Archive of Our Own

“Fuck!” Migs swears under his breath as his boot slips, sending a small cascade of pebbles over the edge of the narrow footpath into the darkness.

Mando, already descending the next switchback, takes his attention off the path long enough to glance up at Migs. “Still with me?”

“So far. You’re still convinced this is necessary?” Mando sighs, and Migs raises both hands placatingly before quickly returning one to the rockface for balance. “Okay, okay! I know. I’m not trying to talk you out of it. But you can’t get redeemed if you’re dead.”

“That’s why this is important. It’d be less than ideal to die without being redeemed.”

“Personally, I think dying sounds less than ideal either way.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

Mando resumes walking, and Migs resumes following. A tremor from an unknown source shakes the underground cavern. Mando loses his footing in the loose scree and slides down the narrow path for a moment before catching himself on an outcropping with a grunt. Migs stays as far from the edge as he can until the shaking stops, clinging to narrow hand-holds so he doesn’t slide right after Mando.

The ledge they’ve been walking along starts to crumble away, a rift opening between them. After their exit from the refinery on Morak, Migs had hoped he’d never need to take another literal leap of faith for Mando.

The gap is widening. Migs stumbles backward. He waves Mando on. “Just go! You can still make it! I’ll meet you back at the surface!”

There is a rumble and more rocks start to slide. Mando starts toward him at a run. “Get back! The whole shaft is collapsing!”

***

“Mayfeld,” Mando said, ignoring Migs’ double-take and taking a seat at the bar without waiting for an invitation. “How—how have you been?”

“How have I—” As though he hadn’t done Migs the dubious favor of dumping him in the jungle the last time he saw him. “Um, okay I guess? Not dead and not in prison, so I can’t complain too much. How ’bout you? I’m assuming you got your kid back. Though I can’t help noticing he’s not here.”

“Yup, he’s fine,” Mando said brusquely, clearly not wanting to get into details. “I’m going to see him after this. I have a gift for him. But I have some business I was hoping to take care of first. That’s where you come in.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I…learned of a way to be absolved for breaking my Creed.” Mando shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Migs had to think about what he meant. “Oh. Oh! The helmet thing? Hey, that’s great! It always seemed pretty fucked up that anyone would hold that against you.”

Mando sighed. “It’s not so great. I was told by my tribe’s Armorer that such a sin can only be redeemed in the living waters beneath the mines of Mandalore.”

“Mandalore? Are you fucking kidding me? So that’s why you picked me for this expedition. Thought you could guilt-trip me, didn’t you? Because of…what I saw?”

“Maybe a little. Is it working?” Before Migs could respond with a resounding fuck no, Mando continued.

“I want to formally speak the Mandalorian vows of adoption to Grogu.” Seeing Migs’ confusion, he clarified, “The child. He was my foundling, but in my heart he is my son, and I want him to know that. That I will always…always love him, no matter where his path leads him. But in order to speak those vows as a Mandalorian in good standing with my covert…”

“You need a clean slate; got it. So, your people…they found out somehow?”

Very quietly, Mando said, “Yes. Somehow.”

“Fuck. Well, it wasn’t me; I haven’t said a word to anyone about seeing your—what I saw. I thought we’d left that whole incident behind us.” Mayfeld raised an eyebrow at him. “And yet, here we are.”

“Yeah. Here we are.”

“The ‘living waters,’ huh? So what’s living in ’em? I’m guessing some kind of gross bacteria at the bare minimum. You couldn’t find any other takers to sign on for this mission?”

“I haven’t asked anyone else. I didn’t want to explain what happened. With you…I don’t have to.”

“How convenient for you.” Mayfeld sighed and rubbed his brow. “I know I’m gonna regret this, but…you’re paying me handsomely, right?”

“Your compensation.” Mando set a sizable bag of credits on the table, followed by a second, smaller bag. “I need you to find us a used ship too. Something that won’t attract attention.”

“It’s hard to say no when you’re making those eyes at me.” Mando tilted his helmet sharply, affronted, and Mayfeld grinned. He jangled the credits for a moment before he said, “Fuck it, fine,” and shook Mando’s hand.

***

Mando sprints back up the path and uses his jetpack to launch himself across the gap, reaching Migs as the solid ground starts to crumble out from under him. “Hang on!” Mando grabs his hand.

As he dangles over the pit, Migs silently prays to something, anything that will listen—the Force, the Mando gods, whatever’s gonna keep him alive. He’s not too proud to scream out loud, though.

Mando braces himself against the rock, trying to pull Migs up. “I won’t let go!”

“You fucking better not!”

***

They’d named it the Womp Rat. It was Migs’ idea, the result of cursing the ship out while he was unclogging the vacc tube in the tiny fresher. Migs intended it to be derogatory, but when Mando said it, it sounded almost affectionate. It had two seats—unlike Mando’s fucking midlife-crisis starfighter—but that was about its only redeeming feature. The interior was so cramped it was barely livable; there was one tiny fold-down bunk that they took turns using.

The Womp Rat was slow as fuck and had a short range, which meant stopping to refuel every five seconds. Mando put his helmet on for fuel stops, but he’d given up wearing most of his armor while they were knocking elbows on the ship. When they got close to Mandalore, he stopped getting out entirely, giving the credits to Migs and staying in the ship to avoid attracting attention.

They’d approached the planet cautiously, and managed to land safely without attracting any unwanted attention from pirates, scavengers, or Imperial remnants. Mando had put his helmet back on for that part, so Migs couldn’t see whatever emotions crossed his face when he viewed the devastation first-hand from orbit.

They concealed the ship amid the debris that covered the planet’s surface. Migs absentmindedly categorized the wreckage into ‘salvage’ and ‘junk’ at a glance as they worked, the habit ingrained in him after his stints in the Roost and the Karthon chop fields. Everything here had already been picked over at least once by the Empire or subsequent scavengers, hoping to find beskar.

