Science fact by day, science fiction by night

His mind calms. The battles and blood, the desecration of his helmet and his Creed fall away into distant memory. Is this the poison working? Or it merely the quiet relief of knowing his son will live another day? He thinks he knows.

Din loses his balance, falls into the loam with his breath rattling. It is not the worst place, nor time, to die. The sun is warm and yellow and springtime in the swamp is lush and green and growing. Fallen battle droids lie in a swath behind him. He has slain many enemies, he has saved many innocents, and his foundling walks free.

This is the Way.

The hallowed words comfort him as all darkens, as his breaths grow weak and irregular. His limbs are heavy like the earth, weighted down in beskar once wrested from the mines, and to the world below he and his armor will return.

But he is wrong.

—

Claws ting-tinging, ting-tinging on beskar. A warmth, a softness, a comfort. Something humming, then fading in his chest. A small hand in his.

These things he feels but does not feel, knows but does not know. The galaxy moves beyond him and he feels nothing, feels everything, exists endless and formless. The world floats on a breath and he has none to spare. His lungs strain and wheeze.

Din dreams, he thinks; he wonders.

—

A sound resonates within his ears, waves upon the shore but rougher, ragged, faltering. In, then out. His breath stutters in his chest; he slides beneath the waves weighed down, hands flung out for aid, grasping straining hoping rescued found.

The years stretch on. The days streak past. Suns wheel overhead, starlight dancing on transparisteel. The seasons change and grow and end. He has lost his name but not his vows.

He does what one must. His parents did so once that he might live. The Mandalorians do, song sacred in their throats for the sake of a thousand thousand tomorrows.

So our culture may flourish and our children can feel what it is to play in the sunlight.

The sun of Nal Hutta skips in dappled shadows on his armor, shade and gold-green light in patterns ever shifting through the verdancy of fern and moss and tree. He lies within the dark unknowing.

His helmet shifts, gently lifted. Cool water trickles down his throat. A hand so soft and small, clearly some forgotten dream, brushes against his cheek.

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is another labored breath.

—

Flying lessons. Hands clumsy on the board, the wrong buttons and switches, a steady voice filtered behind him through a helmet. Again. He thinks he gets it now. Feels the ship lurch around him, thrusters firing, liftoff —

Collision. His head knocks back into the seat, his skull vibrating. He’s cross. How did that happen? He thought he had it —

But he messes up again, again, until he sinks back into his seat in defeat, his head sore from where it had hit against the chair.

His ward lays a heavy armored hand on his shoulder. “You got this, kid.” But he’s the one towering over his small charge now, the voice from beneath the helmet his own, and he rests a hand on Grogu’s shoulder and shows him what to do. His son leans against him, and though he can’t quite see where they’re going — everything’s so dark and close, somehow — he’s proud, proud, proud.

—

Bitter ironroot, wild scapes, the sludge of berries that taste of earth.

He draws another breath, rasps for air through the taste in his mouth. Breathes again. Again.

It’s a little easier with every breath.

—

Din cracks open his eyes. It’s hard through the dry crust that’s formed on the lashes. He grimaces, face twisting as if moving it for the first time. Everything is stiff and sore.

Where —?

The voices of Nal Hutta’s swamps croak and chirrup and howl and buzz in the distance.

It comes back to him slowly, the capture, the Hutts, the creature. He closes his eyes again, breathes deep, stretches slightly where he lays. The top of his helmet brushes against hard clay as he stretches his neck, and he sinks back again. His arm feels heavy —

It’s Grogu, curled up against him, both small hands draped over Din’s right gauntlet. For a moment Din listens to his son snoring softly, feels him nestled safely against him, and a joy so fierce it wounds blooms within his chest. For a moment he basks in it, content to feel nothing else.

But how…

He forces his eyes open again. Carefully turns his helmet slightly, left, right, forces himself to lift his neck. He tries to make sense of what he sees. Brown earthen walls, daylight out beyond his feet.

A cave? They’re in a little chamber that fits Grogu beautifully. Din struggles, half-lifts himself up onto his left arm, and his head brushes the ceiling. He glances down, examines the bite on his chest. Or tries to. There’s just the seam of a long-healed scar puckering the skin. No blisters, no swelling, no seeping poison.

”Grogu,” he whispers. The first attempt doesn’t take. His mouth is so dry and his throat is thick with disuse. He tries again, voice as gentle as he can make it. “Grogu.”

But his son is fast asleep and Din rolls slightly forward, just enough to see the little pinched lines between Grogu’s brows that show he’s extra wiped out. He looks so much younger this way, like the little one years ago who used to collapse every time he used his powers.

Kid’s dead asleep with exhaustion, and Din is starting to suspect why.

The taste in his mouth.

The long-healed scar.

The little cave sized for a Grogu, not a human.

The joy flaring in his chest, bright and unbearable, shifts into a warm pride that cuts just as keenly.

“You saved me, kid. You… cared for me.” His eyes sting. “You came back for me. Which means… you didn’t listen to me.” He breaks into a hoarse chuckle. “Dank farrik, you’re stubborn.”

Grogu lets out another snore, and Din pulls him closer, carefully reaching over to brush his fingertips over Grogu’s head, the tip of his ear. He lingers, for a moment.

But they can’t be safe here. Not for long. The Hutts will be looking for them, and they’ll have to find a way off this planet themselves. His mind spins the possibilities of a dozen plans and backups, but through it all there’s a blazing determination and the certainty that they’ll get through it somehow. Both of them.

Grogu sleeps on, though. Whatever happened — however long he was out, however long Grogu had to care for him — it can’t have been easy. Din carefully inches his arm free so as not to wake him. The kid yawns and curls up in the clay, resting contentedly. The little lines between his brows smooth out like he’s finally relaxed.