Archive of Our Own

It started mostly out of boredom.

The endless blue nothing of hyperspace was tedious at the best of times, and Din had always had far too much time on his hands while travelling in the wide black yonder. There were only so many times a man could strip and clean his Amban rifle – in all senses of the phrase – or nap before he started to go insane.

They hadn’t had many books, in the covert, but occasionally the beroya had brought some things back to help them learn how to read. And Din didn’t know why, or how, but he’d latched onto that dog-eared hunk of flimsi with the man in the hat and the strange creature on the cover.

It was a fantastical premise, utterly alien and bizarre: a world where no one travelled in space, stuck on the one planet. The weapons were primitive, just slugthrowers, explosive charges and metal blades, and there were utterly bizarre creatures called horses which everyone rode instead of banthas, blurrgs and fathiers. But that wasn’t the point. The point was the story: the lone gunslinger with only his horse, crossing the desert in his wide-brimmed hat with scores to settle and people to reluctantly help. And Din had been enthralled. He’d read the book to pieces, hastily mending it whenever another page fell out, until it was more bonding tape than binding, one of his most precious possessions. He knew it from memory, by now.

And when Din had finally been able to leave the covert, he’d taken it with him, and he’d found there were more. They were his one indulgence, these fantasy stories, the only frivolous thing he allowed himself, and he kept it to himself. There was a stack of them on the single shelf above his bunk, all read multiple times, until the tropes were embedded beneath his skin and the style was almost second nature to him in his thoughts.

So it had seemed like… a natural progression. He’d read them all so many times, he was bored out of his skull, and he had a battered datapad he used to take the occasional note, or for translation when he really didn’t know the local language. And if he took inspiration from all the crap he went through every day as a bounty hunter, well… no one would know, would they? These stories were just for him.

The sun was already high in the sky by the time the Lone Wanderer found the town of Tinderwood. Heat haze shimmered in the distance, quicksilver and tricky, and the wind blew parched dust along the main thoroughfare through the town. The residents, wisely, kept inside.

The Wanderer raised his head, gaze shadowed by the brim of his hat, mouth and nose covered by a tattered red bandana. He tugged on the reins and Razorcrest, his trusted steed, halted, tossing her head nervously in the baking sun.

A man blocked the way. He was no one the Wanderer had met before, because he never forgot a face no matter how far he travelled.

“Wanderer!” he yelled. “You owe me!”

The Wanderer leaned forward in the saddle, hands folded over the pommel. “I don’t even know who you are,” he replied.

The other man reached for his gun, but no one drew as fast as the Wanderer. It took a moment, a flash of the muzzle and a crack in the gasping air, and the man crumpled into the dirt. The Wanderer forced himself to keep looking.

Another life wasted because of past mistakes he couldn’t change. How many more would there be? There were already too many to count. Each one weighed heavy on him, a burden of souls.

Would he ever be able to atone?

The proper literary term was “nomadic desert fantasy”. The popular term everyone else used was “desertmod”.

Writing, Din realised, came surprisingly easy to him. He didn’t think he was anything special, but it got the job done, and he didn’t hate rereading what he wrote. It gave him something to do between jobs, tweaking and editing, adding more to continue the story. He enjoyed it. He’d never been a man of many hobbies – or, indeed, any at all – but this was… fulfilling. And he finished the tale, with the Lone Wanderer riding off into the sunset on his horse, and that was that. It sat in his datapad, and there it would stay, occasionally reread for the hell of it.

It wasn’t until three months later when he found himself in a predicament.

Running out of fuel with a bounty in the Crest’s carbonite storage was one of the dumber things that had happened to him. He should have known better, he’d been doing this for years now, he wasn’t some fresh green hunter who didn’t know when to check his damn fuel gauge, but it had happened nonetheless. Accidents happened, they were to be taken in stride, but the real problem was that he didn’t have the credits to get back to Nevarro. He’d been relying on this job for a hefty pay out, but he was only halfway there and now stranded.

He could look for mechanic work, or delivery. He could do that. Being hired muscle for a couple of days might also have helped, but that was against the Creed, so he couldn’t do that.

Then his eyes fell on a small holonet ad, glowing brightly in a corner of the collection of screens in the diner he was currently picking up takeout from.

The prize, Din noted, was publication, and a sweet sum of a thousand credits. More than enough to see him home. And the competition ended the next day.

He made a note of the comm code and rushed back to the Crest, grabbing his datapad. Once he had it, he hesitated. There was no guarantee this would work, there was the chance they wouldn’t even glance at his story. Perhaps they would find it derivative, or boring, or just plain bad. He was surprised to find himself so nervous.

Couldn’t hurt to try, though. He pressed the send button.

The real surprise came two days later, once he’d finally scrounged a couple of odd jobs around the spaceport.

Hello, mystery writer,

I’m Miran Taj-Vanna from the Vol Garna Publishing House. You sent your desertmod manuscript along a couple of days ago, and while we have received a large number of entries in various different genres, yours has stuck with me. I read it in a day, I just couldn’t put it down, which to me means that we have a gem on our hands.

We haven’t received many desertmod stories in this particular style for a long time, and I’m willing to take a chance on it. While you are not the overall winner of the competition, I am also willing to send you five hundred credits upfront for the story and the publication rights, with any further remuneration based on sales outcomes.

Please let me know if this arrangement is agreeable via comm call, I would greatly appreciate it. I look forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

Miran Taj-Vanna

P.S. It would be nice to have a name to go with the comm code and the manuscript before we go to print.

Din lurched forward. Between the odd jobs and this advance, he could easily fill the Crest and even get some fresh supplies to see him to Nevarro. He hastily typed a reply.

Dear Miran Taj-Vanna,

I happily agree to the terms of publication of my manuscript. Please have the credits forwarded to the Deitonah branch of the Bounty Hunters Guild, c.o. The Mandalorian. There’s your name, as well.

Regards,

Mando

It felt awkward. Apparently any sort of skill he had with words didn’t extend to written correspondence.

He waited, and he would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t feeling impatient. Why, he had no clue. This wasn’t particularly momentous, and it wasn’t as if writing would ever be his career. He was a bounty hunter, his covert’s beroya, and that would always come first. This was a one-off, a desperate, insane chance he decided to take, nothing more.

A call request came through, and Din answered.

“Hello? Um… Mr… Mando?”

It was a female voice, younger than he would have expected.

“Yes,” he replied. “Taj-Vanna?”

“Miran is fine!” she said, sounding remarkably chirpy. “Thank you for accepting the offer, I’m really looking forward to publishing this. This is one of the best desertmod books I’ve ever read, and frankly I consider myself something of an expert!”

Din cleared his throat. He had no idea how to accept what little praise anyone tossed his way at the best of times, let alone such an amount.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“The Wanderer is such a compelling character, I love the contrast between his stoic, battle-hardened exterior and his compassionate internality. And his need for validation and atonement… oh, I just know this is gearing up to be an excellent series!”

Wait. Series?

“What?”

