i'm not leaving my fate up to chance

Software used: Procreate ⏱️ 3h 13m 🖌️ 6105

A beat of absolute silence followed, as if the whole universe had heard and was holding its breath, enraptured.

No one else had heard, of course; it was just the two of them in the cockpit, alone except for the stars.

Din pulled his hand away.

His fingers burned and yet felt numb, distant, detached. Nevertheless, his hands found the sides of his helmet, his thumbs locking onto the hidden catches without prompting.

The seal released and slackened with a soft, familiar hiss.

Hesitation threatened but certainty quietened it. This did not violate his vow; this was a part of it.

Breath withheld, he slid the helmet off.

The moment was quick, but full. So full.

Grogu let out a surprised squeak, his hands immediately flying up and clamping over his eyes.

He chittered. It sounded far away and muffled without the helmet’s amplifier to help compensate, but Din heard it well enough; the stunned, apologetic tone made his heart twinge.

He had explained his reasons a few times, imparting this vital piece of himself as simply and straightforwardly as he could. After encountering Bo-Katan, he had launched an hours-long monologue about the Way of the Mandalore—to reassure himself or to find fault, he wasn’t sure, but his thoughts had tumbled out without restraint, without filter, until his mouth had run dry.

And the kid had listened to it all. More than that, he had comprehended its significance and he respected it.

Din brought the helmet to rest on his lap. “It’s okay, ad’ika,” he assured and smiled at the green ears perking all the way up at the sound of his natural voice. “You can see me.”

One eye peeked open and peered at him from between fingers, careful but curious. No consequence came, so he dropped his hands further.

His brow furrowed; for a moment, Din feared he didn’t recognize him. He’d heard stories of young foundlings being scared by their finder’s faces—some thinking the helmet was their true face, some just finding their faces outright terrifying.

He hadn’t been frightened by his buir’s face. He had been old enough to know he had to have one, and it turned out to be such a kind face with dark, scar-ridden skin that told stories and warm eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled.

But what about his face? Was it... was it too hard? Cold? Was he generating any readable expression? Did his eyes hold any of the things making his head spin and his heart race or were they hollow?

Grogu warbled and raised his hand, his fingers flexing in a question.

Din jerked back on instinct but then consciously leaned forward.

The little hand landed on his cheek, timid and featherlight.

The frown faded as he explored his guardian’s face, running his tiny fingers slowly, methodically across his cheeks and over his crooked nose. When he reached the stubble on his chin, he pulled back from surprise; tentatively, he returned to test the scratchy texture. Din could just barely hear his giggling.

Notably, Grogu’s touch softened as He brushed over the scar cutting across the bridge of his nose; an almost forlorn coo bubbled up as He found another, deeper one hiding on his temple, near his hairline.

You’ve been hurt, he seemed to say.

Din laid his hand over his and ran his thumb over the little knuckles as he guided the hand back to his cheek. “I’m alright now,” he told him.

Excerpt from Lift a Sail, Chapter 7: Father & Son