Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Many thanks to motherstone for this fanart.

Din is decapitating a rogue Gen’Dai on Florrum —and steadily watching the creature’s head grow back— when the comm message appears on his HUD: A Finding speech is in 48 solar cycles. Your presence has been requested.

It’s enough to force him to a hard stop. His arm hangs limply at his side like that time he injected it with nullicaine to piece out a cylinder fragment. The news is like that — numbing to read. The impact of the news is like the cylinder fragment — jarring to receive. Stars above, Din wavers on his feet. Someone in the Covert has found—

Blaster flares strike Din’s armor, sending him stumbling back. The Gen grins at him, looking like a kark on sanna spice. Its teeth are not finished regenerating, but they’re still sharp enough to maim.

“Your beskar will make a fine trophy on my wall,” the Gen says, voice like grated rock salt.

The birth pangs of another dustbowl blast through them and Din grits his teeth against the sand that’s managed to sift through his flight suit, scraping against his skin. He has mere minutes before the surge begins again. He needs to finish this.

Din’s body takes over, forcing as many wounds as he can through the Gen’s armor and into its corded muscles. Adrenaline blurs his movements until Din can barely hear himself breathing. Come on, the words keen against his lips as he launches two daggers into the creature’s torso. He doesn’t wait for the blow to register before swiping across the Gen’s throat. Its green spurts and Din grimaces, feeling the blood ooze down his helm.

Deadweight thuds to the sand.

Din rights himself, feeling his heart pulsate in his ears. Seconds pass before other sounds filter back in: wind, whistling against his armor; his breathing, ragged and dry; the Gen’s cloak flapping in the breeze. Green drips off Din’s armor as he approaches and puts three rounds in the creature’s chest just in case. The body heals around the blaster wounds, but the Gen doesn’t rouse. Unfortunately, it’s not dead (no one can kill those red-eyed bastards), just hibernating.

Din takes his time gathering up his knives, conscious of the comm message still flashing in the corner of his display. He doesn’t want to look at it. Not yet. He eyes the Gen’s body instead, needing the distraction. It’ll take a solid hour to get the creature onto the Crest; another just to get it in carbonite. The handling and off-loading will take a minute and then, he’ll still need to run his absence by Karga, who will undoubtedly give him the time off (he’s been hankering for Din to slow down for years). It’s a pity that getting clearance isn’t the problem.

The message blinks on the screen, redlined now, and Din finally looks at it with a huff. A Finding speech is in 48 solar cycles. Your presence is requested.

48 solar cycles. By Nevarro’s metrics, that’s two days.

The mark on Din’s wrist itches with the information and he clenches his jaw, refusing to scratch it. They've given him just enough time to make it back, but not nearly enough time to prepare himself.

Something that isn’t quite anxiety nor anticipation twists in Din’s gut as he hoists the Gen’s body onto his back and starts the trek. The sun is setting, returning in orbit, and Din wishes his return could only be so seamless. He’s obligated to attend the ceremony to listen to the speech, extend his well-wishes, and see the new foundling. It is the Way.

But Din’s never been skilled at hiding his grief. It’s why he took the role of beroya in the first place (“Hunting,” he’d told them, though he was really just escaping). But now, they’re asking for his immediate return and for good reason.

A Finding speech can only mean one thing: someone has found their dream child.

✵

They call them venku’la ade: Dream children.

No one knows exactly when the dreams began. Some say the dreams emerged out of the failures of the Dark War: when their clans were cast like fragments into the galaxy. Others, who hold to the old religious ways, attribute the visions to Kad Ha’rangir: the god of destruction, change, and re-birth, and a happenstance of blessing on his part. Then, there are those like Din’s buir, who credit the dreams to the infinite wisdom of the universe (“The universe is perfectly balanced,” the old man used to say. “Much death must be matched with an abundance of life. Something lost, another thing given”). The old man thought the dreams emerged from the ashes of war — an attempt of the universe to remedy the mass displacement and bloodshed that years of destruction had caused. Mandalorians were chosen because they knew survival’s sting as both hunter and prey. Of course, the dreams would visit their people.

But for pragmatists like Din, facts outweigh fables and origin stories. The fact is: long ago, they were visited with dreams of particular foundlings spread out across the galaxy; children who were the first casualties of war. Their intended foundlings. Some of their kind received multiple dreams — evidence that they were assigned multiple children; others received only one dream. The dream could be anything — a snippet of the foundling’s current activities, a snapshot of their life, a memory from their childhood— but in all cases, the same dream returned to them over and over again, replaying until they found their child. Only then did the dream finally leave them.

Din’s buir received dreams of him (“A full-faced boy with a smile brighter than all three of Aris’ suns combined”). The old man’s appearance on Aq Vetina was by mere happenstance. They were quelling a siege, disrupting oppression, but somehow he stumbled upon him. His venku’la adiik. Din had never seen the old man before; he’d never received dreams about him either. There was only a vague sense of familiarity when his buir drew him into his arms; a sense of being known when he looked at him; a call towards home when he said Din’s name.

(His buir wasn’t a sentimental, superstitious man —in more ways than one, he was stoic, practical, and impassible to onlookers— but with Din, he displayed a tenderness that seemed almost too vast for one man. It was odd: he, a seasoned warrior, somehow softened by a scrawny child with eyes too big for his face.)

The old man longed for the day when Din would receive dreams of his own. When he, like all of their kind, would be visited with a dream after his twentieth year. His buir died before the dream arrived and truthfully, Din’s grateful he wasn’t around to see it happen. He doubts he’d find any semblance of the pride that once gleamed in the old man’s eyes.

Din is older now, almost middle-aged; he is much too old for childish stories. He wouldn’t call himself an unbeliever, just a time-worn skeptic who’s found loopholes in absolutes. His buir failed to mention that not everyone is so fortunate to receive a dream child. Or that not all dreams are shiny and bright and filled with promise. Sometimes the universe isn’t balanced; sometimes it fucks people over; sometimes a person’s dreams are more like nightmares. The old man forgot to mention those exceptions. Or maybe, he just didn’t imagine Din would be one of them.

The fact is: once sworn to the Creed, all Mandalorians receive dreams of their intended foundlings after their twentieth year (never before and never after their thirtieth). It is the Way of their people.

The fact also is: Din just so happens to be the exception to that rule.

✵

Nevarro is brighter than the last time Din visited.

Karga had relayed the news once before: how a small gang of do-gooders had sacked the seediest inhabitants from the planet, turning the old bounty-hunters’ hive into a respectable town. Din hadn’t believed it then. Looking at the marketplace, he still isn’t sure he believes it now.

A band of children weaves around the tables, giggling as they brush past him and Din slows, watching them beg in front of a booth selling sweet bread. A wonder of wonders. He can’t remember seeing children above ground, neither can he remember stations selling sweets when he first lived in the Covert. Too much fear suffocated the people then, taking innocence and luxuries with it. How things have changed.

Adult voices call through the marketplace clamor, but the kids seem too busy licking cinnamon paste off their sticky fingers to respond. Din watches them race away again, sending ripples through the crowd. It’s an unusual sight, but he shouldn’t be so surprised. Peace always leaves such generous bounties.

Cinnamon lilts in the air as Din passes by the booth and onto another side street that’s arguably less noisy than the last one. Baked hurdue is displayed at a station to his left, warming under the same heating lamp that used to function as a drug cooker. It probably isn’t safe, but Din doubts anyone cares if the size of the lines are anything to go by.

Some residents eye him as he passes, but most seem too busy conversing to be bothered with his presence. A Keredian bumps into him, sending Din back to steady his hand on a booth table. A biting remark is on his tongue when another voice too sarcastic and smart-assed for Din not to recognize rolls behind him.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cathorn dragged in.”

Din turns to see a mop of copper curls, peeking over a mound of old spacecraft parts, and he sighs. “Peli.”

“Mando.” She gives him a once over. “Ya look like shit.”

Din wants to counter that her booth looks like shit, but she’d only take it as a compliment.

“It’s been a while. What’re you—Hey!” Peli trips over a case of surgers to snatch a motivator out of a droid’s clasps. “Touch that again, Treadwell, and you’ll be trash kindling the next time I see you.”

The droid’s eyes slump as it wheels away. Peli rounds on Din with an eye roll.

“Ya see, that? I can’t even get good help around here anymore,” she says.

Din smiles as he watches her shine a lug nut with a dirty cloth, as dismissive of his presence as she always is. He could be gone for a century and Peli would never ask him about it, probably because she could care less.

Din surveys her booth. “I thought you were on Tatooine.”

“Ya thought right, tin can.” Peli tosses the lug nut on the table with the air of one who’s given up on something useless. “Sandstorm season always manages to put a skank in the skudpie though — if y’know what I mean. So, I’m here for the offseason.”

She angles around the booth, flipping over the ‘Open’ sign with her boot, even as a Caphex approaches.

“Hey! Read the sign. We’re closed, kitty-cat.”

The hairs on the Caphex’s face bristle before the buyer stalks away, mumbling under their breath.

“Womp rat,” Peli insults, watching them go. She waits until they’re out of sight before she turns back to him, eyes aflame. “Now, the real question is: what’re you here for? And don’t lie. You’re not good at it anyways.”

The words are on his tongue and yet, Din still feels a knot lodge itself in his throat. He swallows, but the knot just thickens to spite him. There’s too much emotion clamped down in his gut — enough to fill an ocean and speaking the reason for his presence would only drown him.

“Sometime today, Mando.” Peli snaps her fingers.

“A Mandalorian has located their foundling.”

Peli’s eyebrows nearly fly up to her hairline. “You mean, the dream thing you all go on about?”

Din hums his assent, not trusting his voice.

“Maker…” Peli breathes and it’s unusual to see her so taken aback. “I mean, that’s great n’ all, but… why do you have to be here?”

“I’ve been summoned. All of us have. It would be…rude not to offer my regards.”

“If you say so.” Peli rolls her eyes.

Someone laughs from the booth next to them and for a second, Din feels strangely out of place with his dark armor and flight suit still smelling of the Gen’s green. The marketplace is so lively now. Yet, he stands in the midst of it all like a dark shadow hovering over an otherwise pleasant day.

“What about you?” Peli keeps her eyes on the street, but even Din knows she’s not really looking at anything.

“What about me?”

Her eyes find him then and she sighs. “So, they haven’t changed. Those dreams of yours.”

“No.” Din looks away. “They won’t.”

She nods, thrusting her thumbs through the loops on her tool belt, trying and failing to hide her disappointment. It’s still unusual for Din — knowing someone knows about his nightmares. Din told her about them once and not by choice. She’d caught him on the tail-end of one of them and the sight was bad enough to make her knock a few credits off his bill — something she never did.

“Well, I have something that might help you out. For a finder’s fee, of course.” Peli winks, slinking under the booth at a crouch. Items clatter behind the curtain, drawing several eyes toward her station. “A Melbu…needed me to fix…her alternator, so I— What the hell is this?”

She pops out from behind the curtain, holding what looks like a fried biocell. “Treadwell, if I find out you’re trying to up your processing chip again, you’ll be Bantha fodder for all I care.” Peli huffs, turning to Din as she rummages behind the curtain again. “Anyway, that alternator was older than dirt. Took me weeks to fix. Had to up my rate, so she —dammit, where is it?— threw in a few of these babies to cover the difference.”

With a laugh of triumph, Peli wrenches her arm free, brandishing a bag of wilted, unimpressive-looking flowers.

Din frowns. “You fixed an alternator…for flowers?”

“What — you never seen Millaflower before?” She sucks her teeth when his silence betrays his ignorance. “Sheesh, get out more, will you?”

“What does it do?”

“Whaddya think, dung brain? One dose and it's lights out.”

Din tilts his head to the side, suddenly interested. “No dreams?”

“Nope.” Peli leans back against the booth, looking irritatingly pleased, which can only mean she knows she’s got a hand in his pocket.

“How much?” He says with a sigh.

“Depends.” She purses her lips, looking him up and down. “Whatcha got for me?”

Din tosses a pouch on the table.

She rifles through it with a whistle. “Someone’s desperate.”

“Just sleep-deprived,” he grumbles.

“Some would say that’s one in the same, tin can.” Peli slips the pouch into her pocket with a contented pat. “The flowers aren’t complicated, just stick ‘em in a vase.”

“And do, what?”

Her eyes wander away as she picks her teeth. “Hell, if I know.”

Din tosses a Calamari flan on the table.

“Tie ‘em together and keep ‘em in an enclosed space,” she relinquishes, pocketing the money with a glee that’d put even a Jawa to shame. “S’ all I know. I swear.”

Din frowns at the flowers. He has a feeling they were in better condition before the Melbu had handed them over to Peli. They don’t look well enough to display on a Rodian’s table. Peli is right about one thing though: he’s desperate enough to take them anyway.

“Well, how long’re you here for?” she asks.

Din sighs. “Until the celebration is over. Possibly even before the speech wraps up.”

Peli whistles through her teeth. “Eager, much? I mean, I get it, you people are an odd bunch, but what’s the rush? I’m sure they’ll wanna see your dingy shell again.”

Tension seeps into Din’s shoulders as he gazes beyond the booth to the street leading to the Covert. He doesn’t know how to tell her — that their urgency to see him is exactly the issue. They will ask questions about his presence, about his absence, about him and still, they’ll accept him as they always do. Din is a Mandalorian; he is one of them. But inclusion and belonging are two different things, distant cousins within the same family. The former is like a tenant who invites him inside for pleasantry’s sake, then sends him on his way; the latter asks him to stay awhile and build a home. But Din doesn’t know how to build what he’s never had.

Inclusion is easy; belonging is hard.

“I just have to go,” Din replies, tearing his eyes from the street. Because staying is hard.

✵

It turns out the one who located their foundling is Mauns Gavit and Din takes another sip of his tihaar, knowing he’s going to need it.

Gavit. Of course, it’d be Din’s luck. They hadn’t been on amicable terms since Din replaced him as beroya, and the ex-hunter had never forgiven him for it. A disgrace to the Tribe, Gavit had called the decision. He challenged Din and lost, which only made the animosity worse. Gavit was one of the few who still held to the old, traditionalist ways — when a Mandalorian was only as authentic as the dreams that visited them. He’d made it clear on many occasions that Din was less than legitimate.

Din takes another swig. The chin of his helmet lowers as Gavit drones from the platform.

“…we are the harvest of our ancestors’ dreams. Their dreams live on in us,” Gavit recites, sounding as self-important, pretentious, and redundant as he did the last time Din saw him. “It is true that it’s hard for us to find our venku’la ade, but our people are well acquainted with difficulty. Our refusal to concede to surmounting challenges is what makes us Mandalorians. It is what makes us great. For generations, we’ve found a way to be united with our foundlings, even if it means combing through the galaxy for months, for years, for decades. Their safety and survival depends on our determination, so we do not give up. We do not give in. Perseverance always rewards the strong and recently, it rewarded me with one of my own foundlings. This one, Syvenna.”

A girl with hair the color of Florrum’s sand stumbles onto the platform, immediately running to hide behind Gavit’s legs. Din only needs to take one look at her to know she’s overwhelmed.

Gavit asks her to say a few words and Din bristles at the suggestion, even more so when the girl inches further out of sight. It’s unwise to demand that she speak and address a people she does not yet know. It isn’t their Way. The Finding speeches Din attended in the past were intimate and solemn, holding both festivity and memorial in tension. They celebrated the preservation of innocent life while mourning the circumstances in the same breath. The message such ceremonies sent was clear: this isn’t the time for foolish rejoicing — not when a child had to lose their parents for such adoption to take place.

Din can’t say the same about Gavit’s ceremony.

“Let’s return to the festivities.” Gavit raises a cup. “To the foundlings — who are the future.”

Glasses raise over a host of helms. “To the foundlings!”

Din’s mug only comes off the table so he can down the rest of his drink before leaving. He said he’d attend and he has. In and out.

He’s standing —pushing the chair back to gather up his rifle— when a trio crashes around his table, settling against the wall. It’s too crowded for Din to slide past them without drawing attention to himself. He sits again, frowning.

“…lucky guy.” Someone —female— says. Din doesn’t recognize her voice, neither does he know her armor. A newcomer. “Must be nice finding his little one on Morak. My Finding cycle isn’t up for another five months. Can’t look for my kid until then.”

“Found one of mine on Naboo. Wasn’t as hard as I thought.” Jael. He always speaks in stunted sentences.

“That’s because the tunnels gave it away.” Vizsla. Din’s grip tightens on his cup. Now, he really needs to leave.

“What about you?”

Before Din can wonder why no one’s responding, the newcomer leans over his table with a force that sends the wood rocking.

“You’re the beroya, right? I’ve heard you’re good.” She leans in, looking interested. “So, what does your dream show? Or dreams, if you’re as lucky as that guy over there?” The newcomer thrusts her thumb at Jael.

Vizsla's helm snaps to Din.  “I don’t think—”

The newcomer bats him away in a manner that leaves Vizsla visibly stunned. She’s either never heard about his parentage or simply doesn’t care.

She helps herself to a chair next to Din. “Tell me about ‘em.”

Vizsla and Jael stiffen behind him and Din has never wanted to leave as much as he does now (it’d be a sign of cowardice though — to walk away when someone’s asked him a direct question). This is why he’d planned to slip out before the speech was over.

“Hey!” The newcomer taps on the table. “What’s yours like? When’s your cycle period?”

He doesn’t know how to tell her —doesn’t want to tell her— that he took his name off the cycle roster long ago. There’s no point in going out to search for something he doesn’t have.

“Alright, I won’t push.” She laughs, taking his silence to mean reticence. “What does your kid look like then?”

Din resists the urge to scratch his wrist. “I…don’t have one.”

The response receives no laughter this time and instinctively, Din eyes the door again. He knows this conversation —the grilling questions, the wave of shock, the suggestions— like the back of his hand. He’s counting down the seconds until the newcomer formulates another question; he refuses to give her the opportunity. He rises from the table, chair screeching back.

Vizsla steps forward. “Djarin—”

“Enjoy your time.”

Din slips through the crowd before any of them can stop him, but their voices carry. Her voice does.

“What do you mean he has no dream child?” he hears the newcomer shrill. A handful of shushes hurry to quiet her, but it’s no use. “Everyone has a…”

The cacophony of chatter drowns out her voice, but it’s not enough to erase her words from Din’s mind. No dream child. No dream child. What do you mean he has no…? His heart is in his ears, having a conversation with his shame, telling him that leaving is good. It’s always easier to run. But that’s not what he’s doing. Mandalorians don’t run away. For some reason, that protest only dials up the conversation, his heart and his shame commiserating together now.

Din heads for the door, pushing through a group too buzzed to protest being pushed aside. The exit is within reach. He’s almost— 

“Djarin.”

Din clenches his jaw, stilling. “Gavit.”

Someone turns up the lights, causing the brightness to glint off Gavit’s cuirass. He’s upgraded to match the gold on the rest of his armor —the color of vengeance— but it’s just an eyesore.

Gavit stands up taller and Din doesn’t have time for this.

“I hope you aren’t planning on leaving. Not when you’ve only just arrived.” Gavit glances between Din and the door. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re trying to run off again.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Know better?”

They’re too old to be playing this childish game and yet, they slip into the dance of it so easily, without thought, without resistance.

Gavit steps forward with the precision of one who knows when and where to strike. “How’s that mark of yours? Has it changed?”

Din’s hands close into fists.

“I see…” Gavit says with a hum. “My condolences, brother.”

“My regards,” Din grits out, nodding at the little girl (Syvenna, his memory corrects, but it feels wrong to say her name, even in his mind; a name is an intimate thing and she does not yet know him). It’s his best attempt at regaining peace — for the foundling’s sake.

The girl is in the corner, nearly-shielded by a circle of their kind. She’s scarfing down a date cake with the energy of one who hasn’t known a consistent meal in years. Din recognizes the behavior; he was like that once.

Gavit follows his gaze. “Foundlings are the future.”

“They are.”

A snort responds back.

“Does something amuse you?”

“You,” Gavit replies. “You never say the words. I must say, I find it disappointing. You are one of us, are you not?”

“You know I am,” Din bites out.

“Then, say it.”

Gavit’s helm dips dangerously close to his own and the goad is so disappointingly familiar Din almost laughs. It’s the beginning of a challenge and Din wants to shoot him for being so stupid. A challenge, at this time? In front of his new foundling?

“Say it.” Gavit’s helm clinks against his own. “Or are you just a coward?”

Din stiffens at the remark. “I—”

“Gavit.” Someone butts in. Sif, Din recognizes the armor. “You’re a hard man to find. I just wanted to share how pleased I am for you.” She turns to Din. “Djarin. It’s good to see you.”

Din only manages a nod.

“What were you two discussing?” she asks, but Din can hear the edge in her voice, telling them to ‘pull their shit together’. She’s always been the first in the Tribe to sniff out dissension.

Gavit regards Din with a pleased hum. “Just how much fun we’re having.”

Din sinks his teeth into his tongue if only to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. Think of the ceremony. Think of the foundling. Think of flying away soon. They’re good reasons as any to keep composure, but Din’s just barely holding on to reason.

“Well, don’t have too much fun without the rest of us.” Sif eyes them warningly before nudging both of their helms.

She departs, leaving them to stand in tension again.

“Well?” Gavit faces him.

Din presses his lips together.

“I’m wait—”

“Stop this,” Din hisses, eyes catching on the little girl. For her sake.

The girl is picking the nuts out of a piece of uj’alayi now, flicking them onto the floor. She disappears out of sight —someone must be chastening her— and she returns a heartbeat later. More nuts go sailing. A weak smile pulls at Din’s lips. She’s spirited, bolder than he gave her credit for. That’s good. It’ll make her great.

“As you wish,” Gavit says. “But you will stay with the Covert longer than a few days? At least for a few weeks.”

Weeks? “I won’t be—”

“I am the host. You will stay.”

Din’s fingers bite into his palm, only just realizing. So, this is what the interception was about… The superficial concern. The questions (“I hope you’re not planning on leaving”). They both know no one can circumvent the request of a host. If Gavit’s “asked” him to stay, a refusal would only be translated as an insult (one the Tribe would not so easily forgive). But if he stays… Gavit will only make this Finding a personal hell for him.

It’s a choice between public or private shame.

Din can taste blood on his tongue. He’s bitten down too hard. “I…will.”

“Good,” Gavit says with a sneer in his voice, turning to leave. “We have much to catch up on, you and I.”

Din’s too preoccupied with his own thoughts to watch him go, standing stock-still in front of the door that was supposed to be his salvation. In and out. That’s what he promised to do — attend the ceremony, then go. He came, he extended his well-wishes, he saw the foundling, but now…? The door is right in front of him and he can’t leave.

Tension coils around his body, springing him forward and out the door. He’s walking fast enough for the winding corridors of the underground to meld into a brown blur, and the stupidity of it all hits him. Where the hell will he go? Back to the Crest? For what reason?

But there is something nipping at Din’s heels, throwing him out the tunnel and into the night air. The chill seeps under his flight suit, biting at his skin, but Din’s eying the shadows and marketplace streets (empty at this time of night), disregarding the cold. How ridiculous he must look — acting like a trapped animal stalking the cages of its pen for an escape point.

There is none.

He’s on the Crest in the span of seconds, sealing down the lift and hurrying into the cargo hold. His boot catches on one of the oscillators and everything he’s been running from catches up with him. He can’t stay. He can’t. The only thing keeping him sane is his jobs — having something to do with his hands, his mind, his body. He’s better drifting somewhere. As a bounty-hunter, he’s meant to be an outsider, visiting planets only to track down bounties and receive his reward. He’s meant to be aloof, detached, separate from being-groups and cultures. But to be an outsider among his own people…?

It’s a thought that sends his hands twitching. He needs something to busy himself with. Din unseals the latch on his helmet, letting it clatter to the floor as he begins disassembling. Heat pulsates on his face, syncing in time with a question that’s been following him since he left the underground tavern: What will you do?

Din’s fingers fall from the clasps on his collar, leaving his neck open and exposed. I don’t know. And he doesn’t. How can anyone know what they didn’t plan for?

The fervor of the ceremony has to die out in a few days. No one, not even Gavit, can keep him past then. Din will need to hunt and they’ll need the money. After all, even celebrations have to die out at some point. The realization calms him enough to climb into the rack, settling onto his side.

The navigation whirs from the cockpit —recalibrating itself— and somewhere, the fuel sensor pings; it’s almost empty. He’s going to need more money. Din turns, a fog beginning to hover over his mind, and the age-old question returns with it: What will you do? What will you do? What will you do?

He’ll figure something out. He always does.

————

The flowers are still in his pocket when he sleeps; they’re smushed between his hip and the mattress. He’s forgotten them. Forgotten why he needed them in the first place.

That slip of memory is why it happens.

————

The dream comes to him as it always does — in threes.

First: the stench of burnt flesh.

Second: fear like a hand around his throat, choking him.

Third: Bloodcurdling screams.

Everything is dark — as pitch black as tar (but tar is a lifeless thing and this darkness has a life-of-its-own in the way it chases him, bears down on him, smothers). His own breathing cuts through it in ragged pants. Like he’s running somewhere. His senses feel like they’ve been amplified, every sensation as close to him as his own breath. Terror claws at his chest; his heart goads him, beating quick and in time. Run, run, run. It skips a beat. No. Hide, hide, hide.

The smell of burnt flesh hits his nose again and he’s going to vomit. Maybe he does because there’s bile on his tongue now. His hands feel slippery and wet with something. It’s too sticky to be water. Smells too metallic to be any kind of juice. His stomach flips.

Heat licks at him, no matter how much he inches away. It’s hot, so hot. He feels like he’s burning. Maybe he’s on fire. Maybe he is the fire.

He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to be here. He’s scared. He’s—

Someone’s behind him.

“Found you.”

✵

Din jerks awake like a man crazed.

He gets up too fast, head smacking against the ceiling and his vision splits. Suddenly, there are two grey walls, two compartment doors, four feet oscillating back at him as pain explodes in his skull. The immersion heater kicks on, sweeping the room with heat and it all comes back. The fire. The smell. The screams.

“Dammit.” Din digs the heel of his hands into his eyes. It’s not to stop the pain — only to stop himself from crying, but the tears come anyway.

He stumbles out of the rack, heart racing. The walls, the space… It’s too small. It’s too— A sharp pain cuts through his mind, complaining. He needs to stop thinking. It hurts to think. Hurts more to remember… Din sucks in a breath, chest seizing like someone’s sitting on it. He can’t breathe.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Din makes a beeline to the holding casts, wrenching the emergency drawer open.

His fingers rummage through the contents —an empty phial of prenoline, granules of behot in an old sheaf, a dried out cystate— and Din growls in frustration. He doesn’t need to go back to sleep. He needs to calm down. There’s too much adrenaline, too much noise, too much—

He slams the drawer shut so hard a bottle topples, shattering on the floor. He wrenches open another, hands shaking now. Papers go flying. Packets catch on his fingertips. Nails scratch the bottom of a drawer. Where the hell did he put it? He shoves aside an empty vial. Where is it? Where—

A brown square peeks out from behind a salve tin and Din shoves the tin aside, piecing out the square from its wrappings. A nervestick. There’s only enough to reel his panic back, maybe even dial his heart rate down a few notches. It’s just enough.

Din pops the square into his mouth, chewing as he slides to the ground. It tastes of rotting mallow slop, slimy enough to cling to his throat as it goes down, but the stick will do the job. It has to.

The heater thrums to life again and Din shrinks back against the wall, trying to dodge its warmth. Heat swells against his face anyway, drying his hair as if trying to reassure him of its good intentions. It’s not the fire. It’s not that dream.

It should be a comforting thought, but Din only turns his face away, feeling grief rise up to meet him.

He remembers the first time the dream visited him. He was twenty-three, fresh out of the Fighting Corps (boasting less aches and pains in his back than he does now) and still learning how to wear his armor instead of letting the armor wear him. The dream visited him the night after the graduation ceremony (and every night thereafter), sweeping in on the tails of celebration like a harbinger of bad news.

The Tribe found out about the reoccurring nightmare just weeks after and they, like anyone, searched for answers. Some in the Tribe called it a bad omen; others just didn’t know what the hell to do with it; Gavit, and a few like him, just called Din unworthy. Something out there —the origin of the dreams— had deemed him unfit to rear a foundling. Why else would his dreams be filled with bloodshed and horror, instead of the face of his intended foundling?

Most, though, assumed his dream would change. He was twenty-three; he still had time. But then Din was twenty-four, then he was twenty-eight, then he was thirty-one and the dream still hadn’t changed. No one, as far as they knew, ever received a dream like his — not unless there was something wrong with them.

Maybe there is… Din doesn’t know. He stopped searching for answers long ago. Questions like why him? only sound entitled and presumptuous. He’s not some petulant child, too focused on their own self-pity and idealism to sit with reality. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter. Why him? Why not him? No one owes him anything.

The worst part though isn’t the precarious nature of his circumstances; it’s not the taunts and jabs from people like Gavit (that he can handle). It’s not the presence of the dream, but the death of a dream. At one time, Din had wanted a family and a legacy. He’d wanted a home — not walls to run his hands along or a table to sit at, but a person to come home to. The desire was lodged in his senses. He wanted a smaller shoe to trip over; a sock (that was too small to be his) that’d made its way into his clothes crate; the sound of someone else’s footsteps ambling around the ship. He wanted what he’d experienced with his buir: belonging. To belong to another just as much as they belonged to him — not in possession, but in care and attachment.

At one time, Din had hoped for all this.

But hope is more violent than war itself. It’s a bloody business — piercing one’s heart and spilling out their desires and longings, only to leave such dreams dying on a cold floor. It asks for everything while promising absolutely nothing. No assurance of any such desires being realized, just fragile, vulnerable longing.

Din couldn’t hold onto such longings — not without being broken and hurt by them — so he abandoned them and befriended hard realities instead.

The reality is: no foundling has been chosen for him; neither has he been chosen for a particular foundling. He knows that — but knowing a truth and sitting with the truth are two different things. It’s why Din’s always on the move, why he has to get the hell out of here.

Knowing a truth is easy; sitting with the truth is hard.

Din swipes a hand down his face, sweat and tears slicking his palm. His eyes catch on the mark tattooed on his wrist and for once, he doesn’t look away. The symbol stares back at him, telling him who he is.

Din Djarin. A clan of one.

✵

“This is not intended to shame you,” The Armorer tells him once as she sanitizes his left wrist and prepares the inking needle.

“I know,” Din says.

For a brief second, he hates her for her ability to intuit so much. For pulling on a string he’s been trying desperately to keep raveled. She hasn’t even begun tattooing the mark into his skin and Din’s already on the verge of coming undone.

The needle hovers over his wrist, heat humming from the tip, and Din refuses to watch. He already knows what the mark will look like: a mudhorn —a symbol of his first major kill— lodged within an empty circle. Alone. All Mandalorians receive their signet-mark by their thirtieth year. It is symbolic: thirty is the number for stability, security, and the expansion of one’s clan. Din is thirty and he’s never felt so unstable.

The needle bites into his skin and Din’s teeth sink into his tongue, drawing blood. His mind is foggy as he catalogs the sensations absentmindedly: copper on his tongue; the drag of the needle, hot, sharp, and insistent; his right hand digging into his knee; an open flame cracking to their left. The sensations swim in his head, but she’s done in minutes. She draws back, leaving his wrist to pulsate with pain.

“You are a clan of one,” she announces as is custom.

“I am.”

“For now.”

It is not hope that goads her, Din knows, but certainty. She is a woman who sees in endless absolutes, even when an exception sits before her.

The Armorer smears a mucus-like salve over the tattoo; it stinks of rotten Thwakaa leaves, seeping through the bandage she wraps around it.

“Many of our kind have not yet numbered their clan.” There’s so much kindness in that statement, but it’s a half-truth. Such people haven’t received their dream yet, but they will. Din received his years ago. He’s already thirty. If his dream doesn’t change now before the year’s up, it never will. Which means he'll never have...

Din digs his fingernails into his thigh. It’s a poor attempt to stop his eyes from burning.

The Armorer regards him quietly and what she finds, she speaks aloud.

“You are not an aruetii.”

“I know.” Din tugs his sleeve down.

She’s silent, bleeding a warning in the air. He’s being obstinate, even while feigning compliance.

“And yet, you behave as one who believes himself to be an outsider.”

Din says nothing, too focused on fighting the urge to look away. Shame is ill-fitting on a warrior and still, it manages to cloak every one of his actions.

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Last night.” It’s a smartass remark and they both know she should cuff him for it.

“Soundly,” she adds.

Din grinds his teeth. “Behot helps me sleep well enough.”

“That herb is not meant to be digested frequently,” she warns, filing away her tools. “You know that.”

Again, Din says nothing, but his silence manages to communicate enough. Of course, he knows about the side effects — the irritability, prolonged grogginess, loss of motor control, possibility of liver damage— and he’s willing to risk it. He can’t go through those nightmares again.

“Your dream will change and when it does, you will return to receive your additional marking to number your clan.”

“Yes,” he says, feigning a fracture of her certainty.

“Foundlings are the future.”

“They are.” He can’t bear to say the words because with them comes a painful question: what if he has no foundling? Does that mean he has no future as well? Din doesn’t want to know.

She stands. “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” Din echoes, feeling more lost than ever.

————

That was over ten years ago. A month before he was given the role of beroya. Din wouldn’t call it a sign. Just… a way out.

————

Din is returning from the marketplace —crates of foodstuffs dangling from the prongs of his rifle— when he realizes someone’s been in the ship.

The crates thump to the floor as he whips out his blaster. His eyes fly to the rack. It’s open —he never leaves it open— with his blanket hanging out of the compartment, twisted and abandoned on the floor. Like someone had tried to wrench it out.

Gun taunt, Din activates his thermal scanner. The room flickers blue and instantly, a smattering of footprints appear. There’s no clear direction, no sign of focused intent. The prints are chaotic, disorganized, and sloppy. Possibly a rookie who clearly doesn’t know what they’re looking for. If Din didn’t know better, he’d think the intruder took up sight-seeing. The fact is he does know better; he’s seen better. No one breaks into a ship to peruse the scenery.

Din eyes the footprints again. The set is the same size — small in width and length— and almost yellow-washed now, which can only mean the intruder skipped out long ago. But with what?

Din flings open his weapons console, finding every blaster, launcher, and close-range pistol staring back at him — secure, locked down, and clearly untouched. He’s throwing the tarp off the containers of stored merch, letting the covering pool at his feet. The containers are still bolted down and a quick rifle through just proves what he’d already guessed: they weren’t touched either. A minute later, he’s in the cockpit, only to return back to the hold when he finds nothing there too.

The thermal scanner fizzes out and Din surveys the area again, not knowing what the hell he’s looking at. Someone was clearly in his ship, but they’d taken nothing? No weapons, no rations, no goods. His eyes catch on the abandoned blanket and the sight only exacerbates Din’s confusion. Who, in their right mind, would want a dingy old blanket instead of a weapon, or money, or…anything that’s far more valuable?

Din kneels down in front of the rack, running the blanket through his fingers. There are holes, small enough to be pin-pricks, dotting the hem of the cloth. A knife, maybe? But why would someone dig holes this small into a blanket they couldn’t take? He’s seen Jawas with clearer intentions (and they’re as scatterbrained and shifty as they come).

Din rises to his feet, sweeping the room with a tired eye now. He’ll just need to secure his perimeters better, maybe even add a triadic security lock — if he can afford it. Either way, this won’t happen again. Whoever broke into the Crest will know next time that he’s aware of their intrusion. It should scare them away.

No one in their right mind would come back. It’d only be foolish to make the same hit twice. Every thief on Nevarro knows that.

✵

Except one clearly doesn’t because the next time Din returns to his ship, one of the foodstuff crates is empty.

He tracks a trail of half-eaten food, boots crunching over crumbs and abandoned wrappers, and anger stokes in his gut with each step. It’s pointless to turn on his thermal scanner, pointless to carry his gun this defensively, pointless to glance around every corner for a culprit that’s long gone, and yet, he does so anyway.

The same chaotic footprints blink onto the screen and Din’s grip tightens around his blaster. The same intruder as before. How the hell did they get inside again?

Din kicks aside a chuddle as he unlocks the clearance feed on the lift. The feed blinks back in binary: 00111. There must be an error; it’s only showing him the last time he unlocked the ship, but the intruder must have gained clearance. The only way in is through the lift; there is no other entrance. He refreshes the feed again.

00111. Dammit.

His eyes fall on the trail of food again and something in him deflates. That was at least two weeks worth of food — maybe three if he could’ve stretched it— and now, he’ll be lucky if he can make up the difference with the other crate. He’s barely scraping by as it is and the rest of his funds have to be funneled into the ship for repairs. He’d planned to pay one of the locals to fix it (Peli’s out of the question, considering how little money he has to spend and how exorbitant her prices tend to be), but at this rate, he’ll just have to make the repairs himself, which will set him back another couple of weeks.

It means he’ll have to stay here for longer and be surrounded by Gavit’s boasting. It means he’s stuck.

Din strikes the wall. “Dank farrick.”

It’s the intruder’s fault, and Din means to make them feel the consequences. Thus far, the thief has refused to stay away. Good. He can work with that. If their habits thus far are anything to go by, then there may be a sliver of salvation left for him. Suppose he caught them? Then, he could turn them in and collect a reward that might just cover his losses. Nevarro’s a respectable place now, not so easily forgiving to the transgressions of thieves.

All Din needs to do is prepare.

They will come back and when they do, he will be waiting for them.

✵

It seems Din doesn’t have to wait long because the following day when he’s recalibrating the ND-S within the cockpit, something crashes in the hold.

He’s out of his seat and hurrying down the hall in a heartbeat. He slips along the wall, glaring at the drop-down ladder. Stock-still, he listens for a noise — any noise. The immersion heater thrums to life, sending a low hum through the ship. Din tries to listen past it, focusing on sound from below. No such sound meets him and for a second, he’s sure the crash was a figment of his imagination. Then, something clatters below.

They’re back.

He has one shot at this. If the intruder gets away after realizing they’ve been discovered, they likely won’t come back, which means his redemption will be gone with them. He has the element of surprise for now; it’s likely they have no idea he’s here and Din would like to keep it that way.

It’ll make things less messy and the take-down more effective.

He edges down the ladder, holding up his weight with his arms, so the drop is soundless. His feet barely touch the floor before he’s slipping around the wall adjacent to the privy, blaster in hand. He peeks out from the wall and stifles a curse. Just as he thought the crate’s been tipped over again and as before, someone’s left a trail of wrappers.

From the mound of foodstuffs, something moves. Din sucks in a breath. It’s smaller than he expected, but it’s there.

It’s now or never.

Din steps out of the dark, intentionally bearing down on the give in the floor. It groans under his boot and the figure freezes. A shadow scurries away. Not a shadow. Din stalks forward slowly, blaster extended. The intruder.

“Come out,” he calls into the darkness.

Silence.

He eyes the furthest wall. The shadow leans and a smile spreads across Din’s lips. They’re trapped. The heater flicks off, leaving them in total silence.

“I won’t ask you again,” he says, stilling. “Come out.”

For a second, only the darkness greets him. Then, large eyes gleam from the shadows. There you are… The intruder slinks out and Din’s finger ghosts over the trigger.

“Drop your—”

The blaster almost slips from his hands as the intruder steps into the light. Big, fearful eyes blink back at him.

Stars. Din teeters on his feet. It’s…a child?

At least, it looks like a child. It also looks like nothing Din’s ever seen before: eyes the size of a Rodian’s with ears as big as a Lannik’s. But its eyes aren’t pitch-black like a Rodian’s and its ears aren’t flesh colored like a Lannik’s.

He takes a step forward and it backs up against the wall, whimpering. Its eyes fill with tears and a curse is on Din’s lips. Dank farrick. It’s about to cry.

Din crouches, trying to make himself look smaller. “Hey, hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The child eyes the gun.

He holds it up, palm open. “I’m not going to use this.” He deposits it in his holster. “See?”

Wary eyes still watch Din from the darkness and he collapses on the floor, exhaling. A child. The intruder’s just a hungry child. He’s not sure whether to feel relieved or dismayed.

The child glances between him and the foodstuffs and Din notices. He looks at the mound of foodstuffs and the kid notices. Din snags a packet with a sigh.

“You hungry?” He tosses it to the kid.

The kid jumps when the food smacks on the ground. It peeks at him from behind its collar, but Din just tucks his feet under himself, intentionally looking away.

“Go ahead. It’s yours.”

He hears the sound of plastic tearing apart a beat later and discreetly, Din watches the kid from the corner of his eye. It’s gobbling down the stuff (he’s pretty sure the food’s a dehydrated starch muffin) with the ferocity of a person starved. It reminds him of the little girl at the ceremony —the foundling— and something in Din saddens.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, but the child is too busy ogling one of the muffin’s dehydrated berries to bother with him. “Where’s your family?”

It doesn’t respond and Din wonders if he assumed wrong in thinking the kid understands Basic.

“Your…darda?” The kid doesn’t even look up. So, not Rodian.

Din gives up with a huff. “You got a name, kid?”

Again, it says nothing, gobbling up the last of the muffin with a burp (and a shitload of crumbs scattered around its mouth) instead. Strangely emboldened, it points at the mound.

“You want more?” Din asks with a wince. Stars above, he’s really trying to give away all his food.

The kid surprises him by nodding.

“You…” He leans in. “You can understand me?”

The kid blows air at him and stabs a finger at the food again, looking annoyed.

Din tosses over two protein loaves in a daze. They land inches away from his boot, but the kid just shuffles out from the shadows and tears the first packet open with its claws.

So, the kid does understand Basic… Then, why isn’t it speaking? Perhaps the reason lies with him being a stranger? Or, maybe it’s more simple than that: he just scared the daylights out of a child. Why would it speak to him after that?

Guilt gnaws at Din’s gut. “I’m…sorry I frightened you. I thought you were something—someone— else.”

The child pauses, eying him and Din only wonders what it sees? If he truly is an object of fright (it would hardly be a surprise, considering how other beings typically respond to his presence)?

The kid doesn’t shrink back into the shadows though. Instead, it holds out the loaf to him.

“Oh, I…” Din eyes the string of saliva swinging between the kid’s mouth and the bread and tries not to grimace. “No, you can have it.”

The child has the nerve to look relieved and pops the rest of the loaf into its mouth.

Humor bubbles in Din’s stomach, but it’s not strong enough to overpower the dejection waiting in the back of his mind. He’s back to square one. The good news is he can give the kid a few more snacks and send it on its way. The bad news is he’s still low on money and he’ll still have to complete the repairs himself.

A belch snaps him out of his thoughts and Din finds the kid waiting in front of him.

He eyes the foodstuffs. “Are you…still hungry?”

The child places a hand on his knee and Din hates himself for jumping. It’s the touch and the gaze — the way the child is looking up at him with something like glee— that’s throwing him off.

Din snags another packet. “Here.”

The kid pushes the food away and pats his knee again. It points at the stuffs and smiles back at him and Din really doesn’t understand now. If the kid isn’t hungry anymore, why does it keep pointing at the food?

“I don’t…I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

The child collapses on the floor with a huff. Din chews on his lip, feeling like he just failed at something important. The misunderstanding shouldn’t matter, neither should it bother him so much. He’s sure the kid’s parents understand what it’s saying. Most parents — at least the ones’ Din’s seen in the Covert— do. They have this way of translating a gesture or series of nonsensical babbles from their toddler with ease. Years of child-rearing, one person had told him. But Din doesn’t have years under his belt; he’s not a parent. More specifically, he’s not this one’s parent. He’s a stranger and thus, he doesn’t understand.

Grief settles over him like a cloud and Din glances between the lift and the child. It should be with its people — back where they understand it.

“I think it’s time for you to head home.” He stands without looking at the child. “You stay. I’ll…walk you back or something.”

He climbs up the ladder, slipping into the cockpit to grab his gun. But when he returns, the kid is gone.

✵

The child doesn’t show up the next day and Din breathes a sigh of relief.

Problem solved. The kid’s back at home, hopefully satisfied for the time being. It’s possible that Din’s ship was just a moment of curiosity. Or some spontaneous playground of the kid’s own making. Maybe it just wanted to eat all his food (which is the most probable reason).

Either way, the kid is gone now and all should go back to normal.

Din can stop worrying about his ship getting broken into.

He can finally focus on leaving.

✵

He’s polishing his rifle with an old grease-cloth when the kid toddles into the hold the next day.

Din freezes. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” He didn’t hear the lift open.

The child just wobbles over to him and begins knocking on his boot clasps, making soft ting, ting, ting noises.

“You know this isn’t the way things are supposed to go,” he says to clearly nobody-but-himself because the kid’s too busy playing with his buckle straps now. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else? Someone’s got to be worried about you.”

He crouches down and the kid takes that as permission to crowd into his middle. It throws him off so bad he almost falls back. The child

“I think it’s best that—No, don’t touch that.” Din nudges the kid’s grubby hands away from the explosives on his belt. It eyes him innocently, then reaches for one again. He bats its hand away, knowing this only further proves his point. “What I’m trying to say is, you shouldn’t be—”

The kid skirts behind him and suddenly, Din feels a tug on his cape. He stands to look when an elated shriek meets him.

“Hey!” Din whirls around, feeling a small weight swing off his cape. “I don’t think—What are you…”

A giggle replies back and Din reaches around himself, swiping the kid off his cape. Somehow even more elated, the little womp rat makes a grab for him.

“I don’t think you should be hanging around here. It isn’t—Are you even listening to me?”

Round eyes blink up at him from ogling the plated ensign on his glove and Din doesn’t know why he’s so surprised.

“Listen, I need you to—”

Sharp clink, clink, clink sounds —the kid’s nails tapping on the plating— interrupt him.

Din holds the kid out at arms length and says in one pushed out breath: “You should go home.”

The child looks so horribly crestfallen Din has to avert his gaze to hold his ground. It’s no use though. A low, drawn-out whine croons, tugging at him and it’s embarrassing how quickly he folds. His eyes flicker back to the kid, but it only takes one look to know he’s hurt the kid’s feelings. Remorse churns in his gut, but Din doesn’t know how else to say it. The kid being out here —attempting to play in his ship with him— can’t be good for either of them. Din will be gone soon and the child must have a family somewhere. They’re going in two opposite directions. He isn’t going to stay, but the kid refuses to leave.

“Isn’t there someone who looks after you?” Din asks softly. “Don’t you…have someone?”

The kid whines and reaches for him again and Din feels his heart swell.

He really should send the kid away. His ship is a mess, nearly falling apart with its exposed wiring and open panels. He’s working on several projects at once, all of which demand his immediate attention if he wants to finish on time. Ultimately, this is no place for a child.

The dial ticks against the wall and Din glances at it, reading the time and the temperature. 1327 GST :: 40 °C. The hottest and longest point of the day. It’s a wonder the kid made it out here. Nevarro’s heatwave can send even its own meerkats into hiding. Din’s on the verge of asking the kid how it’s doing all this? How it’s getting around? How it manages to sneak inside his ship? But the questions die on his lips when the dial ticks again, temperature rising.

If he sends the child back now, it could easily die from the heat. But if he lets the kid stay… It might be dangerous. A child roaming around in an old ship? That can’t be good either.

Din looks into the kid’s dark eyes and makes his decision. He sets the kid down and starts toward the ladder, only stopping when he hears silence.

“Well?” Din speaks over his shoulder. “Come on, you little womp rat.”

Behind him, tiny feet stumble to catch up.

✵

“Slow down,” Din tells the kid for the fifth time the following day as the womp rat reaches for another protein loaf. He nudges the bread out of the way. The kid blows air at him and just grabs a salted kell strip instead.

Din leans back in his chair with a sigh, watching the kid drag another pile of vacuum-packed foodstuffs toward it. Truthfully, he’s not sure how this happened. Sure, he’d given the kid a protein loaf before (which tastes like dried out drokboard on a good day and rotten gruel on a bad day), but that was one time. He didn’t really see a problem with it then, but at this rate, the kid’s going to clean him out for the next couple of weeks.

“No, one. I said one,” Din reminds, barely managing to snag the patty from womp rat’s grubby hands.

The kid frowns at him. Din would have taken it seriously if not for the brown sugar crumbs speckled on the child’s cheeks.

“You’ve already eaten three protein loaves, a shell cup, and that cake.” He’s pretty sure the kid’s also taken a handful of flounut butter (if the fist-sized chunk currently missing in the stick is anything to go by), but can’t bring himself to mention it. “I think that’s enough.”

The child shoves a nutrient bar in its mouth and snags another one mid-chew. Din sighs, stuck between feeling concerned and astounded. To be honest, he doesn’t know if the womp rat’s even hungry anymore? Or, if its just eating for greed’s sake? He has half the mind to ask the kid if its guardians let it eat so much? But he hasn’t heard the kid speak once — not a babble, not a mumble, not a word. To ask it a question would hardly receive a vocal response.

“Hey, careful.” Din jolts forward as the child wobbles to the edge of the table.

Its barely stable on its feet as it plops down with a hiccup. Din stifles a groan as the kid grabs for a chewstick. He pushes the stick away; the kid pushes his hands away.

“No. That’s enough.”

The child still seizes it, beginning to nibble on the meat.

“If you keep eating that much you’re going to—”

The child suddenly lurches over and vomits in his lap. For a second, Din’s sure a fastener could have dropped in the cockpit and he still would’ve heard it from the cargo hold. He can feel puke seeping into his pants and he knows it will take a while to get the odor out.

Din looks at the kid; the kid peeks out from behind its collar if only to pay him a nervous glance.

“It’s… fine.” Din finally says, trying to ignore the stench wafting into the room. He surveys the child instead. “Are you okay?”

The kid whines, short arms twisting over its stomach.

Din smiles. “Maybe eat slower next time.”

Next time. Din almost laughs (and he can’t remember the last time he did that). He has vomit on his pants and less food now than he had before and he said ‘next time’.

Maybe there will be one. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

✵

“Why can’t you just pop out a few sprouts the old fashioned way?” Peli asks one evening while recalibrating a data card with a torx that’s far too big for the slots. She tosses the screwdriver on the table with a curse. “I mean, everything’s still in tip-top shape for you, right? How old are you, anyway? Forty-five? Fifty?”

Din looks up from the bolts he’s been piecing through and fixes her with a glare. “Forty-two.”

“Oh, is that all?” She rolls her eyes. “My point is: it’s not like you’re outta options.”

Din focuses back on the bolts, honestly wanting to talk about anything else, but he knows Peli. The woman’s like a charhound; once something has piqued her interest, she returns to it and pursues it with an insatiability that borders on obsessive. Usually, such an interest is only directed at her droids and ships. It’s what makes her the best mechanic in the parsec and also the biggest pain in the ass.

“Biological children are…chancy,” Din finally says.

“All children are, dumbass.”

“No, I mean…” Din huffs, wanting to stop talking already, but he knows she won’t let him — not when he’s already begun. “To produce a child requires a vulnerability that we are not often afforded. Nine months of rest, supervision, and immobility towards the end. We’re always on the move, hunting and being hunted. It’s a risk some are willing to take, but not all.”

“Meaning?”

“There are…dangers.”

Peli throws her hands up in the air. “What is this — a cliffhanger from Doc Hoc’s holo-series? Get to the meat, Mando.”

Din glares at her, but even he can tell it lacks the necessary heat. He regards her carefully, hesitantly, before inching towards a semblance of divulgence.

“Often, when a tribe is attacked, raiders single out the pregnant people first. They barter with their lives but in the end, they kill them anyway. If that slaughter doesn’t bring a tribe to its knees, the vengeance that follows after usually destroys us. We fracture. If that happened to me…If someone harmed my—” He looks away, tightening his hand around the bolt. “Forgiveness is a concept I am unfamiliar with and mercy…? I would show none.”

Peli is silent, eyes flickering between him and the slots on the data card. The few times she does look at him, the remorse in her eyes is palpable enough to make Din wish he’d never said anything in the first place. He hopes she’s satisfied because now they’re both uncomfortable.

“I see…”

She purses her lips in the way she does when she’s refusing to apologize. It’s one of the reasons Din likes her.

“Foundlings are…” Din swallows, trying to find his voice. “They’re the future.”

He almost tells her that he too was a foundling once, but then he remembers who he is now, where he’s been, and what he doesn’t have, and pride makes him keep silent.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I say you got the lucky end of the stick,” Peli says with a snort. “I mean, who in their right mind would wanna raise a baby in this universe anyway?”

She picks up the torx again, mumbling under her breath about the economy within Outer systems (“Tanked for shit, I tell you”), the vigilantes still running around (“That’ll keep you up at night”), and the cost of living (“Y’know how expensive it is to breathe oxygen? The dead have it better”) and all the while, Din hums in understanding if only to hide another thing he almost-but-doesn’t say.

That she’s asking the wrong question. The ‘who’ doesn’t matter. Can it be done? That’s the better question.

✵

The kid speaks a language all its own without ever opening its mouth.

It’s a thought that comes to Din slowly, as gradual as an unveiling from Nevarro’s moon, as he watches the kid roll a gear-shift knob along the expanse of the table. The knob clatters to the floor, the child glances at him, and the thought crests.

“It’s okay.” He tosses his head toward the rolling knob. “Go on.”

The child toddles after it and brandishes the ball with a grin.

Din nods. “I see…”

The kid drops the knob on the floor, picks it up and drops it on the floor, picks it up and looks at Din again, buoyantly expectant.

He hums, leaning back against the table. “It is a nice sound.”

The child goes back to playing with the knob and Din feels like he’s staring into the full face of the moon now. Like something brilliant has finally been revealed.

He’s spent so much time being confused with the kid —asking it to repeat an action, or show him again what it wants, or apologizing because he doesn’t understand what it’s trying to say. He’s misread looks and misunderstood gestures, but finally he’s beginning to understand: the kid’s language is demonstrative. It sounds like knocking on Din’s helm to command his attention; it feels like tugging on his pant leg or tapping on his boots. The child doesn’t speak, but the way it communicates its wants are loud and direct.

The child speaks with expression and presence, and the language never fails to mystify him. They couldn’t be more different. The kid has so many ways of making its presence known, while Din has spent his whole life trying to disappear. The child inserts itself and he always excuses himself. The child is loud (though it doesn’t talk), while he chooses silence.

Silence is a language that Din speaks fluently. He wakes in silence, assembles in silence, eats in silence, and even pursues his bounties without making a sound (most assume his silence is a result of being solitary for so long, wandering through space alone, but solitude did not force silence upon him. He chose it). Conversation, especially with other beings, is frankly tedious. It’s made up of small-talk and pleasantries and falsities that always end up going nowhere. Din speaks like he hunts — with precision and incisiveness— but people converse to converse. There’s no end goal to it, just an aimless wandering.

But the kid… It can start a whole conversation with as little as a glance. There’s nothing aimless about it. The kid always knows exactly what it wants.

A pat on Din’s shoulder draws his attention down. The kid is standing on the table, holding the knob up high with an intent that says it’s going to drop it, but its eyes are on Din. Asking for his attention.

“I’m watching,” he says.

Because the kid always has his attention now. He can’t hide the fact that he’s fascinated, in awe of this wonder of a child. He feels strangely riveted. Like the kid’s always on the precipice of doing something great and unexpected.

The child speaks a language all its own and Din isn’t fluent by a long shot, but he’s learning. He’s learning there’s more than one way to communicate. Between the banks of words and silence, there’s a river of communication that cuts through both extremes. Din’s just beginning to dip his toe in it.

✵

The kid shows up the next day when Din’s yanking a linear stabilizer out from its supports. The beam whines in protest when it’s forced out of the joints and Din almost tells the damn thing to ‘shut up’. He’s been meaning to replace the beam for months, but something always got in the way (he’d gotten away with it at first, but then his propulsion system started declining days before he landed on Nevarro and now, he either needs to replace it or find a new ship). He’s swaying on his feet as he lowers the beam to the floor when tiny footsteps patter after him.

Din eyes the kid. “It’s not safe to be near this. Why don’t you sit over there?” He points at the bench across the room.

The child plops down right next to him.

Din sighs, beginning to unfasten the stabilizer’s micro unit. “What the hell…”

He offloads the log-recorder, micro valve, and pressor, noticing the reddish color bleeding into the casing. Most of its parts have oxidized so badly Din’s surprised the Crest has even made it this long. He won’t be able to salvage the valve, not with the corrosion. He has a feeling the yaw’s as good as shit too.

The sound of nails tapping against steel interrupts him and Din glances up, catching the kid with its hand on the beam.

“Don’t touch that.”

Din returns to the stabilizer; the tapping returns to his ears.

“Hey, I said don’t do that.” He sits up, nudging the kid’s hand off a tube in the beam. The child’s ears fall low enough to brush against its own shoulders and something in Din softens. “If a part bursts, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

The blank look the kid gives him only further proves a thought that Din’s been having for days: it doesn’t care what he has to say. That would hardly be a surprise.

He’s moving to return to the unit when a hand pats his thigh. The child looks between him and the tube, then points at it.

“No, you can’t touch that.”

The child blows air at him, fixing Din with a look that leaves him feeling strangely stupid. It points at the stabilizer again, this time dragging Din’s hand over the tube. The kid looks back at him with a questioning look. Oh.

“That’s the regulator,” he names, drawing a coo out of the child. Din goes back to unscrewing the axle bay. “Let’s just say it ensures I don’t burn to a crisp inside my own ship.”

Another sound reverberates off the beam and Din looks up to see what the kid is pointing at this time.

