzed. He could hear the low hums and whirls of the engines. He let the background noise of the ship wash over him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breath, slow and steady, in, and out.

He hadn’t realized how ridged he’d become until he was alone.

In some distant corner of his mind, his Buir spoke with the same calm wisdom he had always offered when Din was upset.

Cin vhetin

A fresh start, a clean slate. That was what his Buir would tell him when Din had felt like he had reached rock bottom. He would tell the young boy that he needed cin vhetin. If he was not where he wanted to be, then he needed to put in the effort to get to where he was going, and sometimes that required getting rid of the old and embracing something new.

For child Din, it had sometimes been as simple as forgiving a childhood antagonist, or taking time to meditate on his past failures, clearing his mind, and trying again with whatever technique one of his teacher’s was trying to show him.

If only adult Din’s problems could be so easily fixed.

He looked down at his dirty clothes.

Well, he would just have to start small.

He placed the duffel bag on the ground, unzipping it and laying it open. He began to slowly undo his armor, placing each piece gently into the bag. He lingered on the shoulder plate, his fingers lightly traced the signet. He felt his windpipe start to close as he choked a little. He swiftly placed the armor down with the rest, taking in a deep breath to chase the feeling away.

All the pieces of his armor were off, except for his helmet. He needed to take his helmet off to get to his underclothes.

He hesitated, then moved quickly, like ripping off a bandage, and refused to think about the action. He tucked the thought away. He couldn’t prod at it right now, it was still too new, too fresh of a wound to be examined. He needed to keep moving, keep up with the momentum, taking one step at a time. He couldn’t linger too long on any one thing or he’d never get done. He needed cin vhetin.

He peeled off his undersuit next, the fabric protesting and sticking to the sweat that had dried to his skin. He had only taken the trooper’s helmet, armor, boots, and gloves, opting to stay in his own under clothes since his was similar enough to the trooper’s that he could save himself the additional indignity.

When he was fully unclothed, he turned towards the sonic shower, avoiding the small mirror in the room.

He looked at the equipment, slightly wary. He was somewhat familiar with sonic showers, though he hadn’t had such a luxury on his ship. He was used to making do without, making sure that he took the time whenever he landed on whatever planet his quarry was squandered away on to bathe in a tucked away lake or stream, sometimes a private bathhouse if he was lucky.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out the controls. He stood under the pulse of the shower, feeling the vibration gently shake off the dirt and dead skin cells that had accumulated. It wasn’t nearly as good as a water shower or a dip in a lake, but it was better than sitting around in his own filth. He would need to see if Fett had something that could freshen up his clothes, they were due for a cleaning.

He turned off the shower, stepping out the cubical and stopping in front of the mirror. He hadn’t meant to look, but it was like his own reflection had caught him.

Even after the cleaning, he still looked like death. There were heavy bags under his eyes. His beard, while usually a fine length under his own helmet, had itched and rubbed against the trooper’s helmet, leaving his face slightly red and irritated. His eyes were starting to get bloodshot, from lack of sleep, stress, or a build of emotions that he refused to let get the better of him, he wasn’t sure.

He felt like he was in mourning.

Maybe because he was.

He’d lost his child, his ship, and his Creed. His Tribe was gone, scattered in the wind. He had failed his clan, the other half of it snatched from him, clutched in the hands of a tyrant.

Grogu was gone, good as dead if Moff Gideon felt that the cost of keeping the child alive didn’t outweigh what he could do with him in pieces.

Grogu was gone, scared, hurt, dead or dying, and it was all his fault.

Din wiped a hand down his face, letting his hand settle over his eyes.

Din could sleep for a week.

The voice of his Buir swept over him again, a soothing tone that spoke with such conviction that Din was tempted to believe it.

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

How could he believe it?

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la, the voice said again.

His own mind was conjuring the phrase, said quietly over an open fire, the stars shining brightly over head, his Buir’s armor catching the fire’s light and casting it out in all directions. There were many of his Tribe gone that day, a variety of tasks taking them from their home and out into the stars. Din was anxious, his new home had never been so quiet. There was always noise, the stomp of boot on dirt, raised voices shouting greetings at one another, other children his age laughing and playing, the sound of a Dejarik board powering up, the players joking and exclaiming accusations of cheating.

It was quiet now, a sense of uncertainty hanging over the heads of those left behind.

