Archive of Our Own

Grogu stayed hidden inside the hollow tree for a long time after the scary noises had stopped.

He knew that those sounds had meant battle. The familiar whine of blaster fire had mixed with growls and roars from some beast that he hadn't heard before. He'd been too far to tell anything more than that—too far to know who had been the winner, in the end, although it must have been his Mandalorian, the one who had come back for him and was traveling with him now. The Mandalorian must have been the winner, because Grogu could not lose him, not after losing so many friends and teachers and caretakers.

After a while, the background noises of the forest started to come back, the songs and croaks of many things flitting among the leaves and the buzzing of creepy-crawlies, and Grogu knew it was safe again. Still, his Mandalorian had not returned. He would have wanted Grogu to wait here, but what if something was wrong? The Mandalorian had gotten into trouble before; the mudhorn would surely have taken him if not for Grogu.

He had waited long enough, Grogu decided. He climbed out of his hideout, dropping onto the soft forest floor covered with dry leaves.

There was so much to see here, so many shades of greens and browns, the fragrance in the air speaking of the same things, of soil and growth. So much life. He could spot a pink long-tailed critter slithering up a tree trunk, and another one fluttering in the air, like a bright yellow flower with wings. He wanted to chase them and see them from up close, but he knew he shouldn't, because he had something far more important to do.

He headed in the direction that the sounds had come from, stepping carefully to avoid stumbling on roots and fallen branches.

He could smell the beast before he saw it. It was a strange sharp scent that he didn't like, taking over the soothing earthiness of the forest. He stopped, then, straining his ears, but the monster was quiet, and the sounds of the smaller creatures were still there, telling him that there was no danger.

Slowly and warily, he moved ahead, peering through the leaves of a bush at the opening beyond.

The beast was as big as the mudhorn, but much slimmer in build, and instead of one horn, it had many. Its green hide, a darker and richer color than Grogu's, would have hidden it well in the forest, if not for all those horns and claws which gleamed bone-white. It wasn't moving, and Grogu knew why. He could see the hilt of a knife sticking out of its eye, with dark purple blood cascading down the side of its head.

The monster was dead, and that had to mean the Mandalorian had won, but where was he?

Grogu didn't want to go any closer to the beast than this, even if it was dead. It still looked frightening, and the acrid smell was even stronger near it, stinging his nose. But he had to be brave, because he had to find his friend.

He pushed past the bushes into the clearing, facing the monster. From up close, it seemed even bigger—it must have stood twice as tall as the Mandalorian when it had been alive. Grogu walked around the carcass, searching for a shimmer of silver reflecting the sunlight that passed through the green above him. He didn't find any, even though he looked very closely. His Mandalorian was nowhere to be found.

It took Grogu some time to come across the hint of where his friend might have gone, but when he noticed it, the red looked terribly bright against the brown leaves that had obscured it from view. This was the color of the Mandalorian's blood, Grogu knew. His Mandalorian was hurt, and he was bleeding. Worse yet, he was lost: the red droplets were leading the wrong way, away from where Grogu had been hidden.

Grogu had to hurry, now. Turning his back to the beast, he kept his eyes on the disturbing stains and started to follow them, like his Mandalorian did when tracking someone.

This trail went on for a long time. Once, Grogu thought he had lost it entirely, until he realized to raise his eyes from the ground.

There was a large red smear on a fallen tree trunk. He imagined his Mandalorian climbing over it, struggling far more than usual because he was hurt. Grogu was too small to climb, so he crawled under it instead. The soil was soft beneath his palms, and there were many tiny things scuttling in the shadow of the trunk—maybe tasty things? It would have been a nice place to linger, but there was no time for that.

On the other side of the trunk, Grogu found the trail again, and on and on it went. He wondered how much blood there would be in one person, to stretch out into such a long path of the forest floor. Then, he came across other signs: disturbed leaves here and there, and after those, deeper tracks in the dirt.

When Grogu finally found his Mandalorian, he was lying face-down, most of his body covered by his dark cloak. Grogu could not see where he was hurt, but he felt the Force flickering and fading around him. Without help, he would not last long.

Good thing Grogu had found him before it was too late.

He sat on the ground close to the silvery helmet, held up his hands and reached out to the Force. With all his strength, he called out and said, Heal! Mend! Make this one whole again!

He felt the Force respond, growing stronger around them, as if the air itself were turning heavier and buzzing with energy. It took shape in the broken body of his Mandalorian, finding the places that were wrong, knitting together the flesh torn by the beast.

As the Force waxed, Grogu himself waned. In his mind, he heard the reminders of his teachers, that he was not fully trained, that his skill did not match his enthusiasm. Even so, he knew he'd done the right thing, and he knew he'd done enough, because he felt the pain lift from the Mandalorian as the life returned to him.

No longer worried, Grogu fell asleep, huddled by his friend's shoulder.

Din woke up feeling extremely uncomfortable, and yet, impossibly good.

He was lying on the ground, his head resting on top of his right arm. The arm had fallen asleep with the weight of his helmet, and he knew his back and neck would protest as soon as he tried to move. That should've been the least of his worries. Considering what he remembered from before he'd lost consciousness, he should've been in agony, not thinking about some future back ache.

