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Chapter Text

The sea lashed monstrously against the sheer cliffs, its tireless roaring rushing upwards as a harsh, dark rain poured down. Thunder lurked in the clouds but the lightning kept its distance, revealing itself in just faint, deceptively weak pulses that couldn’t bring any colour to the shrouded world below.

They said it didn’t rain constantly on Kalevala; they said there were breaks and even dry spells where the clouds receded and silver light coated the plains, turning the grass into something gem-like, but Koska had never seen the sun touch the land. The weather never particularly bothered her—Mandalorians were trained to withstand the elements regardless of which extreme they exhibited, and preferences were luxuries they had no time for—but she did wish the unremitting storm would pause, just for a few minutes, just for this moment.

It was a moment not to be repeated; a moment they had been working towards for the past ten years.

They disembarked from the Kom’rk, the three of them: she and Axe kept in line, a pace behind their lady. Bo-Katan Kryze bowed her head and slid her helmet off as her boots met the ever-drowned earth. She took a deep breath and held her head high, unconcerned with the rain spitting on her fair face as she made her way to the centre of the camp.

“Camp” felt like an inadequate term. With approximately 300 residents, their set-up was bigger than most villages. But theirs was an impermanent arrangement: they lived in tents, clustered together on a grassy plain, their ships parked along the fringe of the camp, the sharp wings of the Kom’rks protecting them like the spires of a grand, fearsome fence, the modified Gozanti freighter standing like a sentinel on the outskirts. The castle where the lady and her house hailed from—the castle and the associated dwellings which would’ve easily accommodated them and their company—lay in jagged, charred ruins within line of sight: a constant reminder of the Night of a Thousand Tears and all that had been taken from them.

The grass in the campgrounds had been effaced by all the comings and goings, leaving just earth which was never not mud and slush. Every step sank in and sucked out, the sound familiar, strangely exhilarating as they headed for the short, rocky outcropping near the centre of the camp: a kind of unofficial stage.

As Kryze took her station, Koska and Axe planted themselves on either side of her. They exchanged a look and a nod, then raised their arms in sync and clanged their vambraces together. The distinct, metallic ringing called the camp’s due attention.

Conversations cut out. Tent entrances flapped open and a wave of small, insignificant sounds rippled through the camp as all laid down their tools, their weapons, whatever else they had been occupied with. 

A hush swept over them all as eyes turned to their returned leader.

Kryze didn’t rush to speak. She looked over her soldiers with an expression that bespoke solemnity and certainty but did not give away her news. Koska surveyed the reaction, noting the mounting anticipation, her own heart growing and speeding up despite the fact she already knew, she had been there, had witnessed it all, but to hear it announced at last would be to make it real and final.

Taking a filling, fortifying breath, Kryze lifted her chin and set her shoulders.

“Moff Gideon is dead,” she declared, her voice swift and clear as glass, raised yet not shouted, cast out in just a way to reach the entire company.

There was a beat.

A collective gasp.

Eyes turned, heads turned.

And then thunder broke out in the camp.

Hands clapped, vambraces clanged, some even pounded their breastplates in pure, unbridled exaltation. Cheers erupted, victorious shouts flooded the air, drowning out the rain.

It went on past that point when customary applause petered out. They let it continue for a while longer as the celebration was warranted, but then Axe and Koska reigned it in, banging their vambraces until the cries abated.

“He was a blight on our people for years. His death was well-deserved; his death now seals the end of the Great Purge,” Kryze assured all and graciously held her speech as another expression of jubilation burst, rippling through the camp with as much vigor as before. 

It calmed on its own this time and she dipped her head in a short bow, understanding their excitement, thanking them for their ear. 

“But this victory, regrettably, comes with severe loss,” she announced, her tone shifting, building unease in her listeners. “The Darksaber, one of our most treasured symbols of power, has been lost forever.”

Beneath her helmet, Koska frowned. 

Her head snapped to the side to catch Axe’s reaction. If he had any reaction at all, he kept it well hidden beneath his helmet as his stance didn’t crack—he kept his head high, his spine straight, and his arms folded. His steadiness pressed Koska to remember herself, to resume and hold her position, tack it in place, stay in place.

“Its last possessor was unworthy,” Bo-Katan continued, ire dripping from her voice, “no true child of Mandalore ever viewed him as Mand’alor. You have proven loyal to me, to Mandalore, and for that I thank you. There is no Darksaber for me to wield but I will continue to serve you, as I have for decades. Tonight, we celebrate our victory, we mourn our loss, and tomorrow we awaken to continue on our path to reclaiming our homeworld!”

Again, the applause and the cheers, louder than before, lasting longer.

Koska didn’t hear it, not fully; confusion permeated her thoughts, deafening the world around her as doubts and questions took shape and definition, raking at her with insistent, digging claws.

. . . . .

Drink flowed plentifully, carrying them into the night. Noise rose, growing into something like a solid, jagged, shapeless mass that engulfed the camp and reached far across the open plains. When the arms grew heavy and the steps wayward, Koska withdrew, her mind too preoccupied and her anxieties too demanding to allow her to join in the debauchery.

She walked far, following the viridescent hills until she reached a point where the camp shrank into a diorama like something one would use to illustrate a plan of attack. She stood there a while then went further, tracing her way down to the shoreline where the only living thing in sight was herself. She planted herself on the rocks and filled her lungs with briny air as she watched the violent waves lash at the grey sand.

She went out in search of perspective but found no new angles, no new understanding, just distraction. When at last she had to concede she wouldn’t grasp the situation on her own and the natural light had begun fading, she made her way back.

Skirting the edge of the camp, she honed in on Axe’s tent. A warm line of light trimmed the edges, seeping through the thick panels, betraying the inhabitant. Koska hung back a moment, visually tracking the shadowy blur, measuring the sobriety of his movement before she approached.

Though undefined, she could pick out his shadow. He moved little, but when he did, it was controlled and intent, not sloppy or even lazy; he seemed to be cleaning his gear. He was also the only shadow present, so Koska let out a short, silent, relieved breath and continued.

“Axe? I have to talk to you,” she called at the entrance.

There was a pause then a terse sigh and a soft, controlled clatter as he set his occupation down. Just two strides brought him to the entrance and he split it open with a sharp sweep of his unarmoured arm.

“What is it?” he asked, looking her up and down. 

Most saw him as perpetually grumpy; Koska had worked alongside him long enough to understand he was just a very blunt man with no time for airs or graces. Even knowing that and given to offering him the benefit of the doubt, she often read malcontentment in his countenance. Now, however, there was something else, something she couldn’t immediately identify in the sharp corners of his expression—whatever it was, it put her on edge.

“Lady Kryze’s speech…” she began but uncertainty bubbled up and blotted out the end of her sentence. “She didn’t tell them,” she went ahead and said, simply, straightforwardly.

Axe’s already present frown deepened and he shook his head slightly, like she wasn’t making sense. “Tell them what?”

“The truth. About the Darksaber,” Koska tacked on, mindfully lowering her voice and sparing a glance about.

Axe scoffed, his frown washed away by something almost amused. “She did tell the truth: it’s lost forever.”

Koska now shook her head. “But the Moff said it was won by Din Djarin. It’s not lost then; it’s with him.”

She recalled the way he had delivered the tale, chuffing and grinning like Bo-Katan didn’t have him pinned to the wall of the prison transport, her wrist blade pressed so close to his throat, it coaxed out a thin line of blood like a crimson choker.

“I know what you seek, but I don’t have it,” he had said, eyes sparkling. “In fact, according to your own laws and customs, I’ve lost my claim to it.”

“Speak plain or I’ll see to it that you suffer far more than necessary,” Bo-Katan threatened, her helmet’s vocoder not at all hiding the distinct note of gritted teeth.

“It was won in rightful combat by Din Djarin,” Gideon explained, slowly and carefully, like a teacher imparting a lesson to a struggling student.

“Who is Din Djarin?”

“You don’t know? Why, you’ve worked together; how could you not know his name? Perhaps you’ll know him by his other descriptor. What was it again? Let me think… ah, yes. The Silver Mandalorian. A rather ostentatious name, if you ask me, but I suppose—”

“Where is he?” Bo-Katan demanded in a shout that seemed to rattle the confines of the cell.

Gideon’s crafted light-heartedness fell dead flat. “How should I know?” He raised his bound hands, motioned with a pointed flick of his eyes down at himself, at his bland prison uniform, at the fetters locked tight around his ankles. “Do you really believe a man in my position receives regular, authentic news of the outside world? He’s in the wind and your precious Darksaber is in his licit possession. Oh, how that must burn you,” he spat, still grinning, seething, acidic pleasure lacing his words.

He laughed and the sound of it—hysteric, callous, putrid—turned Koska’s stomach. 

That was when Bo-Katan killed him.

“It’s as good as lost then,” Axe told her presently.

“But—”

“Reeves,” he interrupted with frustration. He seemed to catch himself, pursing his lips tight and huffing a breath out his nose. Then he reached out and took her arm, pulling her into the tent. 

She let herself be moved but tore her arm out of his grip as soon as she was over the threshold, glaring at him. He didn’t see it as he started to pace, trudging to the other end of the tent with his head bent, his hand running through his hair harshly, agitation writ bold and clear in his mannerisms as he tried to collect his thoughts and order his argument.

This wasn’t his typical behaviour, either. 

“He’s an ignorant cultist,” he said, snapping around and gesturing tersely, keeping his voice low, ever aware that these tents were not sound-proof. He cut out a laugh, blunt and clipped. “He was surprised to learn not all Mandalorians are surgically attached to their helmets. He didn’t know anything about Jedi. He probably thinks the Darksaber is an ornamental paperweight.” He waved his hand like he was dismissing something. “There’s no way he understands what he possesses.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason to go find him?” Koska questioned. “We could retrieve the Darksaber. You and I could do it, bring it back—”

“No. It’s not worth it. We have far more important things to focus on now. When—if,”Axe corrected himself, holding up a finger, “if Lady Kryze sends us on such a task—fine, we’ll go and we’ll give it everything we have. Until then,” he said, closing the distance he had kept between them with a stride, stopping just a pace away from her and dropping his voice into something steeped in command and warning, “let it alone. Do you understand?”

“No,” Koska fired back immediately, hotly. “No, I don’t.”

Axe rolled his eyes, his head jerking to the side, the joint of his jaw popping. He seemed to consider something for a moment before whipping to face her again. “What good do you expect to come from making an issue of this?”

“I’m not making an issue; I’m asking why we are accepting a lie.”

“It’s not a lie. The Darksaber is in unworthy hands; it means nothing.”

“That’s not what the legends say. That’s not what we believe.”

“You’re young. You didn’t see what our people suffered at the hands of outsiders like Maul.”

“Din Djarin isn’t an outsider. He’s Mandalorian.”

“He’s from a Mandalorian cult,” Axe emphasized. “Think about it, Reeves; put your idealism aside and think. If he becomes Mand’alor, he’ll force us all to follow his cult’s ways. You may want to glue your helmet onto your head, but I don’t!”

Koska took a quick, sharp breath, readying her parry, but words failed her, leaving her standing there with a pounding heart and a mute mouth.

She couldn’t refute that. 

She had all the feeling, all the fire, but no ground to plant herself on.

They had had only one dealing with Din Djarin—or “Mando” as he had preferred to be called, guarding his name like it was something private, something he didn’t seem inclined to trust them with. It was true that she was the youngest one there, the least experienced; all she knew of the Children of the Watch were gloried ghost stories while Bo-Katan and Axe had actually had dealings with them. She knew they were zealots, sectarians, more concerned with stoking the embers of archaic rules than pitching their all into the present plight of their people.

They were also said to be unreasonable and vehemently prejudiced, keeping their distance from all as if being in the mere vicinity of anyone different would taint them.

Djarin wasn’t like that.

Taciturn, stubborn, pious, and downright prickly, sure, but he had taken a seat at their table and spoken with them as if they were equals. He had asked for their help and offered his in return, keeping his word and seeing the deal through even when the parameters shifted; if it hadn’t been for his contribution, his valiance, his strength, they would not have taken the freighter and its bounty. 

Before any of that, however, Koska got a read on him that neither Axe nor Bo-Katan had garnered; neither of them had felt the tremble in Djarin’s hands when she passed his child to him, neither of them had been close enough to hear his small sob of relief and his fight to even out his breathing, to push down his own distress from near-drowning to comfort and console the babe.

She couldn’t say she knew him, nor could she determine what kind of leader he would be or how he even viewed what he reportedly possessed.

But she couldn’t picture him the way Axe painted him.

Still, she had no tangible proof to support her view; not now, not for this.

And Axe knew it.

He chuffed. “That’s what I thought.”

Koska turned to take her leave, her face burning, something in her core seared and abraded by the exchange. She kept control in her movements even though she wanted to storm out of that tent the way the wind rushed through the camp.

“Word of advice, vod:” Axe said as her hand gripped the edge of the entrance.

She deigned to pause, to turn her head just enough to place him in her periphery. 

“Don’t make waves,” he cautioned her, “you’ll just end up drowning.”

Chapter Text

Part I

The Morak Mission

. . . . .

Night slipped over the jungles and rivers of Morak secretly, the drop in light gradual, subtle, but certain and unquenchable.

The warmth fuelled by the day hung on into the dark, hemmed in by the humidity saturating the air. The aroma of the vivacious plant life intensified, clinging cloyingly to the shrouded surface.

Cicadas blared, their song filling the world. Frogs rumbled and croaked in the undertones, adding undulation to the noise as every now and then, here and there, native birds contributed strange sounds: a long, zipping chitter; a low, quavering warble; and something like an elongated drop of water falling on a viscous pond.

Din stood on the edge of the camp, turning his head slowly, idly surveying the resting forest as he listened to the night chorus like a detached sentinel. His helmet relayed the sounds crisp and clear; though it was a constant, inescapable clamour, there was a peculiar peacefulness to it.

But this world was not at peace.

Though at a glance it seemed like the lush planet dwelled undisturbed and untainted in this ignored corner of the Outer Rim, her beauty was under assault and Din had come to see that she bore many wounds and sicknesses. Large swathes of forest had been stripped away as greedy invaders scratched and clawed at the surface to reach the veins of rare materials resting below. The natural shape of the terrain had been brutally resculpted to accommodate haulers and mining equipment. And her rivers which had once run clear as crystal now bled thick and red.

You could see it even in the air: at night, there were fewer stars, and in the day, there was a faint brown tinge to the edges of the sky that hadn’t been there when Din first saw the world nearly thirty years ago with his buir. 

The damage began long before then—before he was even born.

The Separtists were the first to dig their claws into Morak and its secret wealth; then, when they were no more, the Mining Guild swept in and kept the operation running until, most recently, the dregs of the Empire crept in and took over.

But no more.

Morak’s plight would end today.

It had been weeks—months—in the making.

And now here they were: almost fifty of them—Morakian and New Republic—bustling about in the sheltered Shydopp camp, preparing.

Din kept his sights on the forest but he heard the low buzz of activity in the camp behind him, crawling beneath the jungle chorus: the scuff of boots walking to and fro, the soft rumble and rattle of conversation, the clips of closing crates.

He listened, he watched, he breathed… and he waited.

He waited until a small, curt chime touched his ear.

Smiling, he reached up to tap the control on the side of his helmet and open the private comm channel.

“Cutting it a bit close, cyar’ika.”

A soft, laughing little scoff brushed the mic and all the tension that had been coiling subtly, insidiously throughout his body released. “Got waylaid by Teva,” Sabine informed him. “He’s more nervous than you’d expect.”

“There’s a lot riding on this,” Din conceded. 

Something telling must’ve leaked into his tone without intent because, without missing a beat, she asked: “You doing okay?”

“I’m ready,” he answered, plainly.

“Not what I asked, Din.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

Din rolled his eyes though he felt nothing negative towards her concern or her disinclination to accept his statements—he knew full-well how unconvincing he sounded. Truthfully, he wasn’t trying to put up any front of stoicism; his efforts had never once fooled her and he felt little drive to force an image of unflappable fortitude when she had seen him at his weakest and still then believed him strong.

“I’m glad it’ll be over soon, okay?” he said with a note of exasperation to authenticate his honesty and keep some semblance of light-heartedness.

“Alright. I’ll accept that,” Sabine replied, softly. 

“How’s Grogu?” Din asked, desperate to get off the topic of himself, desperate to keep talking to her.

“He’s fine. I just dropped him off with Pan. They’re getting the victory feast started.”

“A little premature, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t see her but he could so easily picture her throwing out a quick little shrug of her plated shoulders. “Well, it’ll either serve as a victory feast or a condolence meal, Pan says. Either way, ‘people gotta eat,’ and he’s already got the roast defrosted; may as well make use of it.”

Din breathed out a light laugh, more from fondness than mirth. 

Pan was the cook aboard The Avenger—the Corellian Corvette cruiser which had become their base and unofficial home for the past two months. An old Besalisk man, Pan had started out as a simple kitchen hand in his family’s restaurant on some Mid Rim city world. Exactly what pulled him abroad was unclear—he never did tell that story—but he had lived and fought through the Galactic Civil War, the Clone Wars, and no less than a dozen other interplanetary wars. One of the battles therein had claimed one of his four arms and left him with a painfully crooked back and a gruff exterior which melted subtly as he warmed to someone.

Besides being a skilled cook, he had become Grogu’s new best friend, which was handy as he was one of the few non-combatants on board the cruiser and having someone able and willing to mind the child at a moment’s notice had turned out to be a blessing for Din and Sabine.

He closed his eyes, wiping the silhouetted forest away and drawing up an image of his little family, safe and sound. As necessary as this mission was, as much as he believed in what they were doing here, he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be with them, back in their little cabin aboard the cruiser, wrapped up in blankets and each other’s arms, some mundane Holo-Net show playing in the background while they chatted about this or that or whatever. 

He couldn’t hear the night noise any more. It was still there, but his focus was all on the tiny cracks and rustles, the soft, barely there sound of Sabine’s breaths coming through the comm—things he couldn’t hear without his helmet, yet couldn’t feel with it.

The sound of footsteps—careful but not trepidatious—broke the moment of peace. 

He turned his head to see Ezra approaching. He stopped and jerked his head towards the camp, beckoning.

Din sighed. “I better go.”

“Stay alive, love,” Sabine admonished him.

He huffed. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, the comm channel clicked closed and he felt like he had just dropped something precious in a river.

He took a breath, tacked his resolve in place, and dislodged his feet.

“Scouts called in,” Ezra told Din as he came to his side and they headed back to the camp in step. “The last shift just finished; the workers are leaving the base and the mine as we speak.”

Din just nodded.

“She’ll be alright,” Ezra assured him, dropping his voice down to keep it between the two of them. “You know how proficient a pilot she is.”

“I do.” Din took a breath; it didn’t feel like it filled the bottom of his lungs. “But I still worry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Din stopped walking for a moment and Ezra halted also, as smooth as if he were his reflection. His eyes, littered with specks of light from the lanterns scattered throughout the camp, met his through the visor in that direct, unwavering way only Jedi eyes could manage.

Before Din could decide on a gesture or a phrase, his brother snapped the short distance between them closed and hugged him—beskar, jetpack, spear, and all.

He had expected it, so he didn’t flinch, didn’t stumble back; he just stood there and accepted it, awkwardly working one of his arms out of the embrace to pat Ezra’s back.

It hadn’t taken very long for Din to discover that Ezra was an extremely tactile person. Hugs, shoulder touches, randomly leaning on people—he sought out physical contact whereas Din failed still to see the appeal. Even though he didn’t crave it or enjoy it as much as Ezra, Din never begrudged him, some part of him secretly glowing at his brother’s persistence to be close to him.

“Watch your back, brother; I won’t be there to watch it for you,” Ezra told him and then released him, gripping his arms and giving them a soft rattle.

“You, too,” Din replied, unsure what else to say to that.

Ezra accepted the sentiment with a nod like he was sealing a deal and then continued on to join the gathering.

In the centre of the camp, beneath a patchwork of dark tarps strung between trees, the eclectic troop stood in a loose formation around a holo-projector. The old device was short on colour and plagued with a fizz and flicker effect, but it provided a sufficient image of the refinery perched on the dam and the mines cutting into the mountain and that was all that mattered.

Mayfeld stood waiting, the hologram painting his stolen tank-trooper gear a ghostly grey-blue as he glanced around, watching all come together. Once everyone had assembled, he took a breath and squared his shoulders in a manner both drilled and relaxed.

“Alright. The whistle’s blown; both the refinery and the mines will be empty of workers in twenty minutes,” he began, plunging straight into things. “We have a short window of time to strike before the next shift comes in. Myself, Dahlia and Chopper will infiltrate the refinery, jam their comms and disable the rooftop gunners. Once we give the signal, Bridger’s team strikes the mines and Mando’s team attacks the base, simultaneously.”

There was a ripple of nods amongst the gathered; this was a final recap, not the first time they were hearing the plan.

Din, who had planted himself on the periphery with a hand resting on his belt, his other lax at his side, turned his head idly, checking for any crossed brows, any hints of confusion or last minute cowardice. There were veterans here, like Cara and Zeb, but there were also many rookies, and although he had seen them come a long way in the past two months, they still lacked experience with missions like this.

“Remember: no blasters—especially by the refinery,” Mayfeld stressed. “The processed rhydonium is far more volatile than the unprocessed. Your job is just to keep the troopers busy so we can get the rest of the workers out; once that’s done, we call in Phoenix squadron to blow the refinery into the next millennium.”

There was an invisible, untangible crackle of electricity at his words.

The explosion would be spectacular, violent and mighty.

They had quite the show in store tonight…

“Don’t let the Imps push you too far into open ground: it will be easier for the troopers to pick you off there. And, whatever you do: keep the fight off the bridge at all cost.” Mayfeld pressed a button on the holo-emitter’s control panel to zoom in on the bridge linking the dam-perched refinery to the mainland. “It’s narrow, it’s old, it’s rusted, it can’t take more than one Juggernaut going at a granny snail’s pace and you do not want to fall into the water. The Imps have been dumping chemicals from the refinery into the water for years; everything past the waterfall is toxic.”

A subtle movement in the edge of his visor’s range lured Din’s gaze. 

Rune, a Shydopp man around his age, shifted at Mayfeld’s warning. He rolled his broad shoulders and took a breath that lifted his proud, cyan head, the faint hologram light catching on the ridges and gouges rendering his face asymmetrical. He had fallen in the water a year ago whilst attacking a Rhydonium transport and his burns were extensive: he had lost an eye and the ability to express with that side of his face, and he spoke with a permanent rasp.

He stood as a poignant reminder of rule number one on Morak: don’t touch the water.

“Everyone clear on their role?” Mayfeld asked and looked around, giving a moment for any hands to raise, should they feel the need to.

None came.

All he saw were squared shoulders clad in dark clothing and faces set in determination.

He nodded with finality. “Alright. Good. We’re all good. And I’ve talked enough.” He looked straight at Din and jerked his head, gesturing for him to come forward.

Beneath his helmet, Din frowned.

He had nothing to add; Mayfeld had covered everything, deftly and thoroughly.

He felt a nudge on his arm. Turning his head, he saw Dahlia—one of the New Republic officers who had volunteered for this mission. 

(She was also sister to the late Lieutenant Daven, a fact Cara had shared with Din to explain why the young woman seemed determined to murder Mayfeld with the iciest glares a human could muster.)

(Thankfully, her distrust had eased over the time they had spent working together. Now, she had willingly donned tank-trooper armour and was preparing to go in alongside Mayfeld.)

“C’mon. Give us a speech, chief,” she encouraged Din (she had never shown him anything less than respect).

Din grimaced.

He was not the type to give speeches.

But when he raised his head, he saw all eyes on him—fixed, patient, expectant eyes—and they compelled him.

Sometimes, people needed this.

They needed someone they trusted to tell them they were strong enough.

He withheld a sigh, took a purposeful breath instead, and stepped forward, the extra blaster charges clipped around his greaves jangling softly.

His voice was still a reluctant, skittish thing, words liable to cut and run without a moment’s notice. While he worked on ordering thoughts into words, he looked around him at the wide array of characters—Terran, Shydopp, Mon Calamali, Twi’lek, Zabrak, Lasat, droid: almost fifty of them all up, more tied in over the comms—unseen but not out of mind.

Some he already knew.

Some he had come to know over the course of the past couple weeks, ones like Dahlia and Rune.

He knew their struggles.

He knew their weaknesses. 

He knew their fears.

And he knew what they were capable of.

“This is it,” he said and even though he had interrupted no one, they seemed to collapse into absolute silence as his modulated voice met the thrumming air. He filled his lungs and pressed on, consciously switching to Huttese. “The moment we’ve been preparing for, day and night, for well over a month, is now here. You’ve trained hard—all of you. Many of you were already capable soldiers when we began but I have seen you grow into the kind of warriors my people sing songs about.”

It was no hollow sentiment.

They had started out with meagre support. 

Besides himself, Mayfeld, Cara, Ezra, Sabine, Chopper, and Zeb, only about eight New Republic officers had initially volunteered to join the mission to free Morak. Carson Teva, who had then been in official charge of the operation, struggled to drum up support. Sabine and Zeb managed to persuade some friends from their rebel days to join, but they remained few. Although Din didn’t put much stock in numbers, they had less fighters than the Sorgan village had provided to work with—it had been a struggle to ward off a common band of raiders with just over twenty pairs of hands; taking out an Imperial base and collapsing the Rhydonium mine so as to send a message and hopefully nullify future interest in the planet would take far more coordination and firepower.

Besides the quantity, there was the matter of quality.

Most of the volunteers were rookies and rangers who had had little to no combat experience; they had all the enthusiasm, all the head-knowledge, but next to none of the ability and skill.

Din took up their training. Along with Cara, Sabine, Zeb and Ezra, he put the greenhorns through their paces.

Although it delayed their mission, it opened more doors than they expected.

They embarked on a number of covert reconnaissance missions in the meantime, gathering more and more intel on the base and the mine, searching for weak points. As they did so, they crossed paths with the Shydopp: the people native to Morak and rightly sick and tired of invaders.

