While he had never forgotten the face of his buir, his soft, fuzzy memories of infancy, the infallibility of memory, and the relentless march of time had all but erased the memory of his voice.
When he’d realized he wasn’t able to remember the cadence of his father’s voice as a child, he’d been utterly despondent, struck anew with grief that cut his heart as keenly as any beskar blade. Jedi were expected to cherish their memories of loved ones long lost, but never dwell upon them. Mandalorians were expected to honor the memory of their parent. Grogu Djarin, though… well, his weakness had always been his attachments to those closest to him. He’d thought he’d made peace with that, both as a Jedi Knight and as a Mandalorian.
Fate and circumstance had flung him far into the past now, to a time where he himself was an infant… and his buir was still alive. By his calculations, Grogu figured it had been less than a year or so since his buir had rescued him from the darkness. He should have kept his distance, maintained his solemn vigil over his past self and his father and keep his eyes peeled for the darjetii that had started this mess. He should have put his duty over his feelings, and not let his emotions get the better of him… but the prospect of hearing the voice of his father once more after over a century was a siren call he couldn’t resist.
His love for his father was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.
Quietly, he crept closer to the camp. His dark robes and his beskar helped to camoflauge him in the shadows, and his light step was carefully augmented using the Force. It would not due to let his father see him, after all, and cause a temporal paradox. The little hunter perched high in the canopy, using the viewfinder of his buy’ce to get a closer look.
‘It will be easier to protect him this way,’ he reasoned with himself, ‘He won’t see me at all, and I can be sure that he is safe.’
His heart clenched at the sight of Din Djarin anyways. By the Force, it had been so long…
So focused upon not alerting his father, the Best Bounty Hunter in the Galaxy, that he completely neglected his precocious younger self. His younger, clever, observant little self, who had always been hyper-aware of his surroundings. That vigilance had been one of the things that had kept him alive all those years, and he ought not to have been as surprised as he was when a little head tilted upwards, and little eyes locked right on to him.
He’d asked himself, many times, why it was that he kept doing it. He’d wonder if anyone else would’ve -most likely- given up on the Child at that point, all while he nursed dark and blooming bruises, aches that made sleeping on the ground a nuisance when they ran short on time without being attacked. Not even his life as a bounty hunter had been that eventful. There was no organization now, no assured payment or lodging, no warnings about where he was headed to. Din Djarin was adrift with uncertainty. With the painful awareness that he was not suited for a father, much less of a kid as special as Grogu.
No. He’d always backpedal on those thoughts. The Armourer had been confident in her words. They were a clan of two. She’d seen something, enough, in him to be certain that he was the right one to help the kid in his journey. The wounds and the sudden rush to pack up camp in order to leave the area and avoid attack in the matter of seconds, the growing gap of credits in his account, and the seemingly endless pool of people that targeted the Child, it all was part of the bigger picture.
So maybe the peaceful nights were few and apart, but when they came -and they did- the Mandalorian got the opportunity to spend some time with the kid, even if they simply sat together by a warm fire. Occasionally, he’d retell some classic stories from his Mandalorian ancestors, or even his own stories, from when he was younger and less strategic about handling his hunts. Din could hardly interpret the series of babbles with which the kid replied to sometimes, but it was easier to tell with expression and tone alone.
That specific night felt like a sorry coming from the stars for their most recent dangerous situation. The strong fire had dwindled down to something more gentle and comforting. Dinner had been had with enjoyment, evidenced by the empty bowls sitting aside and the Mandalorian had allowed himself to prop back against a fallen tree, helmet tilted towards the fire and hands loosely placed over his abdomen. The kid had chirped and babbled about this and that, drawing moving shadows against the forest ground, so it sat to him wrong when the sound died along with the movement, and when Din followed the direction in which Grogu stared at intently, his body quickly tensed in alarm.
A figure watching them from not far. The Mandalorian was quick to draw out his blaster.
“Not one move.” He warned, danger underlying the calmness in his voice.
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