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He spots the bright emblem of your house crest on the armour of the Royal Guard first, clocking the familiar perimeter formation (the very one he taught them) immediately after; a quick scan of the coverage area is all it takes for Din to spot you.
Even among the glittering lights of Coruscant’s vibrant nightlife, you still shine brightest to him.
Quiet and stealth-like, Din approaches his former comrade, the man he left in charge of your safety, with his blaster raised, getting within two paces before the seasoned solider spins around, his own weapon armed and aimed directly at the Mandalorian’s chest plate, “Halt!”
“Good.” The amusement in Din’s voice evident as the two men face off, weapons raised for a second more before they’re lowered in peace, “For a moment, I thought you might let me sneak up on you, Lieutenant.”
“I was trained better than that,” the uniformed man chuckles, before straightening up and saluting, “General.”
“There’s no need for that, Lieutenant. I am no longer your commanding officer.”
“Noted… General.”
As the two men stand in silence, other members of the legion note the Mandalorian’s arrival and follow suit, stiffening their posture at their former leader’s presence. Looking up to follow the gaze of his one-time commander, it's no mystery to the Lieutenant what captivates the General’s attention: the lone figure leaning against the railing of a large, ornate balcony several stories above. Empty glass dangling delicately from your fingers, you seem oblivious to the surrounding revelry, despite the music from the nightclub behind you being loud and upbeat enough to be audible even from the lower levels. Your attention reserved for the sparkling neon of Coruscant’s skyline, thoughtful stare lingering on some far-off point in the night’s bright sky.
“How is she?”
“Permission to speak freely, General.”
A curt nod of the silver helmet is all that is needed.
“The Princess remains as you would expect, generous and benevolent as always…”
“Good.”
“… but she is sad.”
The heart beneath the Beskar thumps with worry at this revelation, but outwardly, Din allows the weight of the Lieutenant’s admission to sit in the silence between them until the other man continues,
“She speaks and behaves in her usual manner, the grace she bestows befitting of her crown, and yet… despite the Princess’ public smiles, the entire kingdom can tell that she is not happy. A light has gone out in Solana’s once brightest star,” Din’s former second-in-command’s voice cracks, as if the emotional well-being of his sovereign affected him personally. Knowing how much your people love you, Din can very well imagine that being the case not only for the Lieutenant, but the general population of the planet that was most welcoming to him and his son. He empathizes completely.
A change in subject is much needed. “What brings you to Coruscant, General?”
“Reconnaissance for a New Republic assignment; needed some intel from an informant who… needed some convincing to part with said intel.”
“Right,” the Lieutenant chuckles, “well, no one is more convincing than you, General.”
“Perhaps Grogu.” They share a hearty laugh, but both men know that Din’s son’s abilities make him a more formidable adversary than the two of them combined.
“And you? What is the Solanian Royal Guard doing in Coruscant?”
“It is Lady Beyonna’s birthday and the ladies of the court have come to celebrate,” the Lieutenant gestures briefly to the high-rise buildings that tower above.
“The Princess is celebrating?” Din looks up again at your solitary figure.
“She is trying her best.” As if on cue, the music coming from the balcony increases several volumes as a group of jubilant party goers join you, bringing a refill, hugs, and an invitation to come back inside. Din sees your attempt to reassure your friends that you’re having a good time with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes; he also sees how they don’t buy it. More than happy to bring the party to you, the ladies of Solana start a dance party right there on the balcony while calling for additional drinks. After four or five songs, and at least two rounds of Rhyllian Fizz shots, you relent - your good nature and desire to ensure your friend has a good birthday winning out; linking arms with your friends, they cheer and you head inside the club as a group.
For the next few hours, Din remains next to the Lieutenant, making small talk, catching up on the latest news from Solana, updating the other regarding their respective lives; every watchful, neither man takes his eyes off the balcony above. Din admits there’s some comfort in the familiarity of standing sentinel with his friend again, the only occasional interruptions being incoming coms with updates from the guards upstairs, or other members of the legion coming by to pay their respects to their General. But the longer he stays, the more imperative it is for Din to honestly answer one question: What is he still doing here?
He will allow himself one more glimpse of you, he tells himself, but no more. He internally promises he won’t try to make contact or speak with you; touching you is completely out of question. No touching, holding, or Maker forbid, kissing. Din vows to abide by these self-imposed rules tonight; to cross these boundaries would be too dangerous for his heart.