Somehow, Din became the mediator. 

The Shydopp were wary of the New Republic and anyone representing them—as Mayfeld astutely noted: from their jaded point of view, there was no difference between them and the Empire. Din, as a Mandalorian, came as a neutral party—he was just doing this as a favour, after all. So the Shydopp heard him out, their guards lowering further when they found he was willing to converse with them in their preferred Huttese.

After some negotiation, the Shydopp accepted an alliance.

It was not as easy as a handshake to get everyone on board and playing together.

But here they were.

“Tonight we fight for and with our friends,” Din continued. “Morakian, New Republic—tonight, we have neither allegiance nor race. Tonight, we stand as one, we stand together, we stand for all who stand beside us and for all who cannot physically take their stand. We stand against the dying dregs of the Empire.

“Don’t forget,” he admonished, tone veering to serious, “we don’t outnumber the Imps, but their numbers mean nothing in the face of our skill and our fire.

“You know what to do. I know you can do it. And remember: you are not fighting alone.”

He finished and there was a beat, like everyone expected him to carry on, say more, perhaps wrap it up more eloquently.

Then all present raised one foot and stomped it down in unison, creating a brief, reverberating pulse like a distant thunderclap: their current substitute for applause and cheering which didn’t run the risk of giving their location away.

With that, the group dispersed.

It was time to begin.

. . . . .

Din stood in the middle of the road.

The dark surrounding him was thick and unbroken without a lamp or a torch to penetrate it, but with his visor adjusted just so, he could see the scene around him as clear as if it were a cloudless day.

He could see the trees pushed away from the barren strip of trampled earth which served as the road. He could see the twisted wrecks of vehicles decaying along the curb on both sides; he saw them in such detail that he could even see the tenacious plant life attempting to crawl over them and draw their unyielding bones into the soil.

Ahead of him, he watched the Juggernaut—the only intact one in sight—lumber away like a drunken, oversized centipede. He felt the rumble from its hulking treads fade as it left, a sense of something locked in and impending building as it shrank into the distance.

Rune’s heavy, certain steps came up behind him.

“All done, chief,” he declared at a low volume, his coarse voice difficult to hear.

Din turned and saw the original drivers of the Juggernaut trussed up and unconscious in the tunnel behind him—the same tunnel which had sheltered him as he had stripped his own armour all those months ago.

He took a breath, rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, raised his head and tried to force the door closed on that memory.

“Alright. Good,” he said and nodded tersely to the forest.

Without hesitation, Rune slipped away, back under the cover of the dense forest, leaves and branches rustling as he made his way back to the rest of the team.

Din lingered there a moment, boots glued to the dirt, gaze stuck to the tunnel.

That was where it had happened; that was where he willingly, consciously broke his vow. He could even pick out the exact alcove he had hidden behind as he disassembled himself.

Strangely, it appeared far smaller than he remembered; smaller yet less… claustrophobic.

It was just a tunnel.

Even though being here and seeing it again brought those moments back clear and sharp as a blade, even though it dredged up a keen sense of regret and shame, what he recalled and what he felt wasn’t all as sickening as he had feared it would be.

Unexpectedly, he found consolation.

It couldn’t ever happen again.

He could only commit the sin once… and, call it blasphemy, call it a new perspective, but he no longer viewed it as either a sin or a compromise.

It was just a different way.

He turned and left the road, and as he vanished into the forest to rejoin his team, he cut the memories like a load that had been dragging him down.

“They’re on the move,” he announced and motioned for them to follow him. “Let’s go.”

. . . . .

Din led them through the forest, his sure steps guiding them through the dark.

They reached the bridge that connected the mainland to the refinery and there they waited, crouched in the undergrowth, shrouded by the night and the forest.

They kept silent though the drone of the jungle and the roar of the polluted waterfall would readily cover any foreign noise.

No one guarded this side of the bridge, only a pair of shore-troopers stood stationed on the other side.

(Din recalled the way they had glanced at him—disinterested and unconcerned by the sight of a lowly factory worker sitting in the passenger seat of a worker transport.)

(He wouldn’t be so inconspicuous tonight…)

They waited.

The Juggernaut carrying Mayfeld, Dahlia and Chopper had already reached the refinery ahead of them. They were inside now and Din had to trust all was going according to plan, had to trust they were handling their part of the mission just as he had to trust that his brother’s team had reached the mines and was this very moment waiting for the same signal.

Anticipation brewed. 

Anxiety coiled. 

Adrenaline built.

The battle-forged warriors—ones like Zeb and Rune—kept a cool countenance. The rookies—younger Shydopp, younger Morakians, younger New Republic recruits—wore their unease plain on their faces and let it play loud through their flexing hands.

Nevertheless, they all—young or older, green or experienced—carried the same fire in their eyes.

Cicada song and the rushing waterfall blurred into one.

The perfume of the flora and the pungent stench of chemicals fused together.

The dark of the natural night and the harsh light emanating from the refinery clashed.

The waiting seemed to stretch on for too long.

Then it came.

The signal—a small, clipped, triple chime came over the comm, piercing the moment.

Now or never, Din thought as he rose up, unhitched the hilt hanging from his belt, and stepped out of hiding.

He walked onto the road, calmly, unhurriedly, the unsettled air catching the tattered end of his cloak, causing it to flare out like a dark flag. 

He walked alone, as had been arranged, and approached the bridge at a steady yet almost leisurely pace.

This time, the troopers did not ignore him.

When the two shore-troopers standing guard caught sight of him, they froze. 

They were used to groups of Shydopp guerilla fighters attacking transports and haulers, they had likely dealt with bold attacks on the base itself, but a single warrior—and not just any warrior but a fully armoured Mandalorian—was unusual enough to paralyze them.

Din continued his approach onto the bridge, the roar of the waterfall growing like a wary, injured beast trying to frighten him off.

He wasn’t frightened in the least.

His heart beat steady and low, his muscles coiled but not tense.

“Halt!” one of the troopers shouted, raising his blaster while his partner reached for his helmet comm.

Din did not halt.

One of the troopers fired and the bolt flew past his head, too wide to even count as a warning shot; Din didn’t bother dodging it. The other turned his head as if to check something behind him, then snapped back and fired a bolt at the ground beside Din which he duly ignored.

“Comms are jammed!” the one yelled to the other.

That was as good a moment as any, Din decided.

He stopped.

He stopped his approach and just stood there in the middle of the bridge, still as a statue.

The troopers could have fired—he was just standing there, after all: he couldn’t have installed a better target—but they hadn’t the nerve to pull their triggers.

With perhaps more flair than strictly necessary, Din angled the hilt away from himself and flicked the switch.

The black and white blade ignited, its song and its light stark against the night.

The sight of it struck the troopers. While they were caught in their stupor, Din raised the blade aloft and a cry—louder than the cicadas, louder than the waterfall—rent the air as out from the cover of the forest, a band of mismatched characters emerged and swarmed onto the road.

Din sparked his Phoenix and launched straight up into the air, freeing their path and dragging the troopers’ attention upwards.

They stumbled back a few steps. One turned and ran to the base, shouting, calling for back-up, no doubt; the other fired a few bolts: some at the rushing fighters which hit no one, some at the sky which Din deflected away with wide swings of the energy blade. The trooper stood there a moment, helmet bobbing and jerking, trying to figure out which target to aim at, before he too bolted.

“Advance!” Din ordered, motioning to the refinery with the Darksaber.

As his team ran over the bridge, Din lifted his gaze to the flat roof of the refinery, magnifying his visor to see that the troopers stationed there were in a panic, too, their heavy, anti-aircraft blasters inexplicably inert.

The frantic confusion bought them access to the yard; by then, the Imps had recovered enough to form up.

A klaxon blared, whining and moaning in high-pitched distress as troopers—shore, scout, and storm—poured from the refinery, flimsy armour clacking, boots stomping, blasters clicking and raising.

They had more savvy than Din expected; they didn’t fire at random or with reckless abandon. Clearly, they were aware of what this refinery processed and the fact that it was stored not too far away; they shot sparingly, aiming as far away from the red barrels as they could.

Their caution was wise but it was also their weakness.

Din’s team advanced. 

They had no blasters, only staffs, but their training shone.

As he dropped down and joined the fray, he took note of the rookies’ moves. Seeing them utilize techniques he himself had taught them fanned a feeling of pride. He wondered, absently, briefly, if this was how Fighting Corps. instructors felt when they saw their students putting their training into action.

Twenty-five of them held their own against a veritable wave of troopers. 

In the midst of the melee, Din glimpsed something swooping across the sky, blocking the scant spray of stars. He couldn’t focus on it, not right then, but he knew it was Sabine in the shuttle.

Besides disabling the comms and rooftop gunners, Mayfeld, Dahlia and Chopper had the task of herding the workers to the roof. They were Morakians, not Imperials; it wouldn’t be right to let them burn in a place they had little choice but to work in to provide for themselves and their families.

Din flew up and landed on the roof to cover the civilians as Mayfeld and Dahlia helped them board the shuttle. Chopper came to his assistance, wielding two blasters.

“Hey! Where did you get those?” Din asked the droid as he dropped down to dodge a bolt, kicking a trooper’s legs out from under him in the same motion.

Chopper replied in his trademark garbled binary—a string of whomps and bahs laced with unmistakable intention and meaning. Din couldn’t yet understand him as easily as Sabine or Ezra did, but he thought the droid snarked back something along the lines of: “Where do you think, genius?”

“Whatever. You can keep them just as long as you don’t shoot me in the back,” Din told him and swung the blade down, cutting the barrel clean off a shore-trooper’s blaster.

Chopper kept up a steady stream of cover fire but turned his optics to Din and warbled a question that sounded falsely innocent.

“Or my butt,” Din answered, taking a well-informed stab at what the droid had asked. “Nowhere, okay? You can’t shoot me anywhere!”

Behind them, the sound of the shuttle’s engines, which had been low as the craft idled to allow the workers to board, suddenly built, the air whipping violently as the noise blocked out the sound of the fight and the waterfall below. 

Din didn’t glance back; he kept his focus on covering them, dedicating his strength to it until he heard Mayfeld yell: “That’s everyone!”

He snapped around in time to catch Dahlia shutting the craft’s doors, workers with dirty faces and frantic eyes crammed in like tinned fish. When the doors closed, the shuttle banked and pulled away; he didn’t even get a glimpse of the cockpit but he recognized Sabine’s skill in the manoeuvre: quick, precise, smooth.

“Time to go!” he declared.

He and Chopper fell back off the roof, the droid igniting its single jet in the same moment he lit the Phoenix. 

The melee in the yard had reached its peak. The troopers were in a frenzy, the fighters were still going strong.

Din landed and a handful of troopers fell back, spooked by his sudden appearance and the very sight of the Darksaber.

(It was satisfying.)

(Very satisfying.)

“We’re done here!” he called to his team. “Fall back!”

They had done their job: distract the troopers so they could airlift the workers out of the base.

Now all that was left to do was to get out of there and call in the air strike.

Din extinguished the Darksaber. 

It bolstered a few of the Imps and they rushed to loose some cheap shots.

As the blaster bolts pelted his armour, he brought his arms up and twisted his wrists sharply, activating both flamethrowers simultaneously.

Twin streams of fire, as bright as midday on Tatooine, burst forth, driving the troopers to a ceasefire as they stumbled over themselves to get away.

Again, Din couldn’t look behind him to check on his team; he had to trust they would do as he had instructed them, had to trust they were taking advantage of the wall he created for them to retreat.

He killed one stream of fire, keeping the other up as he blindly, deftly plucked a small orb out of a pouch clipped to his belt. He pressed the button atop the orb and dropped it. It rattled and bounced as it hit the duracrete at his feet, beeping just once before a cloud of thick, impenetrable smoke exploded.

He shut off the flamethrower and shot out of there while the troopers were trapped in the haze.

In the air, he quickly regained a view of the situation.

His team had nearly made it across the bridge and to the other side where they would scatter into the forest.

The yard was empty of his people.

He opened the comms.

“This is Mudhorn 1. We’re clear here. Send in Phoenix squadron.”

“Copy that,” Teva replied.

“We’re done here, too,” Ezra chimed in. 

“Copy that, Spectre 6; head to rendezvous.”

And that was it.

They were done.

In minutes, the refinery would be engulfed in an explosion fuelled by its own gluttonous greed, Morak could finally breathe a sigh of relief and Din could go home.

But just as the feeling of riotous success swelled in his chest, just as he believed their victory locked in and set in stone, he heard the worst sound.

Rising up from below and behind him, a whining, mechanical wail pierced through the blare of the klaxon.

TIE Fighters.

Din swivelled in mid-air, his heart sinking straight to his stomach as he visually confirmed what he had heard.

Two TIE Fighters, launching from the cramped airstrip atop the base.

Din cast his sight back to the road, back to his team.

Half of them were still on the bridge, the rest were still on the road, just beginning to slip under the tree cover.

It wouldn’t be enough.

They didn’t stand a chance.

There wasn’t any planning or even any true decision in what he did next; he just did it.

Cutting down the Phoenix’s power, he arched back and then ordered a burst from the jets to send him rocketing back towards the base.

He shot past the TIEs—whether or not they had seen him was of no consequence.

Once behind them, he thrust out his arm, took aim and shot out the whipcord. The hook caught and the cord snapped taut, wrenching his shoulder. He paid the pain no heed as the cord retracted, drawing the distance between him and the TIE closed in a snap.

Relying on the whipcord to keep him anchored to the craft, he braced and reignited the Darksaber.

Before he could do anything, the craft rolled harshly to the side, the pilot apparently aware of and reacting to his presence.

He struggled to hold on, struggled to keep the blade angled away from his flailing body.

He lost all reliable sense of up and down. He couldn’t see anything through the narrow slit of his visor but the dark edge of the TIE’s hatch. He heard only the rush of air and the rush of his own blood.

His head pounded.

His heart thudded.

He couldn’t even think of breathing.

There came a pause—brief, narrow, practically useless.

He seized it anyway.

Bracing against the TIE, he lifted the blade and swung down, grunting from the effort.

Light flashed, sparks burst, and the blade sang as it seared cleanly through the joint connecting the port wing to the spherical body. 

The wounded craft wrenched to the side as it spun violently off course, accelerating in a downward spiral.

Din was still attached by the whipcord. When the loss of the wing jolted the craft, it jolted him as well. He slammed against the TIE, the force of the impact winding him, rattling him to his bones. Pain burst through his shoulder, so strong it shot down his arm and dragged like claws through his back and his chest.

(He didn’t scream.)

(All he could think was: Well. You knew that was gonna happen.)

Somehow, he had kept his grip on the Darksaber. It was still alight, a fact he vaguely marvelled at because despite all this being flung about like a Massif’s chew toy, he had neither severed nor singed any of his appendages.

He slashed the remainder of whipcord and kicked off from the TIE. 

His tether to the doomed craft broken, he tried to right himself.

He tried to reignite the Phoenix in the hope he could pull out of this free fall and save himself from a crash-landing.

He tried.

But he had no bearings—a nauseating fusion of light and dark, blurs and shadows flashed past his visor as he tumbled.

And the arm which he had shot the whipcord from was in agony and refusing to listen, so he couldn’t interact with the Phoenix controls.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t right himself.

He couldn’t stop.

Like a weighted packet of stones, he plummeted.

Somewhere in his flailing and falling, he managed to see where he would fall.

He glimpsed dull, wavering strips of moonlight on black.

Water.

The river.

For one split second, relief surged.

His landing would be harsh but he could survive water.

Then he remembered.

He remembered all the warnings and one thought flashed through his mind—a droll thought, devoid of the kind of solemn terror which would have been much more appropriate in this scenario.

He was about to break rule number one on Morak.

. . . . .

”we are one together / we are one apart”

Chapter Text

He hit the water hard and sank, his speed and his beskar pulling him down fast.

Black water closed over him, killing light and sound. He felt the pressure build, less from the depth and more from the vicious current pulling him under, its course agitated by the nearby waterfall. 

It was oppressive and all consuming, not unlike being swallowed whole by a Krayt dragon.

It might’ve been cold, he couldn’t really tell with all his layers.

Amidst the blinding panic, he held onto that one consolation: his flightsuit was thick and water-resistant, protecting him.

But there were gaps.

The chemical-laced water seeped in under his gloves and his sleeves, stinging the skin of his wrists and hands.

He tried to swim. 

His heart and lungs seized in his chest as he kicked madly, fighting the undertow’s hold. He kicked and clawed at the stained water but pain speared through his shoulder at the slightest movement, crackling and stabbing down his back, cutting short his efforts.

His back arched, and the involuntary motion jerked his head back, breaking the air seal.

Water rushed up into his helmet.

In shock, he gasped, panic mounting when it wasn’t air he breathed. Instinctually, he tried to spit it back out but the next desperate inhale his lungs forced just drew in more.

The aspirated water burned his throat and his sinuses; a sickening metallic taste pervaded his senses.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t swim.

He couldn’t do anything but sink…

. . . . .

Ezra saw it happen.

His team had just finished evacuating workers from the mines. The explosives were set and they were out of there, making their way back to the camp in a trio of stolen transports.

They had only just reached the main road winding along the river bank when he heard the muted but unmistakable whine of TIE Fighters.

Besides the sound, a sense of something discordant and ominous crawled under his skin, insistent and unsettling: a warning.

“Oh, that’s not good,” he remarked as he leaned over the transport’s controls to peer out the slanted windscreen. From this distance, the refinery looked like a toy box and the waterfall flowing below looked like a fountain feature. The TIE Fighters emerging from the base looked small and harmless but the appearance didn’t trick Ezra for a second.

“I thought Mayfeld was supposed to disable those,” Cara said, gaze flicking, switching between the sky and the narrow road rolling out before them in the headlights.

“Well, apparently, they re-enabled a pair.”

Beside him, Cara loosed a low curse, the harsh sound partially obscured by the rumbling of the transport’s treads on the unsealed road.

“Where are they headed?” she asked, tersely.

“Not here,” Ezra answered, tracking and predicting the path of the crafts. They swirled around the base and tilted, angling straight towards the bridge. They may not have been coming their way but that fact fostered almost no reassurance. 

Something zipped past the TIEs. 

Between the distance and the lack of reliable light, it was hard to discern what it was; really, it just looked like a stray glow-bug. Squinting, Ezra saw small, blurred glints of silver light…

“Oh, no.”

“What? What is it?” Cara demanded.

“It’s Din.”

“What?”

“Din. He’s latched onto one of the TIEs.”

“Ugh. Not again.”

Ezra whipped to her. “He’s done this before?”

She grimaced, tightly, eyes flickering, wanting to watch her friend in the sky but knowing she had to focus on the road ahead, had to get this transport and the workers aboard safely to the camp.

“Back on Nevarro. He pulled something similar with Gideon’s TIE,” she told him, the account obviously condensed and redacted. “He managed it,” she tacked on, then lifted her eyebrows and ticked her head to the side. “‘Course, he was monumentally concussed at the time…” 

Ezra had no comment. 

He himself once took out a TIE with a jetpack. It was tricky and, admittedly, inelegant, but he had succeeded. He trusted Din would do better—after all, he actually had training with a jetpack while Ezra had had no choice but to wing it, and if Din had managed to do it once before while battling the symptoms of a concussion, then he should have little trouble tonight.

Ezra glimpsed a slice of white light as Din lit the Darksaber and a satisfied thrill sparked in his core. The TIE tried to throw the Mandalorian off but he held on and slashed the wing clean off.

The TIE spun off course, its wing flying off in a different direction.

Din fell away, too.

But his jetpack did not reignite.

Ezra watched, holding his breath and hoping, waiting for the thrusters to glow again, for his brother to spring out of his free fall and lift up, go after the second TIE.

Within the space of just two heartbeats, he realized it wasn’t going to happen.

Something was wrong.

“Keep driving,” he instructed Cara as he extricated himself from the passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” she asked but did as requested and didn’t drop a single notch of speed.

“Lifeguard duty,” he answered her with a note of grim humour as he opened the hatch with a quick, willful thought. 

The hinges creaked, begging for maintenance, but the hatch flapped open without any true protest and he leapt cleanly through. He landed on the roof and jumped straight off the moving vehicle.

He arched and twisted through the air, the height and distance of his leap further than what an ordinary human could manage, even one with gymnastic training from the finest masters. The over-exaggerated arch helped him control his speed and his angle, and he landed right on the edge of the river bank as precisely as a cat.

Din hit the water that very instant. 

Ezra heard the splash. 

Worse still, he felt his brother’s sheer terror as he sank, the overwhelming sense of helplessness screaming in the Force. Tracing the soundless cries to their source, he reached out.

Grasping and moving things with the Force was easier for some than others. Ezra had few to compare his abilities with but he knew in himself he had no outstanding gift for it—in fact, it was one of the aspects of Force use he had struggled the most to learn at the beginning of his apprenticeship. Kanan once told him about toddlers in the temple crèche who could make their cribs float, that telekinesis was often the earliest sign of strong Force-sensitivity, but Ezra couldn’t recall doing such things as a child—he hadn’t even known he was any different from anyone else until he met Kanan.

Nevertheless, through training, through perseverance and no small amount of necessity, he had learned and gained significant proficiency.

The bigger an object, the more effort it took to manipulate it. Things in motion, especially people in motion, were the most difficult to hold onto.

Din was rather average sized for a human but he wasn’t sinking in a nice, neat straight line. He had fallen not far from where the waterfall emptied into the river and the undertow had an iron grip on him.

Straining, Ezra poured his strength into finding and holding onto his brother. He nearly fell forward, his foot slipping on the soggy ground. He forced himself to recover, to stand firm, to focus.

He closed his eyes and shut out the noise of the forest, cutting down distraction. He centred himself, willing his heart and his worry to lie still. He was tired, having already expended much energy trekking through the jungle, fighting Storm-troopers, and commandeering the transports. 

Arms shaking, he pulled his brother out of the churning water. He couldn’t hold him very far out of the water, couldn’t keep him up for very long, so with a burst of effort, he hauled him to shore, the action not so gentle but effective.

He dropped his hold on him and opened his eyes in time to see the armoured form land on the bank. 

His heart pounding from exertion, muscles burning, he took off at a run to cross the distance.

The river bank had not been sculpted with anything near intention but the rancid water had driven most of the plants back, creating a more-or-less clear stretch of shoreline. But the ground was sludgy with thick, curdled froth trimming the line where land and water met, making for an arduous path.

Din had landed in a heap and was trying to prop himself up with one arm. Ezra had gotten him to shore but not all the way; the foul, murky water swirled around his boots, lapping at his knees. Not sparing a moment, Ezra hooked his arms under Din’s and dragged him away from the edge of the water.

When he let go, Din just collapsed.

It sent a jolt straight through Ezra’s chest to see his brother crumble like that. 

He didn’t collapse bonelessly, as if with the loss of consciousness; rather, he fell in a twisted tangle, one arm curled tight and useless, the other reaching up, the hand still clenched around the Darksaber hilt desperately clawing at his helmet.

Ezra didn’t hesitate. 

He reached under the helmet’s lip and snagged the little catch hidden near the jaw. There was a slurred hiss as the seal released and Ezra’s blood ran cold as he saw a thin stream of water trickling out. 

Din had had the helmet fastened, just as he always did, but he hadn’t had it set air-tight—going for a midnight swim hadn’t been on the agenda, after all.

With the helmet off, Din coughed. 

They were not the kind of coughs spurred by some mild irritation in the throat, no, these were harsh and desperate; all his strength was in them, his body battling to expel the water that shouldn’t have ever been in his lungs in the first place.

Ezra acted immediately, helping him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on the foul water he was trying to get rid of.

Din, coughing and retching so hard he couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t breathe, tried to grab at Ezra. 

In an effort to help, Ezra grasped his hand, thinking he needed the touch, needed the tether or the strength or something, but Din shoved him away with surprising strength for someone coming down from drowning.

He forced inhalations between the coughs. They sounded and looked dreadful—wet and ragged, thin and unsatisfying, his body shaking with effort as an animal-like panic flashed in his eyes. He tried to use what little air he could get to speak but the attempts were just incomprehensible gurgles and hitches.

“Easy, brother,” Ezra told him, forcing calm in his voice when he did not feel the least bit calm himself. He brought his wrist up and opened a channel on the comm-link. “This is Spectre 6, requesting med-evac—”

Din grabbed his arm, cutting off his call. “T-I-E,” he finger-spelled, frantically.

Ezra glanced up at the sky. 

In all the chaos, he had forgotten about the other TIE, yet Din, despite nearly drowning, had not.

It was still in the air but it looked as if it had taken a detour, likely to get out of the way of the crazy Mandalorian with the lazer-sword. However, it had recovered from the fright and the loss of its twin and was now heading their way as its previous target of the fighters on the bridge had all scattered to safety.

It was heading in their direction but it wasn’t aiming for them; rather, it had its sights set on the worker transports making a break for it.

Ezra was torn.

He didn’t want to leave his brother but he was the only one who stood a chance at taking out the TIE.

He knew what he had to do, knew it was right.

He unhitched his lightsaber.

But just as he got ready to stand, something new came careening onto the scene.

The neat, fast hum of a starship’s engines shoved past the TIE’s whining screech. Ezra traced the sound to a bird-like silhouette swooping through the dark sky. 

No sooner was it heard and glimpsed than it spat a hail of blazing red bolts.

The shots split the night like lightning and wounded the TIE, obliterating its wings and sending its body hurtling into the water.

It wasn’t one of their ships. 

Ezra knew every make and modification of every craft assisting them on this mission and none had lazer canons of that calibre, nor had anyone in the meagre fleet they had cobbled together shown such speed and precision.

(Sabine could’ve pulled that off, but Ezra knew it wasn’t her. She was in charge of the rescue shuttle and there was no way she could have made it all the way to the rendezvous, offloaded the workers, switched crafts and made it back here in such a short frame of time.)