“That’s the drive plate.” Din eyes the circular shaped tray that’s only given him problems since he first installed the damn thing. “It’s supposed to keep the propulsion under control.”

Another tap.

Din pays it a lazy glance. “That’s the collator. Deflects toxins.”

The kid points at something else.

“Cowling system. Keeps certain stuff from breaking other stuff.”

An inquisitive chirp.

Din looks at the circuitry, frowning. “I actually don’t know what that is.”

The child coos regardless, thankfully not off-put by his response, and Din feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. He can’t remember the last time he saw wonder on a face. Trying times tend to whittle everything down to survival’s necessities; everything must have a purpose. His people know that more than most. As hunters, they’re always in pursuit of something, fixed on a goal, or a bounty, or a mission. As prey, they are always in hiding, on the run, being hunted. As a consequence, every action must be carefully plotted out (thoughtless decisions can easily get one killed). Everything must be a means to end. The stabilizer is just that — a means to an end (or, at the very least, give his ship enough steadiness to fly) — but the kid is looking at it like it's a marvel all on its own, even though it’s practically useless at this point.

To enjoy something, not solely for its use, but for its own sake is novel. Unusual, but nonetheless special.

Din licks his lips, feeling warmth pool in his gut. “You’re…pretty special, kid.”

The child just leans against him and points to another thing it wants named.

✵

The kid doesn’t show up the next day and Din actually pauses on the lift, scanning the landscape.

Ash belches from the flats, raining down on the black terra and for the first time, concern flashes across Din’s mind. It’s brief and small enough for him to push it back down. He has no claim on the kid’s time nor does he get to wonder where it ran off to? There’s nothing tying the kid to him.

Still, he can’t help but think about the kid’s safety (to be honest, he thinks about the kid’s wellbeing all the time). About how a child so small could find its way out here? It’s hardly safe. But then he has to remind himself that the kid’s comings-and-goings are none of his business. He’s not its guardian or parent. He’s not the kid's anything. So, the last person who has permission to be worried is him.

Din knows that and yet, his eyes still survey the rocky terrain, tracing where the skyline meets the earth. It’s getting late and the kid never comes past sundown. It’s a detail he noticed about the kid several days in — among many others. Like how the child always leaves when he isn’t looking — when he goes to grab something, or use the privy, or replace another part. The kid always disappears at times like that and he always notices.

The sun dips behind the mountains and Din knows he should go in.

One absent day doesn’t mean anything, so there’s no need to make a fuss. The kid will either be back or it won’t.

✵

Three days go by and the kid still hasn’t made an appearance.

Three days isn’t much, but the absence of tiny feet pattering behind him adds a felt weight to each one of those days.

Maybe, the kid’s found something else to pique its interest. It’s a thought that causes his hands to fall from the ship’s transverter, wiring dangling limply out of the ship’s side. There’s so much to do — so many projects to complete. Yet, in those three days, Din’s barely gotten half of his intended work done, abandoning it just hours in. He’s been too distracted, thinking about the kid.

It might be true — the loss of interest. Children have the attention span of a swamp pup. He’s seen it well enough with the foundlings in the Tribe. They can pick up a toy one day and discard it the next. It’s just the way things are.

The ship was a thing of excitement for the kid, but even new things become old after a while. Din figures that’s why the kid started following him around. It needed something new to pique its interest. Why else would it trail him?

Din’s life doesn’t have any glitz or glamour to it, so he knew the kid would eventually skip.

It was only a matter of time.

✵

Two days pass when Din —randomly, suddenly, for some ridiculous reason— decides to buy a sweet bread.

He sets it on the table (the one where the kid rolls —used to roll— the gear-shift knob off the ledge) and stares at it.

Cinnamon glaze drips onto the table; the bread stares back.

Din leaves, feeling uncomfortably exposed for some reason.

When he returns hours after, the bread’s still there. Untouched.

✵

Another day passes and the bread has started to cave in on itself. Only time has touched it.

The kid still hasn’t turned up.

Din tells himself he doesn’t notice as he goes to find himself something to do.

It’s good for him — having projects to busy his hands with. It only stops being so when he realizes his shadow is the only thing following him around now.

Well, shit. That used to be normal.

✵

The sweet bread’s gathering mold now.

It’s rotting from the inside out and something inside Din goes sour with it. He decides after a while to toss the bread into the incinerator. There’s no trace of it once the incinerator dies down and yet, Din still can’t leave his spot in front of the shoot. He stares into the dark funnel, losing himself in it.

Why had he bought the sweet bread anyway? It probably doesn’t matter. The kid’s not coming back and Din knows he should feel relieved. No child should be roaming around a stranger’s ship unattended — not in this universe anyway. Most likely, the kid’s guardians had noticed its absence and told the womp rat to stay put.

Good. The kid needs to be with its family. It belongs with them. To think otherwise would just be…selfish.

But Din is selfish. That’s why he stopped caring if the kid came around. It’s what started him on this road in the first place — waiting on the kid, rationing out food for it, buying it sweet bread.

Why the hell did he buy the bread? Because he was struck by a moment of stupidity? Because the kid has —had— a sweet tooth? Because he had the money (when he really doesn’t)?

Why?

Din watches the flames die out, flickering into soft embers, and another thought from deep inside of him whispers: Isn’t it obvious?

Maybe it is, but Din’s always been too slow to see things like that —the things that matter— until they’re gone.

Like the sweet bread.

Like the kid.

✵

A week later, Din is wrapping a make-shift conductor patch around a frayed cable when the kid rushes in. His hands snap around the cable so tight it singes his fingers.

Din clears his throat, sealing the lift with his vambrace. “So, you’re back.” He rummages through the toolbox if only to quell the tide of questions and emotions that threaten to overtake him. He swallows and the tide rolls back. “Why don’t you make yourself useful this time and help me fix—”

The kid barrels into his stomach and Din falls back on his behind. His tailbone complains, but he’s too busy nursing the shock rolling through him (the kid followed him around, sure; tapped on his arm, sometimes; held onto his leg once or twice, but it never hugged him).

His hands waver in the air before they finally settle on the kid’s back. “I guess it’s been a while. I just didn’t expect…”

A mewl whistles against his armor and Din stills, feeling the child tremble under his hands. His shock quickly turns from bewilderment to concern.

“Hey.” He tilts his head, trying to catch the kid’s eye. It only burrows deeper into his stomach, a cry vibrating off the padding. Din’s heart leaps to his throat. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

From outside, a blaster flare pings off the ship and Din straightens. A handful more follow, raining down a barrage that rings through the hold and makes the child sink its nails into Din’s forearms.

“Come on out, you ugly little bug!” A voice shouts from beyond the ship walls. Its effect is like lightning, jolting the child out of Din’s arms to race behind him. “You can’t run.”

Din’s gaze darts from the kid to the ruckus outside. “Are you… hiding from them?”

Something bangs against the side of the ship. “I said ‘come out’!”

Din’s hands close into fists as he feels the child crowd against his back. Questions rush to the surface, unbidden and forceful. In his mind, he has time to ask the kid about them: Who’s out there, and why are they after you? Where have you been? But there is no time and, by the sound of the blasts ricocheting off the lift, they’re bound to figure out a way inside soon.

Din rises, gathering up his rifle from the wall. Before he can take a step, something snags onto his cape. The kid stumbles behind him, fist tightened around the fabric.

Din smiles. “I need you to stay here, okay?”

The child shakes its head, eyes filling with tears.

“There’s no need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Din snaps the rifle to his back and crouches. “But I need you to go hide somewhere. You know your way around by now, don’t you?”

Another bang rings out and the kid yelps, gaze darting to the noise.

“I won’t let them hurt you. Now, go on.” Din nudges the kid away. The child lingers, eying him nervously before it finally stumbles off, tripping on its own romper.

Din waits until the kid disappears out of sight before he releases the security latch and draws his blaster. Flares whizz through the thin opening, setting one of his chairs aflame. Another clinks off Din’s pauldron and he fires blind into the narrow opening.

The lift barely finishes dropping before he’s out the ship, firing. The first three go down easily like a line of vulks, too surprised by his presence to dodge the blasts. Footsteps race close to Din’s left. He hurls a throwing knife at his side, shooting a Rodian in the same breath. The air electrifies as Din spins away, blaster flares pinging off his armor. His heart is in his ears, harried and quick, syncing his movements with its rhythm.

A flare throws his blaster out his hand. Th-thump. Din flips his rifle over his shoulder, meeting a shearing pike. Th-thump. A reptilian-like creature drives the pike into his balancing stock.

“The bug. Where is—”

Din slits its throat. Ice-cold blood sprays, dripping off his helm. Th-thum— A roar reaches his ears as he’s rammed to the ground. His rifle clatters against the rock and fear strikes him as a Palliduvan straddles him, raising a hatchet over their head.

Din draws his vibroblade in one fluid motion and drives it into the Duvan’s stomach. Warm guts spill into his lap and he swallows down the urge to gag. They keel over with a whine.

Din’s on his feet before their hatchet hits the ground, searching for the next assailant. All he finds is a host of dead bodies littering the floor. His fists fall at his sides, but his heart is always the last one to leave the fight. It continues racing in his chest, distrusting the stillness.

Hot smoke from one of the nearby lava fields spirals in the air, cloaking the area in a brief fog. Din grimaces as he picks up his rifle, feeling the gut residue plaster his pants to his skin. Dank farrick. That’s going to be a crink to—

Something whistles through the air. Din pivots, raising his vambrace just as a hairline dagger strikes his armor. He spins, eyes darting around for the source, but only the whistle of the wind greets him. Nothing. Smoke swirls, creating a cloud so thick Din almost misses the glint of another knife hurling towards him.

He side-steps and it sings past his helm.

“A Mandalorian.” He hears laughter through the smoke. It’s not so much loud as it is resonant, ghost-like. “Well, isn’t this a treat?”

A steady clink echoes through the fog, bringing with it a shadowed figure. Din’s eyes catch on the ridged, charcoal armor molded to their muscles like bernillian silk, and the gold staff perched in their hand.

Din’s grip tightens on his rifle. “Who are you?”

They cast off their scarlet cloak, unveiling a host of spikes hanging over their brow. A female Nikto. “I am a member of the Morgukai.”

“I do not know of your kind.”

“Neither should you. You are not what I hunt.”

The Nikto veers left and Din follows; he trails right and she shadows. They’re circling each other in an infinite spiral.

“What is it you want?” he asks.

She nods at the dead bodies. “What they came for, but failed to retrieve — the fledgling Jedi.” She stops and the staff ignites, crackling with electricity. “The boy.”

Din’s eyes widen. The… Jedi? His gaze flashes to the ship. The kid. Just how many hunters are after it?

“I’ve been tracking it for weeks now, following that gang of nitwits. They nabbed the creature off Arvala-7 from some creature who nabbed it off another. It’s passed through enough captors to fill a moonbase,” she says casually, still circling, but Din stutters to halt, reeling. She seizes the moment, hurling a stardart at him. Din deflects, but he’s far too slow. The dart cuts into his collar, drawing a hiss out of him.

“Now, isn’t that a pretty sound…” The Nikto laughs, leaning on her staff with a cavalier air that only kindles Din’s irritation. She cocks her head to the side, regarding him with a pitying hum. “You’ve formed an attachment... It’s already slowing you down. What a shame.”

Din stifles a scowl, knowing she’s only trying to rile him up. Anger can be easy fuel, but its fire is reckless; it’ll cause him to burn out too quickly if he isn’t careful.

“You can’t have the kid,” he says, re-centering.

The Nikto throws her head back and laughs. “You think I want to take it? I’m not here to take the fledgling.” Her eyes darken. “I’m here to kill it.”

She launches herself at him so quickly Din barely blocks her strike with his rifle. An electric pulse from her staff throws him back, sending him stumbling on the rocks. Stars above. He rights himself again. What is that?

“You have no idea what you’re in possession of.” The Nikto drags her staff against the ground, leaving scorch marks where it lands. “What that thing can do.”

The words are barely out her mouth before she’s attacking again and suddenly, they’re darting, feinting, slashing. The staff swipes over his head and Din ducks, blood rushing to his ears. His flamethrower bursts to life. The fire sends her darting back before she’s at him again. She’s fast — utilizing speed and precision over brute strength— but Din’s faster.

He kicks the Nikto’s feet out from under her. The staff falls from her hands, but she only uses the momentum to drag him to the ground with her. In a breath, she has a blade to his throat and Din has a knife at her back.

“Oh, you’re good…” She grins, revealing a row of sharp fangs. “But not good enough. It’ll take more energy for you to crack through my spine than it’ll take for me to slit your throat.”

Din flexes his fingers around the knife’s hilt, grimacing. She’s right. He’s holding a throwing knife (which is impossible to cut through armor), while his vibroblade still sits in the Duvan’s stomach. That oversight might just cost him his life.

“While you were so busy cutting down that band of nitwits, I took a stroll in your ship.” She bears down on his chest when he lurches up. “Unfortunately, I turned up empty. So, you’re going to help me.”

Her knife cuts into his skin and Din feels warm blood dribble down his throat.

“Where’s the boy?”

He says nothing.

She leans in, breath ghosting over his viewfinder. “I’ve heard of your people. They say you’re skilled, indomitable, ruthless… I didn’t know stupid was another great quality you possess. A Mandalorian dying for a fledgling?” The blade digs into his skin. “Well, I’ve truly seen it all—”

Her voice chokes off with a high-pitched whine, eyes bulging. The knife clatters to the ground beside him and Din’s eyes dart from the frozen Nikto, to the fallen assailants, to the ship.

To the small figure standing at the ramp’s edge.

No.

The kid flicks its —his— hand and the Nikto goes sailing off of him. Din jolts up just as the kid falls back on the lift, chest heaving. Stars above.

“You!”

Din’s eyes tear away from the kid as the Nikto suddenly stumbles to her feet, eyes locked on the child. She gathers up her staff.

“No!” Din snatches his rifle and fires. Her body disintegrates into a cloud of smoke, scraps of clothing falling to the ground like leaves.

He catapults off the ground, kicking up rocks behind him as he runs to the lift. He falls on his knees clumsily before the kid.

“What are you doing out here?” he says, panting. Sweat dribbles down his temple. “I told you to stay on the ship. I told you to go. I told you—”

The kid whimpers weakly and Din’s nails dig into his own knee, silencing him from finishing his foolish chide. This isn’t the time.

“Where…” He swallows, feeling a strain in his voice. His eyes dart around the kid’s form, searching for a wound, a scratch, anything that might explain why the kid’s on the verge of passing out? “Where are you hurt?”

The child just whimpers and Din lays down his rifle, gathering him up. He stands, teetering on his feet. The kid shouldn’t be shaking this bad — not in the sweltering heat. He doesn’t feel cold nor does he seem to be wounded. But he is hurt. Din has half the mind to worry and half the mind to shoot something again when the child nestles against his breastplate, beginning to doze off.

Din shakes the kid’s chest. “Hey, no. You shouldn’t—”

A small hand curls around his finger and Din quiets, feeling a lump lodge itself in his throat. He eyes the landscape instead, taking in the discarded blasters, the splatters of blood, and the remnant scraps of the Nikto’s singed clothing. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

He should be relieved. The fight is over. But anxiety is sitting on Din’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

That gang of hunters… They stole the kid. There’s so much the Nikto didn’t divulge, but that small piece of information is enough to kindle his anger and grief. Din may keep to himself, but he doesn’t keep his head in the sand. He knows about the hunters who steal children for profit. The underground business is as murky as they come, putting even the seediest lowlifes within the Guild to shame.

But this… Din didn’t expect this.

He gazes back down at the child sleeping in his arms, feeling a host of questions rise to the surface, but the questions are a distraction. It’s easier to interrogate and probe than it is to sit with what he knows. To sit with the truth.

That the kid isn’t some wandering child, looking for adventure. It’s…a foundling.

A foundling who’s now in his care.

Chapter Text

When Din was a boy, his buir used to say the currents of fate wait for no one. 

The mighty kneel at its call.

The weak tremble at its beckoning.

But both are caught in its tide, swept away toward their destiny. 

The old man cast the hand of fate as some benevolent, omniscient force always leading a person toward a favorable end. One may run from it, try to escape it, but fate will summon them just the same. 

Even as a kid, Din felt the unpredictability of such a force. How does fate dole out its favors? Does it rain down a harvest of blessing on some, while inflicting suffering on others? Is it truly good? And if fate is good, why doesn’t it make their Findings easier? Why must their people lose weeks, years, decades searching aimlessly through the galaxy? A dream isn’t much to go by, Din had scoffed. 

His buir just drew him close then, disagreeing (“I found you, didn’t I?”).

It was enough for Din to believe then.

But now?

Din’s hand tightens around the sixth tracking fob he’d picked off the hunters, feeling his stomach twist as the beacon blinks red. Clearly, fate didn’t care about sweeping a child up in its tide of abduction and misery. Neither did it care about disrupting a kid’s livelihood. It almost killed the kid at the hand of that Nikto. 

But apparently, such is the benevolent hand of fate.

Din crushes the fob under his boot, hurling the pieces into the fire. The flames flare up, crackling excitedly with the new kindling as if hungry for more. There are no more tracking fobs though; he destroyed all of them alongside the bodies.

But more hunters will come… 

Din pushes the thought away as soon as it arrives. Yet, his eyes can’t help but find their way back to the ship, recalling the blaster flares, the chaos, and the child currently sleeping inside. 

Not just any child, his memory corrects. A foundling. 

The kid’s been asleep for what feels like an eternity, tucked in a make-shift hammock made up of tarp and canopy belting — a poor attempt for a bed— and Din can’t help but think it’s some deranged metaphor for this mess he’s found himself in. He’s been going over what he knows —the bare facts— for hours, but the attempt is as dismal as the kid’s bedding. He has so little to work with. The kid was kidnapped, to be sure, and his captors did pursue him to the Crest.

But beyond that? Din knows next to nothing.

The lift whines behind him and Din turns around, finding the child toddling down the landing with an insulator cloth (Din’s poor excuse for a blanket) in one hand while scrubbing his eyes with the other. 

Din’s shoulders relax. “You’re awake.”

The kid holds his arms up and Din gives in. He cradles him in his arm, smoothing the cloth on top of him. 

“Are you feeling any better?”

The kid yawns, smacking his lips and Din actually smiles for the first time in weeks. Back when the kid first arrived, he caught himself smiling all the time; but then, the child disappeared and worry-lines replaced where his smile used to be. He can’t say he’s bothered by its return now.

Kindling crackles, snapping Din’s attention back to the fire just in time to see the Nikto’s staff disintegrate, belching out black smoke and sparks. He should feel satisfied, but the staff only elicits the same old warning. 

More will come…

“The Nikto,” he says, swallowing the implications of that warning away. “She said you were…”

The child blinks up at him innocently and Din loses his voice. He can’t bear to say the words, but it doesn’t seem to matter; the memories still come to him unbidden and indicting. His disheveled blanket. The gobbled-up foodstuffs. The kid’s tendency to eat until he made himself sick. The way the kid trembled at the sight of his gun.

Like he’d been on the receiving end of one before…

Din’s hand closes into a fist. “We’ll find your family. Until then, I’ll—”

He’ll what? There are no stipulations, no addendums in the Creed for situations like this. Foundlings are discovered by their intended parent and Din isn’t… 

He clenches his jaw against the thought. What else is he supposed to do then? The child isn’t safe here. He has powers, sure, but he can’t seem to do much else after he uses them. 

He’s still, above all things, a child. 

“Until then,” Din says, “I’ll protect you.”

The kid burrows into his chest, seeking out warmth as a gust of wind blows through them. Din’s armor is a poor substitute for heat though —meant for protecting, not nurturing— and if the kid’s frustrated jostlings are anything to go by, he knows it too.  

Din rearranges the insulator cloth so it’s stuffed between his chest and the kid’s body, creating a plush barrier. Immediately, the child quiets, eyes drooping, flirting with the idea of sleep again. 

“It’s getting late…” Din eyes the skyline burning orange with the setting sun. “I’m sure you’re hungry by now. We can get some food? Or play with that knob you like? What do you say, kid—?”

Soft snores whistle against his breastplate and Din’s shoulders fall, amused but unsurprised. 

“Why did you come out here if you were still tired?”

The child just cuddles closer, cheek slipping from the cloth and onto his armor again and Din can already imagine the impressions that’ll be on the kid’s face when he wakes — textured ridges and wrinkles, map lines telling of where he’s been. He looks swollen with sleep and something within Din unravels at the sight, simultaneously moved and astonished.

His hand hovers over the child’s face and before he can quell it, an old ache resurrects itself. He’s made a habit of taking his longing and burying it alive — not killing it, but not feeling it either. But the longing is returning now, seeping into his chest, melding with his grief and Din knows —from experience, from history, from memory— how this will end for him. 

His hand falls at his side. 

The ache subsides. 

And the longing goes back under, buried.

But the questions looming in the back of his mind do not go away. There’s one, in particular, that’s been haunting him ever since he discovered the kid was a foundling; one that makes his wrist burn the more he considers it.

How could he have found a child? 

It is unlikely anyone in the Tribe would know what to do and even if someone did, he wouldn’t bring such a situation before them. The news would only incite shock and censure and he’d prefer to avoid both reactions. 

Din shifts the kid to his other arm, more out of a need to move his body than out of a need to relieve aching limbs. The blanket catches on his vambrace. He unfastens it, moving to tuck the corners back in when his eyes land on the tattoo peeking out from behind his sleeve. He freezes, feeling an idea emerge.

There might not be anyone who can give him answers. 

But there is someone he can bring his questions to.

✵

The Armorer handles her emotion like the metal she forges: with care and practiced skill. She takes her emotion and submerges it in indifference, reshaping it into something more durable. Feeling is a vulnerable, unbridled thing and she is all hard lines and erect posture, control and discretion. The more she feels, the less she shows.

It’s a revelation that’s taken Din years to understand. So when he finishes relaying the story and she hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t shifted in her seat, hasn’t so much as tilted her helm, he knows.

“You discovered a foundling?” she asks cooly, sitting as rigid as a stone. He’s seen such detachment before. Shock, Din reads. And something else…

“Yes.” Din hesitates. “No, he found me.”

“The foundling found you?”

She’s mirroring, not to make sure she understands but to temper a reaction. It’s a grounding technique. One she taught him years ago. 

The shoulder bag jostles against Din’s hip and he smooths a hand down its side, coaxing the child to still. He can feel the Armorer’s eyes watching him and he doesn’t have to wonder what she sees. What both troubles and shocks her. Instinctively, Din brushes his thumb against his sleeve, making sure his wrist is still covered.

“Show it to me.”

Obediently, he sets the bag on the table and lowers the sides with care. The kid pops up with a chirp, hurrying out before Din can even remove his hands. He trips over a lip in the bag and flails, face planting with an ‘oomph’. 

“This is the foundling?”

The kid’s ears fly up, and he whips around to her so fast it’s a wonder he didn’t strain his neck in the process. The Armorer doesn’t so much as pay him a nod. The kid barrels into Din’s chest, scrabbling at his arms like he’s torn between wanting to be held or wanting to hold on to him.

“Yes, this…This is—” Heat stokes on Din’s face as the child releases a whine, looking about ready to threaten tears if he’s not picked up soon. Hurriedly, Din settles him on his lap. “This is he.”

“It’s formed an attachment to you,” she observes. 

Din presses his lips together, not wanting to say it, but he has to make sure she’d never think he would… “You must know, I didn’t… I wouldn’t force such a bond.”

“No.” Her helm dips to the kid. “I do not believe you did.”

The child digs his face in Din's stomach, starting to fuss. Din pulls out the gear-shift knob to quiet him. 

“The hunters you spoke of…” The Armorer’s voice sharpens, sounding almost lethal. “Do they still live?”

Din tilts his head to the side, insulted.

“I see…” She focuses on the child again, leaning in. “It looks helpless.”

“He’s not. He can… move things with his mind.”

“I know of such things.” The Armorer rises, returning with an unshaped dura-plate between a pair of tongs. The kiln’s flames sizzle around the plate, igniting pink and sending shadows dancing across her helm. Yet, she is like the still waters of Gorgal. Placid and unmoved. “The songs of eons past tell of battles waged between Mandalore the Great and an order of sorcerers known as Jedi.”

Din starts. “He’s an enemy?”

“Its kind were enemies, but this child is not.” She sets the plate aside. “This one is a foundling.”

Tension sits in Din’s gut, weighing him down for a different reason. “I destroyed the tracking fobs, but more hunters will come. They’ll be drawn back here to the Covert. If we were discovered…” Din twists his lips together. “We are still vulnerable and the child is alone.”

“Is that your only concern?” she asks tonelessly. “For the Tribe and the child’s safety?”

He says nothing, letting his silence speak what he cannot say with words. 

“I presume you know the ancient rites of the Creed.”

Din's brows knit together, confused. “I do."

“Then, you know what it says about foundlings.” The Armorer straightens, laying the tongs down on the kiln’s rim. “Until the child is reunited with its kind,” she says, “you are as its father.”

Din’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth to protest, but a bitter taste slinks across his tongue, souring every objection; he presses his lips together into a thin line. She’s citing an old law, one they did away with once the dreams arrived. Initially, by Creed, they couldn’t leave foundlings but with the dreams’ inception, such a law became antiquated, unnecessary (after all, why would they abandon their own dream child?). He understands why she’s applying the law — foundlings are the future— but she’s asking him to be the one thing he can’t be. 

“Something troubles you,” she notices. 

Din fights the urge to look away. A host of responses —all truthful and revealing— wait on his tongue. Have you forgotten what you said all those years ago? We were younger then and time has changed nothing. You are still ruthlessly certain and I am hopelessly lost. 

“You know I’m not… That I don’t have—” Din’s hands tighten around his knees and the child glances up, eying him with concern. A small hand finds his arm. “I am not his intended.”

“No, you are not,” she agrees, reaching for a damaged pauldron with the tongs. “Nevertheless, you cannot leave it alone. It would die.”

“I wouldn’t abandon him. But what you are asking me to do… It isn’t done.”

The kiln sputters as the Armorer submerges the pauldron in its heat. “Our annals tell of a time when we used to take in foundlings before the dreams arrived.”

Din frowns. “That was in the past.”

“And yet, history rises to address you in the present,” she says. “Do you not find yourself in the same situation?”

“It is hardly similar.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“You know why,” he snaps, forgetting himself. 

The child whimpers in his lap, abandoning the ball to curl in on himself. Din shushes him, smoothing a hand down his back apologetically before handing him the knob.

Only when the whimpers quiet does Din dip his head to her. “Forgive me.” 

The Armorer regards him silently. “You fear censure.”

“The ancient way…” Din shakes his head. “It isn’t who we are now. I can protect the kid, but I can’t be his father.”

“You must. The child requires nurturing,” she says, retrieving a dross ladle. “You will provide such care until you locate its kind.” 

Her tone says that’s the end of this tirade, but Din can’t let it go. He doesn’t need her to make concessions on his behalf. He doesn’t want her to. 

The child squirms in his lap, drawing Din’s attention to him. The kid pushes at his arms until he manages to squeeze out from under them, sliding to the floor instead. Din can't help but follow him with his eyes, watching as the ball falls out of the kid's hands, dribbling onto the floor. An accidental kick sends it spiraling toward the main hall. Squealing, the child wobbles after it.

Din jerks up. “Don’t—”

“There is no need to worry,” the Armorer says without looking at him. She continues pouring dross into the ladle. “The child will refrain from venturing anywhere you are not.”

Din doesn’t know about that. What he does know is that the hall leads to the mess, where most of the Tribe go to eat at this time of day. If they found out about the kid, about this Finding, there would be an inquiry — and not a pleasant one either.

He wavers on his feet as the kid captures the ball and pauses at the hall’s entrance, standing in the thick of a shadow. Someone laughs beyond the corridor and Din swallows, torn between issuing another warning or going to collect the child himself.

“Kid—”

The child scuttles back, almost tripping over his own feet as he runs to hide behind Din’s leg. Wide-eyed, the kid stares up at him, stabbing a finger at the shadowed entrance.

“I know it’s scary.”

The kid inches behind his leg a little more, shooting an adorably mean glare at the hall before holding up the ball to him.

“I saw,” Din says, understanding. “You did good, kid.”

The Armorer’s attention is on him when Din looks up at her and he shifts his footing, feeling a strange sort of self-consciousness.

“Do you know why you were chosen as beroya?”

He picks up the kid. “I was told it was due to Gavit’s injuries.” 

“Bounty-hunting attracts many for different reasons,” the Armorer speaks into the kiln. “Some venture down its path in search of vainglory. Others are driven by the rewards. But for those who walk the Way of the Mandalore, the beroya is both a provider and a sustainer of life. They are the backbone of the community.”

He scowls. “As I’ve heard.”

“I can only assume you speak of Mauns Gavit again.” She goes to sit down and Din follows her. “Yes, he would know a great deal about strength. But the other side, I doubt he knows much.”

“Other side?” 

The child climbs onto the table and the Armorer’s helm follows him, watching as he rolls the ball back and forth.

“It is true the beroya is the backbone of the community,” she says, still observing the kid. “But they are also its heart. Bounty-hunting is a precarious business. Too much strength and one can become arrogant. Too much heart and one can get themselves killed. But an equal measure in both is…rare, but extraordinary nonetheless.” 

He can feel her eyes on him.

“Do you understand what I am saying?”

Din swallows, trying to locate his voice. “I…do.”

“Good.” She takes out a familiar pouch. “I trust you will use this wisely.”

The contents clink when they’re set on the table, seizing the child’s attention. He abandons the ball in favor of poking at the bag, giggling when it jingles in response.

“Those rewards,” Din says, frowning. “They’re for the—”

“Foundlings,” she affirms, nodding at the kid. “As I recall, one is in your charge now.”

Din eyes the pouch, knowing how much is in there.

“I do not need so much.”

“Because you ask for so little,” the Armorer replies, slipping the pouch from the kid. The little womp rat tucks his face behind his collar, whining at the loss. “Besides, the foundling requires more than your lifestyle permits. Will you deny it that opportunity for a better livelihood?”

It’s a gentle reproof, but a reproof nonetheless. 

“I will make the child a carrier,” she says. “It will take me two days. Can you return by then?”

“A carrier?”

“If hunters are in pursuit of the foundling as you say, then your satchel will hardly protect it well. I will enable the carrier to sync to your vambrace, so you may direct its motion control.”

Din’s throat tightens, full of emotion. “I—”

The Armorer cuts him off with a definitive nod. She’s never been one to accept gratitude, principally because she deems it unnecessary (he learned that lesson the hard way in the past and is loath to repeat it again), but Din still feels the words on his tongue. She’s always been a walking contradiction: fiercely just, yet merciful. Formidable, yet kind. He doesn’t know how to thank her for that. 

“Although, I must advise you: the foundling is only in your care temporarily. You must locate its kind and return it,” she says. “You know what will happen if you fail.”

And he does. She’s already thinning the law to accommodate him, but it can only extend so far. It isn’t their Way to keep children that don’t belong to them. Din would never ask for such a thing. No child should be separated from their people. The kid deserves better than that.

He has to go back.

The Armorer rises. “Foundlings are the future.”

“They are…” His eyes rest on the kid.

“This is the Way.”

Din stands, feeling conviction solidify in his chest. “This is the Way.”

✵

Necessities are expensive on Nevarro.

It’s the one thing he tends to forget about the planet. Back when Nevarro was a bounty-hunter’s hive, one could easily buy a packet of emergency air filters or waste recyclers for dirt cheap (after all people didn’t come to the planet for a few survival necessities). But the planet’s renovation changed all that. The base price for most essentials starts at five druggats. 

The renovation is new, but Din’s history with Nevarro is old. It’s why when he’s at a miscellaneous booth, debating whether to stock up on extra food (which, based on the kid’s appetite, they might undoubtedly need) or purchase a blanket for the kid that costs twelve druggats but looks like it should cost nine, he remembers why he doesn’t buy most of his necessities here.

Din runs the blanket through his fingers, conscious of the seller who hasn’t stopped eying him since he arrived, and gives in. Grumbling, he hands over the druggats and takes the blanket. 

He’s considering how to make up the difference (maybe forgoing buying a water recycler) when the kid leans out of the shoulder bag, pointing at an open toy stand. 

“We’re not here for toys,” he says.

The kid stabs his finger at the stand like Din clearly didn’t hear him.

“No.”

The child blinks up at him pleadingly. Din glances at the shop, taking in its toys, dolls, and strange knick-knacks, and feels a shudder roll through his body.

“Fine, but we’re only going to look.”

The stand itself isn’t big by any means and yet, as they walk up to it, Din feels severely overwhelmed. It looks like the kaleidoscopic festive houses on Ryloth with its bright colors and obnoxious decorations. He sets the kid on the ground, following close behind as the kid waddles over to a toy shelf.

Din bats aside an oversized plush animal only to run into another. An auto-instrument blasts upbeat music through the stand and it's far too soon to check the time and yet, Din still feels the urge to do so. This place is as much of a torment as it is a nightmare.

There’s a tug on his pant leg and he looks down, finding the kid holding up a stuffie.

“No.” Din looks at the price tag and if it wasn’t a ‘no’ before it definitely is now. “That isn’t a necessity.”

The kid’s eyes round into saucers.

“We’re here for provisions and supplies, not toys.” He takes the stuffie and the child keens, straining to snatch it back. “I’ll get you something else.”

Deflating, the kid walks off.

“Hey, we’re not done talking.” Din sets his hands on his hips. 

The kid blows air at him.

Din barely bites back a response. How did he end up with such a stubborn child? The foundlings in the Tribe can be petulant at times, but few forget their manners completely. He’s pretty sure the kid doesn’t have a polite bone in his body. Strong-willed? Definitely. But respectful? No. At least not in this case.

The child rocks on his feet in front of the toy shelf, fiddling with another stuffie and Din sighs. They really don’t have the money for it, not when he’s hoping to stock up on supplies. There’s no telling how far this quest will take him and if hunters are still after the kid, it’s better to make as few pit stops as they can.

And yet.

The kid keeps glancing at the stuffie in Din's hand and Din knows he’s losing ground. Just like he knows the kid is only whining to get him to change his mind. 

He just hates the fact that it’s working.

“Alright,” Din concedes.

The child's ears fly up. The innocent look would have worked if he hadn’t been tugging on the strings of Din’s moneybag for the last few minutes. Stars above, he’s worse than Peli.

“One and you’re done, you hear me? We don’t have enough money for—”

The kid squeals and grabs five. 

Din spends the next few minutes trying to negotiate him down to three.

•••

It's high-noon by the time Din slinks out of the toy stand, carrying less of what he'd intended to spend money on and more of what they clearly don’t need. The crowd jostles him down the street, only adding to his annoyance. The Armorer said to use the money wisely and in the span of a few hours, he’s given in to round eyes and soft whimpers, buying toys, stuffed animals, and baubles. Stars above. Is he really so easily persuaded?

"Twenty pieces!" A vendor calls out over the throng of voices, brandishing a reddish fruit. "Twenty pieces for fresh po'dorj! A competitive price!" He strains from his booth as Din walks by. "You, sir—"

Din looks at him and the vendor pales, dropping the fruit.

The child peeks out from the shoulder bag and waves two new stuffies at him.

"Put those back," Din says. "You'll lose them that way."

The kid ignores him and waves the toys at another seller. Din rolls his eyes, refusing to care.

Sighing, he shoves through the crowd until he finds a familiar side street. The one that leads to Peli's booth. He doesn't need anything from her; neither does he need any of the goods in that part of the market. Still, he finds himself slipping down the side-street, feeling the shoulder bag grow heavier and heavier with each step. 

There’s a customer at her booth. Din hangs back against the wall, waiting until they're done paying before he finally saunters up.

Peli pauses from scooping the coins into her money pouch and takes one look at Din, the kid, and the bags of toys dangling from his rifle, and rolls her eyes. "Well, that figures."

Din sinks down at the booth table as she walks off, dropping the provisions with him. He expected surprise from her, possibly even shock, but not nonchalance. He sets the shoulder bag on the table and the kid stumbles out with his stuffies. 

“Well…” Peli says when she returns, picking up the child. “Let Peli take a good look at you.”

The kid hugs the toys to his chest as if to protect them from her. Din would have called it noble if the kid didn’t go and hide his face behind his collar afterward.

“So,” she starts, “this new chickie of yours…”

“He’s not mine,” Din interjects.

“This new baby.” She rolls her eyes. “He gotta name?”

Din raises a brow. Is that all she wants to know? “The hunters who had him didn’t mention anything,” he reveals intentionally.

Peli doesn’t even bite. “He looks like a Rhoro to me.”

Din’s lips part in surprise. “I found the kid,” he reiterates.

“Well, I figured that, tin can. What else woulda happened? It just fell out of the sky? Geez,” she says, bouncing the kid in her arms. “Sometimes you aren't the smartest cog in the spinwheel.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Y’know, if this thing ever divides or buds, I’d gladly pay for the offspring,” she says, eying the child with interest. “How much you want for him? Just kidding, but not really.” Peli shakes her head playfully at the kid and he giggles. “He’s a slight little thing. You been feeding him?”

“He’s eaten half of my food," Din says numbly, reeling. "But I… What I was saying before—”

“So, that’s a no?” she cuts in. “Can’t tell with that helmet thing, so I’m gonna take it as a ‘no’.”

Din lets out a slow, barely-restrained breath. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“I know.”

“You…do?”

Peli slings the kid around her hip. “Listen Mando, you said he was in danger. I’m assuming you took care of it and now you’ve got another mouth to feed. That’s a good enough explanation for me as any.”

Din’s mouth opens, then closes, unsure of what to say. Everyone always has questions of him. But Peli is acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to help a lost child. Like there’s nothing wrong with that.

Like there’s nothing wrong with him. 

The child lets out a whine, straining for him in Peli’s arms and she’s quick to release him onto the table. The kid waddles over and pats Din's arm, holding up a stuffie.

Din nods. "I'm glad you like it."

The kid frowns and repeats the action. It’s a familiar gesture — one Din saw during his first encounter with the kid and he still doesn’t know what to do with it. Before, the gesture involved the foodstuffs. But now, the kid's pointing at the stuffie and smiling up at him like he’s happy and appreciative about— 

Oh.

“You’re…you’re welcome,” he says.

The kid drops a toy to grab his finger and Din feels his face heat. In the same moment, he also feels a pair of eyes watching them.

“Stop staring,” he grumbles without looking up.

“Why the hell would I be staring at your dingy shell?” Peli snaps back, but he doesn’t feel her gaze leave him. She isn’t even trying to hide it now. 

It is so unlike her. Peli doesn’t really care about the business of others. She’s prodded at Din’s culture, more out of sheer curiosity (and a penchant to be annoying) than anything else, but she tends to have a “don’t tell, won’t ask” policy. 

So, this response is unusual. She knows that he knows why she’s staring, and he feels the need to tell her not to get too attached. 

This isn’t a sure thing with the kid.

It’s only temporary.

Din needs to tell her that.

The kid’s grip tightens around his finger and Din falters, losing ground for the second time that day.

He should tell her.

He doesn’t.

✵

He turns up again two days later with a favor he’s fairly sure Peli will reject.

“Can you watch him for me?” Din says setting the shoulder bag on the booth table. The child scuttles out, knocking over a tin of antiseptic packets in his rush. He toddles down the table holding a toy in one hand and the gear-shift knob in the other.

“I fix ships, tin can.” She huffs, shoving the packets back in the tin. “I don’t watch—”

Din throws some money on the table.

Peli purses her lips. “I mean… Is that all the chickie is worth to you?” She waves her hand at the money. “A few druggats?”

Scowling, he throws in an ingot.

“Y’know,” she says, cracking the metal coin between her teeth. “Parenthood is lookin’ real good on you.”

He frowns. “You mean I’m losing money.”

“Oh, don’t be such a doop bug!” She waves her hand at him, then winks. “I think you make it look fashionable.”

Din’s frown only deepens further.

“Well, where are you being whisked off to?” Peli says, gathering the kid into her arms.

“I just need to retrieve something.”

He wishes retrieving the carrier was the hardest part of the process. The kid tends to be clingy — wanting to be held, carried from room to room or, at the very least, keep a hand on some part of Din. It makes getting the kid into the shoulder bag a hassle every time. He doesn’t even want to imagine what getting him in the carrier is going to be like. Undoubtedly, he’ll need an incentive.

Din’s eyes drift to the knob in the kid’s hand, knowing he’s about to raise all kinds of hell. Gingerly, he slips it from the kid’s hand.

The child lurches in Peli’s arms, scrambling after the ball.

“I’m going to give it back,” Din tries to say, but the child is already scrubbing at his eyes. 

Peli holds the kid out like he’s a bomb waiting to go off. “Hey, hey, hey, ya little womp rat. Don’t cry,” she soothes before flashing Din a heated glare. “You better fix this.”

“I’m trying,” he grits out.

“Well try harder.”

Din leans down in front of the child with a sigh. “How about this: give me until sunset and if I’m not back with the ball, you have full permission to be mad at me.”

“Or…” Peli says to the kid. “You can give him hell now.”

Din doesn’t even have the patience to glare at her. 

The child peeks out from behind his fists, revealing wet-rimmed eyes and Din softens, reaching out to stroke his face. The kid nuzzles his palm and the gesture would have been endearing if his face wasn’t so dejected. Din traces his thumb over the kid’s cheek.

“I’ll be back by sunset,” he reminds softly, straightening. “I promise.”

✵

The mess commons is a whirlwind of activity when Din enters the area. Utensils clink against plates and raucous laughter swell around him, sending echoes down the tunnel. The legion of bodies usually leave him feeling unsettled on a good day and wholly overwhelmed on a bad day. But today is another experience entirely. 

More activity means less eyes. Less eyes means a seamless departure. 

As he passes by the slop line, he's hit with the familiar scent of curried tiingilar and honeyed shig — a rich blend of sweet and spicy. He pauses, wavering on his feet; he remembers sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating such delicacies with his buir. The old man thought it was the food Din favored, but honestly, it was just the company. The settlement was fast-paced; few could waste time enjoying another's company as they ate. There were places to be and work to be done. But the old man treated shared meals as the most important time of the day. Precious time to spend together.

A woman bumps into him with a grumble, snapping him out of the memory. Din hurries along, squeezing by two teens practicing an akaani strike against each other —with dismal success— and bypasses the waste chutes. 

After trying and failing to weave around the tables, Din slides along the wall instead. The archway leading to the Armorer’s cove is only mere feet away. His hand tightens around the kid’s ball as satisfaction surges in his chest. He’s close enough to—

“Surprised to see you here.”

Din freezes, jaw locking in place if only to restrain the incipient curse that almost leaves his mouth. Gold armor slinks out from the shadows to tower over him. 

“Where else would I be?” Din bites out.

Gavit folds his arms over his chest. “You tell me.” 

A whistle suddenly shrills through the mess and Din actually swears this time.

“Miit!” Announcements.

Everyone rises from their chairs and it’s only years of training that makes Din straighten alongside Gavit, driven by instinct more than obedience. The announcer rises and Din checks out.

“There’s a proverb I’ve been interested in,” Gavit says lowly, still facing forward as the announcer drones on. “A child is birthed in the dreams of verda, but nightmares haunt the demagolka.”

Din says nothing.

“What a play on words… The verda — a warrior race, intent on the protection of little ones. The demagolka — a symbol of nightmarish fear, inflicting harm on children,” he whispers. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Monsters and nightmares. Children and dreams.”

Din’s hand tightens around the ball. “If there’s something you want to say, spit it out.”

“I’m speaking only of a proverb.”

“Are you?”

Gavit chuckles under his breath. “You’re tense over a pithy saying.”

“It depends on who’s saying it.”

The announcer’s datapad falls at their side, nearing the end of their report, and Din’s eyes flicker to the archway again. 

“Why did you go see the Armorer before?” Gavit asks. And there it is… “I saw you. More importantly, I know you completed the reward exchange when you arrived, and your armor shows no sign of damage.”

“You’re concerned about my dealings?”

“I’m concerned about the Tribe,” Gavit corrects.

The announcer steps down and the chatter picks back up, but everyone remains standing, waiting for the official dismissal. Gavit doesn’t wait for it, turning to him with the swiftness of a vanthyr. 

“The last person who received dreams like yours was old Sano Jen for murdering K--our brother. The person before that betrayed the Tribe. It begs the question: what did you do?”

Din scowls, feeling irritation bleed through his restraint. He tries to angle around him but Gavit shadows, following when he tries to side-step, intercepting when he tries to circle around. 

“Let me pass.”

“You are always so eager to depart. Tell me something, Djarin: why is it you don’t eat with us? Or join our social gatherings? Or frequent our communal spaces?” he grills. “If you’re not careful, one might think you have something to hide. Or have done something wrong.”

Din presses his lips together.

“Tell me why you’re here, seeking the Armorer’s presence?”

He doesn’t have time for this… Neither is he about to waste time trying to explain himself.

Din moves to brush by him when Gavit seizes him by the arm, shoving him back into a stack of food trays. Tension strikes the room like lightning, dialing the cacophony of chatter down to a cautious hum and drawing alert eyes on them both. 

In the silence, something dribbles on the floor, spiraling into Gavit’s boot. Gavit picks it up, turning it slowly in his hand and fear twists in Din’s gut with each roll. 

The ball.

“Give…” Din swallows. “Give it to me.”

“This means something to you?” 

Din’s hands tremble at his sides. He balls them into fists, trying to make it stop. 

Gavit’s helm dips at the action. “I see… Well, this affords us an opportunity: you want your trinket. I want answers to my questions. So, what’ll it be?”

He folds his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest, replicating a block stance with practiced ease. They learned that stance together once, training side-by-side in the Corps. It was intended for defectors and informers. Cowards who transgressed the Way. Din rocks on his feet. Is that what he is now?

His gaze travels through the crowd — past Vizsla, Ior, Sif, and others who are waiting to see what this will turn into. They cannot interfere — not when Gavit is close to challenging him. Din knows there’s no way around it (not without him losing the ball in the process) and still, he feels the weight of a brewing catastrophe rise in his gut. 

“I…discovered a foundling.”

Several bodies stiffen; someone inhales sharply; a cup shatters on the floor, and Din tenses through it all. They are a people not often shocked —almost never— but as usual, he’s found a way to disrupt the norm. Once again, he’s become an anomaly.

“You couldn’t have.” Gavit shakes his head. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“And such a finding was absent of intent?” 

Din tilts his head to the side, reading between the lines. “You accuse me of kidnapping?”

“Accuse, no. I am not so tame as to do that. Charge you with it? Yes.” His stance widens and his hand rests on his gun. Attack position. “You have no dream child. Yet, you speak of some foundling you discovered by sheer happenstance without presuming there would be questions? Do you take us to be fools—?”

“Of course not.”

 “—Or have you grown so foreign to your own people in your time away, gallivanting through the universe, that you know nothing of our ways anymore?”

Din’s fingernails almost cut through his gloves.

“You must have forgotten, so permit me to remind you.” Gavit looms over him. “Our foundlings are fated; we do not stumble upon one.”

“I know that,” Din snaps.

“Then, you understand your predicament. You couldn’t have found that child unless something questionable happened. So, what was it?”

Blood rushes to Din’s ears, hot and insistent. 

Gavit’s helm knocks into his own. “I asked you a question.”

“And I chose not to answer.”

“You will when I’m speaking to you. Or, do you not want your trinket?” 

Din grinds his teeth. “I didn’t steal a child.”

“You expect us to believe that—”

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

Gavit jabs a finger into his breastplate. “You took that kid.”

“I didn’t.”

“For what?” Gavit continues on. “So, you could come in here brandishing this child of yours—”

“I never said he was mine.”

“In order to cover your shame—”

“What shame?”

“—and vie for honor.” 

“I don’t care about honor!” Din shoves him with a growl.

Gavit stumbles back, knocking a chair to the ground. A circle forms around them, sensing a challenge on the horizon. The silence is deafening, pregnant with expectation. Like even the room is holding its breath.

“So little has changed…You’re still weak,” Gavit spits as he straightens. “While we waste away here in the tunnels, you flit about the universe with your tail between your legs.”

Din’s eyes snap up. “I hunt to keep the Tribe alive.”

“You hunt to run away. Do not confuse shame with altruism.”

Din clenches his jaw as the goad teases at his restraint. Gavit is provoking him, intending to start a fight. He steps in front of him, but Din’s eyes are on his shadow, reading the time. Sunset will be upon them soon. 

If he goes now, he can get the carrier and make it back to the kid early. But if he does, he’ll be a coward in the eyes of Gavit and the Tribe.

Din makes the choice between gritted teeth and swallowed pride. “Give me the ball.”

“I’m not finished—”

“I answered your questions.”

“Yet, I remain dissatisfied.”

Red flashes before Din’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything,” Gavit growls. 

A chill cuts through Din, so abrupt and startling that his heart almost stops. Gavit is many things, but cold he is not. His anger is like the heat waves on Nevarro — suffocating, consuming, and demanding to be felt. But this… This is icier. Different.

“On second thought…” Gavit steps back, surveying the ball and the waste chute behind him. Din’s stomach drops. “I don’t think you need this trinket.” 

“No.” The word catches in Din’s throat.

“What was that?” Gavit asks, relishing in the power shift. Din grits his teeth, refusing to acknowledge it, but the shift’s already begun. “You want it back? Then, confess.”

Din can feel himself shaking. He can’t just attack him, they both know that. Not without an outright provocation. He forfeited his chance before.

“Confess!”

“I told you. I haven’t—” Din’s voice cracks. He struggles to find the words, different words, but there aren’t any. “I haven’t…done anything.” 

“Well…” Gavit says. “You leave me no choice then.”

Din chokes. “No—”

He hurls the ball into the waste chute. It clinks against the rock as it falls, sending echoes ringing through the room. Din can barely hear himself breathing. 

It’s…gone.

Gavit approaches, leaning in. “You know why your dreams are fucked, Djarin?” He whispers so no one but Din can hear. “It’s because you’re an ori'vhekad.”

Din jerks, throat closing up. He doesn’t hear Gavit back away. Doesn’t register him addressing the watching crowd. Doesn’t hear anything beyond that slur, ringing dully in his ears like the ball in the chute. 

Ori'vhekad. 

A word easily translated in Basic to mean: desert. But Mando’a isn’t like Standard; it thrives off of legend, imagery, and story. Their homeworld was decimated, reduced to a wasteland. Incapable of sustaining life. The slur speaks to that history; it speaks of one who depletes life and is as desolate and barren as the desert. One in whom no life exists. 

Gold armor turns to him and the white noise drops out. Din returns to himself, numb.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

His vision swims, reddening.

“Speak—!”

Din whacks Gavit across the helm with his rifle so hard the balancing stock cracks. The crowd falls back as Gavit crashes into one of the tables. Din tosses the gun away and seizes him by the helm, ramming his knee in his face. A crunch echoes around the room. 

Growling, Gavit wrestles him to the floor. Feet stumble away as they smash into a stack of food crates, sending the boxes toppling. Dust billows around them but Gavit’s armor glints through the cloud, giving away his attacks in flickers of gold light. His fist meets Din’s palm, vambrace strikes vambrace, armor slams against armor. 

Gavit strikes out with his vibroblade and Din knocks it away. A jagged shiv appears next and Din swipes it, flipping the dagger in one deft motion and driving it into his hand. 

“Fuck!” Gavit lurches up, blood spurting out from the wound. 

He lashes out blindly but Din pins his arm, drawing his own vibroblade in the same breath. The tip hovers over Gavit’s gut.

“Move, I dare you.”

Someone hurries forward, recognizing what this is. “Djarin.” Sif.

“You…” Gavit swallows, panting. “You would…kill me? Over a ball?”

“Gladly.”

“Djarin!”

This is way past a challenge, they know that now. With the right amount of force, the right amount of give, Din can have Gavit’s entrails on the floor — a cesspool of shit, blood, and bile all spilling out. He’d die from his own waste system drowning him from the inside out.

It’s exactly what Din wants — for him to feel what this nightmare has felt like all these years. This grief, this rage, this sorrow. It’s like drowning from the inside out. 

Gavit shakes his head. “You’ve lost your mind.”

That’s not the only thing one of us is going to lose today. The knife vibrates in Din’s hand, goading him to inflict the killing blow. He’s imagined this so many times — besting him, making Gavit feel a fracture of his turbulent world. 

Yet, he’s hesitating.

A shadow is spilling across Gavit’s helm and Din can’t look away from it, feeling a reminder break through his rage. You promised… 

An ultimatum hangs over him. 

Vengeance or fidelity.  

“Go on, wraith,” Gavit hisses. 

The nickname cuts through him, slackening Din’s grip around the hilt just so. He hasn’t heard that name since he was a teen in the Fighting Corps. It was meant to describe his combat style: the way he sprang from shadows as if emanating from the darkness itself, but the name had never been used as an insult. Not until now.

Maybe it is fitting. Maybe he is a herald of death and gloom, looming over the promise of the Tribe. Maybe he is as unworthy as Gavit claims. 

But he made a promise…

To be back by sunset with the ball.

To return to retrieve the kid.

To protect him.

He can’t be another person who fails the kid. He won’t be.

Din’s nostrils flare as he leans back, panting. He can feel Sif hovering behind him in warning; the crowd around them, anticipating; Gavit’s helm fixed on him, waiting.

He grabs the shiv’s hilt and Gavit seizes under him.

“Don’t—”

Din wrenches it out, drawing a strangled cry from him as he tosses the dagger away. Blood gushes from Gavit’s wound, bleeding profusely now, but Din just sheaths his vibroblade, rising wordlessly. He’ll get the message. 

Gavit clutches at his palm, trembling with rage. They both know his hand is shot, even if he tends to the wound. They learned basic medic procedures together, and Din just botched one of the rules intentionally. Never remove an impaled object from your body. One can cut an artery, get an infection, lose a hand that way. 

That would be unfortunate.

Din gathers up his damaged rifle, breaking through the circle to head to the waste chute. 

“Where…” He hears Gavit stumble to his feet, breathing heavily behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Din stills before the chute’s opening, staring into its dark abyss. It’s shaped like his incinerator, and Din can’t help but feel like he’s been here before. Remembering something he’d intended to give to the kid. Gifts and trinkets. Sweet bread and knobs. Are they really so different?

It seems nothing has changed. 

And yet, everything has.

“To find what you so recklessly discarded,” Din says before heaving his body into the tunnel and sliding into darkness.

✵

“Why the hell do you smell like Bantha shit?” Peli swats at a fly, nose wrinkling as she eyes him up and down. 

Din sighs, flicking a fruit peel off his shoulder and feeling some unidentifiable liquid drip off his armor when he moves.

“Where’s the kid?” 

“Hopefully ripping out Treadwell’s wiring, so I can get a new droid,” she says, batting at the air. “He played with that new toy you bought him. Practically tired himself out.”

“Good.” A strain catches in his voice and Din clears his throat, eager to hide it. “That’s…very good.”

A concerned look flashes across her eyes. “Hey, what’s got your cogs all jammed?”

“Nothing.”

“Mando—”

“The kid. Would you get him for me?” Din swallows. “Please.”

Peli’s lips part, taken aback. “Sure. I mean, you don’t have to sound so polite about it. I mean this isn’t some upmarket ritz…”

Her voice disappears inside the tent and Din shifts his footing, scowling when water squelches in his boot. His gaze dips to the street if only to distract himself from the feeling. Among others… The street lanterns are blinking on, setting off a chain reaction that has vendors turning over ‘Open’ signs and closing the curtains of their booths. There’s a sense of finality and satisfaction in the air. Of jobs well done. 

It’s all quite normal, ordinary, almost boring. Yet, Din feels a strange stab of envy as he stands apart from the activity. He could never fit in here — not with the way it is now. The feeling brings with it an old taunt.

You don’t belong here.

You’re weak.  

A coward. 

Din thins his lips together, trying to stop the swell of emotion from crashing over him, but it is already clawing its way out of his throat. Sorrow always shows up for him like a game of hide-and-seek. It goes in search of his voice first (because that’s the first thing he hides), pushing out an inhuman sound (something brittle, strained, and taunt like a cord finally snapping). He won’t let it. He can’t.

Din digs his fingers into his palm, trying to find his way back to solid ground, but he’s so tired. His rifle is broken and he smells terrible and he’s standing on sinking...

Sand. 

Desert. 

Ori’vhekad.

A choked sound catches in his throat and Din bites his tongue, forcing it back down.

Not here, he pleads. Not now.

“No, no, no. I need that back. Give—!” Din’s head whips up, hearing Peli before she officially emerges from the tent, shaking a micro-droid from the kid’s grubby hands. The child scrabbles for it, whining. She seizes the moment, pointing out. “Hey, ya little womp rat. Look who’s over there?”

“Hey, kid,” Din manages out.

The child’s ears fly up. He begins struggling in her arms, fussing when she takes too long to put him down.

“Okay, okay! Geez.”

Peli’s barely set him on the ground before the kid takes off, tripping over his own romper to stumble into Din’s legs. He rebounds off him a second later, wrinkling his nose.

“I know I stink.” Din turns to Peli, sighing. “Do you have one of those antiseptic packets?”

“I just wanna say if you think one packet is gonna clean all that up,” she says, gesturing to his armor. “You have another thing comin’.”

She hands one over anyway.

