Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For a second, Grogu hesitates.

The bunks are quiet; only the sounds of his quiet breaths, and the low murmuring notes of his Song breaking a complete silence. Time holds its breath, and the Force is its mirror.

In his hands, the visor of his helmet stares back at him, ever patiently. Grogu stares back.

For once, he is looking to find those ghosts of his. Are they still there? Have they abandoned him?

They wouldn’t. He wouldn't. Grogu’s doing this for him, after all — avenging his father's memory. Buir wouldn't leave.

Then again-

Then again, he has always been fond of doing that.

A chill gnaws at the bones of Grogu's spine. He shivers, and tries not to think that the visor's gaze has gotten cold. It hasn't, he thinks — he's never seen a cold visor before. Not from himself and not from other Mandalorians.

This…is something else entirely.

He turns the visor away and slides his helmet over his head. There's a soft hiss of air, that soft hiss of air, and then the buy'ce comes to life. 

Something in him settles into place, like a final puzzle piece. He's not so much Grogu Djarin with the helmet on — he's more bounty hunter, Jai'galaar, Mando. It’s how it's meant to be — it's safer, this way.

He prefers it, this way. 

(...He's not all that fond of who Grogu Djarin is.)

Just before he leaves, he gives himself one, last cursory glance over — an unnecessary check to make sure that all the pieces of his armour, all the pieces of him, are exactly where they're supposed to be.

Then, he walks out of the bunks.

Vars is there, out in the cargo hold, staring out at the closed ramp and idly tapping a foot. He turns around at the sound of Grogu's footsteps, visor angling to the side.

Grogu angles his visor in turn. He makes a beeline for the button to lower the ramp. "Ready?"

"Mm." Vars huffs. "Before we head out there, is there anything I should know about….'Mike Caine'?"

Grogu stops in his tracks. "Uh," he says, eloquently. "Like what?"

"You tell me."

Quickly, firmly, Grogu pushes away the quick-paced tapping notes of a minor sort of panic. He's not a child with a hand down a cookie jar — or so he's insistent on telling himself.

Grogu leans marginally away from the ramp controls. "Uh," he says, yet again — mind racing to sort everything he knows about Mayfeld into 'safe to tell' and 'DO NOT TELL' boxes. Thankfully, Vars seems patient enough to wait.

…He could just tell him everything. Vars would know not to let it slip to Mayfeld that he knows and, as far as secrets are, Mayfeld’s are relatively harmless. 

But the secrets aren't his to tell, and-

And it’s not that Grogu cares about Migs Mayfeld —he doesn't, but he's…not a snitch. 

So, there.

"He's a sharpshooter," he manages, at last, because that's safe to tell. When Vars' Song gains that note of appreciation he knew it would, Grogu continues, "Ex-Imperial."

"What?!"

Oops. That was probably better in the ‘DO NOT TELL’ department.

“It was a long time ago,” Grogu says, quickly. He shifts his weight back. “Something-something propaganda, ‘doesn’t excuse what I did’, deflected, yada yada yada. Wasn’t really paying attention. He hates them now though, so. Enemy of my enemy and- n’ what not, I guess.”

“...Oh.” Very slightly, Vars’ shoulders deflate. “Well, jeez- Was he…y’know.”

Grogu does not know. “Huh?”

“Y’know,” Vars says, again — mild irritation in his tone and tune. When he realises that Grogu genuinely does not know, though, he elaborates, “Was he there?”

“For what?”

“The Purge.”

Grogu blinks. His eyebrows furrow. “...no, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t ‘think’ so,” Vars echoes — his voice oddly flat.

“We’re not friends, Vars. He has what I need and I’ve no use for him further than that. Going up to ask ‘hey, were you there for the eradication and destruction of my planet and people’,” Grogu punctuates with air quotes, before crossing his arms, “is kinda…personal?”

Vars reaches up to his visor, as if to rub at the bridge of his nose. A third of the way there, he apparently remembers himself — his fingers twitch and curl in the empty air. 

While Vars recomposes himself, Grogu is left faced with the realisation that he…not quite forgot, per se. But he hadn’t been with the Mandalorians during their purge, so it had been allowed to be pushed into the back of his head.

He realises, just then, standing there, that he’s not the only one the Empire has so unapologetically wronged. That he is not the only victim of Moff Gideon’s cruelty. That his father is not the only corpse left in their wake.

The realisation…it’s not exactly humbling, but-

“I don’t like,” Vars says, just then, “that I can agree with you.”

Grogu snorts, softly — humourless and empty. 

“Caine is…” He trails off. Quietly, Grogu’s lip curls into a grimace, but with a flick of the wrist, he continues, “He’s an asshole, but he’s…genuine. He’s got good intentions. Not exactly a sure moral compass, but like those exist anyway.”

“A straight moral compass? Those…do exist, Grogs.” Now Vars just sounds concerned. He says, slowly and enunciating each word, “Good people exist.”

“Sure, sure.” Dismissively, Grogu waves him off. “You know what I mean though. He’s a lot, yes, but I…trust him. Caine.”

Vars is silent, for a while after that. “...but you don’t care for him.”

“No.” He can’t. He can’t allow himself that.

“You’re an odd one, Grogu Djarin,” is what Vars settles on saying, after a while of silence.

“Like you don’t know that already.”

“Got me there.” Vars straightens up his spine with a sigh. “Well. Now all that’s left is to find out if you were telling the truth.”

…ouch.

For a moment, Grogu gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “Oh, they were all lies,” he elects to say at last — voice flitting up. He presses the button to lower the ramp. “Yeah. Caine doesn’t even exist. We’re going to drop off into the void of space. Ready?”

Lightly, Vars whacks the back of his helmet — the blow collides with a soft thunk, drowned out by the whine and groan of the ship.

A third of the way down, the ramp stops. Grogu’s scowl comes second only to a loud ‘oh, what the hells wrong with it now!?’ that rings across the clearing. It serves only to deepen his scowl — is it too late to turn back?

Probably.

Because Grogu Djarin is not a coward — he isn’t, he isn’t — he leads the way off the ramp, dropping off its edge and landing on his feet. Mayfeld’s clearing stretches before them; the morning sunlight still too bashful to carry any real heat. Shadows still cling to the trees, hued vaguely purple and yet very warm still. Grogu’s tempted to sink into that dark — he bets it’d be comfortable.

It’s a temptation that only grows, when his attention falls on the sharpshooter staring at them from across the distance.

Migs Mayfeld has his arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed as if he just woke up — bare of the harness and his holster, bare of his weapons. It’s either a display of utter stupidity or of trust. Neither of those thoughts are particularly reassuring.

More moving shadows than actual figures, are the rest of Mayfeld’s crew — clamouring at each other in warm tones of familiarity. They pop in and out of tents, waving and hollering and, otherwise, do a fine job of appearing to not care about their arrival.

But Grogu catches on to one too many long glances, one too many curiously singing Songs, and he knows better. He’s not surprised — they barely stopped their gawking back when it was just him, and Vars isn’t the most subtle of Mandalorians either.

When they get closer, pushing through the grass still damp in morning dew, Grogu realises that Mayfeld isn’t looking at them, exactly. He’s staring at the ship, a glare through thinly narrowed eyes.

“Do I want to ask?” Is the first thing he says, when they finally get close enough. Mayfeld then immediately shuts his eyes. “No. No, I don’t.”

“You don’t,” Grogu agrees, very helpfully in his humble opinion. He stops walking, and Vars falls into step behind him. “Morak went okay.”

“Obviously.”

Vars pointedly clears his throat. “Not that we could’ve done it without you, so. Thank you.”

Both Grogu and Mayfeld turn their heads towards him in unison. While Grogu’s got a scowl Vars can’t see, however, Mayfeld’s eyebrows have lifted up — there’s a hesitant smile, tugging at the corners of his lips, and a pleasant motif to his Song.

“Well, guess I was right about you being likeable.” Mayfeld holds out a hand — Vars takes it, and they shake. “Mike Caine. A pleasure.”

“Vars. Vars Prente.”

The shaking motion abruptly seizes up. Mayfeld sounds a bit…choked. “That’s- That’s a name.”

“Yes.” Vars sounds amused. “We have those.”

Mayfeld, shameless as always, is gaping — jaw dropped, eyes wide and everything. 

Grogu pointedly clears his throat. “A bug is going to fly into your mouth, sharpshooter.”

Mayfeld shuts his jaw — click . “Uh,” he articulates eloquently. “Should- Is that, like, an honour? Should I be flattered?”