In a surge of protectiveness, Ezra lit his lightsaber, the bright amethyst glow enhanced by Din’s armour as he stood over him. 

The ship banked sharply as the TIE plummeted. Then, like a toy model on a string, it turned 180 degrees and came swooping down in a tight, intent line, heading straight for Din and Ezra.

Ezra readied his stance as the ship twisted around again, baring its port side straight on as it came down and hung over the water, hovering precisely, steadily.

The hatch opened and the ramp extended, nearly but not quite touching the shore.

“You boys need a ride?” a voice from within called.

“Depends,” Ezra called back. “Are we heading in the same direction?”

A bright scoff-laugh broke out, almost lost over the noise of the engines and the agitated wind and water. “I sure hope so.” 

Ezra hesitated for only a second, just long enough to think it over. 

He didn’t recognize the ship—something that looked like a Lambda shuttle but with a squat, stretched out body, smaller, blunted wings, and a dark, mottled paint-scheme—but it certainly didn’t look like anything that belonged to the Empire. Besides appearances, he couldn’t sense any ill-will from the single pilot at the helm; actually, in the Force, they glowed with the burn to help, to rescue, to make things right… and some rightful triumph from their clean takedown of the TIE.

He extinguished his blade. 

Din’s coughs had dwindled, his breaths in between nowhere near what Ezra would in all good conscience call “healthy” but he couldn’t administer any further aid here; they had to get back to the cruiser.

Kneeling down, he grabbed the Darksaber hilt and hooked it onto his own belt, then he grabbed his brother’s arm, slung it across his shoulders and hauled him up to his feet, eliciting a dull moan of pain that sounded like he just wanted to be left where he was.

“C‘mon, work with me, Dinar,” Ezra urged through gritted teeth as he held Din up only for him to sink back down to the ground without fight, like an armoured puppet with cut strings.

He was in pain and barely conscious; just breathing demanded all his energy. 

Ezra had no choice but to carry him. 

It wasn’t easy. 

His beskar and gear was not only heavy, it was cumbersome. Ezra could handle the extra weight fine but getting a decent hold on someone wearing a patchwork of unyielding metal plates and a bulky jetpack to boot was difficult. 

He managed.

It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t comfortable, but he managed.

He got them up to the edge of the ramp and leapt, straining with the effort of keeping balance for the both of them. But he succeeded and he got them up into the mystery ship’s narrow cabin without incident.

As soon as they were up, the ramp began retracting and the ship’s nose turned to leave.

“Wait!” Ezra called out, sharply.

Still holding Din, he twisted around. He could barely see the shore but he glimpsed a sliver of silver and that was all he needed to guide him.

He reached out and raised the helmet off the shore, calling it up into the ship and letting it clatter on the floor, leaving a short trail of off-coloured mud.

“He’d kill me if I left that behind,” Ezra explained as a way to say he was done and they could go now.

The ramp retracted, the hatch closed, and the ship veered away.

“You can set your friend down on the bench,” the pilot said.

Ezra glanced towards the cockpit—a section separated from the rest of the cabin only by control panels and two rows of seats, an arrangement not unlike the cockpit aboard the Ghost. He glimpsed the back of the pilot’s head, a view which afforded him little more than the sight of a near white braid. He didn’t recognize them—via their voice or what little he caught of their appearance—but it didn’t really matter; he felt he could trust this person implicitly, whoever they were.

He laid Din down on the bench set against the wall and set about removing his jetpack and armour. Din was near limp, his breathing shallow and thin, wheezing and intermittent. Pain carved rigid lines in his expression as glazed eyes fluttered open and closed, his head lolling like a marble on a lazily tilting board, rocked this way and that as Ezra unlatched and lifted off plates and pieces.

He worked with bare hands, the residual traces of the contaminated water stinging his skin. He hardly registered it, all his attention trained on helping his brother.

“We need to get to the cruiser in orbit,” he called out.

“The Avenger, I know,” the pilot replied in an accent that clipped vowels and lopped the R off the tail-end of words, replacing it with an “ah” instead.

Just as Ezra was about to ask where they kept their med-kit, he heard a bubbly trilling approaching from the rear of the ship. A droid—the kind with no legs—appeared, bug-like eyes glowing yellow-white as it zoomed into the cabin.

Din seemed insensate but he was not—not completely, anyway. As the droid came near, his hand—the one not curled stiff with pain—twitched and grabbed blindly, searching for Ezra, his panic rising back to the surface.

Ezra paused his operation of removing the armour to grasp his brother’s hand.

“Greetings!” the droid said, polite and cheery, as if they were guests in its home.

Din’s grip on Ezra’s hand tightened, his breath hitching as he tried, weakly, to move away. 

The droid didn’t react. “I am AZI-34521—”

“AZI,” the pilot interrupted with a fond drawl. “Introductions later; first aid now.”

“Of course,” the droid conceded, pleasantly, apologetically. A slim rod with a bluish light fixed at the end—presumably a med-scanner—sprung out of a port in its body as it spun its head to address Ezra. “Please step aside so I may assist your wounded friend.”

Ezra didn’t budge. “I can’t,” he said, leaning closer to Din, telegraphing his intent. “He hates droids. I won’t obstruct, but… you have to let me stay near him.”

AZI tilted his head as if curious. “Are you his medical proxy?”

“At present, yes.”

The droid dipped his head in a quick, understanding nod. “Alright. As you wish. May I proceed?”

Ezra nodded and leaned slightly out of the way, keeping his hand ever locked with Din’s. 

While the droid conducted its scan, Ezra took in the cabin with a sweeping glance around him. 

The inside of the ship was economical yet littered with trinkets, the space lived in yet tidy and well-organized. String lights ringed the hull, casting a warm ambience one would expect to find in a planetside home rather than aboard a starship. Photographs decorated the walls, a dizzying variety of people and places on display. Most often featured was the face of a young woman, angled such that she seemed to be the one taking the pictures.

Dark tan skin and white-gold hair, the length and style changing drastically from photo to photo—short here, long there; tied back with a red bandana here, up in a fluffy ponytail there. A few times, it was even brown or black.

She was well-travelled, and friendly, apparently; so many photos she had an arm companionably slung over the shoulders of someone or the other, and if she didn’t share the frame with a person, then she was interacting with some kind of animal, either serving as a perch for the creature or letting it nuzzle her face.

One picture in particular caught Ezra’s notice—it was tacked to the wall right above the bench, so it was easy to spot.

The background looked distinctly like the base back on Yavin. Nostalgia ached deep in his bones as he saw the familiar contrast of cobbled together tech against the ancient stone covered in moss and vines. The base had been a sort-of home to him for the better part of a year before his final return to a besieged Lothal and his subsequent sojourn in Wild Space. 

The young woman stood in the centre of the photo, smiling so wide, she couldn’t open her eyes, each arm slung around a person, the whole lot caught in the middle of a merry moment.

Ezra couldn’t identify the woman but he knew her companions well.

Hera and Sabine.

He looked to the cockpit, a question queued on his tongue, but before he drew the breath for it, the grip on his hand snapped tight as Din coughed convulsively.

“What am I calling in, AZI?” the pilot clipped out, all business.

AZI retracted the med-scanner, the light cutting out. “Our friend will require a bacta tank. Request levels be adjusted for an adult Terran male with injuries both internal and external.” The droid went on to rattle off Din’s height and weight and anything else he deemed necessary to calibrate the bacta tank.

The woman opened the comms and relayed all that, every word clear and precise.

“If you don’t mind,” AZI said. 

Twisting back around, Ezra saw the droid holding out a rebreather mask. It was designed for use in inhospitable atmospheres but it could be used as an oxygen mask as well.

“I believe it would be better for the patient if you took care of this,” he explained.

“Of course,” Ezra said as he accepted the mask. He placed it over Din’s nose and mouth, pressed the button to activate the seal and the oxygen delivery and then watched as faint breaths fogged the inside of the mask in sync with the laboured rise and fall of Din’s chest.

All this time, Ezra had been kneeling awkwardly beside the bench, maintaining a position that kept him on Din’s level while allowing him to spring up at a moment’s notice. He let himself rest down now, legs folded under him as he bent over and touched his forehead to his brother’s.

He reached out and willed him to rest easy, to hold on, repeating over and over the thought that they were nearly there, that all would be right.

Din never let go of his hand.

. . . . .

In mere minutes, they docked with the cruiser and a pair of medics met them there in the brightly-lit hangar.

Ezra pried himself away from Din’s side as the hatch hissed open and the team boarded smartly and promptly, efficiency honed sharp through years of battlefield experience. He drifted to the periphery of the scene and let them do their job, his calm dwindling to the numbness of a powerless observer as he watched them assess Din’s state, AZI sharing his diagnoses as they did so.

They tossed out numbers and abbreviations Ezra knew denoted vitals such as oxygen sats, heartrate, and blood pressure. He had medic training, too; he knew how to interpret all those values.

None of it was good.

And none of it would get better without intervention.

They transferred him to a stretcher and left the ship swiftly.

Ezra followed.

He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t help, couldn’t even really assist, but neither could he fall back and abandon his brother.

He followed the team, the maze of corridors they passed through to reach the medbay all an oppressive blur of white and grey. The medbay itself was just as colourless, the lights tuned even brighter, scaring shadows off from the rows of beds and equipment standing at attention.

The Avenger’s medbay was no paltry “here’s a pack of bacta patches and half a sheet of anti-inflammatories, help yourself and don’t call me” affair. It wasn’t state-of-the-art, nor was it as kitted out as a medcentre, but it was equipped to treat everything from boils to blaster wounds. It had a surgery station and three bacta tanks (bacta pods, technically: more economical, less hassle; cheaper to fill, easier to maintain).

There were multiple med-droids on duty around the clock but one in particular came hurrying over, almost running up to them as they entered.

“What has he done now?” Sloan demanded, optics snapping to Din.

“Didn’t wait twenty minutes after taking out a TIE Fighter before swimming,” Ezra answered, the humour hollow and reactionary.

“Unbelievable,” the droid muttered, sparing a moment to shake his head in exasperated disappointment before snatching up a datapad and entering the action, taking over smoothly, efficiently.

(He was an old model, the kind Ezra frequently saw around rebel bases back in the day. He wasn’t one of the droids originally assigned to the Avenger; rather, he was one Sabine requested be transferred from the medcentre on Lothal to operate aboard the cruiser for the duration of the Morak mission. Ezra didn’t understand why this droid was so special until he discovered it was the only droid in existence Din would allow anywhere near him with medical equipment.)

They had to cut Din’s flightsuit off; Ezra knew he’d be disgruntled by that later.

They strapped his arm snug against his body, immobilizing the shoulder. Din had dislocated it during his little stunt; Ezra could see a horrific bruise forming already and he thought he heard someone mention something about a torn rotator cuff. 

They moved him from the stretcher to the waiting bacta pod, applied monitor pads, swapped the emergency rebreather for an opaque, black mask with a tube leading neatly to a port in the bed of the tank, set an IV line in the arm not strapped down, secured it, and then, just like that, closed the pod.

A low whir commenced as jets lining the edge of the pod pumped bacta into the confined space.

Din flinched as the viscuous liquid rose all around him. It was involuntary, a mechanical reaction rather than an active attempt to get away; whether from his ordeal or via something they had administered that Ezra hadn’t tracked, he was unconscious as the bacta engulfed him. The bacta would keep him under as long as he was submerged.

It seemed to end too quickly, the flurry of activity. 

Their duty fulfilled, the medics melted away, leaving Din in Sloan’s capable care. 

Ezra didn’t move.

He didn’t leave, didn’t draw closer; he stood just where he had planted himself upon arrival, his senses trapped in a tunnel.

He was a trained Jedi.

That did not mean he was immune to shock.

A touch, a hand on his shoulder—tentative but intent, seeking nothing but to give—reeled him some of the way back, offering him something to moor himself to.

“You okay?” a voice that had grown quite familiar tonight asked.

Turning his head, Ezra finally found himself face-to-face with the pilot who had rescued him and his brother.

Their eyes met easily, partly because they were the same height, partly because it felt like he already knew this gaze. The thing that struck him the most was that her expression matched her spirit in a way he rarely encountered: the empathy he sensed shone bright through her eyes, writing genuinely concerned lines along her forehead.

Her eyebrows lifted, reminding him she was waiting on an answer.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m—” he cut himself off, abruptly, as the situation came crashing into focus. Facts connected to reality and his responsibilities sharpened with clarity. “I’m sorry, I have to go; I need to call someone.”

“Sabine?” the pilot ventured.

“Why, yes. But—”

“Already called her. She’s on her way.”

Ezra blinked and frowned, not for the first time attacked by the sense he had stumbled in halfway through a scene. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve—”

“Meg Hunter,” she offered and held out her hand without waiting for the beat. She shared the name without a hitch or hiccup but he caught a subtle twinge in the Force, not like it was a false name, just that it was incomplete.

“Ezra,” he supplied.

“Bridger, I know; I figured it was you.” She drew a quick line on her cheek with her finger, referring to his whisker scars. “Hera’s told me so much about you. I can’t believe they found you.”

Belatedly, he brought his hand up to meet hers in the proffered handshake. The instant her hand touched his, however, fire burst across his skin.

He gasped and snatched his hand back.

“What’s wrong?” Meg asked, surprise and an acute feeling of guilt, like she feared she had somehow caused him pain, flashing in her voice.

“The water,” Ezra answered. Turning his hands over, he examined them under the stark medbay light. The skin on both the back of his hands and his palms was red and blotchy, the visual matching the burning sensation causing his hands to tremble.

Meg frowned. “You’re allergic to water?” she said, truncatingly, trying to understand.

“No, Mr Bridger is not allergic to water,” Sloan cut in. “Much of the water on Morak is contaminated with improperly disposed of byproducts from the rhydonium processing and his skin made contact with it.” He stuck a spindly arm out, pointed somewhere behind him without looking. “In the drawer marked ‘ointments,’ you’ll find a medium strength bacta salve. Apply liberally.”

Meg sprang away and retrieved the salve—a red tube littered with instructions and details in Aurebesh. She returned promptly and gestured for Ezra to hold out his hands.

He was accustomed to treating his own ills—over the last decade, he rarely had another person bind his wounds. So, naturally, he reached out and turned his hand open to take the bacta salve from her, his mind working on automatic.

Rather than hand over the salve, however, she went ahead, unscrewed the lid, and set about applying the bacta to his hands.

(It was a simple kindness but it was another aspect of being around people again that he was still getting used to.)

“Thank you,” he said, the words carrying maybe too much weight.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

“Pardon my bluntness,” he requested, “but… what are you doing here? Here in general,” he clarified.

She smiled as if it were a funny story (or she had found the question or his manner funny; he wasn’t sure which). “I was on my way to visit Hera. I called ahead because, well, you know Hera: she’s all over the place. While we were catching up on the comm, she told me about this mission, told me she had this feeling she just couldn’t shake that you needed more help than you had. So, as a favour, I offered to swing by, see if you guys could use an extra hand. And it seems like you did.” She shrugged. “Force works in mysterious ways, huh?”

Something about the comment—innocent and flippant—pulled Ezra’s gaze across the room, back to Din.

The bacta’s analgesic properties were already at work: the pained lines in his expression had eased, leaving him looking relatively peaceful. The beeps from the heart monitor were still too rapid and the number depicting his oxygen saturation was still disturbingly low, but it had only been a handful of minutes; the pain could be soothed quickly, the damage would require time to heal.

And they had that time.

Ezra tried to focus on that fact.

He had gotten Din out of the water as soon as he could and this mysterious Meg had appeared and carried them to the cruiser in the nick of time. It had all worked out, all was well… all would be well.

But reviewing it in his mind, replaying events not yet an hour old, Ezra couldn’t help but catch on the idea that he could’ve gotten there sooner, could’ve read the situation just a little quicker and caught Din before he hit the water, negating the need for a rescue altogether.

With effort, he closed down that track of thought.

What was done was done, and dwelling on what could’ve been done better or faster wouldn’t change anything.

Chapter Text

Din was tired.

He was tired, out of breath, and scared.

He didn’t understand; the water had looked so calm, so still, yet it was pulling him out to sea. Even more confusing was the fact that he was fighting as hard as he could to swim against it, to get back to shore, but it didn’t make any difference.

He was a good swimmer; he’d been swimming for as long as he could remember. He was the youngest, the smallest, yet he almost always beat his cousins whenever they raced. What was he doing wrong?

He tried every stroke he knew, even that stupid one Zamir taught him, the one that looked like a bird trying to fly and swim at the same time—nothing worked.

He wanted to cry for help but he didn’t. He couldn’t; he was battling to get any breath, he couldn’t do that and shout. And he saw how far away the shore was—would anyone even hear him if he called?

He kept fighting. 

He kept trying to swim back. 

He didn’t even think of stopping because stopping meant drowning and he didn’t want to drown.

He didn’t want to, but he really thought he would…

“Din!” a faraway voice shouted. “I’m coming!”

His heart felt like it could collapse from the relief.

There, swimming straight towards him, was his father.

“Baba!” he cried, the fear somehow squeezing his chest tighter even though he knew without doubt his rescue was sure.

His father would save him; he always did.

“Stop swimming!” his father shouted as he raised his head from the water to take a breath before going back down for another swift stroke.

What? 

Stop swimming? 

Had he lost his mind?

Stopping meant sinking. Din didn’t want to sink; he didn’t want to drown.

He trusted his father.

But that made no sense at all; he must’ve heard wrong.

He kept swimming, kept trying to pull himself through the water, kept fighting. 

He only stopped when his father reached him.

“Hold onto me,” he instructed.

Din needed no further direction. He threw his arms around his father’s neck and latched on, tucking his head and closing his eyes, trying not to cry.

“Hold on,” his father repeated as he started swimming.

They were finally moving and it was a relief but Din just felt guilty and ashamed. He had tried so hard, he had poured all his strength and energy into swimming back and he had failed.

Everyone was going to be mad at him. Would he be punished? He feared he would be, but he didn’t even know what he had done wrong or what he had forgotten to do. Worse than that, he just knew Zamir and Raz and Amil were going to treat him like a baby for the next month. 

He opened his eyes.

He couldn’t see the shore at all.

They were going further out to sea.

“No!” he cried, his voice shrill and splintering. “We need to go back!” 

“We are,” his father replied, his response clipped by strain yet overlaid with warmth and reassurance. “Trust me.”

Din trusted him.

Of course he trusted him; his father had never let him down, had never tricked him, had never, ever done a single thing to hurt him.

So he held on.

His father swam out to sea. His strokes weren’t frantic yet they moved swiftly, as if the water were carrying them along. 

It seemed, at one point, as if this would go on forever, their journeying further and further out to sea. Din wondered how far they could go. He knew there were islands somewhere off the shores of Aq Vetina, had heard the fishermen talk about them, but he had never seen them himself—could they reach one just by swimming? And if they did reach one, what would they do then? Would someone come and pick them up? Would they just have to rest and then swim back? He didn’t think he could manage that; honestly, he didn’t know if he ever wanted to set foot in the water ever again after this…

Gradually, he realized his father had shifted direction. Now he was heading back to shore, though it wasn’t the stretch they had been on previously; this was a part of the beach almost a whole kilometre away from where they had set out from.

His father didn’t swim the whole way; waves helped push them along. If it hadn’t been for the close brush with drowning earlier, Din would’ve enjoyed the way the water swelled and carried them in bursts.

He was never happier to hear the waves crashing on the sand than he was then as his father stood. He didn’t put him down, rather just moved him so he held him at his side.

His father carried him away from the water’s edge and set him down on dry, sun-warmed sand. It was only then that Din realized he was shaking and his father was panting.

His father bent down and pressed his ear to his chest, the way he did when someone came to him complaining of a cough. “Deep breath in for me, Little Din,” he instructed.

Din obeyed, knowing the drill well. He pulled in as much breath as he could, held it for a short count, then blew it all out, repeating the process as his father moved to listen to the other side of his chest.

“Okay, okay,” his father murmured in a shaky voice as his hands flit like restless birds, smoothing down Din’s hair, then cupping his shoulders. “Doesn’t sound like you breathed any water in.”

Din shook his head to confirm he hadn’t.

And then he braced himself.

Because this was where the worry ended and the lesson should begin.

Or so he thought.

But it wasn’t what happened.

There was no “what were you thinking?” or “you shouldn’t have done that.” No, worse than that, his father gathered him up in his arms and held him tight and Din heard his breath hitch like he was crying and that just made him feel a hundred times guiltier.

“I’m sorry,” Din told him, struggling to speak past a tight throat. “I tried to get back but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

His father pulled back. Eyes watery, he took a moment to brush some sand off Din’s face. He was full of sand and salt; it was in his hair, on his hands, in his ears—everywhere. 

“It’s not your fault, son. I should’ve checked the water before I let you go in.”

“Why?” As far as Din knew, the waters here were always safe; they had always been safe so far. The only time they had to be careful was when hack-tooth sharks were migrating through the channels and, even then, they just had to avoid going into the water at night. He couldn’t think of any other dangers in his beloved sea.

“That was a rip,” his father explained. “We don’t usually get such strong ones here. Still, I should’ve checked.”

“What’s a rip?”

His father sat down on the sand and motioned for Din to sit in the dip created by his crossed legs. He did so, wrapping his little arms tight around the one that came down like a bar in front of him. 

“See that calm patch of water?” his father said, pointing out at the sea.

“That’s where I was swimming, I promise,” Din rushed to tell him.

His father huffed a kind of laugh that sounded more sad than amused. “That’s the thing about rips; they look like a safe place to swim but they’re not. They carry you away from shore, out to sea. That’s why I told you to stop swimming; fighting it doesn’t help, rather just tires you out.”

“But then how do you get away from it?” Din asked, challengingly, some part of him unreasonably indignant at the ocean for making up such a horrible, puzzling trick.

“There’s a few ways,” his father said. “See where the waves are? If you get caught by the rip, try to swim out to the side, to where the water is coming back to shore. That’s what I did just now to get us back.”

Din looked out at the water, feeling smaller than usual as he recognized the deceptively calm boundaries of the rip. It was such a large area of water; he couldn’t see where on the horizon it ended. Had he been there? All the way there, at that point where the sky and sea met?

He shrank back against his father, holding onto him tighter.

“You’re safe now,” his father assured him, his voice a deep, comforting rumble. “And you’re stronger, too.”

Din frowned and tilted his head to send a questioning look up at his father.

“You’re stronger because you know how dangerous it really is now, and you know how to fight it next time.”

. . . . .

… you know how to fight…

. . . . .

Don’t fight.

Din.

Stop!

. . . . .

He was underwater.

He couldn’t move.

Everything was so heavy and muffled, far away and unreal, meaningless.

He was… he was underwater.

The TIE Fighters… the sky… the river…

Falling…

Sinking…

Drowning…

He was underwater, there was air in his lungs, but he couldn’t move.

He was stuck on the ocean floor; he had to get to the surface, had to get to shore.

He kicked. He clawed at the water.

One arm couldn’t move, the other bumped into something hard and unyielding. He tried to grab it but he couldn’t find purchase.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but a bright blur, all around him. It was so unlike the river but that fact fostered no relief as the realization that he was trapped (encased) wrapped through and around his chest, constricting like a determined python.

He had to get out.

He kicked, he clawed, he thrashed. 

He felt something clutching his face. Frantically, he grabbed for it, his hand numb and near useless. When he thought he had snagged something, he yanked, twisting his head the other way at the same time.

He got whatever it was off his face but now he couldn’t breathe. 

All of a sudden, it was cold and the heaviness was all his own, his confines falling away largely outside of his notice as he choked on whatever he had just gulped in that was very decidedly not air.

(Whatever it was, it was warm, slick and sticky all at once, and it reeked like alcohol, sharp and overpowering.)

There were hands on him, pulling and pushing him, moving him onto his side and then staying to steady him. 

He coughed up whatever he hadn’t meant to inhale. It was wretched work but when it was over, he finally, finally could breathe in good, proper, satisfying air.

He sagged with relief and just breathed. 

In and out. 

It didn’t burn, it didn’t hurt at all; he felt like he had no power in his muscles, no true command over any part of his body, but he could breathe.

Something touched his face.

Instinctually, he jerked away and tried to raise his arm to bat it away. He managed to move his head and twist his body but his arm wouldn’t budge.

He opened his eyes.

It was a fight—every part of him was heavy and tired and his eyes especially just wanted to stay closed. Forcing them open and ordering focus was a Herculean task (and it didn’t help that the world was so excruciatingly bright).

Indistinct dark blurs loomed around him. 

Some were relatively still, some floated back and forth. 

They filtered into focus, sluggishly at first, and then it was as if some part of him decided it was high time he woke up and everything came crashing into reality.

Ezra. Mayfeld. Sloan. A woman he didn’t know. Another med-droid. Chopper.

And Sabine.

She was the closest to him. He had to crane his neck to find her but the sight of her rewarded the effort.

Her face, her eyes, her bright purple hair…

She was standing right by him. Her hand was on his shoulder. He could feel her warmth.

She was close. 

She was safe.

Everything was alright then; for a moment, he just let his eyes close, just let it all be.

And then something again tried to touch his face.

A mask, he registered as he twitched to get away from it. Some part of him understood they were just trying to help, that the mask would deliver more concentrated air and that was probably something he needed, but, right then, he did not want anything to come between him and the air around him.

He heard something. It had the faint rhythm of speech, he could determine that much, but he discerned neither words nor voice. It was easier now to open his eyes and when he did this time, he saw Sloan physically pulling a hovering med-droid away from him.

The other med-droid looked confused. It held up the mask and spoke again, its bug-like eyes lighting up in time with its words.

Sloan turned his head, replied, and pointed to the other end of the room.

The med-droid obediently floated away in that direction and didn’t return.

Vaguely, Din found it amusing.

Sloan returned to his side. He brought out a medscanner and trained its faint blue beam on Din, carrying it along the length of his body.

Din followed it in an absently interested way, looking down and taking stock of himself for the first time.