Miran was quiet for a moment. “It is going to be a series, isn’t it?” she asked. “You can’t just end it there, there’s so much more to tell!”

Din drummed his fingers on the armrest of the pilot seat nervously. He hadn’t considered ever writing again after this, let alone an entire series. But that wouldn’t be too hard, would it? He had plenty of real-life experiences to skim from, he wouldn’t run out any time soon, and if the credits kept coming, well…

“Sure,” he said. Why the hell not? It wasn’t as if he had anything better to fill those long, empty flights with.

“That’s great news!” Miran said, and he heard a sound that was most likely her clapping her hands enthusiastically. “Now, I have every faith in your work, Mr Mando, I really do think we have incredible sales potential here.”

“Good to know,” Din said. “And, uh… just ‘Mando’, please.”

“Very well, Mando. Now… I’ll send you the contract I’ve written up in the next few hours, if you could have a look and send it back signed that would be fantastic! Also… I need a name. An actual name. I can’t just put ‘Mando’ on the cover.”

“Uhhhhh…” Din tried. He really did. It was like trying to fish in a dry river. He peered out of the viewport at the mechanic across from him. “Glup Shitto?”

There was silence on the other end. He kicked himself mentally. He’d written a whole damn book and that was the best he could do?

“Um… Dja… Dja…” His eyes fell on the Razor Crest’s key. “Djaki.” Crap, what was the name of the planet? “Deitonah. Djaki Deitonah.”

It was absolutely terrible, but it could have been worse.

“That seems fine, we’ll go with it!” Miran said brightly. “I’m going to need some spelling on that, but it’s good!”

It wasn’t good, not by a long shot, but it would do. He was, as they proverbially said, winging it. After all, it wasn’t as if it was going to be a runaway success, or anything.

“Where can I send you a copy?” Miran asked the next time she called.

It had been three weeks, which wasn’t very long, but Din had no idea what times usually were for novel publications anyway. And wasn’t that an odd feeling, knowing that his book existed, physically, on sheets of flimsi and single-use datapads across the galaxy. Or at least in some places, probably the Core and the Mid Rim, at best: books got scarcer and scarcer the further toward the Outer Rim one travelled. And despite the general sense of disbelief, he did want to see his book in print, really. He knew that it was something special. He was so used to using his hands to destroy, that to see something he created would be… bizarre.

“Nevarro,” he said. “Have it delivered to the Bounty Hunter Guild.”

He got back from a job a week later. Karga was waiting for him in the cantina, his usual haunt, with the credits for his drop off and a package at his elbow.

“I wasn’t aware you got mail, Mando,” he said, holding the parcel up. It was exactly the same size and shape as a book, and it wasn’t as if Din was expecting any other post. “Ordering from catalogues, are we?”

Din said nothing, because he never had anything to say to Karga anyhow. The man sighed, resigning himself to not getting any answers this time, either, and handed over both the handful of credits (a paltry sum, considering the amount of damage done to Din’s cape by the slippery kriffin’ bastard he’d brought in) and the package.

Din wasn’t usually a man who got very excited about things. There was, in general, little to get excited about in a life that tended to follow the same course day in, day out; anticipation was never in his stars. But he’d have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t feeling a little bit giddy about the package he now held in his hands as he made his way back to the covert. He tucked it away for later and headed down into the tunnels beneath Nevarro to give the Armourer what he’d provided for them.

He didn’t usually occupy his tiny room in the covert, with its narrow bunk and no personality, for very long, always preferring to be back on the Crest, ready for the next job. But for now, he allowed himself to sit, remove his gloves, and tip the book out of its plasto box.

Oh. It looked… good.

It reminded him of the book he’d so loved as a child, and he felt a pang in his chest at the memory. There was the title, in plain Aurebesh, which he’d struggled with for three days and had suddenly come to him just as he was drifting off to sleep, like so many ideas were wont to do: Under a Wandering Star. And beneath that, the illustration.

A man with strange clothes: a long coat, a shirt with a pattern of squares made of intersecting lines, heeled boots and a holster on his hip, and a large-brimmed black hat, drawn low. There was one eye visible, brown and surprisingly mournful, the rest of his face hidden by a red bandana, drawn up over his nose. His horse was dappled grey, her head heavy with the same burden borne by her rider. And beyond them stretched the desert, far to the horizon.

Din rubbed a reverent thumb across the smooth cover. The name on it wasn’t his, but damn, this was still his book. He’d written it. He’d made something, and now it was in the world, where people could see it, buy it, read the words that had come from his head. It was such a peculiar feeling.

He flipped it open, scanning the pages. Yes… yes, those were his words, all of them. Here and there he spotted a change – some grammar, some spelling, no matter how hard he reread he wasn’t perfect – but fundamentally untouched. And they would always be untouched now, they would always be printed on these hallowed pages. How odd. How strange. How marvellous.

“So where will you go now, Wanderer?” asked the Magistrate, thumbs in his belt. The townsfolk of Black Gulch stood behind him, almost to a man, squinting against the glare of the sun. The bodies of the bandits had been cleared before the Wanderer awoke, barely any trace of the gunfight that had broken out the day before.

For once, the dead the Wanderer was leaving in his wake weren’t staring at him as he left.

“Wherever,” the Wanderer replied. He didn’t owe the Magistrate an answer. It wasn’t like he had one to give anyway.

He placed a boot in one of Razorcrest’s stirrups, swinging himself up into the saddle. His shotgun was a comforting weight on his back, his revolver at his belt, his knife in his boot, his only travelling companions, but they hadn’t betrayed him yet.

He kicked Razor’s flanks, turned to the west, to the setting sun, and left.

A month later Miran called him.

Ok, he’d missed her first attempt at calling him, the sudden ringing in his helmet almost costing him a blaster bolt to the thigh. He’d shut it off in time, taken the Klatooinian down and cuffed him, snarling. It wasn’t until he had the bastard securely frozen in carbonite (he’d tried to escape twice on the way back to the Crest, and Din wasn’t about to take another chance) and had slumped wearily into the captain’s seat that he’d turned his comm back on.

She called immediately, and he’d answered with a deep sigh.

“Congratulations, Mando!” she squealed, the pitch driving itself into his brain via his ears and making him grimace in pain.

“For what?” he asked tiredly.

“We’ve sold six hundred thousand copies already! We’re on the Coruscanti Literary Review’s genre fiction bestseller list!”

He’d never even heard of the Coruscanti Literary Review before today, and the idea of there being that number of copies of a single book in the galaxy was very hard to believe.

“I, uh… take it that’s good?” he said tentatively.

“IT’S INCREDIBLE! THIS IS GOING TO BE AN AMAZING SUCCESS!” she shrieked, the volume reminding him of the time he’d been so close to an explosion that even with the helmet one of his eardrums had burst.

“Oh. That is good.”

He had no idea what to do with that information. Was he supposed to celebrate? Probably. That wasn’t something he was very good at. He’d probably take a sip of cheap spotchka here in the cockpit, a solitary toast to his newfound success.

