A blaster shot sailed past his helmet. Two more missed entirely. A fourth sparked his pauldron. He curled as far forward over the speeder as the bike would allow, leaning his body to the left before straightening out. He varied his direct path both frequently and randomly, making himself less of an easily acquired target.
A response came back promptly over his comm as he sped over the lava flats. "Copy."
Grogu, riding in the saddle bag to his left, kept his head mostly down. Both of his ears flapped in the wind as he peered to the rear. He reached inward for the concentration and connection he required, then found a target of his own. The bike gaining ground on them threw a nut. Then another. It came apart under velocity, exploding into a shower of pieces as the rider continued to fly wildly with no vehicle carrying him. Flailing, he slammed into the dirt and rolled. A second speeder bike suffered the same fate.
An electric charge crackled through the air, setting the hairs on Grogu's head on end. He watched as the third biker disintegrated into nothingness. The bike farthest from them slowed and banked hard to the right, circling back to the city. Before the fourth could considered doing the same, he too met his end at the hands of an expert sniper.
Grogu giggled and rose partially from cover, letting the wind hit him full in the face. Then he patted the closest body part he could reach. It was his signal. There was no one else pursuing them. They only slowed down once the homestead was in sight, coming to a smooth stop in the shadow of the Crest.
Dismounting, he slung his bag over his shoulder and retrieved Grogu, who was all too eager to be home. "Nice shooting, old man," Ragnar hollered as Din climbed down from the roof of the house, the Amban rifle secure on his back.
"Don't call me that," he grumped back. Without hesitation, they grasped each other by the forearm in greeting and came in to touch foreheads.
"Bu!" Grogu demanded and received his own, transferring from his cousin's arms to his father's safe embrace.
"Have fun?"
"Ee!"
"Good bounty?"
"Solid. No complications."
"Except for the tail," Din pointed out.
"They thought we were stupid enough to still have the credits."
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"Em dashes are a sign of AI"
No, they're a sign that the author has read far too much classic literature (as if there's such a thing) and the literary legends of old's fondness for employing em dashes has rubbed off on them
Can’t sleep so I’m going through my scraps folders (as one does) and I came across a few story sketches I completely forgot about. One was this…
AU where Cara is The Mandalorian and Din is a humble healer in quiet little Aq Vetina. (Yes, Cara’s got the never-remove-the-helmet-for-anyone-but-family rule. Yes, she’s a bounty hunter providing for the covert. Yes, she found Grogu just like in the show. Yes, she has the Razor Crest (but she actually gave it a name)
. . . . .
It was just supposed to be a glorified pitstop.
She needed to lay low and rest, hide herself and the kid from Karga’s bounty hunters and whoever else the Client could afford to send after them. Besides that, she literally did need fuel for the Old Rascal as well as a restock on rations or some other food-equivalent (and if she could find someone trustworthy to watch the little green tyke so she could heal up after that mudhorn nearly reduced her to a teal smear on Arvala-7, well, all the better).
She had picked Aq Vetina mostly at random.
She narrowed the navicomputer’s search down to planets skirting the fringes of the Outer Rim—places that didn’t have starports, places that possibly didn’t even have a Holonet connection. This little planet with its alternating fields of green and gold, its dry air and shallow seas, wasn’t exactly unknown, and it did have some cities and starports, but they had pushed away most industry and there were a number of little settlements out in the middle of nowhere.
Aq Vetina was the settlement furthest from anything else on the planet, surrounded by farms and orchards, filled to the brim with folk who had never gone off world—in fact, according to the one news report featuring its name, the most exciting thing they had ever experienced was a troop of Separatist droids marching through the public square one day thirty years ago.
There was something… familiar about it…
Farms… orchards… peace and quiet…
Those were the things—frankly, the only things—she remembered about her hometown on Alderaan before…
Well.
Anyway.
It seemed like a nice place to bum for a while.
And it was.
The people welcomed her and the kid, let her hide the ‘Rascal in an old barn and even offered accommodations.
They treated her with respect, something she saw too little of in this galaxy. Oh, they were curious, sure—anyone coming along with a teal helmet seemingly glued to their shoulders was bound to raise a few eyebrows—but they never tried to get her to remove it; they never even asked.
But that was the thing.
They never asked.
Yet this was the first time ever she herself had thought about it…
She wanted to blame the settlement’s resemblance to her hometown, to the place she knew before she was rescued and taken in as a foundling. She could probably get away with writing it off as the calm pace of the last few weeks getting under her skin and dredging up desires and goals she assumed long-dead.
Maybe those were contributing factors.
But if she was brutally honest with herself (and she tried always to be just so)… it was the stupid healer.
She didn’t have a “type” but, if she did, she didn’t think shy and sweet would be it.
He couldn’t hope to match her in a fight; he hadn’t been trained for combat from the tender age of six like she had been.
A band of raiders (essentially glorified bullies) were harrassing the settlement, trying to steal their harvests and goods, and Cara wouldn’t stand for it but she was just one single fighter going against a band roughly forty strong, so she decided to train up the locals. They weren’t totally useless—a number of them had sharp hunting skills, providing the settlement with meat and keeping dangerous animals away. But none of them knew how to organize an army or how to melee fight. She had her work cut out for her.
At first, the healer refused to learn.
He was a healer, he told her, putting emphasis on the job title. He could do no harm.
She had heard the sentiment before but it always confused her. Mandalorian medics were not bound to such a creed.
. . . . .
can’t really remember where I was going with this but I thought it might be cool to share as is. @desertbeskar I know you’ll appreciate this one ☺️
It was a courtesy call, not an urgent warning. Fennec's tone demanded neither a verbal response nor did it spur Boba to immediate action. Few individuals had access to this particular section of the palace, fewer still who could reach his quarters. That narrowed it down to a handful of people he considered family.
The lock and latch seemed to release on their own. The door started to swing open then stalled. When no one appeared, Boba allowed his gaze to drop. Grogu slipped in and waddled right up to the Daimyo.
Boba pushed his chair back from the desk and angled himself towards the child, his work momentarily paused. He leveled a serious expression. Business first. "What did we discuss?"
His little shoulders slumped and his head drooped. He'd forgotten. Grogu shuffled a little closer to the desk, balled his fist, and knocked as loudly as he could on the leg.
"Very good. You are always welcome, but it's considered polite to announce yourself."
He didn't seem to perk up at the praise.
Boba considered him for a moment. "You're concerned about your buir," he surmised.
Grogu nodded silently, making no effort to deny it.
"I know what it feels like to be left behind," Boba sympathized. Without specifying where exactly, he invited, "Come on up here."
He climbed the short distance up the leg, hauled himself over the lip to the top of the desk, shuffled to the edge closest to Boba, then jumped to the nearest knee. When his ba'vodu leaned back, Grogu crawled up to stand on his stomach. On any other occasion, he would have declared himself victorious. Maybe even gone so far as to pat Boba's belly. Today, he bodily threw himself forward onto Boba's chest, his arms spread wide and his ear pressed to the thumping of a familiar heart beating below soft bantha wool.
Boba placed a hand on his back and rubbed gently. "He's been gone longer than you were expecting. But that doesn't mean he's hurt or not coming back at all. We mustn't let our fears control us. Have you had your nap?"
A quick little jiggle flopped his free ear about.
Boba tugged his robe out from under the child than wrapped it around him, creating a supportive pocket in which he could rest. Close and protected. Grogu shifted to the side and settled in, an arm still stretched out across Boba's chest.
"Sleep. If we haven't heard from him by this evening, we'll start our hunt."
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Words: 6555 | Rating: T | Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu, Cara Dune, Greef Karga, IG-11, The Armorer
Read on AO3 or below
<<< Part 2
3 — Foundling
The child is watching him.
He feels it more than he feels anything.
More than the pain. More than the blood. More than the black.
He’s dying.
He knows.
He knows because he’s getting less and less with every breath he draws.
He knows because his heart is falling out of rhythm, going frantic then sluggish then stumbling.
He knows because even that perpetually, indomitably stubborn thing inside him has gone quiet, aware that no amount of defiance now will win anything, that the last of his energy will be wasted if spent fighting for his own life. There aren’t enough threads left to grasp nor dregs to scrape so he doesn’t even bother reaching.
When the last pull comes, he’ll let go.
It’s a warrior’s death—really, the epitome of one. He took his fatal blow in the heat of battle. He was on his feet until he couldn’t stand any longer. He had allies beside him, worthy warriors in their own right, and he was protecting something precious, something innocent, something worth dying for.
The Mandalorian is at peace with this death.
Din Djarin is not.
The name is in his ears, blaring, ringing, echoing. It’s in his mouth, too, stuck in the blood that shouldn’t be there. The name belongs to a boy who died in a hole in the ground, his parents’ kisses still drying on his crown and his cheek; now it’s back, resurrected only to fall to a dying man.
A man who has only just now realized the one he has killed for and the one he will die for is the same one he wants to live for.
He wants to live.
Only alive can he take care of the child. Only alive can he protect him. Only alive can he ensure he’s fed and warm and safe. Only alive can he enjoy his company, his strange manner of conversation, his humour, his endearing stubbornness, his bottomless compassion… his love.
Selfish, yes.
He deserves none of it.
What kind of broken was he that it took so long to recognize the child as a person? Why did he struggle so to comprehend the child’s affection for and, dare he say, attachment to him? Why did he have to take every hard road there ever was? Why did he have to make a hopeless tangle of everything to come to his senses? Why does it take impending death to make him realize just how much he has to live for?