He lay on a strange surface, something halfway between a bed and a table. One of his arms was immobilized, lashed to his body with black straps. Little black dots littered his chest—monitor pads, if he wasn’t mistaken. His skin was clear otherwise, he noticed—coated (saturated, he should say) in the same slick yet sticky substance he had inadvertently breathed in, but it was clear. He had some soft bruising, but no burns, no new scars. A part of him was a bit disappointed: he remembered the pain from the incident; he thought he would have incurred some more overt marks from the whole ordeal. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as he—

He wasn’t completely dressed.

With a jolt, he realized he was lying there without his flightsuit, without a shirt, without pants. He had just his shorts, and while that was a comfort, it afforded him only the barest level of dignity. He was suddenly very aware of the small crowd around him.

He tried to get up then, to look for clothes or a blanket (or, given his saturated state, perhaps a towel, first and foremost). 

He didn’t get far.

He forgot he had only one free arm to work with. Automatically, he tried to plant his hands on the surface beneath him to push himself up but his one hand was weak and the other couldn’t get into position so he just ended up doing a pathetic worm-like twitch.

Hands came to help him. 

Ezra, he realized. 

Din accepted the offered assistance and after what felt like a gruelling hour of effort and coordination, he got to sit up.

Succeeding that far, he decided to go all the way to standing. Why not? He felt fine. So he swung his legs off the bed and went to stand… only to find himself on his knees on the floor.

He didn’t feel the fall or the crash.

All he felt was numb.

Numb and far away.

Ezra had caught him.

His head was on his chest. He could feel him talking but he couldn’t hear.

It wasn’t even his normal couldn’t hear; he really couldn’t hear anything.

He was tired.

He was tired but he could breathe and he wasn’t scared.

He closed his eyes; he didn’t mean to, he just did, but he didn’t feel any reason to fight…

. . . . .

Don’t fight.

. . . . .

His next waking was far more… normal.

He awoke, not submerged, not lying on his back confined in some tube, not surrounded by over-bright lights; no, he awoke in a good, proper, dry bed. He was still in the medbay but someone had had the kindness to dim the lights in this section.

There was something on his face but it wasn’t as obtrusive as that black mask; it was just a light oxygen cannula. (He didn’t exactly like it but it was preferable.)

And there wasn’t a crowd of people and droids hovering around him.

There was just Sabine.

Just Sabine, curled up in a chair she had most likely dragged from somewhere else and set flush against his bedside.

Every last vestige of tension unspooled at the sight of her. 

Her serene face, half lost in the folds of a blanket identical to the one currently covering him; her bright purple hair, stark against the white pillow.

(She had cut and dyed her hair randomly a week ago. He returned to their cabin after a meeting with the Shydopp to find her in the refresher, bent over the bin and attacking her hair with a pair of scissors. When she stood again, her hair fell no longer on her shoulders but, rather, around her jaw—the length it had been when he first met her. For once, it was all brown, the dull, faded purple bits lying like plucked feathers in the bin, but it didn’t stay that colour for longer than an hour. Next thing he knew, she was turning it violet again—her favourite shade: a vibrant, vivid hue he had come to love just as much. Playfully, she dabbed some of the dye mix on his hair and he still had it now: an innocuous spot of purple at the back of his head which no one but Grogu had noticed.)

(Or, if anyone else had noticed, they had had the grace not to comment on it…)

He moved his hand towards her. 

His one arm was still out of commission but at least those restrictive straps were gone and he had only a soft sling to contend with now, and, thankfully, she had stationed herself at his good side. 

He reached over and when he touched her, she awoke, eyes catching little specks of light as they flashed to him, instantly alert.

She shirked off the blanket like something emerging from a cocoon and got up to sit on the edge of his bed. Before he knew it, her arms were around him.

He completed the embrace as well as he could, laying his one free arm across her back and holding onto her like she was all that could keep him afloat.

She shifted to hold his face in her hands as she came in and pressed her forehead to his, so close, she smushed their noses together.

“If that was you trying your best, I’d hate to see your worst,” she told him, the flat tone discordant with the affection she was indulging in.

He chuckled, the sound rattling his chest and throat. “Pretty sure my worst would be dead,” he said, his voice sore and hoarse.

Sabine pulled back, a hand staying to cup his face, the other brushing through his hair as if to put it right, make him look neat and presentable. “Then I’ll take your best any day,” she said, softly.

He huffed and closed his eyes, settling and drifting in just this moment, her presence the only possession he needed.

“How’d we go?” he asked eventually. “With the mission,” he clarified and coughed.

“We won,” she answered, the simple words infused with triumph and promise. “The mines have all caved in and the base is just rubble. Clean-up’s underway.”

“Casualties?”

“None on our side, although someone…” she glared pointedly at him, “gave it their best shot.”

“I know, I know.” He coughed, cleared his throat, took the water she offered and drank maybe too much because now he just felt sick. He closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. “I should’ve cut the line sooner.”

“Really? That’s what you’re taking away from all this?”

He frowned and tried to review the series of events in his mind.

If he had just detached from the TIE a little sooner, he wouldn’t have injured his arm and he would’ve been able to activate his Phoenix and keep himself in the sky. Remaining anchored to the TIE after slashing the wing off had been his only mistake, as far as he could determine.

But Sabine seemed to disagree.

“What would you have done?” he asked, genuinely (though, if he had to be honest, there was a hint of a challenge in his tone he didn’t check in time).

Her shoulders dropped softly, like she had sighed, and she gave a small shake of her head. “The same thing you did,” she admitted. “Of course, I would’ve done it better,” she tossed in, aiming to keep the mood light.

He smiled. “Of course,” he echoed, leaning his head into the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes and just breathed in the moment. 

Bantering with her was comforting. The inconsequential quips lifted some of the weight off the whole experience, softening the severity so they could deal with it. 

The fight was done.

The worst had not happened.

And she was here.

Victory and legend be damned; this was worth more than any triumph.

It didn’t stay just the two of them for much longer.

Sloan came in, the flung-aside curtain announcing his presence clearly, succinctly.

“Ah, we’re awake,” he said, not looking up from his datapad as he pulled the curtain back in place behind him. “On a scale of—”

“Two,” Din answered, already fed up with the blasted pain scale.

Sabine looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. “Six,” he amended in a mumble.

“That’s to be expected,” Sloan said, sounding unusually disgruntled. He shook his head in a very human gesture as he muttered to himself.

Din looked to Sabine. “Is something wrong?” he asked, anxiety creeping in.

“You were only in the tank for two days,” she informed him.

“How long was I supposed to be in?” (Two days in bacta already sounded like way too long to him…)

“For your injuries? Five days, minimum,” Sloan told him.

Din sat up, ignored the way it made his head pound. “Wait, I don’t—”

Sabine put a hand on his chest. “Don’t worry; he’s not gonna force you back in.”

“That outdated programming, cross-wired, krill chips for a logic-circuit droid called in and requested the tank be calibrated for a baseline human,” Sloan complained. 

“And… what was wrong with that?”

Sabine levelled him with that look that came out whenever she discovered he didn’t know something that was apparently common knowledge. “Din. You’re Lothali.”

“I’m also human.”

“Lothali humans are not pure human,” Sloan explained as he consulted the monitor displaying a live readout of Din’s vitals—his heartrate kept climbing, not in the least helped by this conversation. “There’s no reliable record of which species your ancestors… combined with, but the union resulted in a rather unique physiology. Technically, you are near-human.”

“What?”

Sloan raised his head, his blank expression reading as surprised as he tipped his head at a curious angle. “You seem shocked by this information.”

Din shook his head, trying and failing to think of what to say.

Near-human? No one had ever told him he was near-human.

Did it really mean anything, though?

“Admittedly, the deviations are obscure,” Sloan continued, returning to typing on the datapad. “You register as human on basic bio-scans. However, a more comprehensive scan would’ve detected that your body responds differently to certain substances, bacta being a prime example.”

“It’s also probably what saved you from the water,” Sabine added, squeezing his hand. 

Din exhaled and tried to let those facts sink in, tried to understand if they warranted the confusing mix of emotions festering in his core. Some part of him viewed it as a massive, life-altering revelation; another part was more than happy to just brush it aside, leave it in the realms of little significance—after all, it had never come up before, it had never meant anything before, so why did it have to mean anything now?

Whether or not it mattered, he didn’t get much more of a chance to think it over as a familiar dark head poked through the curtains encircling the space around his bed. 

“You up for visitors?” Ezra stage-whispered, loud enough that Din heard him, his eyes bright as he raised his eyebrows in expectation.

Din gave him a flat look. “Do I have a choice?”

Ezra seemed to ponder the question for a moment, tilting his head and exaggerating a thoughtful look before pulling a face. “Nah!” he declared as he thrust the curtain aside, letting the light from the rest of the medbay flood in. 

He hadn’t come alone. 

Behind him, a small mob stood around, waiting.

Mercifully, it was not everyone and sundry; it was just his crew: just Mayfeld, Cara, Zeb, Chopper, Dahlia, and that woman Din still didn’t recognize, though he felt like he should, like he had already met her. The fact and the sight of so many people waiting to see him was almost overwhelming, but when his gaze fell on Grogu (perched on Ezra’s shoulder) all worry, all unease evaporated.

His son smiled wide, his leaf-like ears shooting up high as they could go as he greeted him with a cheer, happy to see him awake and alive.

Din moved his arm out and Ezra took that as his cue. He came forward and helped Grogu clamber down into Din’s hold. The little one immediately latched onto his father, embracing as much of him as his tiny arm span could manage.

“All’s well, ad’ika,” he assured him, his voice a murmur as he bent his head forward to kiss the crown of his son’s head. 

He felt a nudge on his arm. Turning his head, he found Sabine trying to pass him the little case holding his hearing aids as inconspicuously as possible. He hadn’t asked for them, hadn’t even thought of them, but he did want them, especially with the influx of visitors. It wasn’t easy to get them situated with one hand and with a child clinging to his chest but he managed. Switching them on awakened the ambient sounds of the medbay—soft blips and beeps from machines and monitors, the drone of the cruiser’s internal systems, a quiet, consistent tapping as Sloan typed away on the datapad. There was still a cushioned quality to everything, like his ears were blocked (which, taking into account the two whole days he spent submerged in bacta, that might not have been too far off from the truth…)

The small crowd gathered around his bed. Some of them hesitated and hung back, uncertain of the convention here, of what was allowed and what was acceptable, but Cara had no such compunctions; she just came right up and unceremoniously dropped a parcel in his lap.

“Leftovers from the victory feast,” she told him. “Gotta get your strength back up, pal. And you really have to get some more meat on you; that TIE flung you around like a flimsi doll.”

Din rolled his eyes, more reassured than bothered by the dig—if Cara was poking and just in general trying to annoy him as a cover for her genuine concern over his well-being, then all was right in the galaxy.

“The Shydopp did one better,” Mayfeld pitched in and chuckled, a conspiratorial glint in his pale eyes. “They sent you about three cases of Morakian ale.”

“And, as I have already informed Mr Mayfeld on five distinct occasions, alcohol is not permitted in the medbay,” Sloan said with a subtle drag in his artificial voice, like he was growing tired of repeating himself. “I would also like to remind Mr Mayfeld that as part of his parole agreement, he is not, at any time, to have a blood alcohol level exceeding—”

“Hey! I didn’t know it would be that strong, alright?” Mayfeld interjected, defensively. “Those mudscuffers don’t exactly print content labels on the bottles.”

“And the fact that it smells like paint-stripper didn’t clue you in?” Dahlia asked.

“Sweetheart, I spent a month with a mercenary crew on Nar Shadda; if it doesn’t smell like it could dissolve organic matter in three seconds flat, then it doesn’t even register as alcohol to me.”

Din smiled and let himself relax into the bed, content to observe the back-and-forth. It was inane and meaningless yet comforting—the petty arguments, the spontaneous banter. There was a safety in it, the knots tied between them so strong that they could pull and tug and push each other in ways no one else could get away with.

Zeb came up to him. He held up a smile but the slant of his ears betrayed how deeply worried he had been.

“Good to see you alive, mate,” he said, giving Din’s uninjured shoulder an overly gentle pat, like he was afraid of breaking him.

“Good to be alive,” Din agreed.

Zeb chuffed. “Well, you’ve got Ezra and Meg to thank for that.”

Din frowned. “Who’s Meg?”

“Hi!” the woman with the white-gold braid piped up. She leaned into his field of vision, flashed a smile, gave a quick wave, and then pointed to herself. “I’m Meg. And it’s real nice to finally meet awake-you.”

“She swooped in and saved your butt after you tried to hitch a ride on a TIE Fighter,” Mayfeld explained, inelegantly.

“Gotta admit: interesting technique that,” Meg remarked, and Din had a hard time figuring out if she was joking or expressing genuine admiration. “Never seen anyone try that before.”

“Yeah, there’s a good reason for that,” Cara said, flippantly gesturing to the room they currently occupied.

“Didn’t work as well as the first time,” Din conceded, the words slurring a little toward the end.

Meg’s eyes widened. “You’ve done it before?” 

He huffed a soft laugh. It was a clear invitation and the mood was light and welcoming; he wouldn’t have minded sharing the story of his takedown of Gideon’s TIE on Nevarro, but he was struggling to scrape together enough energy just to keep his eyes open.

Sloan noticed.

(Of course.)

“Alright,” he declared in a way blunt and efficient but not rude. “You’ve seen him. You’ve visually confirmed he is alive. You have contributed to his emotional well-being. Now will you people please vacate the medbay so my patient (who should still be in a bacta tank) can rest?”

Farewells strung together in a soft chorus as the small crowd trickled out the medbay, wishing him well, hoping to see him up and about soon.

Sabine and Grogu left, too, not of their own ambition but because he asked them to. He was grateful for their company, always, and he made sure they knew that, but he couldn’t imagine how sleeping in that chair was in any way comfortable for Sabine.  

With their departure, the medbay seemed so vacant and cold, silent and empty. He pondered that in a drifting, detached way, noting absently that he had once lived like that on purpose, never truly spending a thought on the prospect of a different life for himself. Silence was once his natural habitat; now it was foreign and unnerving. 

But, then again, this was a medbay—the stark white walls and medical equipment didn’t expend any effort to furnish an impression of homeliness.

The curtain around Din’s bed hadn’t been drawn closed after the exit of his visitors; he could see the other beds (all empty), and, clear across the room, the bacta tank, lying open and unused.

Two days, he thought in disbelief. 

“Hey, Sloan?” he asked, his eyes already closing but the need to get an answer poking him like an itch all of a sudden.

“Yes?”

“Is it… is it normal to… dream… in bacta?”

“Quite normal,” the droid answered with a subtle perk, like he had been asked a question on his favourite subject. “Bacta has a sedating quality; while unconscious, organic brains of most sentient species tend to occupy themselves. Vivid but nonsensical thoughts, images, and sensations are not uncommon.”

“What about… memories?”

“Ah. That is common, too. You see, human brains don’t actually lose memories—that is a misconception. What you lose is the connections to the memories. Bacta heals indiscriminately and thoroughly. Many have reported re-experiencing moments they believed they had forgotten. Some even relive unforgotten experiences, usually traumatic events—a side-effect of the bacta seeking to heal whatever damage it finds. What was your experience?”

“A memory.”

“If you wish, I am fully programmed for psychiatric therapy and grief counselling. Do you wish to talk about it?”

Din huffed. “No. It… it was actually a good memory.”

. . . . .

The next day, he managed to leave the medbay.

His arm was still in the sling, his shoulder still hurt, his throat still burned and his lungs felt like someone had come and wrapped sandpaper around them. But he could stand on his own two legs and that was enough to get him back to his cabin where he could continue his convalescence in privacy.

It wouldn’t be a horrendously long trek from the medbay to their cabin but he conceded after a token fight and took up his crutch. It left him with no free hands to hold or handle anything, a situation that sharpened his sense of vulnerability.

Ezra orbited him, Grogu happily perched on his shoulder like a Kowakian monkey-lizard, holding a tuft of hair to keep him anchored as his uncle zipped about, notably and suspiciously more boisterous than usual.

It was probably just paranoia, but Din swore he sensed some scheme at play. He thought he even saw a glint in Sabine’s eye, like she was in on the secret. She had an infinitely better sabaac face than his brother but he knew her well enough by now to detect when she was up to something.

He didn’t dwell on it, deciding it probably was nothing.

Then the medbay doors opened.

Din froze on the threshold, struggling to comprehend the sight rolling out before him.

People lined the corridor all the way down to the lifts, standing smart and at attention.

Everyone was there: his crew, the New Republic officers in their uniforms, the rangers and the pilots and even Pan the cook along with some of the Morakian fighters and a few Shydopp warriors.

They stood in two neat lines, facing each other, leaving clear a path straight down the middle. Shoulders squared, chins raised, gazes level, they painted the picture of an army waiting respectfully for their general.

Din scanned the lines, trying to find a free spot for himself, Sabine and Ezra, thinking this was some kind of ceremony—for who, he wasn’t sure; he hadn’t heard of any pending visits from any special guests but he had probably just missed the memo while laid up in the medbay for the last three days.

He looked to Sabine, hoping she would give him a cue, a direction, some sign of where to go or what to do. Unhelpfully, she smiled, that conspiring glint shining that much brighter.

He looked to Ezra who was also beaming. He gave him a nudge but it didn’t tell Din where to go or what to do.

“What is this?” he asked in a stressed whisper.

“This is for you,” Ezra told him and Grogu trilled as if to verify the statement.

Din heard him.

But he didn’t believe it.

He glanced back at the soldiers and friends lining the corridor, his heart pausing, waiting for the punchline, for the reveal that this was some jest or the other. But no one cracked a laugh, not even Cara or Mayfeld.

At the next nudge from Ezra, Din took a step. And another and another. He walked down the corridor, feeling like some detached entity, unreality washing over him as each person he passed bowed their head in a quick but solemn, unmistakable nod of thanks. 

He knew them all by name. 

He knew their stories. 

He had trained them. 

He had fought beside them.

He didn’t feel he had done anything so grand as to warrant this display of gratitude; he walked down feeling like he was taking something that didn’t belong to him.

At the end of the corridor, Teva and Rune stood, side by side. 

Teva came forward, gripped Din’s arm in lieu of a handshake, and thanked him for his service.

When he drifted back, Rune stepped up.

“I want to thank you,” he declared in his rough, heavily accented voice. 

Din straightened a little to prompt him to continue.

Rune lifted his head, emotion tugging at his scarred face for a clip of a second before he reined it in. “I am a father, like you. My children have not known the safe, quiet Morak I knew as a child. But because of what we did, my children will grow to see a free, healed Morak,” he said, pride and accomplishment woven through every word. He stopped for a moment, emotion tugging at his face. “But because of what you did,” he continued, his voice dropping down, weighted and meaningful, “they will grow up with a father, too.”

He then bowed his head and when he again lifted his one-eyed gaze, Din solemnly mirrored the gesture. 

“We want you to accept this,” Rune continued, reaching into the inner folds of his outer garment and producing a parcel: just a scarlet-coloured cloth folded up over something small. He peeled back the loose layers with thick, gnarled fingers until he held in his palm a gem not much bigger than a credit attached to a long, thin, leather cord. The gem was cut roughly in a teardrop shape, the many faces capturing and showcasing its unique array of colours. “This is what the invaders wanted, but this one is unchanged,” Rune explained and Din understood what he meant—this was rhydonium in its pure state, when it was harmless and beautiful, holding the colours of its explosion frozen in a crystal-like form.

Humbly, Din lowered his head to let Rune slip the cord over his head. The gem settled on his chest, catching the light in faint, shimmering glitters.

“Thank you,” he said as he levelled his gaze with Rune’s again. And then, in Huttese, he assured him: “I will treasure and preserve this gift as long as I hold the memory of our victory.”

No sooner did he finish speaking than Rune enveloped him in a tight embrace. 

A collective cheer, like a war cry but notably brighter, boomed from the Shydopp gathered nearby. It rippled out from there, a sound like a downpour of rain flushing through the corridor.

A round of applause. 

Rune released him and Din turned to see all the hands clapping for him.

Something in his chest expanded and pushed hard against his ribs from an emotion he didn’t feel all that confident naming. It wasn’t a totally new feeling; he had glimpsed it before—Sorgan, Mos Pelgo, Calodan—but he had always made sure to stand apart, plant himself away from the cheering and the celebrating; he had never had to experience the full brunt of it like this before.

It had chased him down this time, cornered and caught him where he couldn’t escape. 

It caught him and it forced him to feel, to accept the gratitude he had by all rights earned.

. . . . .

MS-10-4-N "Sloan" and Grogu

Chapter Text

With their mission on Morak complete, the New Republic departed.

Cara had to leave as well; Nevarro had been without its marshal for too long. 

Mayfeld, being as he was in her custody, was under compulsion to return with her, but all that awaited him there was “sitting around and looking pretty” as he termed it. He expressed the wish to remain on Morak for a while longer, to assist with the clean-up. It took some finagling and more than a few holo-calls, but they managed to work out an arrangement: Zeb, as a Ranger and a well-respected veteran, would take over as Mayfeld’s parole officer for the time-being.

He poured his energy into the effort. Every day, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

(“Ironic,” he remarked one day, looking out at the curated heaps of scrap amassing on the side of the road leading away from the refinery. He wiped his brow and chuffed. “This is the same work I was doing a couple months ago on Karthon. Difference is: now I want to do it.”)

Meg opted to stay, too, as she, apparently, didn’t have to be anywhere else anytime soon. She lent AZI to the local clinic where he assisted Dahlia and Sloan.

They were happy to have them stay, of course. AZI was an indispensable help and Meg was good company and a diligent worker, clever, creative and efficient, and it didn’t hurt that she unreservedly offered the use of her ship—the Havoc Marauder II, as she introduced it—but something about her unsettled Din and Ezra. They didn’t sense or observe anything nefarious or untoward about her, and Sabine knew and approved of her, but coming in the way she did, without announcement or call, inadvertently presented her as a mystery, like a thing that blew in on a storm without visible tracks to follow. She appeared out of nowhere, yet they couldn’t shake the feeling that they should recognize her…

Nevertheless, she fit in well with their little crew and proved invaluable as they worked to help clean up the wreckage.

The Shydopp and the Morakians eagerly put them all up.

Rune insisted Din and his family stay with him. His home was already small and full to the brim with himself, his wife, four children, an aunt, and his father, but they managed to squeeze in fine.

By day, they worked; by night, they rested.

With the Imps cleared out, there was no need to hide, to slink under shadows and keep silent. They moved about and worked in broad daylight, making whatever noise they had to (and some they didn’t—it had been too long since the people had sung aloud; decades of pent up voices vented gleefully, pouring into old, half-forgotten songs that melded seamlessly with the jungle chorus). 

Without the constant stream of chemicals pumping into the water, the rivers began refreshing themselves. It would be a while—perhaps years—before the ecosystem in that part recovered fully, but already clear water washed through the channels, and with the dam dismantled by the explosion which took out the refinery, nothing impeded the river’s natural flow.

The skies still had that greyish-brown tint to them but it faded a little more each time a storm swept through. 

Morak was ready and eager to heal.

She had the will, the desire, she had life still in her grasp, and now, with the cancer of the Empire excised at last, she could begin remaking herself.

. . . . .

Din wore no armour all that time.

Initially, it was because he was still healing and just the process of donning the whole set would’ve needlessly spent his energy and strength. Then, when he felt well enough to join the work, he left it off as one less thing to hinder him.

He didn’t even keep his gear strapped on his person; he carried only the Darksaber hilt on his belt.

(Sabine did balk a bit when she saw him using the ancient sword to cut up chunks of twisted metal for easier storage and transport on the scrap wagons, but it was hard to pitch any argument that Tarre Vizsla as a Jedi would’ve disapproved when Ezra was doing the exact same thing not ten feet away with his own lightsaber.)

Unorthodox usefulness aside, the Darksaber had become familiar to Din. 

He trained with it often now, honing his technique and prowess with the strange blade. It took more than strength, more than even willpower to learn it; it required discipline and patience, and even after all these months wielding it, he still felt like he could barely glimpse profiency with it.

He trained with Ezra, with Sabine, with Zeb and even with Rune, each sparring partner imparting a vastly different lesson than the others. But with every session, he learned the blade just that much more.

Its weight, its song, its ability—these he knew well.

Its story, its role, its purpose—these he had yet to comprehend.

He knew the tale well now, he could recite it off by heart and he had even shared it a few nights around the fire when prodded to do so because whatever he made of it, he couldn’t deny that it made for a good story. 

He told of his adoptive ancestor who forged this blade of both shadow and light as a fusion of both his Mandalorian heritage and his Jedi heritage, how it was stored safe and sound in a Jedi place until it was stolen by Tarre’s descendants and turned into a kingmaker. He mentioned the unworthy hands that grabbed madly for it and the blight it became. He told of how his wife, as a youth, tried to restore it but to no avail as it ultimately fell into the hands of the man who made it his mission to exterminate their people. 

Somehow, his audience got the impression he fought Gideon to liberate the blade, get it back into the hands of the Mandalorians where it had always belonged. He could see how they concluded such, he agreed it made sense thematically, and it would’ve tied the story up in a neat, logical, satisfying end, but it wasn’t the truth. He told them, outright and without embellishment, that he knew nothing of the blade when the Moff attacked him, cornering him into a duel that shot his fate off course. He fought back because he had to; he fought to save his son.

He expected laughter. 

He could see the punchline a mile away; the irony, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. 

But no one laughed.

They stared at him, all eyes wide and fascinated, and he wondered if it had been something in his delivery or perhaps his expression that had lined the story with too much weight.

The next day, one of Rune’s young sons asked Din what he was going to do now as king of the Mandalorians and just that question, trimmed with a child’s innocence, ripped open his perspective of the situation in a way nothing else had, calling to mind something Sabine had tried to explain to him.

The blade has no power; the story does.