The search was hard on Mando. Hard on them both. Migs was constantly reminded of Burnin Konn, and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the scale of what had happened on Mandalore was worse. They didn’t talk about Morak. Migs thought maybe they didn’t need to, if they were going to fix it. In the meantime, Migs heated up their meals and worked on the ship while Mando looked at maps and scouted the surface.

They started sharing the bunk at night. More accurately, Mando started it: one night Migs woke up to find himself sandwiched between the wall and Mando’s back. The two of them barely fit. They both had to lie on their sides if they wanted breathing room, and more often than not, there was no space between them. They switched sides depending on the night; whoever went to bed first slept closest to the wall.

By some miracle, Migs managed to only have one Burnin Konn nightmare during their time on Mandalore. After that rude awakening, he wondered if Mando would kick him out of bed, or go back to trying to sleep in his chair in the cockpit. But he didn’t. He sat with Migs, offering him nothing more or less than he asked for, just being present until his heart stopped pounding and his fears eased.

The next morning, Migs started wondering what else Mando would give him if he was brave enough to ask.

***

They both start to fall into the abyss. Mando does not let go of Migs; he holds on tighter, controlling their descent as best he can with the jetpack. Mando shifts his weight suddenly and sends them hurtling toward the rockface, into a side tunnel Migs isn’t even aware of until they’re inside it, crashing to the floor.

Rocks continue to fall in the main shaft, blocking the entrance. They’re trapped, but at least they’re not dead.

***

It had taken Mando a while to find a way down. Migs hadn’t believed there was anything to find, but if there was, Mando would be the one to find it. It was nearly sundown, about a week into their search, when Mando discovered a promising tunnel. They decided to go the next morning.

Mando was restless, and Migs did his best to keep out of his way until he finally turned in for the night. Migs waited until he thought Mando was asleep before settling carefully onto the edge of the bunk, trying not to wake him while claiming a corner of their only blanket. He held his breath when Mando wrapped an arm around him and leaned his forehead against Migs’ shoulder.

Migs listened to Mando’s breathing in the dark. “Taking off your helmet—it’s not all bad, right? Are you enjoying your freedom at least a little bit? While you can?” Mando’s answer was a wordless hum; Migs felt it vibrate through his chest.

***

After they untangle themselves and determine that nothing is broken, they activate their emergency glowrods and take stock of their surroundings.

Migs feels jittery after their narrow escape. He shines his light on the rockslide. “Think you can push through the top of this pile and get to the main shaft? You could probably fly out.”

“I don't think I could get through. A grav charge might do it, but it also might bring more rock down on our heads.”

“You could try.”

“I could try, but what about you?”

“I dunno, come back with a rope or something?”

Mando laughs. “It’d have to be a pretty long rope. Anyway, I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I don’t know why I’m pushing this. It’s not like I want you to leave me either. Anyway…thanks for catching me.”

“You’re welcome.” Mando clears his throat. “Just rest for a bit. I’ll go a little way down this tunnel. See if it leads anywhere.”

“Don't have to tell me twice.” Migs feels exhausted now that the euphoria of not dying is wearing off. He unslings his blaster rifle so he can lie on his back, his hands behind his head.

He’s pretty sure if he was with anyone other than Mando, he’d be freaking out about how they’d probably never make it out of the cave alive. Maybe he shouldn’t put as much faith in Mando as he does, but he believes in him in a way that he’s still trying to make sense of.

After a few minutes, Mando returns. He takes off his jetpack and helmet, easing himself down next to Migs before giving him the news. “It’s not good. The tunnel is clear for some distance, but then it forks, and the path leading up is blocked too. Our only option is to go deeper and hope for the best.”

“That sounds like what we came here for, so it could be worse.”

“It can still get worse.”

“So dismal all of a sudden. You think this is the end?”

“Hopefully not. If it is…there are a lot of things that I would say to you, and I don’t know where to start.”

“Then let me.”

Migs rolls over and braces his elbows on either side of Mando, leaning down and kissing him. Mando doesn’t seem surprised, closing his eyes and sighing. The whole thing is more gentle than Migs would have expected.

He pulls back and smiles down at Mando. “Is that kind of along the lines of what you were thinking?”

Mando smiles back softly. “It is. But you said it better than I could have.” He touches Migs’ cheek, pulling him down for another slow, soft kiss. Then a hint of sadness flashes in his eyes, and he starts to sit up.

Migs hastily gives him space. “Sorry. Do we need to get moving?”

Mando reaches for his right pauldron, detaching it and setting it next to his helmet. “I don’t mind taking a rest. I karked up my shoulder a bit when—when we were falling.”

“You mean when I was thrashing around while you were saving my ass?”

“Could be.” Mando takes off his chest plate and back plate too, and opens his arms in invitation.

Migs cautiously relaxes against him. “You’re okay taking that off in a public—um, cave?”

“It’s pitch black, and there’s no one else here to see me. Besides, my helmet’s already off. We don’t have the same explicit rules about the rest. And I think you’ll agree this is more comfortable.”

“So it’s okay to touch you but not see you? Who made these rules?”

“Not me.”

“Sounds like a slippery slope. You let someone see you without your armor, and next thing you know, you’re telling ’em your name.” His remark is met with deafening silence. Migs feels his gut clench a little. He should’ve known better than to bait Mando.

But when Mando speaks, he doesn’t sound annoyed. “Do you hear that?”

“What? The sound of me putting my foot in my mouth?”

“No. Water.”

***

“You’re not gonna wear any protection?”

“Excuse me?”

Mando gestured to himself, exasperated. “Armor.”