Just a glimpse, he tells himself again, to make sure you’re safe. He’s nearly convinced himself when a new transmission comes in: “Lieutenant, permission to initiate Exit Protocol Aurek. The Princess has requested to leave.”
With a precision and efficiency that makes Din proud, the Solanians on the lower level, seen and unseen, move in unison. The Mandalorian follows from a few paces back, making sure to stay separate from the guard, hidden.
A discrete door on the side of the building with the balcony opens and music streams out while the neon light show inside pulses against the outside night; but neither the thumping electro beats nor the blinding flashes have any hope of drawing attention away from the soft figure that sashays out – unsteady on your feet but not quite stumbling, you’re waving back into the club, blowing kisses, “Love you!!! Have a great time!! Be safe!!” Your melodious voice chimes all the way down the street, giddy, a little too loud.
When you turn around, Din nearly stops breathing – your eyes are glassy and the smile on your face is silly and crooked (clearly your friends were successful in showing you a good time!), and while it’s obvious you’re drunk, you’re still the most beautiful and graceful creature Din’s ever seen. You greet your guard like old friends, as happy to see them as they are you – Din has always known that his men’s loyalty to you was not purely a matter of duty but born from true affection for their sovereign.
Maker, he misses you.
After what he learned from the Lieutenant tonight, it abates his worry somewhat to see you like this, carefree and unbothered - even if it’s alcohol fueled. From afar, Din mentally records every curve of your figure, the brightness of your eyes, the song of your voice; he tucks these details away in the vault of his mind where they will sharpen the memories of his most treasured moments with you - the ones he always returns to on his most lonely nights. Satisfied that you’re well, Din starts backing away, ready to duck behind the nearest building and slink back into the darkness, when he hears,
“Din?”
Dank Farrik, you’ve spotted him! How?
You’re already skipping towards him, the excited bounce of your step indicative of just how intoxicated you are – your guards do not step in and instead, give the two of you a wide berth; their Princess is in no danger, better protected now than any other being in the galaxy.
You stop just short of the Mandalorian’s broad frame, looking at him with genuine wonder - tentatively, your hand comes up, slowly reaching for his chest. He lets you lay a soft palm to the shiny Beskar, amused at your little gasp of surprise when you feel the familiar press of the precious metal beneath your skin.
“Is this a dream?” The question is asked in innocent confusion - it’s clear that you’re too inebriated to comprehend the reality of his presence; you have not seen this man in nearly a year, but the devastation of the day he left remains acute and sharp in the hollows of your soul – that Din could suddenly re-enter your life without warning is an idea too outlandish for you to grasp.
“Yes.”
The smile that spreads across your drunken face is heartbreaking, the way it reaches your eyes even more so; they crinkle adorably as your fingers move to explore, gracing over his armour, fiddling with his vambraces and the fabric of his cowl, sliding down the sleek lines of his helmet. You tilt your head in astonishment, delighted that your subconscious is conjuring the details of your Mandalorian so vividly.
“This is so nice,” your tipsy grin irresistible, “It’s been so long since I’ve dreamt of you, Din.”
Oh really? I can’t go a single night without dreaming of you, Din thinks. “Have you forgotten me so easily, Princess?”
Immediately, he regrets his teasing; you’re too far gone to take him at anything but the face value of his expressionless helmet. The beauty of your face crumbles, sad eyes widening in contrition, “Of course not, Din, I could never forget you.” You look away now, voice breaking in explanation, “After you left, I dreamt of you constantly – all I had to do was close my eyes and we would be together again.” Tears flood without warning, “There was a time when I barely got out of bed, spending more hours asleep than awake – it was the only way I knew to see you.”
Having already broken his promise to leave you alone, Din had no intention of crossing another self drawn line, but upon hearing your tearful confession, he can no longer fight the instinct to pull you in, to hold you; you sink into his embrace, body moulding to his armour as easily as the day you were last in his arms, “But those dreams never ended well, Din, and I always woke sadder then when I fell asleep.”
Contemplative, you pull back slightly, and Din uses this opportunity to adjust the arm around your waist, giving you the support needed so the two of you can start walking; the moving formation of Solana’s finest soldiers flank your slow and careful stroll, silently guiding Din towards your residence. If you notice the disappearance of your guard, you don’t mention it - why would you? This is only a dream after all.