“Listen, we need to think of publicity, book tours, signings, interviews…”

“No.”

Miran stopped in her tracks. “What?”

“I’m not doing any of that,” he said firmly. And he wouldn’t. He wasn’t in this for anything except the few extra credits it could funnel his way – which, of course, meant more money for the Tribe. And he was simply too busy to do something like press tours. And too leery, of course. The idea of being anywhere Corewards always made him feel decidedly anxious.

“But… people will want to know about the man behind the stylus…”

“Well, they won’t,” he said. “I don’t know, keep the air of mystery.”

Miran was quiet for a moment, and it was a quiet that sounded disappointed. Then she sighed.

“Fine. We’ll… talk about it in the future. Do you still want your percentage sent to the Bounty Hunter Guild of Nevarro?”

It took Din a moment to smother his surprise. Percentage? “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mando. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being a good writer!”

Perhaps it was the strange high of success that buoyed him through it, but within a week, Din had smashed out a sequel. Miran hadn’t even asked for it yet, and then there it was, typed out feverishly in a fit of mad inspiration. It was shorter than the first, but the plot, Din thought, was more solid, his grasp on the Wanderer’s character getting stronger.

This one he decided to call Blood Red Sands, about how a mining company was poisoning the local water supply and exploiting the poor inhabitants of a backwater village. Industrial sabotage, Din thought, was always a fun prospect in these sorts of tales.

He forgot about the credits sitting in his account at the Guild.

The third one took longer, and he had to pull more heavily from an actual real-life job for it. He had a deadline for it, which meant he was forced to write, and being forced to write, he thought, was one of the worst feelings he’d ever felt. The words didn’t come as easily, the characters were recalcitrant, refusing to go in the directions he wanted them to. He almost scrapped the entire thing twice over and even debated blocking Miran’s code so she could never contact him again.

In the end, he soldiered through, and it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was, when he reread it. It stood on strong enough legs to carry it from beginning to end. But it drained him. The idea of writing anything else tasted sour, and he glowered at the battered datapad on the shelf above his bed before he went to sleep. Another deadline loomed, breathing down his neck, inexorable, inescapable, a kriffing nightmare.

He turned away from it, stewing. He had nothing to give it.

The Blacksmith’s workshop burned, sweat dripping down the back of the Wanderer’s neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. The Blacksmith, on the other hand, seemed used to it, unfazed, a creature well-adapted to a foreign clime.

Steam billowed from where she sank the metal into the trough, a sizzling hiss. Then back into the gleaming coals, to be tempered once again. He’d seen it done before, but not with the same dedication, devotion, as the Blacksmith. She worked with steady power, and he admired it.

“Do you know, Wanderer,” she said, her voice toneless and wise, “what is your greatest enemy?”

The Wanderer wiped the back of his hand over his brow. He almost felt afraid to guess and get it wrong, as if that would lower her esteem of him, though, he supposed, there wasn’t that much there to begin with.

“No,” he said, honestly, because he knew she’d appreciate honesty.

“Stagnation,” she replied. “It is the enemy of us all.”

She drew the metal from the heat and placed it on the anvil again, the beating of her hammer in time with the Wanderer’s heartbeat.

The fourth book wasn’t his best. His deadline had swung at him from out of the blue, completely forgotten until, in a blind rush of panic, he locked himself in the Razor Crest in some blasted scummy spaceport and, mad on caf and stale ration bars, he’d sent something to Miran. He wasn’t entirely sure what the something was, but it… it was something, that was for sure. The less he remembered about it, the better.

He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t sell as well as the others, but it still sold well, and considering he’d never planned for more than one of the damn things, he counted that as a success.

And then, suddenly, there was the Child.

He exploded into Din’s life and destroyed everything he’d known, replacing every certainty with himself. And Din had been fine with that, more than fine. But figuring out how exactly things were going to work with the Child around also meant that his literary career (which he still considered nothing more than a glorified side hustle, and was attempting to ignore) needed to be put on hold.

Miran commed him one day, and she sounded frantic.

“Mando, you were supposed to send me the manuscript a week ago!”

Din groaned, hoping his vocoder would wipe it from the call. “I’ve been a little, uh, busy…”

Miran sighed. “I know this isn’t your day job, but I have obligations, bosses to please. At least let me know if you need a deadline extended instead of ignoring me.”

He winced behind the helmet. “Sorry. I just got – no, kid, don’t touch that!”

The Child dropped the blaster, peering up at him guiltily. It went off, sending a bolt ricocheting off the bulkheads of the Crest, Din threw himself in front of the kid, curling around him, and the bolt hit him square in the helmet, making his head ring with it.

“Dank farrik,” he groaned. The Child made a curious noise, gently tapping on Din’s breastplate with his tiny claws, and Din rolled over with a grunt, clutching his helmet.

This kid was going to be the death of him.

“Mando? Is everything ok?”

Din crawled over to the cockpit wearily. “Yeah, everything’s peachy,” he wheezed. “I’ll get it done as soon as I can. Can you give me a month?”

“A whole month?!” Miran exclaimed, and he could imagine her wringing her hands worriedly. She seemed like the type. “I might be able to get you three weeks.”

Din bit back a groan. He’d written a whole novel in three days, before, but he also hadn’t had to chase after an exuberant green child while also being hounded by some of the worst scum in the galaxy. Things had definitely changed a lot in a very short time.

And he didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been… struggling. The Lone Wanderer’s adventures were starting to feel kind of repetitive, perhaps even a little boring, much like Din’s own jobs had been. He was running out of ideas, and he honestly didn’t really like the few chapters he’d already written of the next instalment. And stagnation went against the Creed.

His gaze landed on the Child, and he drummed his fingers on the pilot seat thoughtfully.

“You’ll get it in three weeks,” he said, and closed the comm.

The Wanderer dismounted, observing the carnage with a grim expression beneath his bandana.

The husks of the convoy’s wagons still burned, black smoke pluming up into the blue sky. Bodies lay strewn about the place, stripped of anything valuable, left for the vultures to pick at. The Wanderer strode through the wreckage, his heart aching. These people had just been seeking a new life, and what they’d had left had been cruelly cut short.

That was when the Wanderer heard the soft crying.

He followed the sound until he came to a creek. One of the wagons had careened off into it, out of control, and it lay, tumbled and broken, at the bottom. The Wanderer slid down the embankment, boots cutting grooves in the loose dirt, and then he knelt.

Huge brown eyes peered at him from beneath the splintered wood and tattered canvas. Tear tracks drew streaks through the grime on the child’s face.

“It’s ok, little one,” the Wanderer said softly. “You’re safe now, I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

Travelling with the Child was certainly inspirational. There was so much fodder available for more stories, and Din filed it all away, ready to be harvested as soon as he needed it. Life had changed immensely, every day was new and different and bizarre. Strangely enough the Child’s presence also helped him a lot with planning. He would prattle away about the outline for the next instalment, and while the Child couldn’t answer, simply having someone to actually bounce ideas off helped immensely. He didn’t get stuck half as badly anymore.

