Archive of Our Own

Cage

My body is a cage
That keeps me from dancing with the one I love
But my mind holds the key

  I'm living in an age
That calls darkness light
Though my language is dead
Still the shapes fill my head

  I'm living in an age
Whose name I don't know
Though the fear keeps me moving
Still my heart beats so slow

(Arcade Fire, Neon Bible)

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

It was the third time Boba Fett asked him that question, and his answer hadn’t wavered. But the three letter word didn’t cover what he was feeling. Couldn’t hope to cover it. Because he actually had no idea. What he wanted had never mattered.

Din nodded.

“Well, you know where to find me. Find us,” the other man added, turning towards Fennec, who’d remained partway up the ship’s ramp to give them privacy. She’d strangely been the quietest on the way from Nevarro, after they had dropped off Cara, Gideon and Pershing. Fett had somehow felt it was better to keep him talking for fear he shut down completely, and Din had provided the one word answers required automatically, but his companion had spent the journey looking outside, and she seemed almost reproachful when she looked at him.

He certainly didn’t need the extra guilt.

What he needed now was rest. And escape Bo-Katan for a little while. So Sorgan had seemed like a good solution. The fierce Mandalorian had been hesitant to let him go, he knew that, but he’d justified his departure by telling her he needed to make sure Gideon and Pershing reached Nevarro and faced what was coming to them. Obviously, Cara was able to handle them on her own, but she’d been nice enough to back him up. And Bo-Katan wasn’t to know he didn’t intend to stay on Nevarro.

So the two Mandalorian women had stayed on the light cruiser, and the rest of them had joined Boba and Pershing on Slave 1, Din walking behind Fennec and Cara who were escorting a dumbfounded Gideon between them. Din indeed had to admit that the destroyed dark troopers littering their path made for an alarming spectacle.

How would he have been able to control such power in the kid? How…

Stop it.

“Have fun on Tatooine,” he said, flatly, making sure his spear was still clipped behind his back, next to his jetpack. Blaster on his right side, Darksaber on his left, vibrobalde in his boot. An extra rifle Fett insisted he should have. A few detonators. No more whistling birds.

That was him, now.

And there again, he refused to let his mind wander too much. Stranding himself on a backwater planet with no starport was either the wisest or the dumbest decision he had ever made. Soon, Slave 1 took off, Fett’s last look clearly weighing in for the latter, and Din found himself in that weird state he should have welcomed back like an old friend, because that had been most of his life up until a year ago.

Alone.

Din started walking to escape that thought, thinking the extra time it would take him to reach the village instead of using his jetpack would be beneficial. He was horribly wrong, as each laborious step reminded him of the last time he had been there with the kid. And his pounding head of the blows he had received to his helmet just a few hours prior.

The place looked utterly unchanged, and for that he was grateful – one less thing he would be forced to mourn and regret. It was early morning but he had only one wish at the moment – lie down in the old barn he had shared for several weeks with the child, and hope exhaustion would finally claim him. Din couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept for more than 20 minutes in a row. And even if he had reached Sorgan with a similar intent as the last time – to hide – this time he had money. More than he probably ever had, actually. As the New Republic would make good on their promise when you brought them a war criminal and a shady scientist, and quickly – although that was probably thanks to Cara.

But that had been a non-issue in the end as the woman, Omera, let him use the barn for free, sensing he was too far gone to make any kind of argument at the moment anyway. She wisely made no mention of the missing child and assured him he wouldn’t be bothered. Although that hadn’t been a problem either, as Din had taken one look at the cot in the corner, and promptly fell on it, after having removed his jetpack and weapons.

He was too tired to dream but when he woke up a few hours later, the sun already starting its descent in the horizon, his mind was able to focus on one thing only, and he realized being exhausted had had one advantage: stopping his thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. Now that he was capable of basic human functions like feeling hunger or soreness in his limbs, he was also prey to other, less enviable considerations.

He had made a mistake.

No.

He would never see the child again.

NO.

“I did what I was supposed to do, what I was charged to do,” he said out loud, his voice still heavy with sleep.

Another thing that would most likely pass, he realized. He’d never been prone to talking to himself, and had preferred to go about his life in silence. But he’d seen how the child would react when he started to explain what he was doing or ask him questions he knew he couldn’t answer. He’d focus on him and his voice and had gradually become more vocal. Now he could go back to his old ways. No one would mind. Or notice.