To him, it was just a thing—a useful thing, a strange thing, a powerful thing, but, at the end of the day, just a thing: an object, a tool. The story was interesting and intricate but just that to him: a story. Yet, no matter how he viewed it, he couldn’t unburden the history and tradition and belief that had been heaped upon it over the centuries.

He couldn’t change what it meant.

Upon arriving at that revelation, his first inclination was to hurl the thing over a cliff (of which Morak provided a convenient surplus). A throne was the last thing he wanted or needed.

But would forfeiting possession of the blade legally negate his right to it? And even if it did, even if he found a way to abdicate all claim to it, what then? Would the station evaporate altogether or would it simply default to someone else? And just who would that be? Gideon? Kryze? Someone else?

Giving it up or losing it would unburden him but was it worth it if doing so sealed Mandalore’s fate?

And did any of this even mean anything when there was probably less than a thousand Mandalorians scattered like stars across the galaxy?

The questions lurked in the back of his mind all day. While busy, while in company, he could ignore them, but at night, they circled and pressed in on him.

He kept his quandaries quiet and to himself.

After all, here on Morak, he was no king, he wasn’t even always the Mandalorian; he was just Din.

Just Din, who wore simple garb suited to the climate, the only distinctive pieces being the little rhydonium gem lying in the centre of his chest and the wine-purple scarf an elderly Shydopp woman gifted him (“To match your wife,” she had said as she put it around his neck and fussed with nimble, knobbly fingers to get it looking just right).

Just Din, who worked on the ground all day, either hauling debris and scrap or repairing skiffs and motors and any other broken piece of equipment or machinery he found or had brought to him.

Just Din, who took his meals always with company. Breakfast was a noisy, commotion-filled flurry in Rune’s house; lunch was always a communal affair on the worksite; and dinner tended to move around with neighbours vying for Din and his family to join them.

Just Din, who carved time out every other day to explore the forest with Grogu, showing him things he had found decades ago with his buir. Back then, his buir incorporated survival training within their adventuring, but Grogu was much smaller and far more delicate than Din had been so he adjusted and softened the lessons, focussing less on honing and testing his self-reliance and more on understanding how to read the land. Every single excursion, they discovered a new species of beetle or frog (of which Grogu diligently docked the population by at least one before Din could stop him).

Just Din, who began and ended every day with Sabine. Their room was small and the bed creaked but with her there, it was fine. They joked about the tight fit and the rickety bed frame and Din wouldn’t have traded a moment of it for all the luxury in the galaxy; he would’ve slept on a duracrete floor without complaint just as long as she was there.

For little over a fortnight, he was just Din—a friend, a father, a husband; an ordinary man.

Life was good and simple.

It was a pity it didn’t stay that way…

. . . . .

“… we tried to get back to Ord Mantel as fast as we could—I swear, Tech almost broke hyperspace—but Hunter and Echo had finished their delivery early and made it back before us. Which would have been fine, ‘cept Bolo and Ketch dobbed on us.”

“Bolo and Ketch?” Ezra repeated.

Meg flicked a dismissive hand, her other picking a fried tuber from her plate and passing it to a very appreciative Grogu sitting on the table between their plates. “Two of Cid’s regulars,” she explained as she mirrored Grogu’s sign of thanks back to him. “Her only regulars, actually; her parlour was usually the least popular place on the planet.”

Ezra nodded, idly. “So then what happened? Upon your tardy arrival.”

Meg held up a finger and looked straight at him. “We weren’t tardy; Hunter and Echo were early,” she stressed, making sure the facts were clear. Then she flicked her fingers and shrugged. “They got that ‘I’m not mad; just disappointed’ look—you know,” she proceeded to recreate the expression, tilting her head just so, pursing her lips, flattening her gaze and just slightly frowning.

Ezra chuckled. 

He knew that particular expression intimately well, having been on the receiving end more times than he could count.

“We got the standard lecture but they were more upset with Cid than with us,” Meg said and something in her voice shifted. Somberness cooled the joviality, revealing a sad twist in the story: the end of innocent times and the rotting of once relied upon connections. She covered it quickly, pulling up a smile and willfully reigniting that spark of humour in her eyes. “But you should have seen Hunter’s face when Wrecker told him Tech won the race.”

Not acquainted with this Hunter Meg so often spoke of, Ezra imagined how Din would’ve reacted under similar circumstances. It took almost no effort at all to conjure a picture of his brother’s patented frazzled look combined with genuine worry and more than a mite of puzzlement over how he was supposed to condem such errant behaviour when the situation—already bizarre and complicated—presented no viable alternative course of action.

Nostalgia glowed warm around Meg as she laughed softly at the memory. She passed another tuber to Grogu who accepted it but, rather than devour it immediately, he held it up and motioned to her drink, ears perking up in hopefulness. She slid the glass closer to him, holding it steady as he dipped the tuber in, scooped out a dollop of sweat cream, and then shoved the whole thing in his tiny maw, trilling and swinging his tiny feet back and forth in pure delight.

They had stopped for a late lunch at the town inn after a day well spent hauling scrap metal from the refinery to various craftsmen scattered throughout the main town. Ezra had offered to watch Grogu for the day, to give Din and Sabine some time alone—neither of them ever voiced so much as a whim for a honeymoon and Ezra supposed it just wasn’t part of the Mandalorian marriage traditions, but they had been through a lot lately; some time off wouldn’t go amiss, and if they weren’t going to ask for it, then the task of orchastrating excuses and circumstances fell to Ezra and his ever willing abetter Grogu.

The inn was old, the wood floors dark and scarred with age. Natural light, tinted greenish gold by the surrounding forest, poured in through windows and doors flung wide open. A troop of ceiling fans worked non-stop, rattling rhythmically, pulling in the fragrance of ever-blossoming flora as they kept the humid air flowing fresh.

There was no need to hurry. 

This time of day, work slowed to a near halt. Ezra couldn’t say he blamed them—having grown up on Lothal, he thought he was used to heat, but what he knew was dry heat, not this cloying, draining oppression. He hadn’t been sweat-free since the moment he set foot on the planet.

The only ones who seemed to enjoy it were Grogu and Meg. Rather than cling and weigh them down, the humidity envigorated them. 

For Grogu, the quick acclimation was strange: he had never lived in a climate like this, having spent his formative years in the Jedi temple on Coruscant and the rest pingponging from camp to ship to settlement, but perhaps this was akin to whatever world his species historically hailed from. 

Ezra didn’t know where Meg came from, if her homeworld was like this one or not. 

In truth, he knew very little about her.

She shared many stories but kept the details meticulously vague, selectively but skillfully omitting all the potentially important clues. 

She wasn’t obvious about it; in casual acquaintance, she appeared outgoing and unreserved. But Ezra knew how to spot someone in hiding.

“May I ask something?” he ventured now, easing them out of their companionable lull.

Mouth full, she assented with a quick jerk of her chin.

“You only ever mention brothers in your stories,” Ezra stated, slowly, and tipped his head to the side. “Why is that?”

Meg shrugged. “They’re my family. They raised me. We still live together. Sort of. Sometimes.”

“Your parents?” Ezra prompted, tentatively, and watched her reaction carefully, reaching out in the Force and listening closely, like a safe-cracker.

There was no twinge of grief, as he had expected; in fact, there was no trace of sadness at all. But neither was there indifference or bitter resentment. He sensed something like a blank or unfinished page, as if he had asked her opinion on someone she had never met.

“Well, our father died when I was young,” she answered like she was sharing a fact that mattered to her about as much as the weather on Corellia mattered to the Morakians. She didn’t look up from nonchalantly shuffling the tubers on her plate but her interest in the food was feigned. 

“And your mother?” he inquired, partly out of convention, partly because he had no idea how else to proceed.

“Never had one.”

“Oh.”

There was something there, slipped in and hidden under her misleading layers of nonchalance. As she spoke, there was a shift, but it wasn’t so much her feelings on the matter as it was an assessment, a conclusion and a decision, all made in a snap. He could see it in her gaze when she flicked her eyes up and met his with a cool certainty.

She breathed a soft, airy chuckle and eased her posture. “Alright. I’ve had my fun. ‘Bout time I let you in on the secret.” Slipping her foot off the seat next to her, she repositioned to face him completely. Folding her arms on the table, she leaned slightly in and lowered her voice. “See, here’s the deal: I don’t actually have parents. I’m a clone. So are my brothers.”

“A clone,” Ezra echoed. “The clones?” he questioned and as soon as he said it and heard it, he realized how obscure it sounded.

But she understood. 

“Yes. ‘The clones,’” she confirmed with a laugh not in voice but in her eyes.

He searched her face in the new light, picking up and tracing features he suddenly recognized. The colour of her skin, the shape of her nose, even the soft lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes—eyes he had seen many times before, every pair identical in shape and colour and yet ever unique in that way eyes just were. 

He frowned. “Please, don’t… take this the wrong way, but aren’t you a little… young for a clone?” As far as he knew, the clones were technically 40-30 but all except for one had had their youth artificially condensed—they were made just a few years before he was born but they were all mature adults when he was just starting to crawl. At present, the youngest a clone could be biologically was the equivalent of a 50 year old; Rex, being from some of the first batches off the line, was near seventy.

“I wasn’t sped-grown; I aged the old-fashioned way,” Meg explained, pushing her plate over to Grogu, allowing him free reign on her leftovers. 

“And you kept this all a secret because…?” Ezra trailed off on purpose, leaving the question open.

She took a long breath and let it go in a sigh. Strong emotions swelled up—it was a complicated mix, but woven deep within, Ezra finally detected the grief he had expected earlier. 

Grogu sensed it, too. He paused eating and looked at her with a faint furrow in his brow.

“Because I’m not a normal clone,” she said, dropping her voice another notch. “When the Clone Wars ended, I left Kamino and the Empire hunted me down for years. You see, I’m… well, there’s no pretty way to put it. I’m an experiment. There’s something in my blood the Empire wanted bad. I was captured many times; my brothers fought so hard to free me, and they sacrificed so much just so I could grow up in peace. When I left to join the Rebellion, I made up a new name and kept the fact that I’m a clone quiet just in case the Empire still wanted me. And the Empire’s not completely gone yet, so… safer to keep hiding.”

Grogu reached out and placed a gentle claw on her arm, chittering softly, sadly. When she glanced to him, he signed: “They chased me, too.”

Ezra didn’t have to translate; Meg knew sign already. 

She broke into a smile, touched by the little one’s empathy. 

“What was so special about your blood?” Ezra asked.

She shook her head. “I never fully understood; no one ever learned exactly what it was. I, uh,” she chuckled, ironically, “I thought for a while it could be that I had a high M-count.”

“Do you?”

Her gaze snapped back to him. She blinked as if taken aback, then her expression pinched in a frown. “Can’t you tell? You’re a Jedi.”

He opened his hands and shrugged. “Sometimes, I can tell; sometimes, I can’t. Force-sensitives can hide from each other.” He nodded to Grogu in indication. “Some do it for protection. Some, like my niece, Depa, don’t even realize they’re doing it. And often when one is untrained, they naturally lie quiet.”

Meg’s gaze drifted off him, her mind tumbling through a cascade of thoughts. He couldn’t hear them and he wasn’t trying to, but he could sense her fighting to reorder and make sense of things.

“I met someone once who tested me,” she divulged, her voice taking on a faraway quality, like she wasn’t talking to him or Grogu anymore. She shook her head, puzzlement crimping her brow, tugging at her mouth. “She said I didn’t have it.”

“She might’ve been right,” Ezra told her, aiming for neutrality.

Meg let slip a scoff as she rolled her eyes. “Or she didn’t want to deal with me.”

Ezra had no comment for that. He didn’t know who this person Meg met once upon a time was—they could have been anything from a genuine Jedi to a malicious con artist—but through her stories, he had glimpsed what Meg was like as a child and that fiery little girl didn’t seem so different from a certain street rat from Lothal who caught trouble like a bad flu… and few had Kanan’s perseverance and patience to put up with all that.

He considered offering to test her now, to solve the mystery once and for all, but he withheld. He detected curiosity, a spark of will to know, to discover and understand, but dread cast a dark cloud over it, smothering and depressing the drive. That passage of her story was riddled with turmoil and loss; a part of her wanted nothing more than to keep it closed forever.

They settled into silence and let the matter ebb away. 

The fans rattled and whirred. 

The cicadas sang without interruption. 

A Terran family shuffled in and dragged a few chairs across the floor to accommodate all their members at one table. 

Grogu steadily continued clearing whatever remained on the two plates set before him, his movements slowing as his ravenous appetite gradually met satisfaction. He would fall asleep soon, which was fine; he was easy to carry when napping.

Out the window, a parrot arrayed in lush magenta plumage perched on a tree branch and called out. Its intricate, lilting song sounded cheery and lighthearted but Ezra could hear its message.

I’m trying to find you. Are you here? Can you come to me?

“I recently met another clone like you,” Ezra remarked, endeavouring to bring them back to safe territory. “One who aged normally,” he clarified.

“So. You’ve met big brother Boba,” Meg said, coolly, tipping her almost empty glass and holding it from falling over with a single finger.

“He’s a very interesting character.”

She scoffed. “I’ll bet.”

He didn’t know how to interpret her reaction and he didn’t get the chance to try.

Just then, someone new entered the inn.

Ezra was seated with his back to the entrance but he didn’t need to see to know this newcomer was not a local. He hadn’t met every single person in the town but this individual carried a kind of discordance that marked them blatantly as a stranger.

That alone was intriguing, not concerning; what was concerning was the sharp sense of purpose and the dark intentions emanating from them like a foul smell.

Glancing up, he caught Meg watching the newcomer with a gaze both keen and casual. Her eyes flicked to his and just a small jump of an eyebrow told him this was someone to pay attention to.

There was a metal jug of water on each table. Ezra filled his glass and then set the jug down at just the right spot to provide a reflection of the newcomer.

A Nikto male—tallish, middle-aged, beige skin littered here and there with marks and scars, shifty eyes sweeping over everything without really paying attention. He didn’t seem all that athletic but there was an arrogant confidence in his gait, like he believed he could outrun and outgun anyone who tried him. His garb immediately set him apart from the Morakians: where theirs was light, airy, and splashed with vibrant colours, his was dark and heavy; the multi-layered dress of a traveller, though not a very savvy one. Most eye-catching were his weapons: an ornate slugthrower, multiple knives strapped to his boots, and a curved sword hanging from his hip.

One thing about Ezra: he knew a pirate when he saw one, and this guy was overly proud of his chosen occupation.

“What’s your read?” Meg asked, quietly, casting her gaze out the window by their table.

“Trouble,” Ezra answered, succinctly.

“Plan?”

“In progress. Keep an eye on my nephew.” And, with that, he grabbed the jug of water from their table, emptied his cup back into it, and stood in a whirl.

The Nikto sauntered through the inn, making no secret of scanning the vicinity and the patrons like he was looking for something. He didn’t find it, but he didn’t seem so put out as he continued on and commandeered a table near the centre. He drew the chair quite far back, dropping down and immediately swinging his legs up onto the table, thick boots clunking on the old wood as he leisurely crossed his ankles.

“Welcome, traveller!” Ezra greeted him, brightly, pushing the Morakian accent into his voice. He filled the cup with water (again) and set it down on the table. “What brings you to our stretch of the forest?”

The man scoffed, sharp and crass. “I’m looking for someone, is what,” he answered, folding his hands behind his head and looking Ezra up and down before rolling his gaze away in a disinterested manner.

He took him and dismissed him as a local worker and that was exactly what Ezra was aiming for. He scanned him quickly, searching for any insignias that might distinguish him, perhaps affiliate him with a known band or crew. He couldn’t spot anything obvious—nothing on his coat, nothing on his scarf, nothing on any of the paraphernalia he carried on his person.

A loner then.

Or, at least, trying to look alone…

Setting the jug down, Ezra unwound one of the cloths tied around his wrists, doing so quick while the pirate wasn’t paying him any attention. He set about wiping the table down, going around the pirate’s boots.

“Who’re you looking for? Maybe I can help.”

The pirate swung his gaze back to him, eyes set sceptical. “A Mandalorian,” he said, eventually, with an air like he would be surprised if this simple man cleaning a table had ever heard that word in his life before now.

Something cold slipped through Ezra’s veins.

Outwardly, he gave nothing, just continued cleaning the table.

“You mean the guys who wear helmets all the time?”

The pirate’s expression shifted. He cast his eye over Ezra again, gaze narrowed. Slowly, he returned his feet to the floor and leaned his arm on the table. “You seen one?” 

Ezra laughed and shook his head. “Morak isn’t exactly a vacation spot; we don’t get many visitors.”

“Then he should stand out.”

He, Ezra noted. 

High chance it was Din, then.

“Well, I suppose he would stand out, true…” Ezra agreed, airily, trailing off with blatant purpose.

The pirate dropped a coin on the table and slid it across, keeping it pinned under a finger and clearing his throat with meaning.

“Well, like I said: we don’t get a lot of visitors,” Ezra reiterated, quickly, making it very obvious that he had noticed and was interested in the bribe (which he was, just… not in the way the pirate presumed). “But… come to think of it… some friends of mine did tell me something about a guy in a Mandalorian get-up hunting in the forests of Ha’Morak.”

“And where’s that then?” (For such a rough character, this pirate sure was gullible.)

Ezra snatched up the credit coin (Imperial, minted over two decades ago, useless anywhere outside the Outer Rim). “Southern continent. Huge mountain—” he clicked his tongue and slapped the centre of the table with his hand, “slap-bang in the middle of the forest. Can’t miss it.”

. . . . .

Chapter Text

Although Sabine wouldn’t have described their work of cleaning the ruins of the base over the last few weeks as soul-draining drudgery, a day off was, nonetheless, a very welcome change of pace.

She hadn’t expected Din to go for it; he wasn’t exactly the “take it easy” type. But it hadn’t taken more than a little urging (and some painfully obvious orchestration) from Ezra to clear his schedule for the day.

They let the morning start slow, staying in bed and only getting around to breakfast at that point when it would have been more appropriate to label it lunch. They sat on the porch to drink their caf and let the ritual take a while, lengthening the time with idle conversation and comfortable silence.

They went for a walk, following a winding, overgrown trail that led them to a creek teeming with smooth silver stones. Din told her about the time he cut his foot on those stones and how he hadn’t been half as worried as his buir. They sat together and watched a company of parrots with eye-catching plumage come by and take up residence in the fan-like fronds of a nearby tree, their song loud and ecstatic; on their way back, Din found a feather they had left on the ground, all their vibrant colours displayed along the barbs.

Grogu would like it, Sabine said and Din smiled as he twirled the feather between his fingers, envisioning the little one’s delight at the simple but beautiful thing.

Returning to the village, they got sidetracked quickly. 

A ball rolled into their path, moving at speed. Din caught it with his foot, holding it there and looking around for the owner. A group of about eight children stood frozen in the middle of the street, eyes big and uncertain as they waited for either a return of their ball or a reprimand.

Din wedged his foot under the ball, kicked it up onto his knee and bounced it a few times before catching it cleanly in his hands. Rather than throw it back across the way, he walked over and handed it to the children. Sabine watched as he crouched down and spoke to them, explaining something and gesturing instructively. After a minute, their eyes lit up and they nodded eagerly before rearranging themselves, splitting up into two teams. Din gave a little further direction and then they began, trying out this new game with glee.

It was a small moment, inconsequential and infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, a moment history would scrunch up and scrap in favour of more important, more impactful events, but it was the kind of moment Sabine wanted to catch and hold from every possible angle. 

That man there with the soft smile and the soft voice, that man who could lead an army but could also get down on his knees and talk to children like they were his equals, that man was her family, and he never ceased to give her reasons to be proud of him.

He came, resumed his station by her, and together they watched the kids play. She looped an arm around his back and he lay his arm across her shoulders, bringing her a little closer to his side where he could comfortably lean his cheek on the top of her head. 

The last few weeks hadn’t been stressful or brimming with hard labour, they had been a model balance of work and rest, but there hadn’t been a moment quite as calm and peaceful as this one.

Then Ezra and Omega returned.

Sabine heard the sleek rumble of the Marauder’s engines as it flew by overhead. Glancing up, she saw the triangular craft swoop down and slow as it headed for the landing field outside the village. 

Din noticed it, too. He turned his head in the direction they would’ve landed, eyes searching the treeline even though he knew they wouldn’t come into view so soon.

“The prodigals return,” Sabine quipped with a small, exaggerated sigh, earning a twitch of a smile.

Din looked to her and lifted his chin. She nodded, and, arms still linked around one another, they began meandering towards the landing field to meet them.

Just as they caught sight of Ezra disembarking the Marauder, Sabine got a strong but vague sense of something amiss. Worry caught her heart in a snare but it released some when she saw Grogu safe and sound asleep, cradled in the crook of Ezra’s arm.

“We need to talk,” he said without any of his usual trim.

“Something wrong?” Din asked, letting his arm slip from Sabine as she went forward to collect the little one. 

“Someone was looking for you,” Ezra told him.

Din raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Not a friendly,” Omega chimed in, a mild grimness lining her expression and tone.

After a sharp glance between the two of them, every last trace of peacefulness evaporated from Din’s countenance. It was subtle: just a slight winding of his shoulders, a nudge up of his chin, a hard set in his jaw—things anyone could miss, if they didn’t know him.

“A pirate,” Ezra began, coming closer so he could lower his voice somewhat. “Nikto. No affiliative markings. Looking for a male Mandalorian whom I can only assume is you.”

“Nikto…” Din repeated, absently, brow sinking into a frown. His eyes flickered as he rifled through his memory. Suddenly, his head snapped up, his gaze taking on a critical intensity. “Did he have a—a sword?” he asked, stuttering in that way he did when he wasn’t finding the word he wanted. He drew a sharp arc in the air with his hand. “Like a—like a curved…?”

“Cutlass,” Omega supplied. “Yeah, he did. Looked very ornate.”

“He wore it like he believed everyone should see it,” Ezra remarked. “Also had a slugthrower unlike any I’ve ever seen and a restaurant’s worth of knives.”

In Sabine’s arms, Grogu stirred. She repositioned him on her chest and rubbed soothing circles on his back, endeavouring to keep him settled though she doubted she’d succeed—if she could sense the tension rising in Din, so could he. “Did he cause a scene?” she asked.

Omega shook her head. “No. But I think he would have if you had been there,” she said, looking at Din who wasn’t looking at anyone, his gaze veering off into the distance.

Sabine reached out, put a hand on his arm. 

“Vane,” he said as if in response to her touch, still looking detached from the present. He blinked and Sabine knew he was seeing some other place, some other time; whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. “His name; it’s—it’s Vane.”

“So you’ve met him?” Ezra asked, prompting for more.

Din nodded but didn’t expound on the exact occasion. “He’s sometimes a pirate, sometimes a bounty hunter; does whatever takes his fancy, goes wherever he hasn’t been kicked out of yet.” He paused for a long, drawn out moment, body still as glass while his eyes flickered madly. Eventually, his mouth pulled and he shook his head as if replying to some question no one else had heard. “He’s trouble,” he said, and it was his last word on the subject that day.

. . . . .

On their way back to the village, Ezra recounted his exchange with Vane in detail, relaying exactly what he had told him and where he had sent him (a convoluted misdirection with a guaranteed dead-end which should give them at least three days to figure out what to do before he caught wise). 

Din added nothing further; he said nothing at all, the only sign he hadn’t turned to stone right there before them being a small nod when Sabine suggested they table the matter and discuss it again later.

They returned to the village and saw the day out in a milder semblance of their routine. Rather than accept an impromptu invitation from the ever-hospitable neighbours, they gathered just among themselves.

Mayfeld had heard of this Vane character as well, though he hadn’t met him in the flesh.

“You’re right,” he said to Ezra when he repeated his observations about the pirate, “he’s not part of a crew—hasn’t been for a couple years. He’s, uh, not what you’d call a ‘team-player.’ Last I heard, his boss had put a black spot on him.”

There was a grave spirit to the hush that fell after that piece of information.

Everyone in the crew had had some dealings with pirates; they knew what that meant.

A black spot.

The pirates’ death mark.

No one said anything more on the topic but they were all—or, at least, the ones without all the history and puzzle pieces to form the complete picture—wondering the same thing.

What did a pirate want with Din?

Dinner proceeded without its usual banter and they went their separate ways with a sense of change looming in the days to come.

. . . . .

Night crept in slowly but steadily, taking first the green-gold glow from the forest, then pulling out the light altogether, replacing it with a sheen of silvery moonlight that left a faint blue tinge to the world. The noise in Rune’s packed house gradually ebbed as everyone went to bed and it wasn’t long before muffled, out-of-sync snoring seeped into the forest’s white noise.

Sabine put Grogu to bed and got ready and into bed herself. After an hour of uninterrupted reading, however, she realized she might spend most if not the whole night alone.

Din had slipped away sometime during dinner, headed for the garage. That in itself was not unusual, neither was his losing track of time, but the day’s events had given Sabine more than enough reason to suspect this was not a simple case of absentmindedness.

Placing her book on the nightstand, she let her head sink back in the pillows and cast her gaze up at the ceiling, as if she might find some answers there. The ever-employed fan blurred the soft light from the bedside lamp into a halo of flickering shadows, the low clicking and wobbling of the old but reliable unit fusing with the chorus of cicadas and frogs and nocturnal birds.

She wasn’t surprised or worried by the pirate’s appearance. 

According to Din’s brief account, this Vane was a loner, and with the light Mayfeld’s intel cast, his solitariness appeared by nature and necessity rather than by design and free choice. From Ezra and Omega’s description, she glimpsed a man looking to make a show. If it was true that he was on the wrong side of his pirate cohorts, then either he was looking to bring in a prize of beskar to buy his redemption or he thought taking out a Mandalorian would boost his reputation enough to deter anyone looking to seal the black spot.

Those reasons drove men to desperation, certainly, but one single pirate with antique weaponry was hardly a match for two Mandalorians, a Jedi, three veteran Rebel fighters, a New Republic Ranger, an ex-Imperial sharpshooter, and an entire village of sharpened Shydopp warriors.