The inside of his helmet smelled more metallic than usual, and when he shifted his head, he could feel that his cheek was sticking to the surface. There was no mistaking this for anything else than congealed blood, which meant that his memory of sharp claws sinking into his side, pain tearing through his chest, that had to be true.

He remembered drowning on dry land, bleeding out from what had to be a punctured lung, knowing for sure that he didn't have long. He also remembered his single-minded focus as he'd fought through the pain and weakness of fatal wounds to get as far as he could from the Crest and the child. He'd thought it was the only thing left that he could do to keep the little one safe.

Somehow, inexplicably, he wasn't dead. He could breathe cleanly, and although his side didn't feel normal where the beast had caught him, it wasn't hurting. No less amazingly, he couldn't feel any trace of the other cuts and bruises that the battle had left him with, not even the wound in his leg, which had been bleeding copiously.

Careful to turn so that he kept his uninjured right side against the ground, Din rolled over to rest on his back. As cautious as he'd tried to be, the change in position brought up a flare of pain beneath his breastplate. Even though it was only a shadow of what he'd felt before, it was strong enough to surpass the sore back and the pins and needles coursing through his numb arm. There was a strange pressure in his chest, as well. He couldn't figure out what was going on; this didn't feel like any other injury he'd ever had.

Raising his head, he looked down at himself, and froze.

The jagged ends of two of the beast's claws were still protruding from his left side.

This almost explained the odd sensations from the injury. Almost, because it was no wonder he could feel that something was wrong, but how was it not more painful?

Gingerly, Din brought his fingers to the claws, probing his side next to them. There had been a third, shorter one that hadn't broken off from the beast's limb, but had slid out entirely, leaving a shallow stab wound. That was no longer there at all: the hole in his flight suit remained, but beneath it, his side was intact.

Even around the claws that were still there, his side seemed too normal, too painless. More than that, his skin surrounded them seamlessly, which wasn't what he would've expected, considering how his desperate retreat had jarred his injuries. It was almost as if his body had healed around the foreign objects. Based on this, he suspected that the same thing might be true for the internal injuries as well.

He'd never seen anything like this, and couldn't even begin to imagine what could've done it, especially since he was still lying exactly where he'd fallen down.

He had no idea what the exact state of his insides was, and he kind of preferred not to think too hard about it. It was clear to him that sooner or later, he'd have to find a way to fix this, but for now, he was alive, and disrupting this strange healed-and-yet-not state would not be very smart.

He tried to keep his breaths light and the rest of his body perfectly still as he turned his head to check his surroundings. The forest around him was peaceful, with no sounds beyond the wind rustling the leaves above him and the occasional chirps of small animals. To his left, he saw nothing but trees.

To his right, where there was an arm's length of open space, he spotted a familiar bundle of brown cloth: a tiny body curled up in sleep, the small green head resting against the ground. The child.

How could the child be here? Din had left him safely hidden, not far from the edge of the woods.

This was the second inexplicable thing Din had seen in the minutes since he'd come around, and right away, it seemed to him that the two must be connected. The child was capable of feats beyond anything else Din had ever witnessed. It wasn't too much of a stretch that healing him could've been another one of those, especially since there was no one else around.

"Hey, kid," he called out, reaching with his right hand to gently nudge the sleeping child.

The child didn't open his eyes, only murmured softly, and grasped Din's hand with both arms, hugging it close. It was such an adorable gesture of trust that the warmth blossoming beneath Din's breastplate momentarily drowned every hint of discomfort.

If Din hadn't seen the child lift the mudhorn with his powers, he would never have suspected that someone so tiny and vulnerable could've been the one to rescue him—but he'd seen it, and he knew there was more to this child than met the eye. Just like after that other miracle, the kid seemed wiped out, no doubt in need of a long nap to regain his strength. It was Din's turn to protect him.

At the moment, they weren't in any immediate danger. Din had managed to kill the beast, even if it had been a narrow escape. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the beast that he had to worry about.

Checking the time told him that he'd been unconscious for almost half a day. Too long. They couldn't stay here. They had to get back to the Crest. The meager fuel reserves they had left should be enough to get them to another nearby world. He might even settle for another inhabited town on this one. Moving around would be risky for him, but he hoped that if he was careful, he would manage long enough to get to safety and find proper medical attention.

Very slowly, using his right arm to push against the ground, Din sat up. So far so good. As an added precaution, he used his cape to create a makeshift sling, immobilizing his left arm. That should help minimize the movement on that side of his body, and work as a reminder that he needed to take care—not that he was likely to forget that there were claws nearly as long as his hand stuck between his ribs.

Picking up the sleeping child with one arm while trying to keep his upper body still was a challenge. Din found himself wishing the kid would wake up so that he could help by holding on, but he was out like a light. Din did manage to get up, hugging the kid firmly against his good side, but not without an ominous twinge of pain deep in his chest. Thankfully, after a moment spent standing in place and breathing shallowly, it settled.

He looked around, and quickly figured out how the kid had been able to locate him. The traces of dried blood, which had to be from the now-healed leg wound, were still visible on the ground. He could use the trail to find his way back, but he was concerned that it'd also lead potential pursuers straight to them.