“Grogu,” Din whispered, a lump forming in his throat, and he vowed to say his name out loud every so often, just to make sure he didn’t forget it.

As if that was ever gonna happen.

Din stood up slowly. He needed to focus on something else, quickly. Noticing that some food had been left for him just behind the door, he busied himself with that for a while, and tried not to let the wave of nostalgia pull him under. He remembered with absolute clarity how the bread tasted here. And how much the boy had liked it and would request more at each meal.

Would that be his life, now? Comparing everything to a memory he had of the child? Perhaps coming to Sorgan had been a bad idea after all.

He picked up the Darksaber next, hoping this new weapon would capture his attention. It was beautiful and deadly, there was no denying it. And he knew he would actually enjoy training and fighting with it. The beskar spear had proven surprisingly versatile, after all. And yet, looking at its blade now, the way it shined, his mind once again provided an image he didn’t need: that of the baby being threatened with it.

Din viciously swiped the weapon left, and realized too late he’d just sliced a wooden stool in two, the cut flashing in the half-darkness for a second.

“Dank farrik,” he grumbled – he would need to be more careful in the future. And apologize to Omera.

That gave him pause, and he welcomed those thoughts that weren’t directly connected to the child. He’d tried to offer the saber to Bo-Katan, twice. Then once again before they left the Imperial light cruiser. It was a weapon, nothing else. A very good one, but just that. As a Mandalorian, he could certainly appreciate it, and wouldn’t mind keeping it for that reason, especially as he had won it from Gideon.

A symbol, though? Something allowing him to claim the throne of Mandalore or such nonsense? That was ridiculous, and that planet was cursed and unhabitable. Even Fett had said so. He had zero interest in having anything to do with that. Sure, he’d like to find more Mandalorians. He had resolved himself to live the rest of his life without meeting any other, outside of his covert. And in the span of a few days, he had met three. Four, if you included Boba Fett, but the man didn’t seem to want to be added to that group, and that was fair enough in Din’s book. His very much evolving book.

Still, he hadn’t chosen the remoteness of Sorgan on a whim. He had seen the look in Bo-Katan’s eyes, and he didn’t have any fight in him at the moment, and wouldn’t for a while unless forced, which he’d rather avoid. She wanted that saber. Madly. And he didn’t particularly want to find out what lines she’d be ready to cross to get it from him.

Din finally ventured outside as the sun started to set. The farmers were done with their day, tired after long hours of honest work, and not for the first time he envied their simple but rewarding lifestyle. It had seemed ludicrous a year ago to ever envision such a future for himself, but now that his place in the world had irrevocably changed, that his standing had become so uncertain, he felt the weariness accumulated over the decade that has followed the Purge catch up with him. He wasn’t old, but he’d certainly been through enough hardships for a single lifetime.

Was it selfish of him to just want everything to stop? Enjoy a kind of peace? Away from any consideration that was much too big for him anyway? Bo-Katan had aspirations, he had none, and that was fine.

“Did you manage to rest?” the woman asked, forcing him to refocus on the here and now. She’d sat on the porch next to him and he hadn’t noticed her arrival, but kept a safe distance separating them.

“I did, thank you,” he replied quietly.

“Feel free to stay here for as long as you need,” she added, and Din wondered if she’d ever ask him to leave. The realization that she probably wouldn’t was the first genuinely pleasant feeling he had felt in many days.

Omera didn’t press him regarding what his presence here without the child – or a ship, although she didn’t know that – meant. And for a few days, Din managed to convince himself he wasn’t overstaying his welcome or abusing the village’s hospitality. When he ventured outside the barn, which wasn’t often at first, few people engaged him in conversation. They’d smile, nod politely, and ask him inane questions, but never ventured into dangerous territory, as if they’d all felt something was amiss with him. Even Winta, the woman’s daughter who’d been so taken with the kid somehow avoided him. He wondered if they’d been asked to leave him alone, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

After two days of rest though, the dreams started. What was it that Mayfeld had said? ‘We all need to sleep at night.’ Din couldn’t anymore, and he found his only solace in mastering his new weapon. The drills repetitive and painful to his already sore body. He’d wisely chosen the forest surrounding the village to train, as he didn’t want to destroy any more of the woman’s furniture. The Darksaber was unforgiving and stubborn, and he hurt himself a few times. But he could be stubborn too.