“Oh. No, not really my style. Never seemed to do the stormtroopers much good. Though I guess beskar is a hell of a lot nicer than plastoid. I bet you wish you could encase your kid in that stuff, huh? Keep him safe from everything.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Mando showed him a small bundle of red and white fabric, and unwrapped it to reveal a tiny chain-mail shirt. “I’m planning to give this to Grogu when I see him.”

Migs was quiet for a minute.

“What is it? You don’t think he’ll like it?”

“Nah, it’s just—a kid shouldn’t need something like that. Shouldn’t have to—” Migs shook his head. “Never mind. It’s good that he’s got his dad lookin’ out for him.”

***

They follow the sound of dripping water. The tunnel leads steadily downward before opening into a massive cavern. Strange glowing mineral deposits in the cavern walls illuminate the space, revealing an underground lake—just what they were hoping to see. The accompanying religious order of Mando-monks is a bit of a surprise, however.

They wear hooded cloaks over their armor and carry curved swords. Their helmets have fancy engraving—writing that Migs assumes must be Mando’a, and stylized symbols resembling fierce animals. They don’t have jetpacks or any of the glowing indicators Migs is used to seeing on Mando’s armor.

The other Mandos part to make way for a tall, thin man who wears the fanciest armor of all—a mix of metals and finishes, though it’s undoubtedly pure beskar underneath, as is the long, hooked staff he carries. His hood is thrown back, and his helmet is adorned with three large spikes—one on each side and one on top. He gestures with his staff, and the hooded figures surround them, cutting off their escape route.

“Let’s get you your forgiveness and get the fuck out of here!” Migs whispers.

Mando takes a step toward their leader. “Greetings, alor. I trust that we have found the living waters? The leader of my covert quested me to seek this place, that I may atone for removing my helmet. Please forgive our intrusion. I was unaware that any Mandalorians had survived the Purge on Mandalore.”

“Welcome, Kyr’tsad’ad. The verda who tend the oya’la pirun have followed the wisdom of the Way for centuries. Our faith has protected us, even as Manda’yaim burned. The redemption that you seek can be found here.” The alor extends his staff and touches it to Mando’s helmet. Migs can’t tell if the gesture is a blessing or a threat.

“What of your companion?” The leader turns to Migs. “You come before us with your face uncovered? Where is your buy’ce? Are you Mandalorian?”

Do I look Mandalorian to you? Migs thinks, but fortunately has the presence of mind not to say it out loud. He sticks with the truth but drops the sarcasm. “No, I’m not.”

Suddenly there are a bunch of Mandos pointing weapons at him. Then his Mando is in front of him, shielding him, saying, “Wait, wait!” The Mandalorians keep their swords pointed at them, but halt their advance.

“He is also Mandalorian. His beskar’gam was taken from him after he was defeated in battle. He has been branded dar’manda, and will not say he is Mandalorian until he has been redeemed.”

That was some quick thinking. Migs is impressed; maybe he’s been a good influence on Mando after all. The leader, the alor, seems to accept this explanation. “What are your names, apostates?”

Migs has a wild urge to introduce Mando as ‘Brown Eyes,’ and he’s so busy trying not to blurt it out that he almost misses Mando saying, “Din Djarin.” Then he’s so distracted by Mando’s revelation that Mando has to elbow him to remind him to say his own name.

“Please excuse my companion. It is difficult for him, being without his helmet.” Migs hears the hint of irony in Mando’s voice, aimed solely at him. They’re in the proverbial anooba’s den and Mando is feeling ballsy enough to make inside jokes? About Morak? The prospect of setting things right with his people must have him feeling pretty good.

“This is as it should be,” says the alor. “No Child of the Watch, no true child of the Manda, would feel comfortable being exposed thus. We will provide him with beskar’gam from our armory for the ritual of atonement.”

The Mando-monks waste no time in bringing him his own beskar. It turns out he needs to wear special garments under the armor for the plates to attach to, which he should have expected after seeing Mando—Din, his name is Din—suit up a few times. They may be all about the rituals here, but they don’t stand on ceremony; they make Migs strip right there on the shore of the lake and change his clothes in front of everyone. He guesses it makes sense; to them, he’s already walking around naked.

He stands still while the Mandos attach the various pieces of armor. He’s grateful that this seems to be part of the ceremony, or they’d catch on pretty quick that he’s never worn beskar before in his life. His armor is the same basic shape as Din’s. The metal has a dark, flat finish, with accents of black and bronze.

They hand him his helmet. He tries not to be obvious about the deep breath he takes before putting it on. The visor manages to make the dark cave even darker. So this is Mando-vision, he muses. He feels a touch on his shoulder and turns his head to see Din next to him.

“Hey. You doing okay in there?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Hearing himself speak through the helmet’s vocoder is doing a number on him, though.

The alor uses his staff to direct them both down a short flight of stone steps into the dark water of the lake itself; the verda follow them with blades drawn in case they change their minds. Their own weapons remain on the shore. There is a shallow shelf of rock to stand on, but the bottom quickly drops away to unknown depths. They stop side by side when the water comes up to their waists. The alor strides out onto a rocky peninsula and faces them. Then the questions begin.

“Din Djarin, have you ever removed your helmet?”

“Yes.”

“And you regret forsaking the Way?”

“I—it was never my desire to turn from the Way. I did what I had to do for the sake of my foundling.” Migs nods approvingly in silent agreement.

“Do you place the blame for your sins on your foundling?”

“No! Never. I only wished to explain—”

“So you regret forsaking the Way?”

“I regret that there was a need to—”

The alor leans on his staff, wearying of the conversation. “There is only one answer that will lead to your redemption.”

Din sighs, and steels himself. “I regret forsaking the Way.”

The alor turns to Migs, starting the questions over. “Migs Mayfeld, have you ever removed your helmet?”

“Ye—no.” A kick from Din’s boot under the water reminds him of their cover story.

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Yes.”

“And do you regret forsaking the Way?”