Din had been sent to these woods ostensibly to find a youngster lost while hunting an animal the locals liked to eat, although the job had felt off from the start. The group that had recruited him had seemed shifty, their weapons better suited for hunting bounty than game. In hindsight, he suspected that their story had been made up, and they'd sent him out here to feed him to the beast. They were probably after his beskar, or the kid, or both. He shouldn't have agreed to this job at all, but he badly needed credits for food and fuel, and they'd promised to pay well.

He expected those bandits were already looking for him. He'd have to pay attention as he got on the move. Pay attention to the surroundings, so that no one caught him at unawares; pay attention to his bad side, so that he didn't do some rash move and make the injury worse; and pay attention to the kid, as always.

He started making his way through the woods, each step light and measured. After a few minutes of adjusting his gait to his present limitations, he could fit the unavoidable crackles of leaves and twigs under his boots to the background rustle of foliage and animal noises. He'd practiced for years to perfect his stealth, and the bizarre injury he was dealing with wasn't going to disturb it. The familiarity of it, and the careful focus on the present, were good. They kept his thoughts sharp. He needed that. Even ignoring the claws, he could feel he wasn't fully recovered yet, getting winded easier than he should have.

Sooner than he'd expected, he arrived at the clearing where he'd faced off with the beast. Now that he thought about it, of course the distance had felt shorter than he'd remembered—going in the other direction, he'd been barely clinging to consciousness.

He had no need to revisit the beast's carcass. Instead, he stopped to listen carefully, scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger. There were none. The forest remained peaceful around them. The kid was starting to stir in his arms, greeting him with a sleepy babble.

Din squeezed the little one closer. "Welcome back, buddy. I need you to stay very quiet for now, okay?" he said, keeping his voice low. "We'll be back on the Crest soon."

The kid let out one more soft mutter, and settled down. Din trusted that he'd gotten the message. He could be unpredictable, but he was usually well-behaved when things got tough.

Satisfied that there wasn't anyone or anything lurking in the trees around them, Din headed to the west, picking out a new path through the woods. He was going to do a wide loop, approaching the ship from further away. It'd take longer, but it would be less predictable than the most direct route.

Either the alternative path worked, or they were not being pursued after all; the only thing they encountered was a mouse-like purple creature hurrying to hide in its hole. Din was glad that there were no external threats, because he had enough concerns without those. He was starting to feel light-headed, so that he had to take a break every now and then, leaning on a tree until he got his balance back. He hoped it was just residual weakness from earlier blood loss, or lack of oxygen because he was trying to keep his breaths superficial. Aside from an occasional pang when he'd inhaled deeper, his side didn't feel too bad, so he didn't think he'd done any serious damage there.

The cover of trees was getting more and more sparse. Din had left the Razor Crest close to the edge of the woods, but he'd still have to step out into the open to cross the final hundred meters or so. In some other situation, he might have laid down on the ground and crawled to the very last bushes, to scan the surroundings carefully before leaving the shelter, but right now, that wasn't something he could do. He had to settle for staying further back, with a less complete view.

As far as he could tell, everything seemed quiet. No movement around the Crest, no noises that were out of place. That was the best he could get. They were almost at the ship, anyway.

He'd taken exactly five steps without the protection of the trees and bushes when the blaster fire began.

Reacting on instinct, Din quickly shifted the kid to his left arm, tearing it out of the cape-sling, so that he could pull his blaster with the right. It was a stupid move: the kid's weight pushed against the ends of the claws, and Din's chest lit up in agony as they dug deeper. He fell on one knee, but somehow managed to return fire. He didn't expect he hit anything, shooting blindly into the bushes.

The shots were coming from closer to the Crest. The bandits must've set up an ambush along the shortest path from the beast to the ship; Din had bought himself time by picking another route, but he'd still have to face them.

He retreated to the cover of the trees, rearranging the kid against his breastplate, trying to fight through the pain and catch his breath. He hadn't really gotten there before running footsteps warned him of two approaching bandits, rushing through the woods to engage him up close.

The battle that followed was brief, but brutal. Din had exactly one goal: incapacitate his enemies as quickly and efficiently as possible. They weren't very good fighters, which was probably why they'd sent him to the beast instead of attacking him themselves. In some other situation, Din might've almost felt sorry for them, but now, he was grateful for their lack of skill, because it saved his life. He would've been in no condition to face someone more evenly matched.

The first, human bandit soon fell with her own blade deep in her throat. The young Weequay hesitated at the grisly sight, and that was all Din needed to take him down, too, with a blaster bolt between the eyes.

They hadn't landed many hits on Din, just a few haphazard kicks and punches and some shots deflected harmlessly off his beskar. Unfortunately, that didn't mean he'd made it through unhurt. The swift movements he'd needed to hold them off while protecting the kid had taken their toll. His chest was on fire, torn up from the inside. He tasted iron at the back of his throat.

He'd fallen to his knees next to the two dead bandits, and the kid was tugging at his cape, making concerned noises.

They had to get to the ship, right now, when he still had some shreds of strength left. He wasn't sure how many bandits there were in total, but there had to be more than these two. The weapons on this pair didn't match the shots of the initial assault, so there was at least one more enemy hidden somewhere closer to the Crest. One that could be on the move already, looking for a better vantage point now that they knew Din's location.

Din didn't believe for one second that he'd be able to face another enemy feeling like this. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to. His priority was to get to the Crest, and it wasn't far.