Din tugs at the tips of his glove and Peli suddenly becomes hyper-focused on a ship part, whistling under her breath. The decency is kind but unnecessary. Din rips open the packet with a clean hand, then feels around in his pocket. 

It rolls into his palm.

“Here,” Din croaks after cleansing the ball with antiseptic. “I believe this is yours.”

The kid bounces on his feet as he takes the ball, rolling it in his hands.

“Well, looks like you’ve got all you came for,” Peli says, eying the carrier hovering behind him. Din had forgotten all about it. “Though I don’t understand why you had to come back looking like a drowned womp rat.”

“I…misplaced something.”

“Was it so important you needed to go through the Maker’s dregs to get it?” She snorts, rolling her eyes.

Din’s throat closes up as he stares at the kid.

It was.

———— 

Before Din left the Armorer the first time he visited her with the kid, she said something that plagued him the rest of the day. 

“Foundlings like this one are accustomed to being manipulated and lied to,” she said. “Captivity breeds mistrust. They come to expect having things taken from them all the time. You have stumbled upon a hard path indeed.”

It was those words that sent Din down the waste chute. That had him slipping and sliding over fruit peels. That made him rifle through the area, even as discarded food rained down on his helm. He was on his hands and knees, hurling stars-know-what into the darkness as her words turned over his mind. He couldn’t stop searching.

And searching.

And searching.

It didn’t matter how desperately he looked; guilt still hounded him (guilt is a severe fault line above all things —unimpressed by well-intentions or foolish mistakes— and Din felt it crack along his composure, leaving him fractured between remorse and terror). He should have pocketed the ball as soon as the kid had given it to him. He shouldn’t have let Gavit take it. He should have been faster.

His hands searched.

Groping.

Aching.

At one point, he’d started to breathe so hard the modulator began staticing. His helm-lamp darted around, casting every mound under a harsh spotlight and Din felt like he was the one under scrutiny. He had to find it. Needed to find it. Wouldn’t be able to bear it if he turned up… He had nothing else to give the kid but his word and if the kid couldn’t even trust that, what could he trust? 

His heart ached.

Trembling.

Unraveling.

Just a trinket, Gavit had called it. Only a ball.

It wasn’t just that —it never is— but Gavit wouldn’t understand. He was born and bred in the Tribe; he didn’t know what it was like to have so little to your name — to have few comforts and even fewer possessions. 

But Din was born on Aq Vetina. Nothing ever truly belonged to him. Even the settlement —that inconspicuous place that wasn’t comfortable by any means, but was home— was taken from him. Gavit had no idea what that was like. Everything’s always been handed to him, while everything has always been on the verge of slipping through Din’s fingers.

Din recognized that same history in the kid — in the way he clung to the ball and almost cried when it was taken away. The kid deserved so much more and Din didn’t have much to his name, but he did have that ball. 

His hands searched around again.

Desperate.

Frenzied.

In the darkness, Din’s helm-lamp cut across a pool of orange liquid, to a half-eaten piece of bread, to molded leather meat, to— 

Something glinting.  

The light trailed back. Sitting in a mound of indiscriminate sludge was the kid’s ball. Din fell back on his hunches. 

Exhaling.

Laughing.

Crying.

————

“I was a foundling once,” Din told her after she’d mentioned the kid’s trauma. 

He didn’t know why he blurted it. Or why he revealed something so intimate in response.

Maybe it was a way of empathizing. 

Maybe it was just a moment of self-disclosure. 

Or maybe it was his way of telling her —albeit in a guarded, circumspect way— that he knew the path she spoke of. In fact, she was mistaken. He didn’t stumble upon a hard path. He was already on it.

He never left.

Loss is a long and lonely road and Din knows every rock, every turn, every dip in the dirt. He can read it on a face. In a person’s body language. In the way it turns bright eyes sad.

It’s why he tried not to look the kid in the eye too often. But the attempt didn’t work in the end. Because even when Din was alone, standing in front of the old mirror in the ship, he found those same sad eyes staring back at him.

I was a foundling once.

The Armorer stilled over the kiln then, helm tilting to him. “I know.”

————

There’s a weightlessness that comes with space travel. 

An untethering. 

One leaves the pull of time, customs, and planetary gravity (though Din still has to use his anti-gravity system in the ship, unless he wants his food drifting away) to enter a universe with laws all its own. There’s nothing stable or secure about it. No plot of solid ground in space. 

Some find it disconcerting. Din just finds it liberating. 

Calming.

He doesn’t need an external system to keep time. The body is a clock — prone to setting its own rhythms with subtlety. It’s why when they finally take off from Nevarro, cruising through space on autopilot and he starts to feel a heaviness in his eyelids, he follows his body’s rhythm without a single protest. Din drags his feet (feeling a weariness in his body that can’t just be physical) and settles the kid into the hammock. His head barely hits the pillow before he’s out.

He can’t have been asleep for more than an hour when he’s awakened by steady whimpering. His eyes squint open, catching on the millaflowers hanging over him before he finds the hammock rustling from the ceiling.

Green arms flail out. The kid hiccups in his sleep and Din just sighs.

A bad dream.

“Hey,” he croaks, rocking the hammock gently. “It’s just a dream.”

The kid’s body stiffens as he wakes and an inquisitive whine cries out, searching for him.

“I’m here,” he says.

A hand slides up the canopy belting, over Din’s knuckles, and curls around one of his fingers.

“Go back to sleep.” He rubs his thumb along the back of the kid’s hand.

A glint cuts across his viewfinder as he goes to lay back down. Light is spilling in through the open rack door — a testament to his tiredness. He can’t remember the last time he forgot to close it. Grumbling, Din traces a hand down the wall and stabs the access button.

The door seals shut with a hiss, enclosing them in darkness.

Instantly, a wail shrills in Din’s receiver. 

His eyes fly open. “Shit!”

Din’s helm bangs against the ceiling as his hands search around blindly for the access button. His fingers catch on it and he’s out the rack before the door can finish rising, taking the kid with him. The kid’s wails expand and sharpen in the hold, reverberating off the walls. Din staggers to the side, stubbing his toe on a box. He stumbles away from it, only to stab his foot on a toy next.

“Dank farrick!” 

The kid startles in his arms and goes from wailing to all-out screaming. Din’s heart leaps to his throat.

“What…what’s wrong?” he tries to ask over the cries. 

Blubbering, the kid points at the rack.

“What—?” Din scans the sleeping compartment, the kid, then the button on the wall and flounders. “The dark? You’re afraid of the dark?”

The child merely bawls into his shoulder, smearing wet tears and snot along the fabric.

“I’m sorry. I…” Din worries his bottom lip. “I didn’t know.” 

The kid’s breath hitches against him, steadily climbing in panic and Din hurries to the bench, terrified for another reason.  

“I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?” he asks hastily. 

Blunt teeth clamp down on his shoulder and Din barely stifles a curse. This isn’t going well. 

“I know you’re frightened, but you’ve got to breathe. You have to—”

A retching sound cuts him off and Din stiffens, feeling something warm and wet ooze down the back of his shoulder. He’s pretty sure it’s throw-up. 

He shifts the kid and begins scrubbing the vomit off with his cape, thankful for the action if only because it'll give him time to think. He’s never had to comfort someone in this way. It’s usually best to avoid such things. People are finicky — what might calm one, might destabilize another. But the kid is damn-near-close to hyperventilating and the only frame of reference Din has for that is himself.

“Hey.” He inhales dramatically. “Do you feel that? Try to match my breathing.”

The kid does try, but his breath hitches again. A dejected hiccup bursts out of him.

“It’s okay,” Din soothes. “You can try again.”

Sniveling, the child makes another attempt, sucking in a slow, stuttering breath. His chest expands and it’s so damn promising, Din leans forward in his seat instinctively as if to encourage him more.

“That’s it. Now…” He exhales intentionally. 

With an air of hesitancy, the kid mimics that too and Din runs a hand down his back, feeling relief course through him. “Very good. You’re doing so well.”

The child whimpers in reply.

“Let’s do it again.”

Din inhales and the child’s chest balloons with him; he exhales and the child deflates shakily, and thus the rhythm begins — with him leading the kid through an activity he’s had to do a thousand times. There was no one to teach him then. Only the constriction of his own lungs, pleading for air while refusing to take it. Din failed the exercise a dozen times, managed only half of the time, but tried every time. 

He didn’t know it could help another and yet, it is. He hears the kid’s breathing even out, slowly coming down from its ascent, and Din hums in affirmation.

“Good job, kid.”

He tilts his head and the child moves with him, rubbing his cheek against his helm.

Din softens. “I’m sure things have been hard,” he says. “But I want you to know it’s going to be—” 

The word ‘okay’ falls from his lips.

As it should.

He saw a medic on Kintoni offer such consolatory words to a dying man on the verge of burning from the inside out; it had rubbed Din the wrong way even then. The medic was lying to the man, telling him everything would ‘be alright’ when it clearly wasn’t going to be.

Din is many things but a liar, he is not. He isn’t one to make false promises, neither does he believe in speaking falsehoods for comfort’s sake. He’s felt anxiety’s sting more than once; the last thing he ever felt in those moments was ‘okay’. But words of reassurance are instinctive. The Tribe offered such consolations to him when he was in his twenties (when the nightmares were still fresh and new and unexpectedly terrifying). Their words, though different from the medic’s, had the same tenor, the same tone, the same assumption. 

That everything, in the end, would be okay.

But no one can know that for certain. 

Life is brutal in the Outer Rim, devouring the weak and hounding the strong. Children are always lost in the middle of such chaos. They’re resilient enough to survive, but vulnerable enough to crumble under all that survival requires of them. Sometimes children are forced to shed their childhood light years too early, and sometimes life makes orphans out of them. It’s just the way of the universe, but that doesn’t make it okay. He doesn’t want to normalize such hard realities — leading the kid to think that displacement and terror and being frightened all the time are normal.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About the lights.” 

For frightening you, is what he really means to say (because Din’s mistake hurt him and that’s not okay, even if it was an accident).

The kid just sniffles miserably.

“It can get pretty dark in here. I’m…not used to having anyone else around, so I forget it might be uncomfortable for others. I can change some things. Or install some low-grade illuminators? That way you could click them on?” 

He bites his lip, waiting on a response. The child is silent against him and Din feels his nervousness spike.

“Or not. You don’t have to use them. I just thought—” 

A hand tightens around his collar. Din falters, forgetting for a moment what he’d intended to say. 

“I just thought…you might like them.”

There’s a smallness in his voice that he doesn’t recognize. There’s also an incredibly small child —the kid— clinging to him and Din doesn’t recognize that either.

He doesn’t know how to explain such experiences. So, his mind trails to the kid’s proximity instead and the odors he’s bound to be picking up; things like sweat and musk, antiperspirant and harsh decontaminate from the wash-up. There’s nothing pleasant, nothing calming or kind about such scents, and Din wishes he could offer better solace. 

But he’s a man wearing impenetrable armor. How could anyone find comfort against that?

“I know everything’s scary and you probably don’t like this setup. I’m sure you miss your family,” Din says and it’s the closest thing to saying ‘I know I’m not them’ that he can manage. “You can feel scared. Or feel anything. It’s…okay to be sad, you know. More than okay, actually.”

Din chews the inside of his cheek, feeling uncommonly insecure. It’s hard trying to articulate something he’s never heard, has never seen, but maybe…at one point, wished he’d been told when he was younger and more temperamental, fielding all his rage and grief into his runs with Xi’an and the crew. He didn’t know what to do with such emotions then. All he knew was that he was unraveling, on the verge of bursting at the seams, because he was so terribly afraid. Of what those emotions would do to him. Of what they’d undo in him. 

He kept longing for permission then. For someone to tell him it was okay to let go. The kid doesn’t need his permission, but he still can’t help offering it. Pain can be awfully lonely and he doesn’t want the kid thinking he’s alone in all this. 

Din can’t speak for the future —of what will and won’t be— but he can address the present. Even if things aren’t alright, that doesn’t mean they can’t be.

“We’re okay,” he says. Right now. In this moment. “I hope you know that.”

The kid finally leans back from his shoulder. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, and there are old tears smeared across his cheeks. He looks so pointedly miserable Din doesn’t know what else to do except wipe the tears away.

He feels the urge to say more. Something. Anything. But words have never been his strong suit; it’s easier to communicate with his hands. Besides, the kid doesn’t use words either. He just communicates with— 

Din stills. 

Gestures.

He sets the kid on his lap, eliciting a whine that’s only quelled when he stutters: “Hold on, please just—” He exhales, licks his lips, hesitates. 

Then—

Signs. 

“We’re,” Din enunciates, drawing a circle in the air between them, then signs two letters afterward, “okay.” He looks the kid in the eye for once and accepts all the sadness he sees there. “We’re okay.”

For a while, the kid just stares at his hands and Din can’t help but chew on his lip, eying the kid every few seconds to see if there’s a response. When there still is none, even after whole minutes have gone by, his gaze falls away.

Why did he even—?

A hand moves out of the corner of Din’s eye. He sucks in a breath, holding it tight when the kid draws a circle between the two of them. It’s clumsy and the form’s a bit off, but Din knows what he’s saying anyway and suddenly, he doesn’t know where his wonder ends and where it begins.

The kid peeks up at him shyly.

“That’s it.” Din nods encouragingly

He spells out the last sign, making it deliberately easy. It’s easier still for a child with only three fingers. The kid hesitates and waits for him to do it twice more before mimicking again.

“Good! That’s…” Din chokes out a laugh. “That’s very good.”

The child practically preens under the praise, wet-eyed but eager to imitate the signs again and Din can’t stop himself from grinning — in astonishment, in gratitude, in awe. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before. The kid typically prefers physical touch and direct actions, while dismissing speech altogether. He understands words, sure, but he rarely seems to care for them — only when they’re paired with action. 

Din could laugh at himself. He thought he needed to change; he thought the kid wanted him to talk more; he thought he needed to become something else.

He had no idea the kid was perfectly fine with all of it.

With silence and gestures, short sentences and encouraging touches. 

With Din just…being himself.

“We’re okay,” the kid signs eagerly.

“Yes,” Din signs back. “We are.”

But you deserve so much more than that. 

He wants to say as much, but he can’t. He has no right to have hopes and dreams for a child that doesn’t belong to him. Still, he can’t help but have them. ‘Okay’ is a baseline for now, but there are worlds beyond that emotional state. The kid deserves to smile, to know a full stomach and an even fuller heart, to be with someone who loves him. 

The kid deserves to be happy.

“I’ll get you back home. To your kind,” Din promises. “I’m sure someone’s been waiting a long time for you…”

The child just snuggles against his stomach with a trust that feels almost unearned. His eyes droop and Din gets the message, standing to head back to the rack. 

He sidesteps a cluster of toys, angling around the box he tripped over earlier, before lowering the kid into the hammock. As he goes to slide his hands out from under him, the child whimpers, beginning to stir. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Din soothes, caressing his head. The kid’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the touch, gradually going quiet.

But the noise in Din’s mind does not pipe down, even when he settles back into the rack. It’s a chaotic, frittering sound — one he usually stifles with his hands — badgering him with incessant musings. 

For as long as Din can remember, he’s been an enigma. An abnormality. He’s made peace with not having answers. He doesn’t need them. But somehow, he’s stumbled upon a kid whose presence is just as much of a shock as it is a mystery. 

Maybe, he doesn’t need answers for that either. But he does know what he’s going to do. 

He’s going to get the kid back where he belongs. It’s time to put a stop to this current of misery the kid’s been swept up in. He’ll fight against the tide if he has to.

Or, at the very least, die trying.

Chapter Text

A needle in a haystack, Din thinks as he cues the navigation system. That’s what this is. 

Except in a figurative sense, there’s only one needle and one haystack. But he’s been sent out into the galaxy —one of many— in search of a people group that could be anywhere. The kid might not even be from the Outer Rim, and the Jedi…? Where would he begin to find a group of enemy sorcerers? Even if he scoured the galaxy’s furthest reaches, he still wouldn’t touch its edge. 

Din can’t shake the feeling that this is eerily like a Finding Cycle. Except, those in the Covert always made it sound so easy. Sure, they didn’t know where they were going, but they always boasted that their dream guided them. No one could explain it, but the results were clear enough. Foundlings were discovered; dreams were realized. But Din isn’t following a dream; neither is he in search of a child. He’s been quested with returning one. 

Tiredly, he whirls around in the pilot’s chair and finds the kid rolling the gear-shift knob in his new carrier. 

The child looks up, catching him staring. “We’re okay?” he gestures warily.

Din nods. “Are you hungry?” he signs.

The kid’s brows furrow together as he ogles Din’s hands.

“Hungry,” Din says aloud, then drags a cupped hand down his torso. “Hungry,” he signs.

Leaning forward in his carrier, the child nods.

“If you wait a few minutes, I’ll get you some food.”

The kid sags against his carrier with a huff but otherwise, doesn’t say another word. Din snorts and spins back around in his chair. Impatient little womp rat. Still, he can’t blame him; they’ve been sitting in the cockpit for at least an hour — with Din, trying to figure out how to begin searching for a Jedi while the kid entertains himself with the ball. Thus far, the kid has been successful; Din has not.

It would be pointless to hop from planet to planet, asking around for a group of sorcerers. He has no point of contact yet and no one to point him in the right direction. Without either, they’d be wandering around aimlessly, which would only make them more vulnerable to hunters.

There is another option. One, he’s been trying actively to ignore for the last few minutes.

Sending out a trace signature. 

It’s an archaic system, one that preceded the new millennium of bounty-hunting. The practice is woefully simple. It scans through star networks for traces of a desired person or bounty —their name circulating around a particular region or planet, any grainy images captured by surveillance cams, any evidence of genetic coding— by using keywords. If the person is nearby, there’s a hit or, as most call it, a trace. Din would prefer to call the practice what it is: a blind reliance on hearsay and towns’ gossip. It makes for lousy business and poor bounty hunting (which is why they gave up the practice decades ago in favor of tracking fobs and chain codes, which offer conclusive, indubitable data). Typing in ‘Jedi’ would hardly produce favorable results. It’s so broad the keyword would probably pop up everywhere on the star charts.

But Din doesn’t have anything else to go on. Though the likelihood of receiving a confirmation ping is slim, the likelihood of him stumbling upon a Jedi on his own is even slimmer. 

They’ll just have to take their chances.

Din cues up the portal to the database and inserts the keyword in binary code. “Well,” he says, “here goes nothing.” 

The screen whirs —trace pending— then blinks blue. Trace received. Din exhales, then turns his attention to the navigation, initiating a spasmodic sequence while they’re on autopilot. It’ll relocate the ship every view clicks, making sure they don’t hover in one system for too long —no use floating through space like sitting ducks— while they wait for a response.

He might receive a confirmation ping. 

Then again, he might not.

But until then, he and the kid have time. 

————

Din decides to teach the kid more words.

It’s an audacious task —there’s a whole vocabulary to choose from— and though Din hardly anticipates a full-blown conversation, he does hope it’ll help with communication. He doesn’t know what he expects from it, if he expects anything at all. He’s more than comfortable with silence and the kid’s expressive looks; he’s more than comfortable with them just being. 

But if one day, the kid needed to tell him something, Din wants him to know he could. So much has been taken from the kid already. All Din wants is to give him something for once.

Words can be weapons but they can also be bridges; they can build walls and they can build homes. They are, above all things, a source of power.

And maybe that’s it. 

The child is much too young to handle a rifle or wield any sort of weapon, but he can wield words. He can speak for himself. Din doesn’t really care whether the kid picks up sign or not, just as long as the kid knows he has the power to decide. 

That’s all that matters.

————

Din slides the food bowl across the table. “Go on,” he says, picking up his spoon. “Eat.”

The kid stares hungrily at the porridge, then looks up at him. Din has no idea what he’s waiting for.

“You said you were hungry,” he reminds.

The child digs his fingernails into the table and whines but still doesn’t make a move toward the bowl.

“Kid,” Din says, “you can eat it.” 

With a ferocity that almost sends the bowl rocking, the child tears into the food, grabbing fist-fulls of porridge and shoveling it into his mouth without chewing. Din has visions of puke seeping into his thighs again.

“Hey, hey,” he says. “Slow down.”

The child releases a none-too-happy whine but complies. 

It’s strange. Din remembers how the kid acted when he first met him. Even when he tossed the food at him, the kid still didn’t eat it — not until he heard permissive words (“You can have it”). Din would wager to bet there were no boundary lines between the kid and those hunters. Clearly, someone had taught him he could only eat when they ate or when they said he could. 

If they even remembered to feed him at all… 

A sick feeling churns in Din’s gut. “Kid, you know if you’re hungry, you never have to wait for my…”

The child blinks up at him, still munching. Porridge dribbles down his chin. 

Din reaches out and thumbs the food away. “You don’t need my permission to eat. I’m not…the most reliable when it comes to such things. I’m not used to—” Taking care of myself, having someone else to care for, having a child. He clamps those statements down and recenters. “I won’t stop you from eating. Alright?”

The kid’s too preoccupied with cleaning the inside of the bowl to pay attention to him. He’s gathering up the leftovers with his fingers until the metal is polished clean, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Din almost tells him not to bother. He has to wash the bowl anyway. But the kid always scrubs it clean with appreciation. It’s the same bowl Din always gives him (he only has two, after all). So, in a way, it’s his. Din figures that must mean something.

His eyes widen as he watches the kid trace the rim reverently. Of course, it means something. 

Feeling an idea emerge, Din holds up his own bowl, then pats his chest. “Mine,” he says. He touches the kid’s bowl and signs: “Yours.”

The child blinks up at him. “Mine?” He signs it like it’s a question and Din wants to tell him that ‘no, all that belongs to you is never in question’. It is his. Period. But the child can’t read his expression, which makes things difficult.

“Yours,” Din signs, pushing his hands out forcefully. 

The child mirrors the gesture but his hands are too slack and unsure, and his expression is questioning. It lacks assertion. 

Din takes the bowl from him, intending to try a different method when the kid grumbles. It’s low and barely audible but Din hears it. A smile breaks out on his face.

“Take it back,” he says, holding the bowl out between them. “It’s yours.”

The child extends a hand and suddenly, the bowl is zipping across the table without him even needing to touch it. He peeks at Din from behind his collar. “Mine,” the kid signs shyly.

“Yes,” Din says, grinning. “That’s it.”

Again, he slips the bowl from the child’s hands and, before he can even say anything, the bowl is already sliding across the table and back into the kid’s grasp. 

“Good job, kid!”

The child offers him a shy smile but even Din notices the way he straightens in his seat.

He doubts this is what the ancient rites had in mind when they instructed him to care for the kid. To train him. But being a Mandalorian is more than just donning a suit of armor; it’s about embodying a sense of defiance and boldness. Choosing to fight instead of running away or freezing in battle. 

Din saw a flicker of that fire in the kid when he stopped the Nikto. He had told him to hide and the kid could have. 

But he didn’t.

Din isn’t trying to pick a fight with him (especially over something as ridiculous as a bowl), but he is trying to teach him something. There’s so much inside of the kid —fear and fire, trauma and tenacity— and Din hopes he knows that he isn’t just one thing or the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Come on, Din wills as he drags the bowl away. 

The child’s nails catch on the rim. “Mine,” he signs with his other hand, glaring at him.

There it is. 

✵

Din teaches him the words ‘I like’, and ‘I want’ next.

He tells himself it’s because such words are important; they’d just make conversation easier, but the truth is as plain as day.

They’re possessive words. Assertive. Opinioned.

He adds in a few emotive words too; things like ‘happy’ and ‘sad’ and ‘angry’ to name a few. The kid takes to them like he took to the toy stand on Nevarro — with eager hands and determined eyes. Din watches him mirror the gestures, but he knows the kid’s just stowing the words away like the stuffies in his toy crate. 

Here is another thing he can use when he needs it.

Here is another thing that’s his.

✵

Din is rearranging the rack when he finds foodstuffs hidden in the kid’s hammock. There’s a considerable amount, enough to make him rock on his feet as he pieces through the packages. Energy pudding, ration bar, veg-meat, he lists, recognizing them. He gave the kid these snacks yesterday. But there are some foods he doesn’t recognize; like a poly-starch packet, for one. Din wouldn’t give him that.

They’re all tucked between the canopy belting and tarp-folds, almost well-concealed, and Din struggles to find the words to say. At one time, he thought it was greed that made the kid take and take and take (or, if not greed, surely hunger), but maybe that isn’t it. 

Maybe it’s security. Or a precaution. There are few guarantees in the Outer Rim —except danger and death— and a consistent meal isn’t one of them. Din understands that. But there’s a gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach, telling him to keep piecing through the food packages as if turning the pages of a book. Is the kid just afraid of not having enough? Or is he ashamed for wanting more than what he’s been given? 

There is one way to find out…

Before he can squash the idea, Din grabs a few and goes in search of the kid. He finds him sprawled out on the floor in the cockpit, signing excitedly to two stuffies as if they’re engaged in the most stimulating conversation. Din hovers in the doorframe, trying to find the right time to interrupt.

When it cannot be helped any longer, he clears his throat and slips inside. The kid’s ears fly up excitedly when he sees him; but then, his eyes catch on the foodstuffs in Din’s hand and he curls in on himself.

So, it is true…  

For a second, Din wonders where the stubborn child went? The one who blew air at him in the toy stand. The one who demanded that he buy those stuffies. Where did that kid go? And who is this one?

Din sets the packets on the pilot’s chair and crouches down. The kid shuffles back, knocking over the two stuffies he’d been playing with so happily before. 

“We’re okay,” Din signs. “I just wanted to teach you a new word,” he says. “Like we’ve been doing.”

The child peeks out from behind his collar with a chirp. He likes new words. 

But this one is especially important.

“More.” Din bunches his fingers together and taps them tip-to-tip. “More.”

———— 

He starts a mental list in his head afterward. It’s unintentional, completely unconscious, but the list grows with each new insight he gains. If titled, it would read: Things to Know About the Kid.

1. The kid only takes what he’s been given (he usually wants more)
2. When desperate enough, he’ll steal
3. Depending on the day, he’s either stubborn or timid. There is no in-between

———— 

“How did you find that?”

Din rests his hands on his thighs, eying the music recorder in the kid’s hands, and reminds himself to rip Karga a new one the next time he sees him. It had been a gift. A completely unwanted, trivial gift. Din had taken care of a Reesarian smuggler for him a few months ago. Karga gave him ten Calamari Flan pieces and threw the recorder in with the rewards (“It’s a relic. High-priced. You could get a handsome sum from the antique—”). Din didn’t even let him finish talking before handing it back to him. (“That’s doubtful. You just want to get rid of it.”). In the end, Karga wouldn’t budge so Din stuffed the recorder in one of his storage bins and hoped it would disintegrate. 

Leave it to the kid to not only find the damn thing but initiate its music sequence.

“Alright, let’s put that back.” Din tries to make a swipe for it but the little womp rat darts away from him and resumes swaying from side to side. 

Dancing, Din recognizes with a mental snort. 

With a sigh, Din turns back to the water basin and pile of dirty clothes waiting before him — the telltale signs of wash day— and rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t own many clothes, but the ones he does have are always a crick to clean.

He nudges a towel under the garments drying from the clothesline to keep a pool of water from forming on the floor, but even he knows it won’t last. By the end of the day, the towel will be sopping wet and he doesn’t own another towel to exchange the old one. 

The conditioning system kicks on, trying to balance out the sweltering heat surrounding the ship, and Din releases a sigh of relief, feeling the cool air sweep across his skin. He had to strip down to a singlet in order to wash clothes properly, but the clothing change also means he won’t have to bake under his flight suit today. The last time he checked, they were in the Trilon sector passing Ubaat II, one of Batuu’s hottest suns. It’s sweltering enough to make the bar of soap in Din’s hands melt like gooey Byss chess.

Humming softly to himself, the kid wanders into Din’s line of sight.

“What?” the kid signs, pointing at the recorder.

Din relinquishes the soap to sweep his hand back and forth across his forearm. “Music.”

The child tries to mimic in his own way, but it just looks like he’s batting at an antfly in midair. 

“I like,” the kid signs repeatedly.

“Really,” Din replies with a soft smile.

The kid nods eagerly. “Go?” he signs.

“What?” 

The child grabs Din by the finger and starts tugging him towards the recorder. 

Oh, Din’s mouth falls open. Oh stars, no.

“I’m afraid dancing is outside of my skill set,” he says, slipping his hand out of the kid’s grip. When the child’s ears fall, he offers a compromise: “I’ll watch. That way, you can teach me.”

The kid brightens, pleased with that concession, and prances away.

Now Din doesn’t know much about dancing but he does know one is supposed to follow the rhythm. Based on the way the kid is hopping to an invisible beat, he clearly isn’t trying to follow anything. Din doesn’t care one way or another. What he does care about are those twirls the kid keeps doing and how they’re bound to cause an injury. 

“Kid—”

“Look!” the kid signs before twirling again.

“I see.” He nods. “But I want you to be—”

“Fun,” the child signs breathlessly, hopping up and down.

“Just make sure you watch where you’re—”

The kid trips and pitches face-first into the wash water. Din yanks him out before he can even think about drowning. 

“I told you to be careful,” he says, grabbing one of the dirty clothes to towel him dry. The kid sneezes on his helm and Din just wipes the gunk away with a sigh. “Try to be more watchful next time, alright?”

The kid peeks out from under the garment and giggles. 

Din’s brain actually short-circuits. 

Hearing the kid’s laugh —hearing his voice— is such a rare thing. The kid usually only huffs or squeals, but those are exaggerated sounds and not his actual voice. The kid’s laugh is different. It’s high-pitched and bright, just like the sequence playing from the recorder. His laugh is like—Stars, it’s like…music.

The kid claps his hands as he dances, chasing after the coat-tails of a beat that keeps escaping him. His giggles are echoing through the hold, and Din is smiling so hard it hurts. 

“Happy,” the child signs ecstatically. 

I know you are, Din thinks as he nods. 

The kid stutters to a stop. “You,” he gestures, pointing at Din. “Happy?” he signs.

Din’s eyebrows fly up. Is he…? He can’t remember the last time anyone asked him such a question. Happiness isn’t…a necessity. It can’t feed you when you’re on the brink of starvation or warm you up when you’re stuck on a frost-bitten planet; it can’t defend you or keep you safe. Happiness is appropriate for children, but Din isn’t a child anymore. He learned, fairly early on, that when you become an adult no one is really concerned about your happiness. What matters is how you manage your responsibilities, your sense of duty, and how you tend to the welfare of others. 

Happiness though, what a thought. He can’t recall if he’s ever considered his own happiness. He didn’t even know it mattered. 

Din’s smile fades into a tight line. “I’m…glad you’re happy.”

He snags a rumpled tunic from the pile before the kid can ask him another question and dunks it in the water. The music is still droning on behind him, but it sounds hollow in the hold now. He doesn’t hear tiny feet dancing alongside the beat; he doesn’t hear any more giggles.

That’s his fault. 

Din isn’t a liar; he just…doesn’t know how to be truthful (or how to be anything that isn’t guarded or defensive). The kid isn’t like that though, not when he’s comfortable anyway. When he isn’t afraid, he plays games of make-believe and signs to his stuffies like they could respond back if he just kept talking; he listens to music and dances because he enjoys it. He’s honest with his feelings and desires. He’s…unique. For that reason alone, Din is grateful the kid’s about to get the hell out of here. He’s going to be reunited with his people. That’s everything Din wants for him. Why would he ask for anything more than tha—

A tiny hand touches his wrist and Din almost jumps out of his skin. The child doesn’t seem to notice or care. His eyes aren’t fixed on him.

They’re on his tattoo.

“What?” the kid signs.

Din’s throat constricts. “That—” He clears his throat, but the strain in his voice is unmistakable. Din looks away, feeling a weight bear down on his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“It’s called a signet,” he says clinically, dunking the tunic back underwater and submerging his mark with it. The tunic bloats, releasing bubbles into the water like it’s being drowned. “We number our clans that way. It’s custom to tattoo our chil—our family— onto our skin. Foundlings are…They’re—” The tunic scritches in his hands from being wrung too hard. Din loosens his grip and the tunic deflates. “It is the Way.”

He rises to secure the garment to the clothesline. Beside the other water-logged clothes, the tunic just looks withered and wrinkled like an old prune. Din dries his hands and sags to the floor. 

Finally, he looks at the kid, only to find him already staring.

“I like,” the kid signs, bouncing on his feet.

“Do you?”

The child’s ears fall, hurt by something in Din’s voice. An uncomfortable silence passes between them and that’s Din’s fault too.

Din rubs a fist around his chest. “Forgive me,” he signs. 

The kid points at his hands. “What?” he signs back.

Of course, Din forgot to teach him the one word that’ll require him to swallow his pride in order to explain it.

“It means ‘I’m sorry’,” he says. “My response before wasn’t…intentional. It was just— ” He huffs and clenches his jaw, then offers the kid a pained smile. He needs to explain things in simpler terms. “An accident,” he signs and says aloud. 

The kid stares at him expressionlessly for a moment, then scuttles across the room to his toy crate, beginning to hurl trinkets and stuffies out the box.

“Hey! Wait, I just—” 

Another toy sails across the room and Din quiets with a grumble. I just put those away.

The child releases an elated shriek and toddles back with something that looks strangely like one of Din’s pigmented styli. It is.

Din stifles a groan. “Where did you find that?”

Instead of answering, the kid pops off the cap with his teeth and plops down, pulling Din’s wrist onto his lap. Giggling, he begins drawing on his skin.

“What…what are you doing?”

When he tries to get a peek, the kid pokes him with the stylus before resuming whatever the hell it is he’s doing. After a few minutes, the kid finally pulls back with a satisfied grin and Din holds his wrist up to the light. 

A series of unidentifiable squiggles stare back at him.

“Are these…flowers?”

Din might as well have clamped a lid over the kid’s excited energy. The kid draws his shoulders together and scooches back an inch, decidedly less confident. 

“You like?” he signs timidly.

Din examines the drawings again. They’re freakishly blue against the stark black of his tattoo, making the original look like a thing of the past. Signets are drawn with heavy ink, so the mark will appear bold and intimidating. But now, with the kid’s drawings, it looks like flowers are shooting out of the mud horn’s mouth.

“Not…Not good?” the kid signs clumsily.

“No, no. It is. It’s—” Din glances at the doodles and his mouth goes dry, unable to speak. “It’s good,” he signs.

The child’s ears perk up. He shuffles forward, emboldened, and pokes at Din’s wrist as if to say ‘see? There are flowers now.’ Because why else wouldn’t Din like it, if only because it just isn’t pretty enough. 

Din blinks away the prickly sensation in his eyes. “Y-You did good, kid.”

“Happy?” the kid signs.

Din barely manages a nod.

———— 

Things to Know About the Kid:

1. He only takes what he’s been given (he usually wants more)
2. When desperate enough, he’ll steal
3. Depending on the day, he’s either stubborn or timid. There is no in-between. Sometimes, he’s happy. 
4. He likes music and dancing
5. He covers tattoos with flowers
6. He’s…special

———— 

Din misinterprets one of the kid’s signs the following day and it isn’t a big deal.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he goes to retrieve the cup the kid actually wanted. ‘Please’ and ‘sorry’ are similar in form —he reminds himself of that too as he sets the cup on the table— so anyone could get them mixed up. There’s no need to make a fuss out of it. He just misunderstood what the kid was saying, that’s all.

But a few hours later, he misreads the kid’s mood too, mistaking tiredness for crabbiness so he’s late putting the kid down for his nap. On his way to the rack, he accidentally steps on one of the kid’s toys, breaking off one of its arms. The child bursts into tears and Din just…spirals from there. It shouldn’t be a big deal —not in the grand scheme of things— but he can’t help feeling like he should know better. He should know the difference between tiredness and childish defiance. He should know which cup the kid wants to drink out of by now. He should know what the kid is saying (hell, he’s the one who taught the kid sign language).

But, he’s making mistakes.

He keeps tripping over simple things.

He keeps…messing up.

Caretaking is more brutal than combat; it is endless. It’s giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left. It’s trying to get a wink of sleep, only to be woken up in the middle of the night. It’s giving up space in his crates for the kid’s toys, and giving up some of his food because the kid isn’t satisfied with his own share and wants to eat Din’s too. It’s needing to navigate the ship, only to be sidetracked a second later because the kid’s tripped over an oscillator and now, Din needs to attend to his bruises. It’s being driven to the point of exhaustion in a way he’s never felt after a fight. Combat is like a flame that ignites suddenly, then dies out just as quickly. But caretaking is a greedy thing; it asks for his whole self and then comes back and demands more. It elicits this hot, frustrated feeling in his chest and he can’t figure out why. 

He finds himself being short with the kid in a way he hates, over things that really don’t matter. Maybe, he’s tripped over one of the child’s toys, or stabbed his foot on another stylus, or failed at fixing something, and the feeling returns. Then, he finds himself checking and re-checking their food stores to make sure they have enough. He re-examines the network system to see if there’s a ping. He roams the ship, assessing every room and crevice, checking to see if everything is up to shape. If it’s good enough.

He doesn’t know why he’s scrutinizing. He doesn’t know what he’s so angry at. Is it the demands of caretaking? Or, the fact that he is spent and has so little to give? He can’t say. All he knows is he’s disoriented and tense and feels the urgent need to prove something.

There is no step-by-step guide detailing how to take care of a young child, but Din thinks he’s giving it his best effort. He thinks he’s trying.

But what if that isn’t enough? 

The tinsel wire in Din’s hand splinters, shocking his fingertips with a quick spark. It hangs limp in his hand, holding on by a single cord. Din stares at it for a while before rising to leave. He taps the security code on the wall and the cockpit door shuts, locking the question inside with it.

✵

Inevitably, it all comes to a head sometime later.

Din is in the cockpit again when he hears a wail from below. He’s out of his chair and dropping down to the hold within the span of seconds. The child is bawling from his hammock, unintentionally awake from a nap. Another nightmare, Din surmises, as he reaches out to grab him. 

His hands are barely around him when the kid shoves him back with an invisible force. It almost sends Din flat on his behind. The kid cries out as he drops to the ground. He shuffles back against the wall quickly, trying to get away from him.

“Hey, it’s just…” Din says after he rights himself. He takes a step forward, swallowing. “It’s just me.”

“No,” the child signs, shaking his head frantically. 

Din jerks back as if stung. “O-Okay.” 

His eyes flit away because he can’t bear to see the look in the kid’s eyes. It’s the same look he had when he raced into the hold on Nevarro, running away from those hunters. Except, Din was the one he ran to for safety then. He isn’t anymore. 

Din balls his hand into a fist. “Do you…Do you want me to leave?” 

The kid eyes him from behind his collar but shakes his head. 

Din doesn’t even try to hide the way his shoulders fall in relief. He bends to sit against the wall, contorting his body into a non-threatening position and every fiber of his training protests against it. He’s making himself attackable —vulnerable— but Din doesn’t know how else to get the kid to understand that he isn’t a threat, that he’d never hurt him, that he didn’t mean to scare him.

The kid hiccups. “Sorry,” he signs.

“No, it’s not your—” Din clenches his jaw. “It’s not you.” It’s me.

The child scrubs a sleeve across his face —smearing snot along his cheeks— and the action feels strangely violent. A harsh buffing; like trying to erase the evidence.

Din’s hands fall and twitch at his sides. The heater thrums to life (they’re coasting around Maldo Kreis now, braving its frigid sector) with a wheeze-like sound, struggling to stay active. The coils need to be rewound, Din identifies, listening. I can fix that. He knows how to repair most things in his ship; like how to recalibrate the coolant and rewire the electrical surger; or how to overhaul a busted conditioning system and convert it into a freezer that’ll preserve his rations. He knows how to fix broken things.

But he doesn’t know how to fix a broken heart. 

The kid keeps signing ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’ and Din digs his fingers into his knees to stop himself from reaching out and trying to fix that too.

“You don’t have to apologize. I shouldn’t have—” Din thins his lips together, looking away. He overstepped before, thinking he could just touch the child. Familiarity doesn’t mean trust. He shouldn’t have presumed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles.

“Accident,” the child signs insistently, keening so hard it looks painful.

Din startles, realizing. “Kid, no. I’m not—I’m not mad at you.”

“Accident,” the child gestures again, blubbering.

“I know it was.” His voice cracks.

“Afraid…Mad…Sad,” the kid signs.

“I know.” Din can’t help but bend like a reed towards him, just as close to breaking. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. Kid, I could never be…You are—” 

No, he scolds himself, reeling back. Too revealing.

He’s worked so hard to be a man of few words —and he is— but he’s also a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s one of his worst faults. The more he gets to talking, the more he reveals; the more he reveals, the harder it is to talk. 

When he was a kid, the things that came out of his mouth (which would only embarrass him now) were soft words: I miss you and I’m so happy to see you and I don’t ever want us to part. His heart was wide open then. But the softest flesh cuts the easiest and the Fighting Corps made quick work of hardening him, forcing such sentimentalities away. He was supposed to be stoic and inaccessible, not vulnerable. So, he learned to swallow honest words, even if they choked him.

But then, there were the times when he couldn’t. When the words would gush onto his tongue like a geyser stopped up for too long.  

Times like now. 

Vulnerable words are filling his mouth and Din is so tired of forcing them away. He’s so tired of choking on honesty.

The truth is: there’s so much the kid needs from him. He needs more space to play in, more things to do, more attention, more nurturing, and Din can’t help but feel like one day they’re bound to run out. Caregiving is like a hand that reaches down deep inside of him and pulls out all the heart and strength he possesses. Din can’t stave off the fear that one day, there won’t be anything left inside of him to give to the kid. One day, that hand will come up empty. One day, he won’t be enough. 

He’s supposed to nurture the kid, which involves knowing what the kid needs. It involves picking up the pieces of something he didn’t break and trying to put them back together. But Din has no clue what the kid was like before he was kidnapped, so he doesn’t know which broken part goes where and he’s afraid—Stars, he’s afraid of breaking something else in the kid out of sheer incompetence. He can’t afford to misinterpret signs or give the kid the wrong cup or, stars forbid, break one of the kid’s toys under his boot because he failed to watch where he was going. He can’t afford to come up short.

He can’t afford to fail. 

It makes him scrutinize the ship because he can’t bear to look the kid in the eye and admit it. 

It makes him scared and mad and sad just like the kid. 

“I’m sorry,” Din croaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong. So, don’t beat yourself up. I’m just…” His teeth scrape over his tongue and it takes everything in him not to bite the words back. “I don’t know how to…how to be what you need.”

I want to, he thinks. Stars, do I want to.

The kid scrubs his eyes and Din staves off the urgency to say more. 

If he were a different man, he wouldn’t stop himself from speaking; he wouldn’t second guess himself or look away when he’s revealed too much. He would be eloquent and articulate, knowing all the right things to say. But the universe they inhabit is cruel and unforgiving. Instructive. It taught a kid how to swallow his cries and be afraid of the dark, and taught Din —a grown man— how to swallow his words and be afraid of the light. Vocalizing is hard when all you’ve learned is how to silence yourself. 

Din chews his lip. “I…I’m going to sit next to you, alright? But you can tell me ‘no’ if that isn’t what you—” He twists his lips together. “I’m going to stand up now.”

The kid tracks him as he rises. There’s no gesture of protest, so Din sags against the wall beside him, attentive but careful. He’s left just enough space between them so that if the kid wanted to dart away or leave, he could. 

He would never force him to stay. 

For a while, neither of them moves. 

Then, Din inches a tentative hand out between them. It feels like an olive branch; like a consolation; like an apology. All the words he cannot say wrapped up in one gesture. 

The clock ticks.

The navigation beeps from the cockpit.

Din’s arm is beginning to ache.

He’s about to draw it back —unsure why he extended it in the first place— when a tiny hand wraps around two of his fingers. He chances a quick glance and notices the kid’s face is beginning to crumple. He hears a sniffle.

“It’s okay,” Din says, stroking the back of his hand. 

The kid hiccups and the dam of tears bursts back open. 

Din says nothing, just leans his head back against the wall and holds hands with a weeping child.

————  

Things to Know About the Kid:

1. He only takes what he’s been given (he usually wants more)
2. When desperate enough, he’ll steal
3. Depending on the day, he’s either stubborn or timid. There is no in-between. Sometimes, he’s happy. Sometimes, he’s sad. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling.
4. He likes music and dancing
5. He covers tattoos with flowers
6. He’s…special
7. He apologizes for things he shouldn’t

————  

After that, things don’t return to normal and, in a way, Din is grateful. 

Before, normal was him critiquing himself and failing to reach some invisible standard of parenting that he didn’t even know existed. Normal was biting back so many of the things he wanted to say, in favor of saying the least vulnerable thing. So, in a sense, the change is a welcome one. If not for the change, Din doubts he’d be currently attempting the one thing he has zero skill in.

Cooking.

Din dumps the packet of powdered egg into the bowl. A cloud of yellow billows up, curling around his helm and Din bats a hand through it. Stars, is it supposed to do that? He can’t remember when he bought the packet or how long it’s been sitting on the shelf. There might have been instructions and he might have thrown them out.

Well, he thinks, this is about to go to shit.

The kid peeks over his arm as he adds water —too little, judging by the clumping— then adds more —too much— and the mixture starts belching out bubbles.

The child gives him a look that says, ‘is it supposed to do that?’

“I don’t know,” Din says defeatedly.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Earlier, when he had been piecing through the box of foodstuffs, the thought had struck him that eating such food day-in and day-out must be awfully boring for a child. Din wouldn’t know; he isn’t overly picky, neither has he had the opportunity to be selective about meals. Foodstuffs are efficient, dirt cheap and, quite frankly, garbage. They’re not like real food, which takes time to make and preserve, but unsurprisingly less time to rot; they’re meant to fill a belly fast and quick, using synthetic bionutrients to trick the body into thinking it’s actually feeding on something substantial. It’s efficacy over delicacy. 

But consistent foodstuffs can hardly be good for a toddler, especially one who hasn’t known a regular meal in cycles. So, it was more out of guilt than any sense of goodwill that led him here. 

Sighing, Din snags a spoon from the table and holds it up to the light, inspecting the front and back. It’s a bit dusty and banged-up, but functional. He wipes the spoon on his pants, hoping for the best, before stirring the mixture together.

“What?” the child signs, looking between him and the bowl.

He shoves the mixture of eggs into the cooker and hits the timer. “Food,” he signs back (awfully bold of him to call it that).

The little womp rat actually bounces on his feet and slips off the bench, scuttling away. He returns a few seconds later with the same dirty bowl he used yesterday. 

“Put that back. I haven’t washed it yet,” Din says.

The kid does and returns with another bowl that’s somehow filthier than the last one.

Din sighs. “Are you grabbing from the clean pile?”

The child points at the dishes and Din follows his line of sight, only to discover there isn’t one clean plate or bowl to be found.

“Don’t worry about it.” He huffs. “I’ll…figure something out.”

The cooker beeps behind him and Din wrenches open the metal door, releasing a cloud of heat that fogs up his viewfinder. He bounces the tin between his hands, hissing as the bowl singes his fingers and deposits it onto the table without so much as a glance. 

He isn’t afraid to look at it; he’s just…pretty sure he knows what he’s going to find. Hesitantly, Din inches his eyes toward the tin and isn’t surprised. Half of the mixture has turned to mush, while the other half has charred.

Not exactly pleased but definitely beyond caring, Din grabs the child and plops him onto the bench before sagging on the seat beside him. 

“Well,” he says, grabbing a spoon. “Let’s dig in.”

The child leans forward and sniffs the food, only to reel back a second later, horrified. Din can’t find it in himself to be bothered. It looks as terrible as it smells. But someone has to be the taste-tester and since he’s the adult, it has to be him. 

Preparing himself, he scoops up some of the egg (just enough to taste it, but not nearly enough to kill him if it’s rancid), lifts the chin of his helm, and shovels it into his mouth.

The eggs have barely hit his tongue before he’s spitting it out. His helm seals back in place as he gags at the sour aftertaste. “That’s awful.”

The child blinks at him and bursts out laughing. 

Din’s face heats. Did he…? He can’t remember saying anything funny. The kid leans against him, still giggling, and Din passes a cursory glance at the excuse-of-a-meal that’s sitting before him. This is why he doesn’t cook.

Well, it was worth a shot. 

He rises and grabs some basic, but reliable foodstuffs from the box and sinks back onto the bench.

“Here,” he says, tossing the kid a packaged sweet dumpling. He shouldn’t be giving him sweets, but it’s better than having the kid eat half-cooked eggs.

The kid tears into the package with a look of glee.

“Don’t eat the whole thing this time,” he cautions. “You know how your stomach hurts when you eat too many sweets.”

The child just swings his legs back and forth, humming to himself as he munches on the dumpling.

Din snorts. “I guess you don’t mind junk food, huh?”

The kid grins with cheeks full of artificial cream and offers him a bite.

✵

Sometimes Din wonders if he is, what some call, old.

To be honest, he doesn’t even think about his age that often, not in the way other people do. A few years back, he visited Canto Bight to track down a swindler who made her fortune off of pillaging the rich. He didn’t stay long, not only because the swindler was laughably easy to find but because the city’s obsession with excess, wealth, and youth was just…odd. Everywhere he turned there was an advert for a pharmaceutical drug or droch serum that would extend one’s youth for another decade. Din didn’t see the point. Aging is just a part of life, and death comes for everyone eventually.

But there’s something about fathering a young child —one who seems to have an unlimited supply of energy—  that makes him fixate on his age, feeling it more intensely. He notices that his back hurts when he stands from sitting for long periods with the kid; his joints pop when he wakes, and his knees—Stars above, his knees— crack every time he bends to get eye-level with the kid. Honestly, his body shouldn’t struggle to do something so basic, not when he has years of training under his belt.

Combat is mostly muscle memory. Rarely does he need to think about how he’s going to deflect an opponent or what move he needs to make next. It’s as easy as breathing. But child-rearing requires him to sink into positions that his body doesn’t know. He doesn’t sit cross-legged, for one; neither does he draw his knees up to make himself look less menacing and more playful. Actually, he can’t remember the last time —if there ever was such a time— he engaged in play. Or allowed himself to let down his guard and just be…pliant and lighthearted.

It’s like asking a vanthyr to become a house cat, and the aches and pains in Din’s body are signs of protest against being domesticated. We don’t do this, they seem to say every time the kid waves him down to his level. We don’t do this, they say as he kneels to scrub juice out of the kid’s romper for the third time that day. We don’t do this, they say as he trips over his feet to hurry down to the hold because the ship is awfully quiet and that’s never a good sign. 

In his youth, Din felt like he had all the time in the world; rarely did he think about aging. But now, he’s less than a decade away from fifty and his body feels the implications of getting older. It feels the difficulty of being asked by a young child to expand and adjust. Din doesn’t know if that endeavor is possible. The older he gets, the more he thinks there isn’t much more he can be and do.

But the child clearly disagrees. He seems to think that Din, a warrior, would actually like to play with him and his stuffies in his spare time. He seems to think that Din would like to take his eyes off the navigation and watch the stars hurl past them just for a moment. He seems to think that Din would like frivolous things like drawing and flowers and music and sweet dumplings and happiness if he just gave them a try.

Sometimes, Din feels the urge to protest. He’s in his forties. He’s a Mandalorian. He is bound to regulations and rules.

But the kid always asks him to play; he asks him to color and sign, not because it’s a necessity but because it’s fun; he tugs on his hand with bright eyes and an easy smile, pulling him toward a music recorder as if to say, ‘Yes, but what about dancing?’

His body still objects —we don’t do this— but Din is starting to wonder, why? Why is he resisting?

Why don’t we do this?

✵

The child inches into the hold one day with a hesitancy that makes Din rest his hands on his thighs and ask with a sigh: “What did you break this time?”

At this point, he’s not even surprised. The kid can be a picture of orderly play on the best of days and the king of absolute chaos on the worst. In the span of a few hours, he can snap another one of his styli, rip a hole in his own sleeve, accidentally lock himself in the rack, or lose one of his stuffies in the privy because he wanted to see if the damn thing could swim (suffice to say, it can’t). So, Din was expecting another “accident” at some point. He just wasn’t expecting one so soon.

When the kid still doesn’t say anything, Din turns his gaze back to his rifle, examining the balancing stock with a grimace. It’s as good as broken. He tried wrapping engine tape around it to keep the stock in place but it’s no use. If he tried firing from it, he’d only electrocute himself.

Din stands with a huff and angles around the kid to the weapons locker. Tiny footsteps pitter-patter behind him and he casts an amused glance over his shoulder before opening the locker doors. Blaster pistol, riot gun, disrupter, Din identifies as he surveys the weapons with a dismal look. They are all adequate guns, but they aren’t his rifle. 

“So,” he says without taking his eyes off the locker, “which one of your toys has managed to drown this time?”

There is no reply, only the feel of a small hand tugging on his pants.

Smirking, Din turns around but something in the kid’s eyes has the smile falling off his face within seconds. He bends to a crouch.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks softly, inclining his head to catch the kid’s eye. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

The child peeks up at him for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Why not?” Din signs.

“Don’t know,” the child signs jerkily in the way he does when he’s trying to tell a lie. He isn’t really good at it.

“Really.”

The kid fiddles with his romper but doesn’t reply.

“Whatever it is,” Din says, leaning forward, “I promise I won’t be mad.”

“No?” the child signs, wide-eyed.

Din smiles and shakes his head.

The kid twists his lips together as if debating something and then holds up his arms to be held. Din raises a brow, but concedes anyway.

He holds the kid up to his face. “Okay,” he says. “Now, what’s this all about—”

The kid lurches forward and wraps his arms around his neck. 

Din almost tips over. “O-Oh.”

It’s the only word he can manage and still, it comes out tight and breathy like a high-pitched whisper. His throat feels tight, his hands shaky, his heart too loud. Din thinks he just might burst out of his armor. The feeling only intensifies when the child coos and rubs his cheek against the side of his helm. Din stumbles back against the table, needing something to hold him upright.

Just as soon as it began, the kid finally pulls back and motions to be let down. Din complies, albeit with jelly-like limbs and a heart that stutters when the child smiles up at him with crinkly eyes. The kid bounds away without another thought.

Din watches him go and thinks he might need to sit down. Yes, he nods internally. Sitting would be—That would be good. Shakily, he lowers himself onto the bench, barely feeling the cool metal under his thighs. His throat feels dry. Maybe, he should get some water. But he’s not sure he can stand again, at least not for a while.

Dazedly, he touches his neck.

That was… He swallows, feeling his face pulsate with heat. That was a hug, wasn’t it?

✵

After that, the kid wants hugs all the time.

One to greet the morning and one to usher in the evening, and Din thinks he might just pass out sometime in the near future.

He’s usually only this close to another person when he’s engaged in combat. Beyond that, people tend to stay out of his way. Whether in marketplaces or winding streets, crowds will split to make room for him (less out of honor and more out of fear). Din is a warrior and by extension, a weapon of violence. Naturally, people want to avoid him.

But the kid doesn’t.

It’s…disorienting, to be honest. The Fighting Corps taught Din how to don his armor —how to become it— but they never taught him how to take it off. They never told him that he’s more than just a warrior. He was dubbed one at graduation, but the fact that he is also a man was assumed to be understood. Of course, he’s a man. 

But assumptions leave many stones unturned.

Din, as a warrior, is shielded by armor but beneath all that, he’s only human. Sometimes, during a fight, a blade or blaster flare would nick a part of his body that the armor didn’t cover, and it reminded him that he wasn’t invincible. Armor is meant to keep him safe for that reason.

But the kid’s hugs aren’t life-threatening. They aren’t painful or scorching like a blaster flare; they can’t kill him. Yet, every time the kid hugs him, he gets that same vulnerable feeling; like the kid is seeing some soft part of him behind the shell. It elicits a number of concerns, though not the ones he was expecting.

He finds himself worrying if his helm is too cold against the kid’s cheek when he hugs him. Or if he smells bad? He worries about whether he’s holding the kid too tight or too loosely. He worries if there’s a certain time limit to hugs or if it’s simply a matter of intuition (which he doesn’t think he has)? He worries if he’s allowed to hug the kid regularly. Or would that be overstepping? He worries that the kid will soon realize how inexperienced he is with something so simple and abandon this practice altogether.

A hug is a hug. 

Yet, Din can’t help worrying if his are bad? Do they fall short of what an actual one feels like? He doesn’t know. It’s been so long since he was embraced by anyone. 

“More,” the kid signs after breakfast, and for a second, Din thinks it’s more food he wants until the kid lifts up his arms and the real reason falls into place.

Din almost reminds him that he’s already had two hugs since they woke up, but he picks up the kid anyway. Eager arms lock around his neck and the child buries his face against his throat. Din sags against the bench, warmer and more at ease than he’s felt in a while. This isn’t what he had intended when he taught the kid the word ‘more’. But, as usual, the kid has merely repurposed the word to suit another need. Food and hugs, it seems, are both necessities; they both feed some hungry thing. The kid used to reserve that need for the beginnings and endings of each day, but now it has seeped into their ordinary, forming boundaries of time around their days.

Morning. Evening. And everything in between.

But morning and evening are the things of planets, and they are drifting through space with no orbital pattern to tether them. Yet, here they are: in an old ship —in their own little world— creating time with touch, and Din has the niggling feeling that these aren’t just hugs anymore. They’re…evolving.

Something new is being made.

✵

Conversation with the kid is…an experience.