“One day, the dreams just… stopped,” you continue, looking down at your feet as you walk so not to trip; Din tightens his grip on you. “I’m not sure how or why. Perhaps it was an act of self preservation? My brain trying to protect me, maybe. I must be stronger now.” You look fairly pleased at the prospect.
“Princess, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” Din offers warmly.
You scoff adorably, his earnestness no match for your humility, “I’m no match for The Might of the Realm! Really, Din, you have no idea how much the people of Solana still speak of you; I’m not the only one who misses you terribly.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, the Mandalorian wishes he had the words to express how much he too misses his life on Solana, misses you, “I could only wield the strength I did because of you, cyare.”
“And now?” The question is asked soft, almost hesitant.
“I’m strong only for Grogu.”
The change in your demeanour at the mention of his son is nothing short of endearing; suddenly your own melancholy is forgotten, thoughts completely overtaken by the adorable green creature you had loved as your own, “Grogu! Oh, please do tell me of him! I miss him so very dearly.”
“As he does you, Princess.” It’s true; his son is wise beyond his years and emotionally resilient, but he’s never been subtle. The New Republic keeps them busy, but it’s by Din’s design – his son needs the distraction as much as he does; nothing keeps the longing for their previous life with you at bay like the thrill of an adventure, the rush of a hunt.
“I wish I had been able to say goodbye,” you lament, your previous cheer short-lived.
“I’m sorry, mesh’la,” Din has never forgiven himself for having deprived the two of you a farewell befitting the depth of your attachment, “If it helps, I would not wish the ire I faced from Grogu on even the worst of Imperial warlords.”
“Oh no,” your sweet giggle a balm on Din’s aching heart.
“He did not speak to me for nearly a month. And it was at least three before he shared any snacks with me again,” though the memory of his son’s anger brings him no joy, the happy chuckle and look of true sympathy on your pretty face softens the blow of reliving it.
“You can make it up to me now by telling me of Grogu's adventures since I saw him last,” your eyes are bright and glassy, but full of genuine curiosity.
Still unable to ever deny you anything, Din launches into story after story of his and Grogu’s New Republic missions; he’s rewarded with your unfiltered reactions and drunken enthusiasm, all of which he finds unbearably adorable. You gasp every time Din or his son is put at risk for grievous injury, audibly squeal at their death-defying heroics, clutch his arm and hold your breath while waiting to hear of their next narrow escape, loudly decry and boo the audacity of every bad guy from Colonel Ward’s deck of cards. The walk back to your hotel passes too quickly for Din’s liking, but he would not trade how warm and well-entertained you look for all the credits in the Core Worlds.
You’re still laughing at Din’s impression of the Anzellans calling Grogu a “horrible baby” when you land in front of the door to your suite. “Oh!” You look around, puzzled, nose scrunching adorably – to your alcohol addled brain, the locked door presents as more perplexing than plotting hyperspace calculations, “I... don’t have my key.”
“I’ll be right back, cyare.”
“No!” you cry out, frantically reaching for Din’s forearm, surprising sure fingers gripping tight over his vambrace, “I’m not ready for you to leave.”
The unreserved desperation of your voice pains Din to no end; he squeezes your hand reassuringly and runs a soft finger down the side of your face, mollified to see you relax a little at his touch, “I promise I won’t leave you, Princess – I’ll get the key and come right back.”
Though you nod and release his arm, Din hates how small and unsure you continue to appear – he hurries down the hall and around the corner, practically running into the Lieutenant who’s already anticipated him. Gratefully, Din takes the key card his former second-in-command holds out, pausing before voicing a request he has no right to make, “Lieutenant, if you agree, I would suggest there is no need to wake the Princess’ maids; I can help her settle in. I promise nothing untoward will occur.”
“I would never doubt your honour, General,” the man nods seriously, “or ever believe you capable of harming the Princess in any way.”
Your look of unadulterated relief and joy when you see Din returning could have reignited a dying star. “Din!” you exclaim, beaming at him as if he had brought you the moon, instead of a mere hotel room key. The grin beneath his silver dome is as wide as yours as Din unlocks the door and ushers you in, only growing as he follows your dancer-like flounce around the apartment suite. Buzzing, you chatter happily as Din clears each room, chuckling at how he hasn’t changed in the slightest (Always so protective!)