The cast grew, though few reoccurred: the Widow, the Assassin, the Sheriff, the Baroness. And he began to lay the lines for a new plot, something bigger than just the singular adventures the Wanderer had always had before, something to do with the Wanderer’s new companion, the Orphan. And perhaps it wasn’t strictly traditional for these kinds of fantasy stories to have more grounded elements like magic, but… well, they were his books. He could do what he liked, couldn’t he?

At the end of the day, Din wrote mainly for himself. That they seemed to be popular with other people, well, that was just a bonus, a lucky break that resulted in some decent extra credits. Din was writing what he wanted to read, and he wanted to read something that made sense of the insanity his life had become that he wouldn’t trade for anything.

“What if you added a love interest, Mando?” Miran suggested one day.

“No,” Din said.

That was categorically not going to happen. It was just the Wanderer – well, and the Orphan as well, now – and he liked it like that. It allowed him to simply write whatever he wanted, untethered by any recurring characters beyond ones like the Magistrate and the Soldier, the Wanderer’s occasional allies.

“I’m sure fans would love it,” Miran continued, because she never knew when to leave well enough alone.

Din made a disgusted sound he was certain carried through the comm.

“No,” he repeated. “I’m not adding that.”

The Wanderer, much like himself, didn’t have time for romance. He couldn’t settle, it was in his name, after all: he wandered, that was the whole point. And romance meant settling, didn’t it? It meant putting down roots. Well, neither the Wanderer nor Din could do that. Miran would occasionally mention fans, which he assumed meant they were sending her holomails about the books, but Din didn’t have time for that, either. All he wanted to do was write, and truth be told, he didn’t really understand the appeal of romance, both literarily and in his day-to-day life. It got in the way of things, and he wasn’t even sure he could write it very well anyway.

Miran sighed. “Fine. But you added the Orphan.”

Din turned. The Child was playing with his favourite little silver ball, rolling it in his hands, admiring the surface. He smiled behind the helmet.

“Yeah, well… the series needed a little shake up,” he said.

“…You’re just going to write whatever you want, aren’t you?” Miran grumbled.

“You know it.”

She groaned. “You’re going to get me fired,” she said, and she was probably shaking her head. “Send the next one along when you’re done!”

Corvus and Ahsoka Tano had been a double-edged sword. On the one hand, he now knew more of Grogu, had some inkling of his past and a name for him, a name he couldn’t stop saying without joyous laughter bubbling forth. But on the other… Tython. It loomed closer and closer on the starmap with every hyperspace jump, and with it the knowledge that soon Grogu would be gone. Gone forever, and with it a piece of Din himself.

He'd never expected to grow so attached. And now he was, a part of his heart now inextricably linked with this strange little being.

He allowed himself, one night while Grogu slept, to slip off his helmet. He watched him sleep, curled in his hammock, tiny chest rising and falling. He was much greener, without the tint of the visor. Din could see tiny, fine details, like the white fluff on his head and the pink inside his ears.

It was only many years of practice that stopped him from weeping.

The Wanderer looked down beside him, at the slumbering form of the Orphan. He wondered if the boy was dreaming.

The Mystic stared at them, her head tilted to the side, the feathers woven into her thick braids moving with her, giving her the look of some strange bird, cast orange in the firelight between them.

“His powers will continue to grow,” she said.

“They hurt him each time he uses them,” the Wanderer answered, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. He clenched his fists. “Isn’t there anything I can do to help him?”

The Mystic was silent for a long moment. “He can be taught to control his powers,” she eventually said. “But it is a long process, he is coming to it late. That worries me.”

“What’s the problem with that?”

“I don’t have the knowledge or experience to help a child this old,” she said. “You would have to find someone else.”

The Wanderer swallowed. Before he could stop himself, he placed a hand on the Orphan’s arm, more to reassure himself than the sleeping child. The Orphan stirred, but did not wake.

“And… and if we don’t?” he asked, voice strained.

The Mystic cast her gaze to the Orphan, her expression one of bone-deep sorrow. “Then his powers may consume him, and he would be lost to us.”

The Wanderer could feel himself trembling. He wanted to gather the child into his arms, cradle him close, utterly terrified of what could happen. He hadn’t expected, when finding the Orphan beneath that broken wagon, to end up so attached. And the thought of losing him, of wandering a world without the boy, was too harrowing to bear.

Miran commed him three days after Gideon’s cruiser.

“Hey, Mando!” she said cheerfully, and Din felt sick. How could she be happy, feel any joy, when Grogu was so far away, out of reach, gone?

“Hey,” he said, voice like stone, trying to be polite.

“Is something wrong?” she asked and to her credit, she sounded genuinely concerned.

“I… I’m not gonna be able to write for a while,” he said, and there it was again, the crushing grasp of cold around his heart. There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Ok. I know there’s a deadline coming up, so I’ll just say you’re not well,” she said, and her tone was gentle. “Please let me know when you feel better.”

Din closed his eyes. “Sure,” he muttered, knowing he probably never would be.

What was the point of it all, with no Grogu by his side?

“He won’t train without you,” Skywalker said. And his eyes lowered, went to Din’s thigh where the burn still bloomed large. “And you seem like you could use some help.”

At first, Din bristled. He didn’t like any potential incompetence being exposed, and it was a bit rich of the man who’d just up and taken his son from him to… to offer help.

Huh.

He tilted his helmet. “You’d help with the Darksaber?” he asked. Skywalker smiled then, and it wasn’t one of his odd little smiles either, the ones that got under Din’s skin with their irritating mysteriousness, like Skywalker knew something he didn’t. No, this one was broader, more genuine and bright, and it suited him. It made him look younger, less careworn, more… handsome.

Din’s heart skipped a beat.

“Of course. I can train more than one person at a time.”

It was the easiest thing in the universe, to follow Skywalker back to this verdant planet he resided on. It was even easier to see Grogu again, enfold him in his arms, joy bursting from him as their foreheads pressed together.

And if he allowed his gaze to linger on Skywalker more than it rightly should have, well, that was between him and himself.

The man stepped out of the cave, and he wasn’t anything like the Wanderer had been expecting. His face was clean-shaven, youthful and handsome, with cornfield gold hair and eyes like the blue sky above. Most of him was covered by a poncho, but what the Wanderer could see, he admired, legs that went on for days and pretty, slim wrists. The man tipped up the brim of his black hat with one finger, giving the Wanderer an appraising look, and his other hand rested at his belt, nowhere near the six-shooter at his hip.

“Are you the Hermit?” the Wanderer asked.

“Who’s asking?” the man countered.

“Someone who needs your help,” the Wanderer said. “My son needs your help.”

The man’s eyes fell on the Orphan, hiding behind the Wanderer’s leg, and his gaze softened.

“Tell me what you need, stranger,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It was almost deceptively simple, how easily they fell into each other. How quickly they entered each other’s orbit, how they danced closer and closer until they were entwined, and the thought of being separated from Luke was almost as painful as being separated from Grogu. They slotted together as if they were three perfect puzzle pieces, family coming easily to them.