So it’s still ‘forsaking’ the Way if you get your ass beaten and robbed? Migs doesn’t have a high opinion of their lack of nuance, but he knows what they want to hear. “I regret forsaking the Way.”

The alor commands them to kneel down. The water comes up to their shoulders, lapping at the bottoms of their helmets. While immersed in the water, they are required to renew their commitment to the Creed, reciting the Resol’nare and making a plea for forgiveness. Fortunately it’s a repeat-after-me type of thing, or Migs would be totally lost. He’s grateful that Din’s earnest voice helps cover up his mumbled attempts at Mando’a. Here he is, accidentally joining their exclusive club when they think he’s just a lapsed fuck-up taking remedial Mando classes.

“Now for the trial.” The alor turns his back on them to face the lake. He pulls a long beskar flute from a pocket inside his robes; he lifts his helmet just high enough to bring the flute to his lips and play a few notes. The sound rings throughout the cavern.

“Trial?” Migs hisses. “What the fuck is this, Mando?” Din shrugs helplessly and jerks his helmet toward the center of the lake.

The dark water has begun to churn with phosphorescent light. Something is rising from the depths. Migs assumes it’s a dianoga, and a huge one at that. But then the creature’s head breaches the surface—a huge head with two bright eyes set in tough pinkish-red hide, and long spikes protruding from the top and sides. It’s clear now where the inspiration for the alor’s helmet came from.

The head is followed by a long neck, a gargantuan back covered with spines, paddle-like flippers, and a trailing tail. The alor plays a series of notes on the flute, and the creature begins to swim towards them, opening its mouth to reveal a flexible orange tongue and sharp teeth.

A wave hits them in advance of the creature’s arrival; Migs gets some water up under his helmet. He sputters and starts to panic, but forces himself to hold still. Din reaches for his hand under the water, anchoring him. The monster reaches the ledge and begins to experimentally run its tongue over them, probing the gaps in their armor.

Over the sound of his own hyperventilating, Migs can hear the alor speaking like he’s narrating the galaxy’s worst documentary holovid. “Throughout their history, Mandalorians have tamed mighty beasts to serve as their mounts. As the mythosaur was to the land, so the ichthyodont was to the sea.

“Though the mythosaur is with us no longer, the ichthyodont remains, found throughout our galaxy as a living reminder of the conquests of our ancestors.

“In the Panna system, the species split along two evolutionary paths. Both creatures have voracious appetites, but the ichthyodont subsists solely on vegetation, while its omnivorous relative the Panna dragon has developed a taste for metal. Together, the two species represent the conflict between stagnation and destruction, the essence of the Manda.

“The dragon you see before you can digest even beskar, though it takes many years. It was brought to the oya’la pirun as a youngling, and has grown strong here in this lake, tended by generations of verda. For years it fed on tribute extracted from the mines by those loyal to the Way. Now that the mines are silent, the food is brought down from the surface.” The alor gestures across the lake to the opposite shore, where a metal door is set into the side of the cavern. “It feasts upon the fragments of the fallen, devouring the hulls of downed ships, and even the remains of the great dome of Sundari itself. Your beskar should prove a great temptation to the Panna dragon. We’ll see if it judges you worthy of survival.”

Bullshit! More like we’ll find out how recently you fed it, Migs agonizes silently. The dragon looms over them.

Migs is squeezing Mando’s hand so tight, it’s a wonder he doesn’t break it. The dragon drags its tongue across them again, leaving a long smear of saliva on the beskar of their pauldrons and visors. Migs thinks they might be in the clear, but as it finishes the lingering sweep of its prehensile tongue, the trailing tip wraps around Migs’ forearm. It pulls Migs’ vambrace in its mouth, and closes down with its teeth, testing the strength of the metal. Migs yells in terror, but the armor doesn’t yield. Apparently it can’t bite straight through the beskar, but if it pulls his arm a little further into its mouth, it won’t have to.

Din wastes no time springing into action. He wedges a beskar-clad shoulder against the dragon’s jaw to ensure that the teeth don’t snap shut, wraps his arms around Migs, and pulls him back. Migs remains ensnared by the dragon’s tongue, but at least his arm is no longer in its mouth.

Without the benefit of his jetpack and weighed down by water, Din makes a mighty effort, and leaps up to grab the dragon’s flaring nostrils. He uses his body weight to pull the dragon’s mouth shut, forcing it to bite down with its metal-shearing teeth on its own tongue.

The dragon rears its head back and screams, the sound reverberating throughout the cave. Once it releases Migs from the grip of its injured tongue, Din lets go of its nose. They both crash backward into the shallows as the dragon retreats to the depths, its wake dissipating as it swims away.

Din gets his head above water first and pulls Migs up onto his feet. They both lean on each other and cough up water. Migs is shaking, the combination of adrenaline and cold making his teeth chatter. He feels claustrophobic under the helmet and almost reaches up to yank it off, until he realizes how quickly that would invalidate everything they just went through.

“Oya! A fine display of mandokar!” The alor’s voice sounds very far away. Seems like they’re not pissed off about the dragon getting hurt; just the opposite. When he hears the lack of concern for the dragon, Migs feels almost sorry for it.

Once they have their breath back, Din takes his elbow and starts to lead him from the shallows. The verda meet them at the steps. They pour more water over them, rinsing their armor clean of the dragon saliva, and drape them in hooded robes while chanting in Mando’a.

The verda have gathered up their weapons from the shore, and carry them respectfully, standing near the tunnel where they entered. Din bows his helmet towards the alor, then turns towards the tunnel, keeping his hold on Migs’ arm. Migs thinks that walking out dripping wet will be less than ideal, and they still have to deal with the whole blocked mineshaft problem, but he wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of there. Din seems to be on the same page, because he’s walking just as fast as Migs is.