You’re reminded that things are not quite how they used to be when Din enters your bed chambers as you’re changing. Hands full with a water glass and some medical supplies from the fresher, Din pauses in the doorway when he sees your state of undress, averting his gaze before shuffling by awkwardly to set the water on your bedside table. “Din,” you snort, thoroughly amused, “You’ve seen me with far fewer clothes than this - there is no reason for you to avoid looking at me.”
Try as he may, the Mandalorian cannot help the sobering reality that eclipses the levity of your words, “That was when you were mine to look at, cyar’ika. And you are no longer mine.”
Your countenance changes instantly – mask of intoxicated merriment dropping and its place, an expression of pained understanding. You approach him gingerly, sliding your arms around his thick trunk, then laying your cheek against the cold sear of his chest plate, you squeeze him tight, “I’ve never stopped being yours, my love.”
The room around you dissolves and the two of you are transported back in time, to any number of shared moments devoted to your quiet love: Din finding you after a ball to bring you a plate, having noticed you hadn’t eaten; laying in a field of wildflowers outside the castle grounds, holding hands and watching the sunset as your horses grazed nearby; showing each passages in your respective books as you read shoulder to shoulder between the private stacks of the National Library; in the afterglow of your lovemaking, tangled in the sheets of your royal bed, whispering sweet nothings of devotion, commitment.
Din wishes to kiss you so desperately right now; what he wouldn’t give to once again taste the honey of your lips, to lick his adoration and want directly into your mouth and hear the soft whimpers of your affection as you kiss him back. It takes all the strength of his Creed to restrain himself, but this is one last line that he cannot afford to cross tonight – he knows that if he were to feel the press of your sweet lips against his own, he would lose all that remains of his self control and only complete ruin would follow. You save him from himself by lifting your pretty face to his, eyes doe-like and sad as you trace your finger over the Iron Heart of his armour, “I miss you so much, Din.”
“I miss you, too, cyare,” he realizes this is the first time tonight he’s said these words out loud; even now they feel too miniscule to express the depth of how he’s longed for you, yearned for you. A part of himself is forever missing – left back on Solana, or possibly permanently erased, he’s not quite sure; left in its wake is a constant, dull aching void that Din tries to fill with purpose, duty. It works to a degree, he would like to hope, the endless string of New Republic assignments doing some good not only for the galaxy but also his mental wellbeing. But at night, with only Grogu’s snores to keep him company, Din is ever aware of how empty his bed is, his arms are. As time marches forward and the number of days separated from you grows, your absence is sometimes more acute than his memories of your time together.
Interrupting his thoughts, you sniffle, “I can’t find you anymore.” Din tilts his head, wondering if you’ve somehow read his mind. “After you left, I thought I would see you everywhere; that the ghost of us would follow me day in and day out,” you continue, shoulders slumping in defeat, “But it’s been the opposite, Din. Every where I go, your absence is the first thing I notice. I can’t find you anywhere: not in the castle, any of our secret places, the training grounds, my bed. I go looking and find nothing - only emptiness.”
The despair of what you describe hangs heavy over your heads; Din has no words to comfort you though he desperately wishes to do so – he can only offer a pathetic, “I’m sorry, Princess.”
Your eyes, ever sorrowful, do not match your attempt at humour, “Why should you be sorry, General? I’m the one who had to go and get herself engaged.”
And there it is, your deepest shame, the source of all your worst insecurities and doubts: How could Din ever miss you as much as you do him when you’re the one who inflicted this pain on the both of you? Do you even deserve to be in his thoughts when it was you who necessitated your separation? All this glorious man ever did was love you unconditionally, give you everything you asked for and obey your every desire, prioritizing you and your well-being above all else - and how did you repay him? By surrendering to your duty and the breaking of both your hearts without even a fight. You’re the one who broke everything!
Your guilt is written all over your face and it guts Din to see you so needlessly harsh on yourself. He wants to tell you that he understood the realities of your stations when he fell in love with you and that he has not a single regret - every moment spent with you, however fleeting, had been worth it. Even the memory of such a love has given him a happiness he never knew possible. He could never think you selfish or inconsiderate, especially not when his own mind swims with the most superficial of concerns:
Does he treat you better than I did?
Could you love him?
Do you love him?