And perhaps Din finally understood why people were so obsessed with romance.

The Orphan slept soundly now, exhausted by his daily lessons, the rhythms of learning and growing that made the Wanderer so proud of him. He tucked the blanket further around the boy and brushed unruly curls from his face. It needed cutting.

The Wanderer envied his easy slumber, because under his own skin there was an itch, an energy he couldn’t rid himself of, and the reason for it was close.

He stepped outside the cave, the warmth of the blazing daytime now all but gone. The stars had been tossed like paint flecks into the sky, crisp and bright, and against them was a familiar silhouette, one that had been haunting him for days now, filling his thoughts in a way no one else ever had.

He moved closer, and the Hermit turned to look at him when he drew even. He was different in the starlight, but no less handsome than in sunshine.

“Is he asleep?” he asked. The Wanderer nodded.

“Like a rock,” he replied, and the Hermit laughed softly, a pretty thing in contrast with the barren stone around them

They stood in silence for a while, companionable and yet awash with unspoken things. If the Wanderer moved just enough, their shoulders would brush. He’d never thought of that before, how someone’s nearness could be a thing of obsession.

He turned to the other man. “I… I wanted to thank you,” he said hoarsely, trying words he could actually say instead of those he couldn’t.

“For what?” the Hermit asked, surprised, as if the idea of gratitude for a safe harbour and help was an alien concept.

“For… this. Everything you’re doing for us.”

The Hermit smiled then, and the Wanderer thought he might break. The other man’s hand found his arm, squeezed it reassuringly.

“It’s the least I could do,” he murmured.

He was close. Agonisingly close. And the Wanderer was so tired of running.

He tugged down his bandana, and they met halfway, eyes closed, hearts a war-drum beat, and the Wanderer could almost imagine the Hermit tasted like the starlight above.

Din stretched, reading back over the last paragraph he’d written. It was definitely some of his better work, he thought proudly. Who knew he’d be so good at describing kisses? Practice helped with that, he was sure, a thought that filled him with a strange giddiness, like most thoughts about Luke did.

It was late, the chrono on the sideboard put it past this planet’s 2 a.m., and the hut was quiet. He’d definitely been deep in the zone, in those weird little writing fugue states he often got where time just slipped away and all he could be was a vehicle for the words that needed to be on the screen.

To his credit, he didn’t startle when arms wound around his shoulders and a face nuzzled into his hair.

“What are you doing up?” asked Luke, voice thick with sleep. Din sighed.

“Writing,” he said, gesturing at the ancient datapad where he’d written every single Lone Wanderer story so far. In a peculiar way, he supposed he felt a certain fondness for it: a newer model just wouldn’t feel the same.

“Writing?” Luke echoed curiously, paying more attention. He reached over and picked up the datapad, and Din didn’t see any point in stopping him.

“I’m sure I mentioned it before,” he said, frowning. Maybe he hadn’t. It wasn’t as if his second job ever really came up much in conversation, and half the time he even forgot about it unless he was actively doing the writing.

“You haven’t,” Luke said, kissing the side of his head as he scrolled. Din frowned as Luke went quiet. “Din… do you write fanfiction for the Lone Wanderer books?”

Din turned to him, giving him a surprised look. “You’ve heard of them?”

Luke snorted. “They’re Han’s favourite books, he’s obsessed with them.”

“Really?” Din couldn’t imagine Han Solo liking anything he’d made. They’d disliked each other on sight, antipathy instantaneous. “Wait… what’s fanfiction?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s fanfiction’? Isn’t this fanfiction?”

Din frowned slightly. “Well… I write them. The Lone Wanderer books. They’re mine.”

The silence stretched between them, and the look on Luke’s face was… interesting. Blank, but surprised at the same time.

“Wait… you write the actual books?”

Din nodded, slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t something he’d ever admitted to anyone before, and he was surprised he didn’t feel more uncomfortable about it. Perhaps it was because it was Luke, who made everything in the world seem slightly easier, more bearable.

Until he started laughing, which wasn’t very reassuring at all.

Din felt the back of his neck heat up and he snatched the datapad back. “I know it’s embarrassing…” he mumbled. Luke shook his head, getting his mirth under control.

“No, I’m laughing because of Han!” he said, wiping away an errant tear. “This will annoy him so much. You know… he definitely writes fanfiction of your books. Hang on…”

Luke disappeared, and came back with his own, decidedly newer datapad, strong enough to actually find a Holonet relay this far out. He puttered around before he brought up a page, settling next to Din.

Convergent Currents by FalconCaptain
Genre: action-adventure, angst, friendship
Characters: The Wanderer, The Orphan, Original Male Character(s)
Pairings: None
Word count: 6k
Summary: The Smuggler is a lucrative bounty, and the Wanderer could do with the money. But when they both end up kriffed over by the same guy, perhaps they can work together, and find out they’re not so different after all…

Desert Nights Are Cold by FalconCaptain
Genre: romance, smut, first time, oral sex
Characters: The Wanderer, The Orphan, The Sheriff
Pairings: Wanderer/Sheriff
Word count: 3k
Summary: Two lonely men take some comfort in each other while on their way to deal with a local robber baron.

Din stared. “What the kark?” He didn’t have the courage to scroll any lower. What the hell was a pairing? And smut? As in pornography? About his characters?

Luke laughed. “You didn’t know about all this?”

“All what?” Din asked, raising his head to look at Luke plaintively. Luke raised his eyebrows.

“People go nuts for your books, Din,” he said. “People write fanfiction, they draw art, they have theories about what’s going to happen next… they even pair the characters up with each other, it’s called ‘shipping’.”

Din felt suddenly violated. He looked back down at Luke’s datapad, wrinkling his nose. “Not the Sheriff…” he muttered, shaking his head. That was Cobb Vanth. Cobb was handsome enough, but Din certainly didn’t want to kiss him. And the Wanderer wouldn’t want to do anything with the Sheriff, not in that way. They were just allies, just friends.

“Pretty sure people ship the Wanderer with anyone,” Luke said. “A lot of self-insert characters, you know.”

Din gave him a pained look, and finally pushed Luke’s datapad away. He’d seen enough. “I wish you hadn’t shown me that,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, Din,” said Luke, his brow creasing in concern. “I thought it was funny. And a little strange you didn’t know about all this.”

Din shrugged. “I never bothered to look,” he said. “I write for me, you know? I write because I enjoy it. I knew they sold, but I never really took the time to figure out how much.”

Luke leaned closer, into Din’s side, and not for the first time Din had to wonder at how easily he’d taken to this casual intimacy with another person. A bright, bizarre mystery.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke said, “I think it’s incredible. You’ve written something millions of people enjoy. That’s no small feat.” He looked up at Din, an appraising look on his face. “You keep surprising me.”

“Is that a good thing?” Din asked.

Luke chuckled. “It’s a very good thing,” he replied, dragging Din down into a kiss.

He sent the finished manuscript for book ten.