Din wouldn’t call it “conversation” per se, just snippets of random chatter. The kid’s subject matters of choice are often random, sporadic, superficial — at least, to Din; but the kid talks about food and toys and playing with his toes like they’re the most important things in the world. The kid signs to feel himself talk, not really to hold a reciprocal conversation. Din is just a sounding board and as long as he sounds interested (which usually looks like him asking obvious questions or finding a thousand and one ways to say ‘really?’ over and over again), the kid will keep chattering on.

It’s a thought that comes to him when he is sitting cross-legged in the hold watching the child play with the straps on his boot while signing ‘fun, fun, fun’ every few seconds.

“Hey.” Din taps the kid’s cheek to get his attention. When he looks up, Din forms a line in the air with his fingertips. “Buckles,” he says aloud.

“Buckles,” the kid mimics with clumsy hands before ogling the straps again. “I like buckles,” he signs.

Din leans his cheek against his fist. “Yeah?”

“Like…like…like,” the child gestures wildly and Din figures it’s his way of saying ‘and, and, and!’ “I have a ball,” he signs.

“You do?” 

The child nods insistently and reaches into his pocket only to brandish Din’s gear-shift knob. 

“Where’d you get that?” Din asks sarcastically. 

“It’s mine,” the kid signs. Before Din can challenge that assertion, the kid adds with excited hands: “I have toys!” He jumps up and waddles across the room to tug his crate out from under the holding casts. He hurries back to thrust a stuffie into Din’s lap. “See?” he gestures.

“I’m assuming this one’s your favorite?” Din says.

The child nods earnestly and then, as if struck by some sudden thought, ducks his head and traces a toe across the floor. “You like?” he signs tinily. 

Din raises his eyebrows. “You mean…?” He blinks down at the toy. 

To be honest, he doesn’t know why the kid favors this one. It’s creepy with its engorged belly and bulbous eyes and small head. But if Din were to say that, the kid would only stop playing with it. The kid can be stubborn sometimes, but he’s also obliging to a fault. It’s a habit Din has been trying to curb, but the child always asks for his opinion as if he can only be happy if Din is happy or like something if Din likes it.

There’s so much wrong with that Din doesn’t even know where to begin, but redirection is often his best bet.

“Do you?” he signs. When the child gives him a look of confusion, Din says aloud, “Do you like it?”

The kid hunches his shoulders together and nods.

“Well,” Din says, handing him back the toy. “Then, that’s all that matters, right? After all, your opinion is pretty important.”

The child’s eyes widen as he takes the stuffie in a daze. Before Din can ask what that expression is all about, the kid ducks his head again.

Din’s smile fades into a frown. “Did I…” He leans forward. “Did I say something wrong?”

Shyly, the kid peeks up at him and Din catches a dark green tint —that definitely wasn’t there before— coloring the kid’s cheeks. Oh, he blinks rapidly, leaning back. That’s probably the closest thing to a blush he’s ever seen on the kid. 

“What do you like about your toy?” Din asks gently.

Hesitantly, the child traces one of the stuffie’s buttons with the tip of his nail.

“Those are nice,” Din affirms with a hum. “Anything else?”

With more confidence this time, the kid points at one of the eyes.

Din has to fight to keep the grimace out of his voice. “They are…definitely interesting.”

The kid finally looks up with a fainter flush on his cheeks and wide, bright eyes. “They’re big,” the kid signs, throwing his hands out so wide he almost topples over.

“Indeed, they are.” Din helps the kid right himself. “And who got it for you?” he asks wryly.

“Me,” the child gestures. 

Din snorts. Well, that’s a new one… His eyes trace over the loose threads dangling from the stuffed animal’s body, the telltale signs of the kid’s stress-pulling. “You sleep with that one, don’t you?”

The child’s brows furrow together. “No sleep,” he signs.

“I didn’t say you had to go to sleep.”

“I don’t…like sleep,” the kid gestures but the ecstatic energy has left his hands.

He starts pulling on one of the threads, winding it around his finger, unwinding it, then starting all over again. He only does that when Din is dimming the lights in the hold, preparing them for bedtime. 

Din watches the child tug and tug and tug on the string and he doesn’t think, just places a hand on top of the kid’s. “I know.” 

I don’t either. Except, he usually downs de-stimulants like water while the kid reaches for one of his stuffies. Different responses, yet similar. 

Din feels a cloud beginning to settle over them, turning the previously bright energy into something dark and solemn, and he doesn’t want to let it.

“Hey,” he says, making the kid’s head snap up. “What else do you like?”

“I like...” His eyes flit around and Din watches the sullen fog in the kid’s eyes thin and transform into something sunny and childlike again. “Hugs!” the child signs.

“Do you...want a hug?” Din asks hesitantly.

Before he can think about second-guessing the offer, the child barrels into him. Din falls onto his back with an ‘oomph’, pretending to be hurt, and the kid giggles. It’s such a childlike sound, so normal, Din almost forgets that the kid is anything else but a toddler. 

The Nikto called the kid a “fledgling Jedi”, saying Din has no idea what he could “do”. The Armorer also called the Jedi “sorcerers” and though Din doesn’t know anything about sorcery, he does know there’s something magical about the kid’s hugs. Something powerful. They have the power to erase bad dreams and painful conversations. They have the power to heal hurts and pains and age-old loneliness. They have the power to make Din laugh like he is now. 

If that isn’t magic, Din doesn’t know what else is.

———— 

Things to Know About the Kid:

1. He only takes what he’s been given (he usually wants more)
2. When desperate enough, he’ll steal
3. Depending on the day, he’s either stubborn or timid. There is no in-between. Sometimes, he’s happy. Sometimes, he’s sad. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling
4. He likes music and dancing
5. He covers tattoos with flowers
6. He’s…special
7. He apologizes for things he shouldn’t
8. He gives nice fine hugs

————

“Fuel break,” Din explains to the kid as he lowers the ship onto the spaceport of Rhol Yan. Dust and debris sweep up as the ship sinks onto the tarmac. The child peeks over the pilot controls to look out the window.

They can’t stay long. If anything, Din hopes the attendants will finish up the job in less than an hour, so they can make the jump to another sector. He’s visited a number of planets but he’s not familiar enough with Rhol Yan to rest easy. Hunters prowl the galaxy and surely this city is no exception. 

After powering off the engines, Din places the kid in his carrier and initiates its motion control to follow him down to the hold. He’s barely released the security latch, watching the lift drop to the ground, before he’s hit with a flurry of attendants, circling around his ship like a band of hawks. Their vigor suggests that they either haven’t had enough business today or are expecting him to fork out some money on repairs. They’re about to be sorely disappointed.

“If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it,” he says, handing the machinist a few credits. He turns an eye to the ship. “She just needs to be filled up.”

The machinist calls most of the attendants off with a whistle as Din heads toward the entry gates. The kid leans out of his carrier with a coo as he ogles the city’s white spires. They’re breaking through the clouds like fingers stretching toward the sky and now, Din understands why people call Rhol Yan the Heavenly City. The sky is unnaturally blue and the rolling hills surrounding them are abnormally green; the marketplace, too, thrums with a kind of soft energy, different from the cut-throat chaos of most markets. Everything about the city is unearthly. 

Being sheltered from war will do that to a place. 

He wanders through the streets, stopping at booths to stock up on other necessities. City-folk stroll around him, chatting with one another. They seem more focused on talking than on buying anything. Nevertheless, as Din passes, he feels eyes on his back, and instinctively he draws the child’s carrier closer. 

He’s bound to stick out like a sore thumb, especially in a place like this, but he distrusts the sense of calm more than anything else. Security often breeds fear. He’s visited enough planets like this to see beyond its veneer of peace. Most people assume that a sense of safety and security should create peace but that’s rarely, if ever, the case. People are driven to establish security out of a need for control. It drives them to either deplete their planet’s resources or amass more stuff (more defenses, more security protocols, more food) while ousting everyone and everything that hinders “progress.” Din has seen the footage and rarely does that path end well for anyone. 

Trying to escape the prying eyes, Din ducks into a shop. He parts through the curtain of beads, hearing them clink behind him, as he steps into, what looks like, a nursery store.

The kid perks up in his carrier, eying a toy on the shelf, and Din wonders how he always ends up in these situations. Before he can consider leaving, an elderly woman emerges from the back room. She’s so impossibly short Din doesn’t think she could reach above his hip if she tried. 

The old woman freezes when she sees him and scrabbles for something behind the curtain. Din’s hand ghosts over his holster.

“A Mandalorian,” she says and pulls a cane out from behind the curtain. “What a treat!”

Din’s lips part. A…what?

A little girl shuffles out of the room behind her. She takes one look at him and hides behind the old woman.

“Now, now, Sessie darling,” the shopkeeper says, reaching to her right to grab the girl. The girl edges to the left. “There’s no need to be rude.” She smiles at him apologetically. “Please excuse her. She’s just shy, is all. But don’t worry, we serve all kinds of guests here.” The shopkeeper says it very slowly like that’s supposed to mean something. 

Before Din can respond, the old woman releases a cry of delight. “Oh!” she says, hobbling forward as fast as her cane with allow. “A baby!”

She peeks over the carrier to wave at the child, making the little girl lose her grip on the old woman's skirts. 

“Well, aren’t you precious?” the shopkeeper coos. She beams up at Din with an affection that’s totally undeserved. “What’s their name, dear?”

“He…doesn’t have one,” Din replies, thrown by the sudden endearment.

The old woman nods as if that makes complete sense. It really makes no sense at all.

With an air of hesitancy, the little girl tugs on the shopkeeper’s skirts and rises up to whisper something in her ear.

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” he hears the woman whisper. “Go on,” she says, nudging her out into the open. 

The girl tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “C-Can…Can he play with me?”

Din sighs. “Sure.”

The girl is practically thrumming with unconfined energy as he takes the kid out of the carrier and places him on the ground. 

“Come on!” she says, taking off.

The child starts after her, then stops and glances back at Din nervously.

“Go on,” Din says with a soft smile. “I’ll be right here when you return.”

With a contented chirp, the kid waddles after her and Din folds his arms, watching him go.

“I remember when my Sessie darling was in the clingy stage,” the shopkeeper says with a fond sigh. “But your boy seems more attached to you than she was to my daughter. Her name’s Kelope but she goes by Kel. It’s more in-style, apparently.”

Din says nothing. 

“Is the mother—” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh dear, Kel would have a fit. She always tells me I can be a touch sexist, you know,” she says. “How to put this…? Does your boy get clingy with the…birth parent?”

“They’re not…in the picture.” It’s not a lie.

“Oh, I see…” the shopkeeper says, nodding. “Pardon me for saying, dear, but I had a feeling you might be divorced.”

Din’s eyes almost bulge out of his sockets. “What?” 

“I’m really good at reading these kinds of things. Take it from me, you’re much better without ‘em.” She pats his arm sagely. “But don’t you worry none. We serve all kinds of guests here.”

“You’re mistaken,” he manages out. “I’m not divorced.”

The shopkeeper’s eyebrows almost shoot to her hairline. “Oh!” She takes a step back and looks him up and down then, a knowing smile spreads across her lips. “So, you’re one of those…”

Din’s lips part. “One of—?” He wavers on his feet when he realizes what she’s implying. “I don’t self-produce.”

“There’s no need to explain it to me, dearie. I might have a few years on you, but I know about such things.” She hums and shuffles away before he can respond. “It’s a good thing you came to my shoppe. Vaneera down the street can be real a hag. She isn’t welcoming to your kind, not like I am.” The old woman stills and turns back to him. “Oh, where are my manners? Did you come in to buy anything, dear?”

Din doesn’t even know what to say to that.

“Might I suggest our new sling wrap? It lets you wrap your little one around your chest, while you complete your domestics.”

“I don’t think—”

She nudges a basket over with her cane and drops the wrap inside before hobbling over to another shelf, piecing through the contents.

“Is he still teething?” she asks.

Din’s mouth opens and closes. “I don’t—He might be,” he says dumbly.

The old woman hums sagely. “I thought as much,” she says before winking at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll throw in a few extras free of charge. He looks like he might need it.”

Din needs to put a stop to this. “I appreciate your efforts, but I didn’t come in to—”

Something bumps against his boot. A ball, Din realizes as he crouches down to inspect it. Before Din can wonder where it came from, he hears the sound of heavy footsteps racing into the shop. The little girl freezes when she sees the ball at his feet, torn between going to get it or steering clear.

“Here,” Din says, holding it out.

The little girl inches forward and takes it with a shy smile. “Thank you,” she says in a small voice. 

Only when she steps back does Din see the kid standing behind her with a blank look on his face.

“Hey kid,” he says, rising. “What’re you—”

The girl shrieks as she’s thrown to the floor. The fall isn’t a hard one, but it still sends a loud thud through the room, making some of the toys on the shelves tremble. Sitting up, the girl releases a low mewl and bursts into tears.

“Oh dear, oh dear…” the shopkeeper says, hurrying to gather her up. The kid waddles past her with a ‘hmph’ and snatches a fistful of Din’s flight suit.

Din gapes between the kid and the shopkeeper. “I…I’m sorry,” he stammers to the woman. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

The kid tightens his grip around Din’s leg and shoots a glare at the girl. “Mine,” he signs.

Din almost chokes on his own saliva.

“I think we just had a biggg misunderstanding,” the shopkeeper says, none the wiser. “There’s no need to fight. You two were playing so nicely before…”

With tears in her eyes, the little girl sticks her tongue out at the kid; the kid’s glare intensifies and he raises his hand as if to—Stars above, he’s about to knock her over with his powers again.

“Thank you for your…your hospitality but I’m afraid we must go,” Din says, practically shoving the kid back into his carrier.

The shopkeeper’s eyes widen. “But what about your—”

Din is out the door before she can finish talking. He bumps into someone as he stumbles back onto the main street. They curse at him in a language he doesn’t recognize, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He’s too busy watching the child sign at every person that passes them.

The kid flashes his teeth at a Mirialan. “Mine,” he signs.

Heat stokes on Din’s face. “Kid, y-you can’t keep—” Din pushes out a hard breath and picks up his pace. He just needs to get back to the ship. 

They are through the city gate within minutes, finally away from the crowds. It’s quieter out here amongst the rolling hills and Din can just make out his ship, waiting at the fueling station. They probably finished filling her up an hour ago, which makes him already late, but the kid still isn’t looking at him and Din can’t bring himself to have this conversation face-to-face either.

“What was that all about?” he asks after a long pause.

The child’s hands don’t move. 

Din’s body shifts toward him an inch. “Kid,” he tries.

The child retreats to the back of his carrier with a ‘hmph’ and Din doesn’t know what the hell to do with that response.

“I thought…I thought you liked playing with that girl,” he says. “You looked like you wanted to…” When only silence meets him again, he sighs and rests his hands on his hips. “What if she had gotten hurt?”

He’s circling around the main point of the conversation — talking about the girl and the kid’s play as if that’s the main issue— and he knows it. But Din can’t bring himself to talk about the kid’s admission. He can’t. 

The child still hasn't come out of the carrier, neither has he said anything, and the silence feels wrong. It’s never been used to wound or shut him out. Silence is usually their comfort zone —how they connect— but it isn't now and Din feels something inside his chest give.

“I was only…” Dammit, don’t do it. He’s moving too close to the issue. He can’t stop himself. “I was only handing her the ball.”

The child emerges from the back of the carrier with angry tears in his eyes. “You,” the kid gestures with a sniffle. “Mine,” he signs.

And there it is. 

Din swallows and tries to look away, but that feels more painful than looking the kid in the eye.

“Kid, I’m not—" He licks his lips, once then twice, to give himself a chance to find the right words. But all that comes out is: "I’m not like one of your toys. It doesn’t…work that way.” 

“I want…I want…I want,” the kid signs assertively.

He’s doing it just like Din taught him. Din should be proud. He should be elated, but the smile he attempts is tight across his lips. 

“Listen to me,” he says, bending down to get eye-level with the kid, but he regrets the decision when the child reaches for him with a whine. Din’s fingers twitch on his knees, aching to hold him. “You take such good care of your things, kid. Your toys and your ball. I know you lo—treasure all that belongs to you and that’s…very good of you. But you need to know—" His throat constricts, trying to get him to stop talking. Din can't stop, not when he's already started. "You need to know, there are some things that aren’t ours. Things we can’t have. No matter...No matter how much we may want them.”

The child's ears fall and Din only has himself to blame. This is his fault.

At one point, he taught the kid that all that belongs to him is never in question. He taught the kid to assert himself and name what belongs to him, and Din was so preoccupied with that task he never thought to tell the kid about the limits. 

The exceptions to the rule.

He forgot to tell him that you can’t just collect people the way you collect objects. Or, that people aren’t things to be stowed away in crates alongside stuffed animals and trinkets and shiny balls. They are bound by duties and responsibilities and forces bigger than themselves…even when they don’t want to be. He forgot to tell him that you can’t sink your nails into people, hoping they might stay. Someone always bleeds that way. Someone always gets hurt.

Din forgot to tell the kid about those exceptions.

He forgot...just like his own father.

“Mine,” the kid signs again, but his face is saying it like a question now. His eyes are flickering around Din’s helm like he’s waiting to hear something back.

Din knows what it is and he can’t say it. 

Please, he thinks, don’t ask me to.

———— 

Things to Know About the Kid:

1. He only takes what he’s been given (he usually wants more)
2. When desperate enough, he’ll steal
3. Depending on the day, he’s either stubborn or timid. There is no in-between. Sometimes, he’s happy. Sometimes, he’s sad. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling
4. He likes music and dancing
5. He covers tattoos with flowers
6. He’s…special
7. He apologizes for things he shouldn’t
8. He gives nice fine hugs
9. He thinks I’m his He’s still learning how to apply new words

————

Din wakes to the feeling of being watched. 

His hand is on his blaster within seconds, but what he finds has him sinking back against the mattress, abandoning his holster.

“Kid, what are you doing up?” he asks. His voice is scratchy and deep with sleep, almost frightening. But the kid doesn’t back away. If anything he just shuffles closer.

Din blinks a few times and he realizes, only after casting a glance toward the rack door, that there’s a reason why he can’t see the child well. He started leaving the door open so the rack wouldn’t be too dark (he started doing other things too like staying awake until the child drifted off, adding extra blankets and toys to his hammock, or rocking the kid while he paced around the room, practically dead on his feet). The light filters in better this way, making the child settle in a way he doesn’t when they’re closed in. Sometimes the adjustment helps; other times, it doesn’t help at all. Tonight seems to be one of the times when it isn't helping.

Against the illuminators, the kid’s silhouette looks shadowy and dark. Din can’t make out his face nor the word he keeps signing. Din shifts him to the side and the child’s face comes into view. His shoulders are hunched as he gestures tinily, keeping the word close to his chest like a secret.

“Scared,” the kid signs. He tries to draw his blanket closer to his cheek but there’s a stuffie wedged inside his elbow, making movement difficult.

“Nightmare?” Din signs, stifling a yawn.

The child shakes his head. “Scared,” he gestures again.

So, no then. It’s probably just the fear of one that’s keeping him awake. But the kid is standing before him like he’s expecting him to do something about it. Din wants to, but he knows nightmares. He can’t venture into the kid’s mind and keep him safe there. He can only keep him safe here. 

“What do you need?” he asks softly.

The child’s eyes flicker meaningfully to the spot next to him and Din’s grateful he’s wearing his helm because, otherwise, the kid would have seen just how wide his eyes got. 

“You want to sleep with…?” Din can barely say the word, so he doesn’t.

The kid nods eagerly.

“I…” He glances between himself and the bed again and swallows, unsure how to respond. 

Taking his silence to be a rejection, the kid shuffles a foot back, fidgety and nervous. Din knows he needs to say something and fast.

“The lights,” he bursts out stupidly. “Are they—Are you not—?” His eyes dart around as if his words have escaped into thin air. “I can turn them up for you. Would that make things better?”

The kid glances at the spot next to him again and makes a tiny circle over his chest. “Please,” he signs.

“Kid, I don’t think…”

The child’s shoulders draw together and Din sags against the mattress, biting back his protest. When he asked if the kid needed anything, he expected something practical: a cup of water, another blanket, a snack. Those are things Din can get easily. They’re impersonal, inanimate things. But the kid is asking for a place next to him. He’s asking for him.

“Please,” the kid signs again.

Din sighs. “Alright,” he says. “Just this once. But next time—”

The kid squeals and practically plasters himself to Din’s chest. Din tries to put some space between them but the little womp rat won’t budge an inch.

“You’ll suffocate yourself that way," he says blandly.

The child smiles up at him, predictably unbothered. “Story?” he signs hopefully.

“I don’t know any children’s tales.”

The kid’s ears fall. “No story?” he signs.

Din regards him thoughtfully. “You wanna hear about the time I killed a mudhorn?” The kid hums in his arms, so Din begins. “Several cycles ago, I visited Arvala-7…” 

He doesn’t tell the kid that it’s his origin story. Or, that the creature became his signet. Instead, he tells the child about the Jawas that stripped his ship clean of its parts and the Ugnaught he met who helped him strike a deal with them (his name was Kuiil and though Din doesn’t disclose that information, he remembers him just the same). He tells him about the mudhorn’s size and the sludge-like mud that was a crick to clean out of his flight suit. He tells him how he almost died.

The child gapes up at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t raise his hands to sign because Din hasn’t taught him the word ‘die’ yet, but the look of fright on his face says enough.

“Clearly, I made it out just fine,” Din says with a smirk.

The kid twists his lips together and looks away.

“Hey,” Din says, nudging his chin. The child looks back at him hesitantly. “The story isn’t over yet.”

He tells him about gutting the creature with his vibroblade and, thankfully, the kid isn’t squeamish when he talks about its guts spilling out. At some point, he wanders into other stories too — about his childhood, his birth parents, his buir— and for the first time in a long time, Din doesn’t have a knot in his throat when he recalls his earlier years. He talks until there are no more details to share, only fond memories that leave a warm glow in his mind.

By the end, the child’s chest is rising and falling steadily against him and though Din can’t tell if he’s sleep or not —his face is smushed against his chestplate— he’d be surprised if he wasn’t. The child is warm against his chest as he snuggles closer and Din, full of some unexplainable emotion, lets him. 

He knows he shouldn’t. But there’s so much hope burning on the inside of him, threatening to spill over. He doesn’t even know what he’s hoping for. He’s used to killing his hope —it’s so fragile and tenuous, it’s easy— but for once in his life, he just can’t. He and the kid have created this world between them and Din likes it. He can’t remember the last time he liked anything so much. It feels like he’s rediscovering himself, returning to something that was lost a long time ago. Coming alive again.

Gavit called him an ori’vhekad and though Din would never admit it, he has wondered sometimes if he is that. If everything he touches is meant to die. But then, Din met the kid and he never thought, never imagined, that he could create life. A new life. It makes him feel a strange kind of optimism. It makes him whisper into all this idyllic, unrestrained newness, ‘please, just this once, don’t die’.

Din feels the kid shift in his arms and he looks down, only to find the child blinking sleepily at him.

“Why are you still awake?” Din asks with a sigh.

“Happy,” the kid signs.

Din’s eyes soften. “Really…” he says.

The child nods with a yawn. “Story?” he signs lazily.

“I think that’s enough adventure for one night.” Din reaches out and strokes the kid’s brow with his thumb. “Go to sleep, little one.”

The kid doesn’t protest and burrows back under his arms again.

The millaflowers rustle above them as Din shifts onto his other side, pulling the kid with him. Several petals flutter down and Din tilts his head, eying the flowers thoughtfully. They’ve been looking brown and wrinkly recently but he hasn’t had one of his dreams since he put them up, which is…odd. He’ll send a message to Peli tomorrow just in case.

But for now, all is quiet in the rack.

For now, they have time.

✵

But even time must run its course eventually.

The ping comes hours after they’ve woken up and had breakfast, after they’ve settled into their new normal and exchanged hugs. It beeps rapidly from the cockpit and Din freezes against the wall, feeling a cold chill seep into his skin.

A trace, he wavers on his feet. It’s found a Jedi nearby.

It should incite a sense of relief and gratitude. Happiness. But Din’s hands are slow to grab the child and climb up the ladder into the cockpit. He deposits the kid into the passenger chair and falls into his own, whirling around to inspect the star chart. A bright red dot blinks on the coordinate grid.

Corvus. 

They’re so close they could make it there in a day. If the ping is correct, there might be a Jedi on the planet, which means the kid will go back to… 

Din’s hand closes into a tight fist. “Good news,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ve got a hit. There might be one of your kind on this planet.” 

The child chirps behind him, but it’s the gear-shift knob he’s enraptured in, not the newfound knowledge. Din grabs the thrusters, needing to steady himself. This is a good thing. This might be the kid’s redemption and Din’s ticket off-world. After he drops the kid off, he can leave like he’s wanted. He can go back to his old life.

That’s…everything he’s wanted. 

“I agreed to take you back to your own kind and that’s what I’m going to do. You understand, right?” He doesn’t look at the kid when he says it; he doesn’t even know who he’s talking to anymore. “We’re gonna find that place you belong and they’re going to take real good care of you.”

He loads the interface system, plugs in the coordinates for Corvus, and engages the thrusters. They’re ready to go, but Din’s hands are trembling over the controls.

“That’s what you want too, isn’t it? To go home?” he asks with his back to the kid. “You should be with your people. To stay would be…unwise.”

Of course, the kid can’t stay. But even if he did, what kind of life could Din offer him? He lives in an old ship that is one blast away from falling to pieces. He can’t cook, he can barely clean, and he’s terrible at sewing baby sleeves to rompers. He can barely take care of himself, so how the hell would he care for a child long-term? The kid sleeps in a hammock made of patchwork tarp for stars’ sake and he still has nightmares. 

Din can try his hand at domestics all he wants, but this place will never be a home, not for a child. 

He turns around and finds the kid staring at him from the passenger seat. There’s a concerned look on his face. “We’re okay?” the kid signs.

Din smiles painfully. “Of course we are.”

✵

He maneuvers the ship onto, what looks like, a barren wasteland.

Against the thick fog, the trees look like skeletons, stripped clean of their foliage and girth — the bare bones of a previous life— and Din’s dismal mood worsens as he walks through the landscape. The star-charts called it a forest planet and maybe, at one time, it was that lively. But now everything, from the smog in the air to the scorched branches and dried leaves crunching under his feet, reeks of death. Din barely resists the urge to take the kid back to the ship. Instead, he taps the motion control on his vambrace and draws the kid’s carrier closer to his side.

The child peeks up at him nervously from behind his collar and signs: “Go. I want to go.”

Din sighs. “I know you do."

“I don’t like,” the kid gestures, then looks around warily at the trees. 

“We’ll leave soon,” Din replies, immediately regretting the words.

There is no ‘we’. He’ll be leaving soon and the kid will be staying behind. They’ve always been going in two separate directions and it’s high-time he acknowledged that fact. The real question is, how can he leave a child on a planet like this? 

The eeriest part about it isn’t even the trees, but the lack of noise. He’s pretty sure they’re a little ways away from the main city, Calodan but cities are known for their cacophony of noise — from markets, transportation traffic, and vendors calling out to make a sale— and Din hears…absolutely nothing. No birds, no voices, just the mechanics of factories, pumping out pollutants into the air from a distance.

He approaches the city gates only to find scouts along the walls and a series of guns trained on him.

“State your business,” a man, who wears the armor of a scout but carries himself like a figure of importance, says. Din eyes the man’s durasteel armor, the color of his flight suit, and the way he sets his shoulders back as if preparing for an onslaught. A hired gunfighter, Din surmises. Figures.

“Been tracking for a few days,” Din lies. “Looking for a layover.”

The gunfighter casts a sweeping glance over him. “Nice armor,” he says. “You’re a hunter then?”

“I am.”

“Guild?”

Din shifts his footing. “Last I checked.”

The gunfighter looks at him evenly before gesturing for the guards to let him inside. The gate draws apart with a painful whine, unbolting itself, and Din slips inside, keeping a close eye on the child.

If the outside of Calodan is a skeleton, then its insides are like the remnants of a carcass, torn apart by tyranny and poverty. Its exchange tents sag under some invisible weight, and the city’s inhabitants scurry around with their shoulders hunched, darting away when he so much as tries to speak to them. 

Din is barely through the heart of the city before scouts, like the ones at the gate, surround him, saying someone called the “magistrate” wishes to see him. 

They take him to a garden that is at odds with the city’s landscape. Well-kept trees and streaming waters follow him down the walkway to a woman standing at its end. She’s draped in red robes that look like they cost more than the city itself.

“I have a proposition that may interest you,” the magistrate says.

“My price is high,” Din replies.

“This target is priceless. A Jedi plagues me.”

Din just barely keeps himself from reacting. So, the ping was right… There is a Jedi on this planet.

“Her name is Ahsoka Tano,” the magistrate tells him. “I want you to find her and kill her.”

✵

In the end, she finds him.

Din can feel a presence trailing him and eyes watching him, but he hears nothing. He flicks on his thermoscanner, tracking the ground, but there are no warm footprints but his own. The leaves are brittle under his feet, easily broken by his soft footing. 

No one’s come this way, he recognizes. An animalistic sound cries in the distance and Din straightens.

“You hear that?”

The child whines from his carrier.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Let me see what’s out there.”

He surveys the landscape with his scope, trailing past the scorched trees to a pair of oversized creatures, grazing in the distance.

Din sighs. “False alarm—”

Something ignites above him and Din raises his arms just in time to deflect two laser swords. They crackle with energy, spewing sparks off his vambraces, highlighting the face of a Togruta woman. She has him on the defensive in seconds, backing him up against the trees. Din launches his grappling line to trap her, but she leaps over one of the trees, taking him with her.

Din detaches the line and seizes his gun just as she whips around to face him. “Ahsoka Tano!” he calls out, raising a hand. 

The woman called Ahsoka stills, but she doesn’t withdraw her weapons. He wouldn’t expect her to.

“I’m not here to kill you,” he pacifies. “I just want to talk.”

Her eyes trail past him. “I hope it’s about him,” she says, drawing her weapons back. 

Din follows her as she approaches the child, watching the rigid severity in her face melt into something fond. The hint of a smile crosses her lips.

“Come,” she says after a moment. “Sunset is approaching, and you don’t want to be in this area when it does.”

•••

Din paces through the forest, watching the Jedi —Ahsoka, his memory corrects— sit with the child, and he knows he’s one brush away from hovering. He wants to give them privacy and yet, he doesn’t at the same time. She isn’t a danger to the kid, he knows that, but he still doesn’t know her. It’s better for him to stay close.

After casting another glance at the pair, Din eyes the sizable moon hanging over them —half-illuminated and half-shrouded— and thinks that is what the woman is like. There’s an openness in the way she carries herself, but the few words she’s spoken to him are shrouded in a cloud of mystery. 

That’s a dangerous blend of traits.

After a moment, Din watches her stand and retrieve both the child and her lantern, relocating to a more secluded spot among the rocks, and Din assumes that’s his cue to return.

The child chirps when he approaches and Ahsoka rests her hands on her lap, nodding to him.

“Is he speaking?” Din asks. “Do you…understand him?”

She straightens and folds her hands behind her poncho. “In a way…” she says. “Grogu and I can read each other’s thoughts.”

“Grogu?”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s his name.”

Din rocks on his feet. Of course, he knew the kid had a name; he just didn’t expect that he’d ever know it. Grogu. He wants to say it out loud —test how it sounds or feels on his own lips— but to speak a name is to invoke intimacy (it’s why they don’t call each other by their primary names in the Covert) and Din doesn’t get that right. 

“He was raised at the Jedi temple on Coruscant,” Ahsoka says lowly. “Many masters trained him over the years. At the end of the Clone Wars when the Empire rose to power, he was hidden.”

Numbly, Din lowers himself onto one of the rocks.

“Someone took him from the temple. Then, his memory becomes…dark. He seemed lost. Alone.” 

For how long? he wants to ask, but can’t bring himself to. That isn’t his business. Still, Din chances a glance at the kid, only to find him already staring.

“We’re okay?” the child signs slackly with a yawn.

Din nods covertly. “Yes, we are,” he signs back with small hand motions, trying to be inconspicuous but she notices anyway.

“You use a symbolic language with him?” Ahsoka asks with raised eyebrows.

“He…doesn’t speak,” Din replies. “I thought it would make things easier.”

“When you say, he doesn’t speak…”

“I don’t think he knows how to.”

Ahsoka frowns. “Yes, he does,” she says. “He told me he’s…locked his words away. He doesn’t want to speak.”

Why?  Din keeps himself from asking that too. 

A soft snore draws his eyes to the rocks across from him, finding the child asleep. I forgot to give him a nap, Din realizes and it shouldn’t be important. He knows the kid’s name now, and where he’s from. He knows that the kid can actually speak verbally. Yet, in the midst of all that new information, what is he doing? Fixating on a minor oversight. 

He's forgotten to give the kid a nap before, but things are different now. The child's going back where he belongs, and Din can’t help but think about how his oversight will set the kid’s bed-time back and how it’ll be hard to get him to sleep later, and how nap-times and sleeping schedules aren’t any of his concern anymore and that shouldn't be as saddening as it is. He feels the need to hand over his ‘Things to Know About the Kid’ list to this Jedi, Ahsoka Tano. She needs to know which foods the kid likes to eat; she needs to know which one is his favorite stuffie; she needs to know about the best way to calm him down after his night terrors.

“He has nightmares,” Din blurts out. “You should be aware of that. They’re…consistent.”

“How consistent?” she asks.

“Almost every night.”

Ahsoka looks disturbed. “What do they entail?”

Din shakes his head. “He hasn’t told me. Just that he doesn’t like sleeping in the dark.”

He realizes, in that same moment, that he won’t need to leave the lights on anymore. He can go back to sleeping in pitch-black darkness. He’ll need to take down the kid’s hammock too when he returns to the ship, and rearrange the hold back to its original set-up. He’ll need to fill the kid’s crate with something else now because the kid won’t be—

“I don’t know why he still has them,” Din says, needing to speak over the somber energy thrumming in his chest. “I bought these flowers before he came. They’re supposed to help with nightmares, but they haven’t stopped his.”

“You bought them before Grogu came to you?” she asks with a look of surprise.

Din doesn’t see why that detail matters. “Yes.”

“You have nightmares.” It isn’t a question, and Din realizes he’s the one who gave that information away. 

It’s one of your worst faults, a voice in the back of his head reminds, chiding him because he should have known. The more he gets to talking, the more he reveals.

Din leans away from her. “I…do.”

He can feel her scrutinizing him and it’s so intense that, just for a second, he wonders if Jedi can see behind armor. If she can see him.

“I have known a few of your kind,” Ahsoka says. “I’m familiar with some of your practices. Your creeds, your Way, and your dreams.” 

Din clenches his jaw but doesn’t say a word.

“You do not just happen upon a child. They are…promised to you,” she says with a tone of confusion like she’s trying to decipher a puzzle. 

“Your point,” Din says flatly.

“As far as I know, Mandalorians don’t have nightmares.”

Irritation bites at Din’s restraint. He doesn’t need things explained for him, most of all this part of his life. “Well,” he says bitterly, “this one does.”

“You misunderstand me.”

“I understand you just fine,” he says, rising to his feet. It’s about time he left. “I was quested with bringing the child back to a Jedi and I have done that.”

Ahsoka remains seated and somehow, that makes her even more irritating. “When you close your eyes,” she continues undeterred, “what is it that you dream?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Why did you find him?” Ahsoka says, and the sound that comes out of Din’s mouth is something between a sigh and a growl. “I thought you only discover foundlings that belong to you,” she adds.

Din’s eyes narrow to slits. “I’m here to discuss the kid—”

“We are,” she replies, resting her arms on her thighs and leaning forward. It feels less like they’re conversing and more like they’re engaging in combat again. Except, she's in pursuit of something and Din is retreating. “Your dream,” she reminds. “What is it?”

“Why do you want to know?” he bites out.

She doesn't reply. So, Din doesn't say anything either just to spite her. His eyes trail over to the child, still snoring softly across from him, and the hot energy in his chest recedes to a simmer. 

What if the kid does know about his nightmares? He never considered it before, but the child has powers and Ahsoka said they can ‘feel each other’s thoughts', so what if the kid knows…? 

Din's eyes fall to the ground. “It's nothing.”

“Then, you won't mind telling it,” she replies easily. "Since, as you say, it's clearly 'nothing'."

A mystery and a smart-ass, Din snorts. How quaint. 

His teeth scrape across his tongue. “There is…darkness. Blood. Something's burning. I believe it's...bodies." He swallows, trying to ignore the churn in his gut. "I’m running, then someone finds me."

She's schooling her expression, making it blank and unreadable, but Din has seen such behavior before. He knows the ins-and-outs of emotional reticence. Shock doesn't always have to be obvious.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he says.

“No,” Ahsoka replies. Her voice sounds hollow like an echo reverberating through an empty room. “It isn’t.”

Din scowls. “You can’t know that.”

“It isn’t a nightmare,” she continues as if not hearing him, “but a memory.”

“How would you—?” Din thins his lips together. She is an outsider; she doesn’t understand these things. “I can assure you it isn't. I don’t have a—” He clenches his hands. He’s revealed too much already. “Even if what you say were true, I wouldn’t forget a memory like that.

“I never said it was yours.” 

Ahsoka’s eyes travel past him to land on the kid. “I’ve seen his mind,” she says distantly. 

Din takes a step back. “What are you implying?”

“Tell me,” Ahsoka says, turning to him. Her blue eyes flash against the lamp’s light. “When was the last time you dreamed?”

Chapter Text

“What’s it like finding your dream child?” Din asks his buir once as they lay side-by-side on separate sleeping mats. 

The candles have long since melted down to their stumps, leaving behind a medley of scents that remind him of where they’ve been and where they’re going: durmic spice from Orra, charred wick from Corellia, and imitative andris zest from a black market on Pedorian. They’re all from sectors outside the Outer Rim; that’s where he and his buir will continue to travel — until they can find a cure.

In the darkness, Din monitors the irregular rise and fall of the old man’s chest, illuminated under an orb of yellow light. The orb reminds him of a dying star being swallowed up by oblivion. He heard once that such stars go out in a blast of heat and fervor. Din, too, feels similarly overheated, despite the wooly blanket covering him. He, too, is on the precipice of bursting.

Except, he’s not the one who’s dying.

“Dream—” His buir wheezes beside him, clutching at his chest. 

Din seizes the sigil necklace around his own throat so forcefully the tusk almost pierces his skin. “You okay there, old man?”

His buir flashes him a weak smile. “Just fine, young one.”

Din’s grip loosens around the tusk, but he can’t bring himself to let go of it. The old man gave it to him as an initiation rite when he turned twelve; he called Din a man then. But laying beside him at nineteen, Din only feels like a child again. Jittery, terrified, and on the brink of losing someone else. 

His buir started calling him ‘young one’ as a way to communicate his love. It was his way of beginning to say goodbye. Din started calling him ‘old man’ as a way to prod him towards health. It was his way of begging him to stay.

“What’s this?” his buir asks wryly. “My son, asking me about dream children again? Will wonders ever cease?”

Din rolls his eyes. “Ha ha.”

“I’m serious,” his buir says, turning to face him. The grey hairs in his beard twinkle under the candlelight. “You used to grill me with questions all the time when you were little. I didn’t think you were interested now.”

“I’m interested,” Din says, folding his hands behind his head. “So, what’s it like?”

Above them, the ceiling trembles with the sound of footprints racing across the open rooftop. Dust and debris fall, extinguishing one of the candles. A thin wisp of smoke curls toward the ceiling. 

“Do you remember what it was like when we returned here?” his buir asks. “When we came back home?” 

Din casts a confused glance at him. “Yeah…?”

“I forgot how long those candles can burn and that…scorch-mark in the wall. That’s from the time you got your first flame thrower.”

“I told you it was faulty,” Din grumbles.

“Undoubtedly,” the old man says with a smirk in his voice. “Sielle’s crafted our armor for over thirty years. With a track record like that, there’s no way she can know what she’s doing.”

His buir ruffles his hair, knowing how much he hates it. Din jabs him in the side, knowing how much he hates that too. 

“I’m just saying, dinners here…” the old man says. “The memories. All of it. I forgot so many details about this place.”

“We’ve been gone for a while,” Din says with a nod.

“Yes,” his buir says. “I believe that’s why returning can be so…overwhelming.”

Din casts a side-eye at him. “And this has to do with my question, how?”

His buir’s eyes find him in the dark, wrinkled at the corners but still steady and kind. A knot catches in Din’s throat. He remembers seeing them for the first time; he remembers seeing the old man for the first time. They were so different then. Din came to him undernourished and scrawny, wearing displacement like a second name. His buir came to him, a mountain of a man, with a heart big enough to hold all of Din’s fragile history. 

There’s a name for that.

“You asked what it’s like finding your dream child. What it was like finding you…”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that,” the old man says. “It’s like coming home after being away for a long time.”

✵

There is a message blinking on Din's comm system when he returns to the cockpit. It’s from Peli.

“Mando, what the hell did you do to my flowers? Seriously, how did you manage to—Treadwell, if you don’t drop that—” The feed statics then fizzles out. Something clatters in the background. Peli returns breathless. “Clearly, you didn’t take one lick of my advice. I said put them in a vase, tin can! Like with water? Sheesh! And you wonder why they’ve gone all brown and crinkly! I’ll tell ya why — it’s cuz they’re dead, ya nit-wit! They look —what— two or three weeks gone? Maker, please don’t tell me you’ve been displaying dead flowers on your windowsill for the past few weeks. Cuz if that’s the case then you really are the biggest— 

Din barely catches himself on the pilot’s chair. His palms feel clammy beneath his gloves, overheated and shaky as he steadies his hand against the headrest. For once, the tremors aren’t a byproduct of sleep deprivation or a side effect from the sleep aids. He hasn’t taken any since his first night on Nevarro. He didn’t think he needed to at the time. But she said the flowers are—

“….know the kid ain’t yours.”

Static crackles through the receiver, signaling the end of the comm. Din stands there blankly, reeling on his feet. The end of the message, he realizes, returning to himself. He’s missed the end of her message. 

Lurching forward, Din stabs one of the command controls. “Playback fifteen seconds.”

There is a jumble of overlapping dialogue as the audio spools back then abruptly stops.

“—wait so long anyway? And don’t try n’ tell me you got any sleep. There’s no way in hell you could have, not with that little womp rat of yours. And quit that grumblin’ under your breath. I know the kid ain’t yours.”

Din’s breath hitches. He steadies a hand on the dashboard and presses the command again. “P-Playback ten seconds.”

“—no way in hell you could have, not with that little womp rat of yours. And quit that grumblin’ under your breath. I know the kid ain’t yours.”

“Five,” he croaks. “Playback five seconds.”

“—quit that grumblin’ under your breath. I know the kid ain’t yours.”

Din trips over the pilot chair’s leg as he stumbles back. The facts, he swallows thickly, reaching for the one thing that’s always steadied him. What are the bare facts?

The fact is the flowers are dead —have been dead all this time— and he hasn’t taken any sleep aids. The fact is Ahsoka asked him about the last time he’d dreamed and Din had refused to tell her. He didn’t feel he owed her anything at the time. But the fact is he hasn’t dreamed since his first night on Nevarro and since then, he’s slept more fitfully than he has in ages.

The fact—no, the truth— is all of those observations, when woven together, lead to one single conclusion. 

The only conclusion that can exist.

Din stumbles back against the wall and forgets how to breathe.

✵

“Does he know?” 

The words are out Din’s mouth the second he stumbles into the clearing —after hours spent looking for her— and it leaves him feeling like he’s turned up without his armor or helm to shield him.

Ahsoka continues stacking branches and dried bark together into a half-assed attempt at kindling. After striking a match, she nudges it into the heart of the pile and watches the spark burst into a wild flame. It’s bound to draw attention. Din wants to tell her as much, but the words are lodged in his throat — among others.

A gust of wind blows through them, making the trees creak and rattle like old wind chimes while Din’s cape flaps at his back. He shivers, waiting for the wind to die down. When it does, he realizes he still hasn’t stopped shivering. It isn’t the wind, a thought cuts into his mind. These aren’t shivers.

Ahsoka rises from the pile, brushing bark dust from her hands. She still hasn’t said a word. 

“The kid,” Din says again. “Does he know?” 

“Know what?”

Din makes a noise between a groan and whine. Dammit, Ahsoka. She’s allowing him the opportunity to say it. He can’t.

Ahsoka folds her hands behind her poncho and says it for him. 

“That you are his father?” 

It’s as if every sound, sensation, and sense fused into one, amplified tone. White noise shrills in Din’s ears, making them ring. He feels himself stumble back.

“…sit.”

Din blinks rapidly. “W-What?”

“You should sit.” Ahsoka tosses her head toward a nearby log. 

“I don’t—I’m fine—” He clears his throat. “I’m fine standing.”

“I think you should sit.”

Din blinks, looking around, only to find himself slumped up against a tree. Brittle bark bites into his shoulder blade as he leans up from it, stunned. When did I—? He doesn’t remember falling against it. 

Ahsoka gestures toward the log again and this time, Din’s legs move on their own. It feels like he’s floating; like his mind and body are disconnected. Even when he sits, he barely registers the log underneath his thighs.

“Grogu knows,” she says, sitting opposite of him, “in his own way.”

“How long has he…?” 

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”

“Why haven’t I been able to—?” Recognize him. Intuit his importance. See him in my dreams. 

“I can’t say I know much more than you do. These circumstances are…unusual.”

Din chokes on a laugh. Her word choice is so minuscule like a pin needle barely scratching the surface. 

“The kid,” Din croaks. “Where is he?”

“Sleeping.” Ahsoka tosses her head over her shoulder. He follows her direction to find, just beyond a thicket of brambles, a small tent. “I calmed his mind for the most part, but he was still restless last night. I can only assume it had something to do with your absence.”

A knot thickens in Din’s throat.

“You aren’t the first people group I’ve met who believe in soulmates and I doubt you’ll be the last,” Ahsoka says, “but you are the first I’ve encountered whose Great Love is for their children. Your…attachments must be quite strong.”

There’s an emphasis on the word ‘attachment’ that he can’t place. His mind is too dazed to follow it. 

“We—” Din clears his throat. It hurts to speak. “We spend our whole lives caring for our foundlings. It is the Way.”

“But if I remember correctly, you haven’t had your whole life, have you?”

Din shifts his weight on the log uncomfortably. He eyes the tent again. It feels like the structure is staring back at him in anticipation. Maybe, it is. But he can’t find the courage to make any moves toward it.

“…your first?”

Din’s eyes snap to her. “What?”

“Is this your first?” she asks.

Din sniffs then nods. His eyes trail back to the tent again as he counts the steps it would take to get there. Fifteen, he records. 

“Didn’t think I would,” he says absentmindedly.

“Find him?”

Din shakes his head. “You asked if this was a first.”

“I did.”

“It is,” he says, feeling far away. “Didn’t think I’d…have one.”

He should be with the kid—No, not the kid. Grogu, his memory corrects. That’s his name. Din can say it now. He has the right. 

“Oh,” he hears Ahsoka say.

Din’s gaze trails back to her, noting a flash of sympathy in her eyes. He doesn’t understand why until he watches it morph into something somber. He’s seen that look before from members in the Tribe after he’s returned for another Finding speech. Sympathetic condolence. But she doesn’t know his story. He’s never told her—

Shit.

He just did.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not,” she says.

Din’s jaw twitches as he shuffles a foot back. His heel bumps against the log. It’s a reminder. He can’t run, not this time.

“I’ll take watch duty. Scout the area,” Ahsoka says, rising to her feet. “It should take at least an hour.”

Din swallows, recognizing what she’s really giving him —privacy and time— and it’s a kindness. She said once that she’s known a few of his kind. She must know what he intends to do.

“Thank you,” Din says.

His legs waver when he rises to stand, threatening to give out. 

“An hour,” Ahsoka reminds.

Din nods jerkily and heads for the tent. Before he can open the folds, he hears Ahsoka ask from behind: “Has anyone among your people ever been separated from their child after they’ve found them?”

Din turns, only to find her back to him. “No,” he says. “That…isn’t our Way.”

Ahsoka nods in a way that tells him she expected as much. Before he can ask why, she’s disappearing through the trees, heading west, leaving him alone.

Din casts a tentative glance toward the tent again. He clears his throat and smooths a hand down his side. Then, after sucking in a breath, he stoops inside. 

The snores that greet him are so soft Din confuses them, at first, for whispers. His eyes dart around for the source of them, past the dried-out leaves dangling from the canopy ceiling, to the rolled-up mat in the corner, to a raised pallet several feet away. On the pallet, a tiny lump waits.

Din swallows and removes his gloves. Five, he counts, recording the steps from the entrance to the pallet. He doesn’t need so many and yet, as he puts one foot in front of the other, it feels like he might need more. The pallet feels miles away. 

His knees knock against the wood when he approaches the bed, causing the lantern above to swing on its rope and flicker. The moths and swampflies buzz angrily around the fuel canister, plinking against it. Din’s eyes fall from the lantern to the little person snoring in the bed. He traces the wrinkles and sleep-marks on the kid’s cheeks, following the marks like map lines up to Grogu’s nose, his eyes, his ears. Din feels his knees buckle.

You should sit, Ahsoka’s words lull in his ear. 

Din falls to his knees. 

A son, his hand trembles over Grogu’s face. I have a son.

He witnessed a pious procession on Naboo a few years back, watching Gungans venerate their god of war with prostrations and honor, and though he’s never believed in anything divine, Din can’t help but think he’s stumbled upon something sacred here. His dreams have always been made up of intangible desires and fanciful imaginings. They’ve never been so real he could reach out and touch them before.

Din lowers a hand to Grogu’s forehead. He’s so warm. “Kid,” he whispers.

Grogu’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t wake.

“Come on, buddy.” Din shakes his chest gently. “Wake up.”

He gets a stubborn whine this time and it’s so like the kid to get petulant over the smallest things. Grogu’s eyelids flutter, squeeze together, then…

Then— 

Open. 

“Hey,” Din croaks.

Grogu sits up with a yawn and Din, overcome by some tender emotion, tracks every movement with his eyes. So much has changed and yet, amazingly nothing has. The kid still grumbles under his breath when he first wakes up (ticked off at being woken up); he still has dried drool on his cheeks; he still comes to Din, half-dead to the world, sporting a frown that gradually turns into a lopsided smile. It strikes Din, then and there, that he can hold the kid now without counting the seconds; he can speak freely without mincing words; he can create intimacy without guilt. 

Grogu staggers over to him with arms raised and Din remembers, as he draws the kid into his arms, that it’s morning.

“Did you sleep well?” Din asks as he pulls back.

Grogu shakes his head. “Not…not good,” he signs.

“Mm?” Din thumbs the crust from the kid’s eyes. “Why’s that?”

“Missed you,” Grogu signs, fiddling with his blanket.

Din’s smile goes so soft it could liquify. “Did you…”

He nods shyly. 

“Well,” Din says, tracing the swell of Grogu’s cheek with his thumb, “I did as well. Miss you. So much.”

The words stick to his tongue like honey and it’s such an unusual feeling. He’s spent so many years biting back words, choking on them, swallowing them down. Yet, these refuse to go down easy. It’s fitting, really. This thing they have — it didn’t come easy either.

“Hey kid,” Din says. “I heard that—Ahsoka told me that you—” He clears his throat, pushing the insistency away. “Do you know who I am?”

Grogu traces a nail around the callouses on Din’s palm but says nothing.

“Do you know what I am to you?”

Again, he doesn’t say anything. Din nods to himself. It isn’t a big deal. 

“It’s okay if you don’t,” he says. “I know this is—”

“You’re mine,” Grogu signs, patting his chest.

Din’s jaw goes slack. 

He said that before. He said— But Din didn’t understand then. He thought the admission was just a sudden bout of possessiveness, a misapplication of the word, and he’d corrected him. Din couldn’t be his, not in the way the kid wanted.

But you knew, didn’t you? He searches Grogu’s eyes. You knew all along.

In a rush of emotion, Din releases the latch on his helm. It drops to the floor with a resonant clang. Grogu’s eyes widen when he turns around, bringing them face-to-face.

“Hi.” It comes out like a rush of wind.

Din runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame it into something neat and put together. A curl falls in his eyes just the same. He wants to fix something, anything really, about himself. His hair is overgrown, he smells like dried sweat (and if the itchiness from his beard is anything to go by, he’s in desperate need of a shave too), and he’s shaking from some weird combination of overstimulation and anticipation. 

His senses are working on overdrive —unaccustomed to the new colors and the cool air on his cheeks and the sharp plink, plink, plink of swampflies against the fuel canister— and the temptation to put his helm back on, just to drown out the sensations, is overwhelming. But then, he feels tiny fingers trace over his cheeks and Din relaxes, feeling a smile slide across his lips. 

We’re so similar. 

He did the same thing before. 

“I want…” Din swallows and licks his lips. “I’d like to adopt you. If that’s…Do you want that? A home, that is? A family?”

The kid’s eyes widen. “With you?” he signs.

“Yeah,” Din croaks. “Just me.” 

Grogu twirls his fingers, clearly turning the idea over in his head. As the silent seconds tick on, Din finds himself fiddling with his own gloves, needing something to do with his hands.

“Of course, it’s not much. The ship, I mean,” Din says. “It tends to fall apart. It’s pretty old. The ship. Not the best in terms of rhythms but it’s…reliable.” 

Din’s eyes flicker up to him and he realizes, only then, that he’s been staring at the floor this whole time. 

“Yours?” Grogu signs.

“The ship?” 

Shaking his head, the kid points to himself. “Yours?” he gestures again.

“Yeah,” Din says, feeling his whole body go soft. “You’d be mine.”

What a thought…

If anyone asked, Din would say he never kept track of all the Finding ceremonies he’d attended. He’d say they all started to blend together after a while.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is: Din has kept a mental log in the back of his mind for years — of every summons, every celebration, every sibling he’s congratulated for their Finding— to keep himself sane. He wouldn’t have made it without something to steady him (something to record the bare facts). The truth is, if anyone asked, Din could provide the exact number.

54.

It’s a fact and a story.

But it’s a story Din wouldn’t be caught dead telling. Within that number are memories of him, at different ceremonies, barely keeping his head above water. They’re memories of him returning to an echo chamber of a ship with the sound of laughter still ringing in his ears; him offering well-practiced words of congratulations; him flinching at the subject of children while everyone else clinks glasses and shares stories; him stuffing his emotions so far down he’d have to excavate his insides to locate them; him hunched over in the ship, practicing how he’d extend his regards and what time he’d slip out and what he’d do if anyone asked about his dream again. 

54.

A number laden with history. 

But, all of that history has brought him to this single moment. Another Finding but, this time, his.

Stars. 

What does a dream realized feel like?

Surely, like a sense of euphoria. Or, if not that, disbelief. It should feel as big as the dream itself — wild and loud and bold— but Din has never been any of those things. Joy has never been a big thing for him.

His joy is muted and mellow; like the lantern hanging above them, providing just enough light to illuminate what’s important; it’s like the dried leaves swinging from the ceiling, easily moved by the slightest breeze; it’s like the tiny bundle on the bed pallet, slight and little. It does not move mountains nor topple tenuous tents. His joy does not ask for so much. 

Grogu’s lips furrow into a frown. “We’re okay?” he signs.

“Of course.”

The kid touches his face. His hand comes back wet.

“You’re sad,” Grogu signs with wide eyes.

Din sniffs. “I’m not.”

“Sad,” the kid signs again, undeterred. “Not good.”

“No, no. I’m fine. I just…” Din offers him a wobbly smile. “I’m just happy to see you, is all.”

So very very happy. 

He needs to circle back. He was saying things before, important things he couldn’t acknowledge when they’d been drifting through space. He wants to say them now.

“I can’t promise you much of a life. Or much of anything really.” Din scratches the back of his head. “Money is in short supply and work is hard to come by these days. What we’d have…it wouldn’t be much,” he says with a swallow, “but it’d be ours.”

“Ours?” Grogu gestures, wide-eyed.

Din nods. “Family,” he signs. “If that’s something you’d…you know,” he says, flushing all over.

It isn’t customary to ask for permission, but Din wants the kid’s approval nonetheless. He can’t get the image of Gavit’s ceremony out of his mind: of him dragging that girl on the stage, of him asking her to speak when she clearly didn’t want to, of him calling for a celebration when the time was anything but. Din doesn’t want to do that. 

Grogu blinks down at his own hands, then at Din’s. “What?” he signs. 

Din flushes, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry, I forgot. Too many fingers. Here,” he says, leaning on the bed. “Let’s try this.”

He takes Grogu’s hands in his, feeling a lump form in his throat as he does. He’s rarely touched the kid without gloves. That tiny barrier was necessary then —skin-to-skin contact is a bit overwhelming, a bit too close, a bit too unraveling— but now, he can feel every crease in Grogu’s hands as he presses two of the kid’s fingers together.

“Family,” Din says, guiding the kid’s hands around in a circle. 

“Family?” Grogu copies.

“Yeah,” Din croaks as his hands slip away from the kid’s. “That’s what it means.”

Shy, round eyes blink up at him, then dart down to the bed. “I want—” the kid signs.

Din leans close. “What is it you want?”

“I want…” Grogu gestures. 

“Mm?”

“I want,” he signs, then guides his hands around in a circle, “family…with you.”

Din’s eyes prickle. “Do you now…”

The kid ducks his head and nods.