Just before dawn, with sleep eluding him and sweat coating his skin, he would work on perfecting his moves. Every time his mind wandered where it shouldn’t, he’d physically push the thought away with a powerful snap of his wrist, going through each target area on an invisible foe.

The child was gone.

One.

He’d abandoned him to his fate.

Two.

Perhaps he’d only gone with the Jedi because he thought it was what he wanted.

Three.

He had nothing to offer the boy anyway, not even a home.

Four.

What hope did he have to train him, and for how long? He would outlive him by centuries.

Five.

He was with his family, with his kind – he hadn’t repeated the mistake of his own past. He wouldn’t be subjected to the life he had known, he’d be safe.

Six.

But Ahsoka had felt their connection. Gideon, too. What did that mean? Would the pain of their separation ever go away? Did the kid feel it too?

Seven.

It didn’t matter anyway, none of this mattered – he wasn’t a Mandalorian anymore, he was aruetii, his covert would never welcome him back.

Eight.

Lunging forward, his whole body behind the harsh movement, he fell the closest tree with a yell, the trunk flashing once in the afterglow.

“Are you okay?”

The sun had just risen, and he could barely hear the woman’s voice through his rapid breathing and the blood pulsing in his ears.

“No,” he replied.

And in the lingering darkness of the forest, the fallen tree between them, he told her everything. How he’d been summoned by his armorer to reunite the child with his kind. How he had looked for clues for months until everything unraveled in the blink of an eye. How he had broken his Creed, twice. How he had accepted the help of people wearing beskar who he was not supposed to see as Mandalorians. How he had lost all his possessions. How the boy had been snatched away right under his eyes. How he had decided that in the end, nothing mattered but the child’s safety. How the Jedi had showed up, saving them, and displaying powers he had no hope to ever master. How he had let the child, his child, go.

How much it hurt.

And how, somehow, the last thing he had wanted – a potential new responsibility – was now his.

“This weapon?” she asked, her first words since he had started talking.

“Someone else wants it. She thinks it grants her the right to claim leadership over Mandalore. I tried to give it to her, but she is supposed to win it in a fair fight.”

“But you don’t want it.”

“No.”

“You’ve been training with it an awful lot, though,” she remarked, which told him she had noticed how he had dealt with his insomnia.

“It’s a good weapon,” he shrugged.

“Hmm,” she answered, clearly not convinced.

“And a good distraction,” he admitted, his shoulders lowering in exhaustion. Omera nodded, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Breakfast,” she said, not making it sound like a question, and turned around to walk back to the village, without checking to see if he was following her. He felt slightly lighter now that the words were out, but puzzled by her absence of any real reaction. She had accepted his explanation without comment.

After breakfast, which she brought to the barn in silence, he slept for the first time in several days.

He sat next to her on the porch that evening again, observing the villagers comings and goings, and this time her words came.

“You had no choice but to let him go,” Omera said. There was no judgement in her tone, and it was almost devoid of opinion.

Almost.

“I couldn’t train him,” he added, relieved that she agreed with him.

“For him to become one of those Jedi, no. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have raised him. You clearly showed you were capable.”

“You think I made a mistake,” he realized, his heart starting to beat faster.

“No, I think you made the only decision you were capable of making.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Din asked, almost angry now.

“Only that you love him. And that you are his father in all the ways that matter. But you discovered that it doesn’t necessarily mean you can be together. At least not for a while.”

Farmers were now returning home, and the neighboring houses were soon echoing with the sound of happy children welcoming their parents.

“You think we can be together again?” Was that hope in his voice?

“If you are capable of making that decision in the future, then yes.”

Was it that easy? He only needed to convince himself that he could be a father again? Maybe that was why he had chosen to come to Sorgan. Unconsciously at least. He’d turned to Omera, who was a mother. A parent. She understood his plight better than any other.

He entertained the thought for a while, not realizing that to do this meant all the other feelings he had forcefully pushed away the previous days had resurfaced. At the worse possible moment, as his eyes were now witnessing something that he hadn’t been privy to before. Or that he hadn’t let his mind register.