“Where are you going, ade?” The alor’s voice freezes them both. You’re not dismissed. “I thought you sought atonement and a future return to the Manda.” Din’s grip tightens on Migs’ elbow; Migs can feel Din’s relief turning to despair.

They turn back to face the alor and the verda. Din speaks for them. “Forgive us, alor. Have we not completed the cleansing ritual? We are grateful for your mercy, and plan to return to our covert.”

“It is true that you have survived the trial.” The alor crosses his arms, his staff held in the crook of one elbow. “However, for such a great transgression, it is not so simple to be welcomed back into the embrace of the Manda.”

“What more am I”—Din glances at Migs—“are we expected to do?”

“To secure your place as a Mandalorian, in this life and the hereafter, daily atonement is needed to cleanse you of your sin. You must pledge yourself as a verd of the oya’la pirun and remain with us until the end of your days. Unless you would turn your back on your people and risk the alternative?” Barely pausing, he gestures to the verda to surround them once more. “You will spend the night in your cell in contemplation, and make your pledge tomorrow.”

Migs turns to look at Mando. He’s certain that the look on his face rivals the one Mando gave him on Morak when he shot Hess, not that Mando can see his face to appreciate it.

***

They were sitting in the cockpit of the Womp Rat, eating noodles that Mayfeld had cooked. “Are they gonna be happy to see you?” Mayfeld asked, talking with his mouth full. “Once your soul’s all squeaky-clean again?”

Din assumed he was talking about the Jedi, and honestly, he had no idea. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t wearing his helmet, until he suddenly realized Mayfeld was watching his face for a reaction. He knew he was taking too long to respond when Mayfeld added, “The rest of the Mandalorians in your…coven?”

Oh. “Covert.”

“Whatever. Anyway. Bet they’re gonna be glad to have you back.”

“I’m not sure. There are…very few that remain. We didn’t part on good terms.”

“You’re going to all this trouble for people who don’t even want you back?”

“It’s not only for them. Or for Grogu. I need this too. For myself.”

“Really? You always seem so sure of who you are. I mean, you’re the only Mandalorian I know personally, but…you do a good job of sellin’ it.”

The words and the noodles make Din feel warm inside. “Thank you. Same to you. About knowing yourself well. What you stand for. What you won’t stand for.”

Mayfeld laughed. “It’s funny to hear you say that. You push me further in the right direction every time I see you. It’s like…you make me want to choose the high road, even when it’s dangerous to my health. Gotta look good in front of you, right? Guess I must like you or something.”

Din felt his expression changing, betraying too much emotion without his permission. He bowed his head and ate some noodles to avoid answering.

***

The verda escort them to their cell; Migs knows it’s a monastic term, but it’s apt in more ways than one. They are permitted to stay together, since they’re supposedly from the same covert. Their hosts set out some dry clothes and leave, locking the door from the outside.

“Turn around if you don’t want to see everything. Again.” Migs starts to take off his helmet.

Din grabs his arm. “Don’t.”

“Mando, if you actually think I’m gonna keep up this charade for one minute longer just because you—”

“Please wait! Just for a moment. There might be a monitoring device.” Mando puts a hand to the side of his helmet, turning and sweeping the room. When nothing shows up on his HUD, he gives the all-clear.

Migs pulls off his helmet and takes a deep breath. He thinks his very palpable relief might be a little insulting to Din, but he’s way past caring. “You can scan stuff? Mine doesn’t do that. I didn’t get all the bells and whistles.”

Migs holds out his helmet, and Din inspects it. “Yours is a training helmet. Like we gave to foundlings in the covert before they came of age.”

“You think they’re onto us? Or just didn’t want to waste the good stuff on me?”

“They don’t seem to incorporate much technology into their armor, but this is good stuff. Very high quality beskar work. Likely very old.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very old, and very frozen. Help me take this shit off? Sorry; no offense. I’m not a big fan of going swimming in my clothes. Or becoming a religious convert at a moment’s notice.”

“I can’t say that I blame you. No one should be forced to take the Creed as a condition of their continued survival.” Migs looks pointedly at Din but refrains from saying anything. He can’t tell if Din is meeting his eyes under the helmet as he works to undo Migs’ vambrace.

Migs’ fingers feel like ice. He keeps fumbling with the beskar plates, and Din does most of the work. Then Din removes his own armor while Migs changes into dry clothes, taking only a fraction of the time. Migs doesn’t watch him; when they face each other again, he notes that Din keeps his helmet on.

The monks left them sleeping mats, blankets, and a folding privacy partition. They put their sleeping mats next to each other and sit down, draping the blankets over their shoulders for warmth.

Din looks like he’s ready to collapse in on himself, but Migs wants to do some strategizing before that happens. “So what’s our plan? After we get some fucking sleep, I mean.” Experimentally, he adds, “Din Djarin.”

Din sighs. “Almost no one calls me by my name. Except my tribe’s Armorer.”

“Isn’t she the one who came up with the brilliant idea to come here?”

“Yes.” He goes quiet, and Migs is still thinking of his next conversational gambit when he speaks again. “The Armorer said the Way had kept the Children of the Watch safe. That the inhabitants of Mandalore had strayed, and were fated for destruction because they followed unworthy leaders.”

“Sounds like victim blaming to me. You think all those people up there deserved what happened to them just because they didn’t wear helmets?”

“No.”

“So why do you want the approval of people who do believe that? You don’t need their absolution.”

“I need to be Mandalorian.” Din sounds a little desperate.

“You’re seriously considering going along with this?” Migs whispers in disbelief. “What about your kid? You’re okay with never seeing him again? I thought nothing was more important to you. On Morak you didn’t even know about this whole redemption thing, and you were still willing to—”

“I know! I know. But his life was in danger then. He’s safe now. Even if I—if I never…” Din’s voice cracks and he bows his head, shoulders shaking, and Migs doesn’t know what to do. He turns his head away, but rests a hand on Din’s shoulder, and Din doesn’t shrug him off. Migs sits with him, but not too close, nervously rubbing circles on his back.

