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The first thing that Din is conscious of is that his arms hurt. Actually, most of him hurts, but his arms hurt the most.
He’s curled into an extremely uncomfortable position, balled up as tight as he can go. By the stiffness in his limbs, he’s been like this for a while. Din keeps his body as relaxed as he can, subtly opening one eye to peek at his surroundings. Why is he compacted like this? Is he hiding from something?
That option is immediately ruled out as soon as he gets a glimpse of where he is. He’s out in the open, collapsed on the stone floor of a large room. Din shuts his eye again, keeping his breathing relaxed and regular. He can feel ropes around his wrists and ankles. He was probably ambushed on a bounty.
The ropes, unfortunately, are all he can feel. The stone floor presses into his knees and forehead with no barriers between them. He’s completely naked, and more importantly, without his helmet.
With a great effort and all his training, Din keeps his calm. Giving away that he is awake could cost him. He spends the next few minutes breathing as steadily as he can and reassuring himself that there have definitely been other Mandalorians who have had their helmets forcibly removed. He can find a way to atone. What he can’t do is come back from the dead. He can worry about his Creed later.
With the immediate moral panic out of the way, Din focuses on the sounds of the room around him. No breathing. No rustling clothing or shift of skin against skin.
Din tries to sit up. No dice. He’d suspected he was probably tied down, but having confirmation is nice. He can barely get more than an inch in any direction, including up. What he can do is turn his head, and he takes his time scanning the room he’s in.
It isn’t as big as he first thought it was. The intricacy of the stonework amplifies any sound, making it echo around the hall. He’s kneeling on a raised dais. In front of him, what bears an unfortunate resemblance to a sacrificial altar looms up. He can only catch a glimpse of what’s behind him, but out of the corner of his eye he can see pillars flanking a door.
The entire room is ornately decorated and absolutely ancient. The altar is crumbling at the corners and the walls look like someone had recently scrubbed moss off them. He is, in fact, alone, and he takes full advantage of the time to try and reorder his memories. His head seems to be filled with fog. He’s been drugged, probably. Possibly with a head injury thrown in to boot.
The last thing Din can remember is entering a back alley leading to the bar where he was supposed to meet up with someone. Who?
Did they slip something in his drink? No, he wouldn’t have taken his helmet off. He’d promised Grogu that-
Grogu. Where is his ad? Was he with Din? Din strains against his ropes to scan the room again. Still nothing. He concentrates. Where was his kid when he entered the alley?
He wasn’t with Din. He was with Boba, on Tatooine. Din had left him there before taking the job.
He had done that because his potential clients had been rumored to be part of a fledgling cult worshiping the old Force Gods. Din hadn’t been about to deliver his ad to a cult, but he had thought that maybe, just maybe, there would be someone mentioned to him, a Force-user that wasn’t part of the cult.
Grogu needed someone, anyone to teach him how to use his Force osik. Din was entirely unqualified for this. Boba had been happy to take the kid for a few days, and Grogu had been over the moon to have a sleepover with his odd uncle.
Din rested his forehead on the floor and breathed. His ad was safe. If nothing else, his ad was safe. Boba would literally kill and die for the kid. Now, Din just had to get back to him.
Din’s memory blanked after walking into the alley. This was unfortunate, but still provided some information. The only people who knew he would be there would be the cult. The altar, as well as the giant curved dagger poking over the side of said altar, lent strength to the possibility that for some reason, the Force cult had betrayed him.
Honestly, it didn’t really matter. Din’s plan stayed the same. Escape, wreak havoc, and leave. The possibility that members of the Force cult could use the Force was strong, but as long as he could find his armor - and Din wasn’t leaving without it - his beskar would nullify the effects.
Din eyed the crumbling edge of the altar. It looked unstable. If he could rock it a bit, the dagger might slide off towards him. Before he could attempt it, a rumbling announced the door behind him sliding open.
Instantly, Din slumped back down, returning to the position he’d been tied in. He focused all his attention on the sounds around him, missing the enhanced audio receptors in his helmet. Several pairs of footsteps, the swishing of cloaks on stone, and muted muttering from a few of the people who had just entered. One pair of footsteps walked right past Din and circled the altar. Another stopped next to his head, and Din heard the scrape of the dagger being picked up.
The muttering came closer. Jars were set down next to him, accompanying the thud of someone kneeling beside him. Fingers touched his back, leaving a cold trail behind them. Din tried to make out what they were painting. It felt like words, but he couldn’t make them out. Another pair of hands ran down his neck and onto his cheeks. It took all his concentration not to blink.
