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“No!” he shouts, and dives into the water after the child, adrenaline surging through him. He never learned to swim --
The weight of the beskar crushes him.
He sinks.
The weight --
Bone-chilling water flooding under his helmet, displacing the air; spluttering for breath, inhaling the frigid seawater -- He gasps, choking, chest searing --
Hands flailing upward, or downward, he doesn’t know which, the visuals through his helmet are murky and faint -- he claws for the child’s pram but there’s only water -- and the weight --
Fingers curling in the metal grate, he’s above the water, he doesn’t know how. He tries to breathe through the panic, through the draining water running down his face, through his helmet suffocating him, and he coughs, he gasps --
Blades strike at his hands, close to severing fingers -- he sinks again --
Heart vibrating madly in his chest, how his lungs burn, there’s no thought, no self, nothing but air and child, reflexive flailing triggering the Rising Phoenix --
He rockets upward, slams into the grate again, claws frantically, clings. He coughs, coughs, rattling gasps -- Blurred figures striking again at him, a sudden familiar sound, jetpacks, battle --
The beskar is so heavy. He shakes with the effort of holding onto the grate. He chokes again, ravenous for air --
The grate begins to scroll back. He loses his grip, starts to sink again, panics --
“Take my hand,” says a voice, and he doesn’t understand, but he flings a sodden heavy arm forward and feels a blessed, solid grip.
It begins to pull him upward. He has to tell them. Has to save him. “There’s -- a creature. It has the Child,” he rasps. They have to understand -- they have to save the kid -- please -- he can’t --
They help him stagger to a sit, his legs numb and nerveless beneath him, and he gasps and breathes and shakes. “The Child. Help the Child,” he begs.
“On it,” says a voice, and there’s a flare of a Phoenix, a splash in the water.
A hand on his, letting go. His vison’s still dim, black speckles dancing in his eyes as he continues to struggle. All he can see is Mandalorian. “Don’t worry, brother,” says a voice through beskar. “We’ve got this.”
Breathe. Breathe. But he can hardly do it, his chest threatening to buckle under the pressure of beskar and drenched leather and cloth. Beneath the helmet, his face is slick with seawater, mucus, saliva. His heart still pounds hard, a rabbity, frantic beat beneath his ribs.
Something is happening on the water’s surface. The water roils, and a Mandalorian rises above the waves, the pram in their arms. They land beside him, and terror seizes him -- the pram is crushed --
The Mandalorian rips the pram open. Lifts the kid. The child turns to look around, confused, and Din reaches out for him, arms trembling as his chest heaves.
“Here you go, little one,” the Mandalorian says, and she gently places him in Din’s arms. His movements are jerky, clumsy, pulling the child to his chest, trying to slow his breathing enough that he can make sure the child is moving normally. He stares into the kid’s eyes, sees the child calming at his presence, and sags in relief. His eyes burn, blurring with sudden tears he blinks away.
“Thank you,” he says raggedly. He holds the child carefully, and begins to explain his task, still catching his breath --
And the Mandalorians remove their helmets as one.
Din recoils, dizzy with a sick, sudden wave of disgust. His hand collapses toward his blaster, and the child quickly looks up at him, ears drifting down in worry. He staggers upright, hand slipping away from the blaster, but near enough to use if needed… if not for the weakness permeating every limb.
“Where did you get that armor?” he forces out.
His thoughts careen around, a confused, maddening swirl. This armor has been in my family for three generations.
“You do not cover your face,” he accuses, forcing himself to remain steady on his feet. “You are not Mandalorian.”
Their protests make no sense, their disdain clear on their naked faces. He’s one of them. He knows the words they use, but they do not lead to understanding. Clan Kryze. Born on Mandalore, fought in the Purge. I am the last of my line. And you are a Child of the Watch. They bandy insults that enrage him through his haze, terrible sacrilege, calling his Creed a cult, his Tribe religious zealots.
“There is only one way,” he says, voice raw. “The Way of the Mandalore.”
The Rising Phoenix carries him and the child upward, and he clings to the kid, holds him tighter than he held the grate that kept him breathing. He shivers with the cold, with the shock. He is no closer to completing his quest for the child’s true home, and the failure weights him.
The kid presses against him, little arms shifting in the slipstream. Even through the sodden cloth and leather beneath the beskar, even in the wind, he can feel it. A hug.
He inclines his head to the child until his helmet just slightly touches the child’s forehead. The flight to the mainland seems a little shorter that way, a little warmer, a little lighter.
Din exhales into his helmet, heartbeat finally settling, and he savors the taste of air.