“Look, I get that the stakes they’ve laid out are your fucking soul, your afterlife, so they’re not really playing fair. But even if their claims turn out to be true”—Migs feels like an asshole, but dank farrik, he is an asshole, and he’s not gonna do Din any favors by pulling punches—“no matter how this plays out, if you get into your exclusive Mando heaven…the kid’s not gonna be there.” Migs feels Din’s body jerk under his hand as his helmet snaps upright. “So…maybe just consider if that’s something you can live with. You know, for all eternity.”

Din doesn’t say anything for a while after that. He’s thinking. Migs closes his eyes and tries not to fall asleep sitting up. Eventually, Din sighs and lies down on his back, tugging at Migs to lie next to him. Only their feet and elbows touch. Sharing the shitty mats on the floor is turning out to be more luxurious than the inadequately padded shelf that passes for a bunk on the Womp Rat.

“What will you do if I stay?” Din asks, staring up at the ceiling through his visor.

Migs laughs bitterly. “What do ya think? I’m gonna be stuck here in the skud pie right along with you.”

“You are free to go. You can take the gift to Grogu—”

Migs shakes his head. “They’re not gonna let me leave. Not alive anyway. They’d probably let us say goodbye, maybe even share one of those touching keldabe kisses, and then hustle me off into a tunnel and skewer me while they’ve got you chanting or inking illuminated manuscripts or some shit like that. No, where you go, I go.” Din looks at him strangely—at least that’s what Migs assumes from the angle of his head-tilt—but he’s not really expecting normal from Din at this point.

“Guess I’d have to be a real Mando then. And I’m not trying to be a dick—I don’t mean to act like I’m not taking this seriously. I know it is, for you. But I’m having trouble seeing any good in it. If it wasn’t for you… It doesn’t seem like being Mandalorian has much to recommend it.”

“It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“Oh, you think?” That gets a miserable-sounding laugh from Din. Migs laughs a little too, and shivers. “I can’t get warm after being in that fucking pool. Or in the fucking dragon, for that matter.”

“Come here.” Din pulls Migs against his chest and drags the blankets over them. Migs can feel Din shivering too. He aches to kiss Din again like he had in the tunnel, but Din’s helmet remains firmly in place. Migs realizes with a pang that even if everything had gone like they hoped, Din wouldn’t be taking the helmet off either.

Gradually the chill leaves them, and sleep finds them. They keep each other warm during the night.

***

Din contemplated the Darksaber. The hilt felt cold even through his glove.

Mayfeld was checking his weaponry and strapping on his holsters. He glanced at Din. “Whatcha got there?”

“A laser sword. Trying to decide if I should bring it.”

“Can it kill shit? Then bring it. Who knows what we’re gonna find down there.”

“It might cause more trouble than it’s worth. It is coveted by many. And it can’t cut through beskar—not very useful in a beskar mine.”

Mayfeld shrugged. “Up to you.”

Din decided to bring it.

***

The two of them stand in front of the lake in their beskar’gam and robes, flanked by the verda, awaiting the arrival of the alor. Their blasters and other armaments had been returned to them earlier that morning, an advantage of having weapons as part of one’s religion.

Din considers revealing the Darksaber. Fortunately it hasn’t been discovered, wrapped up and concealed in the carrying case for the glowrod. But he’s afraid that even if they recognize the authority it confers, they won’t respect him as its wielder.

It hasn’t escaped him that the Mandalorians who tend the living waters have beskar weapons: the beskad sabers, the hooked beskar staff. Even the alor’s flute, the bes’bev, serves a dual purpose—the end is sharpened to a deadly point. Din thinks back to what the Armorer said. Beskar pierces beskar. Their weapons are designed to kill the unworthy. And they would doubtless find him an unfit Mand’alor—he wouldn’t even disagree with them.

He likes his odds in a fight against other Mandalorians almost less than the odds against the Dark Troopers. But they have little choice.

“I’ll follow your lead,” Mayfeld tells him, standing straight and keeping his eyes forward. “I’ve got your back.”

The alor arrives at last, striding in with his staff, his long cloak sweeping behind him.

“Din Djarin, Migs Mayfeld. Are you prepared to commit to the service of the living waters of Mandalore?”

Din speaks up, strong and clear. “I can’t do that. I have to return to my foundling. He needs me.”

“What good is an apostate to a foundling?”

“My foundling would have died at the hands of my enemy had I not broken my Creed. I would make the same sacrifice again.”

“Then you have learned nothing.” The alor turns toward Mayfeld. “And you?”

Mayfeld tries out the signature Mando helmet-tilt, nodding towards Din. “I’m with him.”

Din smiles a little to himself, touched by Mayfeld’s solidarity. “We are prepared to leave peacefully. I understand that you will not grant us your redemption. But we cannot remain here.”

“If you will not have redemption, we will speed your departure from this life before you pass your corrupt ways on to your foundling.”

“We’ll see about that,” Din says.

At a signal from the alor, the verda start to close in on them. It’s on. Mayfeld has his blasters out, but Din realizes his backup is quickly turning into a liability. Mayfeld brought blasters to a sword fight, which isn’t great when everyone’s wearing beskar.

Din breaks through the circle of their attackers before they can completely surround them. He charges the verd closest to the lake, ducking the swing of the beskad and disarming his opponent, giving them a kick for good measure to send them flying into the other verda.

“The peninsula! Go!” Mayfeld runs out to the end of the rocks. From his relatively safe location, he takes shots at the verda, but they are so heavily armored that his shots do little damage even when he hits his mark.