The pair on his back was drawing uncomfortably low. They disappeared for a second, then came back with more paint. Too much paint. The excess ran down his tailbone and between his shebs.
Din decided that enough was enough. He didn’t bother pretending to wake up, just jerked his head up as fast as he could and bit the fingers tracing patterns onto his jaw.
He was rewarded with a muffled curse and the shuffling of feet as the hands on him vanished. Din thrashed, twisting his wrists to try and get at the knots in the rope. A second later, someone shoved his head down hard, cracking his forehead into the floor. The hands held him down as more rope was threaded around his neck and face, forming a harness of sorts that was lashed to the same hooks that bound his hands down.
Din was left to jerk futilely against it like a baby Tauntaun being broken in. Despite his wiggling, the paint was reapplied on his back and face. A wet cloth cleaned up the edges of the design - thankfully not going too low - and a gong sounding behind him triggered another flurry of movement.
Cloaks skidded across the floor as cultists hurried to leave the room. That was a great sign. The two remaining cultists still stood near him, one behind the altar and one at his shoulder. Din heard pages turning. Who still used real books anymore?
The man behind the altar began to read. His voice was monotonous and droning. Din couldn’t understand most of what he said, but he picked up a few words that sounded similar to Mando’a. None of them were encouraging.
“Jedi…..Force Gods……Mandalorian…….Slave.” Osik.
Din knew that this was a cult of the Force Gods, but were they really sacrificing him to the Force? From what he knew of the jetiise’s teachings, the Force was supposed to be good, right? It was the thing that held the universe together, and was generally peaceful. Why would killing him be necessary?
Although, the man had said “slave.” Were they going to kill him? Before the jetiise had fallen, they were at odds with Mandalore. Din doubted that this fledgling cult was following the old Jedi Order’s Creed. Maybe they were trying to appease their gods by offering an ancestral enemy.
He was snapped back to reality by the voice growing louder and more shrill, practically shrieking the last few lines of the incantation. The feet next to him shuffled.
Without warning, a line of white-hot pain carved its way down Din’s spine. He choked on his own spit and nearly bit his tongue. He felt more than heard the cultist next to him raise the dagger again. And again. And again.
Dimly, he wondered if the number four was significant to the jetiise or if that was just the cultist’s own interpretation.
Din was used to pain. It came with the job. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from trying to curl up tighter, burying his head in his elbow in an attempt to protect his face. It would be so easy for the dagger to slice through the veins in the side of his neck.
It didn’t. Instead, the cultists left as their companions had done. Din heard a deadbolt slam.
Why would they just leave? Din didn’t really want to know. He stayed there, bound to the dais. Blood slid down his side and dripped onto his folded legs.
He bit into his lip, trying to give himself something else to focus on. This was his chance. He needed out, before whatever they were sacrificing him to actually showed up. He doubted the Force Gods were still alive after the jetiise had fallen, if they were ever real, but this wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to feed him to something less than divine.
Most of his movement was gone now, but he could just make out the bloody dagger, carefully placed on the altar. Could he get to it? Unlikely.
Instead, he flexed his arms. His back smarted more at the movement. He didn’t want to have to dislocate a joint to get out, but if he had to-
Something moved behind the altar.
Din froze. The smell of blood would probably attract whatever it was, but the cultists had gone to a lot of trouble to get him here alive. If this beast hunted live beings, it might be uninterested in a dead one. Din closed his eyes and focused on breathing, trying to slow his heart.
“Oh, Force.” Double osik. That was a person. He, whoever he was, sounded startled. It wasn’t one of the cultists who had prepared him, then. A Force-user, maybe, who they’d mistaken as a god? It was unlikely, but powerful Force-users were rare nowadays, and if this cult was so devout..
“Oh, Force. Are you alright? Wait, no, you definitely aren’t, I knew we should have taken down this cult, I’m so sorry, hold on.”
Quick footsteps rounded the altar. The man was wearing boots rather than the soft-soled shoes that the cultists had had.
Din was still trying to get his hands loose as subtly as he could. He stilled as the man dropped to one knee beside him. Black cloth swirled in his peripheral vision. The man was still muttering quiet apologies as careful hands skimmed the ropes binding his face and hands.
“It looks like it will come apart if I cut this bit, hold on.” Was he really just going to cut Din loose? The dagger was still on the altar. The man could get to it easier than Din could, but if he startled him, he might be able to move before the man comprehended what was happening. Din tensed slowly, readying.
