Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Din entered the common house, he was surprised to find that Karga was not seated in his usual booth. In fact, as he scanned the room, he couldn’t seem to locate Karga at all. He supposed that shouldn’t be surprising; it was early in the morning, after all, and most of Karga’s former employees were likely still sleeping off their spotchka. The main room was practically barren, save for a couple of patrons at the bar–one wide-awake morning-bird, one cranky night-owl, both nursing mugs of caff. 

Well. Din had nothing to do but wait. He sat down on the end of the bar and ordered the same as the other two, laying a couple of credits on the bartop. The mug plunked in front of him, foaming with an almost-sinister shade of black caff inside. Gingerly, turning three-quarters on his stool, he lifted the edge of his helmet, just enough to sip a small mouthful, then curse when it burned his tongue. He felt more than saw the crank’s curious, bleary eyes on him; well, what did he think Mandalorians did when they needed to eat and drink? Din rolled his eyes. He’d heard some pretty wild theories. Anything from tubing running through the arms and into the mouth, to some helmets having a drop chute in them, or even the absurd idea that Mandalorians didn’t need to eat at all–that they could go weeks without even a drink of water, and a full galactic year without food. Of course, while in the Corps, he’d trained for starvation situations, but nothing that ridiculous. Din’s shoulders stiffened as he heard the crank take in a breath to ask are you allowed to lift your helmet like that?–

“Mando!”

Thank the ka’ra. Setting his mug down on the bartop, Din stood and greeted Greef Karga as he swept into the common house. Swept being the operative term–the fancy new magisterial robes suited Karga well, billowing behind him as his voice bellowed before.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, gripping Din’s arm in greeting. “I don’t know why my higher-ups insist on meeting as soon as the sun rises, but I’m not yet in a position to complain about it. Oh, none for me, thank you,” he commented to the barman. Then, turning back to Din: “Come on–let’s talk.”

Din followed Karga into his “office”: a little private room off in the corner of the main hall, sparsely dressed with a simple table and a few chairs. It had once been cluttered with paperwork and bounty pucks, but, since Karga’s appointment, and subsequent relocation to the newly-rebuilt magistrate’s residence, it had been stripped down to the bones.

“I would have had you meet me at the house, but I know how much you like the quiet.” The two men sat across from one another, Karga leaning back in his chair, Din sitting straight, but comfortable. “So, how’re the kids?”

Din smirked under his helmet. After the Incident, he’d finally come clean with Greef and invited him up to the house on the mesa. Omera had opened the door, and Greef’s eyebrows had shot up. Winta had come around the corner with the baby in her arms, and they’d practically flown off of his head. Now, every time he so much as brushed shoulders with Din on the street, he wanted to know every movement of every member of the family. Karga even invited himself to dinner on occasion, and had invited Din and his family to the magisterial residence to return the favor.

“They’re fine,” Din replied. “The kid’s going to start training soon, and Winta’s been working hard in her apprenticeship.”

“I see–and that beautiful wife of yours? Last time I was over, she wasn’t doing too well–being in the family way can be mighty rough.”

A shot of pride bloomed in Din’s chest.

“The sickness is starting to ease up. Thank you.”

“Of course, of course. That’s actually part of why I’ve asked you here.” Karga tucked one of his boots over the other. “You said you’d like to keep your boots on the ground for the near future, yes? Especially with your family growing by one.”

Din nodded. Karga’s smile grew.

“Well, then, I’ve got an offer for you. As you know, I’m doing my damndest to clean up this town–make it the most reputable, respectable little place in the Outer Rim. But it is slow going, without the right people in the right places.”

“And you want my help.”

“Exactly.”

Din rolled his shoulders. “What would you have me doing?”

With an anticipatory grin, Karga started rummaging around in his robes.

“Well,” he explained, “as Magistrate, I have the power to appoint my own officers and representatives. And as it so happens…”

Karga removed his hand, and, with a small flourish, placed something heavy on the table.

“I find myself in need of a marshal.”

Slowly, Din reached out and took the marshal’s badge in his hand. It looked practically newly-minted, as if it had been polished for this very occasion. The Republic insignia engraved on the steel stared up at him, reflected his visor into itself.

“...Thank you, Karga. Really,” Din said, touched. “But, ah…I’ve got a…slight record. With the Republic.”

“Ah, but that’s just it!” Karga lightly rapped the table for emphasis. “I’ve already made your case before the Republic, and they are more than happy to overlook some past indiscretions in order to say that they’ve got a Mandalorian looking out for this town. And what better Mandalorian than Din Djarin, who spit in the Empire’s eye–twice?”

“You offered my name up, even before offering me the job?”

Karga shrugged, leaned back again.

“I knew what you’d say. Care to say it out loud for me?”

Din weighed the badge in his hand, turned it to see all the angles of his helmet in its reflection. He’d never exactly been…respectful with the law, treating it more like a set of guidelines, rather than the immovable Creed he’d been sworn to above all else. And now he was going to be working to enforce the laws he’d always bent. But still…a steady income. Being close to home, should his family need him. A respectable title. Respect. How it terrified him. How he craved it.

Din closed his hand around the badge.

“I’m in.”

“Hey Mando!” The morning-bird patron from the bar poked her head into the door. “There’s another one of you out there.”

Din’s brow came together under his helmet. The only other Mandalorian in town was the Armorer, and she preferred to travel at night, or early in the morning, so as not to be seen. If the Armorer was out in the daylight…something must be wrong. Clipping the new badge onto his belt, Din stood and brushed past the woman at the door, mind buzzing with worst case scenarios.

Instead of the Armorer, he encountered a giant.

Not quite Wookiee-sized, but close enough, the stranger in the bottle-green Mandalorian armor was built like a barrel, with the wild, frayed edges of an auburn beard frizzing out from under his helmet. He was armed to the teeth with a bandolier and blasters, but perhaps even more intimidating was the melee weapon he carried–a massive polearm, with a wicked pike on the tip and a razor-sharp greataxe below it. As Din stepped onto the street, the stranger hefted the halberd onto his shoulder and raised a hand in greeting.

“ Oya, vod!” His voice was as broad as its speaker, but far friendlier than his appearance. “I am looking for Din Djarin. Do you know him?”

Din looked around. A small crowd had gathered–after all, a Mandalorian wasn’t exactly common, much less as conspicuous a Mandalorian as the stranger was. Revealing his identity in front of a crowd was also something to be considered–

“You’re looking at him!” Din cast an irritated glance back at Karga, though Karga couldn’t see it. He felt the less reputable bandits in the throng taking mental notes, connecting the “tin can” with the name.