Now armed with his appropriated beskar sword, Din bars access to the peninsula, and the verda have to fight him one by one. Between blows, Din uses a grav charge from his belt to blow up the rocky bridge behind him. Now Mayfeld is trapped on an island.

Some of the verda get knocked into the lake by the blast. They flounder in the water, trying to climb onto the island as Mayfeld takes aim at them. Suddenly, the Panna dragon bursts from the water, and grabs its armored prey with a delighted roar.

Din gets an idea.

Now that he no longer has to defend Mayfeld, Din targets the alor. Din uses his jetpack and flies at the alor, planning to use himself as a projectile and knock him down. The alor holds his staff ready, braced to block him, but once Din has committed to his attack, he drops the staff and swiftly pulls out the bes’bev flute, intending to let Din’s own momentum impale him on the pointed end. Din can’t slow down, and adjusts his course to crash into the ground to avoid the attack. The alor leaps out of the way as he skids and slams into the rocks, stunned by the impact.

The alor stands over Din and raises the bes’bev, but before he can drive it downward in a killing blow, a blaster bolt knocks it out of his hands. Din breathes a sigh of thanks to Mayfeld. He watches the arc of the bes’bev as it falls, and catches it with his whipcord, pulling it into his own hand even as he’s rolling to knock the alor off his feet. The alor stumbles back against the rocks near the shoreline. Din stabs him through the shoulder with the flute, a non-lethal strike. He winces as the ancient beskar instrument pierces straight through the alor’s pauldron and the flesh of his shoulder, even driving into the rock below before stopping, pinning him in place. Din backs away, panting.

The alor’s chest is heaving. “But how? This isn’t…the way…it’s supposed to…”

Din huffs a laugh. “Like it or not, this is the Way.”

He picks up the beskar staff. The balance is very different from his spear, though he can’t help but take a moment to appreciate the heft of it in his hand. Thinking of the spear in its present form—his gift to Grogu—reignites his energy for the fight.

The Panna dragon is feasting in the shallows, trying to fit an entire cuirass down its throat. Din fires up his jetpack and flies out over the lake. Using the hooked end of the staff, he snags the Panna dragon by one of its horns. Din drags it over to the island, burning through more fuel than he would like as it fights against him. Mayfeld, still in full Mandalorian armor, raises his rifle to aim for the dragon’s face, and does a double-take when he sees Din.

“Mayfeld! Jump on!”

“On the goddamn dragon?”

“Do it!” Mayfeld does, securing his rifle and awkwardly clambering down the rocks to land astride the dragon while Din has it distracted.

Din smacks it on the rump with the staff, and it swims erratically across the lake with Mayfeld on its back. He races out in front of it with his jetpack, baiting it with his own beskar to keep it from submerging, and giving it an occasional course correction with the staff. Mayfeld struggles to maintain a grip on the dragon’s wet, slippery neck.

Din sees Mayfeld slipping. “Hold on!”

“To what?!” Mayfeld’s shout echoes across the lake. “The fucking spines that I’m trying not to sit on?”

“Good point.”

“God fucking dammit Mando, if that was a pun—”

“Use your whipcord!”

“Sure, because that’s something I know how to do!”

“The control on your right vambrace. Aim for its neck!”

Mayfeld struggles to grip the dragon’s back with his knees while using both hands to aim and trigger the mechanism. At last he fires successfully, and the cord zips through the air and wraps around the dragon’s neck. The dragon roars and Mayfeld holds on for dear life.

When they reach the far side of the lake, Din helps Mayfeld release the cord and jump down to the shore. He slices the remaining wrapped cord with his vibroknife, making sure it falls away so it won’t cause needless injury to the dragon. They back away from it quickly. It seems to have had enough of them, disappearing into the depths with a parting growl.

Din finds the metal doors that the alor had indicated when he spoke of feeding the dragon. He uses the beskar staff as a lever to pry them open. The passage behind the doors is pitch black. Din activates his helmet’s night vision and sees a lift at the far end of the passage. This must be where the dragon’s food is brought down, using repurposed equipment from the beskar mine.

Mayfeld looks past Din into the darkness. “What’s in there?”

“Our way out. Let’s move.”

Mayfeld snaps his glowrod into place under the barrel of his rifle and jogs forward alongside Din.

The light from the main cavern recedes as they get farther from the door. Din hears something behind them, and turns to see an unwelcome sight. The verda are chasing them. Apparently some of them do have modern jetpacks after all, and helmets equipped with night vision. They barrel down the corridor, gaining on Din and Mayfeld. “We’ve got company.”

They turn to face the threat. Mayfeld, without the benefit of a HUD, can’t see anything outside the narrow beam of the glowrod. “I can’t even keep track of ‘em! They’re like fuckin’ ghosts!”

In a way, Din thinks. Ghosts of the past. People choosing to live with one foot in the grave. He sighs. “No. They’re Mandalorians. And so am I.”

He ignites the Darksaber. The strange not-light defining the edge of the blade glints off their visors.

“Din, the fuck—”

“Keep heading for the lift! Get it working!” He keeps Mayfeld behind him as he raises the Darksaber and deflects an airborne strike from a beskad.

Din thinks of the Armorer again, and hopes the saber truly will give him the strength of twenty, because that’s how many verda he counts. It can’t cut through beskar, but it can block their blows. And they aren’t armored everywhere. The saber seems up for the challenge, seeking out the spaces between the plates. It’s not fighting him today—or he’s not fighting it.

He remembers the burn of the blade on his leg as he strikes down his adversaries.The glow and the strange sound of the blade are the only things that seem real. It seems at home here, like it’s an extension of the darkness inside Mandalore itself. He fights on, entranced, until a flood of light washes over him.

“Let’s go, Mando!” Mayfeld calls from the lift, already rising up the track on the wall where the shaft rises vertically. There are floodlights on the bottom, which he has activated. Now that he can see what he’s doing, Mayfeld pulls off his helmet and takes aim at the verda. A few of his shots make it in between the beskar plates, dropping them.