Not for all the worlds would Din allow this fiancé of yours steal any more of his time with you than he already has, but soul-destroying thoughts tend to take on a life of their own. Luckily, a distraction presents itself by way of the delicate silver chain around your neck. You’re fiddling with it nervously, and as your hand draws down your chest, Din spies the shine of something familiar nestled between your breasts. He closes his glove over your hand, forcing you to stop your mindless toying – together, you lift the necklace to reveal the Mythosaur skull pendant previously hidden beneath your clothes.
“You wear this still?”
Even if you had not drunk enough liquour to knock out a Wookie tonight, you would have answered this question with the same type of confidence normally attributed to liquid courage, “I’ve never taken it off, my love.”
Din rubs the precious emblem of his people between his fingers, and is just thinking about how this piece of metal has laid close to your heart the entire time you’ve been apart when, once again, you speak as if the two of you are of one mind, “Even when I cannot find you anywhere else, I know that I have you right here with me.” He lets you take the pendant back and watches with tremendous affection as you cradle it between your delicate fingers, treating it as precious. “I’m so grateful you left this part of you with me, Din. I only wish I had given you a token of me, of us, to take with you,” your chest balloons with regret, forever plagued by the grief of not having expressed enough love for your Mandalorian when you had the chance – of not being enough to still be his.
Even if you think him simply a figment of your imagination, Din cannot allow these sentiments any credence. He directs you to sit on the edge of your bed, then kneels before you, the most devoted knight; your curious eyes watch closely as he removes his glove, gasping in surprise when you see his uncovered hand.
Your hair ribbon.
The pop of colour from the soft velvet contrasts starkly against the tan of Din’s skin, making it easy to see how it wraps around his wrist, criss-crossing over the heal of his thumb and bound twice over the rough of his palm. The fabric has lost a bit of its luster, likely from having been concealed beneath armour and leather for an extended period of time, but you recognize it immediately as yours.
“You are with me always, cyare.” Teary eyed, you look at Din in wonder as he cups your face with this same hand, letting you nuzzle your cheek against his palm, taking comfort in the feel of the worn ribbon. He watches in real time as you come to the realization that everything he’s done with these hands since you parted - take out Imperial threats, pilot himself and his allies to safety, hold his son - he’s done in your name. Heart blooming, you continue to stare at Din’s meaty hand as he helps you get into bed, drink the water he brought you.
It’s only after the Mandalorian adheres a Bacta patch to your arm and says reassuringly, “There, no hangovers tomorrow, Princess,” that you look into the obsidian of his T-visor, grateful, “Thank you for taking care of me, Din.”
He grins at your dopey, sweet face, and responds lovingly, “I will always take care of you, be there for you, mesh’la. If you call, I will come running.”
You cannot help your disproportionate reaction to Din’s words, the alcohol in your system sending your emotions swinging - body locking up as if in pain, you turn away, trying to hide, “Really, Din? No matter what you’re doing, you would still come?”
With a pinch of your chin, the Mandalorian tilts your face back to his, truly confused, “And what is it you think I’m doing, Princess?”
“I don’t know!” You try to choke back your sob, shocked and embarrassed by the volatility of your emotions tonight (Damn that Corellian wine!); though you know none of this is real, there’s still some expected degree of control over your own behaviour – instead, it’s as if all the feelings you've bottled up over the past ten months have been amplified by tonight’s drink and can no longer be contained, spilling out uninhibited and inelegant during this dream. “And that’s one of the worst parts of all this! I don’t know anything. I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing. Are you and Grogu safe? If you were hurt or in danger, would you have somewhere you could go? I worry all the time, and I know that I’ll never get any answers so I just worry more. I’ll never know if you’re alright, if you’re getting enough to eat, if you’re stitching up your own wounds or if there’s somebody else doing it for you, if you’re…”
Somebody else?
“… and I know I don’t have any right to know what you’re doing or have any feelings about if… there was somebody else? I would not blame you in the least, Din…”
Somebody else?
Surely you’re joking.
But the downtrodden look on your face and the ashamed way you’ve turned from him again betrays just how true to your heart this outburst is. What you’re suggesting is inconceivable – in Din’s heart of hearts, there could never be “somebody else”, the mere wraith of this unknown concept of a being offensive in its impossibility.
There just simply is no room. You are the occupier and owner of his heart, his soul.