Warmth pools in Din’s gut, gathering together to create an electric sensation that courses through his entire body. Can one die from happiness? It must be possible. Otherwise, Din wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of it. 

“Well, I guess there’s nothing more to it then, is there?” Din brushes a thumb across the kid’s cheek. His heart swells when Grogu leans into his touch, brightening under the affection. “You’re about to be stuck with me a little longer, kid. Though I don’t know what we’re going to do about—Oof!”

Grogu barrels into him, wrapping short arms around his neck, and Din sags into them without a moment’s hesitation. The ghost of the kid’s name lingers on his lips; he hasn’t said it yet, not aloud anyway, and there’s a reason for that.

In the Tribe, a name is an intimate thing. To speak someone’s name is to establish a bond, to cultivate connection, to allow one’s soul to be bound up in the flourishing of another’s. It’s why they’re so careful to call each other by their clan names (no one just gets the right to speak your assigned name). 

Among the outside world, they are unknown. They are only one among many. But in the Tribe, in their lore, there is a place where you are known — among your kin, among your intimate circle, among those who love you— and to be known, in your soul, is a wonderful and terrible thing indeed.

It’s why their adoption rite is called gai bal manda. Name and soul. In adopting a foundling, they’ve chosen to bind their souls to something that’s greater than themselves. 

To a love that is eternal.

“Jii ni kyr'tayl,” Din whispers, “gai sa'ad Grogu.”

Now, I know your name as my child. 

Is it possible that in finding one’s foundling, one can find themselves too? It feels that way for him. Din found a home without needing to build a single thing, and he found his heart with a child who had it from the beginning. 

It feels like a homecoming.

Like stepping through a door. 

It feels like returning home after being away for a long time.

———— 

When Din was a boy, his buir told him the currents of fate wait for no one and Din hadn’t understood.

No one in the Tribe described fate like that. It wasn’t a gentle current but a tidal wave. Fate had a tendency to crash over you when you least expected it (at least, that’s how their stories described it).

The language felt melodramatic to him as a teen, so out of character for them. Few of their kind believe in mystical, god-like forces. A Mandalorian is a product of their choices, their will, and their deeds, whether for good or ill. There is no afterlife, no heaven or hell to let them in, no great beyond waiting for their souls. They are a people who bow to no one and nothing. Yet, without question, they bow their knees to fate every single time.

As he got older, he realized it wasn’t melodrama. They just didn’t know how to describe an experience that felt more expansive than the stars. Their metaphors reflected that struggle and Din learned, as the years passed, to adopt the language of his people, all the while forgetting his father’s words. 

The presence of his nightmares and the absence of his “fated” child made it easy to forget. Those memories were more like a tidal wave than a current. They swallowed up the old man’s words, proving him wrong. There was nothing gentle or unassuming about fate and Din vowed, then and there, to have no part in it. 

So, maybe, that’s why he didn’t see it. Why he hasn’t seen it this whole time.

Fate didn’t come to him as anything big or suffocating. 

It came to him trailing food crumbs and wrappers behind it. It came to him with tripped defenses and bypassed security protocols and tiny hands that reached for him in the dark. It came to him with hugs in the morning and in the evening. It came to him with music and dancing, with soft lighting and even softer conversations. It came to him as the summation of everything he’s always wanted.

It came to him as a child.

At one time, Din had dreamed of having a family and a legacy. He’d envisioned little scents and textures and sounds, longings he learned to tuck away into the furthest corners of his mind. He’d imagined tripping over a smaller shoe or finding a wayward sock in his clothing crate. But none of that had happened for him.

Instead of shoes, Din had tripped over stuffies and instead of socks, he’d found toys in his crates. He felt tiny arms wrap around his neck; he smelled charred egg and sticky buns; he heard the crack of old knees, bending down to play with a child, and none of it was imaginary.

It all felt so normal.

So mundane. 

So maybe, that’s why he didn’t notice. There was nothing violent or capricious or suffocating about it. 

A gentle current had simply curled around him and called him away. It began with a message — one hellish, unwanted message— on Florrum. The Covert had summoned him and he, without realizing it, had answered another summoning that was older than time itself.

He hadn’t been ready. But why the hell should he have been? 

The currents of fate wait for no one. 

———— 

The truth is the current that found him didn’t drown him. 

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. Unbearably kind yet strong. It felt like love (and what is fate if not love, above all things?).

The truth is, for Din, love came softly.

———— 

They spend the night under Corvus’ semblant stars, munching on mock cacao bars and it’s the closest thing to perfection Din has ever experienced.

The last bit of chocolate cakes to his tongue like molasses —an unfortunate byproduct of eating an imitation of the real thing— and, just this once, Din doesn’t mind. He’s too busy stealing glances at Grogu, watching the little womp rat pick up any leftover bits off the blanket and shove them in his mouth.

To be honest, Din can’t stop looking over every few seconds just to make sure the kid’s still there. Obviously, the kid isn’t going to disappear on him. He wouldn’t wander off, not when food is involved, but Din still feels hyper-vigilant anyway; like he’s waiting for someone to leap out from the trees, gun cocked, with a look on their face that says “gotcha.” 

But the night is quiet and calm, only interrupted by the occasional owl’s hoot or scuttle across the forest bed. Everything is fine. No one has emerged from the trees yet.

The crackle of a wrapper draws Din’s attention down to find the kid peeking through the plastic. Grogu blinks up at him with chocolate smeared across his cheeks. 

“More?” he signs.

“I think you’re done for the night, kid,” Din says, taking the wrapper.

Grogu sticks out his bottom lip but collapses back on the blanket just the same. “I like…” he signs, eyes flashing to the wrapper.

“Chocolate,” Din signs.

“Chocolate…” Grogu mimics with a glazed, reverent look in his eyes. “We need more chocolate,” he signs.

“No.” Din laughs. “I really don’t think we—”

We. 

The word flutters in his chest like a bird ready to take flight. But Din’s only ever had his feet on the ground. He’s never been one to defy gravity or hope for the impossible. He’s only ever been a clan of one.

“I-I don’t think...we do,” Din manages out.

He turns onto his back, gazing up at the night sky. He thought the twinkles of light were stars at first. That was until Ahsoka pointed out the watchtowers along the mountain-line. They aren’t stars, just electrical pulses of obstructive energy (“In case, one of the villagers tries to send an SOS comm,” she’d said). Honestly, he shouldn’t even call them stars anymore. But tonight is a night of possibilities.

Tonight, electrical pulses can be stars and a childless Mandalorian can have a son. 

Wonder of wonders.

Grogu heaves himself onto Din’s chest with an oomph. “Toys,” he signs. “We could get more toys.”

“And why would we do that?” Din says, wiping the chocolate stains off the kid’s cheeks.

“To play! We can play all the time now,” he gestures.

“Yeah,” Din says. “I guess we can.”

“And music. I like music,” Grogu gestures, flapping his hands around.

“I know you do.”

“And my ball…dancing…I like buckles,” he signs, devolving into a form of excited speech that makes the words muddle together.  

Din smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“And I like you,” Grogu signs, slipping back onto his bottom.

Din jerks up. “Y-You…” He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“We need more chocolate,” Grogu signs, pursuing his lips. “You have any more?”

“Uh, no. I don’t…We—” Din shakes his head. “Sorry, you…like me?”

“Mhm.”

Din swallows. “Why?”

“You have food,” the kid gestures, humming himself, “and chocolate.”

Din rolls his eyes. “Of course that’s why.”

Silence settles between them with an ease that feels almost practiced; in some ways, it is. Their conversations tend to reflect the kid’s wild bursts of energy and Din’s tacit affirmation. At one point, early on, Din had expected this habit of theirs to putter out like a weak flame. Grogu’s still young enough to be a toddler and he had to realize, sooner or later, that Din isn’t the best conversation partner. Din isn’t nearly old enough to be stuck in his ways, but his habits are well-formed. He still struggles to say more than a few sentences here or there, and he can still go an entire day without speaking.

Thankfully, the kid doesn’t seem to mind (even now, after everything’s changed between them). He makes up for Din’s silence with enough chatter to keep the conversation going. Like any child, Grogu enjoys being the recipient of undivided attention.

Like any child, he yearns to be heard.

“Do you…do you like games?” Grogu signs.

“I don’t know much about games, kiddo,” Din says, turning toward him again. “Never played many.”

The kid nods jerkily, but there’s something off about his posture now. It’s a little too hunched, a little too timid.

“Do you like games?” Din asks.

Fright flashes in Grogu’s eyes as he shakes his head. “Not…not loud ones,” he signs.

“Loud games?” 

“Hit…box…before…you,” Grogu signs clumsily and Din straightens, concerned. The only time he’s seen the kid revert to baby-talk is when he’s forgotten to leave the light on at night. 

Din tries not to hover as he leans in close. “Can you tell me what that means?” 

“People…not nice before you,” Grogu gestures. He’s chewing on his lips so hard Din fears they might bleed. “Said it was a game,” he signs.

“What was a game?” 

Grogu slams his hand on top of the wrapper over and over again, making it snap and crackle. “Like…like that,” he signs.

A sick feeling churns in Din’s gut mixing with something fiery and hot. He can feel Grogu scanning him, watching for the slightest reaction. Din forces his hands to unclench if only to prevent making the kid’s anxiety worse.

“Grogu,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “who played that game with you?”

“Don’t know…” the kid signs tinily.

“You don’t know who they were?”

Grogu shakes his head. “Not nice,” he signs. “They hit the box with—” He points at the gun in Din’s holster. 

Realization crashes over Din with a violence that almost knocks him over.

“You were in that box,” he breathes out. 

Grogu tucks his feet up to his chest without replying. Din doesn’t need him to. He’s pretty much figured out what kind of game that was.  

Din readjusts his body into a non-threatening, cross-legged position and ducks his head, trying to catch the kid’s eye. 

“Hey,” he says, nudging Grogu’s chin. When the kid peers up at him, Din signs: “That sounds pretty scary.”

The kid ducks his head and whimpers. “I don’t—I don’t like that game,” he signs.

It wasn’t a game. 

That was cruelty.

“C’mere.” 

Din opens his arms and, in a rush, Grogu climbs into the space between his crossed legs. Desperate keening sounds vibrate against Din’s stomach, but there are no sobs. No tears. Somehow, that makes everything worse. Din can handle the kid crying. It’s the “holding back tears” part that he can’t handle.

“You don’t have to like it,” Din says, tightening his arms around the kid. “We won’t do that ever, okay?”

Grogu leans back. His eyes are red, though Din is certain he hasn’t cried.

“No?” Grogu signs.

“Never.”

You’re just a kid outgrowing his baby clothes, Din thinks as Grogu falls back into his arms. When’s the last time anyone treated you that way? He’s seen some of the kid’s odd habits — the way he’ll cry silently and refuse to wail like most kids— and in those moments, he’s wondered how those habits came to be? Now, that question doesn’t feel nearly as important. Who taught you to cry silently and how did they teach you? Those are better questions. 

In the Covert, they’re taught to train their foundlings, particularly in how to defend themselves, and Din has always esteemed that part of their heritage (it means no one is patronized or treated as weak). But maybe, somewhere along the way, he let it blind him. The kid doesn’t need someone to teach him to be strong; he’s spent a lifetime teaching himself that. He needs tenderness and nurturing. He needs someone to give him permission to be nothing more than a child. Somehow, the Armorer knew that. 

Did she know we’d be here too? Din thinks. Did she know this is what we’d become?

“I like you,” Grogu gestures when he calms, gracing Din with a soft look. “You’re nice.”

A lopsided smile stretches across Din’s lips. “Am I…”

Grogu hums in affirmation.

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me that before.”

“Why?” he signs.

Gavit’s face flashes in Din’s mind and he barely stifles a wince. 

“I’m not supposed to be nice, I guess.”

“Then, what are you?” Grogu signs.

What a question… 

Din has been many things to different people —mando to most, beroya to the Tribe, and ori’vhekad to others— but who he is to himself has never been a consideration. Not until now, that is.

“I’m a lot of things.” Din nudges the kid’s chin playfully with his knuckle. 

“You’re mine,” Grogu signs with a toothy grin.

Din eyes the symbol with a weighted, tentative look. It means more than the kid knows and, quite possibly, more than Din can express. 

There is a word that encapsulates it.

“Would…” Din’s adam’s apple thickens in his throat. “Would you like to learn a new word?”

The kid sits up with an eager nod.

Din’s hand trembles as he taps a finger against his forehead. “It’ll be easier for you this way,” he says. “Less fingers.”

Grogu rocks on his hips, waiting for the meaning. It’s on Din’s tongue, but it’s also lodged somewhere in his heart. 

“It means father,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or ‘dad’ if that’s what you…y’know.”

Grogu’s eyes round into saucers as he points at Din. The question mark is felt. 

“Yeah, I’m…” Din’s mouth goes dry.

He isn’t trying to replace anyone the kid knew in his former life. He’d never ask for that. But thus far, they’ve only known each other by nicknames and fillers. They're more than just strangers to each other now.

“Dad,” Grogu mimics, trying out the symbol for himself.

Din’s heart catches in his throat. “Yeah. Do you—do you know what that is?”

Grogu hesitates then nods. His eyes fall. “Other people have dads,” he signs. 

“Yeah, some do.”

“Not me,” Grogu signs, keeping his head down. “Never…had a dad before.”

He didn’t know that. Frankly, there’s a lot Din doesn’t know about the kid. 

Din tilts his head to the side, trying to catch Grogu’s eye. “Y’know,” he says, “I’ve never had a child before.”

Grogu’s ears fly up. “Really?” he signs.

Din smiles and shakes his head. “It seems to me we’ve got a lot of firsts on our hands, which will make this a learning curve. We might need to stick together,” he says with a wink, “for instructive purposes, of course.”

The kid straightens and gives him one curt nod. It’s so adorably serious Din has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. 

Gradually, they find their way back down to the ground. Grogu tucks into his side like he damn well belongs there (he does), warm and soft. Din feels like someone has set his insides alight; a candle’s flame flickering hot and bright.

Grogu peeks up from his side. “Dad?” he signs hesitantly.

“Yeah?” Din croaks.

“I’m really happy,” the kid signs.

Din runs his knuckles down Grogu’s cheek as a smile grows across his lips.

“As am I.”

✵

Din thinks about sending a comm to the Covert many times during the week.

He thinks about telling them everything: about his Finding, about the Jedi, about Grogu. He thinks about it. But every time he cues the transmission, his hand stills over the controls, unable to start the recording.

It’s custom to inform the Tribe about a Finding. They need time to announce the news to other members of the Covert, prepare the ceremony, and meet the new foundling before the speech. So, he has to tell them.

But that doesn’t mean he has to inform them now.

Din tells himself that as he piddles around the ship, keeping his hands busy in the meantime. He teaches Grogu new words, helping him build a language only they know. He spends time enjoying this new life they’ve built and all the while, he tries to convince himself that deferring the comm isn’t intentional. He just needs to find the right words to say. He just wants his presentation to be effective.

But the real reason is less tidy and far more personal.

Din has always been an anomaly in the Tribe. None of that would change if he sent the comm. If anything, the news of this Finding would only drive a wedge between him and the Tribe’s customs even more. No one finds a foundling after they’ve been deemed childless. No one is supposed to have a life like his.

This Finding is abnormal. 

Extraordinary.

But so is the kid.

Grogu isn’t ordinary and, stars help him, Din doesn’t want the kid to be. 

For once in his life, Din wants to escape the questioning, the scrutiny, and the proddings. He wants to shield the kid from inquiring eyes and ears, if only for a moment. For once, he wants to give them something they’ve never had. 

Peace. 

So, the comm can wait, at least for now.

✵

Din is sealing down the ship when the kid waddles up to him with mud on his clothes and dandelions in his hand.

“Look what I got!” Grogu signs, waving them around.

Din crouches down and eyes the sad-looking petals wilted over the kid’s fist. They look like they’ve been strangled to death. If they’re in the kid’s hands, that’s probably an accurate assessment.

“Weeds?” Din says with a laugh.

Grogu blows air at him, unimpressed with Din’s attempt at humor, and stabs at the dandelion heads.

“Flowers then?”

The kid nods then thrusts them in Din’s face.

“For me?”

“I picked them myself,” Grogu signs, bouncing on his feet.

“Well, I can see that,” Din says with a smirk. “I’ll make sure to put them in some water.”

Grogu’s head snaps up. “No,” he signs, “not water!”

“What am I supposed to do with them then?” 

“Wear them,” he gestures simply.

Din raises a brow. “You want me to wear…flowers?”

Grogu nods. “On your arm,” he gestures, “with your drawing.” He stabs a finger at Din’s wrist and the tattoo hidden there.

Din’s mouth goes dry. “With my—?” 

“We should tie them together,” the kid signs.

“A-As a bracelet?” 

“Drawings come off,” Grogu gestures. “These won’t come off.”

“And that…matters to you?”

“Yeah,” he signs, “your drawing’s boring.”

Din chokes on a laugh. “Is it?”

“Mhm.” Grogu fingers the flower petals. “But you’re not boring,” he signs.

It’s such a simple statement and yet, for some reason, Din sucks in a breath. Ever since the kid first discovered his signet on the ship, he’s been fascinated by it. Din couldn’t figure out why then, but he thinks he’s starting to understand now. For the kid, the mark doesn’t fit him. He’s trying, albeit in his own childlike way, to change it so it fits him better.

“That’s—” Din swallows and clears his throat. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I know,” the kid signs, humming to himself.

Din shakes his head in disbelief. How he, of all people, got blessed with the most humble child in the universe is beyond him.

“Look!” Grogu signs, slapping Din’s thigh. He points behind him. 

A glare pierces Din’s HUD when he turns around, making him lift a hand to shield himself from it. Light spills through his fingertips anyway. The glare splits, shimmers, and fans out and Din catches his breath.

It’s not often he gets the privilege of witnessing many sunrises (or, at the very least, gets the privilege of appreciating them) and to be fair, Corvus isn’t trying to extend past its gloom and offer him one either. But still, the planet is trying in its own way. Dull sunlight is trickling in over the mountain line, catching on the trees’ dew. It makes the branches above them sparkle, turning skeletons into chandeliers.

It’s all so impossible.

“We should go get stars,” Grogu signs.

Din’s eyebrows raise. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We…should...go…get...stars,” he gestures slowly. “From the trees.”

“You mean the water on the trees?”

“No,” Grogu signs with a frown. “Stars.”  

“Oh,” Din says as if that makes complete sense. “Why?”

The kid pulls at the dandelion petals. “Because,” he signs.

“Because why?”

“Because I want to,” Grogu signs, humming under his breath.

Din snorts, even as a smile graces his lips. He’s spent a lifetime drawing hard lines between what’s possible and what isn’t (it keeps life simple and keeps Din’s feet on the ground). But Grogu tramples over all of those lines with a flagrant air as if they’re the silliest things in the world. Din’s fairly sure it isn’t intentional. The kid just likes to roam. He can’t seem to be bothered with boundary lines and restrictions. He can’t be bothered with what’s reasonable. His eyes are on the incredible and the miraculous. 

Today, the incredible looks like sparkling trees, and the miraculous looks like a sunrise. Today, dewdrops are stars.

It shouldn’t be possible for Din to have a child so full of life after a lifetime of death. Neither should it be possible for them to enjoy quiet mornings and sunshine and hand-picked flowers after pain. Yet, here they are: witnessing the unfolding of something incredible and miraculous and wonderful.

The sunlight shifts, sending shimmers of light dancing across the forest floor, and the kid chases after them with a squeal. 

Grogu stutters to a stop, breathless. “Wow,” he signs, pointing to the light.

“Yeah,” Din says, unable to take his eyes off him, “wow.”

✵

The primary sun is high in the sky when Din finds Ahsoka in a training ground of her own making. The sun’s more tired sibling —the secondary— slinks behind, casting twin rays that beat down on Din’s armor, leaving him feeling thoroughly cooked from the inside out. His flightsuit sticks to his skin as he watches Ahsoka dart around her makeshift area, practicing feints and parries.

She’s rolled boulders into a well-rounded circle and cleared the ground of rotten leaves and branches, creating a mini arena. It’s nothing short of impressive, especially on this wasteland. 

When Din ventures inside, Ahsoka withdraws her laser swords and turns around to face him.

“Nice arena,” he says, folding his arms.

“Took some time to build,” she pants, wiping the sweat off her brow, “but it’s functional.”

“How long?”

Ahsoka smirks. “Four hours give or take.”

Din can’t say he’s surprised.

“Though I’m sure you didn’t come here to ask me about my building skills,” she says, taking a swig of her water canister.

Din straightens and considers how best to approach the subject. He decides on a roundabout way.

“I was quested with finding a Jedi.”

Ahsoka wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Surely, that isn’t your task anymore. You’ve…found more than you were looking for, it seems.”

That’s putting it lightly. She has a habit of doing that — taking complex things and parring them down to their most basic elements. 

“Yes,” he says thickly, “but the kid still needs to be trained.”

The ask is felt, even if not spoken. 

The humor in Ahsoka’s eyes dims as she snags her cloak off of a tree limb. “I’m already on a quest of my own,” she says, angling around him. 

“Which involves the magistrate?”

Ahsoka spins around, leveling him with a look.

“She sent me here to kill you,” he says then adds swiftly: “I didn’t agree to anything.”

“How much?”

“She offered me a spear—”

Ahsoka scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“—of pure beskar.”

She stills at that. “And did you accept the offer?”

“No,” he says. “I came here to find you not kill you.”

“Some come to do both.”

Din sighs. “There’s no way you can accomplish your mission with just those laser swords. They’ve got AK-97s and a scout that reeks ex-gunfighter and walls that are too high for you to penetrate.”

Ahsoka folds her arms. “And your point is…?”

“I’m here to offer you a bargain: you make sure Grogu is properly trained and I’ll help you take care of her.”

Ahsoka’s eyes narrow as she looks him up and down, but it’s not him she’s regarding; it’s the bargain itself. He can see the wheels turning in her head as she turns away to pace. She’s a proud woman, severe when she wants to be, but not foolish. Even Din knows a good deal when he hears one and it’s not often he’s the one offering. 

“Alright,” Ahsoka says, whirling around. She sets her hands on her hips. “But first, the magistrate.”

✵

Their siege on the magistrate’s fortress lasts no more than two hours and even that, upon reflection, is generous.

After Ahsoka carts the magistrate off, the city is slow to rejoice. The people filter out of their homes in increments, filing out into the street with shoulders hunched and faces drawn. The air of disbelief only dissipates when someone kicks down one of the torture poles, watching the device burst into flames and the city erupts. From there, the locals appoint a new governor: one of the locals, a man called Wing.

Din lingers by the city gates with his back to the revelry. Some locals wander up to him to beckon him back inside but he sends them away with a polite refusal. The kid will be waking up in the ship soon. He needs to be there when he does.

Ahsoka emerges from the crowd a few minutes later, sporting a grin and a familiar spear in hand.

“I take it you’ll be training with that now,” Din says.

“Not me,” Ahsoka replies, holding it out to him. “You.”

Din folds his arms. “I didn’t complete her mission. It’s not mine to own.”

“Maybe not,” she says, “but surely, it’s yours to steward.” 

Despite himself, Din smiles. Ahsoka speaks like she fights —with well-trained parries and strokes— and Din can’t say it bothers him.

“The spear belongs to your people, right?” she asks. “This…metal was once yours.”

“Yes.”

“So, by extension, it is yours,” Ahsoka says. “It never belonged in the magistrate’s hands to begin with.”

Din cedes, albeit involuntarily, and takes it from her. The spear clangs when it hits the ground, creating a melodic chime that’s like music to Din’s ears. Beskar. Undoubtedly, the Armorer will be pleased when it is back with the Tribe again.

Ahsoka nods to the spear. “I think that’ll serve you well in the future.”

Din stares out into the loading zone. The landscape is still barren, but birds are chirping now. A gentle breeze ruffles his clothes, causing the trees to dance in its gale. Behind him, he hears the sounds of a freed people.

“Who knows,” he says, “maybe it will.”

✵

Training goes about as well as Din expected, which is to say — it isn’t going well at all.

“The stone, Grogu,” Ahsoka says for the second time with her hand held out. “Pass me the stone.”

Grogu blinks down at the rock, grumbles under his breath, then drops it. 

Din sighs, trying to keep a tight rein on his frustration. They’ve been trying to get the kid to use his powers for an hour now with no such progress. Yet, even Din can say that isn’t even the biggest issue.

He’s stubborn. It’s a thought that keeps returning to him every time Grogu refuses to complete one of Ahsoka’s tasks. The kid shouldn’t be so obstinate, not with her. If he’s trained with Jedi before, then listening to Ahsoka shouldn’t be a big deal. 

But clearly, it is a big deal.

“He might not understand what you’re asking him to do,” Din says, trying to save her pride.

Ahsoka sets her shoulders back. “He knows,” she says, walking towards the kid.

At first, Din thinks she’s going to retrieve the stone but then, she bends and takes Grogu’s hand. 

“I sense much fear in you,” she murmurs. 

Din’s lips part. It shouldn’t surprise him —he’s already gotten a snippet of the kid’s fear— and yet, Din is still surprised. He’s seen the kid use his powers before, especially in volatile situations. But they’re in the midst of a forest, secluded from any incipient danger for the time being. Yet, Grogu’s fear seems more present now than ever.

“Let’s try something new.” Ahsoka rises to her feet and resumes her previous position. “Come over here.”

Grogu casts a languid eye at him. Din tosses his head toward her. “Go on,” he says.

“Not him,” Ahsoka says. “You.”

Din’s eyebrows raise. “Me?”

“I want to see if he’ll listen to you.”

“Well,” Din says, going to stand beside her, “that would be a first.”

“I like firsts,” Ahsoka says wryly. “Good or bad they’re always memorable and as I recall, you’ve experienced many firsts these past few weeks.” 

Din swallows thickly and casts a tentative glance at the kid. “Let me talk to him first.”

Grogu ducks his head lower and lower as Din approaches. By the time he’s crouching down, the kid isn’t even looking at him.

“Hey,” Din says, nudging the kid’s chin. When Grogu peers up, he signs: “What’s wrong?” 

The kid’s bottom lip wobbles. “I can’t do it,” he gestures. 

“Why?”

“Don’t know,” Grogu signs jerkily.

It’s a lie.

A fond smile crosses Din’s lips. “You know what I think?” he rolls out, drawing the kid’s gaze back up. “I think you’re the best of the best, kid.”

Grogu’s eyes round into saucers. “Really?” he signs.

“Mhm,” he says. “You can do anything.”

“But if I can’t—” Grogu gestures.

“Then, we try again tomorrow.”

Grogu huffs even as his eyes begin to water. “What if…What if I can’t do it tomorrow?” he signs.

“Then, the next day,” Din replies. 

The kid fiddles with the hem of his romper. “And you’ll be there?” he signs.

“Always.”

Grogu chews on his lips as he stares down at his hands. Din wills his posture to remain loose and open as the seconds tick on. He’s still learning to discern when Grogu needs comfort and when he needs motivation. Din's messed up plenty of times already — pushing the kid when he needs to be reassured, reassuring him when he needs a gentle push— but he refuses to give up. 

Grogu’s eyes trail back up to him, slow and cautious. “If I can’t do it today…” he signs.

“Then tomorrow,” Din reminds with a nod, “and if not tomorrow, then the next day. And if not the next day, then forever.”

“Forever?” the kid signs, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, we'll keep trying for as long as it takes.”

Grogu’s ears lift ever so slightly, raising at the idea. There we go…

“Now,” Din says, rising to his feet, “how about we try just for today?”

Din returns to his position, turning the stone over in his hand. As he lifts the stone before the kid, he watches Grogu’s eyes dim with disinterest. This feels…off, for some reason. The kid has no connection to the rock, nor a motivator to take it. In all the time Din’s known him, Grogu has only been interested in taking things he really wants; things like the stuffies from the toy shop, or the foodstuffs from the hold, or the gear-shift knob—

Din’s eyes widen. The ball.

Dropping the stone, he reaches into his pocket. The ball gleams in the sun as he turns it over in his palm, considering. Din’s eyes flicker back to the kid.

“Grogu,” he says, holding the knob out, “you want this?”

The kid’s ears fly up as his eyes fixate on the ball.

“You can have it,” Din edges, dropping to a crouch.

Ahsoka circles around with her hands behind her back, every bit like an instructor observing their pupil. Din feels her eyes shift to him every few seconds like he, too, is under observation. 

“Come on, kid.”

In a rush, the ball goes flying out of his hand.

“That’s it! Did you see that?” Din exclaims, flashing a glance at Ahsoka. He hurries to gather the ball from the kid. He didn’t doubt the kid could do it, but he’d hoped and stars did the kid deliver.

When Din turns around, Ahsoka’s eyes fall away from him.

His smile falters. “What’s wrong?” 

“He listened to you,” she says.

Din takes a step towards her. “He’s…attached, is all. I’m sure if you—”

Ahsoka holds up a hand. “You misunderstand. I’m not offended.”

“Then, what’s the problem? He did what you asked.”

“When you asked him to, yes,” Ahsoka says, lifting her eyes to meet his, but there’s an odd look in them now. 

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Let’s stop there for today.” Ahsoka straightens, turning away from him. “We’ll pick up tomorrow. Same time.”

Before Din can protest, she’s spinning on her heel and disappearing through the trees.

✵

Grogu insists on sitting next to Din during dinner and it shouldn’t devolve into the mess that it does.

The kid usually wants to be right up under him —that isn’t anything unusual— and Din is usually obliging. But tonight, he needs to tie up loose ends in the city which includes making sure none of the magistrate’s scouts are still lurking around, plotting some kind of coup. He isn’t a delegate by any means, neither does the city need him to hover over it like some mother-hen, but he and Ahsoka are the ones who decided to dispose of the magistrate. They must be the ones to take care of the aftermath.

“I’m going to head out,” Din says after he notices the sun dipping behind the mountains. It’s better to get started early. He can eat later. 

Ahsoka stands. “Make sure to check in on Win—Governor Wing,” she corrects herself with a smile. “He’s as stubborn as a rancor, but he’ll need as much help as you can give him.”

“I’ll make sure to.” 

There’s a tug on his flight suit.

“Where are you going?” Grogu signs, blinking up at him.

“I just have to go help the city for a little bit,” Din says.

Grogu shakes his head, making his food bowl teeter on his lap. “No,” he signs, “I don’t want you to.”

“I’ll be right back,” Din says.

The kid snatches a fistful of his cape. “But I need you,” he gestures.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Din says, removing the kid’s hand.

He’s turning to leave when he hears a whoosh of air and the sound of something shattering.

Din whips around. Shards of the kid’s bowl sit at the foot of a tree. Ahsoka is as rigid as a stone as her eyes dart between the kid and the bowl. Din’s fairly sure he looks the same way. He threw the dish, Din gapes at the broken pieces.

Shock flashes in Grogu’s eyes for a brief second before it steels into something angrier, making Din reel on his feet. He’s not sure how to respond. Is this a time to chastise? To comfort? To discipline?

As he walks toward him, Din watches Grogu’s steely resolve morph into something fragile and frightened. The kid clutches the hem of his romper as Din drops to a crouch, unsure where to begin.

“Can you...tell me why you did that?” Din signs.

The kid’s eyes round into saucers, pointedly surprised, and a second later, a hiccup bursts from his lips. He expected something else, Din reads. 

Grogu sniffles and wipes at his nose. “I…” he signs.

Snot trails down his nose no matter how much he keeps wiping at it. With a sigh, Din pulls out a grease cloth from his pocket.

“Here,” he says, handing it to him, “wipe your nose.” 

After blowing his nose into the cloth, the kid hands it back to him and signs urgently: “Sorry…accident…won’t do…won’t do it again.”

“Grogu—”

“I’ll…I’ll be good,” he signs with trembling hands.

Din sags against the floor, unable to speak. He glances over his shoulder at Ahsoka, noting the inspective expression on her face. His thoughts, some distant part of himself reminds. She can feel the kid’s thoughts. 

Din looks back at Grogu, watching the way he keeps wiping at his face, erasing every sign of his anger and sadness. He knows the kid’s eagerness to please like the back of his hand. He saw it come out often when they were drifting in space; the first time it happened, Grogu had smashed the music recorder, whether by accident or on purpose, Din doesn’t know. All he knows is by the time he discovered the pieces, the kid had already pissed himself in fright. Grogu didn't seem to notice though; he was too busy promising Din, in his own way, that he’d never do it again and I’ll be better next time and please don’t be mad—

Even now, Din’s response hasn’t changed.

He hopes it never does.

“I don’t need you to be good for me,” Din signs, reminding him.

Grogu’s bottom lip trembles. “But…but I was bad,” he signs. He stabs a finger at the bowl shards. “I threw it. That was bad,” he gestures.

“It…” Din struggles for the words. “It wasn’t right, but that doesn’t make you bad,” he says. “I just don’t know why you did it.”

The kid chews his lip. “I…I wanted you,” he signs. “I don’t want you to go. I’m scared.”

“Of what, ad’ika?”

Grogu’s eyes fill with fresh tears and Din takes note. Endearments make the kid emotional, he writes that down on his mental list. He’s not used to affection.

“I don’t know,” Grogu signs as a cry bursts from his lips. It’s only for a second, but it’s significant. He’s not lying. “I don’t know.”

“You threw the bowl because you didn’t want me to leave,” Din restates, “and because you’re scared and you don’t know why.”

Grogu nods, fisting his eyes.

“I see,” Din says because he does.

Instead of throwing a dish or a childish fit, Din joined a rogue gang and funneled all of his rage into their jobs together. To this day, he still can’t get that stain off his conscience. 

“For what it’s worth,” Din says, thumbing a tear away from the kid’s cheek, “you don’t have to force me to stay. I’m right where I want to be.”

Grogu sniffles. “But if you go—” he signs.

“Then, I will return. We don’t need to make prisoners out of each other.”

The kid hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he signs.

“I know you are, but that was Ahsoka’s bowl. You’ll need to apologize to her,” Din says. 

Grogu’s ears fall as he nods.

When Din rises, he finds Ahsoka’s eyes still fixed on the kid. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll reimburse you for the damage.”

“I’m not concerned about the bowl,” she says, still staring at Grogu. Her eyes, once wide with surprise, are now dull and grave.

“What can I do then?” Din says.

Her eyes flicker between him and Grogu. “Nothing,” she murmurs. “Nothing at all.”

“Are you certain?” 

“Yes,” she says curtly. “Night is falling. You should get going. I’ll take care of him.”

Din frowns. Ahsoka is many things, he’s come to learn, but acquiescent is not one of them. She’s not one to let things go, especially when an issue can be resolved swiftly and directly, but she isn’t responding that way now. There’s something she’s sweeping under the rug.

Din just doesn’t know what.

In the distance, an owl hoots, signaling the advent of night. If he doesn’t leave now, he won’t make it back before daybreak. He has to go. Casting one last glance at Ahsoka and the kid, Din heads east toward the city. 

✵

When he returns, Ahsoka is lingering around the camp like a ghost hovering over her death place.

Except, Din knows ghosts — he’s been called the equivalent of one most of his life— and Ahsoka isn’t like any wraith he’s seen. She isn’t hiding in the shadows nor seeking to become one. Her footsteps are loud, breaking the leaves’ backs as she paces back and forth across them. The fire is sending shadows dancing behind her and Din wonders about the comparison all over again as he watches her.

There’s something in her body language that looks like the grave —grim and staid— even though she sounds like the living. She’s still as pallid as death.

Din approaches quietly. “Something wrong?” 

Ahsoka collapses onto a log and snatches her pack from the ground. “Why would you think that?”

He says nothing, just watches her toss a tin bowl out from her bag, then hurl a starch packet inside it like she’s trying to break the packaging with one throw.

Why indeed.

Din sifts around for another conversation topic. “How’s the kid’s training?”

Ahsoka stops ruffling inside her pack. Her shoulders have gone stiff. “Fine.”

“Just…fine?”

“For now, yes.” She rips the starch packet open with her teeth and dumps the powder in the bowl. 

“Do you expect it to get better?” 

Ahsoka drags her eyes over to him. They look dull, absent of their usual electricity. 

“Did the kid get upset again?” Din asks.

Ahsoka chokes on a laugh. “No,” she says, uncapping her water canister and pouring it into the bowl. She stirs the mixture with a finger, then sets it beside her to rise. “Though I doubt that behavior will change,” she mumbles.

“Why?”

Ahsoka appraises him for a while before answering. “Grogu doesn’t know how to center himself.”

Din frowns. “Center…himself.”

“Meditate,” Ahsoka clarifies. 

“And that’s…important,” he says, reading between the lines.

She nods. “Meditation is the bedrock of everything. It even precedes combat training. Children are often volatile, impulsive, easily attached to people and things. They have to learn how to release their emotions and external attachments. Otherwise, it makes them vulnerable.”

“To who?”

“Not who,” she replies, standing. “What.”

Ahsoka circles around a felled tree in turns. Din watches her, wondering what the hell she’s trying to circumvent. 

“Attachments breed fear,” she says, “which will inevitably create other things. Possessiveness…greed…anger. Unchecked, such feelings consume everything in its path, including the object of its affection.”

Her eyes find him then, pointed and intensive. 

“You’re talking about the kid,” Din translates.

“He uses you to self-soothe.”

“And that’s a problem.”

“Yes,” she says.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Ahsoka says, going still, “I can’t train him.”

Din jolts. “Why? You’ve seen what he can do.”

“His attachment to you makes him vulnerable to his fears,” she says, advancing towards him. “His anger.”

“All the more reason to train him.” 

“No,” Ahsoka snaps. “I’ve seen what such feelings can do to a fully trained Jedi knight. To the best of us. I will not start him down that path.”

Din pushes out air through his nostrils as Ahsoka bumps by him, snatching her bowl from the log with a curse. The bread’s deflated. Ahsoka tosses it out and starts over. 

“If you don’t train him, he won’t survive,” Din says. 

She pauses mixing the starch. “I know that.”

“Then, you know you must train him.”

The mixture fizzles under Ahsoka’s hand, billowing up into a proper loaf of bread. Heat curls up from the crust.

“Take it.” Ahsoka shoves the bowl forward. “It’s yours.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.” Not anymore.

Ahsoka’s frown sours into a scowl and Din crosses his arms, just as ticked.

“If the kid needs to center, then teach him that,” he says.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then simplify it.”

Ahsoka shoots him a glare that could set the whole forest on fire. 

“Grogu’s classmates, his peers, his masters,” she says, standing slowly, “were all slaughtered before his eyes. That memory, the one you share with him, was his first experience with loss.”

Din’s arms drop at his sides as her words reduce his anger to a simmer. Slaughtered. That’s what that dream was? A massacre? Stars above.

“He’ll do anything to avoid experiencing that again and I mean anything,” she hisses.

There’s a flash of something in her eyes that Din has never seen from her before. Fear. It’s brief, barely perceptible, but he recognizes it just the same.

“What is it you aren’t telling me?” he asks.

Ahsoka’s eyes widen for a brief second, then they dart away from him to glare at the trees. “I’ve witnessed attachments before but your relationship with Grogu…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He’s my intended.”

Ahsoka pushes out an exasperated breath. “It’s more than that.”

“In what way?”

“In every way,” she grinds out. “When you’re gone, his thoughts turn chaotic, frantic, angry. That business with the food dish, his desire to listen to you and only you…? It’s more than an attachment.” Ahsoka paces back and forth, mumbling under her breath: “I thought it was just him before, but it’s…bound you together.”

“What has?”

“The Force. Your Creed. I don’t know. I’m still working it out.” 

Ahsoka tightens her hands behind her back. She looks like a woman on the fringes of her control and even then, she’s grasping at strings.

Din interrupts her pacing with a raised hand. “What do you know?”

“The Force…” Ahsoka shakes her head. “It connects all living things, but it’s like a magnet between you two.”

“Like a compulsion?”

“No, the Force doesn’t compel. It isn’t a power. It’s…balance, energy, interconnectedness,” she says. “It isn’t forcing a bond between you. It’s intensifying a pre-existing one.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ahsoka tosses her head to the right. “Do you see that fire?”

Din eyes the campfire, watching the sparks drift up into the night sky. 

“It’s weaker than yesterday’s,” she says. “Why?”

“I don’t see how that—”

“Humor me. Why?”

Din eyes the singed branches. “Damp brushwood.”

“And?”

“Too much tinder. Makes it burn out too fast.”

“Right. So, not a good blend of materials,” she says. “What must I do to balance it?”

“Add dry kindling.”

Ahsoka nods. “A fire is only as strong as its contents. The materials I choose determines how long it’ll burn. If I put the right pair together, it could burn for a whole night. Maybe even longer.” Her gaze darts back to him. “You said that Mandalorians spend their whole lives loving their foundlings, right? Your religious laws, the one’s concerning foundlings… They’re birthed out of pure love, aren’t they? A love that’s spanned centuries.”

“Yes, but that’s…It’s nothing mystical. Parents typically care for their children.”

“I’m not talking about an emotive feeling. Love is more than that. It’s…energy. Raw, creative energy,” Ahsoka says. “Mandalorians create a bond with their children, that’s a given, but Grogu is force-sensitive. He’s not some average child.”

Din’s head hurts. Her words are like a maze, all of which lead in various directions. She’s not making any sense.

“Speak plainly.”

Ahsoka’s eyes bore into him. “The two of you were already connecting before you discovered Grogu was your son. But in adopting him, you forged a bond deeper than the ones of your people,” she says. “You brought your Creed, a symbol of devotion, into your relationship and Grogu brought his connection to the Force, a symbol of pure energy. Put those things together and what do you think that created?”

Din eyes the kindling, listening to it sizzle and hiss under the flames. He knows what it created. He can feel it. 

“I’d liken it to a force connection but even that falls short,” she says, snagging a discarded branch off the ground. She bends it in her hands. “I’ve been racking my mind trying to make sense of it and this is the only explanation that comes close to an answer.”

“What answer?” Din croaks. 

“A soul bond.”

White noise buzzes in his ears. A knot forms in Din’s throat, making it hard to speak.

“And you think…” Din doesn’t recognize his voice. “You think that’s a bad thing?”

“What I think doesn’t matter." The branch in Ahsoka’s hand snaps. She flings it away without so much as a glance. "What I know is that this particular bond could get one of you killed. Or both.”

“Why—?”

“You said it yourself: no Mandalorian once they find their child lets them go, and he will do anything to be with you,” she says. “Someone could exploit that.”

“What does this have to do with…centering?” Din asks. “Or his self-soothing? The bond should help, right? Calm him, somehow.”

“Part of the reason Grogu can’t center himself is because of his attachment to you,” Ahsoka says. “He can’t control what happens to you and he knows it, which only adds to his fear. The bond isn’t helping him. The outbursts of anger, the possessive streaks, the need to have you near him at all times… He needs to learn how to calm himself or else those feelings will consume him.”

Din’s hands tremble at his sides as dread curls in his gut. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying,” she says with a sigh, “that a choice has to be made.”

“What choice?”

A cloud drifts over the moon hanging above them, casting a shadow across Ahsoka’s face. Somewhere, an animal howls.

“You can keep Grogu with you. You can stay with him,” she says, “but if you do so, I cannot train him.”

Din’s fingers cut into his palm. “We’ve already gone over this. The kid has to be trained. That was the deal we made.”

“Which leaves the second option,” Ahsoka says carefully. “If you leave Grogu with me, I will train him as you have asked.”

For a second, silence passes between them as the weight of Ahsoka’s words bear down on Din’s mind. But they aren’t registering. He can’t understand them no matter how hard he tries. 

“You’re saying I’d…leave him permanently?”

Ahsoka's gaze falls and Din feels a heat stoke in his gut.

“That isn’t what we agreed upon.”

“I know but—”

“You said you would train him.”

“I did,” she says, “but your bond changes things.”

“So, I’m to blame then.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Din scoffs. She might as well have. “If you’re so afraid, then I’ll just find another Jedi.”

“No Jedi would train a child with such an attachment,” she says. “They know the risks.”

Din hovers over her. “You seem very certain about something you were only making conjectures about before. Suddenly, you know so much.”

Ahsoka's eyes narrow. “You said Grogu’s being hunted, didn’t you?”

"Don't deflect—"

“I'm not," she grinds out. "If a team of hunters came up against you, how would you handle it? Or Imps? A Sith lord?” Ahsoka presses. “If one of them were to come after him, what would you do?”

“Whatever is necessary,” he growls.

Ahsoka has the nerve to look endeared. “That wouldn’t be enough. Siths don’t ask for information. They take it. They’re not some elementary intruder breaking and entering. They don’t knock.”

Din rests his hand on his holster. “I know how to lock a door.”

“And if they don’t go through doors?”

Din thins his lips together.

Her expression says she expected as much. “They can force information out of your mind within minutes.”

“I only need seconds.”

“You’re not getting it.”

Din looms over her. “Enlighten me then.”

“You’re the only connection he has.”

“To what?”

“The light,” Ahsoka hisses. “Grogu knows goodness, compassion and, most importantly, love through you. No one else. If anything were to happen to you and I mean anything, he’d raze a planet to ashes like that.” She snaps her fingers.

Din shakes his head. “You overestimate his power.”

“And you underestimate his anger.” 

“He’s just a kid.”

“To you, maybe. But to the people who hunt him…? He’ll never be that,” Ahsoka says. 

“So, what would you have me do then? Leave him?” Din scoffs. “You said these…Siths can take information from someone’s mind. What’s to stop them from getting it from me anyway? I know him now. I’d know where you both are.”

“Not if we leave Corvus.”

It’s as if the entire forest went still. 

“You’d what?”

“The magistrate is taken care of, so I have no other reason to be here,” Ahsoka says. “Hunters will follow Grogu’s tracker, so that’ll keep them away from you—

Din shakes his head, taking a step back. “You’re out of your mind.” 

“—and Siths only use mind control if they think you have something to hide. You’re a Mandalorian. Grogu’s a Jedi. A bond between the two of you would be unfathomable to most. They wouldn’t go after you,” she says, even as Din turns away from her. “I know of a place where no hunter would be able to find us. The kid’s tracker can be removed there.”

Din freezes as realization clicks into place. “You’ve thought this through…”

Ahsoka’s eyes fall for a brief second. It’s enough of an answer as any. This is why she looked so grave earlier. She hadn’t been walking toward her death place. She’d been visiting his.

“How long have you been planning this?” he asks.

“I haven’t been planning—”

Din laughs. “Well, that’s rich.” 

Anger flashes in Ahsoka’s eyes. “I’m trying to keep my side of the bargain," she says. "If I could just get him to—”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” Din shoves by her.

“Whether you want to have this conversation or not is beside the point.” Ahsoka follows at his back. “You need to do what has to be done—”

Din whips around. “Do not lecture me on duty!” he hisses. “This isn’t some impersonal decision to be made off of frivolous conjectures. You’re telling me to abandon my own son.”

“I’m not telling you to do anything.”

“Bullshit!”

“You have a choice.”

Din laughs bitterly. “Of course. I can either abandon him or offer him up to the wolves, untrained and unprepared. What a choice, that is.”

“I never said it’d be an easy decision.”

“No,” Din says. “You just don’t have to be the one to make it.”

Ahsoka thins her lips together and looks away. Din can barely look at her either. His heart is hammering in his ears, loud and frantic, melding with the cicadas buzzing around them. 

The urgency to put as much distance between them as possible is nearly unbearable. Din wants to return to the ship and act like this conversation never happened. He wants her to stop talking about this nonsense. Even if what she was saying were true, there’s got to be another way. She can’t be right about this.

She can’t.

“I had a master once,” Ahsoka murmurs. The words are so softly spoken that, for a moment, Din thinks it was a figment of his imagination. Then, she speaks again. “He taught me almost everything I know. He was special, but he was also haunted by his past. He turned into something…else. By seeking control, he lost everything.” Din feels it the moment she turns to him. “I don’t mean to cause you more pain. Believe me, I don’t. But I also refuse to watch your son turn into something that you don’t recognize. Not if I can help it.”

A knot throbs in Din’s throat and he curses himself for it. She’s severe, but she’s also unbearably kind. It reminds him of the Armorer and he hates her for it.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me to—” His eyes burn, prickling at the corners. “You’re saying, if I left, I’d never know where he is. I’d never be able to…” 

Ahsoka draws so close Din can trace the outlines of her markings with his eyes. “You’re the only one who can show him the way to surrender,” she says. “You’re the only one who can show him that love is stronger than fear.”

Din shakes his head, slowly backing away. “I can’t,” he chokes out. The sound is swallowed down quickly and replaced with a glare. “I can’t.”

There has to be another way.

✵

When they walk through the city gates, the silence between them is thick enough to cut with a knife and Grogu is none the wiser.

He leans out of his carrier with a coo, ogling the new banners and merch stalls the locals have erected, and it hits Din that this is the first time the kid has seen the place since they disposed of the magistrate. Much has changed since then.

Ahsoka pauses at a passageway, bringing them to a halt. The passage has the earmarks of a skivvy dwelling — dilapidated lean-tos turned into homes, barred windows, and the all-too-familiar brown insignia meant to highlight the area’s poverty. Someone’s scorched out the symbol, but a vestige of it remains — as all wounds do.

Ahsoka brushes by him to head down the passage.

“Where are you going?” Din asks.

“To check on Governor Wing.”

The fact that she already did so two days ago goes without saying. 

Din clenches his hands as she disappears into one of the stalls. Huffing, he stalks off in the opposite direction, drawing the kid’s carrier after him. He didn’t expect her to wake up this morning and apologize; neither did he expect for her to relent. In fact, Din was willing to let it go and pretend they never had the conversation to begin with.

But then, instead of training the kid, Ahsoka said they were heading into the city and every notion of “forgetting the conversation ever happened” flew out of Din’s mind. She doesn’t intend to let this go. Even now, she’s trying to force him into making a decision.

That is what Din can’t forgive.

He nearly runs into someone, sending their packages flying, but they edge out of the way in time. Even so, the near-collision makes Din slow, pausing outside a tavern.

The doors swing open, sending a waft of fried food into the air. The kid whines in his carrier.

“You hungry?” Din asks, casting a glance between him and the tavern.

Grogu nods insistently.

Sighing, Din steps through the doors, leaving them to swing behind him. A few heads pop up, eying him as he deposits himself at one of the tables in the furthest corners, but their eyes fall within seconds. He’s wandered around the town long enough to have gained some familiarity. His presence isn’t so novel anymore.

“That’s some shiny armor, you got there.”

Din looks up to find a server with a platter in hand. But no ordinary server, Din realizes, noting the excited glint in the server’s eye. Most locals nearly lost their lives under the magistrate’s rule; while, others are breaking their backs now to build a new civilization. Neither of those experiences is so exciting.

A dropper, then. 

Din has heard about them well enough. New arrivals drawn in by the vacuum of power; like crows scavenging the pickings off a dead carcass. But this one’s sporting a pudginess in his face that says he’s probably no older than sixteen. A child of droppers then. 

Din’s eyes fall from the server in disinterest. “Just soup for him.”

He waves a hand. “No soup here,” he says. “You a Mandalorian, then?”

“Looks that way.” Din sighs, then leans back on his stool. “Whatever you’ve got that’s easiest for him to eat is fine by me.”

The server nods rapidly, hair flopping in his face as he hurries away.

Din surveys the room with a listless eye. It looks like someone turned an old textile mill into a tavern. Work stations have been shoved against the wall, alongside the thread-runs and spindle wheels, to make room for liquor barrels (which, most likely, belonged to the magistrates’ scouts). Clearly, the governor’s trying to clear out the old to make room for the new.

At least, that’s what Ahsoka mentioned.

A scowl creeps across Din’s lips as the memory of their conversation burns in his mind. If she won’t train the kid, then he’ll need to find someone who will. Either way, the kid needs to learn to defend himself (she was right about that, at least). But where would he find another Jedi? Finding Ahsoka was already hard enough and, to be honest, he’s not exactly keen on asking her for advice right now.

Where to begin then…?

“Here you go.” A saucer slides across the table, nearly splashing its contents on the table. Din eyes the lumpy liquid. Stew, then.

Din reaches over it to grab the kid’s utensils when the server snatches his arm.

“Wait!” 

In the same instant, prickly tentacles burst out from the dish. Din whips out his knife and stabs the membrane, eliciting a screech out of the creature. The tentacles seize then fall against the rim of the dish, sloshing stew all over the table. 

Fensquid.

He should’ve known that’s the only thing the tavern would be serving. They’re abundant in the swamplands.

They’ve also got one hell of a bite.

Din sags against the table. “Thanks for that—”

A choked sound cuts him off. Din’s eyes dart up to watch the server’s platter clatter to the ground. The teen’s hands fly up to his neck as if clawing at some invisible hand—

Din’s blood goes cold.

He whips around to find Grogu’s hand slowly closing into a small fist.

“No!” he shouts, snatching the kid from his carrier. 

The server drops to the floor, gasping for air; several chairs screech back as people jump to their feet. The kid’s face crumples, the tell-tale signs of an incipient fit.

“Hey!” A door bursts open, revealing a bird-like creature with a skillet in hand. “What’s going on here?”

Din’s mind reels, struggling to come up with an explanation for this mess. His eyes dart from the kid, to the people backing away from them, to the server wheezing on the floor. There are tears in the teen’s eyes. 

He’s only a kid.

What’s going on…? 

Something was misinterpreted, that’s all Din knows. 

An apology emerges from Din’s lips as he rises, gathering up the child. He leaves money on the table —more than he can afford to lose but not nearly enough to cover all the damages— and leaves the kid’s food behind.

Then, he leaves.

That's an apology too.

✵

Ahsoka finds him later in the day —after the kid’s gone down for his nap— and Din doesn’t even need to look at her to know that she knows.

She sits on a stump and folds her arms. Din says nothing and for a while, they just stand in silence.

“The villagers say they don’t want any more interference,” Ahsoka says evenly. “No more visits.”

Din flinches against the tree and presses his lips together, feeling her words gouge out his insides.

She says nothing else.

He doesn’t expect her to.

What else is there to say after that? 

✵

The stew and the server.

Somehow, contemplating those two things brings Din to the reason for the kid’s “reaction.” It’s all so simple and obvious, he wonders why he didn’t realize it before.

Grogu saw the server deliver the stew; he saw Din surprised; he saw the fensquid emerge to bite him. All of that led to a single conclusion.

The server delivered the stew to harm him and the kid, believing he was in danger, meant to protect him. 

From the stew and the server.

It makes sense.

Those two things are connected.

The stew and the server.

But the stew sloshed across the table during the scuffle and the server dropped to the ground, gasping for air. 

Din understands how it happened, but it doesn’t matter now.

The damage is already done.

✵

The lantern is close to burning out when Din asks the kid for the fifth time that night to repeat himself.

Grogu huffs. “I did,” he signs.

“Sorry kiddo. Tell me again,” he says. “I’m listening.”

The kid starts from the beginning and just like last time, Din feels his mind begin to drift. He’s trying to listen —he really is— but his mind refuses to follow, no matter how many times he tries to ground it in the present. His thoughts keep drifting to the past.

To the tavern. 

When the kid had… 

Oh, stars.

“…learned new stuff today,” Grogu signs, making Din startle. 

He missed that sentence too. 

Din takes a shot in the dark. “You…learned new stuff today?”

Grogu nods and rolls onto his side to face him, casting a shadow across the wall when he does. They’re in the hold, cuddled so close together Din can trace the creases in the kid’s skin with his eyes, and it’s everything he cherishes. 

It’s everything that pains him now.

Every time their eyes meet, Din can’t maintain eye contact. It hurts to look at him and he doesn’t know why. Every time he does, the noise in his head grows louder and the guilt bears down on him, intending to crush him. It’s not the kid’s fault, it’s his. 

Ahsoka tried to warn him and he hadn’t listened. 

He should have.

Din returns to himself only to see Grogu sign: “…I can show you.”

Another tail-end statement; another thing he missed.

“The things you learned?” Din manages out.

Grogu nods cheerfully. “I can show you tomorrow,” he signs.

Din’s eyes linger on Grogu’s hands. Those hands picked flowers for him a week ago. Those hands almost choked the life out of someone yesterday. 

“Tomorrow,” Din echoes, staring at the wall behind the kid. It’s easier this way, not looking at him. It hurts to look at him.

He knows what he needs to do and he can’t.

He can’t.

Din’s vision swims, going blurry. He digs his nails into his thigh to make it stop. 

“We can get more chocolate,” Grogu signs.

“Of course.” 

Din would have liked that.

“And…and…we can play,” Grogu gestures.

“What would you like to play?” Din asks, surprised by the evenness in his voice. “We can do anything.”

“Anything?” the kid signs, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Din says, keeping his eyes on the wall. It hurts to look. “Anything you want.”

“Hide and seek,” Grogu signs.

“That’s what we’ll do then.” Din nods curtly, even as a lump forms in his throat. “Tomorrow.” 

He would have liked to. 

“I’m happy we’re a family,” Grogu signs, snuggling back up to his side. “We’ll always be together.”

Din swallows. He never realized before that the symbol for ‘always’ is almost identical to the symbol for ‘family’. They both depict endless circles; like a planet revolving around its own axis. They both represent something that extends beyond space and time.

There’s a circle around Din’s signet-mark too. It’s supposed to represent that soon, another will join him and together, they’ll create infinity.

But we don’t have that, Din blinks back the stinging sensation in his eyes. We’ve run out of time. We always seem to run out of time. 

“Always.” Din nods jerkily. 