Ten books already. Ten adventures, the culmination of long hours simply typing away at keys, scribbling on spare bits of flimsi, unravelling plot snarls and building up characters piece by piece. And he was proud of this one, more than any of the others except for the one where the Wanderer met the Orphan. Desert Moon was a good one, he thought, his best for a while.

Miran commed him three days later.

“You, Mando, are a lying liar!” she screeched, loud enough that Luke and Grogu were distracted from their meditation.

“What? What did I do?” he demanded.

“You said you weren’t going to give the Wanderer a love interest!” she said, sounding furious. “And what do I get halfway through this? Some blond twink you’ve just decided to throw in there all of a sudden!”

Luke, Din could see, was laughing now, trying to hide it behind his gloved hand. Din sighed.

“It felt like the right time?” he said weakly.

“‘The right time’,” Miran echoed mockingly. “At least he’s well-written, this ‘Hermit’ character. It might not disappoint people as much.”

“Well, I’m not changing it,” Din said. “The Hermit’s there now.”

He tried very hard not to look over at Luke. He failed. Luke smiled at him, one of those warm, pretty things that made Din’s stomach do backflips. Yes… the Hermit was there now.

Miran sighed. “If you didn’t make us huge amounts of money, Mando, I swear…”

Din ignored her. She was probably exaggerating. “Listen, I write what… feels right. The characters kind of do what they want.”

“I get it, I get it.” She hummed thoughtfully. “It is really good, though. Your best since the one where the Wanderer meets the Orphan. Your prose has really evolved. I’m proud to be your editor.”

The back of Din’s neck was red hot. “I, uh… thanks.”

“Keep up the good work!”

Solo was doing one of his supply runs, and he stomped down the ramp with a livid expression. Luke greeted him serenely as ever, and Din gave him a brief nod, although he felt decidedly sour at the sight of him. Well, sourer than usual.

I know what you do with my characters, he thought, scowling behind the helmet.

“What’s got you mad?” Luke asked. “Fight with Leia?”

“No!” Solo grunted, folded his arms. “It’s the new Wanderer book.”

Din choked on his own spit, falling into a desperate coughing fit, which had both Solo and Luke staring at him. He waved them away, composing himself with a couple of deep breaths.

“What happened?” Luke asked. Solo groaned.

“The writer just threw in a completely new character out of nowhere! A kriffing canon romance, too!” He shook his head, looking disgusted. “I can’t believe it, especially when the Wanderer and the Sheriff had so much chemistry…”

“They did not,” Din said before he could bite his tongue, feeling outrage on behalf of both his characters. He never intended it that way, why were people reading between the lines to something that clearly wasn’t there? Solo gave him a suspicious look.

“What do you care? Do you read the Lone Wanderer?”

Din went still. “…Something like that,” he said stiffly, and beside him Luke was trying desperately to smother his sniggering, bent almost double and using Din for support.

“What’s up with you, kid?”

Luke shook his head. “N-nothing,” he wheezed, still trying to get himself under control. Solo rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.” He turned his attention back to Din. “So, you obviously have an opinion on these books. What do you think of the new one?”

Din shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I think it’s… good,” he said, stilted. He wasn’t used to appraising his own work, he just got it done, sent it to Miran and that was that. He’d never had to have an opinion on it before, except the vague sense of pride in having made something, but this one was different. For better or for worse, he’d bared something of himself to the world, just as he had in the books about the Orphan.

Solo snorted. “Bantha shit! That new character is awful!”

Oh, that was personal. The Hermit meant a lot to the Wanderer, and to the Orphan, and consequently he meant a lot to him. “I think he’s perfectly fine,” Din said defensively. “Best addition to the series since the Orphan!”

Solo gave him a look of wide-eyed outrage, as if Din had insulted the glorified flying scrapheap he called a ship. “You clearly have no idea what makes a good Lone Wanderer book!” he said, throwing up his arms in disgust.

“Since when did Djaki Deitonah die and make you arbiter?” Din retorted.

“Since he decided to make poor writing decisions!”

Din resolved, right there and then, to make his next book entirely about the Wanderer and the Hermit. No one else, just them and the Orphan, in domestic bliss, plot be damned. Maybe that would shut Solo up for once in his life, though he highly doubted it. The only time Solo wasn’t annoying was the time he was frozen in carbonite, and Din hadn’t even known him then.

Din walked in from a shower – how this place had running water he’d never know, but he wasn’t about to look a gift blurrg in the mouth, because he appreciated a hot shower as much as the next man – and sat on the edge of the bed, towelling his hair. Luke, he realised then, was reading a book, and he peered at the cover.

He froze.

“Why are you reading that?” he asked, feeling suddenly incredibly embarrassed. Luke lowered Under a Wandering Star, eyebrows raised.

“I decided it was time for me to give them a fair shot,” he said. “I’m sorry for not reading them until now, but you know what it’s like when someone won’t shut up about something.”

Din conceded the point with a nod.

“It’s a really good book, Din,” Luke said, his voice softer now. “I’m enjoying it a lot.”

Din could feel the back of his neck burn. “Oh. Thanks.” He never knew how to respond to praise, but it got him a kiss, so it wasn’t all bad.

For the next week, Luke had his nose in a book. One of his books, and a different one each time.

“Are you eating them?” Din asked, askance. Luke looked up.

“They’re good!” he protested. “I get why Han goes crazy for them, now. They’re compelling. You build the characters enough that people know them, but you leave enough space for people to make up their own ideas, fill in the blanks. It’s episodic, which means people can just start reading at any point, but there’s a sense of continuity, a thread that connects everything. Your style is evocative, your main character dynamics are relatable. It’s addictive.”

Din could feel the back of his neck burning. “I wasn’t expecting a review,” he mumbled. Luke laughed, reaching out for Din’s hand. When he gave it, he pulled him close, kissing it in a way that made Din feel giddy.

“You need to write more,” Luke said.

Din raised an eyebrow, and Luke laughed.

“Because I’ve only got one more and I’m caught up.”

“Din?”

Din frowned with a small groan, half rolling over. The glowlamp was still on, which meant that Luke was still reading. He had the book lowered now, and Din was still too bleary from attempting to sleep to see his expression properly.

“Whuh?”

“You’re not very subtle, when it comes to making characters, are you?” Luke murmured. He closed the book and tapped off the glowlamp, settling down beneath the covers. Din rolled over fully, though his brain was having trouble catching up with Luke’s words.

“What?”

Now his eyes had started to focus, he could see the grin playing on Luke’s face. “Remember when we went to Tatooine, because you owed Boba Fett a favour and you asked me to help?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, if you know what to look for, it’s very, very obvious who the Nomad and the Assassin and the Sheriff are.”

Din’s brain suddenly clicked. His eyes widened, and he wanted to bury himself under the covers – no, under the very ground – and never emerge again. Luke continued, blithely oblivious to Din’s inner turmoil.

“And, well, the Hermit…”

Din groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Luke chuckled, setting the book aside and settling himself on Din’s chest. Din peeked at him through his fingers.