The giant, meanwhile, let out a long wheeze that escalated into a riotous laugh. He swung the halberd down to attention by his left side, pounding his heart with his fist.

“ Ner Mand’alor! Forgive me–I did not recognize you,” he exclaimed, coming forward and clasping Din’s arm. “The journey has been long, and we are all quite tired.”

“...We?”

The giant leaned in conspiratorially. “You did not think I come alone, did you? Ah, but I have forgotten my manners.” He then drew himself to his full height, somehow even taller than before.

“I am Rikkar, son of Mikken,” he boomed, “leader of Clan Azgar. And we have come to answer the call of the Mand’alor.” He then swept into a low bow, bending practically in half at the waist. “We are at your service.”

Din’s eyes widened as a flush flowed down his cheeks. The crowd were elbowing each other now, and their eyes mined through his beskar. He even heard some snickering. Unfreezing, he hastily signaled for Rikkar to straighten back up.

“Thank you…Rikkar,” he said quietly. “Why don’t we go talk somewhere else?”

For the first time, Rikkar seemed to notice that they were in public. He readjusted himself, awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Er–yes, ner alor, ” he grumbled, gesturing for Din to follow him. “Come.”

As they made their way out of the crowd and into the winding streets leading to the edge of town, Rikkar seemed to deflate–but not out of shame. Rather, it seemed the giant was… humbling himself. Before him. Din Djarin, previously from nowhere, kin to no one. Rikkar leaned in, bowed like a branch weighed down by rain, clapping a hand on Din’s shoulder as they walked.

“I hope I have not embarrassed you, ner alor. The customs of Clan Azgar’s home world require such a ritual of introduction when one is addressing a leader.”

“No, it’s–it’s fine. And please just call me Din.”

“Din.” Like a staccato strike on a bass drum. “So I will call you.”

“Where is your home world, anyway?”

Rikkar’s voice turned wistful.

“We come from Levna–a little green planet on the edge of wild space. Ah, it is a beautiful place, ner– Din. And it is under sad circumstances that we leave it. But come, I will tell you all of this when we are at base camp.”

“Base camp?”

Rikkar chuckled warmly and waved his arm towards the horizon.

“As I say…the whole might of Clan Azgar is yours.”

The bottom of Din’s stomach dropped to his toes. When he’d first sent out the call to the other coverts (wherever they could be found), he’d expected a slow trickle of single warriors, or clusters of family units at most–not an entire village , all at once. There had to be at least a hundred people in the camp, and each one, save for the children and the elders, was kitted out in their full armor, a sea of brightly colored capes and kamas all fluttering in the dry breeze.

“ VOD’E!” At its full strength, Rikkar’s voice echoed across the plain like thunder. Everyone in the base camp stopped in their tracks. Rikkar took Din’s hand and raised it in the air.

“ THIS IS OUR MAND’ALOR!”

The camp erupted in cheers. They all surged forward, the children sprinting ahead of the grown-ups, giggling and racing one another, and the thought struck Din like a blastershot: I am not qualified for this.

The wave made impact as the children reached him and began to circle, firing questions: is that real beskar? Do you really have the Darksaber? Can I see it? Can I touch it? Whoa, you’re so cool! Come play with us! Mama, Mama, look, it’s the Mand’alor! The grown-ups came next, more restrained, but no less excited, so many hands reaching out to shake his hand, to touch his pauldrons, his chestplate, his cape, so many voices in unison cacophony to welcome him, and even a few elders had left their seats and joined the throng, one toothless old man taking Din’s hand and thanking the ka’ra that he had lived to see the day of the Mand’alor’s return–Din’s head spun–the air whistled shrill in his ears–

He found himself being buffeted forward, ushered and shielded by Rikkar, into the camp, through the maze of tents and cookfires. Over the heads of the crowd, Din could make out the hulking shape of a beat-up commercial transport ship, dented and coated in carbon from missile fire.The hatch door was open, but a curtain was strung across the entryway, swaying in the wind. Rikkar gave Din a shove, and he became briefly tangled in the cloth before righting himself on the other side.

“All right, that’s enough!” Rikkar’s arm raised again, and bit by bit, the crowd backed off. “There will be time enough to meet our Mand’alor at the feast tonight!”

“Wait, a feast? I–” Din hated that he was asking so many questions. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to have all the answers?

“Of course!” Rikkar said as he yanked the curtain closed. “How else should we celebrate the new day coming for our people?”

Din felt motion-sick. He braced his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, in and out, and wished Omera was there, if only to hold his hand.

Rikkar, oblivious to Din’s shift in body language, clapped his hands together and made his way further into the empty, ragged transport.

“Come, come,” he said, beckoning for Din to follow him, “let me introduce you to my family.”

More introductions. Din swallowed hard as he followed Rikkar up the steps and into the upper deck of the transport, hoping that Rikkar’s family might be less boisterous.

It was, as he’d feared, a futile hope. Even as he came up the stairs, Din could hear a pair of voices bickering:

“You cheated!”

“How the hell do you cheat at arm wrestling?”

“By kicking me in the nuts under the table!”

As he surfaced over the edge of the railing, Din’s eye landed on the sources of the argument. In the center of the upper deck, two teenage boys were arguing across a large, round table. A younger boy–about Winta’s age, Din would guess–stretched out his legs on one of the bench seats lining the walls, scribbling in a notebook with single-minded concentration–concentration that was just starting to falter as the two teenagers shot from their seats and squared up to one another.

“I didn’t do that!”

“Tell that to my nuts , di’kut!”

The two started to grapple, and the younger boy looked up with detached fascination–

“ Enough!” Rikkar roared as he balled his fists into the young boys’ cowls and yanked them apart. “Pull yourselves together! We have a guest!”

Immediately, they sobered, muttering “yes sir”s under their breaths and falling into sullen postures of attention.

“Thank you for handling that, my love!” From the back of the long room, a woman bustled forward. Red-cheeked and dark-freckled, with a long black and white braid swinging down her back, she stood two heads shorter than Rikkar, but exuded no less energy than her husband. As she approached, she finished wiping her hands on a towel and tucked it into her apron string. “I was about to, but you beat me to it.” She came to Rikkar’s side and put her arm around his waist–or, at least, halfway across his back. Din watched as her bright gray eyes took him up and down. “So…is this him?”

“It is.” Rikkar’s voice turned tender–almost gentle. “Isolde–my love, my bride–meet Din Djarin. Our Mand’alor.”

Isolde’s smile beamed even brighter as she held out her hands, red, cracked, hard-worn. Din took them in his own and was hardly surprised by the strength of her grip.