Sabine wasn’t worried.

But Din was.

She was dwelling on that, trying to trace it to its roots when a little green claw broke into her field of vision, popping up like a spring flower.

Turning her head, she watched with an unstoppable smile as Grogu climbed up onto the bed, his little squeaks of effort mostly for show—he was an efficient and experienced climber of both furniture and people.

Sabine opened her hands and fluttered her fingers, wordlessly inviting him to come to her; he did so in an unsteady dash, bowling into her and giggling as she lifted him up in a sweeping arc before bringing him down and nuzzling his nose with hers.

She set him down on her stomach, steadying him with a hand at his back, and his sweet little expression melted all too quickly into seriousness.

“Where’s Baba?” he signed, tilting his head as he pointed to the other side of the bed.

Sabine glanced to the empty side as if to confirm it were still vacant. She breathed out, not quite sighing. “Probably still in the garage, fixing things.”

“He should sleep,” Grogu pointed out, a pout pinching his mouth.

“Yes. He should.”

The little one paused, a tiny twitch of his ears betraying his deep thinking. Despite his size and relative infancy, he grasped concepts to an extent that still astonished Sabine. She could see it now, that uncanny discernment, that bottomless empathy, written with care in his expression.

“He has nightmares,” he revealed at last, looking at Sabine like he was waiting on her reaction before he determined the severity of the situation.

“Yes,” she told him, plainly but not without sympathy as she smoothed down the little curls on the top of his head. “I know.”

Of course she knew.

She knew even before they were married about his frequent nightmares. During their trip out to Wild Space, she too often crossed paths with him during the designated sleep hours, pacing the Ghost’s corridors to expel the pent-up adrenaline and calm his racing mind. Even though he tried to refrain from confessing the cause of his insomnia, she knew; she could see it in his eyes just how much he dreaded his bed.

It got better for a while. 

Then the mission to take out the refinery happened.

Every night since had been a battle. 

He struggled to fall asleep, and more nights than not, when he finally did manage to drop off, it was just a matter of time before he woke in the unforgiving grasp of a nightmare. 

He shivered, his breath hitched, sometimes he let slip the slightest whimper, but that was as overt as he allowed his symptoms to be; otherwise, it was a silent fight—he never screamed, he made hardly any sound, and that was enough to break Sabine’s heart, but it was his stillness which truly tore her heart to shreds. She knew he was a reserved person, but this rigidity seemed less natural and more… enforced.

These night terrors were becoming frequent and intense enough that he had begun to avoid sleep as much as he could get away with. It wasn’t healthy, but… Sabine understood.

“You know not to look into them unless he lets you, right?” she asked Grogu, a soft sternness underlining her words.

“I know,” he signed with the tiniest blip of an eye roll, like he was so done with these rules. He glanced at the empty side of the bed again, his ears lowering, the little display of petulance evaporating, his concern for his father far stronger. He turned back to Sabine, brow lifting in hopefulness. “Bring him back?”

She smiled. “I was highly considering it.”

Holding Grogu, she got up out of bed and traversed the slim walk-space available in the borrowed room to return him to his crib. She tucked him in again and this time he looked more believably settled, preemptively assured that when he woke next it would be to see both his parents in the bigger bed where they should be.

Sabine put on her boots and grabbed a cardigan not for the warmth—the night was as hot and muggy as the day had been—but to cover her bare arms and protect them against the annoying little biting insects Morak had no shortage of.

She padded through the house and slipped out the kitchen door into the backyard—an area defined not by fences but, rather, by the grass modestly trampled by all the family’s comings and goings. The moon cast enough light for her to pick her way around the house where the light from the garage then took over and led her the rest of the way.

“Garage” was a somewhat over-enthusiastic descriptor. It was a bare-bones shed cobbled together out of a salvaged container. It was a purely functional space, lacking any and all adornment, equipped with little more than the most basic tools and unashamed thereof. It housed Rune’s skiff and speederbike and even with both vehicles sheltered, it had ample space leftover to work and tinker in.

She heard Din before she saw him: a little string of metallic clinks and rattles, like he was rifling through a pile of tools.

The doors were wide open, the fan overhead going at full speed to keep the air in the shed from stagnating and turning suffocating. Still, there was a noticeable difference in the air when one crossed the threshold.

Sabine entered, scuffing her boots on the ground to make as much noise as she could. She caught sight of Din at the workbench against the far wall, his back to the world, but he had his hearing aids on. Often when he worked alone, he took them off for a break, but with some projects he opted to keep them on, to help him listen out for those small, telltale sounds which could diagnose or guide or warn.

His head turned, just enough to scan his intruder. He saw her but didn’t turn around, just continued searching for a tool.

“It’s getting late, love,” Sabine remarked.

She didn’t get any verbal response but she glimpsed a sliver of his expression: a tug of tight lips and a dip of his brow.

He knew full-well how late he was letting it get.

Sabine continued on. At an unhurried pace, she entered the shed and stationed herself in the middle of the walkway between two benches. He could get past her still, but he couldn’t do so without looking at her.

“Worried about Vane?” she ventured, going straight for what she suspected was keeping him up tonight.

“No,” he answered but then shook his head to cancel it. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

It was too vague, too… messy to glean anything tangible from. 

He gave up trying to find whatever tool he had been searching for. He stopped his rifling and stared at the box holding spanners and wrenches, blinking as he waited for his mind to catch up—or, as was more likely the case, as he tried to catch up with his mind. Then, with a low, clipped sigh, he abandoned that pursuit and retreated, turning abruptly to find employ somewhere else.

Sabine let him be for a while. She drifted closer to a bench that didn’t seem to be in immediate use and leaned back against it, letting her gaze wander the space for a moment before returning to Din.

Under the patchwork light, the dark smears under his eyes stood out but he looked far too wound up to be tired. He picked random things up—a part of a skiff’s motor, a piece of a speederbike’s brake system, a component that could belong to any bit of machinery—he picked them up only to turn them over in his hands before setting them back down and leaving them like they had done him wrong.

The quizzical set of his brow quickly cracked with frustration. She was not the cause; this spiral was already in motion long before she came.

“So. What’s the story?” she inquired, breaking the silence like she had nothing better to do but it had the desired effect.

He paused.

After setting down one thing but before picking up a new thing, he stopped. He wasn’t facing her but she knew he had heard; she could see him organizing words in his mind.

“With Vane?” he asked.

“You met him once before,” Sabine said, offering a starting point while letting him know the clues hadn’t escaped her.

Din nodded, absently, confirming her statement on automatic. He fell still for another stretch, coming out of it in stilted segments—first a flickering sweep of his gaze over the area, then a deep breath, then a return to trying to find something to occupy his hands, his quest significantly less frantic this time.

“Before Greef was a magistrate or a Guild leader, he was a pirate,” Din began, voice low and a touch hoarse. “He and Vane’s boss were partners. Vane’s old boss,” he clarified. He let out a breath and shook his head. “I don’t know the whole story but… they pulled some big—some big heist that made them both rich. Greef used his share to build the cantina on Nevarro and get his business there going.” 

He paused again, intentionally but unhurriedly drifting closer to her. He came and set in place beside her, mirroring her stance of leaning back against the bench, hands locking on the counter edge, colour draining from his knuckles.

“After the Purge, what was left of my covert joined with two others on Nevarro and I—I transferred to the Guild chapter there. One day,” he laughed, lightly, like it was ironic, like this part of the story was ridiculous, “I was there, in the cantina, getting paid and getting more pucks, when in walked this pirate—Vane—along with some friends. They were drunk and loud, harrassing anyone who looked at them funny; I just ignored them. But Greef… he looked worried. He wanted me to stay, so I did. Vane came up, spitting something about how the cantina half belonged to his boss so then, by right, it belonged to them as well. Greef told them to leave, they wouldn’t, blasters came out…” a hollow breath left him, the very air around him falling a few degrees colder. “I took out Vane’s men, would’ve gotten him, too, but… he got a shot in.”

As if to authenticate the account, Din lifted the hem of his shirt just partway. 

Sabine had memorized all his scars but she knew the stories to only a few—mostly just the ones she had witnessed the infliction of, like the long, thin slice on his belly from the surgery after his fight with Gideon and the ragged burn on his thigh from their first training session with the Darksaber. She could guess with disturbing accuracy what weapons caused the other scars—blaster burns and knife wounds accounting for the majority—but she could attribute only one—a starburst scar on his stomach—to a slugthrower’s bullet.

It lay right on the edge of where his cuirass covered; she had never seen his old armour but given the fact he hadn’t accepted an upgrade for nearly twenty years, it was no stretch to assume his old cuirass hadn’t protected as much of him.

She went to trace the edges of the scar, not thinking anything of the action until her fingers brushed his skin and he gasped sharply, tensing and flinching back as if she had shocked him.

For a moment, he looked like he wasn’t seeing her; his eyes flickered but caught nothing. He came back in a rush, blinking rapidly and forcing out a small, choked laugh, trying to defuse his reaction. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his shirt right with the ghost of a tremble in his hand.

“It’s okay,” she assured him, retracting her hand even though her instinct was to reach out and touch him. “I should’ve—”

“No. It’s—it’s me. It’s—” Abruptly, he swallowed and then shook his head like he was frustrated by something. “I’m not… I’m not worried about Vane; not really,” he said, veering sharply back to the main topic. “It was a lucky shot the first time and I’ve got better armour now while I doubt he’s improved any.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little at that.

He was a humble man, Din, but there was a stubborn shard of cockiness lodged under the surface. When it occasionally broke through, she caught a glimpse of the younger, more arrogant, more reckless Mandalorian he once was. 

In a way, his defiant self-confidence was good to see; it meant he wasn’t out of fight yet.

“But you are worried about something,” she ventured. She didn’t see any reason to beat around this any further. He didn’t seem to be stalling, rather just… formulating.

He closed his eyes, tight lines along his expression betraying him as he translated his thoughts into sentences.

“Sabine. I wasn’t born the day you met me. I’ve left a lot of tracks in this galaxy; I’ve done things and I’ve made more than a few enemies doing them. I wasn’t always careful; I didn’t… I thought I didn’t have to be. I knew what I was doing. I knew, but I thought… I thought if anything ever happened, if anyone ever came after me, then that’s all it would be; I would be the only one in harm’s way. But now I have you,” he admitted, his voice hitching and quickly losing volume, “I have you and Grogu and…”

“Hey.” Sabine pushed off from the bench and moved to stand in front of him. She made it very obvious she was reaching to touch him; this time, he saw and when her hand came up and cupped his cheek, he didn’t even twitch. “‘Mhi me'dinui an—we share all,’” she reminded him, locking her gaze with his as she repeated part of the vows they had exchanged a few months ago. “Your enemies are my enemies; you won’t fight alone.”

His hand came up to cover hers and, belatedly, he let himself close his eyes and lean into her touch. Finally, the tension unspooled—not all the way but enough to release the invisible band holding his shoulders hostage. “I know that. Really, I do.”

“You didn’t flinch when you read the worst chapters of my life,” she said, her voice low, set for just the two of them to share. “Anything you were, anything you did, anything that comes back to haunt you—it’s gonna have to deal with me, too.”

He let his head tip forward, landing soft but heavy on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered as he broke free from the last of his rigidity and wrapped his arms around her.

She stood there and just held his half-folded form, one hand cradling his head, her other arm laid across his back. Time passed but she counted none of it.

Forest air flowed around them, pushed along by sluggish breezes laden with the sweet, spiced aromas of exotic flora. In the absence of their words, the sound of the night returned, so unfailingly there that Sabine forgot to hear it at times.

After a while, Din drew in a breath, deep and slow. He unlocked himself and leaned away but kept his arms loose around her, comfortably anchored together. The eyes she met now weren’t so frantic and frustrated, just soft, a little worn, and glittering with gratitude.

“It probably would be a good idea to start making tracks,” he conceded, and the return of his practicality reassured her more than any other assertion he could possibly craft. “I don’t want to draw any more trouble here; these people have been through enough.”

Sabine gave a small nod of agreement. “Where to next then?”

His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug but she could tell he had thought about this already—he had this plan mapped out long before Vane’s appearance. “I was thinking Nevarro. Mayfeld said Greef’s been collecting ships for me to have a look at. Probably about time we…” he trailed off, abruptly, not like he had lost the words but more like he had lost his confidence in them. 

“It’s about time we got a ship of our own,” Sabine finished for him, giving her agreement in the same go.

Chapter Text

Part II

The Nevarro Sojourn

. . . . .

They had come with little so packing was a quick affair; the farewells, however, took the entire morning.

The whole town gathered to see them off. It reminded Din of his departure from Sorgan a year back; even the catalyst for his leaving so abruptly was uncannily similiar, but that was where the parallels ended.

Leaving Sorgan had been a rather discreet affair, and although the entire village had waved him off and cast out well wishes and hopes of his eventual return, he hadn’t interacted directly with anyone beyond receiving Omera’s solemn thanks; this time, there was a procession of hugs and handshakes he just could not get away from, and he quickly lost count of the elderly ones latching onto him and imparting last-minute advice on everything from life in general to child-rearing to recipes for a good steak. 

He left Sorgan with only Grogu accompanying him; he left Morak with a whole colourful party in tow. 

He moved on from Sorgan, not knowing where in the galaxy he would or even could go; he left Morak with coordinates set sure for Nevarro, not a trace of doubt that he and those travelling with him would be welcomed upon their arrival.

Meg (or Omega, as she had, belatedly, divulged her full name) offered to take them to Nevarro. Din didn’t know if it was en route or anywhere near her home destination or if such a consideration even factored into her offer in the first place—she seemed content to follow them and travel their path however it unfolded.

Zeb, Dahlia and AZI were to stay on and finish helping Morak get right. The clinic still needed some work so Meg suggested AZI continue there. He would accompany Zeb back to Lothal when finished and, ultimately, when Meg completed her original goal of visiting Hera, she and her droid would reunite.

Sloan could have stayed, too, but Din suspected the nurse droid was but a hair’s breadth away from snapping if forced to work another day with AZI. Both were well-equipped, experienced medical droids, their work was equally efficient and comprehensive, but their bedside manners clashed and their order of operations just could not sync up. As he supposed they would eventually wind up back on Lothal one way or another, Sloan opted to travel with them.

Needless to say, the Marauder was packed, but it had been built to ferry a small military unit and its subsequent modifications and additions hadn’t whittled down its capacity too drastically.

It was more home than transport—far more than the Razor Crest had ever been. Din had lived on his ship but it had never reflected him the way the Marauder reflected Omega.

(Or, more accurate to say: the ‘Crest had reflected him as he was back then: brutally practical, shaved down to necessities, unadorned, unmarked, unencumbered.)

(But that version of him was as lost as that ship.)

They left Morak just after midday. After eight hours in hyperspace, they came upon Nevarro, their internal body clocks dismayed at the fact the sun hadn’t even begun setting.

As they broached the planet’s atmosphere, a droid hailed them. It welcomed them in a professional, cheery manner, then inquired about their purpose for visiting. Omega replied that they were here to visit their friends, the magistrate and the marshal. After a pause, a brief but chirpy chime came through the comm and the droid wished them a pleasant stay.

That was new, Din noted.

In all his years coming and going from Nevarro, he had never once been asked his purpose for visiting.

It was not the only new thing.

Even before they landed, it was clear the world’s transformation had taken a few further steps since his last sojourn. 

The air, though ever lined with smoke, was clearer now without the unnatural fumes from the Imperial base and the illegitimate businesses contributing to the haze. The buildings had seen some extra cosmetic and structural care: walls and roofs which had always been just patched and repatched, over and over again, had now been granted proper, sturdy replacement and they bore designs painted in maroon, brown, navy, or saffron—the Nevarrans’ preferred colours. 

The landing fields had been cleaned, leveled, and widened, and a spot was now permanently allocated to commercial shuttle services. As they set down, Din caught sight of the arch residing over the city’s entrance—it, too, had been refurbished, the pillars now boasting an intricate mosaic design.

He spotted Greef and Cara as well, standing a short ways away, smiling faces painted with diffused sunlight as they waited for them to land and disembark.

As Omega put the ship to rest, Mayfeld let out a long, contented sigh.

“Good to be home,” he said and there wasn’t so much as a hint of sarcasm in the remark.

Silently, Din agreed.

It was good to be back here again. It was good to see the world’s recovery coming along and it was good to meet up again with old friends.

But there was a lump lodged in his chest, restricting his lungs from expanding too far. It had begun as an ignorable kernel the night before, planting itself at the same time Sabine had asked where they were going and he suggested this oh-so familiar waypoint. It grew steadily as they prepared to set-off and as they made their way. Now, with the hatch opening and the dry air wafting through the cabin, it swelled into a mass, intangible but heavy, and Din could feel his heart hammering hard against it.

He couldn’t explain it. 

Nevarro, like Lothal, was a very safe world now. He didn’t have to worry for his family’s safety here as he did on uncharted worlds or in lawless lands such as Tatooine and Trask. Even if it were still host to its old traps and treachery, he had a band of very capable warriors at his side. But it wasn’t quite that that worried him; he couldn’t name it but it wasn’t entirely a fear of physical dangers that had him on edge.

He forced himself not to dwell on it as he stood from his seat and slung his pack over his shoulder and it took no great effort to refocus: some part of him had already decided not to diagnose it. 

Mayfeld led the way, a subtle, comfortable swagger in his gait as he strode off the ship, pausing at the foot of the ramp to take a deep, indulgent breath of warm, dry Nevarran air.

As ever, the air reeked of sulphur from the lava rivers and Din did not share Mayfeld’s newfound nostalgia for it, rather, he regretted not donning his helmet with its blessed filters.

(It looked like Sabine shared his regret. The last time she came here, she had worn her helmet the whole time; now, he watched her face screw up tight and he swore she lost some colour.)

Greef and Cara joined them on the ground, their pace set at a relaxed stroll. Cara’s smile cracked open in a grin while Greef spread his arms wide in welcome as he approached.

“Mando!” he greeted, as was custom, his deep voice warm and booming. His arms swept down, one clasping Din’s forearm while his other hand latched onto his shoulder, giving it a soft rattle. “You’re looking well, my friend,” he said, looking him over and shaking his head, chuckling with heart. “Family life seems to be the best thing for your health. And here’s the lovely Mrs Djarin.” He turned to Sabine and performed a similar greeting, clasping her forearm and patting her hand, training that same, fatherly warmth he bestowed on Din onto her. He opened his mouth to say something, likely something flowery, but he seemed to lose his grasp on it, emotion glittering in his eyes as he improvised a smile and patted her hand again.

It was hard sometimes to tell Greef’s age. All the time Din had worked for him, he hadn’t known just how far Greef had pushed his retirement back. He exuded enthusiasm and joviality, his wit was sharp and his aim was true, but there were moments when his years shone through, especially now in peacetime when he didn’t have to bluff to save face and keep station.

Sabine didn’t seem fazed by his loss of words, nor did she comment on the moniker despite the fact her name hadn’t changed. She covered Greef’s hand on hers and gave it a squeeze, offering him a genuine smile that said she appreciated the gesture and accepted the welcome.

Greef went on to greet Sloan and Chopper and Mayfeld and Ezra who introduced him to Meg and then, finally, he opened his hands to Grogu who went to him eagerly, settling in the crook of his arm and chattering away, catching his friend up on all their adventures.

As a group, they headed for the city, their pace sedate, their formation loose.

“We’ve got a fine selection of ships for you to choose from,” Greef told Din, drifting closer to his side as they came under the towering arch. “That little, heh, quarrel with the Guild a year back left a few ships without owners and I’ve bartered for some others. No Razor Crests, I’m afraid, but some models are pre-Empire… and their firepower far exceeds the ‘Crest’s specs.”

“Thank you,” Din said, his chest growing unreasonably tight again. “I… look forward to seeing them.”

Greef chuffed and his eyes crinkled with satisfaction as his smile melted deeper. “I’m sure you do, I’m sure you do. But! Not today. You and your family have had a long journey; you should rest. You have your pick of rooms at the Molten Lakes Inn—my treat, of course.”

Din’s head whipped around. “Rooms at the where?” he demanded.

Cara threw her head back and barked out a laugh; it was so sudden, Din felt like she had been waiting for his response. “Told you he’d remember it!” 

“What’s wrong with the inn?” Sabine asked, frowning, gaze switching between Din and Cara.

“The Molten Lakes is a brothel,” Din explained, each word clipped and distinct.

“Was,” Cara corrected, holding up a finger.

Greef clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Mando, I assure you, the Molten Lakes is a perfectly respectable, family-friendly establishment,” he said, his voice settling down into his more serious, straight-talk tone. “All other… services have been discontinued and duly removed; every room has been refurbished and the whole business is running under new management.”

“But they kept the name?” Din realized, belatedly, that he was grimacing. 

Greef shrugged. “Why not? The name never did anything wrong. And Lu’an did a fine job on those signs.”

Din sighed and shook his head, dropping the matter. 

He didn’t doubt Greef—he had already seen so much of this town transformed with his own eyes—but it was difficult to imagine certain places changing so… drastically.

The inn, like the innocuously named healing baths, was a corner of Nevarro he had actively avoided. Unfortunately, clients often requested and even insisted on holding their meetings with him there, and each instance had only reaffirmed his choice to steer clear of those places.

Nonetheless, he had ample reason to trust that it had been reworked into something decent.

As they made their way down the main street, they passed a variety of storefronts selling wares or offering services of all kinds—all reputable kinds. Little box lanterns hung in long strings under the eaves, potted plants stood beside doors open wide, benches and tables and chairs gathered together beneath shade cloths—the decorations and furniture were all perfectly normal, all what one could expect to see in a market anywhere, but Nevarro had gone without these things for a very long time, either unable to afford them or too afraid anything not nailed down would be stolen or vandalized (which was, dishearteningly, so often the case that it reduced people to minimalism).

With the dismantlement of the local Guild chapter and the removal of the Imperial remnant, honest trade had flourished and the world’s overall flavour had shifted from distasteful to sweet and welcoming. Much of the “scum and villainy” as Greef had termed them had been either flushed out or moved along by increasing lack of readily available vices; families lived closer to the city centre, citizens of all kinds and walks moved freely along the streets.

On the way to the inn, they passed by the school.

The younger kids had finished their lessons for the day; they left the school, either holding a parent’s hand and walking beside them or, in the case of some of the smaller ones, carried by their parents. Din couldn’t catch any distinct conversation out of the ball of noise, but he heard children’s chatter and laughter and the lower hum of their parents’ voices—they had had a good day.

An insistent chittering and tapping on his arm had him glancing down. Grogu was leaning over Greef’s arm to catch his attention; when he had it, he pointed to the school, bouncing in the arm holding him.

Din huffed a soft laugh. “You remember it.”

Grogu made a grabbing motion, ears perking up.

“You want… to go there?”

The little one nodded, excitedly.

“Well, I think it’s a bit late today.”

Grogu shook his head and pointed again, trilling and chittering and tossing together a string of signs Din couldn’t interpret.

“He wants to go to school tomorrow,” Ezra translated, “the way the other kids do.”

Grogu nodded, confirming that his wishes had been communicated accurately.

Something about the request kindled something melting-warm in Din’s heart. It was good to see the child shedding his long-worn layers of indifference; it was good to see him wanting and reaching for things instead of making himself unseen, unheard, unnoticeable, just accepting whatever life decided to give him and passively existing wherever he ended up.

But as much as Din appreciated it as a sign of the little one’s ever blossoming confidence and adventurousness, something about the request unsettled him…

He turned to Sabine. “Can he go to school?”

She shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

He looked back at the school. 

The last time (the only time) he had left Grogu there, he hadn’t had much of a choice. Back then, the only people he trusted to mind the child were Greef and Cara. They knew that and as they were both wanting to go on the mission to clear out the Imperial base, they offered the school as a place the child would be protected and engaged enough not to get bored and wander off.

It wasn’t a bad arrangement, but looking at the bones of the cantina now repaired, repainted, and decorated with red and purple-leafed plants, Din couldn’t help but recall that nerve-wracking flight from the base after discovering Gideon was still alive and still obsessed with the child’s blood. He had stormed through the door, making several children jump in fright, and his knees threatened to give out when Grogu turned in his seat, tilting his head quizzically, wondering why his guardian was back so soon.

It was safe.

But was it safe enough?

What if Gideon had been there? What if he had sent his troops to retrieve the child? A flimsy old protocol droid couldn’t do anything to stop them, and the Moff would’ve discounted all the other children as mere collateral damage.

Maybe Gideon wouldn’t be a problem now, being as he was in prison and most likely headed for the death sentence. But what about Vane? What if he came here and went straight to what used to be the cantina? What if he learned that the strange little green child was connected to the Mandalorian?

A touch on his arm reeled Din back to the present, to noon sunshine and the calm ambience of the town.

“Chopper can go with him,” Sabine said, perhaps not knowing the precise content of his concerns, but understanding his worry nevertheless.

He nodded on automatic and swallowed. He thought of saying something more but couldn’t get his jaw to unlatch.

. . . . .

The inn was, as Greef promised, a completely renewed establishment.

Din could find no fault in the small apartment the manager led him and his family to. It was modest, clean, and it would become comfortable in a day or two, once they had worn off the unfamiliarity.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sabine dropped her pack on one of the couches, kicked her boots off, and headed straight for the bedroom, where she collapsed with some theatrics on the bed, letting out a bone-weary sigh.

“Rough day?” Din quipped as he set Grogu down and left him to explore the apartment on his own.

Sabine groaned as she moved just to bring her feet up onto the bed. “I don’t care what this place used to be, I am not leaving this bed for a week,” she declared.

Din chuckled but he sympathized. Had they stayed on Morak, the night would be well-along by now. His own body clock was telling him it was time for bed, though he didn’t feel nearly as fatigued as his wife apparently was.