“Daddy!” squealed a tiny voice belonging to a young girl of no more than three, who’d come bouncing from her home to throw herself at the man, kneeling down in wait, clearly used to this kind of welcome.

“I missed you, darling,” replied the villager, hugging the child to his chest tightly. From where he sat, Din could see how wide the little girl’s smile was. Her father was home. All was right in the world again. He hadn’t abandoned her.

He hadn’t abandoned her.

Din started breathing faster, his heart rate rising to an alarming speed.

He had abandoned his son.

He stood up shakily, gasping for air that just wouldn’t come, wheezing. Omera was saying something to him but he couldn’t hear her words.

His son.

He could barely stand upright as he made his way to the barn again. He couldn’t breathe. His armor weighed a ton. His helmet was strangling him.

He didn’t deserve to wear this beskar, he’d only gotten it by capturing the child, and now the child was gone and he’d never see him again.

Staggering inside, his ears started ringing and his vision blackening – oxygen just wouldn’t reach his brain. Off, he needed to take everything off.

He was aruetii, he was cursed, he was less than nothing, he couldn’t protect his clan, he had broken his oath…

Gasping, hands shaking, he started removing each and every piece of his armor, helmet included. He didn’t hear the sound of surprise behind him and carried on with his task – he still couldn’t breathe. Vambraces, thigh guards, cape, gloves, everything went. His flak jacket and fire retardant layers. Then, just as he was finally reaching skin, he heard a clank. Something had clattered to the ground.

The round gear knob from the Crest.

He’d forgotten he’d been carrying it around for the kid. So that he could reunite him with his precious toy. The only thing that remained from the home they had shared.

He’d forgotten.

Everything stopped in that moment. He stopped panting for breath. Stopped trembling. Stopped hearing. Stopped seeing.

And then everything started again, all at once, and he crumbled to the floor. Tears streaming down his face, dry heaves racking his body, gulps of air escaping his chest, arms incapable of supporting his weight. Only one image in his mind – Grogu.

He curled around the metal ball, unintelligible sounds escaping him amid the sobs. Regret. Guilt. Shame. Assaulting him all at once after he had tried to push the pain back for days.

Then he finally noticed something other than pain, but just as shocking. Touch. On the bare skin of his back. Warm fingers lightly pressing against the spots that didn’t bear any scar or bruise. The scars he had collected since his youth. The bruises he’d recently gotten while not wearing beskar on Morak. They hadn’t had time to heal yet. Why was his skin still blue when the child was gone? Why the reminder when he had nothing tangible of the boy left?

Soon, even the light touch became too much and he pulled away. He didn’t deserve it. Face pressed to his bent arms over the barn’s floor, his tears still wouldn’t stop. The dry heaves turning into ragged breaths and an almost animalistic wail. He couldn’t hear the woman’s words but felt the soft quilt she placed across his shoulders, covering his bare skin. The press of her hands again. Fingers running through his hair. Warm. Comforting. Caring. And he broke anew, his mind fighting with his body. He wanted the touch but knew he should reject it. Knew he was supposed to reject it.

But who cared when he’d already broken his Creed?

So he let himself cry all the tears he had denied himself over the years and then some more. The moment lost in time in the woman’s arms. And then he slept. He slept and didn’t dream. The metal ball still in his hand. The ghost of fingers still carding through his hair.

Din refused to put the armor back on, including his helmet. Refused to exit the barn except in the dead of night when he didn’t risk meeting anyone. Omera was the only one who’d visit him, but she wouldn’t say more than a few words. And wouldn’t look him in the eye. He’d told her that he’d showed his face to others, but it still didn’t make it right. Not to her. She knew what it meant for him, and yet she’d been there when he’d broken down. Caught him before he drowned. Something else they didn’t talk about.

After three days of staring into space and wondering what he would do with his life moving forward, something that wouldn’t include wearing beskar again, the woman came in bearing ill, but oddly predictable news.

“There’s a Mandalorian here to see you,” she announced from the doorway.

“Is her armor blue?” Din asked, looking at the Darksaber that strangely hadn’t left his side. For reasons he wasn’t sure of, he’d had more difficulties parting from it than from his helmet. Maybe because after all that he had lost – his covert, his ship, his Creed, his livelihood, his child – this was one of the rare things he had gained. That and a certainty that he couldn’t go back to his old life, as that would make him a hypocrite.