“Oh, how wonderful–wonderful to meet you at last, Mand’alor!”

“Just Din, please. Thank you for…having me in your home.”

“The honor is ours! Well,” she amended, casting an apologetic gaze around her, “this isn’t exactly a home. But that will soon change, won’t it?”

Without warning, Isolde snatched her hands back from Din and put them around the teenagers’ shoulders, pushing them in front of her.

“Here–let me introduce you to our boys–twins, Jorra and Ali.” Both boys inclined their heads, sheepish. “And Nicco, our youngest. Nicco?”

Nicco, now curled up tight in his seat, made no move to stand–or, even, to look up from his work.

“Hm?”

“Stand up, ad’ika– show respect!”

Din waved her off.

“No, really, it’s all right. He looks busy.”

From over the edge of the sketchbook, Nicco met Din’s eyes behind his visor and shot him a shy smile. Reflexively, Din returned it.

Isolde sighed, then gave a low, long-suffering laugh.

“Always with the drawing and writing, that one. Can hardly get him to stop long enough to eat. Ah–speaking of which! You’re just in time for our midday meal! Come–eat!”

“Wait.”

A voice, crackling like aged vellum, called out from the shadows at the edge of the room. The rest of the family parted, and Din’s eye landed on an ancient woman, small of stature and crone-withered, sitting cross-legged on a massive pile of cushions. Her dry white hair was thick, whisked into a braid and twisted onto the top of her angular head. In fact, her face was all angles, while her body was all roundness and soft shapes. One of her hands worried at the edge of a shawl, while the other gesticulated, palm-up, towards them.

“You don’t introduce him to your mother, Rikkar?” she said. “Come–let me see him.”

The anxiety that had been brewing in Din’s stomach reached a rolling boil.

“...See me?”

“Oh,” the crone chuckled, “do not be afraid, boy. Baba cannot see you–only feel what is there. Your Creed will stay intact. Favor an old woman, child. Come to me.”

Din couldn’t move. His boots had rooted into the floor, through the first level of the transport, and deep, down into the core of the planet.

“Here,” Rikkar encouraged as he pushed Din forward with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “We will turn our backs. We will not see.”

“But he’s already seen our faces, Dad,” interjected one of the teenagers–Din had already forgotten which was which.

“And he does not wish you to see his,” Rikkar scolded. “Turn around, Ali. Now.”

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Ali turned, as did his brother. Nicco reburied himself in his pen and paper–with no intention of looking up. Rikkar and Isolde followed suit, turning their backs to him until Din was, effectively, alone. Alone with the old woman. As he approached her makeshift throne, Baba’s blindness became obvious. Her eyes sat like two smooth riverstones, deep in their hooded sockets, owl-like. Uncanny. Chewing her gums together, Baba held out her hands, flexing long, knotted fingers. Waiting.

Din crouched before her, and, trying desperately to quell the fried nerves inside him, slowly removed his helmet.

The pads of Baba’s fingers, silky with what must have been a century of use, brushed against his ears first, then his hair. Then, they traced down his jaw, cupping his chin. “Mm–a strong jaw,” she hummed. Suddenly, Baba pinched his cheeks–something no one had done to him since he was little more than a baby. “But these cheeks! So thin!” Din blushed. “Do you not eat, boy?”

“I–I do, ma’am.”

“Bah–it is okay–we will fill you out,” Baba continued, ignoring Din’s reply. “And call me Baba–everyone does.” Her fingers wandered further into his face, tracing the arch of–“What a nose! Like a mountain face!”

“ Mama!”

“Oh, hush, ad’ika– it is a noble nose!” Din was baffled, but before he could think too hard about Rikkar being called a little–well, anything–or about how a nose could possibly be noble, Baba’s fingers made contact with his lips. And the scar. She froze, hummed pensively to herself, low in the back of her throat. Carefully, she traced the scar’s path, first down his chin, then up over his lip, around the hollow of his nostril, and up to its termination. When her fingers hit the eyepatch, she started, ever so slightly. Then, with a tenderness Din hadn’t expected from a stranger, swept the backs of her fingers from his cheekbone to his temple.

“This hurt.”

“...Yes, Baba.”

“But well earned, I gather, from the stories. Yes,” Baba’s voice lightened again, and she gave Din’s face one last squeeze. “Every inch as handsome as a Mand’alor should be. Put your helmet back on, child–Baba’s finished.” As she released him with a wave of her hands, Din couldn’t help but keep staring into her moon-filmed eyes, useless. But her fingers, skeletal and translucent– alive –had not just seen him. They had exposed him. Trying to ignore that naked feeling, Din quickly pulled the helmet back onto his head.

“All right. You can turn back around now.”

As they all did so, Isolde wiped her hands on her apron and gestured toward the table.

“Right,” she said as she made her way back to the makeshift cooktop, where a pot was about to burble over, “please–sit. Food will be ready in a moment.”

Din felt as if he’d been holding his breath underwater for an hour, with a weight tied around his ankles, pulling him down, down, down. He needed air. Desperately, savagely needed air.

“Thank you–really. It’s too kind of you.” His voice and sentiment felt hackneyed and fake, and Din hated it. “But I do need to get home. My wife is waiting on me, and I’d like to let her know you’re here.”

Rikkar, still oblivious, gave him a broad smile and waved him off.

“Oh, of course! Jorra, go with the Mand’alor and make sure he finds his way back to us.”

“No, no–it’s fine,” Din interrupted, almost too quickly, before reining in his tone again. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your meal. I’ll just input the coordinates, and I’ll bring my family back with me. For the feast. Tonight.”

“All right.” Something akin to understanding flitted across Isolde’s face as she spoke–a quieter understanding. “We’ll be waiting for you, ner alor.”

Slowly, deliberately, on a deep exhale, Din gave a short bow to excuse himself before turning his back to them, his heart a dizzy hummingbird against his beskar.

I am not ready for this.

Chapter Text

From the moment Din came into the house, Omera could tell something was wrong.

Not that it would have taken any great effort to come to that conclusion; the way he sagged against the wall once the door closed behind him, how he kicked off his boots rather than unfastening them, the sigh he let loose from under his helmet–the fact that he hadn’t taken the helmet off in the first place–well, it didn’t take a genius to put it together.

None of that, of course, mattered to the child. From where he and Omera sat on the floor, he let out a babble that almost sounded like a word, reaching out to Din with grabbing little hands.

“Hey, kiddo.” Omera’s lips crooked in fondness. Of course he was going to pretend everything was fine. He always did–as long as he could, anyway.

“What’re you doing there?” continued Din as he came into the common area and stretched himself out on the floor beside them. In response, a blocky wooden puzzle piece floated toward Din, who plucked it out of the air.