Grogu notes that Mayfeld is still holding onto Vars’ arm.

“I mean, I do think my presence is humbling through sheer existence,” Vars says, smoothly enough to near send the joke flying over their heads. “But it’s just a name. I give it freely.”

“Huh,” says Mayfeld, again. Without letting go, the sharpshooter uses their joined hands to point at Vars. “You do?”

“Yes.” At least Vars doesn’t seem uncomfortable by the touching. Grogu would’ve been uncomfortable by the touching long ago. Maybe that’s why they don’t touch him.

Good. “

It’s a creed thing,” Vars explains at last, surprisingly patiently. “I could tell you more if you’d like-”

“You could not.” Grogu’s own voice is flat.

Vars turns his head around to stare down at him. “Jai-”

“No.” Grogu angles his visor vaguely downwards; communicating his scowl in ways he knows Vars will understand. Quieter, he says, “‘Our secrecy is our survival’.”

Vars’ shoulders sag. “Oh, don’t. Don’t use that against me.”

“‘Our secrecy’,” Grogu only repeats, putting weight behind each and every syllable, “‘is our survival’.”

“This is treachery, this is. You’re betraying me.” Vars, to his credit, tries his best to stand against Grogu’s pointed silence. “Don’t. Jai’galaar, don’t.”

Grogu tilts his head the other way.

“Oh, for the- Fine, fine!” Finally, Vars pulls his arm out of Mayfeld’s handshake — just to wave both hands around in a frustrated gesture. “‘Secrecy our survival and survival is our strength’, whatever! Whatever! What. Ever. I hate you.”

Grogu huffs a breath of air through his nose. “I’m right. You know I am.”

Vars crosses his arms. Pointedly, he does not say anything.

Grogu shakes his head. “We need a few days,” he says to Mayfeld — who’d been watching with raised eyebrows and an odd look to his eyes. Those eyes snap towards him, just then. “To fix the ship. Refuel. I need to get a job. Then we’ll need to leave.”

Mayfeld blinks, slowly. “Leave?”

“Yes, Caine. The list. The names. Surely,” Grogu’s voice turns tight and softly sneering, “you haven’t forgotten.”

Mayfeld’s eyes narrow — probably from the utter condescending, deadened tone Grogu spoke with. “Right,” says he, with a huff of a sigh. He adds, “You know, when I said I’d give ‘em to you after a day, I expected you to, what, rest?”

“What I do with my time is none of your business.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’ve made that clear. Karkin’,” the sharpshooter mutters, “galavanting off into the galaxy like it’ll kill you.”

“It would.”

“You said ‘we’,” Mayfeld notes, out loud. He glances between Vars, who’s sulking, and Grogu, who’s trying very hard not to look at the way Vars is sulking. “You’re working together, then?”

“Yeah,” Vars chimes in, still rather moodily. The tilt of his visor indicates that he’s glowering. “Someone needs to keep my di’kutla shabuir osik of a brother alive.”

“Di’kutla shabuir osik (useless jerk shit),” Grogu echoes, almost thoughtfully. “Those are a lot of words.”

“They’re all true.”

“Brother?” Mayfeld is rubbing at his temples, as if stressed. “Hold on- Hold on, he’s your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately.”

Mayfeld is staring at him. “You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

“‘Have’,” Grogu corrects, against the mild churning in his gut. He doesn’t like to think about a world where Vars doesn’t exist. Or worse. “And why would I? There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Caine.”

That gets the sharpshooter to shut up — mouth clamping, lips pursing tightly together. He seems to agree, and seems to rather dislike the fact that he does.

The rising sun makes the shadows they cast shift and grow. Grogu eyes it, for a second. “Town is still standing, yes?”

“I-” Mayfeld huffs. “Yes. It didn't fall in the three days you were gone, Mando.”

“It should’ve,” Grogu mutters. The mayor is a joke. He counts the days to a revolution. He might help. Buir was always fond of doing those. “I’ll find something to do there. You can…come with, Vars. Or-”

Vars tilts his head, curiosity overriding his tantrum. “I can stay?”

“If you feel safe enough.” Grogu hesitates. Then, he shrugs. “Eh, yeah. You can take ‘em.”

“In a fight? Pfsh, obviously. Will I have to, though?”

Grogu gives Mayfeld a look. The sharpshooter, for his credit, returns it evenly. 

"Think if we were gonna betray you," Mayfeld harrumphs, "we'd do it while there's two of you?"

"Some people are just stupid, Caine." Grogu narrows his eyes — searching. "Can't rule it out."

The corner of Mayfeld's eyes pinch. He says nothing, other than a quiet mutter of something vaguely like 'karking asshole'. His Song, other than the annoyance, does not falter.

“...No,” Grogu decides, at last. “You shouldn’t have to." He turns his attention to Vars, then — tilting his head. "You’ll stay?”

Vars is still and silent, for a while. Then, he shrugs. “I know my way ‘round a hammer better anyway. I’ll stay, fix the ship. Make some friends.”

“Vars.”

“What? Ever heard of the concept of tomade (allies), brother dearest? They’re great help, y’know. You should try getting some.”

Grogu scowls. “Do you even know how to fix a ship?”

“How hard can it be?”

For the first time in his life, Grogu issues a silent apology to the Crest II. He can almost hear it in his head, whining. 

“Fine,” Grogu says, and it’s barely more than a hiss.

“Fine,” Vars says. He sounds awfully smug. “Oya, Jai’galaar. Happy hunting. ”

Grogu is a bounty hunter. He hunts. It’s the job. 

He’s generally impartial to it — there’s that fulfilling sense of satisfaction at a job well done, and at times there’s that comforting feel that he’s in his element. He is — or was, depending on who you ask — a Mandalorian. Like his father. This is what he’s meant for.

There’s also that low, low tide of anticipation. Every hunt is a step closer to Gideon — every bounty is a practice round. Sometimes, on good days, he gets to pretend that it’s finally Gideon he’s skewering, and that’s fun.

Mainly, though, it involves a lot of waiting, a lot of walking, and too much talking. Mainly, though, he’s irritated at the distraction. Mainly, though, if Grogu could go by without eating anything, he would.

But from his stunts back at the palace — stunts, plural — he’s already weaker than he should be. And though he’ll never admit it to Vars’ face, making his way across the galaxy alone hadn’t been the most pleasant of experiences. He needs credits — he needs food — he needs weapons.

Not in any particular order, although ideally credits come first. He could eat a gun, if he was feeling it. At least once.

“For the record,” says Migs Mayfeld, trekking through the forest a few steps ahead of him. “I think it’d taste like shit.”

Grogu stares at his back. Rather, he glares. “A blaster?”

“Anything with gunpowder. You ever tasted gunpowder before?”

“Yeah. It’s not that bad. Could get me by.” Grogu has never tasted gunpowder before. He goes on to say, “Surprisingly sweet.”

Mayfeld glances briefly back at him, just to show how utterly disgusted the look on his face is. Grogu’s glower deepens.

“You’re messing with me,” Mayfeld guesses, correctly. The bastard’s got a grin on his face soon enough. “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want me around.”

Grogu grits his teeth. “Why would you say that? I love your company.”

“Attaboy.”

Grogu’s fingers twitch to his belt. The only reason he doesn’t take a blaster out to shoot the sharpshooter in the back is because he…doesn’t have one. Which, is a shame, and a problem. The job is meant to fix that.

With Mayfeld tailing him like a damned rancor pup, throwing around ‘gotta keep an eye on you so you don’t run off again’s and ‘stretch my legs, I think I hear my joints popping’s, they’d visited the town once more. Grogu’s not in the bounty hunter’s guild, unfortunately — even if he was, Galaxy's Greatest Bounty Hunter Boba Fett 's massive bounty hunter influence would've changed that.

But he wears Mandalorian armour — people approach him regardless. They also don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer.

This bounty is a bit…different, than most. The horrendous excuse for a mayor, spurred on by some big election event on the horizon, is trying to pretend to be useful to his people for once — it was he who had approached, trailing fidgeting assistants and guards who pretended to be braver than they are, sliding into a seat across from him.

There’s an animal, Grogu’s told through solemn voices, roaming the forest. It’s been wrecking structures, upheaving crops, releasing livestock, other stuff that make it bad for the people who’ve been living here — he wasn’t really listening, and it probably isn’t that important. 

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Mayfeld offers, in the wake of Grogu’s stony silence. ‘Been here a while, hasn’t it? Locals got legends about it.’