“Always,” the kid signs.

He would have liked that.

✵

Din lets his feet carry him to the last place he wants to go.

He returns to the camp. Back to Ahsoka.

When he steps into the clearing, the question that bursts from his lips is the last one he intended to lead with.

“Is there any way to get the dream back?”

It hangs in the air, full of want, and Din feels like he just stepped outside without his helm on.

Ahsoka’s hands still over a pile of singed firewood puffing out its last breaths in wisps of smoke, and it strikes Din that they’ve been here before. Weeks have passed since then — since everything was simpler— and he isn’t the same. She’d been building a fire then. Now, it looks like she’s quenching one. 

Din casts a glance to the sky. It’s going to rain, he eyes the engorged clouds. He feels similar. Swollen and on the brink of bursting. He felt that way before too. 

“Grogu’s memory?” Ahsoka asks as she rises.

“Yes.”

“I thought you said it was frightening.”

Din shifts his footing but says nothing.

“Has a dream ever returned to a Mandalorian?” Ahsoka circles around to stand beside him. It’s a mercy. They could never have this conversation face-to-face.

“No,” Din says. “It’s…unnecessary after—” His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“I know I’ve put you in an impossible situation,” Ahsoka says.

“It’s not your fault.”

“No,” she says, “but it’s my doing.”

He can’t have this conversation. Not now. 

“The kid,” Din says. “He likes it when you keep the light on at night. Helps him sleep better. I have toys. They’re his. He’ll need them.”

“I’ll make sure he has them.”

“He can be stubborn at times,” Din says, “but he’s…he’s a good kid. Kind even, when he wants to be.”

She doesn’t say anything. Another mercy. 

“You asked about Grogu’s memory,” Ahsoka says. “Why?”

Din feels the urge to hunch his shoulders, so he squares them instead, ignoring the pang of shame churning in his gut. He’s asked himself, too, why he’d want something so horrific. It’s not like he’s asking for a fond memory, after all. So, why the hell would he want to go back to those horror-filled nights? 

The truth is he’s spent half of his life resenting the dream. He’s hated waking up every day to terror and blood and death; he’s hated not having a place in the Tribe; he’s hated being called an outcast and a loner and an ori’vhekad. That dream was the reason for all his misfortune and though he never said it aloud in the past, sometimes he wished it had never come to him.

But the whole time, that dream was a memory. 

Grogu’s memory. 

It was a moment in the kid’s life where the worst had happened to him. The kidnapping, the neglect, the abuse — all of it stemmed from that one moment and for some reason, a force in the universe thought Din should be entrusted with it. But what had he done? Silenced it, numbed it, hated it. That memory was Grogu and Din had… Stars above, he’d hated his own son. 

Now, there’ll be nothing left of the kid — no toys in his crates or crumbs in his bed—  and all Din wants is something to hold onto. It doesn’t have to be much. Just something.

I just want my son, Din thinks, but if I can’t have that, then please let me have…

The dream. That’s all he wants. 

Above them, the sky crackles, the trees shudder and gradually, it begins to rain. Ahsoka lifts her hood. Raindrops trail down Din’s helm like tears.

He listens to the rain patter against his helm and on the leaves around them. It’s a gentle sound, soothing and quiet. It reminds him of little feet that used to pitter-patter behind him. 

A distant memory from the past.

A dream from another life.

He turns away from her. “No reason.”

✵

Din is making his third go-around the ship, checking the ventilator unit and debris extractor to prepare for take-off when Ahsoka emerges from the woods with the kid. 

He freezes under the ventilator as her boots draw closer and closer and Din feels his hands start to tremble. Not now, he wills, angling out from under the ship. Not until we’re off-world. Even so, his knees wobble as he goes out to meet them and it feels like a betrayal.

Peli told him once that he’s a terrible liar and Din hadn’t believed her. His voice doesn’t tremble or crack like others’ do when he’s giving false information; it’s cloaked by a modulator, ensuring that nothing will give him away. He’s not expressive in speech.

But it never occurred to him to consider his body as the culprit. That it could have a mind of its own, telling people things he preferred to keep hidden.

He realizes that now more than ever.

He realizes how right she was.

Din sets his shoulders back as they approach, forcing his posture into something steady and disaffected. His fingers tick at his sides a second later. He balls them into fists to make it stop. A beat later, his legs buckle, threatening to give out.

Grogu flails in Ahsoka’s arms when he sees him, slipping out of her arms to barrel into Din’s legs. 

“Hey kid,” Din says, kneeling. 

His heart aches when Grogu beams up at him. Din tries not to let his eyes linger, but they do anyway. They still try to memorize everything about him.

Grogu peeks around him, eying the ship. “Where are we going?” he signs, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The words are tangled up in Din’s throat, refusing to be swallowed down. He has to say them. Even so, Din is fidgety on his knees, trying to find a way to begin.

“Not we,” Din says. “I have to go.”

Grogu’s ears flutter. “Why?”

Din casts a slow eye up at Ahsoka and with a knowing look, she slips away into the trees. Only when there’s no sign of her does Din turn his attention back to the kid.

“I…just do.”

Grogu’s ears fall halfway. “When are you coming back?” he signs.

Din runs his hands up and down Grogu’s shoulders. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to comfort. Or, who he’s trying to prepare. There must be something in his body language that gives him away because, in the next second, the kid is slipping from his hands, backing away. 

“Grogu—”

“You said we’d play,” Grogu signs.

“I know I did.”

“You said I could show you my new tricks,” he gestures.

“I know.”

“You said ‘tomorrow’,” Grogu signs. His bottom lip wobbles. 

“Kid—”

“It’s tomorrow,” he gestures. 

“I know it is,” Din says, grabbing onto him again. “I know it is. But there are some bad people out there. You know that, right? I can’t let them find us.” 

The kid puffs out his chest. “I can protect you,” he signs.

A weak smile pulls on Din’s lips. “I bet you can,” he says, “but I need you to focus on your training.”

“You could train me,” Grogu gestures.

“You’re pretty powerful, kiddo,” Din says, nudging the kid’s chin. “More than me.”

“Then, I don’t want to be powerful anymore,” he signs.

“Grogu…”

“I wanna go home,” he signs. A hiccup bursts from his lips. “I wanna go home.” 

Din opens his mouth to protest, to calm, to explain why this has to be done. He has to leave. It’s the only way. But then, he looks —really looks at Grogu— and feels all the resolve drain out of him. You’re just a child, Din thinks, watching Grogu stomp his feet and fist his eyes. And I’ve done that thing that everyone does, haven’t I? I’ve asked you to be more than what you are.

Sniffling, Grogu drops to the ground and draws up his legs into a cross-legged position.

Din’s lips part. “What’re you doing?”

“I have to…I have to sit like this,” Grogu gestures. 

“What?”

“She taught me how to,” he signs.

Oh, stars. Din’s chest tightens. He’s showing him. Whatever new skill Ahsoka taught him, he’s still trying to show him. 

“I just have to…” Grogu signs, trying to take on a look of concentration. 

But even Din can tell that whatever’s supposed to be happening isn’t happening. 

Grogu’s eyes flash up at him. “I did it before,” he signs. 

“I know.”

“I did,” he signs insistently.

Din helps him back onto his feet. “I don’t doubt it,” he says, caressing his cheek. “You’re the best of the best, kid.”

“I can do it tomorrow,” Grogu gestures, looking up at him with red-rimmed, expectant eyes. It’s what Din cherishes the most. That wild, unrestrained hope. “If…If you stay, I can do it tomorrow,” he signs.

Tomorrow, Din chokes on a laugh. It comes out like a sob. He sucks it in, forces it back down, tells it to wait until later when no one else is around.

“I need you to listen to me.” Din's hands return to the kid’s shoulders.

“No,” Grogu signs, slipping out from under them, “I don’t want to.”

“Ad’ika.” 

Grogu bites his lip and Din knows it’s to keep himself from crying. 

“You said we’re a family,” the kid signs.

“We are.”

“Families don’t go. They don’t go,” Grogu signs, eyes shining with fresh tears. He sniffles and scrubs at them, trying to erase the evidence, and Din aches. You don’t have to do that, Din wants to tell him. Not for me. 

“You're right. They're not supposed to, but I—” Din’s voice breaks and it makes everything worse. “I must.”

“Why? You love being happy,” Grogu signs.

Din shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.”

“It does,” he signs.

“Kid—”

“You love playing,” Grogu gestures.

Din huffs, feeling frustration flare up on the inside of him. “That’s beside the point.”

“You love having fun,” he gestures.

“I do, but—”

“Don’t you wanna stay?” he signs.

“Of course I do.”

“Then, stay,” Grogu signs, stamping his foot down into the dirt.

Din’s jaw ticks as he bores holes into the trees. This is them arguing with each other — with silence and hissed words and frantic fingers — and it feels wrong. They’ve never argued before. Not like this.

“Stay,” Grogu punctuates, digging his claws into the air.

“I can’t.”

“Why? I thought—” The kid signs then cuts off, face twisting together. “I thought you love being together.”

“I do.”

The kid keens. “Then, why do you have to go?” he signs.

“Grogu…”

“Why can’t you stay?” he signs.

Din grits his teeth. “Because.”

“Because why?” he signs.

“Because I love you more!”

Everything goes painfully still. 

Heat pulsates on Din’s face, alongside something frantic and frightened. Take it back, take it back, take it back, a part of his mind insists.

But he can’t.

It’s the truth and he’s tired of running from it.

“More than happiness, more than fun, more than time,” Din says, hanging his head. “I love you more than all of it. I’m leaving,” he says, “because I love you. There is no reason, no fact, beyond that one.”

His fingers are buried deep in the dirt, clenched around moss and leaves, to keep himself grounded. He’s afraid to lose touch with it. If he were to release his grip, if he were to lose another thing, he’d only fall apart. Tears are brimming in his eyes and he can’t release them either. Surrender is a language he only knows how to speak brokenly, letting one thing go at a time. He can’t let anything else go, even himself. He’s already giving up the kid.

With a tentative eye, Din finally looks up. He barely catches the tears shimmering in Grogu’s eyes before a small body slams into him. Nails scratch and snag onto his flight suit, struggling to find some part of him to cling to and Din doesn’t mind. He’s never minded. Their world began like this —with hugs in the morning and in the evening— and it seems fitting that it should end this way too. 

One last time.

“Dad?” Grogu signs when he pulls back.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I don’t want you to go,” he signs as his ears fall.

Din sucks in a shuddering breath and releases another truth. “Neither do I.” 

In his mind, he’s running a figurative hand along the wall of his memories with the kid —playing music on wash day, laying in bed telling meaningless stories, dealing with fallouts and tantrums, watching fake stars twinkle in the night— and he’s grateful and grieving. He wishes he had something tangible to remember the kid by or, at the very least, something to give the kid.

Din leans up, setting Grogu on his own two feet, and feels something heavy thump against the hollow of his throat. His lips part. 

There is something.  

He fumbles around his neck, pushing his collar down, to grab the heirloom hanging there. He’s worn it for so long he forgot it was even there. Without a moment’s hesitation, Din snaps it off his neck. 

“My…father gave this to me once.” He holds the necklace out to the kid. The sigil dangles and glints in the sunlight. “Why don’t you look after it for me?”

Grogu looks up from the sigil with wide eyes. “And you’ll come back?” he signs.

“For the necklace?”

The kid nods.

“No.” 

Before Grogu’s face can fall, Din has his chin between his fingers. 

“For you,” he says. “If I come back, it’ll be for you. Not the necklace.”

Din secures it around Grogu’s neck, leaving the sigil to rest on the kid’s collar. It’s a little long on him, but he’ll grow into it. Din hopes he does. 

The secondary sun is spilling through the trees, casting shadows along the forest bed, telling the time. Din interprets them with a listless eye. It’s too soon. He wants more time. But they’ve already been given more than Din could have expected. Even the little time they had…

They were never promised so much.

His eyes don’t leave Grogu’s face when he calls out: “Ahsoka!”

She drops down from the trees within seconds. Leaves fall around her, flitting to the forest floor. Grogu casts a fearful eye over his shoulder and clings all the more to his hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” Din says.

A cry bursts from the kid’s lips anyway as he scrabbles at Din’s arms. 

“Hey, hey hey,” Din soothes, leaning in close. “Remember what I said?”

Grogu blinks up wetly at him.

“If not today, then tomorrow,” Din says, “and if not tomorrow…?”

“The…the next day,” Grogu gestures.

Din wipes a tear from his eye. “And if not the next day?”

“Forever,” he signs.

“We’ll find our way back to each other,” Din says, cupping the kid’s face.

“Promise?” Grogu signs.

Din’s eyes burn. “Until eternity.”

He rises with the kid as Ahsoka approaches. Her movements are measured and slow, giving away a wary emotion that her eyes refuse to disclose. She’d never reveal hesitancy; she’s much too bold for that, but Din notices it just the same.

“Take care of him,” Din says as he hands the kid over. Grogu whines, straining for him in her arms and Din has to clench his fists to keep from reaching for him too.

Ahsoka nods curtly. “I will.”

He’s up the ramp before he can change his mind, initiating the security protocol to seal the ship. When he turns around, Ahsoka’s just beyond the landing site, but only by a couple of feet. She’s walking slower than usual. It feels intentional. It feels like a kindness.

Grogu’s head pops up over her shoulder. Din zooms in with his aural view and watches tears stream down the kid’s cheeks. In the same moment, his own vision goes blurry.

In another universe, Din would be running toward him with a thousand apologies ready on his lips. In another universe, he’d rethink everything and discover that there is another way for them to be together. In another universe, he would be selfish.

But this isn’t another universe. 

In this universe, a ramp is lifting in increments, gradually taking the image of the kid from view. In this universe, the ship seals with a hiss. In his universe, Din falls to his knees, not strong enough to be selfish.

Chapter Text

Din slides out from beneath the auxiliary duct in the cockpit, wipes the shit-like gunk from his hands, and tries not to sound just as shitty when he calls: “Status report.” 

The diagnostic system above him flashes red, then whirs as if thinking. 

He sighs. “Sometime today…”

“Status report,” an automated voice echoes, “failure.”

Din pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course it is.”

“Obstructed duct pressor, left valve, unit 3—”

“I know,” he says, rising to his feet. 

“Suggested course of action—”

“I know.”

“Suggested course of action,” the diagnostic system says anyway as if to allow itself to be interrupted would be to deign its own dignity. “Empty the drainage, clear the passageway.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

A clicking sound echoes over the speakers, a sign that the system’s recalibrating again, and Din only rolls his eyes. No one has to tell him his ship is older than dirt. This model predates the new millennium’s upgrades which means one thing: while his diagnostic system’s usually busy trying to figure out what’s wrong with the ship, Din’s busy trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. 

But emptying the drainage…? That’s got to be the worst solution yet. Clearing an obstruction in a pressor is no easy feat. It’s gunk and crude sludge and unprocessed benzene, and it smells just as bad as it looks. It’d take hours to clean that mess up. Hours Din could be using to fix something else.

He’ll just have to find another way.

“An obstructed pressor will cause damage to your main pipeline,” the system continues as Din collapses in the pilot’s chair with a grunt. “Left unattended, it will shut down your entire waste unit.”

“Yeah?” Din says, leaning back. “What else is new?”

The diagnostic system doesn’t say anything this time and Din would have been grateful if not for the familiar ache beginning to swell in his chest. Everything falls apart, he thinks. You know that. He pushes the feeling back down without another word. 

When Din was young, time was his closest ally. There was so much of it then. He was only twenty-three; dreams could change, predictions could be false and, more importantly, people could be proven wrong. 

He had time.

It only took getting older for him to finally learn the truth  — that time is not a friend, but a thief that steals from you every chance it gets. Give it time, many in the Covert said when he begged for the dream to change. Give it time, and Din did. He gave it time, and time only stole years off his life. 

He won’t waste another moment entertaining notions of “what could have been” and “what should have been” when what is stands in front of him, asking him to be a man about it. If there’s anything life has taught him, it’s that everything creeps steadily towards death and decay (that, is the “gift” of time). People are born only to die, and life is a gift that everyone has to return eventually.

He knows that.

At least, he knew that once.

It was foolish of him to forget something so elementary. 

He’s only two days away from Nevarro now. Soon, he’ll be reunited with his people; he’ll go back to bounty hunting; he’ll be able to leave just like he wanted to once before. And the kid? He and Ahsoka should be leaving Corvus within days.

It's all settled.

For now, Din will utilize the last of his unhindered moments fixing things around the ship.

That can’t be a bad thing.

Because grieving isn’t an option.

✵

“The kid is safe with its kind. The kid is safe with its kind. The kid…” 

Din mutters the words under his breath as he paces back and forth so forcefully the floor whines in protest. The words are on his tongue, practiced and well-thought-out, but his determination has gone missing.

He’d thought at one time, when he was semi-cogent, standing in front of the comm system hours before, that sending this message to the Covert would be a good idea. It was better than sharing the news in person (he couldn’t do that). A message would do just as well. Then, he could return, pick up another job, and leave again. All he has to do now is share what he’d rehearsed and send the message. 

But the comm system has switched from green to yellow, tired now of waiting for him to start the recording, and Din can’t blame it for powering down. He keeps messing up. He’s tripping over basic things like saying ‘he’ instead of ‘it.’ Just like he keeps stumbling over the word ‘the kid.’

He should change the word.

“The foundling,” Din says, coming to a slow stop. “The foundling is…”

It feels like a betrayal to call the kid that — another lie— even though the kid is a foundling. Or, at least, he was. But, back on Corvus, he hadn’t been a foundling anymore. He’d been Din’s.

He’d been—

“Shit.” 

Din tears off his helm to scrub a hand across his eyes, only to catch a warped caricature of himself against the metal’s gleam. Even with the distortion, he can tell his hair’s gotten too long. He’s always been so careful to keep his hair short if only because it makes dawning his helm easier. But he let himself go these past few weeks with the kid. Somewhere along the way, he’d inched over those hard lines of control, allowing himself to laugh and smile and forget all about silly things like haircuts. 

But then he woke up.

That freedom had only been a dream. 

A wonderful, thoughtless dream.

“The child…” Din says, crossing out the previous word. “The child is safe with its kind.”

✵

It was a gorgeous day — the day Din’s parents died.

Most of the time, the sun was too spiteful to shine on them, hiding behind overcast skies as if to prove its displeasure. Anyone around knew the settlement was a blighted spot on the sector. Planetary systems thrive off of market values: the more well-kept the planet, the more money funneled into that planet and, by extension, the higher the cost of living. Aq Vetina, with its dilapidated buildings and rundown interchange system and its perpetual dull-always-dull surroundings, was a stain on the system; one, many wished to scrub off the face of the universe. Even the sun didn’t deem them worthy of her presence on most days.

But that day was different.

That day, Din woke to the scent of freshly baked bread and the feel of warm sunlight caressing his cheeks. That day, sheets tangled around his legs when he’d catapulted out of bed, breezing past his parents without so much as a word, eager to gather up his rag-tag group of friends. That day, he had been the closest thing to happy.

He had been.

That is, until he felt a sudden, whoosh of wind. 

His father shouted for him just before a building exploded. The blast hurled Din back, flinging dirt and debris into his eyes and sending a ringing tone through his ears. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t feel anything except— 

Strong hands snatched him up. Then, they were running, then his parents were kissing him, then he was being lowered into a storage unit, and then— 

They were gone.

It was a gorgeous day — the day Din’s parents died. The sun had gleamed. His people bathed under its warmth and then, they perished just as quickly under it.

And that, despite what anyone says, is exactly how life goes. 

————

It is so presumptuous to think, for a second, that anyone is ever completely safe. 

That is an impossibility. 

Safety is less fixed, less certain, less actualized than one might believe. Din didn't need the Corps to teach him that life is one of the cruelest opponents you’ll ever face. Its tactics are ruthless, its maneuvers tricky, and its advances sudden. It’ll act like it’s going to throw a punch, then feint and blow a hole through you instead because it’d hate to be so predictable. 

At the end of the day, life is a bastard that doesn’t fight fair. 

Safety, in the Outer Rim, is a myth; a tall tale parents tell their children to help them sleep better at night; a construct, as all stories are, laden with imagery of doors and locks and weapons —all of which are supposed to protect and all of which can fail you at any moment— and, just as stories do, they incite belief. They rewrite the world into something more manageable and understandable, where no one picks a lock and doors remain intact — not barged through— and where weapons are only used to intimidate, not to be used. 

But in reality, safety is an ever elusive target. A person can only be more or less safe, but never completely. 

No one needs to tell Din that.

So, he really should have expected this fallout. He really should have known the other shoe was bound to drop. Like safety, peace only visits them at intervals here. No matter how good things may seem, all good things come to an end eventually. Of course, he’d lose the kid the second he let his guard down.

Life would hate to be so predictable.

Why blow a hole through him when it could absolutely gut him instead?

✵

Din has a slip of tongue on the fourth try.

“As things are,” he says before the blinking, red light with hands folded behind his back, “Grogu is—”

Din freezes. His stomach twists painfully as something bitter inches up his throat and onto his tongue. Bile. He’s gonna be sick. 

He barely makes it to the privy, throwing off his helm, before he vomits. It feels like he’s emptying out his insides, but his stomach isn’t so convinced. It still heaves, needing to get rid of something else.

When there’s nothing left in his stomach, Din wipes his mouth and abandons the toilet to lean against the wall. He hasn’t said the kid’s name since Corvus. He can’t seem to manage it, even in his mind and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to. What is the point of speaking a name when there’s no one to hear it? Even so, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he desperately needs to say but can’t. 

Something is obstructed inside him.

Let it out, his stomach gurgles.

Wordlessly, Din stands and flushes the toilet. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

———— 

Din wonders, often, which kind of grief is worse?

Grieving something he never had? Or grieving something he’d had once?

He doesn’t want to know.

———— 

“Status report.”  

Din doesn’t even try to hide the pride in his voice. 

Empty the drainage, my ass. A pressor’s not all that different from a coolant pump. Besides basic functioning, the same piping material is used for both not to mention, both pipes range around the same size. To fix any obstructions in the past, Din would drill a small hole in the base of the pipe, deposit a liquifying tablet, and suction out the remains. It’s just as effective of a solution —sans the mess—  and there’s no way it won’t work.

“Status report,” the diagnostic system says, “failure.”

For a second, the response doesn’t register. 

Din’s lips part. “What?”

“Obstructed duct pressor, left valve, unit 3—”

“No,” Din says, setting his hands on his hips. “There is no obstruction. I fixed it.”

“Suggested course of action—”

Din growls. “I don’t give a damn what you suggest.”

“Empty the drainage, clear the passageway.”

Din shakes his head. “Check it again,” he demands then says, “Status report.”

The diagnostic system clicks, running the diagnostic back until only a soft hum can be heard through the cockpit. 

“Status report: failure.”

“Run it again.”

The system rewinds before repeating, “Status report: failure.”

Din slams his hands down on the dashboard. “You’re wrong,” he snaps. “It’s fixed.”

“Warning,” the system blares. “Unit 3 discharge.”

 “What—?”

Frowning, Din looks down just in time to see brown sludge spilling out of the pipe and into the cockpit.  

“Shit!” 

He snatches up a towel, hurrying to stop up the leak. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

————

Din goes back to the drawing board after that.

He doesn’t, nor will he ever, empty the drainage.

————

No one talks about the way a child reorients a life, even after they’re gone. 

Din understands why when he catches himself, mid-scoop, pouring two serving sizes of meal onto the convection tray instead of one. A lump forms in his throat when he catches himself. Silently, he pours the food back and portions it out correctly.

For one.

It was just a mistake, Din thinks. Don’t overthink it. 

He’s not overthinking it. He’s just…thinking about it, and what it means, and what that serving size meant once because no one talks about the way a child reorients a life. 

Like how, Din still thinks about telling stories. When his mind wanders, he still thinks about what story he’s going to tell the kid at bedtime and how he’s going to construct one until he realizes — there’s no story to tell anymore because there’s no kid anymore.

But there was.

At night, instead of getting sleep, the kid used to beg him to tell a story, preferably one with a happy ending. Din would try his best, of course, in a less-grim, less him sort of way, and the kid, ever so thoughtful, would smile and tell him that his stories sucked. Din liked that; those memories were his favorite.

Then, there was nap time. Stars above, nap time. Din was certain the kid would fight against those until his dying breath. The kid had to go down for a nap at 14:00 (or else, neither of them would recover), but rarely would that happen. The first fifteen minutes would always be spent chasing the kid around until he got too winded to run. It was tiring as hell but that was their rhythm. Din’s knees cracked and his back ached and his muscles experienced a kind of exhaustion he never knew was possible, but he had grown to like the aches and pops. They felt like growing pains, stretching him to become something more. 

More patient. More gentle. More young at heart.

Din can’t say if all children leave traces of themselves wherever they go, but the kid did. The kid left stuffies in the rack and crumb trails along the floor and old foodstuff wrappers in his hammock, and Din still wanders around the ship expecting to find them. The kid left his rhythms in tatters too, having him waking up at the oddest hours and sleeping when he should have been working, and playing when they should have been sleeping. But life with the kid became a pregnant thing, bursting at the seams with fullness, and Din could hardly contain it. 

Now, Din’s life just feels slack and loose like it held more once. It had, which is why he has to keep maintaining these habits. He has to think about stories and nap times and left-behind wrappers. If he were to stop those habits, it would be like removing traces of the kid’s existence. It would be like moving on; like saying ‘the kid was never here.’

But he was here, Din thinks as his eyes fall on the convection tray.

He’s put in the same amount of meal again.

Two serving sizes.

✵

The first time Din tries taking the kid’s hammock down, it’s a complete disaster. 

He unclips the fasteners in the tarp, watching the plastic slacken and deflate like a balloon, and it reminds Din of the look on the kid’s face when he told him he wasn’t coming back. Foundlings like that, the Armorer’s voice resounds in his ears. They come to expect to have things taken from them all the time.

The tarp is falling when Din finds himself fumbling over his own hands to get the fasteners reattached again. We’re not supposed to take things down.

Din’s eyes widen at the thought. 

“Yes, we are,” he grumbles.

This is for the best. The kid isn’t coming back.

But, we can’t, some frantic part of himself retorts. It claws at him, grabs him, begs him. We can’t. It’s all we have left.

Din’s hands slacken around the tarp. This isn’t like him. He’s never been a sentimental person; he’s never clung to old things. Once things are gone, they’re gone.

But the kid wasn’t a ‘thing,’ his mind retorts. He was ours.

“I can’t—”

The words barely choke out of him before he swallows them back down. It’s not what he meant to say. ‘I can’t think about it’ isn’t the same as ‘I don’t want to.’

Din abandons the hammock and leaves the hold.

———— 

But the hammock doesn’t come down again after that.

———— 

Din has spent a lifetime fixing broken things. 

The Crest is, undoubtedly, one of those “things.” The damn thing has broken down more times than Din can count and then some, and like him, she refuses to give up the ghost and die already (she holds his affection for that sole reason). He knew what he was getting into when he bought her. Besides the fact that he only had limited funds (which meant the pickings for a ship would be slim), he admittedly wanted a fixer-upper. He wanted something that needed him just as much as he needed it and stars above did the Crest need him. If she wasn’t leaking, she was threatening to burst a pipe. If she wasn’t threatening to burst a pipe, she was flirting with the idea of imploding on herself. All in all, she was a menace to keep up, but Din didn’t mind the work.

It gave him something to do. 

But there are other things Din has spent most of his time fixing. The everyday “surprises” of life are one of them. He learned that he can’t prevent the unexpected, but he can prepare for it; he can mend what breaks. So, everyday, he listens for the rasp of a busted defibrillator in the ship; he anticipates plans going awry and collaborative partnerships turning sour, and he fixes it all with ease.

Because Din has spent a lifetime fixing broken things.

“You’re a natural, son.” His buir used to ruffle his hair and say when Din had fixed another one of their chairs or unjammed one of the old man’s weapons. To him, it was nothing to call Din a natural. But that observation was only the tip of the iceberg. 

Din wasn’t just a child with a knack for fixing things. All his life, he’d only ever known things to fall apart. His buir didn’t know that. He didn’t know that a child who’s only ever known things to fall apart will become a man who fears peace. Or, that a man who fears peace will become someone who flinches at the sound of his own laughter and looks over his shoulder even when no one is chasing him. Or, that a man who’s only ever looked over his shoulder will become someone who thinks happiness, and all its unexpected suddenness, is just another threat intent on killing him.

Even happiness can deceive.

Even happiness can look like tragedy. 

If all things fall apart, then someone has to be the one to put things back together again.

One of those ‘things’ includes Din’s ship.

One of those ‘things’ includes himself. 

———— 

“The child is safe with his—Dammit!”

Din cuts the recording with a grunt. Not ‘his’, he wills. Its. 

He has to get this right.

He will get this right.

———— 

It goes without saying that Din will fix the duct pressor. 

It goes without saying that he’ll figure out how to send a message to the Covert and fix his trip-ups too.

It goes without saying that Din doesn’t know how to tell the difference between fixing a situation and fixing himself. 

———— 

What makes someone a parent? 

What makes anyone a parent really? 

At one time, Din had thought a parent was known by the presence of a child. He’d watch children race around the Covert and, at that time, he’d often wonder who they belonged to, and if he knew them, and if they, the foundling, were happy? 

His fellow siblings may not have borne a child but they still bore signets. They still held this burgeoning hope in their belly that someday, in some way, they’d meet their dream child. Their parenthood would be sealed then. Confirmed. They had been parents all along but now, their foundling’s presence proved it. 

Din never questioned any of this. 

But now, he has so many questions. Were they any less of a parent while they waited for their foundling’s arrival? Were they any less of a parent when they combed through the galaxy looking for them? And is Din any less of a parent now that he doesn’t have a child anymore? 

He doesn’t know. 

All he knows is that he still wakes up at half past 4:00 because that’s when the kid used to get up; he still makes food for two; he still leaves the lights on.

✵

“Status report.”

“Status report,” the system echoes, even though he knows what the answer will be, “failure.”

Failure, huh. A bitter smile tugs at Din’s lips. No one needs to tell him he’s failing. The pipe has begun to leak into the regular duct-work, leaving a noxious odor that floats around the room as if trying to remind him that yes, things are getting worse. He’s failing. 

“What’s the damage?” 

As if he doesn’t already know…

“Obstructed duct pressor, left valve, unit 3.”

Din sighs. “Really…”

His voice sounds as robotic and rote as the diagnostic system and though that knowledge should be a warning sign, Din only feels a rush of satisfaction. Even his voice lacks feeling.

He used to feel more than this after a duty completed. Now, Din doesn’t know what he feels. He should be comforted by the fact that the kid is safe now. Ahsoka presented a potential problem and Din fixed it. 

So, why does he feel so broken? 

He fixed it.

He fixed everything.

“And what—” Din clears his throat when his voice breaks. “What do you suggest I do? To…fix it?”

“Suggested course of action: empty the drainage, clear the passageway.”

Din leans his head back and laughs. Empty the drainage, huh? “Emptying the drainage” is just code for breaking the duct seal. The break would allow any obstructed material to flow out, but he’d have to allow the pipe to free flow for days. That means he wouldn’t be able to control the process. 

Din would rather die than do that. 

“An obstructed pressor will cause damage to your main pipeline,” the system says as if reading his thoughts. “Left unattended, it will shut down your entire waste unit.”

Din leans his head back against the wall. “I know,” he says.

I know.

————

There is a statement Ahsoka had said that keeps turning in Din’s head the more he thinks about it. 

You are the only one who can show Grogu that love is stronger than fear.

It didn’t sit right with Din then, just like it doesn’t sit right with him now. Love, as she had named it, demands to be fearless. It is the absence of fear. 

He can’t wrap his mind around that.

Din has only ever known the gnawing, hungry need to survive. The Outer Rim intends to separate the weak from the strong (it’ll cut down the strong too if only to remind them that they, like the weak, are on borrowed time). Fear becomes your closest friend when survival’s always up for grabs. It’ll have you counting the number of people in a room and recording how many of those people have weapons on them and how many of them know how to use them? It’ll have you checking and double-checking your informants, and it’ll have you drawing on your ally-turned-enemy before they can even remember that they were the ones who were supposed to betray you.

Fear becomes family, at that point, because family protects. 

For that reason, Din’s love has always been —and will always be— married to his deepest fears. It’s why he’d rather leave when staying would only put someone at risk. Fear can’t be wrong then, Din thinks. It can’t be wrong to be afraid nor to be afraid with love. It can only mean that you are alive and that you’re not stupid enough to let your guard down, especially for a world that preys on vulnerability. 

This tenuous, terrifying vulnerability —this person, this family, this love— must be protected at all costs. 

Din remembers all of this as he lays in the rack, staring at the kid’s empty hammock. Just as he remembers that one, singular thought that came to him after he hugged the kid and walked away from him.

I’ll be damned before I let anyone else put their hands on you again.

✵

“The child is safe with its kind.”

His voice echoes through the hold, reverberating off the walls. 

The comm system looks on, steadily recording. 

Din folds his hands behind his back and reminds himself that this is what his love looks like.

✵

In the Guild, they have a common saying: If you want to spill your guts, go to Dalna.

It’s just another way of saying keep your secrets to yourself. The less people know about you, the better, especially amongst their ranks. Sometimes, when a newcomer would wander in, freshly minted and cleared for work, paltry hunters would offer them a drink. 

If the newcomer was smart, they’d say no. 

Most didn’t.

As the alcohol poured so, too, did the newcomers’ secrets and in the Guild, where every alliance is a double-edged sword and where secrets are only another form of currency, the pretense of hospitality was only an avenue for exploitation. Din never interfered — not when the newcomer passed out drunk and not when the hunters pillaged their stuff. 

They’d wake up. 

Granted, they wouldn’t have any of their lucratives on them but they’d be a wiser person for it. If they were looking to bear their soul over piss-poor drink, they shouldn’t be a hunter. The less people know, the better.

So—

If you want to spill your guts, go to Dalna.

Except Dalna isn’t so much a shithole as it is a place people go to dump their shit in. Din considers this as he navigates the Crest past Dalna’s water-logged terrain, eying the trash floating along the surface. The planet’s caves, carved out of the mountain clefts, look like mouths wrenched open wide to make room for the waterfalls spilling through. 

The saying rings clearer now that he’s here. Secrets are like shit; they’ll log you up until you dump them somewhere and the only place to dump your shit is Dalna. 

The toilet bowl of the Outer Rim. 

Din grimaces when he steps out onto the fueling dock, overwhelmed by the stink of decomposing trash and saltwater in the air. The sound of the planet’s thousand-and-one waterfalls rushes in his ears as he hands some coins to an attendant for fuel. Turning on his heel, he heads toward the port into town. 

It’ll be night soon. Din eyes the twin moons hanging overhead as he crosses the port. They’re arced high in the sky, chasing away the sun in a pink stream of light. He’d rather be gone before those rays disappear. Night is a time when the cags come out to feast and only those who seek death venture into it. He’ll wander around the market for now. Just until the ship’s refilled.

The market, though, is little more than a scrap heap of rickety shacks. They clap against each other when a gust of wind blows through them. Din’s boots squeak against the wet, weathered cobblestone as he walks down the streets. Already, vendors are drawing their curtains, eying the sparse crowd as if a cag’s perched among them. It’s good Din isn’t here to buy anything. He just needs space from the ship and her laundry list of issues. 

He’s passing by a port of seafarers offloading their catch when a knick-knack booth emerges before him. Din swallows and eyes the stuffies dangling from the rafter. Don’t, his mind warns, even as his feet carry him to the booth. It isn’t much. Hell, like most shops in the market, there’s barely anything to sell and yet— 

Din’s fingertips ghost over a plush frog. 

“I-Is there something you need?”

Din tenses. A disheveled Caldanian peeks out from behind the booth’s curtain and Din relaxes, feeling the tension roll out of his muscles. Just a vendor. He glances at the Caldanian’s name tag. He can’t decipher the language. 

“Did you—” The Caldanian shuffles back an inch, further behind the curtain. “Did you need something?”

One of their tendrils trails along the curtain —never really leaving it— as if to draw comfort from it. Their eyes, too, bounce between him and the streets beyond the booth. Din can’t help but think they give off the air of someone who’s been standing in a corner for a long time, drawing up the courage to join the rest of the world. 

He glances back at the stuffie. His hand falls. 

“No,” Din says. “I was just…looking.”

The Caldanian looks almost relieved then, as if forgetting themself, leans forward. “Those are for nestlings.” They shake their head. “Children, I mean. Those are children’s toys.”

“I know.”

“Oh.” They hesitate. “Do you…have one?”

His eyes trace the stuffie. 

“I have—” Din clenches his jaw. “Had a son.”

The end of Caldanian’s tendrils burn. “I—Forgive me, I…”

Din just stands there.

“I didn’t…” The Caldanian goes quiet. 

Din can see them inching back into their booth and it’s a relief for both of them. He can’t do this right now. It’s better to go. After a glance at the sky, Din turns to leave.

He’s only steps away when the vendor calls from beyond the curtain: “W-What was his name?”

Din stills.

“Your child. The one you said—” The vendor goes quiet out of respect. At a loss as to what to say. “Your son. What was his name?”

Din swallows. “His name,” he echoes. “His name was…”

You know it, a distant part of his mind whispers, but he can’t share it. Hell, he can’t even say it in his mind. The name of his own son. He can’t even— 

Din thins his lips together. “Excuse me.”

The streetlamps flicker to life as Din stumbles onto the streets. He heads for the fueling dock. Stupid. He’s already wasted too much time. The sun’s gone and night is falling. It’s about time he headed back—

The hairs on the back of Din’s neck raise. A presence. His head swivels around, but all he sees are seafarers and natives gathering up their baskets to head home. 

You’re tired, his mind calms. Just hurry on to the— 

A shadow flits away on his right. He takes several more steps. Something moves with him.

He’s being followed.

Dammit.

Before Din can make for the ship, a team of mariners, lugging a boat together, cross in front of him. Wordlessly, Din darts left onto a side street. He looks over his shoulder. Footsteps, he hears. Picking up their pace. He darts right onto a steep pathway and draws his blaster.

When he casts another glance behind him, only the pale moons shimmer at his back. Nothing. No footsteps either. Before his pace can slow, a tile scrapes down one of the buildings, clattering onto the street. 

Din’s head snaps up. Something glints toward him. He darts back just before it thunks into the wall behind him. 

A star dart. 

Din takes off, surging up the incline. He needs to get back to the ship. It’s already night. To engage a fight now would only mean death — and not at the hand of this hunter. 

A chittering sound rings through the air. Shit. They’re waking up.  

The path tightens as he races up a hewn pathway. Something sings on his right. He leans left just as a dagger careens past him. Back to the ship, back to the ship, back to the ship, his heart blares. 

Can’t, he bites back as he whips around, spewing his flamethrower. The fire slows, swells together, then rushes back towards him.  

“What the—”

Din jerks to the side, stumbling into a woodland, as the flames just lick past him. Pine trees snag onto his suit when he bursts through them. Branches snap behind him. He turns and shoots. The figure skirts away, leaving the flares to burn through one of the trees. It snaps and crashes, sending tremors through the ground.

Put more distance. 

Blazing forward, Din fires at the trees behind him. One tree narrowly misses the figure. The second crashes in front of them. Relief barely flashes through Din's mind when a red laser sword ignites, slicing it down. A Jedi? His eyes widen. The figure leaps, hurling through the air as if by magic to land just feet behind him. 

It was a ruse. The knives. The star dart. Were they just waiting to drive him into the woods to use their— 

A chittering sound rings in his ear.

“Shit!”

Din fires. A screech echoes through the wood. The cag topples to the ground, singed with lion’s teeth barred. Din darts past just as its camouflage melts away, but his mind fails to rest.

That can’t be a Jedi. They shouldn’t be trying to kill him. Unless they’re—

A Sith.

Above him, another tree snaps, sweeping down toward him. Din slides beneath the tree and, spying an opening ahead, hurtles through the clearing. The sound of rushing water hits his ears as he skids to a stop. Pebbles topple off the open plain’s ledge, falling into a waterfall. 

His eyes dart around. He's surrounded by water.

Another pair of feet skate behind him. 

Din whips around to launch his grappling line and— 

Chokes.

He claws at an invisible grip around his throat as his body raises from the ground. Din’s eyes widen at the metal-clad Sith’s outstretched hand. Like the kid’s powers. Even as Din wills his body to move, a force pulls him slowly toward them.

Sharp, stony eyes peruse Din’s helm. 

“Where is the child?” a clinical, masculine voice says. 

Din clenches his jaw.

“Hm.”

His head rams into the rock. Gasps echo in his mind—his own breath coming out harsh and vicious— as his vision swings. All the while, the grip on his body doesn’t relent. It only drags him off the floor and picks him up again like a ragdoll.

“Let’s see what you know, shall we?”

Din’s head splits. Images flash in his mind so quick, they blur together. Grogu. Dream. Mourning. Powers. Run. Tattoo. His throat aches. He hears screaming. It sounds like him. Nevarro. Finding. Grogu. Forever. Sign. Gavit. Grogu.

“Well, this is an interesting turn of events…” the Sith says. “Din Djarin. What a name.”

Din’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He has to get away, but his limbs feel like lead.

“When the child’s tracker went offline, I feared all was lost. Imagine, then, my surprise when I stumbled upon you. The Mandalorian. On Dalna, of all places.” He hums. “But not just a Mandalorian, it seems. The child’s father.”

When Din grits his teeth, a sharp pain shoots up his temple.

The Sith draws close. “He will be pleased.”

Before Din can think about the words, something whooshes across the sky above them. The trees shake and Din’s heart hammers in his ears when he hears a ship lowering onto the terrain. A ramp squeals.

A man in black emerges from the hanger. His stride is slow, methodical, as he approaches. He passes a cursory glance over Din before saying, “The child. Where is he?”

“Corvus.”

“And this information is…reliable?”

The grip around his neck tightens and Din sputters. “Yes, this Mandalorian graciously handed it over to us.” A pregnant pause. “Or, should I say, the child’s father.”

Din feels it the second the man in black’s gaze sweeps back over him. It isn't cursory anymore. It's appraising.

“Father, you say?”

“He and the child share a bond. Where he goes, I assume, the child will follow and vice versa.”

A hum. “This is advantageous, indeed.”

The invisible hold on Din’s throat slackens with the man’s praise. Din eyes the ledge as the waterfall gushes in his ears. He needs a distraction and more slack. 

“You’ve done well.”

The hold loosens. Din gathers up his strength.

“Take him onboard—”

He spews fire in the Sith's face. A shout and Din drops, rolling across the rock. Blaster flares whizz past him as Din sucks in a breath and hurtles his body over the ledge.

Chapter Text

The first time Din dreams (the ordinary kind without a nameless child), it is a memory of his mother, coming to him in the night with a secret.

“I think,” she whispers, breath warm against his ear, smelling of imitation flour and freshly baked bread, “it’s time you had a name.”

His eyes fly open then. “A name?”

“Shhh.” She holds a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake your father.”

He casts a glance at the snoring lump in the corner then says, quieter this time but just as wide-eyed: “A name?”

She nods, eyes gleaming in the dark. It reminds him of a fire —one that crackles and blazes against the night, refusing to go out no matter how many times someone stamps on it— and he wishes he shared her optimism. 

“Do we have the money?” he asks.

His mother’s lips purse into a pout. “Since when did you start worrying about money?”

Since we stopped having it, he thinks but doesn’t say. 

Instead, he shrugs. The fact, though, remains that names aren’t cheap. Sure, he doesn’t know how much they cost exactly, but the price must be high if even the last magistrate couldn’t afford one. They go by titles —son, daughter, husband, wife, friend, etc.— and jobs but never names. 

“Don’t you worry about the money,” she says. 

“But—”

“You want a name, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah but—”

“Then, you’ll have one.”

She reaches over and tugs him against her pinched chest. He tries not to count the bones.

“You can’t eat a name,” he whispers thickly. “We need food.”

“And we’ll have it. Your father took up some work. My wages should increase. It’s all settled, see? No reason to worry.” 

She only talks in clipped sentences when she’s lying and he knows she’s lying.

“So,” she says before he can protest further, “a name.” Her hands rub up and down his arms like she’s trying to warm him up to the idea. “I think I’ve found a good one.”

“What—” He clears his throat of the anticipation, the anxiety, the guilt for holding such eagerness. “What is it?”

A beat of silence, threaded with suspense.

“Din,” she presents.

He, who will definitely not be called Din, says, “That’s it?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s it?’”

He huffs and disregards the question with one of his own. “Why that name?”

She doesn’t reply automatically and he’s pretty sure he hurt her feelings. He’s doing that all the time now — being impossible— and he doesn’t know why. He thinks he’s sick of being babied. He thinks he’s tired of watery potato soup. He thinks he’s hungry. He thinks he’s sad.

“Do you know what ‘Din’ means in our tongue?”

He doesn’t.

“It means ‘way of life’. Lifegiver. Like hope,” she says with a distant voice. “Like water.”

Water, he thinks contentedly, licking his dry lips. They usually have to ration it out, so it’ll last for just another day. Like hope, they never seem to have enough of it.

“Water refuses to be contained. It gives life to what it wants, goes where it wants, creates what it wants.” He feels her eyes on him then, heavy and imparting. “I want you to have that. Wants. Desires. A choice.”

He swallows, struggling to find his voice. 

There’s so much he wants to tell her but can’t, and it’s so stupid. He’s so—He’s eleven now. He’s not a baby anymore. But I don’t know how to want something, he’s afraid to say. A want feels like being hungry, and I don’t want to be hungry anymore. I just want to be full.

A name is a hungry thing too. It says he’s going somewhere beyond the thick walls of the settlement. But he doesn’t want to go anywhere his family isn’t. He doesn’t want to leave them behind, nameless.

“Let’s practice it together. For when it’s finalized,” his mother says, shifting onto her back so they lay side by side. “Say it with me: my name…is Din.”

He swallows and reaches for her hand.

“My name,” he echoes, “is Din.”

✵

Din jolts awake with the feeling of being choked to death.

Can't breathe, he thinks. Can't—

Waves, as cold as ice, crash against his armor but it’s the current that seems to have a mind of its own. It thrashes him around like his body is only a plaything caught in its game. He beats against it, but the current only beats back ten-fold, charging an assault that would put even the best hunters to shame. 

He’s losing.

Gonna die. Gonna die. Gonna—

Rushing waters roar in his ears and the waves, triumphant, take him back under.

————

Din dreams in droid.

More precisely, the de-commissioned droid slung up in the hold. Din is standing in front of it, untethered, but his feet feel held in place; like he, too, is strung up on strings. 

He’s staring at the droid’s manufactured bug eyes when it suddenly says: Why am I here?

“Why?” Din says with a scoff.

Because he wanted to keep it. The answer’s as simple as that.

The droid tilts its head, exposing the hole Din blasted in its neck. A clean shot that would have had any normal sentient bleeding out on the floor. Not a droid though. Never a droid.

But why do you have me up here? It asks.

“To serve as a reminder.”

Yes, the droid replies, but not of your victory. Of your failure. You failed to save your parents.

Din grits his teeth.

There was enough room. Why did you refuse to hide them too?

“I didn’t refuse to—” Din presses his lips together in a firm line. “There wasn’t time.”

You shut your eyes when one of my kind discovered your whereabouts. You soiled yourself in fear. You hid. You are always hiding.

“I’m not.”

You are. Silence is your security blanket and darkness is your closest friend. You are still but a child.

Din looks away. “Stop.”

I thought you said I serve as a reminder? Do you refuse to be reminded now?

No, he just refuses to be lectured by a killer. 

A killer? The droid responds and there’s humor in its voice. 

There shouldn’t be humor in its— 

Look at me.

Din turns his head. When he looks up, it is not the droid slung up against the wall.

It’s him.

✵  

The next time Din comes to, it’s to the feeling of water caressing his cheek. For a brief second, panic startles in his gut at the thought of being helmless. Then, his eyes squint open to a familiar red-tinged HUD screen. He’s still masked; water has only pooled inside his helm.

There are no violent waves roaring in his ears this time. Instead, the water is singing. It trickles past his armor with a tone that sounds almost melodic. A steady current carries his body down the river, as if keeping him afloat is the equivalent to keeping him alive.

Make up your goddamn mind, Din thinks dimly, edging close to unconsciousness again.

The water sloshes in response and licks at his wounds.

Din slips back under.

———— 

“Do you know how armor is forged?”

Dabbing at his split lip, Din looks up from the blood-tinged washing bowl and turns around. To the old man’s benefit, he doesn’t even flinch when he sees Din’s face which, frankly, looks like a raisin left too long in the care of the sun. First day in the Corps and, of course, Din would come home with his face (and ass) thoroughly beaten in. His buir’s eyes, though, pass over the wounds like they’re the least important thing in the room. That is not so much hurtful as it is intriguing.

Din raises a brow. “Let me guess,” he says. “Beaten into shape?”

The smirk he attempts quickly turns into a grimace when the movement only upsets a bruise on his cheek. 

“Try not to smile,” his buir cautions.

Din snorts and rolls his eyes. “That shouldn’t be hard.”

A soft look passes over the old man’s eyes. “You used to smile more when you were a boy,” he murmurs.

There isn’t much to smile about nowadays. But he can’t possibly say that, not when any allusion to the old man’s sudden coughing spurts would only result in shame.

Instead, he says: “No one sees my face but you.” He turns around to dunk the cloth in the bowl again. “Besides, there isn’t much to see right now.”

The cloth floats over the water, steadily bleeding more blood into the bath. In its mirror, Din looks like an image of horror.

Looking away, he clears his throat. “But armor, you said,” he reminds. “What don’t I know?”

“Well, it definitely involves more than being ‘beaten into shape,’” his buir says, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. His muscles bulge against his chest and Din feels like a stick figure in comparison. “It’s also molded by heat. Tried by it. Then, quenched.”

“Quenched?”

“Submerged in water,” his buir translates.

Din scoffs. “That seems like it defeats the purpose. Why spend all that time heating it up only to undo all your work?”

A beat of silence.

“If I told you Sielle let me try my hand at forging once, would you believe me?”

Din snorts. “Depends. Have you been drinking?”

“Vaab ne’cuy a mir'sheb.”

“A hard request,” Din says, trying his hardest not to smile. “Being a smartass is a favorite pastime of mine currently. I have no other hobbies.”

“Stars above, give me strength,” the old man mutters, shaking his head. “Whether you believe me or not, she did, and I followed all her steps. I heated it up, shaped it, molded it but when she struck it, the armor shattered.”

At that, Din turns around. “Why?”

“Seems I forgot a crucial step,” he edges with a smirk in his voice and a flair for the dramatic.

Din barely restrains an eye roll.

“Which was?” he says.

The old man gives him a steady, unblinking look and rolls off the wall to stand in front of him. Din tries his best not to feel small before him, but that’s near impossible with the old man’s size. A mountain of a man. That’s what the Tribe calls him.

His buir’s gaze dips to the cut on his lip. “That one’s deep,” he says casually. “Fist?”

“The ground actually,” Din says with a self-deprecating snort. 

“I’m sure you gave it a run for its money.”

Din gives him an unimpressed look and goes to turn away again.

“Son,” he hears. “Look at me.”

Din does — and doesn’t. It’s hard to make eye contact, harder still to maintain it. 

“Armor that isn’t tried isn’t true, and the most skilled hunters know what it is to be prey,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are a Mandalorian. Your heart is infinitely stronger than your wounds.”

Din swallows against the thickness in his throat. His buir pats him twice on the shoulder and begins to head out the door. He’s halfway there when Din calls out.

“Buir?”

He stills. “Yeah, son?”

“You said you forgot a step. In Sielle’s training. What—” Din swallows. “What was it?”

The old man looks over his shoulder and smiles. “That it’s the quenching process that fortifies the armor. The water tempers its strength. Humbles it. So, on the day when the armor is struck,” he says, “it’ll never break.”

“Just like our people,” Din reads between the lines.

“Yes,” his buir says softly. “And just like you.”

————

Water refuses to be contained. 

It gives life to what it wants

           Fortifies armor

       Goes where it wants

Makes it stronger     

Creates what it wants

                                      So, when the armor’s struck,

it won’t break.           

Do you hear what I’m saying?

Do you hear what I’m saying?

Do you hear what I’m saying?

————

Din doesn’t know what his name means.

He doesn’t know which meaning defines him.

The one that says, “Your name means lifegiver. Something free and nurturing”? Or, the one that says, “Your name means strength. Something unyielding and protective"?

By extension, then, he doesn’t know who he is.

It is fitting then to return to the water.

But the water doesn’t want him.

✵

Din bursts out of the river with a gasp that sounds like someone’s ripping his soul from his body.

Alive, he thinks, struggling for a sliver of air. We’re alive. But if this is living, then death must be a hard-earned vacation that only the fortunate —and their fortunes— can afford. This doesn’t feel like living at all. This is a churning stomach and the splat of vomit and ingested saltwater draining down the sand; this is bile on his tongue; this is trembling fingers clawing into the ground as if trying to dig the earth’s heart out; this is Din thinking, in the midst of all the haze and fervor, that the body is an absolute bastard when this close to death — it’ll kill itself trying to save itself.

Weathered stones dig into the seat of his gut as the waves nudge him further and further up the shore and Din doesn’t know how the hell he ended up here. Or, what happened. Or, what happened for him to end up here — washed up and stinking on the sand like a dead body.

Twin moons gleam down on him like alarmed witnesses huddled together, hiding behind a cloud’s hand. Their pale spotlight on him is a sheet pulled back, or over, and Din doesn’t know which is worse: a secret buried? Or a secret exposed?

Dalna, he thinks bitterly. Of course, he’s on fucking Dalna.

But why? He can’t remember that. He can’t remember why—

A crow caws above him, louder than the cicadas buzzing from the trees, and Din winces at the cacophony of sound. His head feels like someone cracked it open and spilled its contents into the river but he— he just feels like hands in that river, searching for what's been lost.

Need to get up, he thinks. Need to…

Gritting his teeth, Din digs his knees into the sand and goes to rise.

“Gah!”

Sand splats against his helm when he falls face-first to the ground, spasming. Arm, he realizes. Something’s broken. Slowly, his eyes wander over to his right arm. He spies white. 

Bone. 

Vomit surges in Din’s throat as he jerks his eyes away, but the image is already burned into his mind. A torn sleeve bobbing in the river’s current. Blood leaking past brackish water into algae. Jagged bone jutting out from bloated skin. Din sucks in a breath and immediately feels the air zip out of him like a coin pouch cinched closed. 

“S-Shit.”

Ribs, he thinks. At least one of them is broken. 

What else is damaged? He shifts his lower body, cataloging the sensations in ticks; left leg, stiff but no pain; right, bruised but not broken; feet, cold but mobile. He sags against the sand in relief. Walking, then, isn’t completely out of the question. Good. He needs to find a way back to the ship. 

Din’s eyes roam past the rocks before him, beyond a dead fish flayed against the sand, to rest on a long, severed branch. It’s within an arm’s reach. He edges his good hand out for it, flinching when his chest aches in both protest and rage, and snags onto the blunt edge.

There’s a sinewy give to the branch’s structure when he drags it toward him — a warning sign that it’ll snap if he puts too much weight on it. It doesn’t matter that the stick’s nearly as tall as he is. He’ll be lucky if they both manage to make it without breaking. 

Din goes to rise. His right arm, out of habit, thrusts into the ground, and the scream that bursts from his lips then is too loud to be contained by the forest. 

“D…Dammit.” 

Get up, instinct prods. Get up now. There’s blood in the water. Any hunter worth their salt knows how to scent weakness a mile away and Din’s an open carcass. The last thing he needs is for the crows to descend, picking the beskar off his body like bloodied flesh.

Clenching his jaw, Din tries again, bearing all of his weight down into his hips this time. 

“Come on…” he grits out, getting his knees under him. “Come on.”

Din swings upright. His vision sways like a pendulum when he sags back on his knees and suddenly, there are two forests swinging from side to side before him. With a groan, he staggers to his feet. Tall pine trees loom over him, creaking in the whistling wind but it’s what’s behind them that makes Din freeze: a familiar chittering sound. He’s heard that once before. He’s heard…

A gunshot.

An animalistic shriek.

Footsteps racing behind him.

Head throbbing, Din slumps against the stick. Why’re we here? The same old thought cries again. What happened? He doesn’t know, but there are more pressing concerns to attend to. Namely, cags in the forest, an empty holster, and a flamethrower currently attached to his broken arm. Going through the forest is impossible. He wouldn’t be able to protect himself that way. 

Wearily, his gaze travels beyond a boulder at the water’s edge and, instead, locks on a set of hewn logs forming a pathway. Sentient-made, he realizes. It leads north, which means a town should be close.

Careful not to put too much weight on the stick, Din takes a step. The rocks shift under his feet, causing his right arm to jostle. Din’s teeth sink into his tongue, drawing blood, but the cry dies on his lips. Every step he takes is another nail in the coffin, hammering down the pain until it’s buried, eulogized, abandoned. It doesn’t exist. It can’t.

He grits his teeth and takes another step.

And another.

And another.

He pauses, panting. Don’t stop, instinct goads. Keep going. Get back to the ship. Mend the arm. Find Grogu—

Din freezes, blood going cold.

Grogu.  