“We,” Omera clarified, “are working on a puzzle for our quiet time.”

“Hmm…” For a moment, Din turned the puzzle piece over in his fingers, making a show of struggling to figure out the right place. “You think it goes here?” The child babbled in response and pointed to the place the piece actually belonged. Din set it down there, but in the wrong configuration. “Like this?” he asked, his smile audible. With a frustrated puff, the child took the puzzle piece, clumsily turned it, and connected it to the rest of the puzzle.

“Right. Thanks, pal.” Din chuckled and shifted onto his other hip, sliding his arm behind Omera–all obvious efforts to stay casual. And yet the helmet remained firmly in place. “Winta come home for lunch yet?”

Omera shook her head. “No, she’s not due for–” she looked at the chrono on the wall– “maybe another hour.” Playing along, Omera leaned back against Din’s chest and laid her head on his shoulder. “You were gone a long time,” she commented, making the effort to sound offhand.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Another sigh. After several moments of no answer, Omera sat back up–enough was enough.

“Din, don’t make me take this off for you,” she teased, tapping the temple of the helmet. Din scoffed.

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. If you take it off, who knows what could come off next?”

Oh, there was no way he was flirting his way out of this. With a smirk and rolled eyes, Omera lifted the helmet off his head. Setting it beside her, she reached up and tousled Din’s hair, and even as a contented smile crawled across his face, still, a sense of disheveled energy lingered in the hollow under his eye, in the lines on his forehead.

“Now. What happened?”

Din readjusted where he sat, took another breath.

“Good news,” he eventually replied. “We have our first colonists.”

A surge of excitement tingled through Omera's body.

“Din, that’s great news! Where are they?”

“That’s, ah…that’s the bad news. They’re a few kliks north of here.” Then, before Omera could interject: “And there are at least a hundred of them.”

“I…I’m still not sure how that’s bad news.”

“It’s not. Well, it wouldn’t be. If I was…” Din sighed. “I thought I’d have more time to…get used to the idea. Of…being Mand’alor. But now they’re here . And there are so many of them, and they’re so loud , Omera, and the way they looked at me…” Din shook his head and averted his gaze. “Like I was…somebody. Somebody from the songs and legends we were raised on. And I–I froze.”

Coming closer to him, Omera put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you didn’t do as bad as you think you did.”

“But I could have been better. Should have been better. I…should have been ready.”

For a long moment, the tension hung heavy as smoke. Even the child had paused in his quest to complete the puzzle to cock his head and listen while his father spoke. Then, Omera broke the quiet.

“You’ll never be ready to be someone you’re not.”

Sliding her hand from his pauldron across his shoulders, Omera tucked herself closer to Din’s side, glad when he automatically put his arm around her, when he laid his hand gently on her hip.

“You’re not who they’re expecting you to be. Or who you’re expecting yourself to be. You’re not a hero from the poems and songs. And that, ” Omera’s other hand tapped on his chestplate, just over his heart, “is why the ka’ra chose you. They didn’t want some statesman with big, flowery speeches, or some swaggering war hero–they wanted you. And everything that you are. But,” she added, “you have to let people in to see it. I hate to tell you, but you’re going to have to get used to people looking at you. You’re Mand’alor– the Mandalorian.”

A light came on in Din’s eye.

“And, as of this morning, Marshal of the New Republic.” The fingertips of his gloves rasped against the durasteel of the marshal’s badge as he took it off his belt and put it in Omera’s hand. “All the excitement, I almost forgot.”

Pulling away from Din for a moment, Omera weighed the badge in both her hands, turning it so it caught the light from every angle. Then, she lunged forward, catching Din and holding him tight. The familiar contours of his brow burrowed into the curve of her shoulder as he let out a quiet laugh.

“Din,” Omera said as she pulled back, still holding him close, “do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

Din gave a sheepish half-smile and turned his eye away again–but Omera caught him under the chin with her fingers, turning him to face her. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Din took another deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “They’re having a feast tonight. For me–well, us.”

Omera thought for a moment, then reached up and ruffled Din’s hair again.

“How about this. If you’re Mand’alor, then I’m Alor’riduur. And that means that I have a responsibility to our people, too. So, what if I take the lead with the talking and politics tonight, and next time we have a–royal function,” Omera smiled–the absurdity of the phrasing had done its job and raised a blush on Din’s cheeks, “then it’ll be your turn.”

To seal that compromise, Din pulled her in for a gentle kiss. “Deal.” He leaned in again, and just as their lips were about to meet, a little hand tugged at Din’s sleeve. With a proud cooing noise, the child pointed back to the now-complete puzzle: a simple, wide-eyed, and far less toothy loth kitten looked up at them.

“Wow!” Omera scooped their son into her arms and scratched between his ears. “Look at that–hey, can you tell me what this is?” Slowing her speech, she tapped the puzzle with her forefinger. “Can you say ‘loth cat’?”

The baby’s wrinkles deepened as he murmured under his breath.

“Here–try it,” Din encouraged. “‘Loth cat.’”

Chewing on his fist, the baby, instead, looked up at Din.

“...Da-da.”

Omera gasped. Din’s mouth fell open soundlessly, and for a moment, neither parent moved. Then, with a faint smile, Din held out his hands and took the baby into his lap.

“Da-da-da-da.”

“That’s…that’s right, pal,” Din said, his voice tight. “I’m your dad.”

Realizing he’d made his father happy, the baby gleefully repeated himself, over and over again.

“Da-da-da-da-da-da-da!”

“Well, how about that?” Din chuckled, his smile broad and warm. “Good job, buddy! I’m so proud of you. Now,” Din asked as he pointed to Omera, “can you say Ma-ma?”

“Da-da-da-da.”

“No, no–Ma-ma.”

“Da-da-da-da-da-da.”

Din shrugged, cast Omera an apologetic glance. “We’ll work on it. Soon,” he continued, taking one of the child’s little hands, “you’ll be giving all my speeches for me. You’ll be my little spokesman–what do you think?”

“Da-da-da-da-da-da-da!”

Omera laughed. “He’s certainly going to be a popular ambassador tonight.” Reaching her arms above her head, she gave her back a lengthy stretch, then leaned back against Din’s shoulder. “Oh, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been to a party?”

Din grunted.

“Well, fasten your seatbelt. I’ve got a feeling Clan Azgar knows how to throw one.”