‘Legends,’ Grogu had echoed. The mayor had flinched at his voice.

‘Classic ‘misbehave and it’ll getcha’ shtick. For kids.’ Mayfeld had looked amused. He was probably still riding the high of managing to hijack Grogu’s hunting expedition. ‘What, Mandalorians don’t do that?’

No Mandalorian Foundling is that daft. Grogu doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say a lot of the things he thinks. 

‘We kill your animal, you pay us.’ It’d been genuine forgetfulness on his part to not inflect his voice in a way to make it sound like a question — then again, probably for the better. He’s exhausted already. 

The mayor agreed immediately. From their own pocket, he said, and Grogu’s ears twitched at the sound of a camera shutter clicking. Dumb politicians and their dumb politics.

“Hang on,” Grogu says, in present-time. He waits until he no longer hears Mayfeld’s less-than-stealthy treks, before reaching a hand out to a nearby tree. It’s unnaturally smooth; the bark torn off. 

No. Scraped off. Like something had brushed against it. Something big.

Mayfeld is by his side. “Huh,” he says, and Grogu knows he sees it too. “First lead we’ve had. Follow it?”

Grogu reaches up to his helmet, flicking through the settings of his HUD. He finds nothing, so eventually dips his chin into a nod.

“Did they say what animal it was?” he remembers to ask, stepping over a tree root. The leaves and mulch crunch underneath his feet. It’s an odd texture. He’s not too fond.

“Nope,” Mayfeld says, popping the ‘p’. There’s a quiet shift, a quiet sliding — as if the sharpshooter had shifted his rifle to his hands. “So are all Mandalorians bounty hunters?”

…huh. Mayfeld’s never asked, before. He’s never asked at all. 

“...why?” Grogu returns, cautiously.

“Curious,” is Mayfeld’s flippant reply. “Your brother didn’t seem like he’s a hunter.”

“He isn’t.” Vars’ comment about allies rings in his head. Grogu gnaws on his bottom lip, for a while, before going, “Mandalorian skills make them good at hunting, and it’s a respected path. ‘S why many go there. Others do…other stuff. Vars makes weapons.”

“No shit?” Mayfeld sounds surprised. Grogu can’t tell if he hadn’t expected Vars to be an armourer, or if he hadn’t expected Grogu to answer. Bit of both, mayhaps. “Wait- So, you’ve got Mandalorian…farmers? Mandalorian fishers? Mandalorian… cloth-weavers?”

“If they wanna.” It’s rather hard to farm and fish on a desert planet though, and ‘cloth-weaving’ is technically under Goran jurisdiction. Unless they weren’t using beskar-enhanced threads, then maybe. 

“Not that many of us left anymore.”

“...Yeah,” Mayfeld agrees, in a voice Grogu can almost imagine being softer. “Missed some tracks by the way.”

Grogu doubles-back, quickly. Mayfeld gestures to some indentions in the mud. Judging by the shape, the animal’s got hooves.

The animal is also, more importantly, massive.

Grogu steps into the tracks and tries not to feel smaller than he usually is. It’s about the size of Mayfeld’s palm. It’ll either be really fun taking down, or really not.

They pick their way through the undergrowth — for a moment, silenced by their discovery. Grogu doesn’t realise the quiet. When he does, he chooses not to think of it as comforting; he’d meant what he said to Vars. He and Mayfeld are not friends.

They aren’t. Grogu loathes the man.

Apparently not fond of the quiet, soon enough, Mayfeld speaks up. “Your brother’s sick, by the way.”

Grogu stops walking. He glances back, eyebrows furrowed. “Huh?”

“Your brother. He’s cool.” Mayfeld walks past him.

“Oh,” Grogu says. Oh, sick in that sense — he’d gotten confused about it. And worried. He hadn’t thought Vars was ill, and that Vars was the type to hide something like that, but still. “I- Thanks, I guess.”

Mayfeld snorts — a sound that’s incredibly and awfully loud, given they’re on a hunt. He’s at least made the effort to walk a bit quieter, but he’s less pressed to the ground than Grogu is. The benefits of being smaller.

“Knows how to hold a conversation, for one.”

“Hey,” Grogu says, and not much else. 

“See?" Mayfeld stands in the silence for another minute, before going, "Hey, would you believe me if I said I didn’t expect you to have a brother? You struck me as the kind to just, yanno, wander off into the galaxy alone, got that ‘don’t touch me or I’ll kill you’ vibe so I-”

Grogu zones him out.

They’ve gone far, far deep into the forest now. The trail is only that of their own making. Grogu can’t see the buildings of town anymore. The afternoon sun isn’t nearly as hot as the ones back at Tatooine, but it feels like afternoon — relative to the morning chill. 

Grogu stops walking by a piece of thorny brambles peeking out from the undergrowth. It looks as if it fought a battle and subsequently lost ; its branches pressed into the ground, its thorns askew, and the rest of it pushed up against a nearby tree like a gesture of surrender.

“Mayfeld,” he calls, and his voice is quiet. The Force rumbles, at him — a warning in its wary pacing. 

“-no damn sense. There, I said it. So you-”

“Mayfeld.”

“Mando?” The sharpshooter turns around, eyebrows lifting at the sight of him a couple distances back. “Oh, jeez- Found somethin’?”

Grogu shifts, stiffly. It’s enough of an answer, and Mayfeld abruptly sobers. 

While Mayfeld works on picking his way back, Grogu’s gaze finds itself drawn to the forest floor — right by his feet.

He stands right dead centre in the middle of hoof tracks. Both of his feet fit comfortably in one.

He swallows, tightly.

Grogu is the first to move past the thorny brambles — Mayfeld following close by. The sharpshooter has finally shut his mouth, and there’s that quiet whine of his rifle. Spurred by the sound, Grogu reaches for his belt; resting a hand against his spear.

The Force is…confusing. The parts closest to him are tense, clicking teeth in warning — like a pointer hound, showing the way forward. The rest, though, are a rumbling, comfortable purr; feels like a deep and true breath of air, the kind that reaches every part of a lung with a satisfying burn.

They come across a clearing with a log at its centre. The Force is purring loudest here, and at the same time bristling the most. Grogu realises, rather belatedly and distantly, that he’s probably the reason for the Force’s warring discontent — that old friend of his torn between helping him and-

And helping the creature.

Behind him, Mayfeld steps on a twig with a quiet crunch.

The log moves . It’s then that Grogu realises-

“-that’s not a log,” he says, out loud, quietly.

“No shit!” Mayfeld screeches. The sharpshooter is stepping back, raising his rifle; his eyes are wide.

Grogu’s feet is frozen to the ground. He can’t move; forced to watch as the not-log peels itself off the forest floor, awakened from its slumber. 

Two legs, then four, pop out from underneath it. A head moves, untucking itself from its chest; branches that Grogu had assumed to be part of the log moving along with it.

It’s an ungulate. 

It’s a deer.

He’s heard that deer were skittish. This one, surprisingly, is not. A pair of eyes, strikingly blue against its brown fur, stare down at him. 

The next pair of eyes it opens is green. The next, then, is a warm shade of amber.

Six eyes, of mismatched colours like that of a stained glass window, take him in.

The Force is all around them — yelping and leaping like an excited massif. It takes him a minute to realise why.

The deer is singing in the Force.

Grogu breathes out a long, slow breath of air. The deer mirrors the motion, and the gust of wind that blows then is almost enough to knock him over.

“Mando…” Mayfeld is saying, with a voice raised up a few octaves. “Hey. Talk to me here.”

Grogu swallows. “‘S okay,” he sighs out, a breathy laugh tacked onto the end. “It’s- It’s okay.”

The deer seemed to share the sentiment — its Song sings in warm, crooning tunes. It shifts, snaking its head in his direction; in the dappled sunlight peeking through the trees, its antlers seem to glow.

Fascinated, Grogu lifts a hand up — palm open and facing forward. It’s as if he were to grab for the Force, and the Deer steps closer to nose at his fingers. One of its eyes is the same size as one of his fingers — it’s a behemoth of a creature and yet, so evidently gentle.

Hello, Grogu begins to Sing. What-

Something rotten, something cruel, in the Force Songs snaps. The Deer flinches back, nicking its nose against his outstretched claws. Grogu catches a glimpse of a dark, earthy shade of green blood beading through that cut.

The Deer tips its head back and roars.

Scrabbling backwards, Grogu trips on his own feet, or on some root, and lands flat on his back with a grunt. He writhes against the mulch and the floor. He’s blind in the face of his panic, he can hear Mayfeld calling for him-

The Deer rears back, kicking at the air with its forelegs. It roars, again, fury and fear in the Force.