“I’m flattered, actually,” Luke said. “I personally think you might have written me a little too handsome, but it could be worse.”

Din finally lowered his hands. “You’re not mad? Or… weirded out?”

Luke shook his head. “I think it’s sweet. I like how you’ve taken all these people you know and immortalised them. And, well… it’s revealed a lot.” He leaned forward, his lips meeting Din’s and Din melted into it as easily as he always did, hands settling of their own accord wherever they wanted, as long as they were touching Luke.

“Good to know,” Din murmured. He could feel Luke’s grin against him before he was kissed again, deeper, hungrier, and everything else was forgotten entirely.

They’d tarried too long here, the Wanderer knew. Sooner or later, their past – his past – would catch up to them, dogged and undaunted as ever. Once it got the scent, it never let go. But the idea of leaving cracked his ribs open, ripped his heart still-beating out from his chest. It wasn’t just that the Orphan seemed happy, although that was a great part of it, in truth. The boy was happy. He was growing, taking control of his powers day by day, and more confident for it. He played, he learnt, he grew stronger.

The other part was the Hermit himself. Oh yes, the Orphan had grown attached to his new teacher, but then again… so had the Wanderer.

He’d never allowed himself to care so deeply before. The Orphan, he’d thought, was an anomaly, some strange unique event in his life. And then the Hermit had appeared, forged an iron-strong bond with the Wanderer’s ward – no, his son – and how could he resist that? Resist the siren call of a man who cared so deeply, so strongly, for strangers?

When the Wanderer looked now, he didn’t see only the Orphan in his future. No, the Hermit stood there too. Three of them in the empty land, following the sunset.

“Would you come with us?” the Wanderer asked one night, bare skin to bare skin under the infinite desert sky.

The Hermit was silent for a long moment, enough for the Wanderer to feel it like a dagger between his ribs. But then he reached up, pulled him down, the kiss feather-light.

“Of course I would,” he said. “I go where you go, now.”

The Wanderer’s eyes slipped shut, and he pressed their foreheads together as his heart soared up into that wide, wide sky.

Mandalore was, to put it bluntly, a mess. Fields of glass and crumbling domes, ash on the breeze… nothing for anyone to live on. Rebuilding from this utter devastation was going to be a challenge Din wasn’t sure they could meet.

“Just the expense alone…” Bo-Katan muttered, running a weary hand down her face. For the moment they were on Concordia, but the people had nothing: no provisions, barely any shelter, only the armour on their backs and their mismatched fleet. The beskar mines had been scraped clean and there were certainly no resources to even search for new veins. They’d need a miracle.

“If you didn’t make us huge amounts of money, Mando, I swear…”

Mandalorians always had Guild connections. It was something so deeply entrenched in their way of life that a Guild liaison had been one of the first outposts arranged in their hectic little cluster of tents and lean-tos and ships.

Din strode into the Lancer-class pursuit craft designated as a makeshift Guild hub. A couple of beroyase, unaffiliated to any clan, nodded respectfully to him as they passed him. Everyone came here to speak with one woman, who was currently sitting at the galley table, datapad in hand, next to a makeshift console set-up and holoprojector, displaying a grid of available bounties on one of the walls of the ship.

Ketsu Onyo raised her head, giving him an appraising look, and sat back in her chair.

“What can I do for you, Mand’alor?” she asked.

Din cleared his throat. “Could you look up the account associated with this chain code? It’s under the name ‘Mando’.”

She scanned the data from his vambrace and with a few taps of her keys brought up the information he wanted. Her eyes went comically huge.

“What?” he asked. She turned the panel to face him.

His knees almost gave out. He’d never seen that many zeroes before, not even on old Imperial bounties for high-ranking Rebels.

“Is… is that a mistake?” he asked, his voice hoarse. She slowly shook her head.

“The Guild doesn’t make mistakes,” she replied.

He rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his helmet back, staring at the ceiling of the ship as he tried to figure out what reality was again.

“I… I think I need to tell Bo-Katan we don’t need to worry about money,” he said.

But maybe he’d buy Luke and Grogu something special before that, as a treat.

Miran worked almost exclusively with Mando at this point, though she did entertain a couple of one-shot wonders every now and again, copycat writers who just didn’t have the same sticking power and sheer volume of output and dedication as Mando did. She was proud of what she’d done, the success of the bet she’d made against her boss’s wishes all those years ago. And she liked to think that, in their own strange way, she and Mando were friends, of a sort. Granted, she knew barely anything about him except his profession, but they had a rapport, in her opinion. A bond.

But in all their years of professional relationship, he’d never once called her first. Which led to her being startled in her office one afternoon when her comm went off and showed a comm code that had her mouth agape.

She answered.

“Hello, Mando!” she said cheerfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His next deadline was still a couple of weeks away, which meant he probably wasn’t going to ask for an extension just yet, and he usually holomailed requests for those. No, it had to be something more pressing, more urgent. Perhaps even… personal. She settled in on her chair, propping her chin on her laced fingers, eager for even a crumb of confidence from this strange man.

“Uh, I’m inviting you to my wedding,” he said

She nearly fell out of her chair.

“Your wedding?!” she shrieked. She hadn’t even known he was engaged! Or seeing anyone! Or romantically available! She… really didn’t know anything about him, did she? The only glimpses she got of this man’s psyche were from his works, which seemed so… personal, in some way. Heartfelt. But they weren’t a substitute for any real knowledge of someone, she thought sadly.

“Well, technically I’m already married,” he said. “But we have to have a public ceremony, otherwise my sister-in-law will string me up by my own guts. I’m not good with outsider traditions.”

“And… you’re inviting me?” she asked in a small voice, clasping her hands to her chest.

“According to my husband, you’re supposed to invite friends, so that’s what I’m doing.”

Miran could feel tears welling up, a bubble of sunshine-coloured joy erupting inside her. Friends! He’d called them friends! Never mind that he sounded spectacularly uncertain, as if admitting he had feelings was an extremely difficult thing to do, but he’d still called them friends! This would be the highlight of her week, for sure.

“When is it? Where? I’ll get time off!”

“I’ll send you the invite,” he said. “And Miran?”

“Yes?” she trilled, beaming.

“Thank you,” he said, and he sounded stiff, but sincere. “Thank you for taking a chance on my stupid book.”

The tears really did start falling then. She sniffed, quickly rubbing them away with her fingers.

“You’re welcome, Mando,” she replied. “It made sense.”

She’d bought a new dress for the occasion, something floaty and lilac that looked good with her blue skin, got her neighbour to look after her tooka, and she booked her shuttle. It wasn’t easy to get to Mandalore, and twice she nearly missed her connection, but she made it, finally on a shuttle heading right to the planet itself. Most of the rest of the ship was packed with people in armour, also heading home again. It was quite lovely to see, she thought, people going back to the planet they’d been torn from. And it was all very romantic, she thought. It had recently been resettled, hadn’t it? Some king of old coming out of the woodwork and reuniting a scattered people, leading them to glory, you could make a holodrama out of it. It would make sense that Mando would want to return to his home planet, and take his husband with him – an outsider, if Miran had understood correctly.