He pressed the buttons on his vambrace to open the side ramp. As soon as he saw it begin to lower, he grabbed the kid in both arms, holding him close, ducked his head, and took off towards the ship, moving as fast as he could manage.

To call it a sprint would've been exaggerated. At best, it was a wobbly jog. Bolts started raining on him again as soon as he left the cover of the trees. He kept going, trusting his beskar to take the hits. Luckily, most of them went wide. Even if he wasn't very fast, he was a moving target, and these bandits weren't any better at mid-range than they had been in a melee. Even Stormtroopers had better aim.

Din should've done this right away; he would've already been on the ship and much better off.

He wasn't many paces away from the ramp when a lucky shot glanced his left shin. The thick layers of leather protecting his legs meant he'd probably get away with just a bruise, but the force of the impact cost him his already shaky balance.

Again, his instinctual reaction was about the worst thing he could've done: he brought his left hand to catch his fall, so that he could push off the ground and get back to his feet as quickly as possible. The impact jolted his side almost as if he'd been stabbed again. He groaned out loud, and couldn't stop himself from coughing. Bright flecks of blood spattered over the older, dried stains inside his helmet.

He had to keep going. He was almost there.

He staggered to his feet, narrowly dodging another blaster bolt that singed a patch of grass to his right.

The ramp was right there, looming at the center of his field of vision, which was starting to fray at the edges. Another step, and another, and his boots hit metal.

More bolts caught the ramp and the side of the ship, enough of them to convince Din that there was more than one bandit shooting at him, but that didn't matter.

It only took four more steps, and he was inside. He hit the controls to close the ramp and sank to the floor, releasing the child from his hold. The kid turned to face Din, eyes wide. He looked frightened, but thankfully unharmed.

Din still wanted to get them off this planet, or at least off the ground, to make sure no one could board the ship. He had to get up and climb to the cockpit.

He braced his good side against the wall and tried to push himself upright—but he couldn't. The headlong dash to the ship had sapped what energy he'd had left. His legs folded, his vision graying out. Every breath hurt like there were a dozen claws inside his chest instead of two, and the suffocating, drowning feeling was growing worse by the second.

He grit his teeth, struggling to cling to consciousness so that he could attempt getting up again. He was still on his knees when he heard and felt an explosion rock the ship. It came from towards the aft and to his right. His gut feeling said it had been the thruster. A lucky shot from the bandits, whose weapons hadn't seemed heavy enough to damage the ship. They must've caught a fuel line, or some other critical weak point.

Suddenly, it seemed all too likely that Din wouldn't be able to get them airborne even if he made it to the controls.

As much as he tried to resist, Din could feel despair taking over. They were trapped, he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do. It was shock, he knew it, this feeling of inevitable death and complete helplessness. He'd seen it often enough in others who were bleeding out.

The kid broke him out of the daze he was sinking into, letting out a concerned babble. Din tried to look at him, but he couldn't see much, with fading vision and a bloodstained visor.

The kid had healed him earlier, after he'd faced the beast, Din was convinced of that. Could he do that again? Would he do that again when Din passed out?

The first time had already been a strain on the kid, and Din hadn't felt entirely normal afterwards, so he supposed a second time would be worse. If the kid fixed him again with the claws stuck as they were, at best Din would wake up to find himself in the same predicament as before. Fighting off the remaining bandits would be just as difficult. Something as simple as climbing the ladder would be risky, let alone doing repairs on the ship. In the worst case, he'd end up like this again, and would have to rely on the child a third time.

There was only one thing he could think of that could solve all of this: he'd have to get rid of the claws. Then, assuming the kid could heal him, he'd be able to do it properly, once and for all.

Din felt another coughing fit coming on and pushed open his helmet to spit out the blood. No matter how he fought for breath, he wasn't getting enough air. Just holding himself up on all fours was a struggle. He sealed his helmet and let himself slump to the floor on his good side, his back against the wall.

His thoughts were growing dim and distant, just like his vision; it was hard to hold on to them. He tried to think of any solutions that wouldn't put the kid at risk, but none came to him.

It would be a leap of faith—he had no actual proof that the kid had healed him in the first place, although he believed it with every cell in his dying body. The uncertainty probably should have frightened him, and yet, it didn't. He was ready to trust his life to this green child, as much as he hated to burden him with it.

"Kid—I'm really sorry about this," he managed to rasp. As last words, they'd be accurate enough, if this didn't go the way he was hoping it would.

He brought badly trembling hands to his side, grabbed the blood-slick ends of the claws as firmly as he could, and tugged with all his remaining strength to wrench them out.

It was too much.

In his many years, Grogu had seen a lot of bloodshed. He'd felt the pain of others as if it were his own, and he'd witnessed deeds so horrific that he couldn't even think of them; he'd hidden those memories far away in the dark corners of his mind.

Even if he was no stranger to such things, it didn't make facing them any easier.

Grogu did not want to see what was happening now, but although he bowed his head and hid his face in his hands, he couldn't escape it. He could still smell the metallic tang of gore. He heard his Mandalorian gasp for breath and cry out in pain, and he felt the wrongness in the Force, the unbearable suffering that took over all his mind.

