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There is a story the Tuskens teach their children, when the moons of Tatooine vanish behind the fierce howls of the summer sandstorms. Even the youngest child learns of the stone-fox and how it hides away, as the winds lash the sands and the ground's heat swells. The stone-fox is wise, for it finds the bones of the lands and follows them to safety, to hidden dens carved within the deep, strong rocks. And so it lives to emerge another day, a survivor of the storms.
Tar'kidas led the Mandalorians and the child back to their camp, watching curiously from the back of their bantha. They had only ever studied settlers and offworlders from a great distance, and it was strange to see them so close. Their cousins had spoken to them of a Mandalorian covert in the dunes, years ago; had told them that some had even learned their language. They had doubted the tales, and yet here a Mandalorian was, speaking Tusken in hand and voice with near fluency. So it was true, then, of at least some Mandalorians.
The other was clearly not of the same clan as the one in silver armor, for his face seemed lost, and he spoke with all the arrogance their people expected of outsiders. Tar'kidas paid that one little mind. He would learn from the one in silver, or he would die; they feared him not.
But they did not know what to make of the child.
He sat trustingly in the arms of the silver one, watching the banthas and their people with great fascination. His eyes, so exposed for travel in the desert, widened with excitement as they made camp and erected their tents. Firelight danced in the depths of his gaze.
Tar’kidas wondered what he was. Who he was. The one in silver seemed to care for him as if they belonged together, yet they made such a strange pair.
Tar’kidas shook their head. They had done their task, bringing the outsiders to meet with the elders; now Tar’kidas knew they must turn their attention to other things. Tar’kidas gathered up their grooming tools, and focused on currying their bantha, Skiran. It had been a long day in the dunes and they both were weary.
They had only managed to brush Skiran’s front legs when Tar’kidas felt a tug on their robe. It was so soft at first they thought they had imagined it, but it came again, more insistently. Tar’kidas looked down, and the child stared up at them, his curious ears held in a question. He reached out and cautiously touched Skiran’s fur, then quickly pulled his hand back again.
“Be careful. Skiran is tired after a long journey,” said Tar’kidas in a mixture of sound and hand-speech.
The child looked puzzled.
“The Mandalorian has not taught you our tongue?” Tar’kidas asked, surprised.
The child’s ears dropped down to his shoulders in confusion. He looked back at the Mandalorians at the fire, and the one in silver got to his feet, making his way over to them.
“I’m sorry if he is disturbing you,” said the Mandalorian, his hands flashing.
“He is not. He was curious about the bantha, but he did not understand me. Does he speak?”
“Not in any language I know,” the man said. “I’ve tried many.”
“Perhaps he can be taught,” said Tar’kidas. “There is something strange about him, yes? As if he is wiser than a child should be.”
The Mandalorian knelt beside them, lifting the child into his arms. He straightened up and tilted his helmet to the child. His speech was clumsier now, limited as it was to one hand and his voice, but his meaning was still clear. “I’ve thought so, too.”
“Be careful, little stone-fox,” Tar’kidas said, holding their hands up to the child’s eye level. The child focused intently on their hands as they flashed, and the Mandalorian translated Tar’kidas’ words into Basic for the child. “This one will lead you true, even if the sandstorms rage.”
The child blinked, his small face serious in the moonlight. And Tar’kidas knew that somehow, he had understood.