He thinks all of this distantly and instantly.
There’s so much happening.
Outside, smoke clouds and chokes everything. It was a bright, sunny day on Nevarro before all the shooting began. All that haze hangs in the still, trapped air of the cantina, subduing the light, overriding the senses.
He doesn’t know if it’s the marching, running, scrambling of dozens of soldiers or the building warning of its impending collapse he feels through the ground. Could be both. Could be just what a body goes through as its life ebbs. He’s not sure but it’s acutely discomforting.
Cara’s talking. She’s frantic. He’s never seen her frantic before. Her hand keeps coming and going, doing something then snapping back to hold his arm, just beneath the pauldron. Her other hand slides under his head, her fingers slip up under the lip of the helmet and he should feel that but he doesn’t, not properly.
Through everything that’s happening, the one thing he feels above all else is the child’s gaze on him.
He’s on the ground, somewhere by his boots. He’s just barely there in a sliver of his peripheral vision, but it’s enough to see his enormous, worried eyes.
It crushes Din’s heart.
He wants to sit up (properly, fully, not like he is now, lying like he’s been splattered against this duracrete slab that once was a table… likely the very table across which he took the course that led him to the child). He wants to reach over and gather the child to him, to reassure him and soothe away those little furrows of concern like he would the shadows of a bad nightmare.
But he can’t.
The child’s mouth opens but Din doesn’t hear him.
The battle’s still going and Cara won’t stop telling him he’s gonna be fine. On top of all that, the helmet’s taken some of the worst damage it’s ever seen. He can’t hear anything at all in one ear and he doesn’t know whether to blame that on the equipment or himself.
Cara’s still talking. And trying to help. She cares about him. She doesn’t want him to die. The way her arms wrapped around him, the way she carried him off the battlefield, the way her hand grabs his arm… she’s hoping if she holds on hard enough, he’ll stay, he won’t slip away. He wants to tell her that’s not how this works but that’s not really necessary.
She’s from Alderaan.
She’s a rebel.
She knows.
He spares what strength he can to tell her he won’t make it, that she needs to go. It’s just a fact. If he had more to work with, he’d tell her he’s sorry for dying on her because he is, truly.
She pauses her avid denial to look at her hand. He can’t see it but the horror eclipsing her attempts to smile and convince him all’s well tells him it must be bad.
“I’m gonna need to take this thing off.”
“No!” Panic lances through his heart and it likely shoots him a few yards closer to death but he cannot allow this.
He’s on the cusp.
There’s nothing she can do, no aid she can administer that will reverse, pause or stop this. He knows. The last of their medical supplies was spent on Karga. And there isn’t time.
He can’t survive this.
But he’s kept his vow this far and he wants to die with it unbroken.
“You leave me.”
Din Djarin is already long dead.
The Mandalorian gets to choose how his song ends.
But before then…
“You make sure the child is safe,” he instructs, forcing it to come out clear and loud enough, just in case his modulator is as busted as the sound amplification and clarification tech.
She’s been here before.
He sees something subtle shift in her face. Her jaw sets with the duty and fortitude of the soldier already carrying the dying wishes of others, their last words inked in the black of her eyes.
She’ll take his, too. She’ll see them through.
He knows.
But before then…
“Here.”
It will make her mission easier to accomplish but that’s not his foremost thought when he reaches up and closes rigid, barely responsive fingers around the piece of beskar he’s carried with him the longest. A sharp tug snaps the cord, untethering him from one of his oldest anchors.
His kyr’bes.
A Mythosaur skull, a symbol bestowed on all Mandalorian children—born or found.
His buir received it when he was born.
He carried it his whole life until he found him.
He slipped it over his head, settled it over his heart, and called him his.
“When you get to the Mandalorian covert, you show them that.”
Outsiders, scavengers, vultures, whatever unsavoury sort should stumble across the husk of a Mandalorian would think the helmet, the armour, and the weapons the most valuable. They would strip and pilfer the shell, for collections or currency. The little skull—of which you would need multiple to create just one ingot—is so often ignored, discarded, taken for a trinket or a curiosity.
Mandalorians the galaxy over know it is more valuable than the sum of their parts.
To carry it is to be claimed and to claim in return.
Once forged, it is never reshaped. Once donned, it must always be worn. Once given, it cannot be retracted.
Any Mandalorians left in the enclave will know at just a glance what it means—for him and for the child.
“You tell them it’s from Din Djarin.”
He forces the instruction out, focussing more on speaking than what he is saying, to the point it surprises him when he realizes what he’s just said.
The name—his name—tastes foreign.
He hasn’t uttered it in so long. He was afraid he had forgotten how to even pronounce it, the tongue it was born from long lost to him. No Mandalorian has ever pronounced it correctly upon seeing it written: they always elongate the vowels and harden the consonants, saying them like the pounds of a hammer on beskar when they’re supposed to be said like notes played calmly on a wind instrument.
The Moff got it right.
The first person to say it in years, the last time he will ever hear it from another, it’s said correctly but by an enemy.
He is incensed by that but he can’t hold the anger.
Din Djarin is dead, after all.
The Mandalorian is just using his name to get something.
Not for himself.
No.
“You tell them the foundling was in my protection, and they’ll help you.”
Above the pain, beside the regret, through the flooded tunnel of noise and silence, there is the child.
He wants to live.
He has never wanted to live more than he does right now, if for no other reason than to quell the little one’s worry.
But he can’t.
He can’t survive this.
He has fought with everything he is and everything he has. His will is strong but it can’t quench the inevitable. So he digs up the name of a dead man and bends it into a key—even though he doesn’t use it or share it, the tribe knows it. Even if they’re all gone, they will have left a marker to indicate where in the chain they’ve fled to, and the droid should be able to detect it. Once Cara finds them, once they see the foundling…
Foundling.
He…
He never called him that before.
But…
But that’s what he is.
Cara’s back to frantic and fighting. She’s still insisting he can beat this, he can live, he can escape, he can stay with them. She tries to grab him to carry him out and just that slight shift inflames the pain, making his back arch and his heart and lungs seize so he can’t even make a sound though inside he screams.
There’s a sickening shift of broken bones and a nauseating rush of blood in his head and chest. His stomach doesn’t know if it wants to heave or collapse. He’s lost feeling and command in his legs and his hands are growing distant.
Vaguely he’s aware of a Flame Trooper entering. Heat and light erupt in the shrinking world of the cantina. Time is slow then time is fast. It’s all around him, then it’s in him, then it’s nowhere.
He insists.
He all but demands she leave now and take the child—the foundling—with her to safety.
Flames race toward them. A beam disintegrates from the heat alone and falls, sending sparks and embers bursting up like fireworks. The trooper readies his thrower for another blast.
And she still doesn’t leave.
It’s too late.
The trooper takes aim. The thrower’s charge builds to an absurd level.
Fire roars—so loud, he feels its anger in his bones.
And that’s it.
He knows.
Greef, Cara, the droid, the child are all about to be as dead as him, their fates all bound up and cut off here together.
It’s not poetic; it’s just brutal.
A complete, unequivocal end.
The flames race towards them, billowing out into a cloud… and then change their mind and rush to the ceiling.
He sees the child.
Cara’s desperate attempt to move him distracted him; he didn’t notice the child move away and take a protective stance.
He stands sure and proud—not even a foot tall but his shoulders square and his chin lifts with courage greater than that of a giant. He faces the flames. His hands hold the air, his head bows.
Not even the heat touches them.
The power he used to halt and lift the mudhorn before it could kill Din, the power he used to cut off Cara’s breath, the power he used to heal Karga—that strange, inexplicable, reality-defying power he now uses to save them all.
Like the mudhorn, like the breath, like the poison, the fire obeys him and halts. With a controlled flick of his tiny wrist, the child banishes it, sending it back with all the force with which it came at them. The entire wall explodes outward and the trooper… Din doesn’t see but he knows he won’t be a problem for them any longer.
Entranced by the display, he had lifted his head. Now that it’s done, whatever drop of strength he had scraped up evaporates and he sags. He blacks out but then Cara’s hand fists around his arm again and the pain wakes him just long enough that he sees the child collapse.
He wants to rise and gather him, hold him close, make sure he’s unharmed.
He can’t move. He can’t stand. He can barely breathe.
He tells her once more to go.
This time, she listens.
What follows, his memory doesn’t quite record.
Not clearly, not sequentially.
He’s only barely conscious as the droid tends to him.
It applies bacta to only the wound it determined would kill him if left untreated. It may have nurse-droid programming and protocols now but the battlefield-style medicine and the military-grade bacta suggest the hunter programs lurk somewhere closer to the surface than Kuiil estimated.
He can’t keep a grasp on everything that happened in that moment.
Did the droid remove his helmet? He thinks it did but it could have applied the bacta without doing so… probably. Well. He could have, if he had any control on his coordination and strength right then. Anyway. If it did see his face, does it count? It’s not really alive; what would be the difference between that and bearing his face in front of a caf machine?
He doesn’t want to think about it.
He doesn’t think he needs to.
When the droid decides he’s out of the danger-zone and can move without incurring death or irreparable damage, it helps him up and gets him through the narrow entrance to the sewer system.
He still can’t hear on one side. He also can’t tell if it’s his left or his right—even up and down aren’t staying in their designated spots. But the sound of the droid’s gears and metallic stomps makes it through. It tells him it’s picked up the others’ trail and is following them.