At first, he didn't understand why his Mandalorian was doing this—why would he make his wounds worse, why would he choose to cause such agony to himself, to both of them. When Grogu glimpsed again, between his fingers, he saw the explanation. The Mandalorian was pulling two long, curved claws out of his side. Grogu had seen similar claws before, pale against the deep green of the dead monster's hide. He realized then that he'd failed, earlier, when he'd tried to heal his friend. He hadn't noticed those claws. He'd left them in place, and the healing had not been complete.

There was so much blood as the claws came out: a flood pouring from the gouges gaping in the Mandalorian's side, painting his armor crimson, starting to pool around him.

His hands went limp, the claws clattered to the floor as they fell from his grasp, and then he was quiet and still. His right arm was extended as if to reach out, and his helmet faced Grogu, but Grogu knew that his eyes no longer saw. The sound of his breaths had turned faint. He was fading. Soon, he would pass beyond the realm of the living.

The voices of Grogu's teachers echoed in his mind, saying that death was a part of life, and that not all death was bad. To be a Jedi was to accept this. A Jedi would not grow too attached, and when the time came, they would let go. They might feel sad, but they would stay calm, and not be overrun by grief.

Grogu was not sad, and he was not overwhelmed. He was resolute.

This wasn't the end. His Mandalorian could not die. There was nothing natural about this. This was wrong, so deeply wrong—and it was Grogu's fault that this was happening, wasn't it? If only he'd healed his Mandalorian properly in the forest, they'd both be fine. They would be flying towards new adventures, this place with its bandits and beasts far behind them. Everything would be well and good and as it should be.

Grogu stepped closer to his unconscious friend and placed his palms as close as he dared to those terrible wounds. He could see that the bleeding had dwindled, and he knew that was bad. It meant that there wasn't enough life left in his Mandalorian for his blood to flow.

Just as before, as Grogu had learned to do, he called out to the Force: Save this one! Heal him! It's not his time. This is a mistake, and we must put it right!

The Force was slow to respond. The Mandalorian was worse than the last time; he'd not even had time to fully recover from his first close brush with death. Grogu was still tired, as well, and he was finding it so, so hard to focus, with the horrible scene in front of him, the worry, and the regretful realization that he could have prevented this. Still, he didn't give in.

He closed his eyes, focusing his entire being on coaxing and cajoling the Force to do as he asked, to correct this fault, to repair this tear in its tapestry.

Time slowed down until it didn't exist anymore, nor did the world outside. There were no forests, no planets, no universe beyond the one consisting of Grogu and the task at hand, the Force and the broken body of his Mandalorian. This was all that mattered.

After some infinity had passed, there was a shift. The Force did hear his call, and although it was sluggish, it reacted. He kept his eyes firmly closed, so he didn't see it, but he could feel it work: the mangled body started to heal, and life grew stronger where little had been left.

As long as he could, in this timeless time, Grogu held on to the Force and the command to help his Mandalorian, but there was only so much strength in him. In the end, his focus faltered and exhaustion took over. He sank to the floor by his friend's helmet, oblivious to the crimson pool that he landed in.

This time, he was still terribly worried when he went to sleep, because he was not sure he had done enough.

For the second time in less than a day, Din woke up from what in any other situation would have been his death's sleep.

Unlike in the forest, he wasn't entirely pain-free: the first thing he became aware of was an ache between his ribs, almost like a stitch in his side, only higher up. Anxious of what he might find, he brought his left hand to feel around.

As he could expect, the torn fabric of his flight suit was stiff with dried blood. Underneath it, where the claws had been, his skin felt tender—he imagined it would be red and purple if he looked—but it was intact. The wounds had closed.

He let his arm relax and breathed out a sigh of relief. His side protested, the bruised muscles cramping, but he didn't think it was serious. He inhaled again, deep, held it, then let go, testing how it felt. It was fine. Air flowed effortlessly, and the ache was nothing like the agony from before. This wasn't a mortal wound, but an injury well on the mend.

He'd survived, again, but what had been the price that the child had paid for it?

As he opened his eyes and pulled in his outstretched right arm, he found that the kid was lying right under his chin. From this position, it was difficult to see him well, so Din went on to push himself upright, propping his back against the wall. The change in position sent another cramp through his side and made his head spin. He wasn't surprised to feel weak after the ordeal he'd been through. He wasn't concerned, though, not for himself. All his concern was for the child.

Looking down, he saw that the kid hadn't moved at all. He rested perfectly still on the floor, on his side, and half his outfit was coated in blood. As much as Din knew that it must be his own, not the child's, the sight was so horrendous that it made his bruised chest constrict as if his ribs were being squeezed in.

The child didn't react in any way as Din picked him up: not a single sound nor the slightest twitch. Concern deepening into despair, Din realized that he couldn't even tell if the child was breathing. He pulled off one glove and placed his hand above the kid's face, holding his own breath. Thankfully, he could feel a whisper of air against his bare skin. The kid was alive, although this was clearly unconsciousness, not regular sleep.

Din cradled the child's head with his ungloved hand, running his thumb over the fuzz-covered head.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever felt such guilt before. After providing for his Covert for years, he was familiar with the responsibility of having others depend on him, but in the end, those were other Mandalorians. Most of them were adults, and just as skilled as him. He'd always known he wasn't irreplaceable. If one day he'd failed to return, others would have stepped in. The Covert would survive without him. The child, on the other hand—the child was his responsibility, and his alone.