///

Against the dusk-darkening landscape, Clan Azgar’s encampment glowed like a mirage of improbable warmth. Wisps of smoke from the cookfires hung gauzily over the tents, carrying with them smells that made Din’s heart clench–curry and red meat, and spiced sweets waiting for dessert. His mouth started watering. The last time he’d eaten a traditional Mandalorian meal seemed a lifetime ago. Suddenly, the persistent buzzing of the hive of Mando’ade wasn’t so intimidating. The camp smelled like home, and that was some comfort. As was Omera, who walked beside him and held his hand in hers.

“You ready?”

The whole trek to the camp, Din struggled to keep his eye off Omera. After all, it wasn’t every day she wore formal clothing, and while he found her beautiful in all states of dress (and undress, especially), tonight, by the ka’ra , she was stunning. As the approaching firelight started to spark off her golden breastplate and the tortoiseshell comb holding her dark braids in place, and as a slight breeze swayed the ends of the crushed velvet cloak he’d gifted her–he’d known that the vivid purple color would suit her perfectly, and now, how it complimented her skin, how it curved around her arms and exposed her shoulders, how it fastened around her waist–she looked every inch the queen she had always been.

“As I’ll ever be,” he replied, taking his hand from hers and pulling her closer by her waist.

“Whoa!” Though Winta’s hair was damp from the fresher, her curls still had a life of their own as she danced along to the music wending its way from the camp, deep drums and humming strings. “I’ve never seen this many Mandalorians in one place before!”

“Da-da-da-da-da!” the baby agreed cheerfully from his pram.

“Is this what things used to be like, Dad?”

Bittersweetness stung in his heart.

“A long time ago.”

“Now Winta,” Omera instructed, “remember your manners–wait for us to introduce you, say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and–”

“Don’t interrupt when someone else is talking.”

“Like you just did. Exactly,” said Din. “Now, let’s go and find Rikkar–he’s dying to meet you all.”

As they approached the border of the encampment, they were met by one of Rikkar’s eldest sons. Din couldn’t remember which twin he was, but hazarded a guess: “Jorra?”

“Mand’alor. Come with me–you’ll be sitting with us for the feast tonight.”

Mercifully, the young man led them around the perimeter, rather than plunging right into the heart of the crowd. Din didn’t think he could handle being mobbed again, much less the kids, even less Omera–with all of those people pressing in, an errant fist or elbow could strike just the wrong place, regardless of the fact that her still-flat belly was hidden by her breastplate, this early in the pregnancy was such a delicate time–

“Breathe.” Omera’s slender fingers massaged the small of his back, where a knot had started to form. “I’ve got you.” Grateful, Din gave her waist an affectionate squeeze.

Jorra led them through the side door of the old transport, where they were greeted by the rest of Rikkar’s family, now gathered on the first level. After a round of boisterous introductions, both clans were again seated–save for Rikkar and the twins, who were stoking the bonfire outside with slightly-concerning, but typically Mandalorian, enthusiasm.

Sitting on the ground around a low table, laden with bowls of spicy vegetable stuffing and squares of rolled-out dough, Din’s fingers immediately itched with nostalgia.

“Thank you for having us,” Din said politely, shucking his gloves. “Can I help with the ar’pat ?”

“Of course!” Isolde shook her head in wonderment as she bustled around, preparing the rest of the dishes. “A Mand’alor who offers to cook his own feast! Baba, since when have you heard of such a thing?”

Baba chuckled darkly, her flinty eyes glinting in their creased folds. “Not for a century,” she replied as she deftly folded a dumpling together. Din followed suit with an almost childlike enthusiasm. It had been such a long time since he’d made ar’pat , but the muscle memory came back almost instantly–just enough filling, just enough tension on the wrapper, and, like a magic trick, there appeared a dumpling. As he reached for more ingredients, his fingers locked with Omera’s, reaching for the same thing. Beneath his helmet, Din’s smile widened–knowing her dexterity, she would soon have a pile of ar’pat far larger than his own. Meanwhile, Baba continued to grumble.

“Yes, not for a long time have we had a Mand’alor with dirty hands. Duchess Satine had such delicate fingers, the landuur , and that sister of hers–too haughty, too cruel–thought the name Kryze put her above such things as cooking–too caught up in her lofty failures.”

“But that was before the Clone Wars, wasn’t it?” Omera asked.

“Ah, but she’s still out there, so I’ve heard–claiming Mandalore for herself and her cult, then losing the Darksaber–twice! Ha!” Baba wheezed, plopping a dumpling down onto the table for emphasis. “What a time we live in now!”

“ Oya!” Isolde agreed as she came back to the table, carrying a large earthenware bottle and some small glasses. “Come, a toast!” She carefully measured out a small amount of clear liquid into each glass, then distributed them among the adults. Din recognized the licorice-root smell at once, but before he could figure out how to object on Omera’s behalf, she spoke up herself.

“Thank you, Isolde, but I’m afraid I can’t drink.”

“Ah–sensitive to alcohol, yes?”

“No, no,” Omera explained, her hand subconsciously falling to her stomach. “I’ve just got the baby to worry about.”

What followed could be best described as verbal pandemonium as Isolde nearly dropped the bottle and squealed with giddy excitement. Most closely translated, her shrill but not unpleasant vocalization amounted to: aaaaaaaah ka’ra bless you sister oh how wonderful a new baby a blessing upon your family oooooooohhhhh , all accented by Isolde’s death-grip embrace around Omera’s shoulders.

“Here, I’ll drink yours–to the new prince or princess!” In an instant, Isolde dumped the spirit down her throat and slammed the glass back down on the table, before repeating the action with her own drink. Din could hardly tame his smile enough to lift the edge of his helmet and take his drink, savoring the anise and grape of the liquor on his tongue before letting it warm down his chest.

“Oh, sister, how exciting!” continued Isolde as she reluctantly released Omera and sat on her other side. “How far along are you?”

Omera beamed. “A little over two months.”

Isolde hummed. “Well, you won’t be able to wear that breastplate much longer. Enjoy it while you can! Ka’ra, ” she said to herself, “two children in swaddle, and–and you, young lady!” Winta’s head snapped up from where she balanced it on her hand. “How old are you?”

“Almost twelve, ma’am,” Winta replied.

“Oh, too polite, too polite!” laughed Isolde, batting her sturdy hand through the air. “You may call me Isolde if you’d like. Almost twelve! What a grown girl you are! A little older than my Nicco–Nicco!” Isolde interrupted herself, calling up the stairs. “Come down here please!”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible shuffling sound above their heads, and then a young boy slinked down the edge of the stairs, looking as though his shoulders were collapsing in on his body. As he took in the scene before him, his blue eyes widened–and when Winta met his gaze, they widened further, and a pink tinge crossed the bridge of his freckled nose.