The sight from the viewport, once they dropped out of hyperspace and got close to Mandalore, was actually quite harrowing. Entire swathes of the planet had been turned to shimmering glass, which broke Miran’s heart. Was there even a way to fix it? How were they living like this on a planet so actively hostile? But she got her answer when they landed on a large platform outside a domed city.

“Welcome to Sundari,” the ticket droid said, doffing his cap.

This was such a strange way of doing things, she thought. She’d been greeted at the spaceport by a Togruta woman in dark red armour, who’d introduced herself as Srita Nuu.

“The Mand’alor instructed me to escort you,” she’d said. “Welcome to Mandalore Reclaimed.”

Miran had nodded, wondering who the Mand’alor was and why he was so bothered with one of his subject’s friends, but she’d taken it in stride. The wedding, she learnt, was the next day, and it wasn’t really a wedding, per se, more a party.

“They’ll exchange vows, I suppose,” Srita said. “But I don’t really know how outsider weddings work. They’re already married, I don’t see why they have to do things all over again.”

The next morning Srita led her to the largest, most intact building in Sundari. “The Council Building,” she explained. There was already a huge crowd there, almost as if the whole city had turned up for it. Perhaps Mando was a popular guy, Miran thought.

She stopped dead as soon as she was inside. That was Senator Leia Organa of New Alderaan, with her husband, the Rebel hero General Han Solo. She’d seen them on the Holonet news, the tabloids she liked to indulge in telling the galaxy weekly that divorce was imminent. What in the Stars were they doing here?! And there was Lando Calrissian, Baron Administrator of Cloud City, famed for his flings and his parties and his role in the Battle of Endor. He was talking to General Hera Syndulla, flying ace extraordinaire… there were so many people of fame and import that she felt absolutely minuscule. Was she even in the right place?

She tugged nervously on Srita’s sleeve. “Um… there must be some mistake…”

Srita looked at her. “Hm?”

“I’m here for, um…” She felt very silly all of a sudden. She didn’t even know Mando’s real name. Everyone on the planet was a Mando, weren’t they, so he wasn’t Mando, not even the Mando, just a Mando, one of thousands. “Is there another wedding happening?” she asked.

Srita shook her head. “No, only the Mand’alor is marrying today.”

Miran blushed. Maybe she’d gotten the date wrong? But no, she was certain the invitation had said today…

On some cue she didn’t notice, the crowd present inside the hall started to drift into rows of seats. Srita politely led her to a seat and gestured for her to sit, which Miran did, feeling incredibly self-conscious every second she was there.

There was a small platform in front of the huge throne at the end of the room, and everyone was facing it. Two men stood there, one a Mandalorian in unpainted silver armour, and the other… Miran almost fell out of her seat. Everyone knew that face, the face of the Rebellion for years, their poster boy and the Last Jedi. Luke Skywalker.

What have I stumbled into?

She sat there very quietly, attempting to make herself as small as possible, as the two exchanged vows in a language she didn’t understand. They then pressed their foreheads together – the Mandalorian didn’t remove his helmet – and the crowd cheered.

Cries of “OYA, MAND’ALOR!” rose, led by a man in blue armour, and others followed in chorus, the clanging of metal on metal almost deafening, especially when Srita was doing it beside her.

“Is that it?!” demanded General Solo through cupped hands, making a few people laugh. But that was it, apparently, and as the two newly-weds descended the platform, a small green… thing leapt into Master Skywalker’s arms, babbling excitedly and waving its arms. It was sort of cute, in a weird, wrinkly way, though she’d never seen a creature quite like it before.

Someone tapped Miran’s shoulder, making her jump. Srita chuckled, slightly distorted through the helmet.

“Come on, Miss Taj-Vanna, I think the Mand’alor would like to see you.”

Miran couldn’t think why, she obviously wasn’t supposed to be here, and now she would be found out to be an infiltrator – a wedding crasher! – and be curtly asked to leave. The whole prospect was humiliating.

She followed Srita dejectedly towards where the Mand’alor – who the Mandalorian in silver armour obviously was – and his new husband (the Luke Skywalker) were talking to General Solo and Senator Organa. The little green being was now in the arms of a small boy with jet-black curly hair and they were staring at each other in complete silence, which was slightly eerie.

The conversation stopped when Miran drew closer, and she shifted nervously.

“Mand’alor,” Srita said, “Miss Taj-Vanna.”

“Mr Mand’alor, Sir!” Miran blurted shrilly, flushing purple and wondering if she should curtsey. She had no experience with royalty outside those she read books about, after all.

“Oh!” The Mand’alor nodded a greeting at her. “We’re finally meeting in person.”

Miran blinked. She knew that voice.

“Mando?!” she exclaimed, pointing at him. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, helmet dipping slightly in embarrassment.

“You’re married to Luke Skywalker?!”

Said Master Skywalker chuckled into his gloved hand. “He is, yes.”

Miran let her hand fall, utterly lost for words – a very rare occurrence.

“I really do have to thank you, Miran,” Mando said. “We wouldn’t have been able to rebuild this place without you.”

“Me?”

Mando nodded. He remained, it seemed, uninclined to conversation.

“How do you know Mando then, Miran?” Senator Organa asked, and Miran almost fainted. Her mother was such a huge admirer of this woman, always tuning in to her addresses to the Senate. She wondered, vaguely, if she’d be able to get a holograph with her.

“I-I’m his editor!” Miran squeaked, blushing deeply.

“Editor?” General Solo asked, raising an eyebrow. “What the hell is Mando writing?”

Master Skywalker was smothering laughter in earnest now, tears in his eyes. Mando didn’t say anything, not even looking at General Solo. Miran frowned. Surely Mando should be proud of his accomplishments?

“He writes the Lone Wanderer series!” she said smugly, chest puffing out. “Well, of course, it’s a team effort, editing is an important part—”

But all the blood had drained from General Solo’s face. “WHAT?!” he squawked, loud enough to turn heads.

Mando snorted. “Turns out I do know what makes a good Lone Wanderer book, huh, Solo?”

The sky above was the brightest blue the Wanderer had ever seen – almost as blue as the Hermit’s eyes. The sun was bright, but the green canopy above filtered the light, dappling shadows on the grassy banks of the little stony creek. The Orphan splashed in the shimmering water, trousers rolled up to his knees, giggling to himself as he tried to catch the small fish darting between the rocks. Untethered, their horses grazed, Razor taking easily to the companionship of the Hermit’s chestnut mare, Redwing.

“Do you think this’ll last?” the Wanderer asked. His bandana was tugged down, his hat laid to the side, and he had his eyes closed. The Hermit, gloves off, was carding his fingers through the Wanderer’s freshly cut curls, his lap an excellent pillow.

“Happiness isn’t a lasting thing,” he said. “It’s in the moments in between everything else.”

The Wanderer sighed, opening his eyes. “We’ll take what we can get, then,” he said.

This would do, for now.