The child seemed to trust Din without any reservations, just as he'd come to trust the child himself. Din wasn't convinced he deserved such trust, and he certainly wasn't convinced he deserved to live when it had taken such a toll on the little one. It was a high price to pay, and he suspected he might not even know the full breadth of it.

So far, he'd seen the child recover and bounce back to his usual self after using his powers, but he couldn't help wondering if there might be other consequences. What if it would cut years off his long lifespan? Not to mention the toll on his young and vulnerable mind. No one so young and innocent should ever need to experience such horrors. Just now, the cargo hold around them looked like a slaughterhouse, and Din knew his last moments before he'd passed out, extracting those claws from his side, must have been gruesome to watch.

He hated that he'd put the child through all this, but then again, Din reminded himself, he hadn't had a whole lot of choice. If things had gone any other way, he would be dead, and the kid would be stuck on the ship alone. Whatever would've followed after that, it couldn't have been good.

Putting aside the guilt, the most important thing was that they were both alive. Din would do all he could to make the kid's sacrifice worth it, to prove that he did deserve this trust. He'd get them both out of this mess.

He got up, slowly, staying close to the wall to be safe. It wasn't really necessary; he did feel shaky, but the worst of the dizziness had already passed. His vision would've been clear if not for the gore inside his helmet, which obscured large patches of it, turning the air stale. His clothes and armor were no better, with dried blood all over his cape and flight suit, his cuirass more red than silver. All that could wait, though. First, he needed to focus on the child.

With movements more tender than he'd known he was capable of, Din undressed the kid's stained clothes, swathing him in clean blankets instead. During all this, the kid still didn't as much as wiggle or snore, and when he was snugly cocooned in his pram, Din had to lean in to convince himself the little one was still breathing.

The regret was bubbling up again, but he ignored it as best he could. It was useless—it wouldn't help Din sort this out. He took off his helmet to give the inside a quick scrub, because it really was pretty nasty, not to mention that he needed his full vision. As he worked, his thoughts were already on what to do next, and his regret quickly shifted to anger. None of this would've happened without the bandits. He was angry at himself for taking the job even though he'd had his suspicions, but he was far angrier at those cowards for not facing him properly in the first place.

He remembered thinking during his rush back to the Crest that there were at least two bandits left. He tried to guess at what they would've done after he'd escaped them. They'd seen his unsteady gait as he'd crossed the opening, so they'd know that he was injured, although they wouldn't know how badly.

They probably wouldn't have abandoned their mark. Since the ship had remained in place and quiet, they might've tried to break in, but if they had tried, obviously they hadn't gotten through. It was possible that they'd gone away to fetch better tools, or just to bring in more people. There might be a larger crowd waiting outside. Of course, there was also the simplest option, that they'd remained in hiding, waiting for Din to make another appearance, hoping they'd get another shot at finishing him off.

Once his visor was passably clean, Din took a moment to wash off the worst of the smears on his face, the put the helmet on again. The rest of his gear could wait.

He climbed up to the cockpit to get a proper look at the surroundings and to find out what state the ship was in. To his great surprise, the only alarm that showed up on the displays was for low fuel. He saw nothing to indicate that anyone had tried to breach the hull, and it seemed like the hit that the ship had taken before Din had succumbed to his wounds hadn't been as damaging as he'd thought. Perhaps the despair and shock had driven him to overestimate it.

Looking out through the windows, he couldn't see much with his regular visual settings: the long local day had turned to night, the view only lit by two moons and the field of stars. Night vision revealed no movement, although the grass was disturbed around the ship, suggesting that people had been there. There was nothing on thermal scans, either, but he couldn't be sure there wasn't someone hiding deeper beyond the tree line.

Although Din was angry at the bandits, he didn't have any deep-seated need for revenge. If he'd been entirely convinced his ship was space-worthy, he would've taken off right away. His priority was to get them to a safer location where the kid could recuperate, and Din could find another job and refuel the ship. He wasn't convinced the ship was intact, though, not with the memory of that explosion still nagging at the back of his mind. The Crest was old, and its sensors were by no means foolproof. He needed to get a better look.

He'd have to go outside, and that meant he'd have to be prepared for anything, because he couldn't be sure he was alone. If it turned out that he wasn't—well, he might not be particularly set on vengeance, but if those bandits shot one more bolt at him, they'd be very, very sorry.

Din returned to the cargo hold, and after checking on the child—no change in his condition—he opened the weapons locker. He'd been careless to go to the woods with nothing more powerful than a regular blaster. Even if he'd been expecting a tracking and rescue mission, and his clients hadn't mentioned any dangerous wildlife, it was still a dense forest on a planet he wasn't familiar with.

He grabbed a new vibroblade to replace the one he'd lost when fighting the beast, and picked up his amban rifle. If he'd had that with him in the first place, this whole job would probably have turned out quite different.

Rifle slung over his back, blaster drawn, he walked to the door at the end of the hold. If there were bandits expecting him, he'd best pick the less predictable exit, not the one he'd used before.