“The armor is blue,” replied Omera, interrupting his thoughts. “But I doubt it’s a she, they are huge.”

‘Blue armor’ and ‘huge’ could only mean one thing. And it was even worse news than Bo-Katan.

“Please send him in,” he sighed, and rejected the idea of putting his helmet back on. What would be the point? Still, he stood up and turned towards the door after the woman’s exit. No sense making himself an even easier target.

“Have you come here for the armor?” he said immediately, as the huge shape of Paz Vizsla darkened the doorway.

“The armor?” he grumbled, then took a step back when he noticed he wasn’t wearing his helmet.

He recovered surprisingly quickly though, and walked inside. Came to stand right in front of him and Din had to stop himself from retreating. He might be aruetii, but he wouldn’t show any weakness. If Paz wanted to hit him though, he’d defend himself. With that thought in mind, he grit his teeth and held the Darksaber tightly in his right hand – he hadn’t noticed he’d picked it up from the floor when he stood up.

“My armor,” Din sighed, holding his ground. “I assume you want to take it back to the covert, give it to someone else.”

He had made his peace with it – it would at least go to a deserving Mandalorian. Someone of his own kind. His own covert. A foundling, he hoped. But Paz shrugged his imposing shoulders.

“No,” he replied simply.

It was difficult at the best of times to know what another Mandalorian was looking at, but with Paz it was damn near impossible. Still, Din had the uncanny impression that he was observing him closely. Registering each and every minute motion on his bare face. He was an open book at the moment, and he clenched his hands, resisting the urge to turn away.

“No?” Din repeated.

“You’re not surprised to see me here?” Paz wondered, crossing his arms over his chest with difficulty.

“Not really,” admitted Din. “Although I expected someone else.”

“Oh yeah?”

Din exhaled loudly. Their conversation was going round in circles, and he’d rather they were done with it already so that he could be on his way. And he could go back to…whatever it was that he had been doing. Wallowing in self-pity, probably. He was allowed to do that for a little while longer, he thought.

“Ask me how I found you,” said Paz, sensing his annoyance and barely masking a chuckle.

“How did you find me?” Din uttered, rolling his eyes and forgetting that the other Mandalorian could see it.

“We received your check in, but it was signed by someone called Boba Fett, in Mando’a. So I assume he’s Mandalorian?”

“Fett sent it?” Din marveled.

Paz nodded his massive head. He had followed the usual protocol ever since he’d left the armorer on Nevarro: send a coded message to their private channel anytime he landed and departed from a planet. But for the covert to receive it, or whoever was left in it, they had to be close. That meant they were in the same sector as Sorgan, which was news to him. He wasn’t sure if it was welcome news yet, though. But at least it implied that many had survived the attack on Nevarro.

“So that’s how you knew where I was,” Din realized, and he was given another nod. “But if you’ve not come for my armor, then why are you here?”

“Finally asking the right question,” praised Paz with mock cheer, and Din tried very hard not to find it patronizing. But it was difficult when he felt ridiculously tiny without his armor next to the bigger man he had known for two decades. He couldn’t understand why he had made no remark about his lack of beskar yet.

“Are you going to answer it?” he sighed, when silence had stretched for too long between them.

“A member of the covert was accosted on Nevarro…”

“Nevarro? What were you doing on Nevarro?” Din pressed before he could continue.

“We heard it had been cleaned up pretty good and that the Empire remnant had finally been wiped out.”

“You thinking of settling back there?”

“Not sure,” Paz shrugged. “But we wanted a closer look. Heard you somehow got involved. Is that when you lost the Crest?”

“No, that was after,” he grumbled, unhappy about the reminder.

“Anyway,” Paz continued. “Three people wearing Mando armors came up to him. They were looking for you. Seemed you told them you’d be there and they were a bit pissed that it wasn’t the case. That and the whole ‘Child of the Watch’ spiel didn’t really suit well with our guy. So he eluded them, made sure he wasn’t followed and reported back. Imagine our surprise when we learned you’d crossed the path of someone from Clan Kryze. Hadn’t heard that name in a long time.”

“You knew Bo-Katan?” asked Din.

“I knew of her, and that was enough. There’s history between my Clan and hers.”