(It’s tracking.)
(Nurse-droids don’t track.)
(That hunter programming must be embedded deep.)
They go a stretch.
Every step is simultaneously numb and excruciating. The droid only treated the head-wound; it must have scanned and found other things but it’s choosing not to tell him. Which is immaterial: just because the droid hasn’t told him about the cracked ribs and bruised spine doesn’t mean they don’t exist—he feels it, he knows it, but he is also ignoring it.
They have to get to the others.
He has to get to the child.
He’s not going to die.
He’s going to live.
He knows.
But the child doesn’t.
He collapsed after halting and redirecting the fire. The last he saw of him, the last he heard was him telling them, begging them to go, leave him, he’s not gonna make it, so here, take this, go to his people, they’ll help.
They saved me.
They’ll save my foundling.
He’s still grappling with what uttering that single word spells for him and the child when a new sound slips like a fine blade through the haze.
Crying.
A baby crying.
Even with a damaged helmet and a damaged brain, even through the distortion of tunnel twists and turns, even across such a distance, he recognizes that particular pitch and rhythm.
It’s his kid crying.
He jolts up. He launches. He means to run to him, to get to him. What’s wrong? Is he hurt? Are there troopers down here already?
He wrenches himself out of the droid’s grasp and suddenly reunites with the ground. He doesn’t register or feel it as it happens, he’s just… down.
(He’s not feeling much sensory input at this stage, he realizes, belatedly, absently, and with more than a little self-reprimand. His nervous system’s so clogged up with pain signals, it’s giving up listening to new entries.)
“I do not recommend you attempt such rigorous activity at this stage in your healing,” the droid tells him (for once more nurse than hunter). It bends down, hooks its claws under his armpits and scoops him back up to standing. “I will take your weight; you will focus on walking straight.”
The rhyme comes off condescending and patronizing and he tries to growl at the droid for it but all he makes is a pitiful, choked off whine.
“We will rejoin the others shortly,” the droid assures him, both stern and earnest.
No sooner does it say that then they come around a corner and there they are.
Cara’s smiling. She all but races up to him, tilting her head as if to find his gaze. His helmet’s torch-light highlights the tears both in her eyes and still wet on her cheeks. He smiles to her, forgetting for a moment that she won’t see it.
In her arms, she holds the child, bundled up in the satchel. He also smiles but it’s a difficult thing: he looks pale and exhausted.
(But happy.)
(He looks happy now.)
Din wants to hold him. More than anything. But he can’t. He can’t even stand on his own. He sways dangerously in just the split second he hangs in space as Cara hands the child to IG-11 and takes over as his crutch, his arm such a dead thing, she has to hoist it up and latch it around her shoulders.
He’s never been one for physical contact but some hazy, cobwebbed part of his brain goes quiet and calm as she threads an arm around him and shoulders his weight.
The tunnels are a labyrinth.
Cara calls them a maze. Greef is confused that Din doesn’t know the way and he confesses he’s never been this way before. He only knew one could access the underground from all over town but he, personally, had only ever entered through the bazaar—it was the entrance reserved for the beroya.
They push on.
It feels like hours.
It might very well be.
The droid’s hydraulics, gears and pistons pound away the silence. Greef and Cara’s steps barely make a sound but they sprout little pieces of commentary now and then to make up for it, to remind him they’re still here, still going. He can’t hear much beyond his own stilted, strained breathing.
(Definitely cracked ribs.)
(At least three.)
(Or seven.)
The child emits the tiniest of chirps. Two chirps, the second elevating in tone. It’s how he asks questions, Din knows.
“Not long now,” he tells him, automatically, and then pants a bit to recoup the air just those three words cost.
The child snuffs, sharply. When he turns his head, he catches a flutter of his ears as he shakes his head.
Not what I asked.
His little body shimmies in the bag and he extracts one of his arms. His face is scrunched in seriousness as he points to Din and repeats his question-chirps, slowing them down for emphasis.
“Me?”
“Eh.” (Yes. A sharp “eh” usually means “yes”… with a distinct undercurrent of “if I have to repeat myself one more time, I will bite you.”)
Din exhales, his spine bowing as his tired lungs empty too much, too fast.
He knew the child was worried but to see it so directly, so closely… it shouldn’t make him feel like the world is falling away beneath him. But it does.
This little, strange creature that seeks him for comfort, that chooses and wants to be as close to him as possible, worries and cares about him. It’s not contingent on his own well-being; Greef, Cara and IG-11 have all proven themselves capable and even willing to look after him, ensure his safety. He doesn’t need Din now; not like he did before today.
But he wants to know.
“I’m okay,” he tells him.
The child stares at him a long moment. The droid has twisted its torso so the child in the satchel can face him. His little head tips down, his eyes never leaving the visor, and his brow twists upward.
He doesn’t believe him.
“Hey. I’ll live,” Din tells him, a bit like a joke because he wants to lighten the little one’s mood.
There isn’t time to expound on it but as they continue on, those words ring in his ears (even the one that’s not picking anything else up).
I’ll live.
I want to live.
I have something to live for.
The sun sets on Nevarro as they leave, rising into the descending night.
So much has changed.
They came with three passengers and all three remain on Nevarro—one by choice, two without a say, without alternative. A once ally turned enemy became a friend. An enemy believed dead rose up only to return violently to the grave. Things have been revealed and a new path lays ahead, unknown and untrodden.
It’s just the two of them again.
The Mandalorian and the child.
Except… they’re both a little changed, too.
It can be traced in the beskar. Two skulls tell the story: a mudhorn and a mythosaur.
The Mandalorian has a signet; the thing he has run from and refused for more years than he wanted it was at last bestowed on him without conference, no room for argument allotted. It’s more than a symbol memorializing a victory, it’s more than a distinctive clan crest; it’s a permanent, physical seal on his bond with the child.
Likewise, the mythosaur pendent is a seal on the child’s bond with him. He gave it as a means to secure his tribe’s good grace, to tell a story which has miraculously changed its ending and opened a sequel rather, but none of that has changed what it is. Once given, it cannot be taken back.
They are forevermore a part of one another.
In the silence washing in like the tide, the profoundness of it all sinks heavy and low, like an anchor or a lead chest.
They reach the stars and set off for a world not so far away but it takes a jump through hyperspace. The Moff went down but the whole ordeal has set Din’s teeth on edge; maybe it’s that old, ingrained paranoia flaring up, but it doesn’t hurt to move fast and put a buffer of distance between them.
Well, metaphorically.
It does, in fact, hurt very much to move.
The bacta pulled him back from death’s slippery edge and sealed up what was fatally broken in his head but the rest of him still feels like that mudhorn came back, tracked him down, and trampled him a second time.
It’s gruelling work, getting on his feet again.
His spine doesn’t want to straighten, nor do his ribs agree with his intent to uncurl. One leg is still more numb than the other, dragging and threatening to trip him. His head pounds, his blood pressure a confusing, capricious mess. His stomach, his heart, and his lungs feel like they’ve been taken out, tied up together, shaken vigorously, and shoved back in without a thought to their correct placement.
The armour has never felt so heavy.
Even his helmet is too much now.
But he gets himself standing.
After they land, he sets the ship to rest and locks it down. It’s the dead of night, there’s nothing to see, nothing to excite; it’s like this world knows they need a pause.
Once the ship is still and winding down to its own rest, he stands and scoops up the kid (who is also pale and shaky, big eyes droopy and blinks long and slow). He gets them down the ladder, taking every movement tenderly, tentatively. When he makes it down to the cabin without blacking out, he shuffles to the sleeping nook and sets the child down.
He’s still clutching the mythosaur skull.
Din’s heart stutters again at the sight.
It’s the quiet, it’s the stillness.
It invites grief to land like a heavy, sharp-taloned vulture on his shoulders. It provokes uncertainty, causes it to churn in his gut and lure his mind into the vortex it creates. Emotion rises and he can’t name half of it. So much has happened today, so much has been lost, and what lies ahead is uncharted and unseen, massive and looming.
Kuiil is dead. IG-11 is gone.
His brothers and sisters from the tribe are either dead or unaccounted for.
He hoped perhaps a little too hard that Cara might come with them but she chose to stay behind and finally rebuild her life on Nevarro.
Things with the Guild have been set straight, he can take straight work again, yet, when Greef offered him his pick of the pucks, he declined like a reflex.
He’s hasn’t been so untethered in years.
And yet…
Just the sight of one tiny green claw on the little carved skull he’s worn over his heart for the better part of his life hushes the storm within and without.
For everything he’s lost, he’s gained more than he ever imagined he deserved.
He clears his throat.
The kid lifts his head, gaze sluggishly rising to meet his.
“I’m just gonna go…” losing the words, he gestures to the refresher. He huffs, airily. “I gotta clean up.”
As if to check why he would choose such a course of action, the child looks him up and down. He’s tired and he himself is hurting but he manages still to raise his brows and pull a face.
“Yeah,” Din agrees with a chuckle. “I’m a mess.”
Understanding the routine, the child shuffles backwards and waits for him to close up the nook.
His hand rises but hesitates on the button. It’s just a moment, though; he presses it, shutting the nook off from the rest of the cabin.
He disassembles himself, taking special care with the pauldron now bearing his signet, and takes stock.
“A mess” he finds is an understatement.
The med-scanner, if it could be so crass, would call him karked up, and even that would barely paint the first layer of this picture.
