Chapter Text
Din Djarin slips through a bamboo forest on Corulag.
Barefoot and barefaced, he carries a mesh sack filled with the beskar armor that he once wore, beskar spear in one hand as a makeshift walking stick, and dressed in nondescript clothes. Although Din is uncertain of the exact location he seeks, he can almost sense that he is getting closer with each step on the dirt road. Around him, the firm green stalks tower and arch in criss-cross patterns that block out the blue heavens, creating a canopy of endless leaves, like an inverted meadow in the sky that gives Djarin a subtle vertigo. Warm breezes push at his back, almost guiding him. He hasn’t seen another living creature since his transport docked on the continent of South Kallis, but that doesn’t dissuade him.
Djarin knows the Armorer purposefully chose a remote location to meet.
Twenty minutes later, Din spies a small, unassuming hut off the side of the road, and he picks up his pace. The armor on his back rattles with the movement. Soon, he finds himself at the round and welcoming door.
He takes a sip of breath and knocks.
Something shuffles inside, and the door opens, revealing the Armorer, with her catlike golden helmet and rust-colored cuirass. She stands tall and silent, at once enigmatic and formidable.
Din gulps, still not used to greeting people in the eye without his armor. For a brief moment, he’s frozen, unable to initiate a response without self-critiquing his own facial expressions. He longs to be as unreadable as the Armorer, and Din feels a pang of loss for his helmet, for its protection and anonymity. Instead, he bows his head with respect.
“Come in,” she says crisply.
The Armorer closes the door behind him as he shambles forward. Despite the humidity outside, the hut is cool and smells of the lingering spices of cooking, with a few windows open on the opposite side, bamboo framing the view. Although small, the hut is large enough to contain a few simple wooden chairs and table, kitchen, and another room that Din supposes is a bedroom.
“Would you like some tea and something to eat?” she asks, indicating a chair.
“No, thank you,” Djarin says, despite his dry throat and empty stomach.
The Armorer’s helmet tilts down at the floor.
“What happened to your shoes?”
Din removes the mesh sack from his shoulders, props the spear against the wall behind him, and slides into a chair, shrugging. “It’s not important.”
“Your eyes say differently,” she says, so Din looks away. He already feels raw; not only is his face exposed for others to gaze upon, but the knicks and blisters on his heels sting from walking miles without cover.
When he looks up, the Armorer returns with a tray--an assortment of dried fruit and nuts, a bowl of stew, a teapot, and two cups. She pours the steaming tea, fragrant with ginger, then sits across from him, hands folded patiently. Behind her, Djarin spies an exquisite sword mounted on the wall. Its golden hilt holds a single blood-red gem, and its blade glints menacingly.
“Thank you,” he murmurs again, but he still doesn’t touch the tea.
“Tell me why you are here,” she says.
Din’s mouth opens as if to speak, then he motions to the mesh bag where his beskar armor sits unused. He thinks his reason for coming would have been obvious.
The Armorer leans forward, the fur bristling along her neck. “Tell me what happened to the foundling.”
Din Djarin immediately feels his world dissolving, as if his real face is a mask with a single chip in it, and that chip becomes a bigger crack that threatens to unravel his deepest unspoken feelings. A spike of pain at the memories of saying goodbye to the child shoots from his temple to his palms to his chest. Din’s vision blurs with unshed tears, and he runs a shaky hand across his face, telling himself that he’s just exhausted. That’s all this is. Just tiredness.
He doesn’t see her place the cup in his hands, but it’s there when he opens his eyes, warm and comforting.
“Drink,” she says, “and tell me.”
So he does.
By the time he’s finished telling the Armorer what happened on Moff Gideon’s cruiser, Din has drained two cups of tea and eaten a handful of morsels from the tray. He still feels uncomfortable eating in front of others, but hunger supersedes his fears. Once finished, he expects the Armorer to speak, but she remains taciturn, staring at him intently.
Din knees knock together when his hands raise the mesh bag, silver beskar gleaming with a glint of its past glory. He holds it out and speaks solemnly.
“I have violated the Way of the Mandalore by removing my helmet in front of others. I revoke my armor, my title…” His voice grows husky. “...and my clan.”
The Armorer doesn’t move.
Din continues. “Therefore, I return the armor to its maker and am prepared to face the penalty for my transgressions.” He can’t help but glance at the immaculate sword on the wall behind the Armorer, and a shiver runs through him.
The Armorer takes her time sipping from her cup of tea by lifting up her helmet slightly and placing it back down when she’s finished. Then she says, “No.”
Djarin almost drops the beskar armor. “What?”
“I said no.”
Din reels and rubs his eyes. “I… I don’t understand.”