The stranger cheered quietly as a rope snapped. Din felt the ties around his hands and chest loosen slightly. “Now, let’s see that part-”
The man had his hands on the rope around Din’s face. For the second time that day, Din bit. The stranger yelped and sat back. Din moved. The binds on his ankles snapped taut, but he managed to snag the blade of the knife. It cut into his palm, but that didn’t matter.
The room fell still again. The man was sitting facing Din, one hand curled up to his chest. Din stared back, poised and ready with the dagger. Blood was now dripping steadily down his back. His head was getting a little fuzzy. He needed to leave, now. He wanted his armor. He felt vulnerable, kneeling naked in front of a strange man, knife or no knife.
He took in the stranger. Blond hair and blue eyes, and a startled expression that was rapidly fading into sympathy.
“I’m sorry for scaring you.” Din blinked. What? The stranger was still looking at him. “I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have just touched you. My name is Luke Skywalker, and I was called here because you were in pain. I would like to help, if you will let me.”
Luke Skywalker (What a pretentious name, Din thought absently) shifted on the floor. His bitten hand came down to support him. Din watched as the last few marks of his teeth healed and vanished.
Triple osik.
He’d never heard of normal jetii being able to heal themselves like that. Several scraps of conversation flew back into his head. “I knew we should have taken down this cult,” “I was called here because you were in pain,” “Force Gods….Slave.”
Din was many things, but stupid was not normally one of them. He may not believe in the Force Gods, but-
He flattened himself, dropping the dagger beside him. He pressed his face back to the floor and wondered if he was going to spend all day like this. His knees were telling him he would regret it tomorrow.
“Hey, hey, whoa, you don’t need to do that.” Luke was leaning forward on his hands, unsure if he should come closer. His hair caught the light and haloed him in gold. Din stopped looking up and pressed his body closer to the floor.
He’d seen a lot of slaves over the years, had participated in freeing them or in punishing their owners. He had zero desire to become a slave himself. If he really had been sacrificed, he essentially belonged to this god. Luke didn’t seem particularly godlike, and Din cursed himself. He’d probably thrown away any chance of this ending well for him when he bit the Force-god.
Gentle gloved hands pressed into Din’s shoulders. “Please, get up. You’re going to hurt yourself more.”
Luke shuffled over to sit next to Din, reaching out to move the dagger away. Din couldn’t stop himself from tensing. Luke noticed immediately and froze, holding the knife at arms-length. Slowly, he placed it down and slid it away from them. It moved farther than Din thought it should have, skidding smoothly over the cracks in the floor.
Luke dropped his hands back into his lap, tilting his head and smiling at Din. “Better? I swear, I’m not here to hurt you, or because of whatever ridiculous summoning ritual they used.” He indicated the runes painted in blue all over Din’s back and arms.
Din considered this. If Luke was really here to take him as a slave, there wouldn’t be much use in all this. If he wasn’t here because of the ritual, then was Din bound to him? He didn’t see a reason why he would be.
He opened his mouth, but was immediately hindered by the rope halter still tight on his face. Luke’s face contorted with momentary anger before smoothing out into sadness. “Can I help with that?” Din briefly contemplated the chances of Luke grabbing the ends of rope hanging down across his chest and leading him away like a Bantha with reigns. He decided it was unlikely and nodded permission.
Luke moved slowly, carefully untangling the knots. The halter was off surprisingly fast, falling in a heap beside them. Din stretched his jaw. “Thanks.”
“It was the least I could do. May I take a look at your back?” Din didn’t hesitate as long this time. Luke’s hands stayed gentle as they smoothed across his shoulders, avoiding the worst of the injuries. Din had to fight to keep from sagging as most of the pain leeched away. He distracted himself by fiddling with the ropes around his ankles, picking out the knots. One of Luke’s hands strayed down his arm and turned his hand over to poke at the cut on his palm.
Din flinched as Luke pulled a small rock from the cut before beginning to smooth his hand over it like he had done to Din’s back. “Almost done, sweetheart, just a little more.” Suddenly, Din missed his helmet. Sweetheart? He knew his face was probably doing something odd.
Luke finished and stood slowly, holding out his hand to pull Din up. Din moved to take his hand, then abruptly remembered he was still naked. Luke saw him curl in on himself and politely averted his eyes, offering his cloak without a word. His cheeks were red.