“Nicco,” Isolde said, in a gentler tone, “say hello to our guests, please.”

Hesitantly, Nicco raised his hand and waved. Then, his other hand came up, and he began to sign. Winta squinted at him, but couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. Luckily Isolde translated.

“He says he’s pleased to meet you all.” A few more quick hand motions, and Isolde sighed. “Yes, sweetheart, you may go back upstairs–but you’ll be joining us down here for the feast, remember.”

Nicco ascended the stairs with a quickness akin to a rabbit being loosed from a trap. Staring after him, Winta’s mind reeled with questions–questions that were far more interesting than the grown-ups’ gossip.

“Can little brother and I go play with him?” she asked, half to Mama and half to Isolde. The look on the older woman’s face turned a little sad, a little warm.

“You may,” she said. “But he may not do much playing. He’s a little…shy.”

“Thank you,” Winta said, remembering her manners halfway up the stairs.

At the top of the staircase, she paused, tucking the baby in one arm and steadying herself on the bannister. There was the strange boy– Nicco, she reminded herself–sitting on a long bench seat, scribbling busily in a sketchbook. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there, so she cleared her throat as gently as she could. Startled, Nicco’s head shot up, not unlike the prey she’d hunted with her father while they’d been on the run.

“...Hi.”

Nicco gave a tentative wave.

“Um…I’m Winta. And this is my little brother.”

The boy started signing again, but she interrupted him.

“I don’t speak sign–sorry.”

The cloud across Nicco’s face lightened slightly as he gestured toward the notebook. Slowly, Winta approached him and carefully took a seat a short distance from him. With dexterity, Nicco flipped to a blank page and started to write.

That’s okay. I use this book to talk, too.

“Ohhh. Okay.” Winta shifted, the old vinyl of the banquette crackling under her. “So…you can…hear. Right?”

Looking sheepishly into his lap, Nicco nodded.

“So why don’t you talk?”

His hand hesitated, then, slowly, wrote. I can’t. I try, but it’s really, really hard. I just can’t get my mouth to do it.

“Huh. I’ve never really had trouble like that. I mean, I used to, especially around strangers–but you seem pretty nice, so I’m okay talking with you.”

An audible sigh of relief. And I’m okay listening. I like it a lot better anyway. You learn lots of things when everyone thinks you’re stupid.

“...I don’t.”

The silence became awkward again, stiflingly so. Then, the baby joined the conversation.

“Da-da-da-da.” 

Winta laughed. “No, Dad’s downstairs, buddy.”

She felt a tug on her sleeve, and Nicco shoved the page at her.

This is your little brother?

“Yup!” In response, Winta bounced her knee, sending the baby’s ears flapping. “We don’t know what his name is yet, but I just call him little brother.”

Why don’t you guys just name him?

“Well, technically, he’s fifty years old, so he probably already had a name before Dad adopted him.” Winta shrugged as she set the wiggling child on the floor and watched him toddle off to make his own mischief. “He’ll tell us someday.”

Just your dad adopted him? What about your mom?

“My mom met my dad after he’d already adopted the baby.” For the first time in a long while, Winta’s heart cramped, remembering the krill ponds and huts, and the way the fireflies lit up the forests of Sorgan. Only a minute, then, she brushed it off. “Then they fell in love, and got married, and now he’s my little brother.”

Nicco nodded sagely.

I was a foundling, too. 

Now this was surprising. Winta took in his blue eyes, the freckles across his nose, his dark, shaggy hair.

“But you look so much like your mom.”

Nicco shrugged.

She’s technically my aunt. My birth mom is my mom’s sister, but she and my birth dad died when I was a baby. So now, Mom and Dad are my Mom and Dad.

Winta nodded in understanding. What a familiar feeling.

“My dad is my dad, too.”

Something caught Winta’s eye–some smudged black marks peeking from the edge of the paper. “Can I see?”

Any remaining shyness flew from Nicco’s face as he flicked the page over and confidently displayed the sketches. Winta’s jaw dropped. She’d never been much good at drawing, or even art in general–all her people always looked like masses of clay, her drawn flowers grew uneven, and the one portrait she’d attempted of her mother looked…well, she was glad her mother hadn’t been offended. But these were real drawings. All of his people looked like people –she recognized Isolde and Baba, beside a red-bearded, wild-eyed man she guessed was Rikkar without his helmet. And along the bottom edge of the page was a forest of what looked like great big cedar trees. Enchanted, Winta brushed her fingers along them.

Nicco hurriedly flipped the page back over and wrote, That’s the forest where I grew up. I miss it a lot. He flipped the page back over so Winta could get a better look at the deep green trees.

Sorgan once again pulled at Winta’s memory, now unable to be ignored.

“I know how that feels. Nevarro isn’t my first home, either. It was Sorgan. And it’s real green, too–but lighter green than that. We harvested krill, and made spotchka–I tried some of it once–do not recommend it.”

Eyes widening, Nicco nodded and flipped the page again.

If it’s like arak, I wouldn’t try it either. Arak tastes like medicine and it makes your insides feel like they’re on fire.

Winta scoffed.

“Grown-ups are weird.”

“Mm-hm,” Nicco hummed, giving an emphatic nod. As Nicco switched the page back again, Winta had an idea.

“That’s gotta be annoying. Having to change pages every time you want to talk.”

Nicco shrugged noncommittally.

“What if…you teach me how to sign, and I’ll teach you…” Winta’s brow furrowed as she quickly cataloged her skills, trying to see if any were valuable enough for a trade. Then–of course! How could she have forgotten? “I’ll teach you about forging!”

Ripping the page back over again, Nicco’s scrawl slanted across the page.

You can FORGE?!

Winta couldn’t help the heat that rose in her cheeks.

“Uh-huh! I’m an apprentice. ”

Nicco put down the pencil and gave a sign with his hands. Then, he tapped Winta’s hands and repeated the motion, slower. He and Winta signed together for a few minutes before turning back to the sketchbook.

Now you know how to sign Wow !

Winta laughed, and, to her surprise, Nicco did, too.

Your first word’s free. Now tell me everything !

The three children hardly noticed the time passing until their parents called them for supper.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the camp was foreign and familiar all at once. In the Covert, meals were taken individually. It came part and parcel with walking the Way; you couldn’t always eat and drink just by lifting the edge of your helmet. So, the cooks in the mess would give the rations to the warriors, and they would all spread out into their quarters. Couples and families would, of course, show their faces, but the convivial feeling of sharing a meal was largely gone. But Din could remember nights on Concordia before the Purge, a long table full of dishes, friendly faces–his adoptive father, brothers, aunts and uncles, and even, he remembered, an old man with a gap-toothed smile who encouraged Din to call him ba’buir . He remembered the smell of his aunts’ cooking, the sound of their arguments in the kitchen (whose food was spiciest, whose tiingilar recipe was better, and so on), and the clinking of the arak glasses as his uncles and father leaned back in their chairs with contented sighs. 