An E-Web cannon exploded right next to him. He walked a few kilometres in the underground tunnels with torn muscles and bruised or fractured bones. He lost a pint or so of blood, some of which he left on Nevarro, the rest he’ll have to wash out his flightsuit. He went for a jetpack flight when he could hardly stand and fought a TIE Fighter with his bare hands.
Nothing the med-scanner lists surprises him.
Begrudgingly, it admits he won’t die from any of it… if he takes care.
He reads and rereads its recommendations before packing it away with none of his usual lightly restrained disdain. He cleans himself, so much blood and dirt swirling down the drain, it’s sure to clog the recyc. He then applies bacta with more generosity than he typically would endorse. He bandages and binds his broken flesh like it’s something precious. He dresses and takes the meds the scanner suggested—things that will stave off infection, help his pressure stabilize, help the nausea settle, and he even goes so far as to take a pain-reliever. He takes in water and food. It’s not easy, he has no appetite to speak of, but the meds he took require food and his body needs something to work with if it’s going to restore all that blood he lost.
When he’s done, he automatically grabs his helmet to put back on.
But he hesitates.
In part, it’s because the inside of his helmet is filthy with his blood—most of it has caked and dried but some trails are so thick, they still glisten under the oily light of the refresher closet.
But cleaning it would be a quick thing and it’s not really why he stalls.
His eyes flick up to the mirror above the sink. Dark eyes with noticeably uneven pupils waver and dart across his face before the thoughts behind them clarify.
The child is his foundling. He is as his father. They together are a clan.
It’s set in beskar.
The mudhorn and the mythosaur.
They are family now and families know each other’s faces—he knew his buir’s face; he saw it for the first time the night he gave him the kyr’bes and said the vow.
He doesn’t have to put the helmet back on. He can go, open the door, just walk out and greet the child with an unveiled, unhindered smile, see him without the filter of a visor.
How will he react? Will he recognize him? Surely he will; he’s so clever, that kid. How will it feel to be seen—truly seen—by another for the first time in decades? How will it feel to be on this side of the vow?
Just as the excitement swells, reality clouds over.
This is not a fairytale.
This is not even a regular story, the likes of which he has spent years hearing other Mandalorians in the tribe recount, of families begun, bonds created, clans grown.
The child is a foundling, yes.
But only temporarily.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing about them is conventional; how could he expect this to go the way it does with others? The child is too small, too young, too frail for the physical training the Mandalorian way requires. His powers, though Din believed they more than made up for what he seemed to lack, didn’t impress or sway the Armorer. What is more, though she noted he himself is not to be viewed as such, he is still born from an enemy, and while her instructions might not have harboured prejudice, they concealed an urge for distinction and separation.
Her words, artful in their form and delivery, sounded like counsel, like guidance, but they were really repudiation.
You cannot train him.
You cannot keep him.
He does not belong—with us or with you.
He is a foundling. He holds the mythosaur. But he is not his.
The only thing stronger than beskar is a Mandalorian’s word.
The mythosaur could be lost but the vow would hold them together.
Except… he cannot make that vow.
As high and as deep as his regard for his adopted people is, Din knows—better than anyone—it is not an easy path. He embraced this life, this way, but he cannot commit the child to it. Ultimately, it would be his choice, but he has already, in just this short time, grown attached. He will feel obligated to continue and then what?
If he becomes too Mandalorian, his people, the Jedi, will reject him.
He has already been ripped from them once; Din cannot, in all good conscience, claim him and sever him from where he rightly belongs.
So he cleans the helmet, never before finding it such a chore.
When he’s done, he puts it on.
He procrastinates returning to the child, taking time to dig in their stores until he finds a meal pack the kid will enjoy the most. He heats it up—a mushroom soup that he actually can’t stand the smell of—and dishes it into a tin bowl rather than leaving it in the plastoid dish it came packaged in.
This is still an occasion for celebration.
He steals a moment to shore up something in him (courage, resolve, he can’t name it), then opens the sleeping nook.
The kid is still awake, still holding the mythosaur skull, still studying it intensely. His little fingers trace the eye sockets and the tusks, and his little mouth moves as he coos in a quiet, low, self-soothing manner.
Then his nose twitches and his ears perk up like flags. He whips around, his sweet little face brightens and Din forgets why his heart sits so heavy in his chest.
He holds up the tin bowl. “Made your favourite.”
The kid tries to rise and come to him but he holds up a finger and it’s enough to stay him. With great care, he climbs onto the bed and scoops the child up into his lap. Moving isn’t so excruciating anymore (score one for the med-scanner. He hates to admit it but the blasted device was right: that pain-reliever was a good call).
The little one wiggles with delight as he is handed the soup. He tips his head back, resting against his guardian’s stomach as he fills his own. Din keeps a hand around his belly, softly holding him in place, keeping him warm.
He’s finally stopped long enough for the exhaustion to catch him and sink its teeth in. He micro-naps as the kid slurps his soup. Mercifully, he doesn’t take long to down the whole bowl. Too tired to take it to the sink, Din shoves it to a corner of the sleeping nook and promptly forgets about it.
He checks the child’s injuries.
While navigating the tunnels, IG-11 recounted how he found the child. He rescued him from two scout-troopers but not before they beat him. The same bacta he used later to save Din he used first on the child: it’s still there, a sticky residue smeared across his little chest and back.
It’s strong stuff.
The bruises have lost their dark purple and blue hues and progressed to yellow and a strange shade of teal he can only attribute to the fact the child’s blood isn’t red like his.
The important thing is he’s healing well and he doesn’t seem to be in pain anymore.
In his heart, Din thanks the droid once more.
The soup is already working its wonders, too, restoring the little one’s strength and colour. But it can’t replace his need for a good sleep.
As has become routine, Din tucks him in his blanket nest. It’s arranged up by his pillow where it’s proven a convenient spot to combat nightmares. When the little one’s settled, he begins the arduous task of laying his own battered body down, struggling for quite some time to find a position that presses on the fewest hurts. Every grunt or gasp that slips between gritted teeth carves another furrow in the child’s brow as he watches him.
“I’m okay,” he reminds him, offhandedly.
The kid snorts, rocking his head in a suspiciously mocking manner.
“Fine. But I’ll live. Happy?”
The way the kid looks at him makes him feel rotten.
No.
I’m not happy.
I can’t be happy if you’re hurt.
Din sighs, hangs his head.
He takes his time, lowering himself down on his side. Once down, he takes another moment to let the world stop seesawing. When his heart goes from thudding sickly to just a bit too fast, he breathes out.
“We’re gonna be alright, you and me,” he says, rescinding his gruff, flat tone and embroidering his voice with things he heard from another deep voice, a lifetime ago. He chuffs—it still costs too much air but he makes it sound light. “We’re hardy. You know what that means?”
The kid tilts his head, waiting.
“Means we can take a hit and the other guy goes down.”
The kid wrinkles his nose. That’s not what it means.
“We’re still here, aren’t we?”
He can’t argue with that.
He doesn’t seem inclined to concede the point either.
“Sweet dreams, kid,” he bids and switches off the light.
He wonders, a moment, how much the child can see in the dark. If he’s as blind now as he is, then the helmet is a moot point. His eyes are enormous, though; they likely let in more light than his can; he probably could see still, like a feline.
In the dark—of the nook and his helmet—he frowns to himself.
He’s never before sought a loophole or a grey area.
Besides, he thinks (and ignores how much it feels like a desperate grapple for consolation), he wouldn’t want the first time the kid sees or feels his face to be now when it’s all broken and bruised. He doesn’t think much of his looks or the general concept of what ratio of features are more pleasing than others, but if ever the child were to see his face, he’d like to look… healthy.
He tries to sleep.
It’s not easy.
Now in the dark, in the silence, lying still without distraction, the day replays behind his eyes, vivid and violent.
It’s difficult, crowning the worst moment.
He saw the Butcher of Mandalore in the flesh. He heard his name on that demagolka’s tongue and nearly lost his life to him.
He found what was left of his tribe, their hollow helmets piled like a mass grave.
He could only watch as IG-11 sacrificed himself.
He buried Kuiil.
Voice cracking, he whispers their names.
He can only remember them now; he must remember them.
For the first time in years, he whispers the two oldest names on his list.
Mama and Baba.
Not their given names—try as he might, he can’t recall those. He holds only the faintest images of their faces. But he still feels his father’s hands cupping his face and his mother’s arms wrapping around his body when it was small and fragile and unscarred.
He alone holds their memory.
He alone carries their name.
It was said three times today.
First by an enemy, used as a tool to disconcert.
Second by him, given as a token, a key.
Third by the Armorer, as a restoration.
It takes a while to coalesce, but, fragment by fragment, he realizes he has been referring to himself by that name all day.
Din Djarin, as it turns out, is not so dead anymore.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Meh-whap?” the child chirps, quizzically.
With a shaking, stiff arm, he reaches up and gathers the child, drawing him to his chest. Naturally, his body curls in around him, like some primal instinct to warm and protect something precious.
The little one thinks it’s a fantastic arrangement.
Eagerly, he burrows into his unshielded chest. Little claws fist up in handfuls of his worn, grey thermal shirt. He presses into his sternum, fitting in over his heart like a missing piece restored at last. And he manages to poke his head into the small space under his chin, his little crown nuzzling into his uncovered neck.
He feels him sigh and relax, the epitome of content.
Thank you, he says in his heart where he can always find and form the right words.
You saved me.
You brought me back to life.