Blaster bolts fly over his head. They’re potshots against the Deer’s hide, but the animal flinches. It roars, again, but this time weaker. Its massive forelegs crash against the very earth as it lands, mere inches away from Grogu’s own legs.

The Deer whirls around and bounds through the trees, storming through the undergrowth like they’re blades of grass. The clearing is quiet.

“Shit,” says Mayfeld, breaking that hallowed calm. The sharpshooter’s voice is steady, not shaky, but he breathes a sharp exhale. “Shit. Well, we found it.”

Grogu swallows, tightly. 

“Shit,” Mayfeld says, again. The way his footsteps sound against the fallen leaves and twigs is almost frantic, almost hurried. A second later, Grogu feels a touch to his shoulder. “Hey. Hey, get up, kid. Just a fall. You’re fine.”

Mayfeld is right, for once. He is fine. A terror in his veins, slowly fading, is the worst of his injuries.

Shame bubbles up his throat, moving freely in the empty space left by the terror. Grogu quickly rises to his feet, brushing leaves and dirt off of his armour. 

Mayfeld, at the very least, spared him of more shame by staying on his feet. Other than that light touch, he doesn’t reach out — watches him regain his composure with raised eyebrows and an open expression.

Grogu clears his throat, now brushing at specks of dirt that don’t exist. “‘M fine,” he says, gruffly. 

Mayfeld’s expression shifts, and he now looks very condescending.

It lasts for only a second, though — too quickly for Grogu to turn and snarl or snap. Mayfeld nods. “You’re fine.”

Then; “Anyway, what the hell was that? Huh? We got any answers?”

Grogu has to take a minute to soothe his rising anger — to keep it out of his voice. “What’s what?” he asks, proud of the steadiness and calm in his tone.

Mayfeld gestures, wildly with one hand — the other keeping a firm grip on his rifle. “That,” the sharpshooter says, punctuated by the gesture. “What- It was fine one moment, all fairytale princessy, and then-”

“Fairytale princessy?”

“Tell me Mandalorians at least have stories about fairytale princesses being buddy-buddy pals with the wildlife. Tell me you have that, at least.”

Grogu tilts his head. “Well…no. We’ve got the mythosaur but- Not pals with that one.”

“‘Not pals’-”

“That’s not-” This time, it’s Grogu who gestures, with a wave of his hands and a shake of the head. “The point, though. I know what you mean. I just don’t get what makes it all fairytale princessy. It wasn’t-”

Grogu cuts himself off. Mayfeld’s condescending look makes a comeback.

“Oh.” Grogu drops his arms to his side. His mind replays the last few seconds like a holofilm. He blinks, slowly. “...yeah okay, I see what you mean.”

“Mhm.” A smile quirks the edge of Mayfeld’s lip upwards. The sharpshooter crosses his arms. “What happened? Looked like you were speaking to it.”

Grogu reaches up with a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck through the cowl. He gnaws quietly on his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing.

“...I tried to,” he says, at last. “Through the Force. But then it got…something must’ve spooked it.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. He doesn’t bring up the foul, dark tunes to the Force. He doesn’t bring up its fear, its anger, felt through the Songs as keenly as if it were his own. Emotions that were his own.

He does not bring up his rotten Song. He hasn’t brought it up to anybody, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Slowly, Grogu moves his hand to rest above his cuirass. He presses down, as if he could reach past the beskar — reach past blood and bone, muscle and sinew — to grab hold of his own thunderous heart. 

He’d nicked it. The Deer. It’s bleeding, now.

Mayfeld is staring in the direction of where the beast had ran in. He’s biting the inside of his cheek.

“Hide didn’t break when I shot it,” Mayfeld mutters, lowly. “Gonna be harder than we thought. Need something stronger than bolts.”

Grogu cocks his head to the side; thinking. He unclips his spear from his belt. “What about this?”

“What’s that?”

He clicks the button, and the spear grows. The butt end of it thuds quietly against the forest floor. Mayfeld’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, no, that’ll probably do it. Strongest metal in the galaxy, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” Mayfeld’s got a grin to his eyes, now — a smirk on his face. Humourously pleased. “Just our luck you’re a Mandalorian. Lead the way, uh… ’Jay-guh-ler’?”

Grogu sputters, and he huffs a laugh, utterly surprised. “What?”

“It’s- I dunno, the thing your brother called you earlier.” They begin to cross the clearing, following the Deer’s trail — Mayfeld taps at the temple of his forehead with a finger, eyebrows raised. “Don’t think I didn’t hear.”

“Apparently you didn’t. It’s Jai’galaar,” Grogu says the word slowly — enunciating each syllable. He turns away from the sight of Mayfeld quietly mouthing it to himself. “And before you ask, it’s not a name.”

“It isn’t?” Mayfeld sounds horribly disappointed. “What is it, then?”

“A title.”

“...huh. In Mando-speak.”

“Mando’a.”

“Right. What’s it mean?”

Grogu shrinks his spear and clips it back onto his belt. “Shriek-hawk.”

It’s a nice feeling, when Mayfeld whistles appreciatively. Something like pride, something like warmth. It’s quite similar to how the Force had felt, back before the Deer got spooked — fuzzy and comfortable, like a crooning purr.

It’s…a shame, that they have to kill it. The animal’s really just minding its own business — he wouldn’t be surprised if it were simply drawn to the life, the Songs, of the town. A simple curiosity, a desire to be closer, and that was all it’d ever been. 

“Your brother’s a good influence.”

“What do you mean?”

“My questions.” Mayfeld snorts, softly. “You’ve actually been answering them.”

The nice feeling dissipates, like morning dew.

“You’ve never asked,” Grogu retorts. It sounds weak, even to him — full of excuses he doesn’t believe.

Mayfeld gives him a raised eyebrow look. He’s still chuckling, but it sounds almost strained. “Would you believe me if I said I was worried I’d chase you off?”

Grogu would’ve. He would’ve because he could see it happening. He would’ve because Mayfeld was right. He would’ve because he knows that he would’ve ran. 

He’s always been fond of it.

Grogu would’ve, and so he does not say anything, and Mayfeld lets the silence keep. They track the Deer through the woods — following tracks, pointing out scrapes and scratches in the barks of the trees, and listening out for the occasional roar or crash.

“What’d you mean by that, by the way?” Mayfeld asks, at some point. Using the nozzle of his rifle, he pokes curiously at a bush. “What you said back at the base.”

Grogu does not pull away from his quiet examining of tracks.

“It was something like…’our secrecy is our survival’? Why’s that?”

He rises to his feet. Without looking back, Grogu keeps walking.

“Hey.” Mayfeld sounds surprised. “Hey,” he says, again, and sounds annoyed. “Don’t shut me off now kiddo. We were finally getting somewhere.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” Grogu stops, abruptly. He wants to turn and only just about catches himself in time — he makes himself keep walking. Through gritted teeth and a hiss, he says, “We’re not friends, Migs Mayfeld. Stop acting like we are.”

Mayfeld’s surprised silence is punctuated by the lack of his footsteps. Grogu stops walking — he turns his head around, just enough to see through narrowed eyes, the way the sharpshooter has stopped still in his surprise.

Mayfeld sniffs. “Ouch,” he says, and almost sounds genuinely hurt. 

“K’atini (suck it up),” Grogu says, without thinking. He twitches and resists the urge to slap himself.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Mayfeld squints at him. “Right,” he says. Then, “Call me crazy, but I think you might be lying a little.”

Grogu turns away. “You’re crazy.”

They go back to tracking the Deer. Or, at least, Grogu’s tracking it, and Mayfeld is hanging around being distracting with that Song of his. It bubbles and boils but never quite breaks the surface, like an itch Grogu can’t catch.

“We’re not actually hunting this thing?”

Grogu shoots the sharpshooter a low, foul look, and is met with an expression of utter sincerity — eyes that blink and stare at him, waiting. 

Grogu stops walking. Very slowly, he says, “...Yes, Mayfeld. We are.”

“Oh.” Mayfeld blinks, again. “I thought we were gonna pretend we lost it, or somethin’. Seemed like the guy was just tryna mind his business. You sure you wanna kill it?”

“I-” Grogu frowns. Discomfort gnaws at his veins, brought on especially by the fact that he had been thinking about it, until that very moment. He doesn’t ‘want’ to kill the animal, but-

“It’s the job, Mayfeld. I have to.”