In both Din’s heart and mind, within the very essence of his being, down to the last particle of space and time he takes up on this plain of existence, you are already his riduur. You are the only person in this galaxy with whom he is one when together, one when parted - with you and only you would he share all and raise warriors.
Somebody else? How can he absolve you of such a ridiculous notion?
The answer is so obvious and the decision he makes so instinctual, once made, he marvels that it wasn’t the first thing he did upon entering the suite.
You’re babbling now, inebriated brain working overtime to correct what you clearly feel was an overshare, “… and you’re out there flying all over the galaxy… performing noble deeds…” Clearly distracted by your own run-on thoughts, you completely miss the unlocking click and hiss of Din’s helmet, “… it only makes sense that you would attract admirers… I mean, if anyone would understand that it would be m-”
Stopped short, mid-meandering thought, you can only stare, jaw dropped at the sight of the bare face that’s now looking patiently and indulgently back at you.
Stunned, you lift you hand to test the legitimacy of what you’re seeing, fingers gingerly making contact with the sharp jaw that’s quietly ticking beneath a scruff of neatly trimmed facial hair. Upturning your hand to cup this rugged face, your thumb strokes the apple of Din’s cheek; in recognition of its shape, you sigh dramatically, content – the adorable sound causes Din to smile big, bringing a crinkle to his eyes.
Oh his eyes, you gasp a little as your own widen in admiration – they’re soft yet piercing, looking at you so knowing and kind. Though you’ve never had the privilege of seeing them before, the depth and richness of these brown eyes call to you, inviting you to come home.
Your other hand joins the expedition to explore the magnificence before you - gently caressing the lines of Din’s face, you run your fingertips over his lips, nose, then brush them featherlight along his hairline before carding them through the softness of his brown curls. The nerve endings in your hands and fingers spark at the familiar feel, coming alive as your brain closes the gap between touch and sight. How in Maker is this possible? Never in all your days did you think you could dream up a visage that so perfectly matches your sensory memory.
Still cradling Din’s face, you gently tilt it side to side so you can get a better look at your mind’s masterpiece; amused, Din let’s you explore and study him to your heart’s content.
“Wow,” you finally break the silence, a whisper to yourself more than anything, “good job, brain.”
Din lets out a boom of a laugh, it shakes his massive frame and overtakes his entire face – the change is startling, he looks at least ten years younger. The joy of it is so infectious you can’t help but laugh with him.
“Really, Din,” you grow endearingly serious, it’s important you make him understand, “you’re so, so handsome.”
“Thank you, cyar’ika.” He’s imagined what your reaction to seeing his bare face might be a million times, prepared for anything but his sudden shyness.
“I’m honestly a bit put out,” your face scrunches, annoyed, “I didn’t think my imagination was capable of conjuring something quite so… beautiful. I’m sort of mad it hasn’t shown you to me before.”
Din laughs some more at your exaggerated pouting, it feels wonderful to really laugh again, “Have you truly never thought of what I looked like under the helmet?”
You look both delighted to be asked this question and fascinated by your own answer, “Truthfully? No. I wondered, naturally, but I never pictured anything specific beyond what you’ve told me, like the colour of your hair.” Running your fingers through Din’s soft curls, marveling again at how vivid this dream is, you appear to get lost in your own thoughts, “It was enough that I knew your face by touch, how it actually looked was inconsequential - yours was the face I loved, no matter what. I probably spent more time fantasizing about the reveal itself, rather than what might be revealed, if that makes sense?”
You meet Din’s eyes, trying hard not to get lost in the warmth of his baby browns as your voice fills with longing, “I wanted the face reveal for what it would mean for us. That we might have the future I always dreamt of, that we could belong to one another and that I would be your one and only. I imagined that feeling of being chosen countless times, even though I knew it would forever be a fantasy.”
Din’s heart sinks when he realizes the expression on your face is one of shame - shame for having wanted something you felt you had no right to covet; if only you knew what you dreamt of was already yours. “I’m here now, uncovered and exposed,” Din takes your hands in his and kisses them gently, “and it means exactly what you always wanted it to mean.” Your tipsy face brightens, but it’s clear that you’re not sure what to make of his words.