You make me want to keep living.
Author’s Notes
Just before IG and Din join the others in the tunnels, there’s like a crashing, clattering sound. I could never figure out what it was exactly (they’re too far from the entrance at that point) but in writing this I thought, you know, Din experiencing another slip and fall would explain it.
In other news, while scrolling through movies to watch for movie night, my dad came across The Mandalorian and Grogu. I reminded him we saw it at the theatre some months ago and he goes “oh yes. The one with the blobs” (he meant the Hutts 😆 but now that’s my new favourite term for them. “Jabba the Blob” has a nice ring to it…)
Summary: The Armorer gives routine demonstrations to the children and foundlings of every covert she has served in as a smith, handling the guidelines regarding safety when around the forge.
The Armorer gives routine demonstrations to the children and foundlings of every covert she has served in as a smith, handling the guidelines regarding safety when around the forge. The Mandalorians and other guardians are welcome to join at the back of the group to observe, but for newcomers and outside initiates attendance is mandatory.
“Do you feel how warm it is in here?” the Armorer asks.
A chorus of Yes’s answer back. The foundlings, children, cadets, and initiates a range of ages are crowded into the forge, mobile worktables pushed up against the walls and space cleared for everyone to file in. The Armorer stands alone within a wide ring four meters deep into the center of the room towards the back wall, the glowing cryo-furnace and vent hoods turned down to a low hum in order for her to be heard. Everyone gathered has already been taught the cultural significance of the forge and the importance of the alor’s work in crafting their armor, but today is a day for practicality.
“The furnace is always hot. It is ALWAYS hot. It is hot when it is on and it is hot when it is off. It is hot even if it looks like it is off and nothing is glowing. This, right here, is the furnace. And it is…?”
A chorus of giggling children echo back: “Always hot!”
“Good job. There are times you may need to be in this forge, whether that be to accompany your guardians, to learn the different crafts and trades used here yourself, to retrieve a tool or armament for someone else, or to come find me. Unless I am here and I tell you to do something, you do not touch anything inside the hearthline.”
She comes forward and points with the toe of her boot to the slightly raised brick line contrasting with the floor and arching widely around the room. She traces the edge of it neatly, ensuring they all see.
“This is for your safety,” she said. “Aside from the respect the space is due for what we are able to accomplish here, this border is here to ensure you don’t come in contact with something harmful because…”
And she points to the crucible and ring of flames, bubbling and glowing blue-white on a low hum.
“The furnace is always hot!”
“Very good,” she said. “Always be aware of your surroundings.”
She crosses the room to a low, large metal table within the ring next to a crate. The table hovers at about knee-height, visible to all those in the round, and it has a grated top with a hexagonal pattern, precise lines interlocking horizontally and vertically. The children watch curiously as the alor pulls two things out of the crate: she lays out on the table the detached arm of a B2 battle droid and the outer plate of the hull of a starship. She reaches in again to retrieve a large shard of ceramicrete and a thick, platter-sized pane of ballistic transparisteel. She turns back to the group.
“The second half of this demonstration is to ensure you remember these lessons,” she said. “Raise your hand if you are made of metal or another inorganic construct.”
The children giggled, though two boys each waved a hand in different spots. One had a visible cybernetic arm.
“Good.” She then retrieved a large, rough colo-crab arm and put it on the table. “Raise your hand if you are made of chitin, keratin, or some kind of shell.”
More giggles ripples through the room. A few of the children raised their hands, some showing off the edges of their own exoskeleton or horns or ridge spikes. Two of the Mandalorians at the back of the room raised their hands as well.
“Very good.”
This time when the Armorer reached into the crate she brought out a large reptilian scale the size of an infantryman’s breastplate. The huddle of children all leaned in with avid interest, murmuring to each other as the metallic, abalone sheen rippled with color in the flickering light of the furnace.
“Now which one of you is a Mythosaur?”
All of the children burst out into another fit of giggles, a few humorously raising their hands as the adults chuckled and chided them appropriately. The Armorer reverently placed the scale on the table next to the other materials before reaching into the crate for the final time.
The Armorer stepped back, heaving the last object up in front of her. It was the enormous haunch of a choruk-dray, dressed and butchered cleanly from hip to hoof.
“And who among you,” the Armorer asked, “Is made of meat?”
There were only a few nervous chuckles this time, foundlings hesitantly looking between one another and tentatively raising their hands. The adults were silent. She surveyed them, then turned to put the leg on the table. The relative silence of the room was as oppressive as the heat.
When the Armorer retrieved a ladle from her wall of tools, the children instinctively shuffled back, watching in silence as she went to the furnace.
“Pay attention,” she said.
Scooping a viscous, glowing spoonful of molten metal from the crucible within the furnace, the Armorer went back to the table, and with a steady hand she poured the bright white liquid in a clean line across the entire length of the table and every material on it.
The droid arm melted quickly and crackled with sparks. The hull plate glowed and sizzled, liquid metal dropping through the grate in a line and beading on the floor like mercury. The ceramicrete shattered, the glass cracked and melted through, the crab claw popped wetly, bubbling, and the animal haunch was carved through like soft butter.
Each piece was severed in two or had been destroyed, save the Mythosaur scale.
“Heat,” the Armorer said, “Is only one hazard of the forge.”
Setting the ladle aside, she lifted the scale up for them to see. There was a faint scorch line across it, but it was otherwise intact.
“Unless you are a Mythosaur, or unless I have outfitted you in something that can protect you,” she warned, gesturing to her own armament and apron, “You should not cross the hearthline unless you have a very convincing reason to do so. I’m proof that it is possible to safely exist around these tools even for extended periods of time, but that does not mean the danger or possibility of harm ever go away. The guidelines exist because those more experienced than you know firsthand what could happen if you don’t abide by them. Understanding that and following though sets you up for success. Does everybody understand?”
Those in the crowd all gave silent affirmations. The Armorer set the scale aside and stepped back to gesture towards the flames.
“What is this?”
“The furnace.”
“And it is…?”
“… Always hot.”
“Well done.” The forgemaster nodded. “This demonstration was to show you what the consequences of recklessness or unawareness can be,” she said with finality. “Always think before you act. You’re dismissed.”
The silence and somber shift in their collective moods followed the Mandalorians and their wards out beyond the archway. They branched off as they spread out, going back to their work in and around the compound; errands and inventory needed to be finished and logged, the hangar needed to be closed up, the evening meal needed to be prepared.
Conversations picked up the farther the children got from the forge, each of them going back to their tasks, but the distinct scent of sizzling meat lingered, following them down the halls.
All his thoughts came to a screeching halt. He was a man of few words at the best of times. In the aftermath of the edict, he was completely speechless. The dumbfounded state rendered him briefly frozen. Surprise, however, had always spurred him inevitably to action. In what seemed like an unending stretch of time, two seconds passed. "There's no guarantee it will awaken in my lifetime," he refuted.
"It will. The new age is upon us." No amount of uncertainty undercut her tone. As was customary of all her statements, it carried an air of finality.
'I have spoken,' echoed Kuiil's words in Din's mind. 'Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur. Surely you can ride this young foal.'
His experience with the blurrg had ended favorably. His attempts to ride the rancor had not. In hindsight, initial interactions had made all the difference. Even the rancor, with Boba's continued encouragement, had warmed to Din's presence. The sibling raptors easily took direction from him. Given time, he could establish a rapport with most animals, big or small. When they weren't attempting to eat or kill him.
"Shouldn't the new Mand'alor be the first to attempt such a feat?"
She sagely tilted her helmet in agreement. "This is the way."
Words: 5389 | Rating: General | Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu, Peli Motto, Toro Calican, Migs Mayfeld
Read on Ao3 or below the cut
<<<Part 1
2 — Pet
The child is a puzzle.
His plan to leave the kid in the care of the secluded krill-farming village falls apart like a slip of flimsi dropped in water so he must remain under his protection a bit longer. This arrangement, he recognizes, will require him to know things about the child.
That, and his curiosity may or may not have been growing like an ignored weed.
He can’t determine the efficacy of the intel the client provided but given that the client was once an Imperial officer, it’s safe to assume nothing he said can be trusted. So he scraps what little he was told as easily as he should’ve forgotten the job once completed.
After settling them on a long, long trip through hyperspace, he sequesters away in his sleeping nook and tries to look up the child’s species on the HoloNet, inputting the few facts he’s sure of: small, green, big ears, tri-digit claws, carnivorous, has the ability to hold mudhorns aloft via thought (the latter he types out until his mind catches and presents to him the word “telekinesis” and he slots that in instead).
To absolutely no surprise, nothing turns up.
Nothing that isn’t folklore, anyway.
He tries to add more details, then he tries less. Only when he takes out the child’s predominant feature—the mind powers—does he get results.
Turns out, there are plenty of small, green, carnivorous species in the galaxy.
The child belongs to none of them.
Eventually, even the HoloNet seems exasperated. It begins to suggest concepts like hybrid and mutant. When he insists on the mind powers, it takes him to fairytales. When he veers to places people gather and whisper into the ether under the flimsy protection of anonymity, he gleans such terms as “genetic experiment,” “clone,” and “strand-cast.”
He scoffs.
Then he realizes he cannot deny any of those as possibilities.
They had a scientist on their payroll. One dressed in a uniform bearing insignia he has never seen before or elsewhere (and no search he can concoct yields any viable answers). For all he knows, the kid could be their product and they merely want him returned.