“Y’know technically,” Mayfeld is quick to say, “the job said to get rid of it.”

“And killing it,” Grogu retorts, rather testily, “is the best and quickest way to do so.”

“To you, maybe, Mister ‘I’m-Covered-In-The-Strongest-Metal-In-The-Galaxy’,” Mayfeld huffs. In the silence of Grogu’s surprise, he quickly continues, “Look. I’m just saying, there are alternatives. And I think you know that. And I think you’ve been thinking the same.”

Grogu turns around. “Really?” he drawls, crossing his arms. “And what makes you say that?”

“‘Cause we’ve been following the same set of tracks for the past five minutes in a circle.” Mayfeld mirrors his posture — crossing his arms over his chest. He cocks his head to the side. “But you knew that already.”

Grogu’s jaw tightens, and his teeth quietly gnash together.

…what?

As subtly as he can, he tries to look at the tracks he’d been following — turning around and pretending that it’s because he’s sick of looking at the sharpshooter, and not because he’s frantically checking their surroundings. Every familiar branch and bush feels like a stab to his chest — oh, how mortifying.

He hadn’t known, actually. He really hadn’t. It must’ve slipped his attention, somehow — his focus wavering.

“How about we just,” Mayfeld suggests, drawing him from the beginnings of a downward spiral and back to the present, “take a breather, eh? We’ve got daylight to kill.”

Grogu huffs. “A breather,” he echoes, like a bitter mutter. “This sounds familiar.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But this time,” Mayfeld moves past him, waggling his finger, “we keep the galavanting off to a minimum. How’s about it?”

Grogu hesitates. Mayfeld twists around and starts walking backwards — smoothly stepping over roots and around bushes. How many times had they been in this exact spot, exactly?

“Kid,” the sharpshooter sighs. “It’s five minutes. Come on. My legs are killing me. Five minutes and you can go back to trying to kill the big, stupid deer.”

“If,” Mayfeld adds, quickly — his eyebrows lift, “you still wanna do that, that is.”

Grogu’s gaze falls, to the ground. They land on those tracks that he’d been following — now that he’s looking, he can see the quiet indentations of his own footprints in the mud and mulch, and see how they litter, easily overpowering the Deer’s hoofprints.

“...fine,” he sighs out, at last. Grogu starts trailing after Mayfeld. “Five minutes.”

The sharpshooter shoots him a sharp grin. Grogu scowls.

Mayfeld wanders over to a tree, with roots large and high enough out of the ground to sit on. With a huff, the sharpshooter does, leaning against the trunk with an expression of utter bliss.

“Ah,” he stretches out his legs, and sighs, “that’s better.”

Grogu can’t help but snort at him, softly shaking his head. “Joint problems, old man?”

“Shut up.” Mayfeld’s got his eyes shut. “You don’t know what it’s like, alright? You’re all- All springy and sproingy. And young.”

Grogu huffs. He sits on the ground, curling his knees to his chest. The words, scathing rebukes, die on his tongue, and he doesn’t say anything else.

The silence…doesn’t quite stretch. It’s there, but it’s almost…comfortable. The forest is quiet, but not silent — alive, still, with signs of life. It is alive, and so are they — at this moment, they simply are. 

It’s…nice.

“Hey,” Mayfeld says, and utterly shatters that sentiment. “How old are you? Like, actually.”

Very slowly, very resignedly, Grogu drags his gaze back over to the sharpshooter. He doesn’t move otherwise, leaving Mayfeld to shift and sit up — peering at his visor.

“Kid. Hey. Hey, Mando.” Mayfeld waits for all of a second, before pitching his voice up obnoxiously. “Maaaaandoooo. Mando. Mando. Kid. Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey-”

“Oh my god-” Grogu whips his head to the side, sharply. “What.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighty.”

“Karking liar.” Mayfeld leans back, waving him off. “I mean actually. Be honest. How old are you?”

Irritation sparks in his chest, his veins. Grogu grits his teeth. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Mayfeld says, quickly and flippantly — taking him by surprise. In the silence, the sharpshooter says, “It’s not about that though. You were right earlier. I don’t know you.”

Very slowly, Grogu curls the fingers of a hand into a fist. “So?”

“So. I’d like to change that. I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” Grogu shifts. He puts weight on his feet — ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. “For what reason?”

Mayfeld slowly tilts his head to the side. His features shift, shuffling into an expression of…

…is that pity?

“Jeez,” Mayfeld mutters. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he, very obviously, gives Grogu a full look-over. “You’re messed up.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Look, is it so hard to believe that I just, I dunno, like you?”

Grogu’s silence, born out of shock, is an answer in and of itself.

Mayfeld shakes his head at him. He almost looks sorrowful, almost pained.

(And Grogu says ‘almost’, because he cannot stand to say that it was just those things.)

“Sometimes,” Mayfeld begins, and Grogu cannot stand the genuine patience in his voice — would’ve hated it less if it had been a joke, or a sneer, or anything less real. “Sometimes, people in the galaxy meet. And, sometimes, rarely, they take a liking to each other.”

Grogu would hate this less if it weren’t so damn gentle.

“Now, see, when this happens, usually they try to get to know each other. And…” Mayfeld spreads his arms, palms facing upward and outward. “That’s it! Crazy, I know, but there’s no ulterior motive, and there’s no long run, and that’s it.”

Grogu would hate this less if it-

“I know what friends are,” he mutters. He pulls his knees closer against his chest, squeezing into a smaller space. “I’ve had them before.”

“But you don’t think you deserve them.” Mayfeld cocks an eyebrow at yet another one of Grogu’s silences. “Hm.”

Quietly, because if he tries to be louder he feels he will shatter, Grogu sputters. “I- You- You can’t ‘hm’ me. I’m the one who does the humming. And don’t act like you know what I’m feeling. You don’t. You- you can’t.”

Through the thickness of his voice, the tightness of his throat, Grogu forces himself to say, “You don’t know what I’m feeling. You can’t possibly.”

Something quiet in Mayfeld’s eyes falls. It doesn’t quite look like he understands — doesn’t quite look like a revelation has just been dropped onto his lap, and that he suddenly knows it all.

Rather, it looks like something he had been guessing had simply been confirmed. And that here Grogu was, living proof in some shape or form — evidence of a tragedy, of what’s left behind.

“I don’t know,” Mayfeld admits, quietly. Then, the sharpshooter shrugs, and looks away — staring at the forest floor, almost ruefully. “I get the feeling, though. Like you’re all…rotten and foul on the inside. Thinking that you don’t deserve people to watch your back.”

Grogu blinks. He blinks again, and again, and again. “...you get it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You?” Grogu shifts, marginally straightening up his spine. “You- you have a- a crew. Vhel and Dran and Bins. They’re all fiercely loyal to you. They like you.”

“Well of course they do. I’m a karking treat to be around.” Despite being a treat, Mayfeld draws his knees up and into his chest — gnawing quietly on the inside of his cheek. The silence isn’t long, but it isn’t brief either, and when the sharpshooter finally does speak, it’s quiet and to the forest floor, “But that wasn’t always the case. I wasn’t always Gods’ Gift to ye merry folk, y’know? I was-”

Mayfeld breathes out, sharp. He looks up — staring into Grogu’s visor as if the sharpshooter could see the face underneath. 

He says, quietly, like a confession done before, “I joined the Empire, kid. It’s a damn challenge to sink much lower.”

Grogu blinks, slowly. Something sorrowful gnaws at the bones of his ribcage. “That…that was a long time ago, though.”

“Yeah?” Mayfeld cocks an eyebrow. “But you’re still hunting them.”

Heedless of the weight of their conversation, the forest goes on. Heedless of the silence, heavy and damning, life breathes. He wants to curse at it — how could you not be aware? Of the vastness of this silence?

“...all I’m saying,” Mayfeld says, at last. The quiet of his voice doesn’t break the silence — rather it makes room alongside it. Coexisting. “Is that the galaxy is a big place. And, sometimes, it gets pretty lonely. Y’know?”

Grogu looks away. He stares at the forest floor —There’s a small bug carrying a leaf much bigger than it is — it wobbles, precariously, with each and every step and yet stubbornly pushes on.

“Yeah,” Grogu says, softly. “I know.”

The small bug disappears underneath the dirt and a root. It brought its leaf with it.

The quiet coexists, with them.

“...seventy-seven.”

Mayfeld blinks. “What’s that?”

“My age.” Grogu taps a finger on his leg — a small fidget. “I’m seventy-seven. I just say eighty out of, y’know, convenience. Seventy-seven isn’t a fun number.”