He thought she would just rest a few moments then get back up, carry on the day and only allow herself to go to bed after local nightfall—she was usually very strict about readjusting to new timezones—so he left her to that short rest. He busied himself putting some things away, spending some time with Grogu (who had napped on the flight over and showed no sign of tiring any time soon), checking that Meg and Ezra were settled in their respective rooms, and figuring out where Sloan and Chopper would be staying (apparently they both preferred the view from Ezra’s room so that was easily sorted).

When Din returned to their apartment, he found Sabine fast asleep. She hadn’t changed into sleep clothes, hadn’t even taken off her jacket; she just fell asleep as she was, curled up on top of the tucked in sheets.

He didn’t have the heart to disturb her. 

There was a light, knitted blanket lying folded over the foot of the bed. He managed to slip it off without waking her. Silently, he flapped it out and laid it over her, stealing a moment to just watch her rest.

Silently, he left the room and searched for Grogu, quickly finding him trying to haul a book from the case in the living room. Bending down, he scooped him up and headed back to Ezra’s room. 

Ezra wasn’t there; he had mentioned something about wanting to get some things from the market before everyone closed up shop for the day. Sloan was still there, however, so Din left the child in his care.

Now alone, he returned to the street.

Unthinkingly, he reverted to his old ways. He walked with purpose yet slowed down so as not to seem too intent, as if his destination was somewhere he needed to be but it wasn’t quite so important. He looked over his shoulder without making it obvious. He watched everyone. He waited for anything.

Of course, nothing happened on his walk from the inn to the magistrate’s office, but he knew better than to take that as a warrant to drop his guard from now on.

The magistrate’s office was right next door to the marshal’s. It, too, had received a sprinkling of updated furnishings and decor since his last visit.

Mythrol sat at the reception desk, bright blue head bent over some clerical business or the other. He glanced up at the sound of boots falling on the threshold. He looked surprised but it was just his typical surprise; though still an exaggerated reaction to the sight of someone unexpected, it was not that bone-rattling, eye-bulging, heart-attack-in-progress shock Din had invoked previously.

(Or, more accurately, the Mandalorian had invoked such a reaction; right now, however, Din was just some man.)

“Can I help you, sir?” Mythrol inquired, politely.

“I’m here to see Greef,” Din replied, feeling inexplicably awkward. 

Mythrol turned bodily to glance at the closed door leading to other rooms. “Uh… well, he’s not really… see, he’s kinda taken the day off, so, uh…” He chuckled, nervously. “But I’m taking messages. That’s… what I do. I keep the books and I take the messages. I can—I can take your message.”

“No. Thank you. That’s fine,” Din hurried to say, feeling heat flush his face as he turned to leave. It wasn’t the interaction that bothered him—at least, he didn’t think it was a factor—but it was the sudden realization that he didn’t know where else to go.

He didn’t know where Greef actually lived.

Just as his retreat took him back onto the porch, he heard the doors inside whoosh open.

“Leaving already? Come in! Come in!” Greef beckoned him (and it was minor, perhaps, but Din was grateful he didn’t call him Mando again).

“Sorry, I didn’t—I don’t mean to…” Din began but lost whatever point his apology had been aiming for.

“Not to worry,” Greef assured, gesturing for him to come. “How are you finding the accommodations?” he asked as Din came.

“Fine. They’re fine. Thank you.”

“What’s the trouble then, my friend?”

They entered a corridor, the door closed behind them, and only after a few steps did Din feel like he could speak.

“Do you remember a pirate named Vane?”

“Vane?” Greef echoed, his brow furrowing as he led the way to a room: something in between a lounge and a conference room. 

Cara was there, parked on one of the couches like she lived here, nursing a cup of intense-smelling caf; Din had to think about it for a moment but he didn’t mind her hearing and knowing all this—she might even be able to help.

“Vane,” Greef said again, motioning for Din to take a seat as he took one himself, groaning as he lowered himself down and then sighing as he sat back. “He was one of Gorian Shard’s crew, if I recall correctly. Nasty piece of work. We had a run-in with him here a few years back, over in the cantina. Didn’t he shoot you?”

“I shot his friends.”

“With due cause.”

Din sighed and dropped down on the couch adjacent to Cara. “And how much does that mean these days?” he asked, rhetorically.

“Why are you bringing this up?” Greef asked.

“Yesterday, he showed up on Morak, looking for me.”

“Oh, joy,” Cara remarked, sarcastically. She sobered quickly, the gravity of the situation not escaping her for a moment. “You think he’s out to avenge his friends?”

Din opened his hands and shrugged, stiffly. “He wouldn’t be the first person in the galaxy with a grudge against me.”

Greef’s mouth pulled tight and he shook his head. “No. Not Vane.”

“What do you mean? It was him.”

“I don’t doubt that, but Vane… no. No, he holds grudges, but… lazily. He’ll only go for you if you’re in arm’s reach; otherwise, you’re not worth the fuel-money.”

“He seemed to be on the hunt.”

“Then it’s not about a grudge.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Din let his breath rush out as he sank back in the seat, eyes closing as he rested his head on the back of the couch.

“If not to settle a score, then why is this pirate guy after you?” Cara asked, slowly, trying to catch up on the history with just the few morsels they had tossed out. “For the beskar? Reputation?”

“Probably,” Din said with more of a clip than necessary. He took a long breath and collected his racing thoughts, tried to tamp down his agitation. He needed sleep. (Dank farrick, he needed sleep.) When he had some semblance of order in his mind, he pulled his posture straight again, feeling like a children’s toy going through motions with rusted mechanisms. “Is it… possible that there’s still a price on my head?” he asked, lowering his voice as if conscious of eavesdroppers.

“Nothing official,” Greef replied and when both Cara and Din’s eyes snapped to him, he chuckled, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “What? I closed the chapter; I didn’t end my membership with the Guild. I check in from time to time, make sure some of my favourite people aren’t in trouble.”

“Alright.” Din didn’t quite smile but he was touched by that. “But could there be…? I mean, I know Gideon’s in prison, but… it’s happened before,” he finished in a rush, his heart pounding wild. 

It wasn’t impossible to set a bounty from prison; in fact, it was all too common. Freshly released prisoners, had they little intention to see the error of their ways and walk the righteous path, often turned to bounty hunting—to make quick money or to sharpen their skills. Sometimes, they went after a specific target as a favour for a fellow cell mate. Whatever the motivation, whatever the purpose, if someone in prison wanted to put a price on someone on the outside, it wasn’t difficult to arrange.

“I’m not saying it’s impossible,” Cara began, carefully, leaning forward and setting her mug down on the caf table, “but it would be very difficult for Gideon to do anything like that. The New Republic has him isolated from all other prisoners and because he’s slipped away before, they keep him under heavy guard around the clock. Again, nothing’s impossible, but… I wouldn’t put my money on him so fast.”

Her words grew distracted towards the end, a frown slicing subtly into her brow as she pulled her comm from her belt. 

“Sorry. Gotta take this,” she excused herself, standing and leaving swiftly.

“Mando,” Greef said, voice low and gentle, drawing. Din looked to him, not for the first time caught off guard with how strange and uncomfortable it was to look someone straight in the eyes, to know they were looking right back into his, no barriers, no facades. “I understand your worry, but Nevarro is perhaps the safest place for you and your family right now. When you arrived, the docking droid asked your purpose for visiting. They do that with everyone. If there’s ever something suspicious, local security checks it out, and Cara curated and trained the team personally, so you can trust they’re good. Every ship, coming or going, is logged and run through the system.”

Din nodded. He appreciated the sentiment but he derived little comfort from it. 

Nevarro was safer than it had ever been in living memory, but so was Lothal, and still a Light Cruiser managed to breach atmosphere, blast his ship to so much dust and send down a platoon of soldiers and Dark-troopers…

“You’ve got it,” Greef said.

“Got what?” Din asked, frowning.

Greef pointed at him, shifting his finger side to side. “Weight of the world on both your shoulders.”

Din huffed and smiled emptily.

“When was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

“A while.”

“Ah.” Greef settled back in his seat, cocking his head and opening his arms like he had just cracked a grand mystery. “I knew there had to be a reason why the greatest bounty hunter in the parsec was afraid of a two-bit pirate.”

“I’m not a bounty hunter anymore,” Din reminded him.

“Neither am I. But leaving the fight doesn’t mean the fight leaves us.”

It was one of those sayings repeated so often, they had long since lost any flavour. But when Greef imparted it, it carried a cryptic undertone, something rich and ripened with age and experience embedded below the surface.

But before Din could begin scratching away at it, Cara returned.

He turned in his seat to see her enter and just a glimpse of her face poured the coldest water through his veins.

Her call, whatever had been its contents, had left a grave mark on her expression.

“If there is a price on your head, Gideon did not set it,” she said.

“You sound pretty certain.”

“Because Gideon’s dead.”

Chapter Text

The entrance to the underground enclave was a lesson in hiding in plain sight.

A cluster of storehouses stood just off from the bazaar. Anyone could access them, but how many people would ever need to slip into the cramped alleyways behind the storehouses? Likely no one. They didn’t lead anywhere and they couldn’t be used for extra storage as they were exposed to the elements. 

If one ever did get the urge to explore the maze-like alleyways, it was unlikely they’d take much note of a certain offset wall panel. If they did notice it and they went ahead and investigated it, they would find a slim alcove sheltering a darkened set of steps spiralling down into the earth.

Sabine only found it because Din told her the covert had had multiple access points, but he only ever entered through the bazaar. Even then, his description hadn’t been comprehensive, but a scan of the walls revealed discreet, guiding marks left by the Mandalorians.

A T with mirrored arcs below the arm, meant to depict the most distinctive part of a Mandalorian’s helmet, with small arrows pointing the way to the entrance. No one but a Mandalorian could find the marks: they were inked with a special chemical, invisible to eyes of all spectrums, detected only by the fine, sophisticated technology in a Mandalorian’s visor. 

Each mark had a harsh slash through it, the message clear.

No Mandalorians live here.

The covert is no more.

Leave.

Sabine followed the arrows regardless.

Once she found the alcove hiding the entrance, she switched her visor to night-vision. It was extremely late and while the city kept its streets walkable all through the night with a soft glow from lanterns and lamps, that welcoming light never reached the underground tunnels.

Her steps echoed hauntingly as she descended. It sounded as if another person were sneaking down here from far down the other side of the tunnel, their lonely steps bouncing off the walls and fading into the void-like emptiness.

It smelled dreadful.

She had her helmet’s filters set to their highest and still the smell crept in. It churned her stomach far more than it had any right to.

(And she thought Cara was kidding when she said Din had lived in a sewer…)

Sabine had been in dried up sewers before. 

Any world the Empire descended upon tended to suffer some issue with the supply of basic necessities, food and water being the most obvious. After a while, as either their operations threw out the ecosystem’s natural balance and ushered in droughts or poor resource management impacted flow and distribution, the storm drains and sewers dried up. Ezra had first brought that fact to her attention on Lothal where the sewer system proved useful for hiding and travelling to otherwise inaccessible parts of the city.

(And, no, the ironic coincidence that dried up sewers featured predominantly in both brothers’ stories was not lost on her.)

The sewers here weren’t just dry, they were abandoned. There was no sign of sediment, no trickles, no trace of water still coming through; this place had been out of service for many, many years. The smell came from the lava vents rather than the tunnels’ previous use.

There were bits of torn fabric hanging from the walls, tattered edges swaying as air flowed tiredly through. They had likely once served as curtains or dividers, perhaps insulation, dampening sounds before they could leak out and alert the world above.

A table and a trio of stout chairs sat off to the side, up on a curb running along the corridor. They were simple, rudimentary pieces of furniture. Someone had set them right recently—as Sabine switched her helmet’s visor to heat imaging to pick up potential tracks, she found little clouds of residual heat hanging around the table and chairs. Such a minor detail, but it clutched her heart.

There were so few things left down here. An empty crate, a random blanket (picked up and folded with care), a ball made from scrap fabric and string. Insignificant things that once served a purpose but now just gathered dust as they tireleslly sat here in the dark, ever testifying that life once dwelled down here.

She found the tracks. 

A rather precise procession, straight down the middle of the corridor, veering only twice, to set the table and chairs right and to fold the blanket. They went straight down then turned, abruptly, to the left.

She followed the trail, making sure her own steps made sound, to announce her intrusion. As she reached the point where his course changed, she found an archway to a closed-in room, not terribly big but wider than the corridor with a retro-fitted vent descending from the middle of the high ceiling.

Din was there.

He sat near the entrance, kneeling with his hands on his thighs and his back to the tunnel: a pose of solemnity and respect.

Sabine hadn’t seen him in his full armour for a while but she understood why he chose to wear it all now; she herself didn’t feel right coming here with anything less than her complete armour.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence as delicately as she could, surprised to find her voice didn’t echo quite as much as she feared it would. “This is where you used to live, huh?” Hands on hips, she made a show of looking around though there was so little to see: beneath the vent resided a hollow drum which had most likely served as the forge. 

“I never lived here,” Din answered but didn’t move; he looked like a perfect statue, sitting on his folded legs, helmeted head slightly bowed, modulated voice heavy and flat. “I came, I gave what I earned, then I left. I never stayed.”

Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t think of anything further to say to that: heading into banter felt brash but treading too deep in grief rang alarm bells in her head. 

This wasn’t like their conversation in Rune’s garage. Din then was wound up and frantic like a skittish prey animal; he needed distraction and reassurance. Now, he sat still, wrapped in a strange, grave peace as echoes and memories kept him company; she wasn’t sure what she could provide.

But maybe that was it.

Maybe she didn’t need to give anything this time.

Silently, she came and sat beside him, mirroring his posture, staying in the silence and in the moment with him.

Although a different tribe had resided here, they were still her people, and this forge was their heart, just as the forge on Krownest had been to the Wrens, just as the Grand Forge in Sundari had once been to all Mando’ade. Perhaps it was not the thing that gave them life but by being the one place to make and repair their beskar, it protected their lives; it kept them whole, kept them united. To see it lying still and cold was wrong.

She recalled the forge back on Krownest, where she learned to craft beskar. It was an integral part of the stronghold, of her clan’s home and identity. It looked nothing like this makeshift armoury: it had been three times bigger and brimming with clean, natural light flooding through a wall of double-glazed windows inlaid with intricate designs.

An air strike destroyed it in a matter of seconds.

The last she saw of it was a mess of charred, shattered glass, crumbled stone, and twisted metal beams.

She imagined the Grand Forge lay in much the same state.

“Gideon’s dead,” Din declared—no lead-in, no warning, just the bombshell, dropped in front of him like he was tired of holding it and just wanted to be rid of it now. “Bo-Katan killed him.”

“I know. Cara showed me the footage.”

She had woken just two hours earlier in a dark room, disoriented and sluggish. She got up, found a light switch, and as the bedroom came into view, she recalled the trip and the arrival and crashing on the bed the moment they crossed the threshold. She didn’t know where anyone else was and she couldn’t recall grabbing the blanket.

She found Sloan and Grogu in the small living room of their apartment. The droid told her Din had gone out and she figured he was either with Ezra or Cara. Ezra was conked out in his room so that quickly gave her her answer.

She went to the marshal’s office where she found Cara, still awake, still at work despite the late hour. She soon learned why.

Cara shared the news which she herself had only just received. 

Bo-Katan Kryze and two other Mandalorians had intercepted the transport carrying Gideon to trial. They disabled the craft and grievously injured the pilots and the guards, one of which died on the scene. The two Mandalorians flanking Bo-Katan stood aside as she accosted Gideon.

They exchanged words at quite some length. There was no audio; though not as proficient or experienced as Din, Sabine could read lips, but the footage was riddled with grain and static; she couldn’t make out what words passed between them. She could only see Bo-Katan’s posture, rigid with rage, and Gideon’s sickening smirk.

He leaned forward like a snake and spat something which pleased him but drove Bo-Katan mad.

She killed him.

And, just like that, it was done.

The man stained with the blood of millions of Mandalorians was now irrevocably dead.

It was justice. 

Plain and simple.

He had never shown so much as a glimmer of remorse for what he had done and however he had managed to escape execution the first time, he had only used his spared life the same way as before: to kill, to destroy, to devastate. Even the New Republic’s dogged stance on second chances and their belief in redemption over retribution had a limit and he had far exceeded it.

Moff Gideon was not an enemy to be mourned and despite her differences with Bo-Katan, Sabine agreed with what she had done, and she suspected Din felt the same way.

The thing that unsettled her was the fact that the entire incident had occurred a fortnight ago and they hadn’t heard a whisper about it until now. 

That didn’t bode well.

Teva must’ve bent some rules to inform Cara and send her the footage. His accompanying message was simple and a bit vague: “You know who needs to know.” Sabine supposed as had Cara that he meant her and Din.

More than a courtesy, Teva’s message was a warning.

Watch your backs.

They hadn’t had any part in it.

They weren’t affiliated with Bo-Katan and her followers.

But did the New Republic know that? Or did they assume all Mandalorians were in league with one another? Would they hold Din and Sabine accountable for Bo-Katan’s actions? Gideon’s death was just and deserved, but the death of the man guarding him was not, and the attack on the transport had left the other officers aboard with serious injuries, some of which would impact their lives going forward. Understandably, the New Republic wanted someone to answer for that, but some within their ranks were overzealous and disconnected and Din’s record was not spotless: even if they realized he had nothing to do with any of it, he could look like an easy scapegoat.

Teva believed they, as Mandalorians, had a right to know their enemy was dead, and, at the same time, he was looking out for them and giving them a heads-up that more trouble could be brewing on the horizon for them.

“It’s over now. Right?” Din asked, his vocoder transmitting the smallest trace of a choke on the last word.

“In a way,” Sabine replied. She let go of a breath and tipped her head to her shoulder. “It certainly closes a chapter.”

Din nodded, absently, like he hadn’t even heard her. Then he went still and silent again and Sabine just sat there beside his statue, barbed wire wrapping around her heart with every second that passed.

The Great Purge was over.

Their fight with Gideon was over.

But that didn’t bring anyone he had killed back. It didn’t solve the problems he had left for them. It didn’t end the story he had set in motion.

Not yet.

“How much—?” Din began but lost his question abruptly to a catch in his throat. He turned his head away sharply as if embarrassed and took a moment before he tried again. “How much does Kryze really want the sword?” he asked, voice so low his helmet almost couldn’t pick it up and carry it out.

“I don’t know,” Sabine admitted, honestly. “But she doesn’t know you have it.”

Din scoffed, the sound brittle and jagged. “She knows. Gideon told her.”

“You saw that in the video?”

“No. I just know Gideon. He was always seeding dissent. He tried to get me to turn on you on the cruiser.” He shook his head and she knew he was frowning even though she couldn’t see it. “He wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to leave us one last problem.”

“Maybe,” Sabine conceded. A sliver of movement coaxed her gaze down. His hands which had rested open and flat on his cuisses now lay in fists, opening and closing subtly, the leather of his gloves creaking loud in this vacant space.

“If Gideon did tell Bo-Katan I have the Darksaber, would she come after it?” Din asked, drawing the words out slowly, making sure they all came through clear.

Sabine considered it. 

Though she had heard stories about her all her life, though her mother had been like a sister to her once upon a time, though she felt she knew her well enough to entrust all of Mandalore to her leadership, Sabine’s dealings with Bo-Katan didn’t even amount to a full week. 

Bo-Katan saved her life the first time they met. 

She spoke softly, spoke wisely.

She helped her save her father.

She guided her out of the darkest pit her rage had ever yet pulled her into, leaving her with words she reflected on to this day.

She also branded her dar’manda.

Sabine was knee-deep in the carnage on Krownest, the flesh of her hands torn from digging through the rubble, desperate to find someone, anyone still alive, when Bo-Katan arrived—just as night fell, just as the cold came.

She, too, had received Tristan’s distress signal; he had sent it out on all Mandalorian channels in the faint hope someone could come to the Wren Clan’s aid. But no one could—not then, not during the Night of a Thousand Tears, not when the Empire in its death throes was attacking every planet, moon, and station in the Mandalore sector in a frenzy, determined to burn everything down with it.

Sabine thought Bo-Katan would help her.

Instead, she struck her.

She was too stunned, too confused to block the blow. It sent her sprawling in the dirty snow. As she struggled to get back up with ice and dirt and blood on her hands, Bo-Katan declared her a Mandalorian no more.

She had abandoned her family and her home.

She built the weapon used to kill them.

She came back too late to do anything: too late to fight, too late to help, too late to die with them.

Sabine knew it was Bo-Katan’s own grief and frustration pushing her to lash out. Later, when she learned she had just hours earlier lost the Darksaber, she forgave her a bit more. But to be disowned and essentially exiled by someone she had long respected, someone she saw as wise and just, someone who all of Mandalore looked up to… it carved her heart right out of her chest and she was only now, six years down the line, beginning to heal.

It made her question everything she knew about the once-Manda’lor.

Her mother’s tales had omitted many facts—facts about the true nature and intentions of the Death Watch, facts about herself, facts about Bo-Katan Kryze: the errant heiress. Sabine never thought to delve deeper into any of it, to analyze, to question; everyone was so eager to sweep Death Watch under the rug that it rarely came up at the dinner table. But now grown and less blinded by arrogance and naïvety, she saw how they watered down the scars they had left upon worlds outside Mandalore’s borders, how they vaguely and inconsistently recited the reasons for their disbandment, how they never fully committed to denouncing the group.

When she passed the Darksaber to Bo-Katan, Sabine believed she was reformed and humble and true. But the other side of her she saw that day on Krownest and the things she learned about not only her distant past but her recent choices—putting Mandalore ahead of the people, compromising on parts of their code that should never even be bent, going back on her word to a fellow Mandalorian—all served to dismantle the image of a noble woman.

Ten years ago, had Din asked that same question—would Bo-Katan come after him for the Darksaber?—Sabine would have said no, and she would have felt pretty confident in that answer. That Bo-Katan Kryze would’ve accepted another vod holding the Darksaber; she would’ve gladly followed the lead of an honourable warrior like Din.

But now…

“I don’t know,” was all Sabine could give.

“If she did want it,” Din pressed, “would she hire bounty hunters to retrieve it?”

“I don’t think so. It would be dishonourable; she wouldn’t be able to lay claim to it if she did something like that and she knows that.”

Din said nothing to that, neither did he form a gesture to confirm he had heard her; he just sat there, his fists continuing their rhythmic clenching and unclenching.

Sabine wondered how late it was.

She wondered how Din’s back wasn’t killing him sitting like this for so long.

She wondered what this enclave had been like before, with Mandalorians quietly roaming the corridors, keeping their traditions burning as embers. What was life underground with a family like? How did they spend their days? Was it different wherever they were now?

Din took a breath, slow and filling, warning he was about to break the silence.

“Did you know the distance between the cantina and here is shorter than from the cantina to the landing fields?” he asked.

She blinked, struggling to see the connection between this and their previous subject matter. If there was any correlation, she certainly couldn’t find it. “I… didn’t really notice, no.”

“It’s almost half the distance.” He tipped his head up, fixing his visor to some point on the ceiling. “I knew it would be quicker, easier to head straight here. I knew it was the better option; they would take care of me, just like they always had. I didn’t doubt that. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t do that to them. I was slow and I was bleeding; if I came here, I’d leave a trail and anyone could have followed it then. So I turned the other way and I went back to my ship like I always do. I’d taken slugs before but… never that bad. I thought… I thought I was gonna die. I should’ve.” A huff—too small and strained to hold any mirth or even irony—pushed through his vocoder as he shook his head. “Maybe it’s thanks to that near-human part of me.”

The attempt at humour didn’t quite fall flat, he just didn’t give it enough power to do anything; it sounded like he was simply stating a theory.

He fell silent for a while. Sabine didn’t step in; even through armour, she could see he was rallying strength for the next stretch, the part where he explained what picture that out-of-the-blue puzzle piece belonged to.

“I don’t know why Vane is looking for me,” he said. “I don’t know if he just wants to get even or if someone’s put a bounty on me. I want to find the tribe, but… if all I’m going to do is bring trouble to their doorstep…”

It was a valid concern and Sabine wouldn’t discount that, but she knew a pirate was no match for a covert of Mandalorians; even a whole hive of bounty hunters didn’t stand a chance against them. Din was worried about leading trouble back to the tribe but it wasn’t his only concern. Even in the account he just shared, she saw the other part of what held him back.

He didn’t feel he deserved it.

He knew the tribe would’ve helped him. He knew they would’ve treated his wound and cared for him while he healed, and any trouble he tracked in they would deal with—in fact, they’d probably relish the opportunity to sharpen their fighting skills.

But even then he didn’t believe he was worthy of such effort.

“Din,” Sabine implored and then purposely held her tongue and waited, drawing out the silence until he had to turn and look at her. “They won’t turn you away. Paz said they wouldn’t.”

His chest expanded and then deflated in a rush as he cut out a sigh and shook his head, the motion wound tight with frustration.

“I removed my helmet and showed my face to aruetiise—I swore never to do that but I’ve done it and I haven’t stopped.”

“You chose a new way.”

“And I don’t regret it,” he assured her, his voice returning to soft. “I believe I’m Mandalorian even like this.”

“But you’re worried your tribe will not accept that.”

“I don’t know.” He said it still in his soft voice but it fell like a hammer. “I can’t explain it. I feel like—like I could go back. I could put the helmet on, keep it on, go back, and it might never be an issue; it might never even come up. But I’ll know. The whole time I’m standing there with them, I’ll know that I did something I swore I would never do. I can’t—I can’t do it. I can’t lie to them.”

He could run.

He could hide.

But he couldn’t lie.

Neither could she.

She did run away, she did hide, but she never lied about creating the arc pulse generator, nor did she lie about her decision to leave her family and fight with the Rebels.

And she had been branded a traitor for it.

But she couldn’t paint Din’s tribe with Bo-Katan’s colours. She had never met them but the kind of people willing to live in abandoned, underground tunnels just to keep their families safe and their culture alive, the kind of people who raised the man she loved and instilled such a deep sense of honour in him and in Paz couldn’t be that cold.

She couldn’t see them turning Din away.

But she couldn’t speak for them.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked.