In the end, he can’t decide whether the search—which cost four hours of his life he won’t get reimbursed for—was fruitful or not, if knowing what the child isn’t is in any capacity useful or helpful.
He goes to sleep and wakes to the conclusion that it doesn’t actually matter what the child is.
Whether he’s a full-blooded member of an ancient species or the consequence of some demagolka’s nature-defying project makes no difference to his current predicament nor does it have any tangible bearing on his needs.
Still.
He wonders.
So, in lieu of any credible, academic source of information regarding his charge, he is reduced to deduction.
The child’s alleged age is the first thing he dismisses.
Most likely, the client landed on fifty years of age because it’s undeniably over the threshold of adulthood for the vast majority of species throughout the galaxy—it wouldn’t raise suspicion among the more honourable members of the Guild, wouldn’t turn them off, and then when (if) they saw the quarry, unable to determine his species, they’d assume he was whatever they were told he was and ponder no further.
But he is an infant.
How could anything remain an infant for five decades? A species like that wouldn’t thrive, wouldn’t survive, and strand-casts, so saith the HoloNet, tend to have abysmally short life-expectancies. He has seen, heard and read of species with aging processes different to his own, but this defies logic too blatantly.
He doesn’t pick an alternate number for the child’s age. He simply concludes that it isn’t, that it can’t be in the double digits.
Regarding the child’s intelligence, he finds more solid evidence, and, at the same time, a grey area so vast, it requires a hyperspace lane of its own to get across.
He comprehends. He intuits. He discerns.
But how far, how deep any of it goes, his protector can’t decide.
His eyes are uncannily steady and perceptive. He watches him, gauges and reads signs he doesn’t realize he wrote or displayed. He responds, tuning himself to rhythms he doesn’t notice he set. He respects boundaries and rules though they exist unspoken.
It takes him too long to recognize that the child is treading carefully around him.
The gear-shift knob is never touched but it is admired from afar. The buttons are never flicked or jabbed but they are watched with longing. Sleep is never protested. Bath-time is never fought—against or to be extended. Food is eaten—exactly what is given, when it is given; he doesn’t request more, he doesn’t try to steal or bargain for more. Every instruction is heeded, every command obeyed, every direction followed.
He wasn’t like this before.
When told to spit out a frog, he swallowed it whole and looked him in the visor as he belched. He decided the gear-shift knob was a toy and so he endeavoured to obtain it. His answer to “stop touching things” was a wordless but clear-as-crystal “I’ll do what I want.”
On Sorgan, he reclaimed and exercised his agency.
Curiosity and a penchant for mischief bloomed. A stubborn streak showed itself. Preferences and aversions were communicated and the heeding thereof was celebrated and appreciated.
Now the child is pliant and, despite the confines of the ship, taking almost no space.
It takes his protector too long to register, takes him even longer to grasp the state of things and parse the reasons behind.
There is only one conclusion.
The child is scared.
Of him.
Then Tatooine happens.
He didn’t tell the child to stay in the ship because he was asleep.
He had been in the process of putting the kid to bed when Riot Mar’s fighter blinked into sensor range. He had seconds to tuck the kid in his crate, strap him to the copilot seat, and react to the attack.
Sleeping right after that was a battle.
Too much adrenaline.
Too much fear.
The kid refused to be put down, as if bodily separating them now would incur another surprise attack.
So, apparently, the child is scared of him but more scared of being unheld after all that.
Okay.
Fine.
Whatever.
Resigned to his fate (and secretly grateful the child’s stubborn streak was reappearing), his protector shucked a pauldron and let him nestle against his shoulder.
It took the entire limping trip to Mos Eisley to lull the little one to sleep but once he dropped off, he went deep. He didn’t rouse as he swaddled him and he remained soft and snoring as he tucked him away in his sleeping nook—a dangerous precedent, though he didn’t register it at the time.
The child was fast asleep and he had reason to expect he would stay asleep for some time—certainly long enough for him to source work from somewhere in this sand-clogged skughole.
He was wrong.
His heart stops when he glimpses the sleeping nook open and empty.
He hadn’t told the child to stay because he was asleep and he couldn’t follow him if he didn’t see him leave, right? And he was scared of him, right? So he wouldn’t seek to follow him anyway. He hadn’t locked the ship because the mechanic required access if she were to repair it.
Either the child woke alone and wandered off… or the mechanic found him and, well, he doesn’t look too unlike something they’d snatch out the sand and roast for a quick dinner around these parts…
He’s wired up for violence and venegence, but then he sees him. Nestled in the mechanic’s arms. Content. Safe. Crying only because of him, because he shouted and shocked the mechanic awake and the suddenness of everything gave him a terrible fright.
The child doesn’t reach for him.
That shouldn’t surprise him, shouldn’t bother him.
But it’s all he can think about as he accompanies the young bounty-hunter-wannabe on this hopefully-not-a-suicide-mission.
What did he do to make the child fear him so deeply? He never hurts him, never shouts at him, never threatens him. Why be afraid only now? He exhibited no fear of him before. His size, his facelessness, his flatness didn’t seem to intimidate the child before.
Perhaps it isn’t such a simple, direct fear of bodily harm.
Perhaps the child fears what the Mandalorian can do.
His life, his situation, his circumstances all lie in the Mandalorian’s control. It wasn’t his choice to leave or stay anywhere, it was the Mandalorian’s. It wasn’t his choice to come to Tatooine and he had had no say in being left in the ship; the mechanic had turned out to be benevolent enough… but that was a stroke of pure, dumb luck.
What will the Mandalorian’s next choice spell for him?
Toro Calican goes down.
He’ll never be a bounty hunter now.
He’ll never even be 25.
It’s the consequence of bad decisions, of bloated greed, of dishonourable and unnecessary betrayal; he miscalculated, misstepped, and so he paid; he threatened a child right in front of a Mandalorian.
It’s how the galaxy works.
It’s nothing new.
It’s not the first career the Mandalorian has put to an end to; it’s far from the first life he has taken.
It’s not even the first he doesn’t immediately forget.
No time to dwell on it, on any of it.
The gunslinger goes down and the Mandalorian and the mechanic begin a frantic search for the child in the haze of conflicting lights and shadows muddying the sandy bay floor.
The kid—the one who made all the wrong choices and lies still now—isn’t holding him anymore. Neither had he fallen atop him. There are tracks in the sand but the child’s robes dragged through them, distorting the direction.
He’s fast, his protector notes. Fast and clever to bolt to a hiding spot the second he’s free.
He peeks out when the commotion has settled enough. He squeaks to flag their attention, let them know where he is. He smiles, reaches up, makes the mechanic melt to her knees and almost sob in relief.
(She’s good people. If Tatooine wasn’t the worst place in the galaxy to hide, he might have considered leaving him with her.)
The child coos and babbles to her as she checks him over, swiftly. Only his robes are ruffled and she rights them, dutifully fluffing up his collar and smoothing out the wrinkles across his shoulders like they’re wounds she needs to soothe. The child, he knows, doesn’t give a womp rat’s tail about the state of his clothes, but he lets the mechanic fuss, somehow even conveys gratitude via a little tick of his ears when everything’s set right.
The Mandalorian lets them be and turns to business.
Toro Calican is dead.
He killed a quarry designated for live delivery, a quarry in his custody, a quarry already cuffed and deprived of her weapons. More than that, Shand was an active Guild member; she may have been on the outs with her employers and the New Republic but not the Guild. She didn’t deserve an execution, and she certainly didn’t deserve to be just left like that. All that, according to the Guild code and according to the natural moral code, warranted this course of action.
But Mando didn’t think of that.
Of any of that.
When his finger pulled the trigger, all that was on his mind, all he saw was the child.
All he could think about all day was the child.
He didn’t bury Shand or take any proof of her death either. He saw her, pieced together what must’ve occurred, realized the child was in danger, and immediately set off to return, knowing full well the dew-back had no chance of overtaking the speeder.
While the beast lumbered across the Dune Sea, he steadied his anxiety with the facts.
Toro was short-sighted and egotistical.
He wasn’t poor or desperate, wasn’t out for revenge or thrills; he was in this purely for the reputation. He must’ve figured snatching a baby—even one as highly prized as this unique child was—wouldn’t earn him any significant notice; in a few days, he would sour into a bad joke.
No.
He needed to collect the child and take down something big.
With Shand dead, the silver Mandalorian, the Guild traitor, the renegade bounty hunter was now the biggest game around.
He would know that. He would wait for him.
If not, if he had already left, then the Mandalorian would give chase.
And if he had hurt the child…
Well.
It’s all over now.
Toro Calican is dead.
His credits are automatically forfeit. Mando scoops them up, lays claim. They’re his now and he may do what he wishes with them.
He takes the child and pays the mechanic.
What he owes and extra. All of it. The dataries—some Imperial, mostly New Republic, Core-stamped—pour into her petite, rough hands.
The credits are his, by right, by code.
But he can’t stomach the thought of keeping even one.
He pays her, the child in the crook of his arm watching passively.
Their business concluded, he decides he’s worn out his welcome and he turns to leave immediately. Better to go now before any other hunters show up—he can’t be sure Toro didn’t call this in before his arrival.
“Take care of him!” the mechanic admonishes in parting.
He doesn’t reply.
But he holds the child a little tighter
The child is scared.
But not of him.
This revelation peels open to him a few days later, after they’ve made two jumps through hyperspace to lose any potential trackers from the Tatooine sector and now drift in empty, nowhere space so they can rest and he can think and plan.