“Oh stars…”

The wind slams into him, just as the memories do, and its gust is a shrill, a scream, a shout in his ear. What did you do? What did you do? What did you…? A chill courses across the open flesh of his arm and it should hurt, but Din can’t bring himself to feel it. Somewhere, words like infection and gangrene emerge unbidden in the back of his mind.

He could lose his arm.

“Huh.” Din’s voice breaks. Just that? he thinks and, with perfect calm, also thinks: I’d prefer that. Losing an arm would… Dying, too, would be...

Din licks his lips and finds salt on his tongue, alongside something wet. 

Saltwater. 

Before he can toss the observation away, he blinks and finds his eyes damp. There is a tightness in his throat too that wasn’t there before. 

“Oh,” he mutters.

It doesn’t feel right to call this crying. Or weeping, for that matter. Eyes fill all the time —at pain, after a sneeze, from a sharp, onion-like scent— but it takes nothing to hold one’s tears. Just like it takes nothing to blink them back in the same moment. That is not “crying.” Crying denotes sound and overwhelming sadness and Din isn’t overwhelmed; neither is he making any noise. If anything, he feels hollow, like a shell of a man, and if anyone were to come calling for him, they’d only hear an echo.

And, maybe, one word:

Grogu.

He thought it’d feel unbearable now to say the kid’s name, but it doesn’t. Saying the kid’s name is like stepping through the threshold of a warm home and realizing he doesn’t have to wipe his feet, or inch his way down the hall, or worry about whether he should be wearing shoes in the house at all because this is his. He knows every creak in the floorboards, every dip in the hall, every scratch on the wall. He rested in that chair, sat at that table, played on that floor—

“F…Fuck.”

Din sniffs and wishes he was back on the ship. That way he’d have something to do with his hands. Instead, he resumes walking because it hurts to do that, and Din needs for something else to hurt. 

He was so stupid—so stupid to think that keeping his distance would mean keeping the kid safe. He was just as stupid to think that, sooner or later, this decision would feel less raw over time. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The thing is — 

Grief is just like a foundling.

It springs from disorientation —from a clearly defined before and after— and elicits a child’s response. It’ll have you wandering from room to room, bare-footed and dirty, calling out for someone who isn’t there. Even though they were just here. They were just—

Din feels that way. He’s no different now from the scrawny little boy who came to his buir like a wild animal: starved for safety but full of distrust, and just as quick to bite the hand that fed him. The same boy who got into one-too-many fights (and lost them just as quickly) because he could handle a punch to the gut but couldn’t handle a hug (that felt too much like his parents and the last time they—). He feels like that same little boy, tracing the rounded stones in the wall as his instructor talked to his buir about how he’s “coping” and how “he’s not like the others” and how “I’m concerned, Djarin. He cries so silently, you’d never know that he’s…” He feels like that little boy who felt proud at being so silent, so numb. If no one knew he was sad or needed anything, they’d have no reason to stick their neck out for him. There’d be no need for sacrifice. There'd be no need for anyone else to die.

But Din—well, Din isn’t a foundling anymore. Both sets of his parents died moons ago. So, why does he still feel like a lost child, even though he lost a child? What is the point in clinging to things —like those habits and that ridiculous hammock— when none of it will change a thing? He and the kid were never promised forever. 

They were never promised a happy ending.

But how would you know? A distant part of his mind hurls back. You never fought for it.

An owl hoots somewhere in the distance and Din feels the sound echo through him, just like those words. The truth is, he didn’t think he and the kid could have a favorable story. It was easier to bank on his fears and err on the side of caution than to trust hope’s siren call. But now, a Sith is on course for Corvus, the kid and Ahsoka are sitting ducks, and Din’s too wounded to fight. 

The chances of success are dismal.

But I have to do something, he thinks, picking up his pace down the descending path. I have to—There has to be something I can— All he’s done —all he’s ever done— is comply with whatever fate has thrown at him. He’s accepted being an exception. He’s accepted not having a place in the Tribe. He’s even accepted having to give up his own son, but this...?

He can’t accept this.

“You’re getting to be a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Din grumbles, casting a glance up at the sky.

Only the cicadas sing back. The moons, too, travel across the skies with him, but he doesn’t need companions; he wants an audience of one —fate, namely—  to hear him. 

“The old man called you a guide. A force.” Din shakes his head. “If you’re truly a guide, then you’re a pretty shitty one.”

Blasphemy, his mind chides, and Din bats the warning away like an irritating mosquito. There is nothing so clean nor profane here; sanctity is a child’s game only the innocent play at and Din has never claimed to have clean hands. It seems, though, that neither does fate. He doesn’t know if all this was supposed to happen. Or, if fate, like the Outer Rim, is a sadist who enjoys stabbing you in the back just to feel your blood run down its hands. He doesn’t know. But frankly— 

Din doesn’t give a damn.

“I’m going after my son,” he says, edging down the path. Each step jostles his arm but the pain is only fuel, not an obstacle. “Approve, disapprove, I don’t care. I’m going after him because I want to and if that’s not a good enough reason for you,” he says, glaring at the sky, “then fuck you.”

The stars twinkle down at him.

Din scowls at it.

Up ahead, a horn blares in the distance — a ship coming into harbor— and Din spies the town on the horizon, splayed out like a feast. Lamplights flicker in the night like fireflies and Din can still remember the hostels that dotted the streets. Even now, they beckon him to come and rest.

But rest —and all its warmth— can wait.

Din has had his fill of it.

What he’s hungry for now —  is vengeance. 

✵

A vial of calmatives and a dish of nightcap powder crash to the floor when the lift door closes with a hiss. 

Din doesn’t pay them a glance, too busy grimacing against the holding cast’s top, waiting for the throbbing in his head to pass. He can’t remember when he tossed off his helm but it lies at his feet now, abandoned; his skin, on the other hand, feels hot enough to singe, regardless of Dalna’s cool temp. 

A bead of sweat trails down his face, warning of fever, but it’s the swelling in his arm that reminds him that he’s on borrowed time. It’s ballooned to twice its size and Din’s no medic, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.

Stim-shot, he thinks dazedly, resuming his rummaging. Need the trinal stim-shot. Where is it?

He’d bought it off an ex-medic on Askaji who told him he’d be a Hutt’s fool to ever use it. 

“It’ll heal any kind of wound, yeah, but it’s mixed with Firrerreon blood,” she’d said. 

“Meaning, what?” he’d asked.

“Meaning…” she’d rolled out, “it’s a double-edged sword. Your wounds? Gone. But your healing process after them six hours is up? Made worse than a womp rat in an Ardennian’s skytrap.”

The mechanics made little sense to him, but a warning Din knew. This warning, in particular, was clear enough:  misfortune would return to collect its due. One can skip the remedial process, but one can’t skirt rehabilitation. A quick fix does not equate to healing and the body must heal, even with broken bones fused and blaster wounds gone. The stim would buy a person more time but no more than that. Afterward, the rehabilitation would be excruciating and most, the ex-medic said, die from the shock of it. You’ll be lucky if you never have to use it, she’d said.

But luck has never been on Din’s side.

With a wheeze, Din tugs open the middle drawer, stifling a groan when his chest spasms. He nearly collapses in relief when a plastic white box comes into view. Dragging the medpac onto the cast-top, he pops open the lid and finds the stim within seconds. The serum glints in the light, blending with the red-wash of Din’s HUD. Its dispenser looks like a regular stim’s, but the needle is twice as long. 

That’s gonna hurt.

He rips the protective casing off with his teeth and, after sucking in a sharp breath, sinks the needle into his shoulder. Instantly, a heated sensation like warm water cascades down his arm. It slows, then rests on the site of the break. 

Suddenly, it gets hot. 

Then, hotter. 

Then— 

Searing.

“Shit!”

In an awkward shuffle around, Din grabs a strip of gauze, rips it off with his teeth, and stuffs it in his mouth. The adhesive tastes like sterile synthamesh, tacky against his tongue but when he clenches down, it’s not his own tongue he bites into — and good thing. The second the serum molds around his bone, snapping it back into place, Din’s teeth almost cut through the gauze.

Something echoes in the hold. It sounds like a shout. It sounds like his own voice. He’s too busy keeping himself upright to pay attention to it.

The bone fuses together noiselessly, but when the serum reconstructs his skin, it sounds like beetles skittering across the floor. He tastes blood in his mouth, hears a scrick as his sweaty palms slip across the cast-top, then feels…

Nothing. 

No pain, except heat traveling, next, to his chest.

“Ungh!”

Din’s back bows when a rib snaps back in place. 

Then, another.

Then, another.

Then…another.

Four ribs, he thinks blearily. Stars above.

The searing heat tempers to a toasty warmth and it reminds Din of tea slipping down his throat. Except, this heat is not going down but splintering within his core like a firework sending flares across his body. The ache in his leg lessens. The weariness, the dizziness, the feverish feeling drift until slowly, then all at once, the heat disappears.

His pants echo in the hold. Din blinks away the wetness in his eyes and straightens in increments, loosening the gauze from his mouth.

It’s…done.  

He casts an eye over to his right arm and finds—

No puncture, no visible bone, only dried blood. Even then, he doesn’t trust it enough not to test his arm out —making a fist, clenching it, then starting again— until he finally sags against the holding casts, relieved. He should give it a few more minutes. Too much movement too soon might be detrimental. Even so, it’s good to take a breath without feeling like his entire chest wants to go to war with him. Eased, Din inhales.

His nose wrinkles at the exhale. “Damn.”

He smells like a horse’s ass. A weak smile quirks on his lips and Din’s unsure whether to call it bitter or sweet. For now, he’s prolonged the inevitable but the inevitable will come. If he’s going to die, then he’d prefer it to be on his own terms, namely after putting a hole through that Inquisitor’s head. 

In a burst of activity, Din climbs up the ladder into the cockpit and powers up the engines before he falling into the pilot’s chair. When he goes to initiate the astromechs, his glove shifts. Cold air from the limiter brushes against his naked wrist and for a second, Din stills. 

Slowly, he removes his gloves. 

His signet stares up at him. 

If anyone were to ask him about it (describe it to me, they’d say), Din wouldn’t know what to say. Not because there’s so much to say but because there’s so little. He doesn’t look at it much, but he knows vaguely what it looks like: a mudhorn drawn with a permanent ink that’ll never fade nor need to be retouched. He knows, vaguely, what’s around it: skin pale enough to be called deathly (because that part of him never sees the light of day) but scarless. He’s always hated that. If any part of him should be sullied, it should be that mark.

But it’s one of the few spots on his body that remains unblemished.

Spotless.

The tattoo hasn’t burned since Nevarro; neither has he thought of it since that last night on Corvus but in both cases, he kept it covered. It seemed appropriate at the time. This is not intended to shame you, the Armorer had said all those years ago and he had felt properly shamed. 

Sometimes, he still does. 

He can’t get back all those nights spent waking up in a cold sweat, teaching himself how to calm his own panic. He still can’t fall asleep easily. But he doesn’t think he wants to change those moments anymore. He doesn’t want different memories. Those memories are signs that Grogu left a mark on him even before he came to him. That all Din’s life, he’s been forged for one great love.

There is no shame in that.

Leaving his gloves off, Din initiates the clock from his vambrace. Immediately, numbers flash to life, counting down, on his HUD:

6:00:00…

5:59:59…

5:59:58…

5:59:57…

Before him, dawn is breaking on the horizon, flushing the dark sky with pink light. The sun crests, glinting against Din’s helm and when the light clears, the navigation system whirs from the control panel. 

It blinks to life: Destination?

Din tightens his hands around the thrusters. “Get me to Corvus.”

————

By light speed, he’ll reach Corvus in four hours. 

In the meantime, he restocks the ammo on his belt, he replaces his blaster, and— 

He fixes that goddamn pressor.

✵

The second the Crest touches down, Din is bolting off the ship and through the forest.

Corvus hasn't changed. The planet is still a dead body without a casket and, by extension, a ghoul without a grave. Din feels every bit a robber —breaking limbs off boughs— as he races through the trees and against the clock. In the corner of his eye, the countdown flashes steadily: 1:59:59, 1:59:58, 1:59:57... 

His heart skips a beat. 

Hurry up. Find them. Hurry up. Find them. Hurry up— 

Boney trees rattle in the wind  —anemic and white in Corvus’ perpetual summer— as Din skirts around the city walls and into, what the locals call, the deadlands. The old magistrate used to dispose of tortured bodies out here but Din sees no gravestones. No mourners, no priests, no eulogizers. Only a thick fog creeping across the forest floor, shielding crumbled logs and stones from view.

It’s why Din keeps tripping over them.

“Dank farrick!” he hisses when he almost goes sprawling.

He’s wasting time looking around aimlessly like this. But, where else can he look? The forest is too vast, too deep, too…endless. It’ll take hours —days, even— to scan its entirety.

What if they’re gone? his heart cries. What if they’re dead?

Din surges beyond their old campsite, refusing to entertain the thought. Even when a bramble snags onto his cape, slowing him down, he doesn’t stop. Even when the quiet creeps up his spine and whispers in his ear that he’s trespassing, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t care if his ragged pants or footsteps are too loud. 

He’s been silent his whole life. 

But the trees are melding into a muddled blur now. The further he ventures, the more he turns up empty, and the more he turns up empty…

Din stutters to a halt, trying not to hyperventilate. They have to be here. He can’t be too late. They couldn’t have gone. They have to be here.

Above him, a cloud trails past, letting the sun in. The rays are transforming the tips of the trees into halos of light and Din, incensed, bears his teeth at it. Don’t you fucking dare. Not again. You can’t—

“What are you doing here?”

Din whips around and nearly topples over.

Ahsoka.

She looks wearier than before, stepping out from behind a decaying edifice, but the sheer sight of her almost makes him fall to his knees.

“Where—” Din swallows, panting. “Where’s the kid?”

Ahsoka crosses her arms. “We already talked about—”

“Listen to me,” he snaps. “Where is the kid?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “Playing, why?”

“You have to get out of here,” he says. “Grab your things. Anything you need, and go…somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. Just—you can’t stay here.” 

Ahsoka frowns. “What do you mean we can’t stay?”

Din circles around, scanning both the trees and the sky. There is nothing but silence and stillness and he doesn’t trust any of it.

“The kid’s tracker,” he says instead. “What happened to it?”

“I deactivated it.”

Din scowls. “You said you’d remove it on the other planet.”

“Refuge, not planet,” she corrects.

“Refuge, planet, what difference does it make?” he seethes. “You weren’t supposed to deactivate it here.”

Her eyes harden. “They asked for it to be done. If removed there, the trail would lead them straight to the refuge. Here, the trail will go cold,” she says.

“Yes, but it would lead hunters here.”

Ahsoka folds her arms. “I can handle a few hunters.”

Din scoffs. “Not these.”

“What are you talking about—?”

Din shakes his head, ignoring her. “They have information on the kid. His name. This place. Everything,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?” 

For a second, there is nothing but silence. Dread slips over Din’s mind like a cloud, but it’s the rain he fears and what will inevitably come after.

“A Sith.”

The measured control in her face wavers at that. “That’s impossible,” she says, shaking her head. “How would they—”

Horror alights in her eyes. He barely catches it, before it's snuffed out and buried under an impassive look and Din thinks, in that moment, that Ahsoka, in all her pride, is more kind than he gave her credit for. Emotion can be like alcohol to an open wound and clearly, she doesn’t want to wound him further with her sympathy. 

There are no words to express how much that exercise of restraint means.

“How much time do we have?”

Before Din can respond, a drone-like sound rumbles overhead. A biting wind rushes past them but the chill doesn’t hold a candle to the one that runs down his spine when a ship—then two, then three— zips past above them.

“They’re here,” he says.

In one fluid motion, Ahsoka draws her laser swords, igniting them in a pulse of energy. 

“Head east,” she says with eyes to the sky. “You’ll find one of the magistrate’s old meeting houses in a field of asyrs. He’ll be there.”

Din nods and makes to take off, then hesitates.

“The Sith—”

Her gaze drops from the sky to him. “I’ll take care of them.  You go find Grogu.”

Din takes off through the forest, heading east.

Sweat soaks through the back of his suit as he skirts past a ravine. The water rushes in his ears, but it’s his own gasps that cloud his hearing. Running shouldn’t be this hard. He shouldn’t be out of breath nor so weary. He’s crossed deserts further than this. 

The stim serum, he realizes, eyes widening. How much time—?  

The countdown flashes on the screen: 1:15:00

His muscles scream when he picks up the pace, passing by a dilapidated stone house, and stumbles into a sea of three-leaved flowers. Asyrs, he recognizes. He’s here. 

But the kid — 

The kid is not.

“Grogu!”

His voice echoes through the forest, but nothing calls back in response. Dammit. He turns on his thermoscanner and instantly, a pair of tiny orange footprints blink to life. But the fog is warping the prints into an orange blob, making it hard to decipher any clear direction. 

“Dammit.”

He has to figure out which direction the kid went. Otherwise—

The ground tremors.

Din freezes. 

Pinecones begin rattling against the floor and Din sucks in a breath as he hears the clomp of boots — plural— thrumming beyond the glade, getting closer. Between the stretch of trees, he catches a flash of white armor.

Troopers.

They’re coming from the west, which means they’ll have to pass through the glade to get to the other side. His eyes dart around, trailing over the flowers to land on the stone house. 

Quickly, he activates a charge magnet and sticks it to one of the walls. The charge beeps melodically, steadily increasing in pitch, as he flattens against a tree trunk several feet away. 

He breathes in.

Tromp, tromp, tromp, tromp.

Breathes out.

Tromp, tromp, tromp.

Breathes in.

Tromp, tromp, trom— 

BOOM.

The ground shakes as the charge detonates, obliterating the structure. Smoke and debris barrel through the forest. Din leans his weight back when the tree lurches forward and offloads his whistling birds, hiding their song in the troopers’ screams. Before the birds can finish sinking into the first wave, Din’s already surging into the fray, shooting down four troopers.

“Shit!” someone shouts.

Red flares zip through the smoke as they open fire. Some flares spark against Din’s armor; most whizz past him, directionless. These are foot troopers, not hunters. They’re aiming to maim, not kill.

Stupid.

Din cuts them down like trees. His boots slide across something wet —blood or wet leaves, he doesn’t know— as he rounds on a trooper too busy jerking their gun around to notice his presence. The trooper collapses, sending up a plume of acrid smoke. Don’t stop, don’t think, he reminds. Just clear the way.

With every soldier he kills, a heaviness sinks deeper and deeper into his limbs. A flush blooms on his cheeks. Fever, he realizes. Hurry. Running out of— 

Din’s breath whooshes out of him as a body rams into his chest. His gun skids away. In a rush, Din rolls them over, draws his vibroblade, and plunges it into their chest. 

“Fan out!” A modulated voice calls. “Get the child. He went that way—!”

Din rips the knife out and hurls it at the voice, silencing it with a wet shirk. Careful, he thinks. Four knives left. Skirting the barrage, he swipes a fallen blaster, whips around, and— 

The trigger clicks. 

Shit.

“Stand down!” a trooper yells. 

Four remaining. 

They draw in on him, guns trained, like sharks sensing blood in the water. Din holds up his hands, angling them slowly towards his back. 

“I said stand down!”

Din eyes them all dispassionately. “I’d prefer it if you did.”

The troopers glance at each other. Someone snickers and Din watches the grip on their guns loosen just so. They feel confident.

Idiots.

“What?” One of the troopers taunts, looking back at the others. The hold on their gun goes slack. “Did you really think you could—”

Din hurls a knife into the soft flesh of their throat.

“Fucking—!”

They open fire just as Din yanks the spear from his back, spinning it like a windmill. Flares spark off the metal and ricochet back into them. Two of the soldiers drop to the ground unceremoniously, but the last one clutches at a blaster hole in their thigh, raucously clinging to life. The wound won’t kill them.

Something needs to.

Din skirts behind them and thrusts the length of his spear against their neck.

“Gah!”

They sputter, choking. He thinks he hears them begging. Their plea is cut off by the sound of a neck snapping in two. 

Deadweight thuds to the ground as Din secures the spear to his back and steps over the bodies. The flowers depress under his feet, smeared with blood, as he eyes the forest beyond the field. The kid. Grogu couldn’t have gone far, but the fog is too thick to track him. 

He has to find a way though. 

The second Din takes a step, his knees buckle. He barely catches himself on a tree, sagging his weight against it. Breathlessly, he casts an eye at the countdown on his HUD: 00:47:00. 

“Dammit.”

He’s already lost so much time. It’d be quicker if he ran to find the kid. But running will tap too much energy. He’ll have to jog then— 

“Impressive.”

Din snatches a blaster off the ground, training it on the sound of the voice. Sun-scorched flowers crunch underfoot as a figure emerges from the shadows. 

The man in black.  

Along with two troopers, guns trained at the ready. 

A laser sword, as black as the charred bodies strewn across the floor, hums in the man's hand. But it’s the person he nudges out from the shadows with him that makes Din go ashen.

Grogu.

The kid stumbles forward, sending a pinecone skittering, as handcuffs rattle against his wrists. He looks like a common criminal; like the bail hoppers Din used to catch and freeze in cryo. But whereas Din kept a hand on their shoulder or a presence at their back, the man in black merely nudges Grogu with his boot like the kid is little more than a piece of trash.

Stop, Din thinks, anger flushing through his body. He’s just a child. He’s just—

A particularly harsh shove sends Grogu sprawling, toppling face-first into the dirt.

Din jerks forward.

“Ah,” the man in black says, waving the laser sword over the kid’s head in warning. “I’d recommend that you stay right where you are. For his sake.”

Grogu stumbles back onto his feet with a sniffle. When he rises, there’s blood trailing down his forehead. Before Din’s anger can stoke into a wildfire, the kid’s eyes land on him.

The world does not fall away nor stop as Din would like it to when they lock eyes. He’s too well-accustomed to keeping all sites of danger in sight and the man in black —though body slack, loose, bearing little tension— is still a threat with the tip of his sword to the kid’s neck. But if all planets have a fixed point, a locus through which their orbit is created and maintained, then Din has returned to his.

The kid’s eyes are filling and Din feels his chest clench in response. 

There’s so much to say and not nearly enough time.

Another shove leads the kid past him and through the graveyard of bodies. The man in black barely pays them a glance, stepping over blown off limbs and smoking durasteel like they’re mere roadblocks in his way rather than sites of carnage. But Grogu is so…perfectly Grogu. He edges around them and wrinkles his nose at the stench and hops to the side to avoid a pool of blood and Din loves him for that.

“So,” the man in black says conversationally when he finally pauses, a stone’s throw away, “you’re not dead. A pity on both of our parts, I’m afraid.” He nods at the bodies. “Unfortunate, of course. To waste so many lives over a frivolous diversion.”

Diversion? The word niggles at Din’s mind like an itch bound to grow into a rash. But the troopers behind the man don’t even flinch. They’re used to having their lives sacrificed…

“I assume introductions are in order,” the man says. “I am Moff Gideon.”

“I don’t care.”

A smile creeps across the man’s lips, slow and methodically controlled. Din’s skin crawls.

“You will.” 

Wordlessly, Din scans the tip of the glade’s slope.

“If you’re looking for my compatriot, I imagine they’re cleaning up the corpse of a certain Jedi of yours. Ahsoka Tano, I believe.”

Something must shift in Din’s posture because this…Moff Gideon chuckles under his breath.

“A word of advice. Assume that I know everything,” he says. “Just like I know that you and the child are, shall we say, well-acquainted. One could call this your family reunion.”

Grogu’s eyes inch up to him nervously and Din wishes, for a brief moment, that he wasn’t wearing his helm and the kid could see his face. 

“Now, if you please,” Gideon says, nodding at the gun in Din’s hand.

Scowling, Din drops it.

“Now, kick it over to me. Slowly.”

The gun skids across the ground, only stopping when it clanks against a dead trooper. 

“Give me the kid,” Din says.

“And what will you give me in return?”

By rote habit, Din replies: “What do you want?”

“Oh, no.” Gideon tuts. “We’re not doing that. You see, I know more than you think about Guild negotiations and that little ruse of yours will not work on me. You don’t get to initiate the terms of our agreement.” 

“Then, what—” Din clenches his jaw and forces the words out between gritted teeth. “What would you have me do?”

A pleased look passes over Gideon’s face. “Let’s begin by seeing your mark.”

Din, stars curse him, actually startles. Gideon looks like a lothcat who just got the cream. 

“You are a Mandalorian,” he says. “It is your birthright to carry your children on your skin. That is your “Way”, is it not?”

Din thinks he’s going to stab him. He thinks he’d like that.

No outsider gets the right to see their signets. They aren’t for outsiders. Gideon has to know what he’s asking. To ask him —no, to demand that Din unveil himself in that way… He must know he’s practically asking Din to shit on himself.

“Now, your mark, if you please.”

After a beat, Din tears off his glove and holds up his wrist.

“Ah, and there it is…” Gideon hums. “Stunning what Mandalorian forgers can do with the skin. They do enjoy branding you all like cattle.”

Din’s lips twitch as he covers the tattoo back up, but Gideon is still leering as if he’s considering what he wants Din to expose next. Undoubtedly, it will be his face. 

But that is not what Gideon asks for.

“I propose a duel,” he says abruptly.

Din frowns. “A duel?”

“Yes,” he hums. “Here are the terms: if I win, you and the child will board my ship obediently and there, you will live as my prisoners until I see fit to dispose of you.”

“And if you lose?” Din edges.

Gideon’s mustache twitches. “If you manage to defeat me, then I’ll let the child go free.”

It can’t be that simple. He’s hiding a trick somewhere in the fine print. Din can feel it.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

Why everything? Din almost says. Why not just kill him? Why all this diversion with the troopers? Why waste all this stupid time talking when he could be acting? 

But Din doesn’t vocalize those questions. 

Instead, he says: “You have the kid.”

Surprise and delight flash in Gideon’s eyes and it reminds Din of an owner pleased by their dog’s new trick. “Indeed, I do,” he says, “but unfortunately, I lack the key.”

Din frowns.

“As you know, every lock comes with a complimentary key. One may try to break open a treasure chest, beat on it, wear it down, but with no key, entrance will continually be denied,” Gideon says. “I assume you know what I am speaking of?”

But this isn't about a treasure chest, Din thinks flatly and it’s a true thought. A chest is an inanimate thing. It does not break when broken open. It does not bruise when beaten. It does not wear out when worn down because it does not bleed like living things do. 

Like a child does. 

Grogu’s eyes haven’t once left him and Din would have expected them to be pleading and insistent by now, but they aren’t. They are weary and they are young (Din has seen those eyes once before in a mirror). Those two things shouldn’t go together. 

Din’s fingers twitch at his sides, aching to hold him.

“Power,” Gideon says, stepping away from the kid for the troopers to take his place, “is rarely given. Most often, it must be taken. This, for example” —he holds up the lasersword— “was taken from Bo-Katan Kryze. I’m afraid you are not acquainted with her, so allow me to stand in her stead for explanatory purposes. Anyone who wields this sword has the right to lay claim to the Mandalorian throne. It is the epitome, the symbol, of usurped power.”

An involuntary shudder runs through Din’s body. He sets his jaw against it, only to wince when the movement sends a sharp pain shooting up his temple. Shit. His gaze flicks to the countdown. 

00:24:15

That wasn’t a shudder. 

It was a chill. 

Din teeters on his feet as the throbbing in his head rises to a pounding ache. “Where—where is this going?” 

“An excellent question," Gideon says. “I think you need to think long and hard about why I’m here!”

Gideon launches himself at him so quickly Din barely lifts his arms in time to block him. A clang rings through the forest as the lasersword bears against his vambraces, sending sparks flying. Din shoves them both back and whips his spear out.

“Your life is worth nothing,” Gideon seethes.

Din launches his grappling line. Gideon only slices through it and hurls himself at him, slashing in uncontrolled strokes. He doesn’t know how to use the sword, but his madness is a weapon on its own. There’s no form. No logic to it. Just random strikes that leave Din jarred, consistently kept on his toes.

Get off the defensive, his mind hisses as he skirts around an amputated arm.

Din ducks when the sword just narrowly misses his head. Energy crackles on his left. He drops and rolls right, only to crash into a dead body. The blade rips through the earth behind him, cutting through limp limbs and white armor. With a groan, Din pitches himself over the body and hurtles two daggers at Gideon’s throat.

The first misses him entirely, lodging in a felled tree. But the second—

“Gah!”

Gideon stumbles back, blood dribbling down his coppery cheek. He isn’t smiling anymore. Rage glints in his eyes.

“You’ll be pleased to learn that Ano, the Inquisitor you met, enjoyed venturing into your memories,” he says. “I believe he called them delectable.”

Din spews his flamethrower at him. Only instinct makes him raise his vambrace when the fire clears, blocking Gideon’s strike. But even then, his arm buckles under the weight.

“An endless feast of grief and loneliness.”

He kicks at Gideon’s shin, shoving him back. A flash of black careens toward Din; an axe on the chopping block. He deflects. Too slow. 

“You think you are familiar with pain?” Gideon hisses with a swipe that hurls Din back. Slash. Pivot. Slash. Block. “You are only acquainted with it. A neighbor to it. I will help you befriend it.”

Gideon feints as if to strike at his throat —the oldest trick in the book— and Din jerks back, falling for it. A swipe to his legs waits for him. 

Air punches out of Din’s lungs when his back hits the ground, the spear clanging beside him. He gasps, fighting for breath but it is denied him over and over and over again. Faintly, he hears a child’s cry, a scuffle, hands scrabbling to drag something back. 

“To the winner,” Gideon says, the tip of the blade humming over Din’s throat, “go the spoils.”

Din’s eyes squint open, only to see the countdown flashing in warning on his screen.

00:15:01.

“My original intent was to drain this victory from you slowly but today,” Gideon says, “I’m feeling merciful.”

Before Din can question what that means, Gideon goes over to the kid. Din tries to call out a word of protest but his voice is a razor’s edge in his throat, sharp but weak. 

Gideon crouches in front of Grogu. “I’m going to give you the chance to save him,” he says with a geniality that’s only betrayed by the sword thrumming beside him. “All you have to do is do one simple thing for me.”

The air hangs heavy with his pause.

“Speak.”

Grogu’s eyes widen in fright. 

Din’s blood is like ice within him. “N…No.” He claws at the ground, trying to drag his body toward them but his muscles won’t cooperate. “You said—you said you wanted me. You have me. Just don’t...”

Gideon doesn’t even spare him a glance. 

“Just say the word and your father will be saved.”

Grogu’s eyes flick to him, round as saucers but full. 

Din shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says. “Grogu, don’t—”

But the kid—stars, the kid— balls his hands into fists and tries. The sound that comes out is little more than keens in the back of his throat, steadily climbing in pitch. It sounds like someone’s grating his vocal cords against sandpaper.

“Sometime today,” Gideon criticizes.

“S…Stop—” Din chokes out, coughing. “Stop it.”

Gideon tuts. “Your father came all this way to save you. The least you can do is return the favor.”

Tears spill over as the kid starts up again —trying— and Din feels like something is being cracked open —unhinged— inside of him. Every keen is a knife to his chest. Every tear streaming down the kid’s cheeks is blood on Din’s hands. Every frantic glance his way is another death.

After what feels like an eternity, Gideon rises with a sigh. 

“Pity.”

Snot rolls down Grogu’s lips as he hangs his head, hiccuping. Din can feel himself shaking but it is only an afterthought. A detail.   There’s no word to describe the rage burning in his chest. This—this is more than incense, more than irritation, more than ire. He could raze whole worlds and still remain unsatisfied.

He doesn’t want to be satisfied.

“Do you know why the child refuses to speak?” Gideon asks abruptly.

Din pays it forward and doesn’t even look at him.

“He,” Gideon says regardless, “is the reason why all his classmates were slaughtered.”

It’s a lie, Din wills, even as his heart rabbits in his chest. Just another one of his tricks. 

But a quick glance at the kid makes all such thoughts fall dead on his lips. Whereas Grogu wouldn’t look at him before, he’s completely drawn in on himself now. He’s dipped back into a shadow as if to hide himself, but Din can still see him. He can still see him shaking.

“If I recall correctly,” Gideon continues, unperturbed, “no one would have found their little hiding spot if the little impling hadn’t made a peep. But unfortunately, their blood is now on his hands.”

The kid’s head dips lower and Din strains forward. Look at me, he aches to say. Look at me. I’m not leaving. Not from you. Not anymore.

Gideon takes a step toward the kid. 

Growling, Din spews fire between them, stopping him in his tracks. The flames barely lick Gideon’s boots, but the warning remains.

“Leave…him,” he pants.

“You think that trivial stunt will stop me from—”

“I said leave him!” 

His voice reverberates through the forest, sending a flock of birds squawking off the trees. But it’s the sound of Din’s ragged gasps and the kid’s whimpers that cut through the silence.

Gideon looks at him evenly before walking slowly towards him. He drops to a crouch.

“Now, that,” Gideon says after several seconds, “is the fabled Mandalorian bloodlust I’ve heard only stories about.” He hums to himself, eyes perusing Din’s helm. “Riveting to see up close and, I assume, terrifying to experience first hand. But I suspect that is the just consequence for anyone who harms one of your children, isn’t it?”

Din wheezes without a word.

“Tell me, is it true your Creed permits you to kill one of your own kind if they so much as look at a child wrongly?” he asks. "No trial. No jury. Just merciless murder."

All Din manages is a glare. 

Gideon hums. “Savages through and through.”

Din’s hand clenches into the ground as Gideon rises and faces the troopers.

“Gather Ano. Tell him to meet me here. We’ve got what we came for…”

His voice drifts into white noise as they converse. Din lifts his head instead, finding the kid's eyes. Tear tracks stain Grogu's cheeks, but it's the shame Din sees in his eyes that makes his heart clench.

It takes effort to move his fingers —to make them say what needs to be said— but he tries anyway.

“Okay…” Din signs disjointedly. “It’s okay.”

Grogu hiccups and shakes his head. 

“We’re…okay,” Din signs.

“…leave him here,” Gideon’s voice filters back in.

“But sir, the child—”

“—is no threat to us,” he says. “Not while his father remains.”

Boots click together in unison then clomp away, disappearing through the trees. When Din glances up, he sees another pair of feet walking toward him.

“How crushing the weight of your failure must feel. Tell me,” Gideon says, bending forward so they’re eye-to-eye, “how does it feel to know all your valiant efforts have been in vain?”

Failure? The word crawls up into Din’s mind and takes residence, hatching into another thought that Gideon would never understand. There is no such thing as failure in the Tribe. There are cowards and there are transgressors, but to be an actual failure? That is not an option. 

How does it feel to fail…? 

Din flings a handful of dirt in his eyes.

Gideon jerks his head away with a shout, dropping the laser sword. Din is on his feet in a heartbeat, teetering but intent. One shot at this, he thinks, snatching up his spear. Before Gideon can right himself, he seizes him by the collar and yanks him forward into the spearhead.

A sickening shunk resonates through the glade, silencing the strangled gasp that bursts from Gideon’s lips. Warm blood spurts onto Din’s hand, trailing down his wrist and splatting onto the flowers. Din pays it no attention though. What owns his attention is the sound of Gideon’s rasps, the feel of his chest seizing against Din’s fist, the shock in his eyes.

Ever-so-slowly, Din leans in. “I don’t know,” he snarls. “You tell me.”

He digs the spearhead in, making Gideon bleat like a wounded animal, and yanks it out, shearing his heart into ribbons. Gideon crumples. The kid startles when the body falls to the ground with a thud.

Din's on his knees in the same moment, hunched over and heaving. He’s shaking. He knows he’s shaking but he can’t seem to stop. Several feet away, he hears a sob.

“H-Here,” Din says. He closes his eyes and gathers the remnants of his strength if only to speak. “Come…here.”

Faintly, he hears the shuffle of hesitant feet, then feels a trembling body sliding between his thighs, then— 

A tiny hand finding his.

Din opens his eyes to see a face he’s only dreamed about.

“Hi,” he rasps, ducking his head. 

Grogu presses his face against his helm. Fresh tears smear the glass. Din doesn’t know if they’re his or the kid’s. It doesn’t matter. 

His eyes dip down to the restraints around the kid’s wrists. “Here,” Din says, “L-Let me—” 

The cuffs are barely off the kid and onto the ground before Grogu is already signing.

“Sorry,” he gestures, sniffling. “I didn’t—I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t save you.”

Din shakes his head. “N...No. It’s not your—” He pauses to catch his breath, but it is running away from him. Nearly gone. “Don’t—Don’t apologize. S’not your fault. Hear me. S’ not your—fuck—”

“You’re hurt,” Grogu signs. “I can help—”

“No.”

“But—But I can help,” he signs again. “My powers—”

“Said...no.” Din pants like a wild animal. “Would kill you. It…It would kill you.”

In the corner of his eye, the numbers on his screen flash emboldened now: 00:02:59 

Running out of time. We’re always running out of time. 

Squinting through the pain, Din gasps out, “L-Let me see you.”

“But—” he signs.

“Grogu, let—" Din swallows. "Let me see you.”

The kid whines but acquiesces, backing away to stand before him. 

With a shaky hand, Din takes him by the chin, looking him over. There’s a cut above his eyebrow and dried blood on his temple that only elicits a memory of Gideon’s kick and the kid’s fall. There’s a tear in the kid’s romper too and more…things. Little scrapes and bruises dotting the kid’s skin. There is more.

Grogu touches his wrist. “Don’t be scared,” he signs.

“I’m not—” 

“I’m okay,” he signs. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Din chokes when he means to laugh. Worry sounds so tame; an idle, tepid thing without backbone. But the frantic energy thrumming in his veins is so much stronger than that and ten times more vicious.

Before he can open his mouth to speak, a different pain —like a knife— stabs into his gut, carving out his insides. 

“S-Shit!”

The serum, he thinks and in the same moment, sees 00:01:30.

“G…Grogu,” Din manages out. “I need...need…you…to get Ahsoka…for me.”

The kid’s lips press together. “No,” he signs, digging his feet into the ground. “I’m staying with you.”

“Kid—”

“You’ll go.”

“I won’t,” Din grits out. “I promise I won’t.”

“You said that before, but you lied,” Grogu signs as his face pinches together. “You lied and I’m not going.”

“Listen to me,” he says sharply, much too sharply for his body which spasms, pitching him forward in protest. “In a few…m-minutes, I’m going to pass out.”

The kid’s eyes widen. “Pass…out?” he gestures.

It hurts to nod. “After, my…my body will begin shutting down,” Din says. “Get Ahsoka. Tell her there’s…counter…serum. D31 booster. In my—in my medpac.”

“A what?” Grogu signs.

“Booster. A D…31…booster,” Din manages out. His head hurts. Stars, his head hurts. “It’ll help—”

“I don’t know how to say that,” Grogu signs.

Din blinks past the wetness in his eyes. “W-What?”

“You…You didn’t teach me,” the kid gestures, bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know how to make that word. I don’t know how to—”

“It’s okay.” 

Din tries to smile but when he does, his jaw feels like it's grating. 

He’s so tired.

A tiny hand touches his thigh. “But I can…If you let me…help…”

The kid’s hands are moving. Din knows they are, but it’s all too fast. It hurts to read the words. It hurts to think about them.

He’s so tired.

A thud rings in his ears. When he opens his eyes, blurry leaves wave back and forth above him. He tastes blood in his mouth. He feels tiny hands patting him.

Grogu, he thinks before finally closing his eyes. 

Chapter Text

Din wakes to the absence of pain, the presence of peace, and to the face of his own child.

Grogu.

The kid is asleep at his side, cheek smushed so firmly into a latticed blanket-turned-pillow that it’s bound to bear marks. His soft snores whistle in the air, melding with the buzz of cicadas and crickets and for a moment, Din is suspended. How are we here? In this tent? Resting of all things? A harsher thought sweeps in on its heels. How the hell am I not dead?

He knows how to read a room and this one comes with many pages. It does not hurt to raise his arm. His vision isn’t swimming. His head doesn’t ache. 

There’s only one reason why that would be.

“I told you not to heal me.” 

Grogu’s shoulders rise and fall, silently. Still, he hasn’t stirred. His cheek is cold when Din touches it. Colder than it should be. Quickly but carefully, Din gathers him into his lap, unraveling that makeshift pillow into a blanket again to wrap around the kid. Why isn’t he waking up? He adjusts the blanket. Readjusts it. He should be waking—

The tent opens. 

Din whips out his blaster, but a set of headtails forces his grip to slacken. 

“So,” Ahsoka says as the tent falls behind her, “you’re awake.”

“And you’re not dead.” He pockets his blaster. 

“That makes two of us.” She smiles wryly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Alive.”

She comes to sit beside him. A convor hoots outside, not as an owl would but like an angry lothcat strung up by the tip of its tail. She speaks only after its screech dies. 

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Of course, that isn’t what she meant. Of course, he must pretend not to know that. 

“Why isn’t he waking?” he asks, readjusting the kid on his lap. Dead weight. He’s out cold.

“The healing. It took a lot out of him.”

So, the transgressions continue to pile up.  

“He’s only been out for an hour or two. You as well,” she says. “You should’ve been up immediately. I can only suspect that there were other things within you that needed to heal.”

Stars, she’s angling for it. “Those who sought after the kid,” he says instead. “Where are they?”

“Some troopers escaped, but everyone else is dead. All except—”

“Except?” His lip twitches. 

“Ano. The Inquisitor. The Sith.”

Din faces her in one sharp turn. “You kept him alive?”

“Yes,” she says calmly, “I did.” 

“I wish to speak to him.”

“You intend to kill him.”

“By Creed, I must.”

“You want to.”

Din’s jaw twinges. He turns away from her. “He tried to kill the kid.”

“And he failed.”

“That attempt is enough,” Din bites out. “His life is mine.”

She does not say anything. He must.

“Our children do not know safety. They must know it with us.”

“So, this is about proof.”

“Trust,” he corrects. “I cannot speak of care and protection if I leave the ones that hunt him alive. I will not fail him that way.”

“Ano won’t be let off the hook. An SEO knows of him now—”

Din scoffs. “An SEO…”

“Their protocol may be loose, but their efficiency isn’t. He won’t see the light of day. Not if he goes before a Republic courtroom, which he will. That, alone, is a mercy.”

“I do not know of such mercy neither do I care for it. The Republic’s too weak. So are their so-called Special Ops, you know that.”

Her lack of response says she does, but Din is no fool. For all their camaraderie, he and Ahsoka walk two different Ways. She is a fighter, of that it is true, but she befriends peace and stability where he has only known chaos. They cannot see things the same.

When she speaks again, her voice is as hushed as a secret would be.

“I will not say I was wrong in sending you away. Only that I was unthinking.”

“You were thinking about the kid.”

“But not you.”

Din stiffens and draws the kid closer.

“I know you don’t want to answer my questions,” she says lowly.

“Still, you will ask them.”

“Only because your answers are imperative.”

“I know that.”

“Even so,” she begins then pauses. “Even so, knowledge does not always make things easier.”

If kindness could cut… Maybe, it doesn’t, but hers does. Just like those laserswords of hers. She has not cut him down, yet he has been cut to the quick nevertheless, albeit in a different way. It is painful, this feeling.

“Ano,” she begins. “How much did he take?” 

Din breathes in on the count of four. Holds. Exhales on four.

“All of it,” he manages out.

“All of—?”

Din looks at her. She falls silent, but her eyes do not. He winces. Kindness, he thinks, that unbearable thing again.

“He knows your identity?” It is not a question.

“Mm.”

“I see,” is all she says, and rightfully so. 

Sympathy would only feel like pity and he has no need for either. What guides a sword if not honor and what defines a man if not pride, and should he give up either, he’d be a lesser man for it. 

“I know now why you weren’t able to see Grogu in your dreams,” she says softly. “You said the dream was formless. Dark. Filled with sensory clues, but never an identifier. You said you never saw his face.”

“You’re saying that was meant to protect him?”

“And you. Both of you from…” She doesn’t need to say it. They’re standing in the aftermath of the wreckage. “I can only assume that that lack of identification served as its own safeguard. If ever…someone searched your mind, they’d only find darkness. Never a son.”

Din goes quiet. He does not know what he expects to find there — in silence and in revelation— but nothing comes to him. No solace or comfort. There are only memories. Of the sleep additives he used to take. Of Grogu waking up wailing. Of never being there until now. No, he is not surprised. To be a Mandalorian is to carry the terrors of a thousand generations. Survival comes with a price and trauma, ever the exacting tax collector, will always come to collect. The kid, too, comes with a cost, as all things of immeasurable worth do, and Din will pay it. 

He has. He would, still.

“As I said,” Ahsoka continues, “I was unthinking.”

“Unknowing,” he corrects because there is a difference.

Ahsoka smiles and it is unlike her usual close-lipped expression. There is more to it. A cautious softness hidden somewhere between her severity and secrecy.

"This changes things, you must know that."

He does, but what will change and what, specifically, they will do, he doesn't know.

She pulls something out of her pocket, slowly. “Do you know what this is?” 

That officer’s lasersword. “Gideon said he got it from someone called ‘Bo-Katan.’”

A smile. “Yes, I know of her. Did he say anything else of it?”

“He spoke of a throne.”

“On Mandalore.” 

Din’s lips thin. “That is a myth.”

“There are rumors saying it’s not. Some seek to reclaim it with this,” Ahsoka says, holding up the sword. “They call it the Darksaber.”

“I do not wish for it.”

“Even so, it is yours now.” 

“I will return it then.”

“I’ve heard that isn’t the way it works. Your people respect ritual. Order. Authority won but never given.” Something must shift in his posture because she adds: “I used to teach Mandalorian history.”

“You don’t strike me as a schoolteacher.”

“General,” she says with a smirk and after a beat. “I used to be a general.” 

“One who knows our politics, apparently.”

“So, you know what I speak of then,” she says. “Relinquishment can only come by way of defeat.”

Of course he knows that. Even so, he cannot help the sigh that escapes him. A defeat would only be to his shame and to the shame of his House; but should he defend this sword, such defense would be endless. 

“You will need to know how to wield it,” Ahsoka says. “I will teach you to channel its power.”

“I do not care for power.”

“And yet, it has summoned you.” 

As well as this consistent host. In her voice, he hears the Armorer, Peli, and his birth mother, and he doesn’t know why he is so surprised. He has always been and, perhaps, always will be flanked by the strength of women. 

“As of now,” Ahsoka says, setting the lasersword beside him, “you have the right to lay claim to the Mandalorian throne.”

✵

He doesn’t.

Should anyone come for him, should anyone demand this sword back, he will find a way to give it to them. It doesn’t belong with him. Ahsoka’s stories, alone, prove that truth.

The presence of this saber tells him that he is a could-be king and a would-be ruler, but he is not well-suited to either of those roles. The Darksaber was forged in the kiln of impossibility, of new beginnings and never-been-dones, and those are themes that he wants nothing to do with. It is easy for storytellers to speak of pioneers and forerunners. They only know of the paths cleared and the trails blazed; they know nothing of those who had to walk such paths alone.

Besides, the House of Djarin is a forgotten house. It is only a slanted shadow beside the House of Vizsla and he’s never presumed to be so great. His place is here —curled up at Grogu’s side, watching and waiting for him to wake up— and it is enough. He belongs in no dilapidated palace. He is beholden to no throne.

He is beholden only to one.

✵

Din lays in the rack, watching the kid sleep.

Grogu is the first child he’s known with wrinkles — wrinkles that could rival Din’s own— and whose age isn’t readily apparent. But time and circumstance have aged them both. They are not who they once were. 

“How old are you? We never…got to that part. Your birthday, your favorite colors, your home planet? I assumed there’d be time for that.”

Grogu, of course, offers no reply and Din has stopped expecting him to.

Night is growing long. The shadows, which once looked full and ghoulish within the hold, are now splayed out across the floor, emaciated and stretched thin. The kid’s breathing is barely a whisper too. In the hold's light, Grogu looks feverish and weary. 

“I had a list once,” Din says. “Of things about you. Things I learned. I stopped adding to it. I don’t know why I did.”

He’d only filled it up to nine things, but surely, there is more to know. 

He wants to know them. 

All of the details he missed before. 

✵

He helps Ahsoka strip the dead of their valuables and armor. The valuables go to the village; the bodies go to the earth, buried six feet deep in a mass grave, and they go back to the clearing to retrieve Din’s spear. 

But he can trust none of this clean-up nor this peace. Immediate danger may have abated, but all is not well. Not yet. He does not venture far from the kid’s side for that reason. He stays in the ship.

Ahsoka brings him some stew and a portion of polystarch bread. He thanks her and keeps cleaning his blaster.

“You need to eat,” she says.

“I will.”

“You said that yesterday.”

Din offloads the cartridge wordlessly and switches out the cleaning cloth for a bristle. He brushes from handle to barrel in short, straight strokes. 

“Grogu will be alright," she says.

“He should have woken by now.”

“Healing takes time.”

How much of it? So much has been taken from them already. He flips the blaster over instead and cleans the other side.

“Should I assume you aren't going to clean the Darksaber?”

“I told you I do not wish to play politics.”

“Then, what do you wish for?”

The bristle stills in his hand. There are few ways to say it. The contents of his desires are not so much opaque as they are muddled. Powdered soap and silence. Cooking holos and music. Childlike giggles and morning hugs. Time and time and time, running over and unhoarded. To see a large pair of dark eyes again.

But what he speaks aloud is — “An exchange.”

“Because you’ve found something of greater value?”

He turns to her, only to find an unflinching gaze. It is kind and knowing, but he is not ignorant either. He, too, knows what she’s getting at and that is new.

Such mutuality. He supposes that makes them friends. 

“I can imagine what you must make of me,” he says.

“Then, you have more imagination than I.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I do. There is nothing to be made.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“You care for him,” she says.

“I told him not to use his powers.”

“Maybe,” she says, “but children do not often do what they’re told.”

Perhaps, but this is different. While Grogu hangs onto life by a thread, some Sith is sitting up in a hidden jail, presumably healthy and alive.

Din restocks his blaster and cocks it back. “Ano,” he says. “The Inquisitor. Tell me about him.”

✵

“You cannot kill him.”

“I know,” he says, sliding a pistol into the back of his belt. 

Ahsoka steps within his line of sight. “You gave me your word. That is the deal."

“And my word you have.”

“And those weapons?”

“Weapons are a part of my religion.”

“You’re adding new ones.”

“Better to be safe than sorry.” He slips by her and eases down the hanger, sealing it only after she stands behind him. He doesn’t need long. The kid will be safe, still sleeping.

“How are you keeping him restrained?” he asks as Ahsoka sidles around him to take the lead.

“Cuff suppressors.” She goes left.

Din snorts.

“And a neural disrupter.” She takes a sharp right.

He almost stops. “A collar?”

“It’ll keep him from using the Force.”

She edges down a slope, leading them into the belly of the forest and it is smart of her, this place. Far enough from the town, yet near enough to keep a close eye. She stops before a cave where greenery runs down it like a curtain. The sun is only a glint through the leaves. 

“You have five minutes,” she warns. “Any longer and I’ll come in.”

“I won’t need any more than that.” 

“Your word,” she reminds.

He pauses. “As I said, you have it.” Then, he steps inside.

✵

“You didn’t take long,” Ahsoka says, breaking the silence between them as they walk back to the ship, and he hears the unspoken observation.

There is no blood on his hands. Ano is still alive. 

“No,” he agrees, “I didn’t need the full five minutes.”

After all, it doesn’t take that long to break an arm. Or two.

✵

The rain is coming down outside, a steady ting-ting-ting pattering against the ship’s roof. Even the whistle of the caf percolator cannot outdo it. Ahsoka will be drenched by the time she returns from settling the Sith’s transfer to some useless SEO. He’s making this caf for that reason. Imitative caf may be the burnt cousin of the real thing, but it does the same job, albeit less tastefully. It’s still invigorating enough. And warm.

Din pours two cups when it's finished. He breaks out convection wavers and, out of pure habit, casts a glance over his shoulder. The kid is still a shadowed lump in the rack. He hasn’t so much as shifted.

The rain picks up and Din feels it settle within him. Another kind of wet feeling. Don’t finish that thought, he thinks. Find something else to do. He left the cleaning cloths upstairs in the cockpit. He’ll need those to wash out the percolator.

He goes to retrieve them, swiping the cloths off the backseat before sliding back down the ladder. He turns—

The cloths fall from his hand. The kid is sitting up in the rack.

“Grogu.”

“That smells good,” the kid signs.

“It—” He swallows. “Does it?” he croaks.

Grogu nods.

He wants to inch closer, but his body won’t move. He—Stars above. “Did you—” He sniffs. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” the kid signs. “I was tired. I needed a nap.”

“A nap.” Din nods. “Mm.”

Grogu’s ears fall just so. “We’re okay?” he signs.

“Mm.”

He should be at the rack by now. He should be holding him. But that doesn’t feel safe. He isn’t—

Grogu points to his chest, to his chin, to Din.

Din laughs. “I also—” He nods, licks his lips, tries on a smile. “I missed you too.”

“And I missed you before,” the kid signs.

“As did I.”

“And just now,” he signs.

“Even now.”

That is not the whole truth. He’s always missed him. Longing, he thinks. She never leaves. He approaches the rack. The kid holds out his arms for him and slowly, Din draws him close. 

His parents were the first to teach him the meaning of love and its cost of sacrifice. But this? He cannot say he knows what it means to live. To come back from the dead by a child’s hand and to be in a child’s debt. Do children even know the worth of a life? He doesn't know.

The rain is downpouring, beating against the ship, and Din’s heart is in his ears when the kid signs: “I’m happy you’re here.”

"Yeah," he says because he doesn't know what to say to that.

✵

Ahsoka returns an hour later and she does not look surprised to see the kid awake. But Grogu does look surprised to see her. He stumbles into Din’s lap and clings to him and Din thinks of the Armorer. Of that forging room so long ago. Of his fears that the kid would wander off.

“There is no need to worry," she'd said. "The child will refrain from venturing anywhere you are not.”

She’d been right. She’d been right about everything.

✵

They are rolling the kid’s ball back and forth between them when Din stands.

“Where are you going?” Grogu signs.

“To the privy.”

The kid stumbles to his feet. “Then, I’ll come too.” he signs.

“Grogu.”

“I won’t get in the way,” he gestures. “I promise.”

“I’m just going over there.”

“Then, why can’t I come?” he signs.

“I’ll be back.”

The kid snags onto his pant leg. 

“Grogu—”

“Don’t go,” he gestures. “We can keep playing. See? I have the ball. I have your necklace. I haven’t lost them.”

“I’m glad.”

“I haven’t lost them because I’m good at finding things. I’m really, really good at it,” Grogu signs. 

“I know you are.”

“No, you don’t get it. I’m—!” His hands ball into fists. He huffs and signs: “I’m really good at finding things, but you went away and I couldn’t find you and I need to. I need to—!”

Din kneels before him. “You’re angry with me.” 

“I’m not,” Grogu signs swiftly.

“Yeah, you are. You’re angry because I’ve hurt you.”

Grogu gives him nothing, no response, except the silent treatment and Din supposes he deserves that. 

“I wanted to protect you.”

“You left,” Grogu signs. “You were going to leave me again. You were going to—!” The kid’s hand flops over, like a fish belly-up, but the form cuts off. Din catches the word anyway. Nearly dying isn’t something he could forget.

“I don’t want you to do that,” the kid signs, sniffing. “I don’t want you to go to the p-r-i-v-e-e,” he spells. “I want you to stay and play with me. I want you to stay.”

No words come immediately and for that, Din is grateful. Frankly, he doesn’t believe in apologies. They reek of intention but never of action and that has never been the Way of his people. 

He will never be sorry for protecting the kid, but there is grief. There is something to mourn. And this pain… He did not intend it, and yet still—

What’s done is done.

“Okay,” Din says, sitting back down. “Okay.”

✵

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wanders out of the ship and into their campground, but the sky is still dark and the night world is loud with insect sound. He sits on one of their lain logs. At some time or another, he hears Ahsoka’s tent flap open.

“You’re up early.”

Kind of her, but they both know the truth. He never really went to sleep. 

“By how much?”

“A few hours.”

“Define ‘a few.’”

“Five,” she says, sitting beside him. “Dawn is still five hours off.”

He nods silently. She, too, says nothing, and Din, suddenly, feels the need to prove something.

“I’m used to this.”

“Of course.”

“Even before the kid.”

“You were a bounty hunter.” She nods.

“Yes. No one gets normal sleeping hours.”

“Of course.”

Of course. She has a funny way of saying that word. Or, perhaps, it is this strand of empathy that does not suit her. She is a woman whose speech is as pointed as those laserswords she carries. Subtlety is not her forte. Frankly, he cannot say it is his either.

“You are concerned about me,” he says.

“You’re having trouble sleeping. It’s making you slow on your feet.”

Din smiles weakly. 

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” she says, differently, this time. A long stretch passes before she adds lowly: “Flashbacks?”

He breathes in on the count of four. 

“I could put you to sleep?” she offers.

A short laugh bursts out from him. “No,” he says. “Thank you, but no.”

They lapse into silence. It is only filled by the rustle of leaves stirred up by an unsettled wind. 

“Does Grogu know?” he asks.

“He…can feel that something is off with you, but that is all.” She is facing out again when she adds: “Will you tell him?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, that would be inappropriate.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. A murmur: “I do not wish to rob you of your pride.”

“Then, don’t. Speak your mind.”

“Have you told anyone other than me? Of...what he did to you?”

What he did to—? I am not so passive. He will not say that.

He sits up straighter, takes a breath on four, and says: “No, I will not."