Through the corner of his eye, Grogu watches the way Mayfeld’s eyebrows furrow. The sharpshooter looks confused, then disbelieving, then annoyed.

Then, back to confused.

“...you’re messing with me.”

Grogu pulls a face. He looks up, meeting Mayfeld’s gaze squarely through the visor — unfaltering and unwavering.

“You are. You’re messing with me,” Mayfeld says, again. His eyes are widening slowly. “You- You’re not serious?”

Grogu’s silences have been pretty telling, these past few minutes. This one isn’t any different.

“I-” Mayfeld’s jaw drops. “Wh- Really? How- Why?”

…why?

Grogu huffs. “Well, you see. Sometimes, when people like each other, in a different way than some other people do, they-”

“You are not about to explain the miracle of life to me.”

“You asked.” Grogu wrinkles his nose up — pulling a face. “How old did you think I was?”

“Like- eighteen? Twenty at most.”

“If I was twenty I’d be,” Grogu holds his hands out, palms facing each other, a small distance apart. It’s as if he were holding onto an invisible loaf of bread. “This big? A baby, still. No thanks.”

“What? No. No. ” Mayfeld looks disturbed. “Why?”

Grogu rests his hands on his stomach. He shrugs. “Species age differently.”

“It’s a species thing? Like, Mandalorian?” Mayfeld’s eyes widen. “If you’re eighty and that small then how old is your brother-”

“Mandalorian isn’t a species, sharpshooter.” Grogu shoots him a low look. He huffs. “Vars mentioned a creed before. Weren’t you listening?”

“Not really.” 

“Oh.” And here Grogu thought the sharpshooter had been so curious. Maybe it was more of a small-talk thing, instead of an intel thing. How peculiar.

Quickly, Mayfeld says, “You gotta cut me some slack for not knowing, though. You’re only the second Mandalorian I’ve ever met in my life. There aren’t a ton of you around.”

Grogu feels the way his own expression pinches, underneath the helmet. He turns his head away, staring out into the forest — the trees and the way the shadows shift with the swaying of the canopy of leaves.

“No,” he says, at last. “There aren’t.”

The silence that follows is…heavy, ruthless — choking down his throat. Grogu swallows and feels as if he’s only suffocating further, twitches and feels he’s only sinking underneath that tide.

“You asked,” Grogu says, softly — when he thinks the silence will drive him mad, the grief given to him by his father and his friends and his family, like an heirloom, like a promise, “you asked what I meant. ‘Our secrecy is our survival, our survival is our strength’.”

Mayfeld doesn’t say anything. When Grogu turns his head back around to look, the sharpshooter is staring at him — patiently, which isn’t something Grogu thought was possible. Surprises truly are everywhere.

“I’m,” Grogu pauses for a breath — for strength, “not the only Mandalorian to hate the Empire. And the reason for that is the same reason why there aren’t many of us left.”

Very subtly, Mayfeld’s expression shifts — he looks as if everything had just suddenly clicked. “Oh.”

“...Hm.”  

“Oh,” Mayfeld says, after a while, again. His expression shifts once more, and now the sharpshooter just looks…uncomfortable? As if he’s suddenly presented with an idea, a concept or an emotion that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. The premise is so familiar to Grogu that he can’t help the low thrum of sympathy. “Yeowch.”

Grogu stares at him. Mayfeld winces — he bites on his lip, discomfort mounting and leaking into his Song, until the notes thrum and sing and wail with those tunes.

“...’yeowch’.”

“Well what’d ya- What do you want me to say to that?!”

“Not ‘yeowch’.” Grogu snorts, shoulders shaking. It’s with a laugh in the undercurrent of his words does he say, “Anything other than a ‘yeowch’.”

Mayfeld blinks, a couple of times — a surprised glint to his eyes. Like dew, it melts — shifts into an almost-warmth, an annoyance for the sake of show. “Oh yeah, laugh it up,” he harrumphs, and a tension seeps out of his shoulders. “You were the one who dropped that onto me.”

“You asked!"

“And I wasn’t expecting you to karking answer!” Mayfeld gestures vaguely at him, hands flapping and fingers mere centimetres away from colliding with his helmet — as if the sharpshooter isn’t sure whether to slap him or choke him. “Sure I ask. I do that all the time.”

“Not to me. You’ve never asked before today.”

“Because I wasn’t boutta chase you off! You Mandalorians are notoriously skittish-”

“ ‘Skittish’ -!”

“I said what I said.” Mayfeld crosses his arms, tilting his chin up — a challenge. “Skittish. That’s what you lot are. Other than Vars, but he’s an outlier.”

“Right. What, he’s the-” Grogu cocks his head. “Third-ever Mandalorian, right? Careful, sharpshooter, you’re starting up a collection.”

“I am, am I?” Mayfeld snorts. “Worst collection in the galaxy ever. Oh, why wouldn’t I want a gaggle of sharp and pointy Mandos who don’t even answer my questions and like to stare at me? As if I’m the novelty.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think there’s nothing novel about you.”

Mayfeld swipes at him, half-heartedly. “I take it back. I take it back. I liked it when you didn’t talk.”

“Yeowch.”

“Yeah. Yeowch it up.” Mayfeld crosses his arms again and smugly tilts his chin up, as if he’s won the argument. “This thing we’ve got going? This conversation? It’s new ground for the both of us, alright? Keep an open head about it.”

“Oh? What, the Mandalorian who came before me didn’t butter you up?”

“You’d believe me if I said that guy was an even worse conversationalist?” Mayfeld snorts, softly — he shakes his head. “Then again, I did stab him in the back the first time we met.”

“Bastard.”

“Mhm. If it makes you feel better, it didn’t work.” Something bitter, something amused, something rueful all flicker across the sharpshooter’s face just then — brought onto some old memory. Mayfeld huffs another snort; softer, and quieter. “He proved every legend I’ve ever heard. If you’re a fairytale princess, he’s the knight in shining armour.”

“I’m not a knight in shining armour?” Grogu frowns. He’s literally got the armour. “You sure?”

“I mean, not as much as he was.”

Grogu crosses his arms. Softly, he harrumphs. “You know, the concept of ‘more Mandalorian’ died out a couple years ago. You can’t goad me, it won’t work.”

Mayfeld pulls a face; cocking up an eyebrow. “Wasn’t trying to. I guess that just means you really were goaded, huh? You’ve got Mando jealousy?”

Grogu kicks at him. Unlike Mayfeld’s swipe, it connects — the sharpshooter jolts forward, grabbing at his shin.

“Ow!”

“I could kill you for that.”

“You could kill me for a lot of things.” Mayfeld rubs at his leg with a pained grimace. He huffs, shooting Grogu a low look. “Listen, you may be my favourite Mando-”

“Ew.”

“-At this moment, but the other guy?” Using the hand rubbing at his leg, Mayfeld gestures. “Whole other league. I mentioned trying to stab him in the back?”

Grogu hesitates. He dips his chin into a nod.

“Yeah, he kicked my ass into a pulp. Threw me into a new republic prison just because it was convenient, don’t ask,” Mayfeld adds, before Grogu could ask, “and then broke me out of there. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“If your tales were any taller, sharpshooter, they’d topple.”

“It’s the truth! Swear on it. Swear it on- on anything. On my life.” Mayfeld rests a hand on his chest, over his heart — some gesture of taking an oath, probably. “Granted, I was useful. I knew my way around an Imperial base. Afterwards, he let me go, and Migs Mayfeld has been dead ever since.”

Oh? Grogu shifts, subtly sitting up. “Really?”

“Yep.” Drawn away by his own memories, Mayfeld’s eyes grow hazy and unfocused. Then, briefly, they sharpen — Mayfeld smirks at him. “But I thought you didn’t wanna hear the story of Morak.”

Grogu blinks. Slowly, as the realisation sinks in, his jaw drops. “That’s Morak? You didn’t tell me-”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Again, Grogu kicks at him — Mayfeld wisens up and angles his legs away from Grogu’s reach. 

Grogu mutters, mostly to himself, “Though I guess I can see a Mandalorian blowing up a rhydonium refinery. Doesn’t even have to be Imperial.”

“Huh?”

“Big boom. It’s fun.” Grogu had fun, blowing up the rhydonium truck, so he can only imagine what a whole refinery would’ve felt like. Think of the shrapnel from that explosion.

Hm. On second thought, maybe not so fun.

“Ah.” Mayfeld pulls a face. “Fair. But to set the record straight, I’ll have you know that it was me who blew up the refinery. My Mandalorian friend just kinda stood there while it happened. He passed me the gun.”