He saw how the child was with Toro. He was scared of him. It was clear as day in his eyes.
But with him…
Something about the whole thing shifts something between them, repairs something.
The child seeks proximity to him. He fusses and complains but instantly quiets and calms when held. He consciously scoots and sits close during mealtime. He follows him like a shadow again. He feels brave enough again to resist going to bed when told, to pretend not to hear when bath time is declared over, to not-so-covertly purloin the gear shift knob.
So his protector makes a revision.
The child is scared.
But not of him.
He is scared of being separated from him.
The instant the notion materializes in his thoughts, he works to dismiss it.
The child wasn’t present when he discussed leaving him on Sorgan—with Cara or with Omera. He certainly never mentioned it to the child—why would he? It wasn’t a decision that required his input. What is more, separation shouldn’t bother the child given the fact there’s no bond between them—nothing that will hurt once severed, in any case.
But there was a very clear intention in his earlier behaviour that once his protector detects the pattern to it, he can’t unsee it.
It’s not fear of him.
It’s not fear of what he can do.
It’s fear of being somewhere without him.
If I’m good, you won’t leave me.
Right?
Something about the ordeal on Tatooine has reassured the child—either that his behaviour was never the problem or that the Mandalorian will always come back for him.
He thinks maybe they should sit down and discuss it.
He should explain that, while he appreciates the good behaviour, however the child acts or conducts himself is immaterial to the matter of where he will ultimately end up.
He should make sure the child understands that they aren’t bound to one another.
He should make it clear this arrangement is temporary.
Then he watches the child roll the gear-shift knob across the floor of the hold, entertaining himself with this simple, mindless, repetitive activity for nigh on an hour.
And he thinks no.
There’s no need to waste his breath.
The child won’t understand.
He can’t possibly.
“What’s he like a pet or something?”
His teeth grind.
Hard. Sharp. Restrained.
It’s so grossly wrong he feels bile rise, tastes his mouth turn hot, bitter and dry at just the suggestion.
It’s been four months. He still doesn’t know what the child is.
But the one thing he is not is a pet.
Something in possession of just the fringe of sentience. Something with no significant autonomy. Something beholden to instinct, actions dictated by needs, loyalty trainable.
A pet.
In his head, in his heart, in the blood connecting the two, he rebuts that. Refutes. Rebukes. Straight up denies and defies it.
Out loud, he says: “Yeah. Something like that.”
Flat.
Detached.
Noncommittal.
He can’t afford to be anything else—not here, not as they break into the prison transport, not as the mission splinters and falls apart and he gathers the shards, binds them, uses them as makeshift weapons and turns the tide on his traitors.
They were always going to turn on him.
Ran all but told him. “I hear things… like maybe things between you and the Guild aren’t working out.”
Xi’an all but told him. “I’m all business now.”
It’s Mayfeld who actually tells him.
“Ran’s been itching to go after you since he heard about Nevarro. Just dumb luck you reached out first,” he explains as Mando marches him to his cell.
“Does he know about the kid?”
“The what?”
His grip on his blaster tightens, audibly; it sends a vile jolt of pain through his shoulder. “The creature,” he corrects.
“Your pet?”
“Sure.”
The sharpshooter scoffs. “What does that have to do with anything?”
It’s sufficient.
He shoots Zero. He closes the sleeping nook again, ensures Qin never even glimpses the child. Xi’an, Burg and Mayfeld all think he’s just an animal and Ran never sees him.
Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.
Not once the X-Wings show up.
They ask no questions. They heed no hails. They give no warning.
Mando hears the alarm, the high-pitched, fast-paced beeping warning of live fire in his vicinity. Another alert half a heartbeat later informs him of the proximity of debris.
It’s one plus one.
Two is that the Roost is gone, blown to bits behind him.
He as well as condemned Ran, Qin, and every other person on that station to a perpetually unmarked, unexhumable grave.
The New Republic pulled the trigger.
He painted the target.
He could say he didn’t know the New Republic would behave so. He could say he believed their slogans about second chances and new hope. He could say he thought they’d investigate or warn at the very least.
He can’t, though.
It’s against the creed to lie.
He wastes a second, silencing the alarms before jabbing a command in the nav to just pick something, anything that’s not a black-hole or the middle of a planet. He makes the jump, he gets lightyears away, and he still hears them.
He sighs.
His back hurts. His stomach hurts. His shoulder hurts. He’s bleeding. He’s still running on adrenaline.
He sags.
He closes his eyes, sees the red strobe lights of the prison corridors and immediately opens them, washes the blood out fast as he can with the clean blue of the star lane.
And then he remembers.
He’s not alone.
After dropping Qin off, after taking payment, after throwing Ran’s “good ol’ days” right back in his lying face, he retrieved the kid from the sleeping nook and carried him up to the cockpit. He needed to be in his blanket-cushioned crate, strapped down to the copilot seat, lest his timing be off and a dogfight broke out—between him and Ran or him and the X-Wings.
He’s been quiet the whole time but Mando can feel him watching, waiting.
The silence is awful loud between them.
He unscrews the gear-shift knob, turns his seat around and holds it out to the kid.
Leaf-like ears perk and a little head tilts, big dark eyes reflecting hyperspace stare and a tiny wrinkled brow wrinkles and twists down further.
I didn’t ask for it, he all but says.
“See?” Mando says, ignoring that, ignoring everything, pretending they’re having a different conversation entirely. “Told you that was a bad idea.”
A blink.
He retracts the claw clutching the knob, continues staring but tilts his head and brow back to flat.
It wasn’t my idea.
There’s no way the kid will sleep immediately after all that.
It would be helpful if he did but he won’t and Mando knows it so he doesn’t even try.
He leaves him in the cockpit, goes down, heats a meal tray, climbs back up, gives it to the kid, says “Eat. I’ll be back up in an hour,” then turns to leave again.
He pauses.
Thinks.
Coming back, he kneels down, biting down on the inside of his cheek to hold back an animal-like vocalization at the multiple pain signals the action elicits, pries open a panel under the console, and disengages the controls.
The kid can dance on the buttons and it won’t send them plunging out of hyperspace or hurtling into a maelstrom.
Wisely, he doesn’t tell the kid that.
Just resets the panel, hefts himself up and drags himself back to the ladder.
Once down in the hold, he shuts and seals the hatch between the levels. He waits a moment before removing his helmet.
He then sheds the armour.
He moves slow, not because he means to, but because his body has been battered and bruised and broken things don’t tend to move fast or smooth. His gut and Burg’s fists had too many meetings today, not one of them remotely friendly.
His fingers slip on the cuirass. The orange tips of his gloves come away smeared red.
Really red.
A little more unravelling and he finds the wound in his shoulder—the wound he knowingly sustained in order to catch one of Xi’an’s blades to use against her—is deeper than he first thought.
She had aimed for his jugular. He used the strobing lights and his knowledge of her patterns to his advantage, twisting at just the right moment to nullify the blade’s fatal intent.
He won’t die from this… so long as he stops the bleeding and avoids an infection.
With that thought to cheer him up, he cleans it then closes it.
He uses med-glue. He doesn’t have much but he’s too tired to sit and stitch it and cauterizing, while generally his preferred method, comes with downsides and risks he doesn’t want to take with his dominant arm.
Anyway, he just had a payday.
First in months.
He can afford to use a few drops of glue.
The med-scanner gets bold, suggests he use some bacta, too.
I’ll do what I want, he thinks at it with worthless defiance as he switches it off and shoves it back in the cabinet in the refresher.
He showers. Redresses. Makes himself swallow a ration bar and half a litre of water. Puts the helmet back on. Leans against the ladder for a full two minutes before taking a deep breath, scraping together what he can catch of his resolve, and climbing up.
(One-handedly, he climbs. The glue’s set but he doesn’t want to risk tearing it.)
(Also: his everything kriffing hurts.)
The kid isn’t in his crate nest.
No surprise there.
The tray is there, balanced on the edge, half the food eaten, the other half mushed together to form a kind of moulding clay he’s used to construct a number of small, lumpy mounds, lined up rather neatly, almost like an army in formation. The reconstituted greens have been stuck in like flags or swords or just arms, he isn’t sure. He spots drying, crusting traces of the food littered across the console, smeared on only a few buttons (an endeavour initiated then promptly abandoned, no doubt, once he received no response, no reaction, no rebuke).
The child he finds sitting on the floor in a corner. His hands have been wiped clean (on the chair and on his robe), and he has returned, as the Mandalorian expected, to the gear-shift knob. He turns it over and over in his claws, watching the swirling light of hyperspace play on the silver surface.
He’s quiet.
No cooing. No chittering. No babbling.
There’s a pinch to his brow, infusing concentration in his expression.
The Mandalorian feels something in his chest clench up.
“Hey,” he says, carefully, softly, and because of the helmet, flatly.
The child looks up. He’s not startled; the cockpit is small and he is not so engrossed that he doesn’t hear his travelling companion return. Still, his glancing up is not immediate.
The Mandalorian tilts his head. “You okay?”
The child blinks, levels him with a flat look.
A beat passes and he can’t confirm anything but it feels like the child thinks a cascade of things in the silence. Whatever crosses his mind, however, he doesn’t communicate.
The Mandalorian wipes the food off the console with his sleeve. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?” he mutters and half-chuffs, half-smiles to himself under the helmet because it’s funny, for some reason, that, after everything they’ve been through, they’re here, having this (one-sided) conversation and there’s food on the button for the gravity-control and…
Dank farrick.