And now, so many years and so much heartache later, Din found himself back in those kinder days. Beneath a gently-darkening sky, a hundred Mandalorians began to settle around a communal bonfire, sitting in family groups. Pots and trays laden with all manner of food sat on low tables dotted around the camp; the steam they let off curled through Din’s helmet filter and into his sinuses, down into his lungs. Home surrounded him, filled him up in every cell of his body, and by the ka’ra , it felt incredible.

Din sat with Rikkar’s family and his own in front of the transport, given the highest place of honor in the camp. On his right, Omera shifted on the pillow she’d been given after rejecting a stool (“No, really, I’m all right,” she’d repeatedly asserted to Isolde, Baba, and several of the other Mandalorians. News of her pregnancy had already spread through the camp like an electrical current, and it seemed like the only thing that Mandalorians got more excited for than a good fight was the possibility of holding a baby). Beside her, Winta, the baby, and Nicco clustered together, passing a pad of paper hurriedly between themselves, evidently deep in conversation. Din smiled to himself. Finally–a new friend.

“ VOD’E!” At the sound of Rikkar’s voice, the voices of the Mandalorians fell quiet. “Tonight, we celebrate a new beginning for our people–and the return of the Mand’alor!” A chorus of cheers replied. With a slight bow, Rikkar stepped to the side, gesturing to Din where he sat. “As is his right, I would ask him to speak before we tuck into this magnificent feast.”

As Rikkar sat down on Din’s left, cries of “speech! speech!” echoed through the encampment. Din tried to take a deep breath, but found a noose tightening around his lungs. Well. Rikkar had certainly sprung this on him. His first address as Mand’alor, and he hadn’t even had time to scribble notes on a datapad. 

But Omera was beside him. And their children were beside her. And these were his people. He shrugged and got to his feet.

“...Thank you,” he began after clearing his throat. “And thank you for holding this feast. I know the hands that prepared it did so with care.” He paused, for perhaps a little too long; people started shifting where they sat. His mind stuttered to try and figure out what to say next–until Omera reached up and took his hand in hers. He looked back down at her, and his chest immediately loosened as she beamed up at him.

“My family and I are honored by your greeting,” he continued. “And I hope that I will be the Mand’alor you deserve.” He thanked them one more time, then got back to the ground again.

“ Skraan!” Rikkar bellowed, raising his tankard.

The rest of the clan followed suit.

And a sea of faces emerged from beneath a hundred helmets. Faces of every shade, every shape–all manner of hair, too, and lekku and montrails, long and short, richly patterned and monochrome–but all flesh. All flesh and blood. Bare faces, flashing in the firelight.

Din froze. The world froze. Even the bonfire seemed to slow its dance to watch for Din’s reaction. His spine stiffened to the point that it trembled. The helmet on his head had never felt more safe, or more foreign.

“Don’t worry, ner vod. You need not remove yours.”

In place of Rikkar’s helmet, Din found a set of kind emerald eyes, nearly obscured by a wild mane of matted red hair. Despite the helmet, Rikkar’s face was creased with exposure, tanned and spattered with freckles. A long mustache, braided beside his mouth, frizzed out from under a large nose that had to have been broken at least three times (which, in all fairness, was about average for a Mandalorian). Rikkar smiled with a mouth full of homely teeth.

“Come, come–after you, Mand’alor!” he encouraged, shoving a serving bowl of tiingilar into his hands. At a loss for what to say or do, Din numbly took the offered dish and spooned some into his bowl. 

“ Tiingilar ,” he explained as he passed it to Omera, ignoring the obvious concern written on her face. “Spicy. The kids might not like it.”

Omera nodded slowly, served herself some, then put small portions on the children’s plates.

“Won’t hurt them to try it.” She gave a tight smile as she passed the bowl across Din to Rikkar. As she leaned forward, she whispered, “Are you okay?”

His curiosity, the violation of all he’d known about the Creed–Din could feel it building up in his chest, like a cork on a bottle of sparkling wine. Threatening to explode at any moment.

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“...Okay.” Din could tell she was unconvinced, but felt relieved when she decided to let it be. In the meantime, she brightened her face again and directed her attention at Isolde. “So–where did you say you were from?”

Isolde smiled. “We come from Levna.”

“Hmm. I’ve never heard of it.”

“Few have,” Rikkar replied around a mouthful of food. “It’s a dwarf planet on the edge of Wild Space. But what it lacks in size,” Rikkar added with a chuckle, “it makes up for in beauty.”

Isolde hummed in agreement and laid her hand on her husband’s forearm. “That it does, my dear. The seas roll up to the cliffs and beaches like scrolls, and the cedars sing on the hills. The smell of the air…” The fondness that had appeared in Isolde’s voice trailed off as her face fell. 

“It sounds so wonderful,” Omera replied, her voice warm and genuine. “I’d love to see it.” 

A sadness deepened the gray of Isolde’s eyes. “So would we.”

Omera’s brow came together. “May I ask why you left?”

Rikkar grumbled, but before he could answer, Din blurted out the question: “Why do you remove your helmets?”

Omera’s hand landed on his wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. Immediately, Din regretted asking; Rikkar’s face, for the first time, fell. All he’d ever seen of Rikkar–what little he’d seen–had been  boyish and friendly, jovial and carefree. But now, age peeked through the facade. Din suddenly noticed the dark bags under Rikkar’s eyes, and a broad scar that ran down one side of his face. 

“Nowhere in the Resol’nare is it written that we must wear our armor one way or another—only that we must wear it. And yet,” Rikkar conceded, “it is a dangerous time to be a Mandalorian. Clan Azgar knows this first-hand. Levna, our home…how beautiful it is. But it is also a superstitious place. And we were seen as bad luck. First, we drew Imperials. Then, even though we saved them, the other villagers turned against us. We were cast out. Refugees.”

Din’s mind’s eye reeled back into his past, to the chaos of his childhood, his young adulthood, his years of running and running. The physical ripping he felt as he was taken from that root cellar on Aq Vetina, and the crushing horror of the Night of a Thousand Tears…yes. He knew well what it meant to be a refugee. Rikkar continued.

“Removing our helmets for meals became an act of love, of community with one another. To show each other that we are not alone.” Rikkar drew himself up, and, in the firelight, a sage nobility appeared in Rikkar that Din had never guessed to be under the rough surface. “We all observe the Creed in our own way—on our outsides. And yet, does not kar’ta beskar beat within all of us? Is the Creed not forged on all of our hearts?”