“You blew up a rhydonium refinery with a gun.”

“What can I say? Big boom.”

“Your tale is swaying, Mayfeld. I think it’s about to fall.”

“Oh, psfh-” Mayfeld waves him off, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you like, check? Aren’t you some sort of living lie detector or something? You know I’m telling the truth.”

Grogu blinks at him, slowly. A frown pulls at his lips.

The sharpshooter is right. Throughout it all, nothing glaring had stood out from his symphony — throughout it all, there has been nothing dishonest, nothing sneaky. As far as Grogu can tell, he’s telling the truth.

Grogu hesitates, turning the melody over in his head a couple times — just to be sure. Finally, he huffs. “Fine. If you must sing this Mandalorian’s praises so badly.”

“Is that an invitation? I couldn’t hear it over all your jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Sounds like what someone jealous would say.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t. You love me.” Mayfeld grins at him — full of teeth, like a loth wolf. It reminds him of Vars, suddenly and painfully, and for a moment Grogu cannot help the low, genuine huff of a chuckle.

“Sometimes,” Mayfeld goes on to say, “sometimes, I think I dreamt him up. That I probably, I dunno, hallucinated the whole ordeal. What’s more believable? That the jungles of Morak messed with my head or that a Mandalorian captain or some shit set me free.”

“Captain?”

“He had a mark,” Mayfeld taps on his right shoulder, “on his armour. Looked sick. Assumed it was probably a rank insignia? It wasn’t there the first time we saw each other, only the second.”

Grogu frowns. A rank insignia? It must’ve been a very old Mandalorian, then — the only people Grogu knows to have rank insignias on their armour is Al’verde, and the Mandalorians who made it from before the Purge.

Or, alternatively, it’s a very young Mandalorian who thought the mark looked cool and painted it on his armour for funsies.

“Not young,” Mayfeld offers. “I could tell you that much. About my age, maybe a bit older? Acted like he was anyway.”

Grogu huffs, softly. He crosses his arms. “Really full of critical info, aren’t you, sharpshooter? The most specific of details.”

“Oh shut it.” Mayfeld kicks at him again, scuffing up the fallen leaves and the mulch and the dirt with his boot. As he leans back, a quiet glint enters his eyes — his Song. Mayfeld pulls a thoughtful face.

“It looked like yours, actually. Now that I’m looking.” 

Grogu feels himself go still.

“...what?”

“The insignia, I mean. Looked a lot like how yours does.” Flippantly, almost dismissively, Mayfeld gestures to Grogu’s pauldron, to his-

His signet.

The sharpshooter was still talking — though, by now, the words fall onto Grogu’s deaf ears. His mind begins piecing together a puzzle, a picture, and every time something slots into place, Grogu thinks he stops breathing some more.

“-not even listening. Mando! Hey, dumbass!”

Grogu swallows, tightly. 

“Mayfeld,” he feels himself say — his tongue moving almost of his own accord. Surely, it must be, he thinks — his words are steadier than he could possibly be. “The Mandalorian. Describe him to me.”

Mayfeld blinks. “Huh? What, you knew him?”

Grogu doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust himself to say anything, doesn’t trust himself not to-

Eventually, Mayfeld relents. “Well, he was…humanoid. Taller than me. Never took the helmet off. Shiny. Like, really shiny. He didn’t have any of…of your colours. Uhm-”

“His,” Grogu swallows, against the quiet break of his voice, “his signet?”

Mayfeld blinks, again. “Signet?”

“The- the mark, Mayfeld. On his shoulder.” Fueled by some emotion too vast for him to understand quite yet, Grogu reaches up and unclasps his pauldron from his shoulder. He holds it out and it’s exactly the same as if he’d reached into his chest and tore his heart out from his ribs.

Feels like it, too.

Mayfeld’s brow furrows, but he leans forward and takes in the signet.

And then, the furrow in his brow growing, he nods.

“Uh- Yeah. Wait- Yeah, that’s exactly it. A spitting image.”

…when Grogu comes to again, his head is still ringing. The forest is too loud. Mayfeld’s voice is too quiet, words muffled. 

His hands are cupped around nothing. Mayfeld’s picked his pauldron up, now, though not to take — just to get a better look, apparently. Not that he was doing much of that, for his eyes are glued to Grogu’s visor.

Grogu’s fingers twitch. They curl into fists.

“-do-?”

He drops his hands. His claws dig into the mulch and the dirt.

“Kid-”

A snap near his head violently shoves him back to the present. Grogu flinches away from it as if it were a gunshot.

Mayfeld’s squinting at him now. His lip twists to something between a nervous sneer and a frown. 

“You wanna tell me what a signet is?” The sharpshooter leans back. He’s still got Grogu’s pauldron balanced on the palm of his hand. Mayfeld sounds like he’s trying for lightheartedness. Mayfeld sounds like he’s failed. “Or am I gonna have to ask your brother ‘bout it?”

Grogu stares at him, for a while. His lips are slightly parted, jaw slightly agape. It’s baffling — Mayfeld acts as if the whole damn galaxy hadn’t just…

… stopped.

“A signet,” Grogu says, with words that he does not feel, “‘s the symbol of a clan.”

A beat passes.

“A karking what.”

Mayfeld’s Song, despite the question, sounds like he knows well enough what it means.

The sharpshooter suddenly stands. The pauldron goes tumbling off his palm, and Grogu moves to catch it out of instinct. He barely just does.

“So you’re- Shit.” Mayfeld takes half a step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean- Wait, hold on. Hang on. No- Come on. You’re-”

Grogu is too preoccupied with watching the way the dappled sunlight shines against the mudhorn; he doesn’t see it, when it all clicks in place for Mayfeld.

“Oh my kark are you the little green guy?”

Grogu winces. Oh, that is uncomfortable.

"You are! Oh kark you are-"

…wait.

“You’ve met me,” Grogu says, more to Mayfeld’s boots than anything. He brings the pauldron to his lap. His voice is quiet. “You’ve met me, before…”

He can’t even finish that sentence, words trailing off into the quiet of the woods. The leaves are still rustling. The animals are still calling. The galaxy goes on.

And Grogu cannot help but feel like he’s being left behind.

Mayfeld is pacing, now. He’s stepped away, over the roots, to a large enough empty space that lets him go step, step, step, turn. It sounds like he’s drawing his hand over his face, hissing and sniffing, thoughts loud enough to near be cacophonous. 

And then, inexplicably, Mayfeld barks out a laugh. His pacing comes to an abrupt halt.

“You’re not messing with me, are you?”

Grogu slowly lifts his visor up. He stares at the sharpshooter. He says nothing.

After a while, Mayfeld turns and starts pacing again. Now that Grogu’s looking, he can see the wide grin Mayfeld is unsuccessfully trying to hide under his hand. His snickering is growing louder.

If Grogu weren’t so shocked, he’d probably be offended.

“What’re the odds-” Mayfeld stops. His snickers grow into small laughs, and he bends forward at the waist, hands wrapped around his stomach. He’s grinning, and as he glances up at Grogu, that grin only grows. “Hah! Oh, man! Oh, gods it’s starting to click- The Razor Crest, the whole of- of everything! Gods! What’re the odds?”

Grogu wordlessly fits his pauldron back into its slot. The click is something he feels like thunder in his heart.

“You knew him,” Grogu says, quietly, as if speaking the truth would make it…less real? More real? He’s not sure what he quite wants, at the moment. The Force wails in low, crooning warbles. 

His own grief feels like it’d like to wail. Instead, it bubbles in his chest, and stays put. Instead, he feels, it chokes him.

Mayfeld strides back over and plops down where he sat before. He crosses his legs, bracing his hands on his knees, and leans forward. He’s grinning, still. It looks somehow wider. “Knew him? Eh. I met him, but yeah- Your old man saved my life! Can’t believe it- All this time and-”

Suddenly, Mayfeld barks out another, loud laugh and raises his hand to gesture at him — Grogu resists the urge to flinch. 

“You know, last I saw him- Which was karking Morak, by the way, again what are the odds- Anyway, last I saw him, they told me he was looking for you! And look!” Mayfeld gestures at him again, looking, for all the world, to be the happiest man alive. “Looks like it all worked out, eh? Eh?”

It’s too much, suddenly.

Grogu stands. His shoulders are drawn up and tight. His claws dig into the palms of his hands, through the gloves. He steps around the roots of the tree and starts walking away.