His Buir, aware of the boy’s stooped posture, hands clenched tight as to not fidget, knew that Din was in need of some comfort.

“Din?” His Buir had said.

Din raised his head, newly helmeted and still slightly awkward with its weight.

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

Din cocked his head to the side, still not yet fluent in his Mando'a enough to know what his Buir was saying. His Buir waited a moment, but it was clear his ad'ika was asking him a silent question.

Din’s Buir chuckled slightly, still struck by how a boy with so much energy could be so quiet.

He wrapped an arm around Din’s shoulders, pulling him slightly across the log they were sitting on, tucking the boy into his armored side.

He translated.

“Not gone, merely marching far away."

The boy made a questioning hum.

He chuckled again. “It means that even if someone isn’t with you, it doesn’t mean that they are gone forever.”

The boy relaxed, just a little. His voice, still a small and timid creature, creeped quietly from his mouth. “They’re coming back though, right?”

The words were so light that the wind threatened to take them away on the breeze.

He squeezed Din’s shoulder.

“They wouldn’t leave you, ad'ika, not willingly, not without reason, and not if they had a choice. They’ll be back, I promise.”

His Buir had kept his word. They did return, all of them, but they weren’t always so lucky.

He did not want to remember the day his Buir had taught him the phrase Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

He hoped he would not soon have a need to say it.

He turned away from the mirror.

The storage bin that Fett mentioned in his note was where he said it would be. Din opened it, feeling as if some of his pride had been stripped from him in the sonic shower. Din did not think of himself as an overly proud man, unwilling to ask for help or show weakness, but Din liked to have a little dignity.

He wasn’t sure how much of that he had left lately.

Din bent down, scooping the black underclothes out of the bin, tucking them under his arm with a clean pair of underwear and socks, still in it’s packaging.

Small mercies, he supposed.

The underclothes were similar to what he wore under his own armor, it was likely no one would be able to tell the difference, but it still stung to put on the borrowed clothes, his originals being too dirty even for him to consider putting back on.

He sat on the vac tube like a chair, lid down, and picked up pieces of his armor. There had been a small cloth in the bin and he was using it to clean scuffs and dirt from his armor, placing the pieces back on as he finished.

His helmet was last; it felt heavy in his hands.

He stared at the helmet’s scuffed surface, seeing a distorted image of himself mocking him from within.

He bowed his head, resting it against the metal. He never wished for his Buir more than he did in that moment, he always knew the right thing to say.

Din sighed and lifted his head.

Cin vhetin

The job wasn’t done, the slate not yet clean.

He began wiping down his helmet, paying special attention to the helmet’s face and visor.

Once done, he tossed the rag aside. He’d gather it up with his dirty clothes later.

He stared at the helmet, now shining and clean.

Could he put it back on?

Though his Buir was no longer with him, it seemed impossible not to think about him today. Din had thought he had packed that hurt away a long time ago, but it seemed that something within him had been rattled so deeply to his core that he could no longer keep him away.

His voice, deep and always so sure and confident, spoke:

Verd ori'shya beskar'gam. Aliit ori'shya tal'din.

A warrior is more than his armor. Family is more than blood.

Had he done the right thing? Would his Buir have been proud?

He screwed his eyes shut, something wet slid down his cheek.

His Buir had said those words to him on the day he was given his armor, as a reminder that even though he was not Mandalorian by blood, he was by Creed. His armor, a sign of his Tribe, was important, but not more important than the warrior in it.

Din opened his eyes, the memories sparked against his mind.

It hurt to remember, but now he knew.

His Buir would have been proud of him.

What makes a Mandalorian? His armor? Or the warrior in it?

He knew the answer. He knew that he was willing to sacrifice everything to get his kid back, his Grogu.

There were many moving parts to his Creed, each part meshing and working with the other, but no part of his Creed was worth more than the life of his child, the part of his Creed he held higher than any other.

He slid the helmet back on.

Grogu was out there waiting for him.

He had only just learned the child’s name, but, maybe, if Grogu could find it in his heart to forgive Din’s failures, then maybe one day Grogu might accept the title of ad'ika.

Maybe one day, Din, bare faced and holding his ad’ika away from the violent gaze of others, could be accepted by Grogu, the words Din has been needing to say spoken softly, promises whispered in the dark:

Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad

I know your name as my child.

Aliit ori'shya tal'din

Family is more than blood.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum

I love you