Din falls back toward the lift, still parrying the strikes of the remaining verda. He aims his last few blows at their jetpacks, focusing on disabling their ability to follow, before flying up to the lift to join Mayfeld. The jetpack is running on fumes by now. It stalls out as he makes a desperate grab for the side, slamming into the safety railing. Mayfeld grabs the back of Din’s belt to steady him as he hauls himself up over the side.

“May I?” Mayfeld helps himself to a grav charge from Din’s belt, activates it, and hurls the charge down to the bottom of the shaft. The resulting explosion eliminates the remaining verda and blocks the tunnel leading back to the lake.

When they get to the top, Din destroys the lift controls with the Darksaber. They follow the markings on the tunnel walls to the surface.

***

Din watched Mayfeld from across the bar.

The Armorer had told him he was no longer Mandalorian, but he knew that Migs hadn’t ever cared about him showing his face. That he could wear Imperial trooper armor and still be Mandalorian to Migs.

He knew he couldn’t do this alone. He took a deep breath and walked toward him.

“Mayfeld.”

***

A blood-red sunset greets them.

The shafts of light pierce the camouflaged grating covering the entrance to the tunnel. They push it open, and find themselves back on the surface of Mandalore, not far from where they originally descended.

Migs finds a large hunk of debris relatively devoid of jagged edges, and sits down for a moment to catch his breath. Din stands a little way apart, a silhouette with the setting sun behind him. He slowly lifts his helmet off. Breaking the Creed again, but he doesn’t look like someone who’s fallen from grace. More like an avenging angel with purpose. His hair is wild and his face is streaked with sweat; it’s hard to read his expression.

He looks back at Migs sitting with his helmet in his lap. “Gimme one more minute, then I’m good. Wearing this armor is a workout. Don’t know how you do it. Not as young as I—”

Din takes a few steps and falls forward onto his knees, in the same position as they had presented themselves in the water before the alor, but this time he rocks forward, holding onto Migs. Din lets his helmet fall to the ground, and Migs’ helmet joins it as Din rests his head in Migs’ lap. Din breaks down crying, now that it’s all over—not holding anything back. Migs silently strokes his fingers through Din’s hair.

After Din's tears are finally spent, he gathers himself to speak. His breathing is ragged from crying. “It sounded too good to be true, but I wanted to believe I could go back. Back to the Creed, the way things were before, when I knew only one Way. But I can’t.” He looks up and his voice catches. “Migs—I’m sorry. That I dragged you into this.”

Migs’ eyes are wet too. “Yeah, well. I could’ve done without most of it. But I don’t like to think of you having to…to face all that alone.”

Migs offers Din a hand up; they sit side by side in the ruins of Sundari. Din speaks more calmly now. “These were my people. They showed their faces to the Empire, and they lost. But I bared my face and survived, thanks to you. And I’m not lost anymore.”

They get up and start walking. Soon they spot the Womp Rat in the distance, hidden in the shadow of the debris. The desolate landscape makes Migs shiver a little. He can’t say he’ll be sorry to leave.

The wind starts to pick up as the sun slips lower on the horizon; they listen to it whistle through the wreckage. The twisted metal looks almost beautiful in the sunset. Din looks down at the sword hanging from his belt, then at the ruined planet. He sighs more heavily than usual. “How can one person be expected to fix all this?”

“They can’t,” Migs says, matter-of-factly. Din looks at him, wide-eyed, and Migs almost laughs in disbelief. “What? You think that’s on you? To fix this?”

“If I don’t try, who will?”

“Maybe no one. Maybe that’s okay! You’re sure as fuck not gonna catch me running back to Burnin Konn with a broom. The people who made it out don’t need to go back. We didn’t survive just to dive right back into the same shitty situation. Sometimes you gotta start over, look for something new. Something good.” Din is silent.

“Hey, we gave this our best shot. Is there a special Mandalorian hell too? ’Cause I guess we’re both going there now.”

“Heh. No.” Din shakes his head and wipes his eyes. “I know exactly where we’re going. Gotta see about a little womp rat.”

“Is that why—” Migs laughs. “That’s cute. And a little mean. He doesn’t mind?”

Din shrugs. “You’re cute and a little mean. Doesn’t bother me too much.”

Migs stops walking, letting Din get a few paces ahead, and calls after him, “I’ll bother you more if you’ll let me.” That brings Din to a halt. He turns back to face Migs.

Migs feels suddenly shy. “I don’t know why I picked this particular moment to talk about this, because I know I’m flying out of here with you, and we’re sticking together at least until you get back to your starfighter—”

“I told you. You’re coming with me to pick up Grogu.”

“You told me?” Migs retorts, as though he’s not getting exactly what he wants.

Din sounds sheepish. “You’re right. I…I am inviting you. To go with me to find my child. To witness for us when I speak the vows of adoption. And then—to make sure I don’t get any brilliant ideas about running back to the covert.”

Migs grins. “I think I can handle that.” He looks down at his new helmet. “How does this fit in? Not really sure what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“What do you want to do with it?” Din’s tone is carefully neutral, letting him find his own answer.

“I guess I’ll hang onto it. It’s beskar, after all. Maybe the kid will need more armor one day.”

Din looks at him for a long moment, blinking, finally saying, “Okay.” Then he smiles. “It looked good on you, but I like you better like this. Where I can see you.”

“Hey, that’s convenient! I like me better like this too.” Migs takes a few steps to close the distance between them. “And I like you any way you’ll let me have you,” he confesses. He shuts his eyes and leans forward until their lips touch, and Din kisses him back.

Din sighs and leans his forehead against Migs’. “This is the Way,” Din whispers.

They get the Womp Rat underway, plotting a course that will take them to Grogu.