That was news to him obviously, but then the last few weeks had been so full of surprises that it was just one more on top of all the others. Still, there was something he needed to know.

“Why did she call us Children of the Watch?” he asked with trepidation.

For the first time, he witnessed Paz physically shrinking away from him. The change had been subtle, and he quickly resumed his usual menacing posture, but he couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried. He was hiding something from him, and Din latched on that realization with renewed vigor. There was something there worth digging. Something that might tell him who he was supposed to be, now. Because apparently, in Paz’s eyes at least, he was still a Mandalorian. Which made no sense. Unless, as Bo-Katan had seemed to imply, there was a lot he didn’t know.

“We can talk about that with the armorer, I’m taking you back to the covert,” announced Paz.

Din was more than a little curious, now. What could be so important about Bo-Katan that him breaking his Creed didn’t matter?

“The armorer will want to see me? Like this?” he pressed.

“I’m sure you still remember how to put on your armor,” he deadpanned, eyeing the beskar carefully laid out in the corner. “If not, I can help you.”

That last part had felt almost like a threat, and Din could very well imagine Paz forcing the helmet on his head. It was not a nice image.

“Paz,” he said, knowing that the first name he barely used would startle the other man. “Why are you behaving like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I haven’t renounced my vows and broken my Creed when it is obvious that I have.”

“I understand why you like it here, it’s quiet,” Paz replied, changing the subject completely, to Din’s consternation. “I didn’t know such places still existed. And the people clearly care for you…”

“Paz – ”

“There are worse places to go to mourn the loss of your child.”

Din’s shoulders went slack. His heart started beating faster. But he wouldn’t break down this time.

“How do you know about that?” he asked in a small voice.

“I was the one on Nevarro who was accosted by Bo-Katan. I went looking for you after I heard you took part in that Imperial base blow out. Spoke to that Marshall, Dune. She told me everything.”

“Told you what exactly?” he pressed.

“Enough for me to know there’s no need to make a big deal out of it with the armorer.”

No need to make a big deal out of it? What the…

“And anyway, we have more important things at hand. And by that I mean you have more important things at hand,” he added, eyeing the Darksaber he had forgotten he was still holding.

“You know about this thing?” Din marveled, raising the weapon.

“This thing? Don’t you know what it represents?”

There we go again, thought Din with a sigh. But he’d actually rarely seen Paz so excited about a subject that wasn’t related to explosions or crushing Imps – preferably the two at the same time.

“I got it from Moff Gideon, Bo-Katan wanted it for herself.”

“Did you win it from him in a fair fight?” asked Paz eagerly.

“Yeah,” Din replied simply.

Paz then produced a sound that required some time for Din to recognize – it was laughter, and coming from the bigger man, it sounded horrible. And alarming.

“Wait until the armorer hears about this,” he guffawed. “We should leave soon, are you ready?”

Din looked around him. The small barn that had welcomed him and the child a year ago. That had welcomed him again after he let said child go. His son.

“There’s something else I want to do,” Din declared, certain of his decision.

“You want to say goodbye to that woman? Sure, I can give you some time,” Paz shrugged, utterly unconcerned, which was slightly worrying.

“No,” Din quickly cut in. “I mean yes, but it’s not that, there’s somewhere I need to go, someone I need to find first.”

“What is it?”

“I need to know where the Jedi has taken the kid. I want to see him,” he admitted, the words coming more easily than he had thought.

“You sure that’s a good idea? Doesn’t he need to stay with them?”

“I’m sure,” Din stated, teeth set.

“Well, we can find out,” Paz said. “That Marshall Dune seemed to have an idea, you could start there.”

Din stared at the bigger man in astonishment. When had his opinion ever mattered in the past? He’d almost never dared voice it, knowing it would be rejected. And now… Now someone from Clan Vizsla not only agreed with him but was offering his help.

“A lot of things are going to be easier for you, now that you have that sword,” Paz informed him, somehow reading his thoughts. “Did you train with it yet?”

“Some…”

“Good,” Paz nodded. “You should continue.”

It amazed Din that such a little thing, by far the lightest weapon he had ever wielded, could generate such results. Gideon had been right, the Darksaber did grant him power. He still didn’t want it. But if it meant getting to his child quicker, then he’d take it.