The ramp wasn't even halfway open when his enemies opened fire. Not particularly smart of them, because at this angle, there was no way they'd hit him, and now they'd given themselves away. Din also got the impression from the type of bolts and the locations they were coming from that these were the same pair he'd already faced, not a larger group.

Din stayed safely behind the wall as he waited for the ramp to lower all the way. After it got there, he gave it another minute just to keep the bandits on their toes, then dashed out. Instead of leaving himself open to further blasts, he dove off the ramp and under the ship, taking shelter behind the landing gear. It wasn't the best cover he could get, but together with his beskar, it was more than enough to keep him safe. His bruised side protested at the swift movements, but that barely registered with the adrenaline taking over.

He settled low on the ground and set up the rifle in front of him. Observing the initial volley of enemy fire had given him a decent impression of where they were: spaced well apart, one closer to the front of the ship, the other to the aft, almost directly across from his current position.

He went for the one near him, first. He could easily pick out the heat signature of the bandit at the edge of the forest, lying low and decently protected by the trees around them. That wasn't going to save their life.

Din loaded the rifle, but then used the blaster to shoot at the base of the tree in front of the bandit. Just as Din had expected, his enemy reacted carelessly, jumping up in surprise and leaving the cover long enough for Din to disintegrate them with one carefully aimed shot from his rifle.

One down, one to go.

Din turned his scope towards where he expected to find the second bandit, but he couldn't get a clear shot. Spooked by their fellow's demise, this one had also taken to their feet and was rapidly retreating deeper into the trees.

Going into the forest at night could be risky. The beast he'd killed had been so big that there probably wouldn't be many of those in the same area, but there might be other creatures that were just as dangerous. Still, Din wasn't about to let the last bandit get away.

He got up and hurried towards the treeline, slinging the rifle across his back as he went. With suitable settings on his visor, the view around him was as clear as day. He doubted his opponent would be able to see in the dark as well. Their only advantage was the headstart they'd gotten, and the fact that Din wasn't moving as fast as usual, hindered by his healing injury and lingering weakness.

He got to the edge of the woods where he'd last seen the bandit. The traces of their hasty flight were practically written in big red letters for Din to read, or rather, in disturbed leaves and broken branches.

He headed among the trees, going for full stealth, moving like a shadow in the night. Keeping to the side of his prey's path, he was easily able to track them, and it didn't take him too long to find the bandit, who had stopped, crouched behind some bushes, without the least idea that Din was close.

This last bandit was human, maybe in his early thirties, his hair slicked back and held in a bun. He didn't seem to be carrying any weapons in addition to the blaster rifle he'd been using. From the position he was in, he wouldn't be able to aim that rifle very fast.

This really was almost too easy.

Din could've picked up a weapon and ended this—whichever one would've done at such a close distance—but that would've been too rash. He had the perfect opportunity to find out what the bandits had been after in the first place.

In a few quick strides, he put himself behind the bandit, grabbed hold of him, and slid the vibroblade under his chin.

"Why are you trying to kill me?" Din demanded.

"I'm not, not anymore! Just let go of me, I'll be on my way!" the bandit replied, in quick nervous words. "I'll never bother you again, I promise!"

"Answer the question," Din said, keeping his hold, his blade unwavering in its position.

"Okay, Mando, okay—I'll answer, and you let me go, right?" the bandit tried. "Deal?"

Din had no intention of letting him get away with what he'd done, but that wasn't how he'd worded it. "Sure," Din said, loosening the blade slightly at the bandit's throat.

"So, yeah, uh, seriously, we just wanted your armor. That's it. Nothing against you or your people, no hard feelings," the bandit explained, speaking so fast the words were merging together. "Fonjey spotted you in town—he's been around a bit and he knew that stuff's worth a fortune. Enough to get us out of these backwoods. So, we came up with the plan. It was all for the money, you know."

Din had been suspecting something like that. His fight with the group had convinced him that they were not guild hunters, making it highly unlikely that they'd have a tracking fob for the kid. Nevertheless, it was good to have that confirmed. In fact, since he'd dealt with the bandits and knew there had been no threat to the kid in the first place, there was no reason Din couldn't return to the nearest town to continue his quest for fuel.

As for the remaining bandit—this incompetent party had been extremely lucky that Din had fallen for their ruse, but now, that luck had run out.

"You really should've made a better plan," Din said, and released his hold.

The bandit hadn't been expecting that, so he stumbled for several steps until he got his balance back. He glanced at Din over his shoulder. "Okay, I'll—I'll just be on my way now, yeah?" he stuttered.

When Din didn't answer, just stood in place, the bandit started retreating, stopping every now and then to take another look and see if Din was following. Din let him go on for some ten paces before drawing his blaster and shooting him in the side. Not an instantly fatal hit, but one that dropped the bandit to the dirt on his hands and knees, howling in pain, and left him with very little chance of making it out of this forest alive.

Din turned around and walked away.

There was something very, very important that Grogu needed to do. This was the first thing on his mind when he opened his eyes, although he didn't remember why. He was safe and comfortable in his cocoon, with many soft blankets, but he was uneasy. He wasn't supposed to be resting.

He sat up to find out where he was. Beyond the open doors of his pod he saw the ship that had become his home, although the hums and rumbles of flying were missing. They must be on the ground. There was just one noise, a scratchy one that wasn't like the ship's usual sounds. Turning his head towards it, Grogu spotted his Mandalorian crouched on the floor. He seemed to be scrubbing the metal with some tool, making that noise, and Grogu realized he was cleaning, because the floor around him was stained a rusty red.