The Armorer presses gloved hands together, as if contemplating her response. “What did you do with the Darksaber?”
Djarin pauses, confused. He has already relayed what happened. “I left it behind with Bo-Katan.”
“Why?”
“Because it didn’t belong to me.”
"That is why I will not take your armor. It belongs to no one but you.”
The beginning of a headache wraps around his skull. He thought he knew how this meeting was going to go, but the complete opposite is happening. “I still don’t understand. How can I keep the armor when I broke the Creed?”
“Did you think the punishment for removing your helmet would be a swift death by that sword?” She nods at the weapon on the wall behind her. “Whether you choose to wear the mantle of the Mandalore or not, only you can make that decision.” The Armorer tilts her head, then looks away, her voice growing softer. “A true Mandalorian is more than a fine set of armor, Din Djarin. You have a responsibility to your clan.”
“But I am no longer a clan of two,” Din says, his voice breaking despite himself. “The child returned to its kind. My oath to be his father was fulfilled.”
“Do you still consider the foundling your child?”
With no hesitation, Din says, “Yes.”
If Grogu ever came back , he thinks, I would welcome him and give him all that I possessed.
The Armorer stands and places a soft hand on his shoulder. “That is my answer. Eat more and rest here for the night. This is the way.”
Din responds with silence.
Then she bows her head, and opens the front door of the hut, closing it softly behind her.
Din Djarin sits in silence for some time, partly shocked, partly relieved, and somehow disappointed. He expected admonishment, punishment, but his armor remains packed up next to him. He taps it with a fingernail and listens to its satisfying clink .
As he sits in the rustic chair and stares at the dregs of his tea, Din is filled with an overwhelming emptiness. What does it matter if he retains the armor or not? What is the point of anything without the child?
He eats a few mouthfuls of lukewarm stew, and then a few more, still hungry and weary. Din winces at the sorry state of his feet and tenderly runs his hand over the cuts in his soles. He thinks about getting up and finding a washbasin to attack the layer of grime on his skin that had built over the past few days since he had departed from Nevarro, but he sits back instead, head hazy with sleep.
“Mother, father, Aiku, Trench,” he says softly to himself. The words have an instantly calming and grounding effect on him, for he had spoken them thousands of nights before.
Din closes his eyes and falls asleep.
He watched the Child being carried away by the Jedi in the cloak, followed by the droid, and he couldn’t breathe. The dark trooper’s attack had left him with a ringing headache and soreness all over his body, but now he felt nothing.
"Mando!”
Din never had time to turn around before he heard the blaster fire. He flinched, anticipating the searing white heat or darkness, but he remained untouched. Electricity crackled in the air. He slowly turned around and saw a surprising sight: Cara Dune and Fennec with blasters aimed, Bo-Katan and Koska lying motionless on the floor of the cruiser.
He must have looked at Cara with a question in his eyes because she said, “They tried to come after you.”
Djarin stepped forward, examining the still bodies, still holding his breath.
"Don’t worry--they’re just stunned.”
Din took the Darksaber and placed it on the floor beside Bo-Katan’s limp hand.
He felt numb when he faced Cara, helmetless for the first time. “Let’s go…”
Cara’s eyes softened. She lowered her blaster and exchanged glances with Fennec. “What if she comes after you?”
Djarin was certain the Nite Owl would. “Then we get a headstart.”
Din wakes in the same position in which he had fallen asleep. The key difference is the dark green blanket covering him. He sits slowly, joints popping, grimacing at the lingering soreness in his limbs, but he feels rested. In that moment, Din realizes he has gotten more sleep in the Armorer’s hut than any time since…
Since Grogu left.
He neatly folds the blanket and places it in the chair, picking up his armor, and nearly tripping over the pair of brand new long boots at his feet. They are sturdy, with extra cushion on the inside. A handwritten note sits on the vamps:
Thought you might need these on your journey.
He slowly slips them on, wincing at the not-quite-healed wounds on his feet, but feeling immediate comfort. The boots fit perfectly. Din is about to leave when he catches movement out of one of the windows toward the back of the hut. He walks closer and watches the Armorer practicing various defensive and offensive maneuvers, surrounded by the swooning green bamboo trees. She clutches the sword that had been hanging on the wall, wielding it skillfully. Like a game mixed with a dance, she moves smoothly and soundlessly.
Djarin finds a nub of pencil and writes Thank you beneath the note she had left him. Then he takes the beskar spear from where it leans against the wall and sets it beside the note. It seems a fair trade--one beskar spear for a pair of decent boots.
Din leaves the Armorer’s hut and continues on the dirt road, back where he had come from.
TBC