That it is. Din felt the words of the Creed glow brighter on his own heart, and imagined, for a second, that he could see it glowing in Rikkar’s chest, too. And Isolde’s, and Baba’s, and every other Mandalorian sitting around the camp; all of the warriors, all his siblings by Creed, all united by vows that defied words, that tied them all back to a heritage of strength and heart, family and honor. A heritage that now felt far larger than the removal of a helmet.

Lost for words in a way he’d never been before, Din responded the only way he could:

“This is the way.”

The words echoed around the fire like a wave, starting with Din and Rikkar, until it rolled through the entire camp–the mantra weaving them all together as one.

///

When was the last time he’d felt like this? Not the comfortable fullness of his stomach, or the relaxed lounging, legs loosely crossed on the ground, forearms resting gently on his knees, or the general contentment, a cloud obscuring the worries of the day–he’d felt all of those things in the company of his little family, that after-dinner, before-bed time. Even before, when it was just him and the child against the galaxy, that same lull had come over the Razor Crest as he cleared away what remained of the rations, and just after giving the child his bath. Drying him off, putting on his robe again, watching try valiantly to stay awake while Din told him a bedtime story…yes, he’d known contentment before.

But not like this. Not the contentment of looking out over a crowd of people– his people–all settling in for the night; the people he owed his life and service to, all beginning to sit down in clusters, their children begging just five more minutes, the fires being stoked one last time before the hush of midnight descended, carrying them all to sleep, with even the keen-eyed watch keepers still heady with the rose-gold hour between the meal and sleep. All of their ease, all of their comfort–Din felt it all within his own heart.

“Beautiful, no?”

“It is,” Din replied as Rikkar sat beside him, far quieter than his size would suggest. For a while, the two sat in silence, listening to the voices of the crowd growing softer, gentler, watching the firelights winking in the twilight.

“Yes. There is nothing like it–knowing that you have carried the people you love through another day. They are yours, Din. Yes, I know you doubt it,” Rikkar replied to Din’s helmeted glance. “When I became patriarch, I too had such doubts.”

Slowly, Rikkar eased the helmet off of his head and set it down beside him with a sigh. The fire in his eyes grew tender as he stared into the camp.

“My father was a great man. I suppose all sons feel such things, but my father…he brought our clan through the Clone Wars, through the civil war, through times of such doubt, such fear. It was he who brought us from Concordia back to Levna when Mandalore fell, he who secured us in a stronghold, he who shepherded us through the beginnings of our exile. He was the sort of man who seemed like he would never die. He was our rock…and then he was gone. And I was all that remained. His only child. The only one who could take up his mantle.”

The mantle. As Rikkar mentioned it, Din could feel its invisible pressure, weighing down his back.

“The people followed me, but still, even as I sustained us, I doubted. I worried that, even as they followed, they resented that I was not my father. It took some time, but eventually, I realized…the ka’ra had not made me to be my father. They had made me to be…as I am. And they had put me in this place because they knew I had something to give to the people, something that no one else could give. Now, I still don’t know what that something is,” Rikkar said, a quiet rumble of a laugh in his chest, “but I know that I am where I am for a reason.

“As are you. For you have given my people what I could not provide: hope. Hope for a future that we thought we’d never see. They believe in you.”

Rikkar’s heavy arm draped across his shoulders.

“As do I.”

Din didn’t pull away. Instead, he brought his hand up and patted Rikkar solidly on the back.

“...Thank you.”

“Of course. Now,” Rikkar’s voice raised slightly as he stood back up, replacing his helmet onto his head, “there is another matter that we must attend to.”

Curious, Din stood, too.

“What’s that?”

Rikkar spread his arms, an inviting gesture.

“No Mandalorian feast is complete without Dha Werda Verda. Lead us, Mand’alor.”

Din’s heart began to race. Memories flooded back, days in his youth spent learning the steps, the chant, the ritual of Dha Werda Verda . The dance represented the very spirit of Mandalore, displayed in flesh and sweat and music. To be asked to lead Dha Werda Verda was a privilege, reserved for honored elders and leaders.

Din had never led it before.

“No, no,” said Din. “Why don’t you lead it? I’m just fine right here.”

A tilt of Rikkar’s helmet, and a knowing smile crept into Rikkar’s voice as he held out his hand.

“Come on, ner vod. When was the last time you danced with your brothers?”

It had been so long since he’d had anything to dance about. Too long.

Din took Rikkar’s arm.

A throaty, wild laugh, then, at the top of his lungs, Rikkar screamed into the camp:

“VOD’E AN!”*

“Huh!” came an answering grunt from several of the warriors.

“VOD’E AN!”

“HUH!” More voices joined in as dancers began to gather in a circle around the central bonfire.

“VOD’E AN! VOD’E AN! VOD’E AN!”

Din’s blood rose, and rose, until that deep primal wellspring flooded over him. Suddenly, his voice took the rallying cry from Rikkar, and he screamed:

“VOD’E AN! VOD’E AN! VOD’E AN!”

The fire flashed on beskar, on steel, on the rekindled flame in Din’s eye. He didn’t know how the ceremonial spear made its way into his hands, but now he was raising it over his head in triumph, the beads and carved bones adorning it clattering against one another like chattering teeth.

“WERDA VERDA!” he screamed into the crowd, their answering whoops and cries electrifying. “TAUNG’ADE! ORJOR’E VOD’E, VERCOPA CUUN ARU’E CHABAAR!”**

With a guttural cry, Din struck his chest with his fist, beginning the ancient chant, the song of the shadow warriors. The other dancers followed suit, beating out the rhythm on their chests, slow at first, then repeated strikes as they reached the first chorus. Then, as Din swept the spear through the air and started to circle the dancers, they began to strike each other, their rhythm becoming more complicated with each turn, Din encouraging, exhorting them to greater strength, to more vehement war cries, and soon, the night distilled into the raw bloody-redness of the invocation of the rage of the shadow warriors of old. The intensity wound higher, higher, the drums and fists on beskar becoming all-encompassing as the brothers displayed their trust, their bond, in a whirlwind of fists and flashing armor–Din was out of his skull, perfectly in control, flying, the spear an extension of his spirit, spinning and diving and striking enemies long defeated, held aloft with a great roar releasing the ancestral fury in his chest. The shadows lengthened, and soon, it looked as though the ka’ra had been resurrected and danced with the living–brothers, reunited at last.

For the first time in decades, the song of Mandalorians filled the night.