He felt a twinge of regret at putting the armor and helmet back on. It wasn’t that he feared he'd become a hypocrite, as he knew what he was supposed to do now – listen to what the armorer had to say about the mysterious blade and about Bo-Katan’s beliefs. Then, at the very least, find out where his son was and go see him. There was no point going forward if he couldn’t be with him again. Even if it wasn’t for a few years, he needed to be assured they could still be a clan. A family. Otherwise wearing that signet and that unjustly gained beskar was a lie.

No, he had actually started imagining what it would be like to spend the rest of his life in a place like Sorgan. Or maybe even on Sorgan. And he had to admit that it wouldn’t have been such a bad life. And that maybe, one day… But first he needed to be reunited with the kid. After everything, after finding him a Jedi, those last few days had proven to him that he had remained his priority.

Paz was waiting for him at the village's entrance, giving him time to say goodbye. Something he hadn’t asked for but appreciated nonetheless. But there was really only one person he wanted to talk to. The only problem was that he wasn’t sure what to tell her. Thankfully though, she beat him to it.

“Leaving?” Omera surmised correctly, as he stood in front of her covered in his usual armor and helmet, jetpack and staff clipped to his back.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” he replied after a nod.

“I hope you managed to find what you were looking for.”

He was pleased to see that she was back to looking at him in the eye, although there was now a visor separating them again.

“I have,” he confirmed. “I know where I’m going now.” He still didn’t know who he was, but he had a purpose – he’d cling on to the hope that learning about his past and focusing on his future with Grogu would put him on the right path to figure out his own identity.

“I hope we meet again under happier circumstances. You’ll always be welcome here, Mando.”

“Din,” he said. “My name is Din Djarin.”

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he couldn’t be Mando anymore.

“Farewell, Din,” she added with a smile, and the fact that there was someone else out there who knew his name made him feel lighter, somehow. It was like leaving a piece of himself on Sorgan.

He slowly made his way to where Paz was waiting, nodding at the villagers who waved at him, but realized that he was being followed by a small shape. He had an idea of who it might be, so he didn’t turn around too quickly, not wanting to frighten her.

“I’ll come back with the child one day, I promise,” he said, stopping in his tracks next to a quiet pond.

The girl reached his side but kept her head down. Din knelt on the grass so that she wouldn’t have to look up.

“Mama says he’s at some kind of school,” Winta mumbled.

“He is, he needs to train,” he told her.

“School isn’t forever,” she added, the words clearly rehearsed.

“It’s not,” Din confirmed with a slow exhale.

“You miss him too?” wondered the young girl who’d carefully avoided him these past few days.

“I do,” he acknowledged, and the confession finally made her look up at him with renewed confidence.

“You’ll come back with him,” she made sure, eyes serious and much older.

“I will, and until then, there’s one secret I can share with you if you promise not to tell it to anyone.”

She nodded enthusiastically, her childlike wonder back and reassuring.

“I found out his name. It’s Grogu.”

“Grogu?” she smiled, testing the sound.

“And you’re the only one except me who knows that, now.” Them and the Jedi, but it didn’t matter.

“I promise I won’t tell it to anyone,” she whispered, and Din stood up, pleased, nodding to her one last time. It felt right to leave a piece of his son here, too.

They walked side by side in silence with Paz, his ship waiting for them in a clearing. Din’s mind was at peace for the first time in days. He knew a lot was still ahead of him, but the fact that Paz was walking next to him was proof he wouldn’t have to go it alone.

“How many times did we fight?” the big man asked out of the blue.

“What do you mean?” Din wondered.

“And out of those times,” Paz carried on, unfazed, “how many times did I win?”

“You don’t always win,” he replied, slightly vexed.

“Still, I could win again.”

Din stopped in his tracks, finally catching on to what he was implying.

“You want the Darksaber?” he said, and part of him was actually keen on the idea. Let someone else figure this all out. Someone who actually might want to rule over Mandalore, whatever was left of it, one day. But another part of him, small at first, but growing day after day, relished the prospect of carrying the symbol of his people. Him, the outsider. The foundling.

“Kriff, no,” Paz guffawed. “The image of you dueling with Bo-Katan Kryze for it is just too good to miss. Should you lose though, rest assured I’ll avenge you. A Vizsla would look good on the throne.”

“Thanks Paz,” sighed Din. “Makes me feel a lot better to know that.”