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Din was alone … more or less.
He could hear the sleepy baby snuffling, the hammock swinging back and forth gently with the random flail of hand or foot. He had panicked in the early days. Every grunt could be a nightmare. Every sigh, a prelude to a warbling cry. It had taken him several fearful nights to realize that, when sleeping, the baby was simply, naturally loud.
Usually, the sounds calmed him. Proof that the kid was alive and warm. But this time was different, his thoughts anxious and unmoored by the sudden change of the last few weeks. Consciously, he drew a long, slow breath and, clad only in his amorweave flight suit walked a few steps to gaze down on the gleaming pieces of his beskar’gam laid out carefully on the floor of the Razor Crest. As he had done a thousand times, ever since being sworn to the Resol'nare, he palmed the small round pot filled with Mandalorian sanded gel and sank down, cross-legged in front of the armor. Putting the pot down, he scooped a small amount, the sand so fine as to appear almost liquid, placed it on a soft leather cloth, picked up the pauldron, and began to clean.
The kid’s sonorous breathing filled the cabin. His precise movements calmed him, as they had always. Where the armorer’s clanging hammer brought fragmented memories of terror and loss, the nearly soundless scritch of sand over metal bound him to his creed. His mind returned to the time he first knelt, a child, before the armorer waiting for her to decree which piece of the beskar’gam she would craft. Every foundling received this gift. One piece. A vambrace, shin guard, breastplate, pauldron. It was a beginning and a promise to be realized, by some, over the course of a lifetime. He had not inherited his armor, he had accumulated it. At first, duraplast claimed from the bodies of fallen enemies, and then more durable stuff, replaced as his skill increased. And always, Din cared for what he had, no matter the origin.
Now, halfway through the cuirass, he focused on the gleaming piece of metal in his hand, moving the cloth across it. Din had performed the ritual a thousand times, but this time it felt different. His unspoken promise, made so long ago, was now born out in full. The beskar’gam was complete and whole. There was pride in that accomplishment, but that wasn’t what he felt. He had felt pride in his abilities before. This sense, this peace, was new.
In the quiet the child breathed and, although he didn’t notice, Din cleaned his armor in rhythm.