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The night over the wastes of Nevarro was silent beyond measure.
Mingled with the sound of the night wind kicking up dust, a faint, raspy murmur leaked from the small blanket beside him.
Din Djarin turned his visor toward it. Grogu was curled into a tight little ball, flattening his ears as if squirming in distress. Soft, broken coos and frightened little squeaks escaped his throat as he whimpered in his sleep, terrified of something in the dark.
—This child can sometimes be trapped in the deep darkness of his past. ...Even so, if you are by his side, he will likely settle down quickly. ...No, forget I said that. This is a bad attachment.
The words Ahsoka Tano had spoken back on that silent, barren planet with towering withered trees unexpectedly crossed his mind.
The "danger of attachment" preached by the Jedi Code was of no concern to him now. That was not their Way.
Djarin knelt and reached his fingers into the innermost pocket of his flight suit—beneath his beskar armor.
What he pulled out was a tiny, worn metallic box that fit completely within the palm of his hand.
Removing his heavy, rough glove, he carefully turned the small key with bare fingertips, taking care not to break it.
When he released his grip, a hard, crystal-clear melody began to strike the night air, note by single note.
It was an awkward yet gentle tune, reminiscent of a lullaby from some distant star.
Guided by the sound, Grogu’s short breaths gradually evened out, and soon, resting his small head quietly, he sank into a peaceful sleep.
Behind his visor, Djarin narrowed his eyes, gazing down at the tiny music box in his hand as his thoughts drifted back to a distant past.
***
It was shortly after he had taken the Mandalorian Creed and put on his helmet as a young boy.
In the covert of the Children of the Watch, the young Djarin had thrown himself into daytime combat training with more hunger than anyone else, but at night, he was tormented by severe sleep deprivation.
Whenever he closed his eyes, the memory of the day his birth parents were taken—the swarm of B1 battle droids with their blinking red lenses, the deafening explosions, and the stench of blood—dominated his mind, violently shaking his young heart.
His benefactor had protected him well and drilled the skills of survival into him, but he was not the kind of man to gently soothe a child’s nighttime fears.
One night, another boy of his age who had just returned from a long mission with his father—Paz Vizsla—appeared at Djarin’s sleeping quarters with a mud-splattered, disgruntled face.
"Here."
What was tossed over to him was a small lump of metal that fit in his hand.
"What's this?"
"Found it on a trip. Supposed to be rare. ...I heard listening to its sound helps you sleep."
Paz folded his arms in the shadow of his helmet and gestured with a blunt jerk of his chin.
"There’s no satisfaction in sparring with a sleep-deprived opponent. ...Or what? You want to do some night exercise with me so you can get nicely exhausted and sleep?"
The pure-hearted Djarin of that time took him completely at face value, reasoning that "sparring at night would only make him more awake," politely declined, and gratefully accepted the tiny music box.
After Paz left, Djarin turned the key in his cold, solitary bed and listened closely.
Tinkle, tinkle.
The crystal-clear chime, like counting the stars, gradually replaced the noise inside his head, and before he knew it, he was sleeping like a log until morning.
(...For Paz, that was an unexpectedly thoughtful gift.)
Having grown into an adult and understanding the true meaning behind the words "night exercise," the present-day Djarin let out a soft, faint huff of breath behind his visor.
On that night in the heat of adolescence, after being so flatly turned down, had Paz ended up taking care of it himself before going to sleep? If so, he felt a little sorry for him.
Yet, how much that tiny melody given by that rough, blunt boy had saved his younger self. Paz himself had probably forgotten all about it, though.
***
The next morning, they set foot on the plains of Mandalore, where the echoes of reconstruction were beginning to resound.
Under the bright sunlight, Djarin approached Ragnar—the boy who was already leading the foundlings and taking the initiative in the labor—with Grogu in tow.
"Ragnar."
"Din Djarin."
The boy turned around and stood tall against Djarin, puffing out his chest. In his posture, a shadow of his late father could be glimpsed.
Djarin drew out the small music box from his breast pocket and offered it to the boy on his calloused palm.
"Something of your father's came up. ...Take it. If you ever suffer from nightmares of the past at night, listen to this."
Ragnar stared at the tiny metal box through his visor and quietly shook his head.
"I'm fine."
His voice bled with the stubbornness inherited from his father and the unmistakable pride of a true warrior.
"If it's Father's legacy... his armor was found in the charred ruins of the Imperial base. I’m going to become a man big enough to reshape it to fit my own body. So..."
Ragnar glanced at Grogu standing beside Djarin, then looked straight up at Djarin.
"Let him listen to it. You keep it. ...So you don't forget my father."
Djarin caught his breath for a moment, then slowly wrapped his fingers around the music box, enclosing it in his hand.
"Never," he murmured low, carving the word into his own chest.
"He was a honorable man who gave everything for the Creed and his coverts. He was my... rival for life."
(—And the man who knew my skin and body heat deeper than anyone else.)
Without uttering it aloud, he added the thought in the solitude of his mind.
"Let's go, Grogu."
"Pah!"
Turning his back on Ragnar, he urged Grogu along and began to walk.
Ragnar would grow up strong. He might even become Grogu’s rival, just as they once were.
Forget him? As if he ever could.
Without breaking his stride, Djarin quietly tucked the music box back into his chest. Smiling self-deprecatingly under his visor, he thought how convenient it was to feel this way after having forgotten about it for so long.
He felt a deep affection as he watched Grogu desperately trying to keep up behind him on his short little legs.
In the depths of his ears, the melody he heard that night continued to play.