“You wish to bear this alone."

“There are harder things.” 

Ahsoka turns to him fully. He does the same. Her eyes are not calm, but turbulent like the seas. She wants to say more. Yet, she hasn't and that is its own form of respect.

“I was going to train for a while,” she says. “Care to spar?”

Din's lips quirk. “Sure.”

✵

And it continues, somehow.

He will wander out into the campsite at ridiculous hours, and Ahsoka will already be waiting with her swords. She won’t say a word of it. She will walk with him toward the clearing and that walk too will be silent, and they’ll spar until Grogu wakes up. 

It doesn’t hit him until later that Ahsoka always takes the kid then. It doesn't hit him until later that he always falls asleep the second they disappear. 

✵

The trees are scarred.

Din notices when he takes the kid for a walk one day and the first thought that comes to him is, of course, they are. They’d been caught in the crossfire of the battle. So, some tree bark has been burned away; other trees are singed and blackened; others, still, are lying on the ground, lopped in half.

Of course, they are.

Even after the dust has settled, even after this resurrection of a sort, the earth still bears the scars. But Din doesn’t need the world to tell him that. He is counting breaths; the kid has a tight hold on his boot, and they won't finish this walk.

"I don't like this place," the kid signs. "I wanna go home."

So, they do.

For now, that is safety.

✵

“Toys off the table, kid.” Din sets the meal bowl down. “Food’s ready.”

Food is…a word for it. The locals call it potam. It smells like undercooked potatoes, looks like a mix between Bantha tartare and slopped barkmeal, and tastes like absolutely nothing, but it’s edible and that’s generous enough. 

Grogu peeks over his shoulder and nudges the bowl to the edge of the table. He glances over his shoulder again. Another nudge.

“Grogu,” Din warns.

“We can’t eat now,” the kid signs with a huff.

“And why not?”

“Because,” Grogu signs, “this is a battlefield! You don’t eat on a battlefield. There are bad guys and blood everywhere. Look! A man is dying!”

Din eyes the sad-looking stuffie hanging off the table. There are red pen marks scribbled along its torso. Blood, presumably. 

He sighs. “Can he die somewhere else?”  

“That’s not very nice,” Grogu gestures.

“Neither is his death on my dinner table.” 

Din sits beside him, stretching his legs out. The kid doesn’t stop playing for a second. A switch in tactic, then.

“If I were to say I come bearing treats for dessert,” he extends, “what would you say?”

Grogu stops smashing his soldier stuffies together only to sign: “I’d say what’s the catch?” 

“Why would there be a catch?”

“This is a bribe,” Grogu signs. “You’re bribing me.”

“Or making a concession.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Grogu signs, turning back to his toys. He pauses, ears perked. “What do you got?”

“Have,” Din signs in correction. “And it’s nothing much. Just the same old chocolate.”

The kid’s head whips to him. Din crosses his arms and acts like he didn’t see a damn thing. 

“Do you take breaks?” Grogu signs.

Din blinks. “Breaks…?”

“You’re like the soldiers,” he gestures. “You fight bad people—”

“Define ‘bad.’”

“—and the soldiers fight bad people, so you take breaks,” he signs. “Maybe, the soldiers need to go pee.”

Oh. Toy soldiers in battle. Chocolate. Bathroom break. Makes sense.

“Mm, as any sentient does.”

“We can eat really, really fast while they’re on break. That way, the chocolate won’t go bad,” Grogu signs, then nods once and hard. “Yes, the noble thing to do would be to eat it.”

“Indeed.”

Grogu’s eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?” he signs.

“Making fun of—? I would never.” Din rises to his feet. “Besides, Ahsoka doesn’t even laugh at my jokes.”

“That’s because they aren’t funny,” Grogu signs then adds swiftly: “If I eat all my dinner, can I have some juice?” 

“No,” Din says, positioning the potam back at the center of the table. “You already had some this morning.”

“Just a little,” the kid gestures. 

“We both know a little turns into a lot with you.”

“Not true,” he signs, grumbling. “I just want one cup. Just one. I can—”

“Grogu, I need you to listen.”

“But I don’t want to,” he signs.

Din pinches his eyes. “It’s time for dinner.” He swaps one of the kid’s stuffies with a cup. 

“But—! But—!” Grogu gestures.

“Start cleaning up. I’m not going to tell you again.” 

He goes to grab the utensils. Behind him, he hears the kid huff and then release a long, drawn-out whine.

“But I really want some…”

Din freezes.

“I really, really want some juice.”

Easy. He swallows. Easy. Slowly, he turns back around, leaving the spoons untouched. Grogu is still bent over the table, tracing the rim of his cup longingly as if willing for it to become a wishing well. He doesn’t know.

Din clears his throat. “You wanna say that while looking at me?”

Grogu huffs. “I said—!” He looks up, and Din knows the instant he’s lost him.

“We’re okay,” he signs quickly, but Grogu is already tripping over himself to scamper away. “It’s just you and me, kid,” he says, holding up his hands. “It’s just us.”

The kid’s hands are a flurry of motion. Din frowns, making out what he can. 

“You want me to leave?”

Grogu whines and shakes his head. His finger leaps off from his cheek to his hand.

“Check?” Din signs and says aloud.

Grogu nods. “You have to check,” he signs. His breath quickens. Din forces his own to slow.

“What do you need me to check, baby?”

“The door,” Grogu signs.

Din glances to their left. The hanger is sealed shut. 

“You left it open,” the kid gestures, throwing his hands down. But it is his angry eyes that tell the story. “Why did you leave it open?”

“I must have forgotten.”

Din goes over to press a few security buttons that will do nothing but make a sound. They serve no function. But they do, they do. 

Grogu’s eyes are still on the hanger when he returns. “You can’t do that,” he signs with a glare. “You can’t forget.”

“My apologies.”

“It’s gonna be cold. You could get sick. There could be wolves. Or—Or bugs. Someone could come in,” he signs messily. “You can’t forget.”

Din keeps quiet. He knows when he is a sounding board. Just a mirror. But what is the kid seeing? And what part is he playing? 

“I won’t forget.”

“You don’t wanna get sick,” Grogu gestures.

“No, I don’t.”

“You have to protect yourself,” he signs.

“I will.”

“If the door opens, what will you do?” he signs. “You have to do something.”

Stars above. Din lowers himself to the floor. So, this is where we are.

“I…will do my best.”

Grogu stomps his foot. “No! No, that’s not good enough. That’s not—!” His hands fall. He shoots Din a glare and signs, striking his own forehead with his fist: “Don’t be dumb.”

Din looks up at the ceiling and clears his throat once, twice. Stay in your role.

“Mm.”

His eyes fall on a stuffie on the floor. The one with the red scribbles on its torso, and it is a reminder. This is a battlefield. There are bad guys and blood everywhere. 

“You can’t forget about the door,” the kid signs.

Din draws up his knees and in his mind, it is the same as drawing the kid close to his chest. 

“I won’t.”

✵

He spoke.

The kid spoke. 

For some reason, Din always imagined that would be a happy occasion. 

✵

“Tell me about the door.”

Ahsoka turns from her training ground, retracting her laserswords. There is sweat on her brow. She wipes it away with a tired arm. 

“What door?”

“The door,” Din says again, unhelpfully, stupidly, unbalanced still in all of his ways. “The kid. He spoke of one. I assumed it had something to do with—” Stars. Will he ever get the words out? “The Temple. Tell me about it.”

“What happened?”

“He spoke. The kid, he—” Din pushes out air through his nose.

“Of a door."

"Mm."

Ahsoka’s eyes narrow and it is so like her. She treats surprise with scrutiny, not trust.

“What do you know about it?”

She doesn’t say anything immediately. “From what I gathered from his memories, he was in front of one. He couldn’t remember how to close it.”

“Who was coming through?”

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Din curses aloud.

“How many of them?”

“Enough,” she sighs, sitting on one of the surrounding rocks. 

“What guns did they have?”

“E-11s.”

Fuck. “Rifles?”

At maximum range, that’d be, what, 300 meters a shot? 100, at optimum? But that kind of firepower suits enclosed spaces not large ones.

“Hallway? Or corridor?” he asks.

“Hallway.”

“How many exits?”

Ahsoka’s head tilts to the side. “You’re mapping,” she says. “Why?”

For a moment, he cannot speak. He doesn’t trust himself to. 

“The kid,” Din manages out. “How…old was he when that happened?”

“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Din clenches his jaw and looks away. 

“Mapping the space won’t help you bear this knowledge.”

“I ask because I can.”

“You ask,” she says, “because you wish to share in his sufferings.”

“He was alone.”

“And now, he is not.”

“But his suffering…It remains.”

“Is that all there is? Suffering?” 

He looks at her evenly. “I cannot share in the hope of your people.”

“Then, do not share it.” She slips off of the rock to stand before him. “Find some hope of your own that would suit you.”

A scoff escapes him.

“You do not believe in it?”

“It is only a dream.” Can it survive the Outer Rim? That is the question. 

“I thought your people were acquainted with dreams?” 

It’s more than that. She wouldn’t understand though. She doesn’t share their tongue. There is a difference.

“We are,” Din says, “and we aren’t.”

✵

You were never meant to survive.

From induction to graduation, the Corps drilled that truth into him. Mandalorians are living witnesses. Forever foundlings, no matter the age. Forget staring down the barrel of death. They are the ones who went straight to hell and back and, somehow, lived to tell the tale. They are forgotten children and unknown warriors, and the ghosts of past transgressions now come to collect. For history to them is cyclical and there is no “what was done in the past.”

You were never meant to survive. 

Few know that they have two different meanings for the word ‘hope:’ venku and vercopa. The former speaks of survival, of the need to live another day; the latter speaks of a fanciful dream and fuzzy optimism and that is how most people, here, define it. Hope is something that keeps them warm at night. A comforter when all else looks bleak, but comforters are soft and they would not do well enduring the heat of a kiln, or an armorer’s hammer, or the beatings of life (for that is its ultimate challenger).

Not so for them. 

For his people, hope has always had a name. They call them venku’la ade.

✵

Din holds him that night, and the night after, and the night after.

On this night, he has the kid’s face in his throat and small arms clasped around his neck. Cool air is blaring from the ventilator. Grogu shivers in the rack. Din draws him closer.

“Is this too much?”

Grogu shakes his head. “Uh-uh.” 

Baby steps, Din thinks. Baby steps.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Mhm.”

Are you happy? Are you okay? He wants to ask that too, but those are not the real questions. Are you less afraid? With me here? With us, like this? It is too soon to ask such things. Too soon to say —especially on the kid’s side— and that is a failure on Din’s part.

How can the kid speak when the ghosts of his past still live? Din hasn’t presented an alternate reality in which such ghosts are laid to rest and, as such, Grogu still sees dead soldiers and blood everywhere.

Something must be done.

Time does not always heal, but intentionality is the best balm to a bruise and Din must be intentional now. Should the kid decide to speak again, there must be a space safe enough to hold all of his words. But safety is not given.

It must be cultivated.

✵

He doesn’t own many soft things and the little he does own leaves much to be desired: threadbare tunics and dingy blankets, thinned cotta-cloths and decades-old towels.

But he builds a fort with them nonetheless. He lines the ground with cushion seats and stuffies and the last pillow he owns and with a gentle hand, ushers the kid inside.

Grogu sits on a cushion, careful and cautious, as one would toward a thing unknown.

“Do you like it?” Din asks.

“What is it?” the kid signs.

“Yours.”

He removes his helm and flicks on the lamp, sending the shadows dancing along the walls.

✵

He buys a tip-yip off some trapper in the Badlands. 

It still has its feathers and parts —shanks, claws, and all— and Din makes quick work plucking, eviscerating, and butchering it. He’d watched a holo on cooking the one-eyed bird. The holo had called for lemons. Corvus doesn’t have lemons. It had called for anhydrous rosemary. Din doesn’t know what the hell that is. So, he settles on throwing salted halite on it instead before setting it in front of the ship’s thrusters to roast or burn.

The bird is browned by nightfall. The kid wanders up to it, ogling the flames.

“What’s that?” he signs.

Din turns off the thrusters from his vambrace. “Chicken,” he settles upon though it definitely doesn’t squawk like one. He detaches the bird from the prongs and heads back inside the hold. 

Grogu is at his heels. “Where’s its head?” he signs.

“I cut it off.”

“Oh.”

Din doesn’t still. Instead, he sets the bird on the table, removes his helm, and acts like all of his —him cooking, the kid speaking — is normal. 

Grogu climbs on the table, rapt. “Smells good,” he signs.

“Does it?” Din unsheathes his knife, cutting it down. 

“Mhm!” 

He cuts off a small piece and blows on it. “Here.”

Juice trails down Grogu’s chin as he smacks. “Wow,” he signs, waving his hands. “This is—! I say we should eat this every day. For all time.”

Din snorts. “Sure, why don’t you make it next time?”

“I have to train,” Grogu signs.

“You also have to eat.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” the kid signs, sneaking a piece of tip-yip.

Din sighs. Figures, I would have a smartass for a son. 

Grogu reaches for another.

“Watch it. That one’s hot.”

“You watch it,” he signs, but Din doesn’t miss the way he freezes, hesitating. 

So, that’s who he really is. Din isn’t surprised. Deference, people-pleasing, and excessive compliance are demonstrations of a sort, but they’re rarely authentic. Just another set of armor to guard the real thing, and the real thing is testing him, apparently. He and this space.

Din clears his throat and resumes cutting the bird. “If you burn your tongue off, I’m not helping you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Grogu signs. 

But his body has relaxed. He’s drawn closer.

Din holds up another piece. “You want more?”

“Mhm!”

He feeds the kid from his own hand, scraps and skinned pieces still hot and dripping juice on the table. Grogu rocks on his hips, humming happily to himself. The hold is full of the scent of it all: sweetened fat and crisped skin, the char of carbonite, and the sweat of Din’s own body still slick from hours spent under the hot suns, waiting for goodness.

✵

“You went back on your word.”

Ahsoka folds her arms but doesn’t look away from Grogu. The kid is still meditating on a rock before them, close-eyed and cross-legged. 

“How so?” she replies lowly, keeping her voice down.

As if she doesn’t know. “You’ve continued training him.”

“I have.”

“I thought your vows—”

“I have not broken them.”

“And yet, my bond with the kid has not changed."

"And I told you that things would change here."

"But you never said why."

"I told you about your dream."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

Ahsoka remains silent.

“You have your reasons," he says, "and I will not take them from you, but even so... Even so, you must know that I am in your debt and that you have my gratitude."

She turns to him, wordlessly, but her eyes still speak. The steel in them has softened the same way smelted beskar would. The warmth, too, is much the same.

“You know,” she says, “some think our Ways different.”

“And you do not.”

“That has yet to be decided, but I must admit I remain unconvinced,” she says, smirking. “We fight to restore peace, yes, but your people also fight to preserve lives. I’m starting to think they’re two sides of the same coin.”

“You think flourishing springs from survival?”

“It is her child.”

“But they are not the same.”

“True, but isn't that the nature of children? They are similar yet different from their parents," she says. "Peace, too, comes with her own dreams.”

And her own questions, he supposes. He, too, has many. How does anyone reconcile the life they’re living with the life they want? He thought he was done asking that question. 

“I still do not condone attachment,” Ahsoka says, “but neither will I stand by and allow your life to be snuffed out.”

“I do not fear death.”

“That’s because you do not see the worth of your life. Not as he does,” she says, nodding to the kid.

Din swallows. “I’m just a man.”

“To you, maybe, but to him…? There is no one in the world like you.”

That’s because there’s no one in the universe like him, he thinks watching a butterfly land on the kid’s nose. One eye peeks open, then the other. The kid ogles it. 

"I will figure something out," Ahsoka says, "but for now, know that you are an exception. People do not die for a lack of attachment, but you two would. That changes things." 

The kid giggles, scrabbling after the butterfly, and Ahsoka, surprisingly, doesn't say a word about it. 

“Grogu may be a fledgling Jedi, but he is also your son. I suppose that makes him a bridge. The best of our people,” Ahsoka says. “After all, what is survival except the belief that life is worth preserving? And what is flourishing except the hope that there is more to life than death?”

✵

Ahsoka doesn’t smile with her teeth. She may smirk, close-lipped and slight, but joy has never been strong enough to coax something more out of her. But it had that day. The birds had been chirping, the world had been still and, just as suddenly as the kid broke meditation for butterflies, a smile had broken across her face. 

Peace. 

He doesn’t know if he believes in its permanence as she does —that it is the universe’s rightful foundation, home, and resting place— but it must be like that butterfly.

For it had appeared just as suddenly. It had reared its head when he was least expecting it.

✵

“Daddy?”

Din’s eyes snap open. The word hovers over him, floating in the shadows of the rack, and Din feels much the same. Weightless and suspended in time. Steady, he calms. Steady. He takes a deep breath, swallows, and finds his voice.

“Yeah, kid?”

“...holes…eves.”

Din shifts closer. “What?”

Silence.

“I’m listening. I’m always here to—” He licks his lips. It’s impossible to lean in any closer, but he wants to. He wants. “I’m listening.”

Wandering hands make their way to his flight suit, fiddling. “I said—um, I said you fixed the holes in my, um, in my sleeves.”

“Yeah, I…” That was ages ago. “Yeah, I did.”

“And the beam—that beam thingy over there.” A shadowed finger points out at the hold, to the ceiling. The linear stabilizer. “You fixed that too.”

“Yeah, kiddo.”

“And the singer. The music—music player. You fixed it.”

“Did it break again?” he asks. 

The kid says nothing. Din takes that as a ‘yes.’ 

“I’m not mad. I wouldn’t be, if something…” He clears his throat. “If something happened, I wouldn’t be mad. You know that thing is old—”

“Daddy,” he hears. The hands are back, toying with his flight suit. “Do you know how to fix voices?”

Din’s lips part. The kid ducks his head the second their eyes meet. “You fixed the singer,” Grogu signs after releasing the suit, “so you can fix other voices too, right? You can, can’t you?”

Stars above, he thinks. The cloy of the inexplicable. He’s well-acquainted with it. He just never thought it’d sink its nails in the kid, but apparently, it’s already drawn blood. 

When the unthinkable happens, when something breaks, someone must be to blame. The narrative that follows is a predictable one, and he could recite it with his eyes closed. If you’re the only one left alive or the only one without a child, who is to say the culprit isn’t you? Who is to say you aren’t the cause of all things bad? It is not the troopers slaughtering young children. It is not the universe and her mistress, Fate. No, it is you. You are the one who must be fixed.

You are the Great Wrong. 

It isn’t true. Of course, it isn’t. 

“You can fix it, can’t you?” Grogu signs again. He pulls at a string on his flight suit and that is a memory.

Din remembers it: twenty years ago, copper on his tongue; the drag of a hot needle; a haze of words trying to reach him through the fog, this is not intended to shame…

“Your voice,” Din croaks. His wrist itches. “Tell me where it’s broken.”

✵

Grogu does. The only way a child can — in a hodgepodge of pieces.

Din understands regardless. In words befitting a youngling, Grogu tells him a story. Of a door that wouldn’t close. Of children who screamed for mercy and of his own silence. Of those who gave up their lives and how quickly he gave up his voice in turn because it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it’s not— 

And Din listens. 

What he hears is a verdict: here is someone who stood in an open door and did nothing; here is an unsuspecting nobody who is unhelpful to everyone including himself; here is a coward whose weakness is bone, blood, and marrow, just as much in him as it is of him.

Grogu’s shoulders slump as his hands fall, and Din doesn’t tell him that the symbols for ‘scared’ and ‘coward’ look exactly the same. It wouldn’t help to say so. For the kid, a weakling is a weakling. Such a person must be berated then because they are forgetful and useless, deserving of rebuke but never of love, for who could ever love a coward? 

But Din cannot speak of himself here.

He cannot say that he would. That he does. That he sees no coward in this room. That even now, he loves—he loves—he—

✵

Morning greets him with a look, namely a pair of eyes. Grogu is staring at him, cross-legged and shadowed in the hold. Din blinks. So does the kid. 

“U-Um, hi.”

“Hello.”

“I mean, um, good morning. It’s a good morning.”

“It is,” he croaks.

“Did you—did you sleep good?”

“Yeah—” He clears his throat. “Yeah. And you?”

“Uh-huh. I always—um.” Grogu splays a hand out on the bed. “This is where I sleep. It’s very nice.”

“Is it?”

“Mhm. It’s soft and I…” He trails off, fidgeting with the blanket, then, as if suddenly aware of some strange thing, says: “S-Sorry, did you sleep good?”

Din smiles with his teeth. “Yes, I slept very well.”

“Oh, that’s good. Um, can I—do you think, maybe, I could have some juice?”

"Yeah, of course." He rises with the kid, edging out of the rack to set Grogu on the table. The kid grabs a stuffie left from days before and sets it on his lap.

“What kind of juice do you want?” Din asks, opening the chiller. 

“The green. I like the green—the green one.”

“And what else would you like?”

Silence. Din turns around. The kid’s ears are flicking irritatedly.

Too broad a question.

“Would you like a snack?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind of snack would you like?”

“Crisps.”

“The crisps… Which ones?”

Grogu pulls on one of the stuffie's ears. “U-Um…The ones that—the ones that are all crinkly. Like lettuce.”

Moss chips. Din snags them alongside the juice. He sits on the bench, cracking open the juice and setting the crisps in front of the kid. 

“Those taste good, huh?” 

Grogu’s hands still on the packet. His ears fall. “I can’t do it.”

“Let me open them then.”

“Not that.”

“Then, what— Hey.” Din gathers up his sleeve and wipes his face. “Why are you crying?”

“Crying’s for babies. M’ not a baby.”

“Of course you aren’t. How could I have forgotten?”

“I just can’t—” The kid sniffles. “I can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

He releases the crisp packet. “Talk right,” he signs. 

Din pulls off his gloves. He moves the juice from between them. 

“What do you mean by that?” he signs.

“I’m not good at it,” Grogu signs back. “I don’t sound right.”

“Who told you that?” he signs.

“I told me that and I know I’m right. I’m smart,” he signs.

“You are smart.” But those words didn’t begin with you. “This assessment of yourself… What is it for?”

The kid stares at him long and hard — so long, in fact, that Din thinks he’s forgotten the question. But then, Grogu signs with three pointed, angry gestures: “You’re not green.”

Din blinks. “I’m…not…green?”

A sharp nod. “Why aren’t you?” he signs.

“Should I be?”

“Yes,” he signs, nodding furiously now. “You have to be.” Grogu sniffles. “Why aren’t you green…?” he signs. “You talk and I can’t. I’m bad at it and you’re good at it. You’re not green.”

For longer than he’d care to admit, Din flounders. He should be acclimated to this course change in conversation by now, but it never ceases to be startling. Grogu’s mind is a rabbit trail and it goes where it wants. 

But what path are we on this time?

A lone tear trails down the kid’s cheek. Din is swift to wipe it away, but he’s not as quick to pull away. He stills, eying the curve of his own hand cupped around the kid’s cheek. Pale to green. 

Oh. 

“You’re upset because we’re…different?” 

Grogu tucks his knees into his chest, smushing the stuffie between them. “Different ears,” he signs, “different face, different talking.”

“I see…”

And he does. The symbol for ‘different’ takes two conjoined things —two fingers crossed together— and throws them apart. Difference is the impetus for disunion, evidently.

“I want to talk right,” Grogu signs. “I have to talk. You’ll go, but you can’t go. I still need you."

Din doesn’t say anything and rightfully so. He doesn’t know what it’s like. To be betrayed by his own voice. To have to relearn it. No one ever taught him to hate the sound of it, and no one ever blamed him for it. Dignity is not a thing that can be given (he cannot extend what he does not own), but it can be affirmed, and perhaps, that is his only role here.

To serve as a witness to this process of healing. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

✵

Din resolves to start small, namely on a phrase the kid is already familiar with.

He sets the kid on the table and greets: “Good morning.” 

Grogu shifts from side to side, fisting his clothes. 

“Good…morning," Din says again.

The kid's eyes fall.

“Look at me.”

Grogu shakes his head. “I can’t,” he signs.

“Are you scared?”

“Mhm.”

His head remains ducked. His body remains small, but Din doesn’t look away. He won’t.

“Grogu,” he says softly, “look at me.”

Incrementally, he does.

“Someone hurt you.”

“I…was being bad,” Grogu signs.

“But they scared you.”

“I forgot the—the—” His hands fall, shaking.

“They made you cry.”

“I’m not a baby anymore,” the kid signs.

“No,” he agrees, “but you are my son and you are safe here.”

Grogu doesn't say anything for a while. Then, he shifts closer. Hesitates. Stops. “C-Can I have a—” He cuts off.

“What would you like to have?”

“A hug,” he signs. “I really think I need a hug.”

Din draws him close slowly and realization comes to him, too, with a slow hand. It is not speaking that the kid fears, but being heard. For that presumes a kind of audience and who knows what people will hear? Who knows if someone will come to a conclusion that only further proves the kid’s deepest fears?

So, he repeats sentences. He overcorrects. He stammers to fix himself, and Din…

Stars above, he thinks. There’s nothing to fix.

"Tiksenee,” the kid mumbles into his shoulder, sniffling. Tiny hands trail up, clutching his flight suit, and Din doesn't do anything except hold him.

✵

“What does tik—tiksenee mean?”

“Ticsen’i?” Ahsoka raises a brow. “Where did you hear that?”

“From the kid,” he says. “It sounds Bothan.”

“Chiss, actually, and don’t ever let them hear you said that.” Mirth glints in her eyes. “They’d have your head.”

“I’ve never met a Chiss.”

“Be grateful you haven’t.” She drops to a crouch, packing up the jarred contents of her satchel. “What was Grogu saying that for?”

“He called me it.”

Ahsoka’s hand freezes mid-grab. Din notices. He takes a step closer.

“What does it mean?”

“Depends,” she says evenly, resuming her packing, “sometimes, it’s a title, and other times…? Just a word of familiarity.”

“And it’s spoken of how?”

Ahsoka finishes packing up her bag and only when she cinches it tight does she say: “Roughly, it means caretaker or consoler. Literally—?” She rises to face him then, impassive and casual. Her eyes say different. “Literally, it means mother.”

Silence settles between them and though, he is not discomfited by it, she seems to be, shifting her weight every few seconds. 

“I see,” he says.

“He is young. I’m sure he picked it up from one of his nursemaids—”

“You misunderstand me.”

She raises a brow. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Should it?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” she counters.

Your ways are not our Way. He has thought that often over the years, particularly towards other sentient groups and it has never failed to be true. The ways of the galaxy often fall on hard lines of separation and category. What is and what is not —difference and similarity— must be made an example of. That is the way of many in this universe.

But that has never been their Way.

“How much do you know about beskar?” he asks.

“The strongest metal on this side of the galaxy?” Her lips quirk. “I’ll confess I don’t know much more than that.”

“Many think it unyielding.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t last being forged and reforged so many times if it were,” he says. “It’s fluid, actually. Malleable. A spear can be cast into a helm just as a suit of armor can be recast into a shield. It becomes whatever is needed for whoever needs it most.”

Her eyes are on him. Din only leans back against a tree and folds his arms.

“How do you say ‘mother’ in the tongue of your people?”

“Buir.” 

“And ‘father?’”

He turns to her, silently. Ahsoka blinks then bursts out laughing. 

“You know, they call your people backwards,” she says, shaking her head.

“Do they?”

“Mm. Now, granted, they also call the New Republic the saviors of the galaxy.”

Now, it’s his turn to laugh.

✵

History is a hungry thing. 

She can never be satisfied with the past (not when time is an endless banquet set before her). Why stay in the past when she can resurrect herself to bear on the present? Din is seeing that more and more. With each passing day, her hands are reaching out to devour more from the kid and though Din can honor her presence, he will not let her take the kid’s future too.

He and the kid must engage in a kind of remembrance, then, and that is not something to be fixed. It is something to be reclaimed. They must recover all the good things the kid’s been forced to forget and there are many—

There had been a time before the kid had been kidnapped and abused. When he’d been free to eat without wondering where his next meal was coming from? When he knew the sound of his own voice and it was not one of fear or suspicion but dignity. But Din supposes this is what it means to be an adoptive parent.

It is not asking the kid to forget. It’s helping him to remember.

But healing, Din is finding, is rarely a fixed line; it is much too cyclical for that. Rather, like the cycles of the moon, there are phases and seasons to it. Some nights are brighter than others; while others are darker than some. Sometimes, Grogu wants to speak of flowers and butterflies and it feels like a step forward; other times, Grogu is temperamental and moody, angry at everything and nothing, and Din has to remind himself it is not a step backward. 

The most he can give the kid in all of those moments is presence. A voice that will not interrupt but listen. Eyes, too, that will not look away from the shattering. Time and time and time again because there are many steps back and Din will be with him through every one.

He is worth that. Grogu is just a child —a whole child— and he was never made to be loved in pieces.

Din will not fail him that way.

✵

The old man used to say that fate is a relativist with an absolutist streak. 

“It selects a different parent for every child, but it always prioritizes the wounds of the child. Within each Mandalorian is a healing balm. Something that will facilitate their foundling’s recovery.”

Din doesn’t know what is in him. What lives there. If there is some vacuum of space inside him expansive enough to germinate life and healing, he doesn’t know and frankly, he doesn’t care. He isn’t a salve or a savior. But he is a father and his child, when he talks, mumbles about moofs’ hooves and sweet blossom flowers and felucian fireflies where other Mandalorian children would be speaking of weapons and training mods, and he finds no need to change that. 

He knows the sound of Grogu’s voice now and he asks no questions of it.

Let it stand on its own. It is enough.

✵

“Do you like killing people?” 

Din opens his eyes. The question hangs over him, echoing in the dark of the rack. 

“Why do you ask?”

“You—You’re good at it. Killing people. You’re really good at it.”

Din is quiet only for a second. “Does that frighten you?” 

“Not really…”

That’s fortunate then.

“So, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like killing people?”

Like and dislike. If only it were so simple. Survival rarely gives a damn about such things, but the kid wouldn’t understand. What do I have to do? What must I do? Those are the real questions.

In this universe, those who wield violence fall on a spectrum. There are those who play at fighting; then, there are those who take people out swiftly. There are those who take people out swiftly; then there are those who take people on a mind fuck for sadism’s sake. But Grogu is too young to understand the difference. He doesn’t know this side of the universe well enough. 

You’re good at it. That isn’t entirely true. He’s just efficient and that’s its own kind of compromise, couched somewhere between honor and street smarts.

“You know how Ahsoka told you about fighting to protect yourself?” he says. 

“Yeah.”

“It’s kind of like that.” He turns onto his back and folds his hands behind his head. “I can’t say I enjoy killing people. But I also can’t say I wouldn’t kill someone who was intent on killing me.” 

“Oh.” 

A pause. 

“What does, um, en tent mean?”

“What?”

“What does…in tent mean?”

Din laughs out loud. “Intent,” he corrects. “It means—” But he’s smiling and now, he’s laughing all over again and that is sudden.

That’s new.

✵

Ahsoka tells him the kid’s age and it’s surprising. More than that. Sobering.

He takes Grogu beyond the campsite, beyond the clearing, until they reach the hangoff of a cliff. The primary sun is high, beating down against his back, and the drop is long, as endless as the horizon, and they, too, are sobering realities; twin stretches before them and beyond them.

50, he thinks, glancing down at the kid. We’re almost the same age. 

But that number is nothing, barely a detail. Ahsoka said the kid will live to see centuries. Din is only human. Time will not wait for him the same way. 

He crouches down. “There is a saying among us to honor the dead. I will teach it to you.”

“No.” Grogu backs away, shaking his head. “I don’t—! I don’t—! I don’t want you to. I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.” Din takes his hand. “There’s no need to be.” 

The kid hangs his head. “I don’t wanna forget you.”

“You won’t.” He swipes a thumb along the back of the kid’s hand. “When I’m gone, when you find yourself missing me, comfort yourself in this,” he says. “I remember you, so we are eternal.” 

“I-I remember you,” Grogu echoes, “so we are eternal.”

✵

And then, he tells the kid his name.

✵

One Great Love. 

That’s what Ahsoka had called it once before and perhaps, that is what this is, but it doesn’t feel so grand.

There is nothing new about a parent loving a child. Nothing spectacular. This is an old love. Life will go on, and that love will be forgotten, and Din does not mind. He does not need to be some glimmer of glory in the minds of a crowd. He does not need a throne. Someday, another may win this sword from him. Someday, another will replace him as beroya and he will be forgotten.

But this love…? 

It deserves to be memorialized. So, he will leave something here too:

A name because both sets of his parents named him. 

         An inheritance because in their self-giving they gave him a lesson.

                A remembrance for love is a memory and it, too, must survive.

✵

And this is the truth he will take with him to the grave: he would have chosen him.

Even if Grogu hadn’t been his dream child, he would have claimed him and that is an act of blasphemy unto itself. The Unpardonable Transgression amongst his people.

But no one needs to know.

That is his truth, not theirs.

✵

Corvus doesn’t have a Spring.

At least, that is what Ahsoka had told him once before. The magistrate mined the heart of the planet —stealing its unadulterated ore for industrialization— and in ripping its heart out, she killed its rebirth. There is no resurrection here, only the same season lived over and over as if the planet is retracing its steps, going back to remember what was lost all that time ago. 

Din would know. From the first time he arrived on this planet up until now, it has been nothing but a carcass. And yet—

Its graves are opening up. The ground is bearing seed. 

An endless sea of white flora stretches as far as the eye can see as he walks the forest with no other purpose than to see this mystery called Spring. Grogu came to him yesterday with one of the flowers in his hand, waving it back and forth like a flag of armistice. The petals blew away into the wind like a dandelion’s would, delicate and ethereal, and Din could only stand there, rapt.

He still is.

Footsteps, confident and determined, approach him from behind and he doesn’t need to look to see who it is. Only one person on this side of the universe walks as if the world is asleep and she intends to wake it. 

“I thought you said Corvus doesn’t have a spring,” he says without looking away from the flora. waving back and forth in the breeze now. More petals are flitting away.

Ahsoka steps up beside him. “It doesn’t.” There’s a smile in her voice. “But then again, more impossible things have happened, haven’t they?”

He hums. “Where’s the kid?”

“Sleeping.”

Din gives her a look.

“He’s supposed to be.”

“He’s not, I can assure you.”

“And where might you suppose he be?”

As if she doesn’t already know.

“Come down from there.” 

A figure drops to the ground from the tree above him and hovers before hitting the ground. Another one of Ahsoka’s tricks.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Sleeping is for babies,” Grogu gestures dismissively, walking up to him. “I wanna train,” he says aloud.

No stammer. No self-correction. Din forgets what he was going to say for a second and even when he remembers, it is an unimportant thing.

“Go get that ball of yours,” Ahsoka acquiesces. “Then, we’ll start.”

The kid stumbles off to the ship, pausing every few seconds to snap flowers off their stems, and Din doesn’t look away.

“Is it really possible?” he asks.

“What? Training?” 

Din looks at her. “You know what I mean.”

“One of your ancestors was both a Jedi and a Mandalorian.”

“An exception is not the rule.”

“No, but exceptions do pave a path for others to follow,” she says. “Besides, that is why he’ll also have you as his co-trainer.” 

Din’s head snaps to her. Ahsoka smiles with her teeth.

“You never said that.”

“It was implied.” She leans back, eyebrows raised. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“That’s not—I am. Of course, I’m—” His voice cracks. Her smile gets bigger.

“Stop that,” he says.

“Stop, what?”

He is thankful, briefly, for his helm. She cannot see him smiling this way.

“I need to go back to Nevarro.”

“With Grogu?”

He nods. “Just for a few days.”

“Don’t tell me you’re itching for—”

“I found it!” Grogu calls as he hurries toward them, waving the ball back and forth. 

“Did you?”

“Yeah. It was under the pillow.”

He bends down, taking the ball from the kid.

“Nevarro’s an old hunter’s hive,” Ahsoka says beside him. “What are you going there for? One last hunt?” 

Grogu ducks under his arms and slips between his knees. He blinks up at him and grins.

“No,” Din says softly, staring at him, “there’s just...something I need to do.”

Chapter Text

Morning is dawning on Nevarro.

Which is to say that the transition from night to day is not an easy one. Nevarro has never been one to surrender to First Light. She resists it as a child would: clinging stubbornly to her blanket of darkness for it is comfort and it is known and that Din knows. The planet was birthed out of volcanoes after all. It knew destruction first, then the fires of war, then corruption, and now…this. But it seems the night is being pulled away in favor of a better covering. 

Here, even the shadows seem resplendent in the sun’s glow, brandished gold by the morning. At least he thinks so, walking through the marketplace streets. 

It is quiet, at this time of the day, with all the shops boarded up like this and the streets abandoned. There is only the occasional rustle of abandoned litter swept up and tossed by the wind, but otherwise, the town is still. It is rare he gets to see it like this: stripped bare of all its bustle and activity. Another kind of armor, he supposes, for without the hustle and bustle the marketplace just looks…plain.

Vulnerable, even.

That makes two of us. But that is his choice. It was he, after all, who sent a comm to the Armorer informing her of his return; it was he who chose to return, though it matters little how he will try to explain this; just as it was he who came here, knowing that there is no way to confirm a dream child. There has never been. Or, rather, there has never been the need. 

Til’ now.

He will, undoubtedly, be rendered an apostate, stripped of rank, and ex-communicated from the Tribe. The Creed demands that. There is no other alternative. 

And yet, we’re still here…  

The reasons, truthfully, elude him. It is not for approval’s sake nor absolution’s either. He will get neither, most likely. There is no explanation for his presence here now. Only that he has need to be here now. With the kid.

The breeze picks up, sending some shop’s shutters clapping against the boards. Within the sling wrap, Grogu startles awake.

“Shh,” Din hushes. “We’re okay.”

Grogu whines, squinting at him between crusted eyes. “Mm…my hands…”

“What about your hands?”

“Stuck.” 

Din smiles knowingly. “There is no one to hear you but me.”

Grogu smushes his face back against his hip but nonetheless mumbles: “Are we there yet?”

“You tell me.”

He looks around. “I remember—” A yawn. “—this place. We got…This is where we got—” Another yawn. “My toys.”  

“Yeah, we’re almost there,” he replies, eying the darkened street furthest ahead. The Covert. “Why don’t you get a few more minutes of sleep?”

The kid shakes his head. “I haveta stay up.”

“Why?”

“Cuz you’re all knotted up.”

Din smirks. “I’m…knotted up?”

“Mhm. You don’t feel good,” Grogu says. “Like a knot. A big knot. Knotted up. On the inside.”

He stops walking. The kid, stars bless him, keeps talking.

“Did you eat something bad?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, seeing as you ate both of our dinners last night, I would say I’m sure.”

Grogu’s face twists. “Do you have to go potty? You might have—!” He straightens, suddenly alert, wide-eyed and frightened. “Are you sick?”

“I’m not sick, Grogu.”

“That’s not true. You’re all—You can’t be—” He chews on his lips. “I don’t want you to be sick, daddy.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not sick,” he sighs. “We’re just…going home.”

“But—”

“Listen to me,” he says, kneeling to set the kid on the ground, “when we get there—when we get ‘home’ that is, I might feel a lot more ‘knotted up,’ but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me. It’s just how things are.”

Grogu’s brow narrows in confusion. “But that’s not true.”

“Kid…”

“But it’s not! Home’s back there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We already got a home, see?” he says, pointing behind Din to the loading port in the distance. “We’ve got a home already. We don’t need to get another one cuz we’ve already got one.”

Din falls back on his butt.

“See?” Grogu says. “I’m right.”

Technically, he is. But no, it is more than that and truthfully, Din should have known. A dwelling is not the same as a home. Just as inclusion and belonging, too, are not the same. He knows that. 

But he remembers now. 

“Yeah, kid.” He smiles. “I guess you are.”

✵

No one should be awake.

It is Light Hours and if anyone would be up, it would be the scouts. Even so, he makes sure to keep his footsteps light as he eases down the stairwell, walking with the sewage slushes. The key to entering the Covert is to become sound —a drop of water, a rat scurrying across the floor, a blast of air from the vent— not sentient. Outsiders make the latter mistake. Only a Mandalorian would know to use the environment as another kind of shield. 

Perched on the descending steps, he leans flat against the wall and listens.

Grogu’s ears perk in interest. “Da—?” 

Din shakes his head and holds up a finger to his helm. “Quiet,” he signs.

“Why?” the kid signs.

Din shakes his head. 

The kid taps incessantly on his arm. “Why?” he signs again.

Din sighs and gestures: “Because people are asleep.”

“But it’s morning now,” Grogu signs back, frowning.

Before Din can reply, a familiar tick, tick, tick sound echoes from above. The vent, he recognizes. It’ll come on in 3, 2, 1… He’s coursing down the hallway before it can cut off. Swiftly, he turns the corner and—

Shit.

A host of helms turn to him. No one is supposed to be awake, he thinks stupidly. But the main hall is nearly full, packed with bodies who once looked invested in conversation and now…

The entire room is frozen still. He can feel their gazes on him, burning like a brand. Except it’s not just on me. Under the attention, Grogu whimpers and hides behind a fold in the sling. 

Din steps forward. A handful stand from their chairs, drawing the rest to do the same. Still, no one says a word. They just stare. Slowly, he walks across the room and the crowd splits, rolling back like a wave.

Someone grabs his shoulder. “Djarin.” Vizsla.

Din’s mouth opens then closes. There is nothing to say, at least not now. Indeed, the time for a reckoning will come later. For now…

Din is swift to exit the main hall and step inside the Armorer’s forge instead. He enters to the sound of a kiln’s hiss. It spews sparks as the Armorer stands before it, melting down a piece of armor. He is halfway across the room when she finally puts the tongs down and looks up.

Her helm dips down to the sling wrap tied to his chest and then to the laser sword at his belt. “So,” she says, “the rumors are true.”

Din frowns. “What rumors?”

She inclines her head toward the round table. Obediently, he sits.

“Untie the child from your person,” she commands, sitting across from him.

He does, unwrapping the fabric until Grogu is climbing out and onto the table. The kid is not even fully steady on his feet before he catches sight of her and scrabbles away.

“It’s her again,” Grogu signs smallishly.

“Yes,” Din signs back, “she is our Armorer.”

Grogu eyes her. “She’s scary,” he gestures then frowns. “She looks like you, but you’re not scary.”

“That’s because you know me,” he signs.

“You communicate with the foundling using Symbolic?”

Din nearly startles. The kid actually does.

“Yes,” Din replies after settling the kid onto his lap. From his pocket, he removes the ball and drops it into Grogu’s clawing hands. “He…is not comfortable speaking.”

“So, he elected to communicate with you through symbols?”

“No, I am the one who taught him.”

She is silent for a beat. “I see…”

Undoubtedly, she is seeing what to make of him though. It can only be so. She is their Armorer after all. He will be whatever she makes of him.

“One month ago, we received reports,” she says, “telling of a Mandalorian who won the darksaber in ritualistic combat.”

Din’s mouth goes dry.

“Not only that but one who was willing to defend a child —a foundling— unto the death.”

“Where—” He clears his throat. “Where did you hear such things?”

“It is in the wind. Everywhere,” she replies. “Apparently, it began with remnant soldiers. Or, as some say, locals from Corvus.”

He swallows.

“Do you deny these rumors?”

“I do not deny them.”

“Then, what do you make of them?”

He straightens in his seat. “I am willing to seek restitution.”

“Will you indeed?”

“Yes.”

“And if I were to ask you to relinquish the child…?”

His hand tightens instinctively around the kid. The Armorer’s helm dips at the motion. Shit. 

“I must mention, a curious report emerged from such tales,” she says cryptically. 

“Did it?”

She hums in affirmation. “Rumors of an account of Bloodlust—”

Din goes rigid.

“—which, as you know, is something that can only occur when a Mandalorian’s intended is threatened.”

White noise. He’s sure. The static in his ears. It has to be—It has to be—

“Medina can scan my brain activity.”

“You presume I need a medik to confirm what I have heard?”

“And what do you presume I will tell?”

“Something that has taken twenty years to say.”

A knot forms in his throat. It’s not supposed to go like this, he thinks. This isn’t the way it was supposed to go.

He swallows. “I should say that I am not so…beguiled by this Finding to think others should be as easily convinced.”

“And were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Easily convinced?”

He does not answer that. He cannot. 

“You must know what this means,” she says. When he still says nothing, she speaks for him: “A Mandalorian is a reflection of their child. That is how fate chooses parentage. She selects not an overseer but an equal and you… You have fathered a Jedi youngling. One with unspeakable power in his youth and now, you come bearing the symbol of our forebears.” He feels her gaze turn sharp, nearly piercing. “Foundlings are tasked to be mirrors. So that when you see the child, you have seen the father.”

Din shifts uncomfortably. “Have you so easily accepted this?”

“Have you not?” she replies.

“It is not that. It is only that—” He sighs. “You know as well as I that I had already accepted…That is to say, I—” 

“Yes,” she says simply, sagely. “I know.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by such a response. She has always felt older than him, even though they are the same age. Nearly. He still remembers her from their youth: sharp-eyed with corkscrew hair and the galaxy’s sky draped over her skin like a garment. And perceptive. She has always been that and, perhaps, such perception has also been her birthright from the beginning; for wisdom to them is dark, emerging like a child from a womb, and though she has never ventured from this cavern, insight spills out from her and this place just the same. 

She is, and has always been, the image —no, the representative— of Fate.

“I suspect some will call you a legend.”

He grimaces. “I never set out to become that.”

“No one ever does. Even so, you must prepare yourself.”

“For those who would come for the sword?”

“For those who would come for your heart.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“From the beginning of our history till now, we are and have always been a people bound by honor, even more so by fidelity. Now, you have left a path of devotion in your wake. Do not be surprised if others follow it in order to find you.”

Din shifts in his seat, leaning away. “I do not think—”

“What you think matters little,” she interrupts. “What you have done however… Well, those actions speak for itself and they are, truthfully, more forthright than you are.”

“I have not lied to you.”

“No,” she says. “It is only that your good opinion is given so sparingly that by the time an account must be made, there is always so little left over for yourself.”

“You mistake me for an altruist.”

“Altruism is just another name for hidden greed.”

“A saint then,” he exchanges dismissively. “We both know that I am neither.”

“No,” she agrees, nodding. “I suppose that just makes you a father.”

For the second time that day, Din startles. It is unnerving this surprise. No, it is more than that. Kindness, he doesn’t know why he’s always so surprised. 

A tiny hand pats his arm. 

“Daddy?” Grogu signs. 

“Yes?” he gestures back.

“This is boring,” he signs.

Din forgets himself —what a notion— and laughs. 

Before him, the Armorer’s head tilts and for a while, she just stares. "The foundling has your affections." It is not a question.

“Indeed."

“And you have grown to love him?”

Din frowns. “I dreamed of him.”

“Though they were but night terrors?”

“That…is not what I meant.”

The Armorer says nothing and Din feels heat rush to his face. 

“I see…” she hums. “And what of those terrors? I assume they have gone?”

He nods once. “They were not nightmares but memories,” he says. “His memories.”

“His memories?” she mirrors.

Din feels his eyes begin to burn. “Yes,” he croaks. 

When he looks down, the kid is frowning up at him, worried. Three tiny fingers curl around his left wrist. 

“So that you are informed, Gavit volunteered to take over your hunting duties while you were away.”

Din’s lips flatten but he nods nonetheless.

“I will not interfere in your disputes. Not unless one of you breaks the Creed,” she reminds. “Beyond that, this fight is yours and it is meant to test you.”

“I know.”

“I only ask that you remember what was before.”

Din frowns. Before. He knows to what she references and for what reason she references it. “You speak of Gavit’s brother.” Keta, he does not say, for names are sacred, especially the names of the murdered. 

“I do.”

“I am not the one who killed him.” Old Sano Jen, he does not say that either, for names are dangerous, especially the names of murderers.

“No,” she agrees, “but he does not know that.”

He knows. But knowing and fearing are too different things and Gavit, for all his bluster and fervor, is too bat-shit scared and too bat-shit arrogant to learn the difference. 

“…comm.”

Din’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I said,” she repeats, “that I will need to send out a universal comm.”

“Why?”

A beat. “Do you know how to conduct a Finding Ceremony?”

Din frowns. “No.”

“Then, I suggest you go prepare yourself then,” she says, rising from her seat. “It seems a Speech is in order.”

✵

Finding Speeches are not what many would think. In truth, they are not really speeches at all.

A speech connotes a listening body —a formal address spoken to the masses— but that is not what this is. There are witnesses, true, and there is an address, but all of those formalities aren’t for the Covert. 

They are for the foundling.

A Finding Speech is just…a love letter to one’s foundling.

Mandalorians have their whole lives to compose one, to memorize it, to recite it during the ceremony, but Din… Well, he never thought he’d ever need to write one, or memorize one, or recite one. There was no need back then. 

This isn’t the way things were supposed to go.

“Why are we waiting here?” Grogu signs as they stand behind the platform. Beyond the curtain, Din can hear murmuring, the scrape of chairs, but no laughter. No revelry. 

It isn’t somber, just serious.

“Hey!” the kid waves, trying to get his attention. “Why’re we here?” he signs again.

“I…have something to say,” Din signs back.

“Well, what is it?” Grogu gestures.

“It’s…” His hands falter. “It’s something to you actually.”

“Oh,” Grogu signs. “What is it?”

I don’t know, he’s definitely not supposed to say that though. He didn’t think they’d make it this far. He never imagined they’d ever get a chance at…

“Hey!” Grogu waves again. “I said ‘what is it?’”

“I—”

The curtain lifts and the Armorer steps through. “The setting has been set and they are ready,” she says. “It is your time.”

Silently, Din nods and picks up the kid. He takes a breath and steps under the curtain. Blinding lights pierce his eyes first, disrupting the frequency on his HUD. The screen statics and only slowly returns to normal, revealing the same circular tables he has sat at ten…fifteen…twenty times. This is nothing new. He’s been here before.

But never here. Never like this.

He’s watched plenty of others stand up here and give their speeches. They often spoke of the same thread-like theme: of children lost and children found, and the Mandalorians who gave up time itself to find them.

But that is not him. That is not their story. 

Slowly, he sets the kid down. Grogu takes one look at the crowd and tries to scrabble back into his arms.

“It’s okay,” Din signs. “It’s okay.”

“I wanna go home,” Grogu gestures frantically. “I don’t wanna be here. I don’t like—”

“Look at me,” Din signs. Only when the kid does, does he sign: “We’re okay.”

“But they’re looking at us,” Grogu signs back.

“But am I?” he signs.

Grogu shakes his head. 

“What am I looking at?” Din asks, signing.

“Me,” Grogu points to himself.

Din nods. “And you,” he says, “only need to keep your eyes on me. Okay?”

Shakily, Grogu looks up at him as if searching for his eyes. “Okay,” he mumbles.

Gently, Din takes his hand. “I…am at a loss as to what to say, truthfully.” He offers a rueful smile. “I wasn’t supposed to have a child.”

Before him, the room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, brushing the kid’s knuckles. It doesn’t.

“I told you once that we would always be together,” he says, “but there have been times when we couldn’t be and times when we weren’t able to be, but there has never been a time where I haven’t wanted to be.”

Grogu’s claws bite into his palms and Din smiles, rubbing the back of the kid’s hand with his thumb.

“You found me first,” he says, “but I will not lose you again. Not for anything.”

Not for a Creed. 

Or a Code. 

Or even nightmares. 

He has vowed many things in his life and he cannot say he’s kept all of them, but this one he will. Nothing will separate them. Not while he is still—

“What is the meaning of this nonsense?”

Heads swivel around to the doorway, but Din has no need. He knows to whom that voice belongs.

“I leave for a moment only to find you all imbibing a load of gossip for what? For him?!” His boots clink across the floor as he circles around the tables to the platform. The girl —his foundling— huddles behind him.

“And you?” Gavit turns his attention to him. “You do not hesitate to simper back in my absence to curry favor.” He whips out a blaster. “I suggest you rethink that objective.”

“And I suggest you get that gun out of my face.”

The girl tugs on his flight suit, trembling. “Father—”

“Not now,” he snaps, shoving her away.

Din drops from the platform and knocks helms with him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Gavit sneers, a smile in his voice. 

Din clenches his jaw.

“Come on,” he goads. “Don’t what, Djarin.”

“Gavit.” Sif steps forward. “This is a ceremony. It’s sacred ground. You have no right to a challenge here.”

He waves her away and turns back to Din. “You think you can fool everywhere here? Well, you can’t fool me,” he says. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand?”

“Do try,” he says, nodding at Gavit’s bum hand.

Gavit’s hand flexes on the handle, but they both know his hand is shaking. With a growl, he leans in: “You always try to be something you’re not, don’t you? A hero. A victor. A defender of foundlings. Well, I know the truth about you, you’re nothing but a piece of—”

He cuts off, choked. The gun clatters to the floor. Clutching his throat, Gavit stumbles back into a table.

Shit.

Din whips around to the platform. “No,” he says, rushing toward the kid and his outstretched hand. “No, no, no. Kid, we’re just fighting.”

He pulls Grogu’s hand down his hand. Behind him, Gavit gasps.

Grogu’s eyes flicker behind him. His face twists in anger. “He was going to hurt you,” he signs.

“He wasn’t.”

“He was!” the kid signs. “Like really, really bad.”

“Grogu—”

“He was going to…” The kid’s eyes narrow on Gavit again.

“Baby,” he calls softly. “Baby, look at me.”

Grogu’s eyes flick back to him, shining with angry tears.

“We’re okay,” Din signs. “We’re okay.”

“Gavit,” the Armorer calls, stepping out from amongst the shadows. 

“Armorer,” Gavit gasps, stumbling to his feet. “This is not what everyone thinks it is. We have been deceived—”

“By what?”

“Him. That is not his child. I know it to be true.”

“And how would you seek to prove that?”

“He never had dreams. He has never had them. Not as the rest of us have. That is what makes a Mandalorian. That is how we are chosen.”

“And what of those who fall into Bloodlust in ritual combat?”

He rears back, confused. “Then, those—You know as well as I that those are chosen parents.”

“And those who kill armies to protect their foundling, what of them?”

“Of course, they are…” He falters. “I do not understand.”

“I shall make it plain then,” she says, walking towards him, “you have disrupted a sacred ceremony for such a person whom, you have just claimed, is indeed worthy of the name ‘parent.’ Now, I presume, you understand why I have intervened.” She pauses before him. “You have transgressed against one of our most sacred laws.”

Gavit takes a step back. “No.” He shakes his head. “That isn’t—That cannot be true. There is no way he could have...”

Gavit's head snaps to him and, gradually, Din watches as realization dawns upon him. 

“Mauns Gavit,” the Armorer announces. “You have been stripped of your rank and your title as intermediary beroya. Now,” she says, “I suggest you follow me.”

✵

They are outcasted.

Din watches —they all do— as Gavit and his foundling gather their things and disappear into the night. 

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Vizsla asks him later when most have retired. “It would have been within your rights.”

“The girl,” he replies simply. “She already lost a parent once.” And I will not make an orphan out of another child.

Vizsla is quiet for a while. Something that truly does not suit him.

“You know I will challenge you for it,” he says without clarification for there is no need.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Then expect more,” he rejoins, “because I do, especially from you. Do not think your weariness is well-hidden for it is not. If I challenged you now, I’d find more fight in a cemetery.”

Din stands. “Goodnight.”

“That ball Gavit took…” 

Din stills. “What about it?”

“That’s the question. What about it?”

Din presses his lips together. The words come regardless, pointless and tired: “It was the kid’s.”

“The kid’s—?” A pregnant pause. Then, a laugh. “You are either merciful or stupid.”

Din does nothing but walk away and perhaps that alone settles it. 

✵

They ask him to stay in one of the empty rooms just for a few nights and though it is custom following a Finding Speech, his was botched and Din knows it is their way of making amends.

But it is more than amends to grant him the largest room they have, and it is more than amends when they dip their heads in greeting when he walks by, and it is more than amends when several leave food for the kid on his bed. They are not a people who believe in apologies much, but there are living amends. Actions.

He doesn't know how he is supposed to feel, in truth. Perhaps, when he was younger, he would have contented himself with this turn of events; but he is twenty-something no longer; there is grey in his beard now, his joints ache, and all he wants nowadays is peace and quiet. It is a strange thing. At one point in time, this --speeches, ceremonies, belonging-- was everything he’d ever wanted.

Now?

Stars, if he knows. But it isn't fanfare. It isn't festivities. 

✵

There are packages at his door when he wakes.

Some are wrapped in brown paper and strung together with old wire, while others remain paperless but labeled —as they all are— nonetheless. He is bending to pick one up when someone in green steps out from the shadows with a gift in hand.

“One’s first can be a handful,” they say cryptically, handing him another box. “I made sure to include all that might prove helpful.”

“What?”

“For the child,” they say and only then does Din understand.

The Way of Blessing.

He has heard tales of this, though he’s never seen it with his own eyes. He could hardly bear it before. He’s heard that many cultures have many different names for this. On Daiyu, they call it a BlessingWay. Coruscantians, consistently extravagant and exaggerating in language, call it ‘baby showers.’ Here, though, it is more than a celebration. It is…communal support. Village. For that is what it takes to raise a child.

He forgot. Or, perhaps, it is just that he’s tried his hardest not to remember — this part. It is strange. How could something so painful before suddenly feel…