Behind him, Mayfeld makes a rather undignified, confused squawk. “Hey- What? Mando, come on! Is it something I said-? Where are you going?”

Grogu reaches up, cycling through the modes of his visor. He sweeps the forest floor for tracks. The focus of the hunt struggles to stifle the bubbling of his emotion, but it has had plenty of practice to do so — thus, it does.

“Kid.” Mayfeld sounds closer. Now, he sounds upset. His feet scuff up the fallen leaves and twigs as he steps closer. “Hey- Talk to me. Y’know, I don’t think your dad would quite like the way you’re being such an-”

Mayfeld shuts up abruptly, eyes blowing wide. 

The tip of Grogu’s spear pokes against his throat.

“Do not,” Grogu seethes, every word one wretched snarl of its own, “try to tell me what he would’ve wanted.”

Mayfeld, his hands half-raised up in a gesture of surrender, blinks.

And this time, Grogu is there to see how it all clicks again.

There dawns a slow horror, in both the sharpshooter’s Song, and in the pit of Grogu’s stomach. Horror, and dread — cold, like a corpse.

“...no.”

Mayfeld’s voice is small. Afraid, almost, but not of him, and not of the spear. The sharpshooter stares down at him, his eyes growing steadily wider. It’s like he’s pleading for Grogu to explain that this was all just some sick, cruel joke.

Grogu’s grip on the spear tightens.

Mayfeld draws in a sharp breath. “No,” he says again. “I- No, no way. You- No. No. No.”

A pause. The truth makes itself known in the ugly silence

“... how?”

Grogu’s struck with the sudden, rather intense urge to drive his spear through the sharpshooter’s skull. He bites down on that urge, and on his tongue — slowly, he pulls his hand back. The tip of his spear brushes against the dirt.

The words catch on his tongue. When Grogu swallows, it feels an awful lot like he’s choking.

“...it’s got something to do with the guy you’re hunting?” Mayfeld guesses, when the silence stretches for a second, two, three too long. Slowly, Mayfeld lowers his hands back to his sides. “Moff Gideon?”

Grogu tastes his own blood. It takes him a moment to realise he’s biting on his tongue.

“...yes.” Again, it’s suddenly too much. He turns away. He pretends he’s speaking to the woods when he says, “Killed.”

“So this is revenge.” Mayfeld sounds as if he’s been struck with a realisation. “Oh, kark.”

It doesn’t sound like a good realisation.

But what does Grogu care? He doesn’t — he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t care about that. He shouldn’t — doesn’t — care about Migs Mayfeld.  

He knows better. Oh, he knows better.

When Grogu starts walking again, back into the depths of the woods, back to tracking, Mayfeld doesn’t call out to him immediately. Neither does he move, or makes any inclination to help. Neither does he leave, and at the very least rips that bandage off, and at the very least gives him that space to focus.

Grogu’s thoughts are loud enough. He doesn’t need Mayfeld’s noisy Song to pair with it.

Grogu shoves it to the side, and focuses on the here, and the now.

…he picks up tracks, barely discernable underneath all that heavy traffic. But it leads away, a trail that he’s sure he has not yet walked. It’s a start. Grogu retracts his spear and clicks it back onto his belt.

“Kid-” Mayfeld seems to realise he’s about to get left behind. Grogu can hear, once again, the sound of his boots against the forest floor. “Where are you going?”

Isn’t it obvious. “Going to get the job done.”

“What?” Mayfeld keeps trailing behind him. His voice turns flat around the edges. “How?”

“How do you think?” Grogu spits back, through gritted teeth. “I’m going to kill it.”

“Woah, wait-” Mayfeld jogs to catch up. Then, the sharpshooter is standing in front of him, and blocking his path. He’s half-lifted his hands up again. “Let’s not be hasty-”

“‘Hasty’?” Grogu stops. He snarls. “I’ve wasted enough time entertaining you. Gods, if you weren’t useful to me-”

Mayfeld reels back, at that. His brow furrows.

For a second, he looks hurt.

Then, his expression shifts. His Song warps. Then, Mayfeld looks mad . 

“Are you being karking serious?” The sharpshooter curls his lip. “After everything we’ve been through-”

“I do not give a damn about what you want.” Grogu rests a hand on his chest. “But I have a job to do. So, step aside, Caine.”

“Like hell I will-”

“You-”

“I’ve spent these past few months tiptoeing around you,” Mayfeld lifts up a finger, cutting him off, “not sure of what’s too much to push and what’s something you need to talk about-”

“I don’t-”

“Godsdamnit I am trying to help you-!”

“I don’t need your HELP!” Grogu shoves past him, back on the trail. With how loudly he’s storming, how viciously he’s seething, however, the Deer would probably hear him from miles away. 

“That’s bantha shit!” Mayfeld hollers from behind him, stubbornly. “You’ll kill yourself like this!”

“Fine!” Grogu fires back, and means every word. “So be it!”

“Don’t say that!”

“Why do you care?” Grogu whirls around. He ignores the way his voice breaks at that very last word. He asks, again, damn it all, “Why do you care…?”

Mayfeld stops. A million different expression flashes through his eyes. A million different melodies make their home in his Song. It’s as indiscernible as it is overwhelming — everything as well as it is nothing. For a moment, and then two, the sharpshooter says…nothing.

“Because-” Mayfeld stops. “Because- ‘Cause I-”

He hisses, frustratedly, and says, “Listen, he wouldn’t have-”

Grogu turns away. “I’m done.”

“You know he wouldn’t!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him.” It’s as much as a retort as an admission of sin — dreaded words slipping through his teeth, grief masked as anger masked as indifference. Grogu follows the tracks, so much emotion in his body then it feels like he’s about seconds from exploding. “I don’t know anything about him because he’s gone.”

And for one final time, Grogu whirls around. He faces the sharpshooter, stance wide as if in battle — teeth and claws bared as if such as well.

“But what I do know? Is that my father,” Grogu spits, and in another life, it’d have been a wail, “did not die for me to feel bad about doing my job. I’m going to kill that animal. I’m going to get paid. I’m going to hunt down Moff Gideon.”

Grogu draws in a shuddering, rattling breath.

“With, or without your help.”

The forest…cares not, for the roaring in Grogu’s blood and ears. Leaves rustle still. Animals warble. Time does not stop.

But Mayfeld does. For a long, long time, Mayfeld stops, and just stares at him. 

Grogu will not put a name to the expression on the sharpshooter’s face, nor the look in his eyes. He’s not going to describe it. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter. Grogu will not talk about the way Mayfeld stares at him.

Grogu turns around and heads further into the woods. 

Mayfeld’s footsteps do not follow.

The beast falls to beskar.

Sunset sends light hued in rich oranges peeking through the gaps in tree trunks, and in dappled spots through the overhead canopy of leaves. They rustle as the wind blows through.

But the rustling of the leaves and wind are the only sounds here, now. There are no birds chirping. There are no animals calling. 

It is silent.

Down on the forest floor, Grogu grabs the base of the beast’s antlers, and a vibroblade from his belt. There’s a lot to cut through, but the beast isn’t in any position to try and fight him now.

It isn’t in any position to do much of anything anymore, really.

The Force is quiet. He thinks, if he wanted to, he could easily chalk up the way it shifts and ripples to be in mourning tunes. The way it pushes and pulls around the beast’s carcass like the solemn lapping of waves upon a shore. It’d be easy to call it all as grief, if he wanted to.

But Grogu does not want to. Therefore, he doesn’t.

As the shadows stretch, and as the sun sets further, Grogu suddenly goes still.

The hunt is…over. It’s enough of a reprieve for his mind to start moving again; for his thoughts to churn. Grogu draws in a breath, and the ragged sound of it cuts through the forced and false tranquillity of the woods like a jagged shard of glass.

Mayfeld’s voice is in his head. And one phrase of his, in particular, is sticking out in his brain, like his spear is protruding out of the beast’s flank.

Grogu draws in another breath.

Did you lead him to me?

His grip on the antlers, and on his vibroblade, tightens.

Did you lead Migs Mayfeld to me? Was that you?

The Force is a being that has no use for words, and no real point to being articulate. But the buzzing in his ears, the shift, the purr in the responding melody could easily be translated as a;

Yes.

Grogu feels his jaw tighten.

Why?

Then he says, out loud, “I didn’t need that.”

His voice is much too loud; a Song in a graveyard. He says again, through teeth gritted now, “I didn’t need that.”

The Force, inarticulate being that it was, chooses not to answer him then.

After a second, Grogu gets back to work.