Work Text:
The sky seemed closer here than on most worlds, brushing the tops of the towering dark evergreen trees. Yaquina was a world of rocky coastlines and shifting storms, where sea moisture hung perpetually in the air. The chilly damp seeped into the creases of his flightsuit, drops of water beading along the edge of his visor and falling as he walked. Mosses and lichens bowed the branches of the trees, testament to the ever-present water. The rain wasn’t just a possibility, it was a promise, and he would need shelter.
The villagers were curious about him and his beskar, but at a remove, which suited him fine. Children pointed and stared, while adults had the decency to whisper to themselves. Din paid them little mind. He’d found what he’d come for, the trail paying off, and that was good enough for him.
“I’ll need a room until the next transport ship arrives,” he said gruffly to a shopkeeper selling heavy woven ponchos, packing up her wares as the clouds loomed. “Do you know where a traveler might stay the night?”
The shopkeeper pulled her thick hood closer as a few drops of rain fell. “Baronta keeps a few places for offworlders, on the north edge of town. You can tell her Dee sent you, but you’d best get there soon. A nor’wester’s rolling in.”
“Thank you,” said Din. “I appreciate the warning.”
“Don’t see many Mandalorians here. Or anywhere,” said Dee, packing her ponchos away. She gave him an appraising look, her blue eyes still sharp in her aged face. “I heard tell there were two passed through here last year. Only moved at night, kept to themselves. Never saw ‘em myself, but it’s what people say. Looking for them?”
Din nodded, grateful for the information. It dovetailed neatly with the other puzzle pieces he’d worked out in this place, further confirmation that he was on the right track. “If they’re out there, I’ll find them.”
“Good luck to you, then,” said Dee. She eyed him for a moment. “I know I’m packing up, but if you need something to help keep dry in the rain --”
“No, thank you,” said Din, but slid over a few credits anyway. “For your trouble, and your time.” He turned to leave.
“Better hurry!” she called. “Storm’s coming.”
He trudged over the black cobblestone paths, through fog clinging low to the ground. The grim black trees stood like vast sentinels, jutting up into the swollen clouds. He walked beneath their boughs to the edge of town, where a small sign hung outside one house proclaimed inn services. The sign swung slowly back and forth in the heavy air, the wood quivering, and far in the distance he heard the sound of waves on the rocky shore beyond the trees.
He paid for one night, hoping that the transport ship due tomorrow kept to its schedule. There was no reason to be here longer than he needed to be. The cost was steeper than it ought to have been this far out in the Rim, but the Togruta innkeeper’s robes were carefully darned and patched, and he did not begrudge her the cost. Times were tough everywhere.
The room’s serviceability surprised him, though. It was more decent than he’d expected, an old but functional refresher unit in the corner, a small kitchenette, a sturdy bunk with hand-quilted blankets in shades of green and blue-gray. A wide, well-reinforced window looked out at the gathering clouds, now engulfing many of the treetops.
Din examined the room more closely. He scanned the ceiling and the corners, looking carefully for a place to set up a small hammock --
No.
That wasn’t needed anymore.
He set the Rising Phoenix down, ignoring the hollow ache that had bloomed suddenly, fiercely, in his chest. This room would do. It was a fine room. He could rest and patch up here, wake up refreshed and dry in the morning. It would be the first time he’d been able to sleep stretched out in days. He ought to be grateful.
He sat down heavily on the bed, running over his plans. He needed transport. Allies. If he knew the Armorer -- and he suspected he did, as much as anyone could -- she would have kept moving, never lingering in any one place for long. There would be a trail to follow for those who knew how to look. There was much that she could teach him, should she still live… much that he needed to know.
His hand brushed against his belt, gloved fingertips pausing on the Darksaber’s cold hilt. Even through the gloves he could feel the chill. It was a weight somehow alien and familiar both.
“What are you?” he muttered, though only a gust of wind against the closed window gave an answer. He removed the weapon from his side, examining it closely. The muted stormlight from the window cast oiled reflections upon the beskar hilt, rippling as he shifted it within his hands. It was a masterful work, so different from any other beskar he had seen. He thought, perhaps, he was beginning to understand why so much blood had been shed for the right to wield it.
His thumb hesitated over the switch, but left it alone. Not here. He clipped it back to his belt, disquieted. He would need to master it.
Somehow.
The clouds outside roiled, vast seas of billowing gray and black, urgent and coming on fast. The lights of the little room flickered and went out, but through the window, lightning arced and scattered through the pulsing clouds. He got to his feet, pacing past the window as the storm came into its own, glad for the roof over his head.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. This was just like one of the last nights on Sorgan, when the summer thunderstorms came and the whole town huddled indoors. In between snatches of thunder and driving rain, he could hear children in the nearby houses wailing -- but in their room, Grogu stared with fascination at the downpour, gasping at every lightning strike. The only thing he hadn’t liked was the thunder, clamping his enormous ears down with his tiny hands after each salvo.
After the first few thunder cracks, Din had reluctantly sat next to the kid, putting his own hands over the kid’s ears to act as makeshift earmuffs. The kid wound up clambering into his lap once he figured out what Din was trying to do. With Din’s hands in place protecting his ears, he watched the vicious storm play out with delight, only fussing when Din tried to make him go to bed.
Din stopped pacing, boots scuffing against the floor. He swallowed, crossing his arms over his chest.
Beyond him the storm roared, unleashed at last.
He bowed forward, just slightly, until his helmet rested against the transparisteel window. He took a deep breath. Thunder boomed overhead, the vibration passing through the walls of the house, the window, his helmet. He pulled his helmet back from the window, ears ringing, head rattled.
Slowly he let his hands sink to his sides, breathing hard. His hands curled, formed fists, went loose and open, a pattern tied to the rise and fall of his shoulders.
Rain drummed against the roof, a deafening cacophony. It sheeted down, a typhoon that lashed the towering black trees and the small dimmed lights of the village. The wind moaned in a lonely, throbbing chorus.
He would have loved this.
Din watched the storm through wet eyes, and his hands hung, empty, at his sides.