This, of course, reminded Grogu of what the important thing had been, and he was appalled that he could have forgotten, even for a little while. Now that the memory had come up, he couldn't shake it off: the vision of the Mandalorian close to death and the glacially slow way the Force had responded when Grogu had tried to help.

The two views merged and overlapped in front of Grogu's eyes. In one, the Mandalorian was on the floor on his hands and knees to clean it, as he was doing at present. In the other, his pose was similar, but terrible coughs racked his body, and his helmet was partly raised to reveal the blood running down his chin and trickling to the floor.

Grogu must have cried out, because his Mandalorian dropped the brush and got to his feet to hurry to him.

Grogu was relieved to see that the Mandalorian's armor was as shiny and spotless as ever, without one red drop or even a speck of dirt. The fabric underneath was so dark that it was more difficult to be sure. Grogu held up both hands as his Mandalorian approached, and was soon picked up in the strong solid arms that had become familiar to him.

The Mandalorian's voice was full of warmth as he greeted Grogu, but there was something else in it as well, some sadness or concern that Grogu couldn't quite figure out.

Holding on to him, the Mandalorian backed away from Grogu's pod for a few steps, then sat down heavily on a crate, almost as if he was suddenly feeling weak. He'd been moving as swiftly and fluidly as usual, and Grogu hadn't thought that he'd seemed to be in pain, but this was a little worrisome.

Are you all right? Grogu asked, trying to push at the Mandalorian's arm so that he'd give Grogu a proper look at the side that had been hurt.

At first, his Mandalorian didn't seem to understand what Grogu wanted, his words sounding puzzled, but he soon caught on. He set Grogu on his lap and lifted his left arm to show that the fabric of his shirt was no longer torn, and there was no blood there, either. That might have fooled someone else, but Grogu caught the slightest wince that ran through him at the movement, so slight that he wasn't even sure if it was a physical shudder or a mere shiver in the Force. Someone who had not spent so much time close to the Mandalorian would not have noticed it. Grogu did.

He couldn't see what his Mandalorian's side looked like under the layers of clothing, but he was sure it wasn't fully healed. He'd failed, again.

He looked up at the expressionless helmet, frowning, letting his ears fall flat with disappointment. I'm sorry, I should've done better, Grogu said.

His Mandalorian took hold of him with both hands again, gloved fingers on his shoulders, and spoke soothingly. Grogu didn't know the words, but he knew the meaning. He was saying that Grogu had done well, and he had done enough, and that his Mandalorian would be back to full health very soon—and then there was an apology. Grogu was sure he understood it. The Mandalorian was sorry that Grogu had seen these bad things, and that he had needed to spend so much of his strength on healing.

The Mandalorian was also feeling guilty, Grogu realized. That was the strange sadness he had sensed earlier.

It didn't make any sense to Grogu. Why would his Mandalorian feel guilty? He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't meant to get hurt. He'd done his best to fight the monster, to keep them both safe, like he always did. Even when he'd been hurt, he hadn't asked for Grogu's help. If he had, Grogu would've helped him, just as he had now.

As he thought of all this, it came to Grogu that his own guilt didn't make sense, either. The Mandalorian's injuries had not been Grogu's fault. The monster had wounded him, and then the enemies hiding in the woods had made it worse. Grogu had done everything he could to help his Mandalorian. Although it hadn't been perfect, it had been good enough. They were both here, back on the home-ship. His Mandalorian might be a little hurt, still, but he would get better.

Neither of them should be feeling guilty. They'd both done their best to protect each other, just as they always did, because they were friends—or maybe not just friends. Maybe they were family. Grogu hadn't had one in a long time, but he thought this was what family felt like.

He looked up, hoping his eyes met his Mandalorian's where they were hidden behind the dark visor.

It's fine. We don't need to feel guilty, Grogu told him. He wished he could speak in words that his Mandalorian understood, or that they could hear each other through the Force, but since they couldn't, he did his best to convey this message, with a smile on his face and joy in his eyes. We did our best, and it was enough.

For a moment, the Mandalorian seemed confused, tilting his head to one side. It was a cold face that he showed to the world, all silver and black and without emotions, but Grogu knew that there was much kindness behind it. Some of Grogu's words or thoughts must have made it through, because slowly, his Mandalorian's shoulders relaxed beneath his armor, the earlier tension leaving his body. When he finally spoke again, Grogu could tell from his tone that he was smiling, too.

The Mandalorian stood up, placing Grogu safely in the crook of his arm. He was talking more, explaining about where they were; it sounded like it was the same planet, but a different place. As he spoke, he walked ahead, carrying Grogu across the hold, and he pressed the buttons to open the big door at the end of it.

The door began to lower. Bright daylight streamed in, and air that was warmer than in the forest with the monster. There was a sweet scent in it, like many flowers, or the tastiest desserts. Grogu liked it, and was curious to find out where it came from.

It was the start of another adventure, Grogu thought. He hoped this would be a nice one—but even if it wasn't, he knew they would be all right, because he and his Mandalorian would do everything they could to keep each other safe.