Luke was significantly smaller than Din, but Din wrapped the cloak around his waist and muttered a thanks. Luke grinned awkwardly, but before Din could say anything else, he stiffened and turned to face the door.
A second later, the door creaked open. Cultists marched in in orderly lines. Din stiffened, glancing around for something to hit them with. Before he could go after the dagger, Luke shifted in front of him, pulling a metal cylinder from his belt.
With a flick of his wrist, the blade of the jetii’kad lit the room green. Din could feel the heat wafting off the weapon even from where he was standing several steps behind Luke. He was distracted from the sight by a nudging at his arm. The dagger was floating beside him.
Din looked up to meet Luke’s eyes over the jetii’s shoulder. “You can use that if any of them get past me.” With that, he was off. Din plucked the dagger from the air and tested the tip. It still seemed fine.
He glanced around and backed up so his back was against the wall. Nothing else seemed to be required of him. Luke cut through the cultists quicker than he would have thought physically possible. This was the god who lowered himself to his knees to heal his own sacrifice?
The one-sided fight was over in a few minutes. Luke stood facing the last of the cultists. By the paint-stained edges of his sleeves, it was one of the ones who had prepared Din before the ritual. The cultist was practically shaking, backing away from the angry god and babbling apologies and explanations.
“My Lord, he’s a Mandalorian bounty hunter rumored to have a Force-sensitive child. I- I mean we, thought you would welcome your enemy brought low as your slave, he’s-”
Luke cut him off before he finished. He stood there a moment, staring at the body with tense shoulders. In the silent room, Din could have sworn he heard him whisper “slave?”
Din’s so screwed. Leave it to these guys to make his day as bad as possible. If the god had just realized Din technically belonged to him, would he change his mind about letting Din go? Having a slave given to you was different from having some random person being whipped in your front yard. And as the cherry on top, now he knew Din was Mandalorian.
Luke turned around and headed back towards Din. His face was dark and he seemed to be breathing very slowly and deeply. Din’s back still hurt, despite what Luke had done to it. He made the executive decision that he did not want to have any more punishments today.
He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Luke’s footsteps stopped. “I apologise for misleading you about the circumstances surrounding my sacrifice.” He wanted to keep going, but he honestly couldn’t come up with any more apologies for things he hadn’t done.
There were several seconds of silence. Din heard Luke breath out sharply and cross the distance between them in several strides. He expected a slap. Instead, the hands on his face were just as gentle as when Luke had healed his back.
“Sweetheart, no, I’m not mad at you. This is in no way your fault. You are not and have never been my enemy, nor are you my slave.”
Din, at the prodding of Luke’s hands, lifted his head. Luke looked like he wanted to cry. Thumbs brushed under Din’s eyes and along his jawline. “I- I mean, you don’t..” Din wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with that sentence. Luke just smiled sadly. “Never.”
Instead of getting up, Din sat down. His head was still spinning. Luke followed him down, brushing flecks of paint from Din’s mustache. “I think you’re feeling the effects of Force healing. It will clear after you sleep.”
Sleep sounded good to Din. He hadn’t gotten much last night, had been too busy to think about taking off his armor until late. He frowned. “My armor. They took it.” Luke winced. “I’ll look for it on the way out. Beskar is pretty distinct in the Force.”
The last of his concerns having been addressed, Din complied sleepily to Luke’s directions. His brain was lost in a whirl of fog. The trip out of wherever they were was lost in a haze. Luke left his side several times, the flash of his lightsaber lighting the walls green. At one point, he was prodded into looking through a pile of armor, checking if everything was there. It was, and he happily sealed his helmet back on his head. He must have looked odd, wandering like a zombie through the halls after a jetii, wearing a beskar helmet and a cape around his waist like a toga.
The next time he surfaced, Luke was depositing him on a bunk in an unfamiliar ship with too-small sleeping clothes and instructions to change. He turned away to give Din privacy, but remained within reach. Even half-fogged, Din could admit that was practical. He was likely to trip and brain himself on the nearest sharp corner if he wasn’t careful.
Luke left the pile of armor on a chair within sight of the bed.
Din woke up to a much clearer head, an unfamiliar ceiling, and an all too familiar wash of panic that was quickly countered by a gentle rush of reassurance that definitely didn’t come from him. His armor was still on the chair, his helmet was still on his head, and when he cautiously poked his head out the door, Luke grinned at him and informed him that he’d gotten the location of Din’s ship out of one of the cultists and that they were on their way there.