“This face is for you and you alone, mesh’la. There will never be ‘somebody else’; there will never be any one in this galaxy, save my son, for whom I will voluntarily bare my face,” Din cups your face in his hands to make sure you see his sincerity, “And I think you know that, cyare, which is why you’re seeing me as I am right now. I chose you long ago, and every day, I continue to choose you even if you don’t know where I am or what I’m doing. I hate that there will be times when your fears and doubts may try to tell you otherwise, but even seeing my face in your dreams means that in your heart of hearts, you know this to be true: I am and have always been yours. In every way imaginable, in all the ways that matter, only yours.”
You try to blink back your happy tears but find yourself terribly unsuccessful as you throw your arms around Din’s neck and bury your face into his neck, burrowing in, heart full.
“I’m so glad to finally dream of you again tonight, Din. I’ve needed this,” you whisper, tears spilling from your grateful eyes.
He replies honestly, his own eyes misty, “Me too, cyare. I’ve needed this as well.” I’ve needed you.
Laying a soft kiss to your hair, Din encourages you to drink one last sip of water before tucking you in under the covers; gently brushing a few strands of hair off your forehead, he grapples with the sad knowledge that your evening together is coming to an end, “Good night, Princess.”
Your eyes, already having started to slowly close, flutter open once more, “Din?”
“Yes?”
“Will I ever see you again?” The question is pure curiosity, asked with no expectations, completely devoid of hope; you’re looking at him the way Grogu does sometimes, steeped in the belief that his father holds all the answers in the galaxy.
“Do you mean in your dreams?”
You shake your head, understanding the confusion, “No, I mean, in my life.”
For a moment, Din considers what answer would give you the easiest night of sleep, before ultimately deciding on the truth; he’s never lied to you before and he won’t start now, “No.”
You give a trembling little nod and whisper, “I understand,” but he knows you don’t.
“If we were to meet once more, mesh’la, I would not have the strength to walk away again. I would steal you away without remorse - at the altar from your new husband, under the noses of the guards I trained, or like a thief in the middle of the night. I would have to have you with me for always, and nothing, no one, would be able to keep me from you,” the roughness of Din’s voice cracks with earnestness.
"I would become an enemy of Solana and the New Republic - a rogue despised by all those you hold dear and the very people I once vowed to protect. I would go to endless war to keep you as mine, forcibly dragging the armies of entire planets and star systems into a conflict that would wage ruin upon anyone who dare opposes me. Families would be forced to take sides and turn on one other, alliances that have stood the test of the Empire’s reign would crumble. Countless lives would be lost, sacrificed, and I wouldn’t care as long as it meant I was never to be parted from you again.” Din fears he may have gotten carried away, his dramatic embellishment merely a cover for the tragedy of the truth, but the sparkle in your eyes at his romantic hyperbole remind him that it’s worth laying his soul bare to you every time. At your satisfied little chuckle, he grins back, tone full of both feeling and mirth, “So, Princess, for the sake of all those innocent lives, we shouldn’t meet again.”
This time when you nod, it’s no less sad, but the light-heartedness that's been injected into the moment does provide you some comfort, “Of course, General. For the people.” You snuggle down further into your bedding, heart still soaring from the magic of Din’s words, quite pleased with how eloquent your subconscious mind can be.
“Will you stay, Din? Until I fall asleep, that is? In all my other dreams, you’ve had to leave… but this has been so nice! Don’t say goodbye, please - I want to remember us this way.”
When has he ever been able to say no to you? Din caresses your face fondly, promising, “As you wish, mesh’la.”
Your resulting smile nearly stops his heart, it’s moony and dazed, but unabashedly joyful, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum (I love you), General.” Your pronunciation still perfect after all this time.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Princess.”
When your eyes finally close fully, mouth still curved upwards as your lovely face relaxes, you murmur, “Tell me another story, please, my love. One of the daring of Din Grogu and the bravery of his father, perhaps?”
Anything for you. Din recounts the details of his and Grogu’s latest exploits for the New Republic until your breathing evens and you purr with sleep. Tomorrow you will be told that your guard escorted you home and that Serene or Olivia helped you into bed, but right now in this moment, it’s still just you and him: the General and his Princess. He presses his lips to your forehead and inhales one last scent of your sweet perfume before he forces himself to leave you and a piece of his heart behind. In the doorway of your bedroom, Din stops to take one last look at your breathtaking beauty. An angel. How different was tonight from a dream, really?
“Sweet dreams, Princess.