He must be more tired than he realized if he’s seeing any trace of comedy in a crusty glob of veg-paste.
He reconnects what he has to to bring the console back to life. He checks their course, doing so without sitting down because he plans to make the next place he plants his backside the last for at least eight hours. Maybe fourteen.
He ignores the meal-tray and the other errant globs of food. There are so many things he has to clean and reorganize throughout the ship—he hasn’t even set right the things that droid’s jerky manoeuvring dislodged. He parks it on a mental to-do list and focusses the last dregs of his energy on scooping up the kid and going back down the ladder once more.
He refuses to go to his crate bed when they’re down in the hold.
“C’mon, kid. You need to sleep,” he pleads (it’s a plea, an unmitigated plea, and he couldn’t care less).
The child points to the sleeping nook.
“That’s where I sleep, yes.”
The child points to himself then to the sleeping nook again.
The Mandalorian groans. “No. No, no, no, no, no. My bed,” he points to the nook, “your bed,” he points to the crate.
Ears flattening, the child pats his chest with both claws then pats the Mandalorian then points to the sleeping nook. Insistent squeaks accompany his miming.
“You want to sleep by me?”
He doesn’t get a nod, but the patting and squeaking ceases like a snuffed candle flame and the kid stares at him and he gets it.
“You want to sleep by me.” It’s a statement this time. The kid, misunderstanding him, goes to repeat the gestures. Gently, he catches his tiny hands. “It’s okay. I heard you the first time. I just… why?”
It wouldn’t be the first time.
On Sorgan, one night, he took the child in his arms to quell a nightmare. After that, the kid often snuck out his crib to curl up on his bed—by his feet at first then, when there were no repercussions, no commands to stop, he crept closer until he laid claim to the spot at his side. But, since leaving, he hasn’t once protested sleeping in his crate.
He seemed to understand the nook was not his.
And, really, he should dislike it given the fact the Mandalorian has only ever squirrelled him away in there to hide him and it has failed to protect him twice now.
“It won’t be comfier than the crate,” he tells him.
The kid continues his staring.
“It won’t be warmer either. I know I’m in there but I—I don’t generate a lot of heat. I’m an ice-block.”
The kid blinks.
“If I roll over, I’ll squish you. Flat. Or I could kick you clean across the cabin.”
The kid lets out a snort-huff as if to call him out on that one. He doesn’t move in his sleep and the kid already knows it.
“I snore.”
The kid exhales, slowly, deliberately, but doesn’t stop staring.
The Mandalorian has never seen such a blend of patience and stubbornness, honed and wielded like a weapon… except in the mirror.
Like when they arrived on Sorgan, he relents with a sigh, a mutter, and a veiled roll of his eyes.
He relents partly because he’s tired, partly because he’s impressed by the child’s tenacity, and partly because, well… he’s not bad company.
He knew bad company.
He used to work with Ran and Xi’an and Qin and others like Burg and Mayfeld and Zero.
He thought it was a chapter he had closed years ago. He cut ties with the crew after the nightmare on Alzoc-3 and Qin’s capture. He went to work for the Guild and made it a point not to cross or retread the same old parsecs. The Outer Rim was big enough that they could all continue their work and never have to rub shoulders again.
Reaching out to Ran was a bad idea. He knew it when he first thought it, when he dismissed it, and when he reconsidered it. But it had been so long and he was getting desperate—unable to take Guild work, unable to set foot in most of the Outer Rim, he hoped he could rekindle enough of their old trust to just get enough to keep the ship fuelled and the kid fed.
But bygones weren’t bygones.
Little it mattered now.
The chapter wasn’t just finished; he had burned the whole book.
The New Republic lit and tossed the matches in.
He doused it all in gasoline.
A pouch of credits for dozens of lives either ruined or ended.
He doesn’t want to think about it. He thinks he shouldn’t think about it, lest the child’s mind powers extend to mind reading and, really, these aren’t the kinds of things a child should have to deal with.
He hopes the child doesn’t know.
When Xi’an brought up Alzoc-3, one of his fears was that she would go on to recount the ordeal. Even in synopsis form, it’s… brutal. He was brutal. And the child was right there, in the sleeping nook; it wasn’t sound-proof, he would hear.
He would hear and he would recoil the next time the Mandalorian came anywhere near him. He didn’t fear him before but once he knew about that, he would. He would forever be tainted and twisted in the child’s view and the prospect alone made him sick.
If he needed anymore proof the child was not a pet, that should suffice.
He had never once worried about what an animal might think of him.
“I’m sorry they called you that,” he tells the child as he transfers his blanket nest from the crate to a corner of the sleeping nook—such a small, cramped space as is, there isn’t really any way to divide it comfortably but… it’s the least he can do. He won’t deny the kid’s relatively polite petition for proximity, not when he thinks of how precious and precarious this trust is.
The child looks at him. Waits.
He shakes his helmet-clad head. “You’re not a pet.”
A pet wouldn’t hold an entire conversation with meaningful looks and snort-huffs.
A pet wouldn’t censor his behaviour so minutely to try and earn his favour.
A pet wouldn’t mould little soldiers out of veg-paste.
“You’re a person.”
One who loves frogs and will chase them and eat them as he pleases.
One who will touch buttons he knows full-well he shouldn’t.
One who is stubborn, curious, and vastly, unfathomably intuitive.
“Just… you know.” The Mandalorian pats the blanket nest down, sighs, shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “So we understand each other.”
. . . . .
Author’s Note
I’m approaching this particular fic like I would a series of drawing sketches. I’m going in loose and fast, not bogging myself down in details. I’m having a blast especially, as I mentioned, because I’m forcing myself to write in a different tense than I do typically
I am attacking the writer’s block with heavy artillery and it’s working!!!
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din djarin got his one big chance to be like “yes i will help you if you do this sidequest!!!” and he was like. it’s on the house, don’t even pay me, i’ll be right there, i will convince other people to also do this as a personal favour to me, i will literally die here beside you and it will be an honour. i have to go to my kid’s parent teacher meeting first though hope that’s okay
The solution was apparent. The uncertainty and sorrowfulness that had imbedded itself in his father's being hung heavily in Grogu's heart. Lightening this weight, revealing what was hidden, setting his buir back on his path was within his ability. With an outstretched arm, he pointed to the living waters, the same surface Din had stood watch over for an extended period of time.
"I don't know what you're trying to tell me, kiddo."
Grogu reached beneath his collar and pulled from the confines of his robe the pendent he wore at all times. He lifted it up for Din to inspect. His father took it in a gloved hand, careful not to pull on Grogu's neck.
"You see a mythosaur?"
The doleful miasma thinned, shock and healthy disbelieve sweeping in. Grogu reached out a second time, his posture stiffening, his eyes sliding shut in concentration. With the life that entwined all things, he sought out the gentle creature. Like ba'voda's baby rancor and the massiffs his father liked to pet, this beast too was friendly.
"Grogu, no."
He let go of the connection before the animal's slumber was disturbed and opened his eyes in confusion. Didn't buir want to see for himself? Didn't he want to know? Wasn't this why he had waited? "Eh?"
Considering how many times that covert on the dinosaur planet kept having creatures trying to eat Mando kids, I think most branches of working class and fighting corps Mandos probably had a specialized training course focused on “What to Do If You’re Eaten Alive.” It stays in line with Mando’s tendency to just dive face first into Krayt dragons and sea monsters and such so I imagine it’s one of those “ugh Taungsdays, amirite?” moments when he realizes he’s going to have to do it again. Bunch of Mandalorians hear about Boba Fett getting knocked into a Sarlacc? Yeah that tracks. If he’s a good enough Mandalorian he’ll find his way out eventually
Ravanak on the landing gear? ugh come on I just waxed that. Rancor destroying the town? Well if he grabs me he’s one hand down and I have a flamethrower and he doesn’t. Tusken lizard dog eyeing my kid like a hamsteak? Grogu you must be vigilant, sometimes these things happen
I’ve been reading fanfics since 2013 and in this past few years I have never seen so many post abt there “being too much smut” “not enough fluff” “not enough angst”
I understand that some people write about things I don’t like or mischaracterize, but you know what I can do? 1)ignore it. 2)use the handy dandy filter.
Remember that there are actual people behind the screens with their own life and experiences, so just be respectful
Like do yall not realize we get this FOR FREE!
Write it yourself (WITHOUT AI) if yall want more of a certain type of content
Writers are doing this for fun. Be grateful. Seriously yall are embarrassing
To writers: please know that many of us are happy every time you post. And I see this a lot, but please don’t ever feel bad for discontinuing/putting ur works on hold, we readers don’t want you to stress yourself over something that’s supposed to be fun 💕losing interest happens and that’s ok. We appreciate you creating content, no matter if it’s a 40+ series or a tiny blurb.
And on a side note: REBLOG! COMMENT! Please I’m begging 🙏 it is extremely discouraging to writers/artist when they have little to no interactions on their work. If you don’t want to comment, add a silly little picture or even 🫶. That’s all it takes.
*On mobile you can hold down on the reblog button and swipe up for quick reblogs!
Constantly obsessed with the concept of a man forced to be a myth. What do you do when every step you take is embedded into the text. Every word you say prose to read. You're part of something bigger than yourself. The narrative tugs you along like water currents. There is no time to rest, to be human. You must be great, you must be legend
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