“I want to find them,” he answered, not immediately but not hesitating either. “I have to. I have to see them, make sure they’re okay. I have to see this through.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” She reached over and touched him for the first time since arriving. She laid her hand over his and her heart melted with relief when he turned his hand open and clasped hers in a gentle hold. 

Chapter Text

Some part of Din hoped to enter the shipyards and immediately lay eyes on the perfect ship.

He knew it wouldn’t be the Razor Crest; as far as he let his delusion carry his hopes too high, he made sure to let realism set some boundaries. It would look different, it would have another name, and the specs wouldn’t exactly match the ‘Crest, but it would be enough the same to recommend itself as a viable replacement.

He saw no such thing.

Greef had collected a dozen ships for Din’s consideration—mostly gunships, mostly pre-owned by bounty hunters, smugglers, and such ilk. They stood in a curated line-up in their own section of the shipyard, their cleaned and polished hulls gleaming vainly under the eager morning sun.

Din beheld them with a feeling more applicable to standing before a tidal wave.

Greef spread his arms wide and beamed. “Go on: peruse!” he beckoned in the manner of one presenting a show. “Browse, scrutinize—nitpick, if you must. Take your time, my friend.”

Mechanically, Din nodded and, taking a breath, he unglued his boots from the earth and approached the first ship in the line-up.

Grogu, facing the world from his position in the sling fastened to Din’s chest, cooed with intrigue as he took in the sight of the boxy gunship.

Din had already dismissed it as an option but he ran a hand along the hull anyway, stealing a moment to centre himself, his heart pounding so hard and fast it was making him dizzy.

“Nice engines,” Sabine remarked as she drifted near, keen eyes taking in the ship, honing in on its features. “Decent cabin space. Not so hot on the wing design—manoeuvrability in atmosphere will be skud—but we can modify that.”

Din shook his head. “Not this one.”

“Okay,” she said, slowly, asking him to explain without asking.

“I knew the previous owner,” he told her, taking his hand off the hull like it had suddenly grown hot. “The ship’s blacklisted in all of Hutt Space and the Black Sun territories.”

“You could change the registration and the transponder,” Meg piped up from the other side of the ship. She, Ezra, Mayfeld, and Cara had come along (“For moral support,” Ezra had termed it; “To make sure you pick something not-ridiculous,” Cara drawled). “And if you rig it so the ship can mask or scramble its signature,” Meg continued, “you can coast through any territory you want.”

Again, Din shook his head and that was the end of that.

It wasn’t only the ship’s reputation that disqualified it. 

He had flown in it, had even served as co-pilot for a tandem hunt three years earlier. He remembered how cumbersome the steering was—an ingrained characteristic of this model, not something that could be swapped out at the local mechanic’s workshop.

There was also the fact that he had disintegrated the previous owner.

He was one of the bounty hunters who had had him and the kid cornered, pinned, and outnumbered in the main street of Nevarro. Din was desperate to drive them back, desperate to get out of there; what he did was in the name of self-preservation; it wasn’t personal.

Still.

Something about claiming this ship felt wrong.

They moved, methodically, to the next one and the next one after that. By the fourth ship, the group lost cohesion and meandered in different directions, everyone honing in on a different ship, checking it out without Din, sharing their observations and what about each particular craft they liked or disliked.

For the most part, Din tuned their opinions out and focussed on his own assessment, but he listened with half an ear, mindful not to dismiss their perspectives.

Ezra had perhaps the most extensive and diverse experience with spacecraft. His time in Wild Space had exposed him to designs unheard of in the Rim and Core territories. He had flown a variety of ships—as pilot, as passenger, often as just a hitchhiker—and in a variety of conditions; he looked for things in a starship the average spacer wouldn’t ever have to think of. 

Meg’s experience, too, was extensive and diverse but in a different direction. Star-travel featured predominately in her stories, her life on the run starting when she was only eight years old and her later stint in the rebellion sending her ricocheting across the Rims. She had fallen in with all sorts in her journeys—ex-military, pirates, explorers, underworld figures, bounty hunters, mercenaries, smugglers, even Riot Racers. She herself was not any of those things, nor did she seem to fly with them, but she had connections everywhere and she had learned something from everyone. She knew not only all the things a starship was but all the things it could be, all the things it could do; she saw potential in every ship in the yard.

Cara and Mayfeld weren’t pilots. They could fly a ship but they were boots-on-the-ground types; starships were simply transportation to them. They understood the craft needed to meet a certain criteria to be considered but the finer points went right over their heads.

Grogu, surprisingly, had some very definite ideas about what their new ship should and shouldn’t be. Through vivid expressions and meaningful signs and chitters, he let his thoughts on each craft be known.

Sabine’s opinions mattered the most to Din. She was standing back and letting him choose the ship but he remained ever conscious of the fact that whatever he chose would be theirs, not only his. And more than a means of transportation, it would become their home; he wanted her to have a say in it. He made sure to listen to her insights on each craft even though it was a struggle to put aside his own perspective and prejudices and see from her point of view.

They spent the whole morning inspecting each craft—extensively and repeatedly—but he couldn’t stand the thought of taking ownership of anything in that yard. 

By the time the sun had reached the highest point in its rising arc, all he had was a headache and a frustration set so deep, it clamped like hungry jaws on his bones.

The irony was that, had he been in this position two years ago—looking for a ship to replace the Razor Crest—he would have had a hard time choosing a ship from this line-up because any one of them would have suited his needs just fine. 

(Well.)

(All but one.)

(Din couldn’t fathom what had possessed Greef to throw a starfighter into the mix.)

But none of the ships called to him.

It wasn’t simply because they weren’t the Razor Crest. These were bounty hunter ships and things like carbonite chambers and rapid-fire lazer cannons just didn’t matter to him now that he was done with that life.

“I’m beginning to think you’re looking in the wrong place,” Greef said as he came and sat beside Din on a crate in the shade of one of the rejected ships.

Din turned to look at him, raising his brows to prompt an elaboration.

“If what you want is a home to settle down in, we should go for a stroll through the eastern flats.” Greef made a slow sweep with his arm in the direction he spoke of. “We’ve been building cabins of all shapes, sizes, and configurations down there. As Nevarro’s grown, so has the need for more accommodation. It’s all families—quiet folk. You and your own will fit in well there. You’ll be comfortable.”

Din raised his head and sent his gaze towards the flats. Narrowing his eyes, he could just see the toy-like structures of houses, spread out across the land. Fences of rock divided the plots and trees decorated the yards.

Rather than throw out the suggestion immediately as he once would have, he made himself consider it.

What would that life be like?

He had an idea, thanks to their sojourn on Lothal. He and Sabine could find work easily enough and Grogu could go to school if he so wished. They’d start their days with the rise of the sun, go about their activities in the light, and as stars spilled across the skies, they would gather back together and see the day out in each other’s embrace. Their connections would grow; perhaps their family would grow.

Life would be safe and stable and predicatable. There was value in such a life; it was what people of all kinds and walks fought and died for throughout the ages. It was the life Din had been born into and torn away from, the kind of life he should have had: no armour, no galaxy-crossing quests, no enemies, just his family and his contribution to the community.

But, just like the ships populating the yards, it didn’t call to him.

“Not yet,” he said and turned back to Greef. “There’s… still some things I have to take care of.”

Greef gave a soft shrug and bowed his head. “I understand. The offer shall stand: no expiry, deadline, or obligation.”

“Thank you,” Din said and hoped his voice carried his sincerity through.

With that, they lapsed into silence and remained there, sitting companionably side by side, for a stretch. 

It was coming time for lunch.

Grogu was growing restless in the sling.

The others stood around talking in a loose circle a distance away—far enough away that Din couldn’t pick up their conversation topic or even the tone of their voices. 

He glanced over the ships again, some determined optimist in the back of his mind holding out hope that maybe this time he would see something he was drawn to.

Yet again, he met disappointment.

Beside him, Greef shifted, taking a breath in preparation for speaking.

“There is one more ship,” he admitted in much the same manner he had introduced Grogu’s bounty over a year ago.

“Let’s see it,” Din said.

Greef chuffed and planted his hands on his knees, groaning slightly as he levered himself up to standing. “Set your expectations very, very low, my friend.”

. . . . .

A flat, triangular nose.

Stumpy, low-angled wings.

Two small engine barrels.

A boxy viewport bubble.

A rhombus body.

Dull, metal-beige hull, faded and tarnished with age and wear but no battlescars.

Aesthetically, it was unimpressive and unassuming. Although it didn’t try to dress up its functionality, it didn’t have the stark industrial flavour of the Razor Crest, nor did it exhibit the deceptive modesty of the Ghost. 

But it could blend in anywhere, Din noted as he raked his gaze over the simple, safe shapes.

“The Path Finder,” Greef named it, following loosely as Din walked slowly around the craft. “An independent merchant kept her going for decades until he reached retirement and wanted to trade star-travel for a front garden and a foundation. He let a Jawa caravan have at it before he sold it to me; it’s little more than a shell. Hyper-drive’s gone, Navi-computer’s gone, even the pilot’s chair is gone. She also never had any weapons—the merchant worked the, uh, tamer side of Outer Rim trade.”

“A real fixer-upper,” Cara summarized, bumping the hull with the side of her fist. “We figured she’d be more work than she’s worth. That’s why we didn’t add her to the line-up.”

Din stepped up the ramp and before he even made it up into the cabin, he was grimacing, invisible weight heaping on his shoulders. 

The ship had been gutted. 

The Jawas hadn’t stripped it the way they had his Razor Crest on Arvala-7. They had left the walls and the floors and even the refresher was still intact. But any component of true value had been removed.

It would take a lot of work to get it hyperspace-worthy.

Besides the flight systems, defences would have to be added. For all that Din didn’t want a bounty hunter’s ship, he didn’t want a toothless hauler, either.

Grogu swivelled in the sling, ears flapping as he turned his head to look everywhere. Not that there was anything to see: the cabin was empty.

It was wider than the hold of the Razor Crest but shorter, the space reduced by not one but two bunk rooms opposite one another. Din opened the door to one of them: it was cramped but it housed a bed and storage; there was even enough space for the bed to be widened without impacting on the walk-way. The other room was the same.

The refresher was still small but twice the size of his old jury-rigged vacc-tube/shower combination.

There was a proper galley and a booth molded around a table for either dining or a game of dejarik.

A short set of steps led up to the cockpit. The ship didn’t have a true double-deck design; instead, the galley sacrificed some headroom and the cockpit rested perched above it. The layout in the cockpit was a tigher version of the one serving the Ghost: seats side by side for pilot and co-pilot and an extra pair of passenger seats behind them.

(Or, at least, Din guessed that was the layout: he had only the skeletal bases to go on as the Jawas had pilfered all the seats.)

He glanced over the controls, his hands ghosting over the dials and switches and levers without conscious thought.

A high-pitched squeal had him looking down in a snap. 

Grogu was bouncing in the sling, pointing concertedly at something. 

Following the direction, Din lifted his gaze and scanned the dash. A soft laugh burst out when he found what his son wanted him to see.

A gear shift, just like the one they had had on the Razor Crest, except this one still had its knob fastened on top. It was also notably shinier.

“You’ve already got one,” Din reminded him, playfully swiping a hand over the little one’s head, eliciting a string of giggles.

It was endearing, the innocence, the simplicity. For a moment, he looked at this ship through his son’s eyes. He didn’t see the missing or broken parts; he looked around and saw things that reminded him of safety and home.

After some minutes, Din heard steps fall behind him; he knew without a glance that it was Sabine.

“Thoughts?” she prompted.

He shrugged and flipped a few switches—it was the exact same start-up sequence he had used for years but, unsurprisingly, it did nothing now (the Jawas must’ve nicked the wiring, too). He rested his hand on the gear-shift knob, a wave of sentimentality bubbling up and washing over him. “It’s old,” he heard himself say.

“Greef said she’s pre-Empire,” Sabine relayed, and Din couldn’t quite read her tone, if it was truly neutral or leaning subtly someway. “Even older than the ‘Crest. And it sounds like the merchant never had her registered.”

Absently, Din nodded. 

“What do you think of it?” he asked, his gaze drifting up to the viewport; a distance away, he could see the other ships Greef had collected for his perusal. It was purely his imagination, he knew, but they seemed to turn their noses up at him as he inspected this skeleton of a simple ship.

Sabine drew in a breath and blew it out like she was trying to think of where to begin on a very, very long list. “Well, like Cara said: it’s a real fixer-upper. It would take us a week just to get her in the air let alone space. The vintage of the parts shouldn’t be a problem, and Greef said we’re welcome to cannibalize the other ships.” She moved closer and leaned into his field of vision, wordlessly calling for him to look at her but, for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to. “Are you really considering this one?”

Again, he shrugged, stiffly. Grogu tipped his head back against his chest to look up at him, cooing an encouragement. 

Din took a moment and just breathed, his heart speeding up, excited by the mix of possibilities and puzzles.

“Look out there,” he told Sabine, jutting his chin towards the view of the shipyards. “What’s the first thing you think when you see those ships? The first thing you think of the person who flies them?”

“I think they mean business,” she answered, slowly, confused frown written in her voice. She wasn’t following, wasn’t anywhere near the same track as him.

“What kind of business?”

She considered the question for a drawn-out moment. “Well, nothing too… mainstream.”

“They make you think of bounty hunters, don’t they?”

“I was trying not to say that.”

“But they do.”

He flicked a glance her way and caught a small eye-roll. “Okay, yes; they make me think of bounty hunters.”

Despite trying to make a point, he couldn’t help but smile at that, at her trying not to profile. “They make you think of me.”

She bumped his arm, mouth twitching as she fought her own smile, confirming his assumption. “Is this going somewhere?”

“This one didn’t.”

Her eyes widened, just a bit, and he knew she was on the same page now.

“So you like this ship specifically because it doesn’t look like something you’d fly,” she summarized. He thought for a moment he read doubt in her expression but it ebbed quickly as she nodded, slowly, her mouth pulling in assent. “Not a bad idea.”

Chapter Text

Light and air behaved strangely in the castle ruins.

Kalevala’s diffused sunlight draped faintly over the charred, crumbling stone walls, softening the jagged edges, leaking through the cracks, slithering down the misshapen halls. Shadows gathered everywhere they could, clinging to the walls, suffocating entire rooms, shying away only from the areas where the grey sky peered in.

Capricious winds forced cold, briny air through the broken labyrinth, settling stale in random parts, roaring and whistling and moaning through others like unseen beasts.

Desolate and decrepit, it was a most depressing, unsettling place to be.

As a general rule, Koska avoided it.

However, Lady Kryze often retreated here, and as she couldn’t be found anywhere else in or near the camp grounds, Koska had little choice but to brave the hollow halls.

Her steps echoed in some parts yet fell oddly muted in others. She shivered despite her layers, despite her stoicism. Something about trekking through these ruins always made her uncharacteristically skittish.

She checked the throne room first—Lady Kryze’s preferred haunt. 

Before the bombing, it was an elongated room with angular, inverted arcs adorning the high ceiling, forming something like an arrow pointing to the throne set against enormous windows overlooking the cliffs. For all the windows, however, there wasn’t much light in the room with the geometry of the ceiling stealing it away. Now, though the throne remained, the walls and windows behind it had collapsed into the sea and half the room had caved in, and still it was consumed by shadows.

It was empty.

Bo-Katan was nowhere in sight.

Koska strode down the centre of the long, imposing room, the intact arcs seeming to bear down on her as she made her way to a doorway leading deeper into the castle.

Once upon a time, this passage led to pristine conference rooms, used for meetings with diginitaries and subordinates; now it led to a kind of unintended courtyard with a canopy of grey sky above, pools of stagnant rainwater littering the ground, and new green things growing over the uncoordinated heaps of stone.

It sheltered rebirth, making it perhaps the only part of the ruins Koska didn’t mind so much.

She walked through and between her own steps on the slick stones, she caught snatches of the lady’s voice.

She was speaking with someone; Koska heard a second, indistinct voice.

Silencing and slowing her steps, she approached like a spectre, holding her breath to help her hear better.

“… No. You don’t get paid for just seeing him; you get paid when you do your job.”

There was no mistaking Bo-Katan’s clear, blunt voice; there was no hiding her heated vexation. 

Whoever she was speaking with was not present in body; their reply came mangled with so much static, Koska couldn’t decipher what they said, let alone detect anything distinguishing about the speaker.

“If you can’t manage it, that’s no problem,” Bo-Katan assured them, voice falling into a tone of unsettling reasonableness, like she was accommodating them to their detriment. “There are dozens aiming for this prize.”

Again, the person on the other side of the exchange replied, their shrouded voice sounding pleading but not in a fearful way. 

Koska took the risk and crept closer, stretching to peer around a mossy column. She glimpsed just the back of the lady, her armoured form trimmed by the faint, ghostly blue light of a hologram.

“Then call me when you have something more substantial to report.” And, with that curt command, she ended the call.

Koska snapped back, heart catching in her throat as she scrambled to craft the appearance of one still approaching. 

“Pardon me, m’lady,” she called out as she paused at the threshold, her voice and expression schooled.

“Reeves,” Bo-Katan greeted her, tightly, tersely, but not uncivilly. She turned to face her, spine straightening smoothly. She cast a quick, critical glance over her intruder before tipping her chin and brow up to prompt her to continue.

Koska drew a breath and referred to the datapad in her hands. It was an old device, the bulky edges scratched and worn, the screen faded and flickery, but it still worked fine. “The scouting party has returned from Concordia,” she relayed. “I’ve collected their report.”

Waking up the datapad, she deftly opened the file she spoke of and twisted the device around for the older woman to receive.

“Thank you,” Bo-Katan replied, taking the datapad and immediately, reservedly glancing through the report.

“The Vizsla stronghold was razed, as we suspected,” Koska said, perhaps unnecessarily as she glimpsed the pictures of the ruins populating the screen. “The Imps set up a base near the airfields but it’s been abandoned for some time; not even a skeleton crew left behind. We saw no evidence of any other inhabitants: Mandalorian or otherwise.”

Bo-Katan nodded, half-hearing her, half-focussed on reading the report.

A beat passed.

The wind groaned through the halls. Somewhere far away, seabirds called out to one another, their song eerie and plaintive.

Koska, her task fulfilled, could leave now.

That was the custom.

That was her inclination.

Yet she remained: stance unmoved, countenance unchanged.

Bo-Katan’s gaze lifted cleanly off the screen, her head not even twitching.

“Something the matter, Reeves?” she asked, a single eyebrow sculpting an arch.

“I mean no disrespect, m’lady—”

“Speak your mind,” Bo-Katan permitted, in a manner both terse and inviting, like she wanted to hear Koska out but a part of her was only allowing this interaction to stretch on out of courtesy.

Koska pulled in a silent breath, resetting her shoulders and her resolve before it could wobble. “It’s been a month since the Moff’s defeat,” she stated, plainly: no graceful introduction, no dancing around the point she wanted to make. “And we’re still doing exactly what we were doing before. Why aren’t we moving ahead to take Mandalore now that he cannot stop us? Why are we scouting all these other places and building our stores and training night and day if we’re not going to do something?”

Bo-Katan didn’t budge. She heard her out without a slip in posture or expression, her steady blinking the only sign time had not paused on her. Only once the question was laid out before her did her brow iron down.

“You’re young,” she reminded her, tilting her chin up and her head back with a slant, her bluntly cropped hair sliding to settle in with the new angle. “Your passion and devotion is admirable but watch your impatience, little one; it seems to be getting out of hand.”

“I am not impatient,” Koska said. An indignant fire rose in her, filling her chest and her throat, sending flames beating on her cheeks. She had to fight to keep it under control, had to fight to keep her voice steady and calm. “I am only asking a question to understand. I can’t know what I’m not shown.”

For a second, something flashed in Bo-Katan’s eyes. Koska couldn’t name it; it seemed like a reflection of her own indignation, but its fuel was very different. It vanished before she could examine it.

“Then understand that we are not ready to reclaim our world—not yet,” the lady insisted, her voice regal and controlled. “There are matters yet to be concluded before we can move.”

Unintentionally, Koska flicked a glance over the lady’s shoulder, some illogical part of her expecting to see the hologram of whoever she had been conversing with when she first arrived. “What matters?”

“You’ll know when it’s time to know,” Bo-Katan said in the manner of one closing a crypt.

. . . . .

The rain wasn’t so heavy today but it was, as ever, reluctant to leave; it continued pouring down on the isles in a fine mist-like drizzle, enticed this way and that by the unsettled winds.

Koska made her way from the castle ruins to the ships parked on the far side of the camp, at the point where the hills began rising like a swelling wave. Purposely, she took the long way around, skirting the encampment when she could have cut right through and saved time.

As she trudged through the wild grass, she heard the sounds of training spilling out from the camp. Jetpack drills, target practise, hand-to-hand sparring matches—controlled bursts of noise mingled with grunts, huffs, and exclamations, trimmed with directions and assessments and some hearty bouts of laughter. 

In an hour, she had a training session with Axe—a regular instalment in her schedule. Dread simmered in her gut at the reminder. 

He was a fine warrior, he made the Woves Clan proud, and she had learned much from him. But, lately, sparring with him had become… difficult. He had always been a harsh teacher, always pushing his mentee to the brink physically. Few endured his mentorship for long before giving up but Koska revelled in it. He challenged her and she wanted it, she wanted to find her limits and push past them, see how far she could really go, see what more she could become. She couldn’t mark exactly when but for the past month at least, she had sensed a change in him. Like Bo-Katan, his fire burned differently, and Koska couldn’t define it. Unlike Bo-Katan, Axe didn’t try to smooth it over, didn’t reign it in and restrict it to his words: in their sparring matches, he exercised less control, less restraint; he fought like he was trying to prove something… Koska just couldn’t figure out if it was something he was trying to prove to her or to himself.

She had an hour before their match.

An hour to hopefully get some things off her chest, get her mind set straight again.

Making her way around the perimeter, she passed by the ships spaced evenly apart.

From a distance, the Kom’rk’s all looked similar to one another; up close, a keen eye could tell some were younger than others. But their colours were all the same. In the past, they had been as much of a white card to the Mandalorians as their armour; now, they bore little paint and no distinct markings.

Koska remembered when they had colour. She remembered when they carried signets and designations, when they bore tally marks and accomplishments on their wings or their hulls.

Once, she asked why they didn’t anymore.

“Their shape is distinctive enough,” Bo-Katan answered.

“We hardly have enough to eat; you want us to waste credits on paint?” Axe questioned, derisively.

Others voiced opinions matching one or the other sentiment; essentially, it all boiled down to: “What’s the point?”

Koska never asked a second time.

There was sense and pragmatism in their views. She tried to adopt them, tried to see these things as just things, and she succeeded, to a degree; she didn’t think they needed colour and markings when they were in the middle of a mission. But then the adrenaline drained and her heart squeezed when she walked by too close and her mind couldn’t pretend their hulls were anything but grey and meaningless.

What was the point?

The point was they were proud of who they were, so why weren’t they making it known? Why were they flying in plain grey ships? Why weren’t they keeping track of their victories?

Why were they hiding?

There was almost no one around; after the scouts had returned from their excursion, they slipped back to the camp and left the ships to be tended by others. Maintenance and refuelling didn’t take long after a simple, straightforward scouting mission, so the ships were left in peace fairly soon.

But one lone Mandalorian remained in their company.

She found him on the furthest edge of the field, working on the oldest ship in their fleet. 

He wore no armour, just his dark flightsuit, top half undone, the sleeves knotted in the front, a bulky toolbelt clipped around his waist. That was all Koska could see of him as he stood on a crate, his head, torso and arms lodged out of sight in the belly of the old fighter.

“Coming to see me, verd’ika?” Fenn Rau greeted her as she approached, his crisp accent echoing in the ship’s innerworkings.

She couldn’t help but smile at the sound of his voice, like a ray of sun breaking through storm clouds. She didn’t have to ask how he knew it was her when he couldn’t see from where he was: age might’ve dulled his senses but it hadn’t touched the vision in those proverbial eyes on the back of his head.

“I could use a friend,” she admitted casually as she laid a hand on the ship’s landing gear, her touch soft as if it were an animal mount—this was his ship; she had to respect it.

He continued whatever he was doing for a moment before extricating himself. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place,” he said as he wiped his hands on a cloth hooked on his belt, his voice falling gentle as he smiled down to her, pale eyes crinkling at the edges. “What woes may I lend an ear to today?”

She didn’t unleash all her thoughts and worries right away even though his invitation—so readily offered, so unfettered and unconditional—demolished her walls like a wrecking ball. 

“They’re not so much ‘woes’ as they are… conundrums,” she said, picking her words like stepping stones across a river.

“Ah.” Fenn nodded, brows rising and falling. He clambered down to sit on the crate, groaning as he went. Though well into his sixties, he was still a capable warrior and as superb a pilot as ever, but the wear and tear of a Protector’s course was taking its toll on him. Koska didn’t like to notice his stiffness, his slowness, his aches and pains; she didn’t like to think of him as anything but invincible and permanent. “Well,” he beckoned, patting the empty spot on the crate beside him. “Let’s attack them together. ‘Two Mandalorians…’”

“‘Half the enemy,’” Koska completed with a long-suffering shake of her head, fighting not to smile as she came and took the seat beside him without hesitation. 

For a moment, they just sat and gazed out at the world from the same point of view. 

The camp and most of the ship fell behind them, affording them a somewhat unobstructed view of the hills and cliffs, blanketed in ever breathing green. With the wind snatching away the sounds from the camp, it was easy to believe for a while that they were the only two living beings on the island.

Koska filled her lungs with a slow breath, the clean, cold air envigorating. She appreciated the air here, she appreciated the grass and the sea… she just wished there would be a little less rain and a little more sun once in a while.

She missed the sun.

In a stray line of thought, she wondered if that was feeding her impatience: the pursuit of light. Mandalore would have light—the others never mentioned clouds when they described the homeworld—but when she considered that and everything else she knew of the barren planet… she wasn’t so sure that that was the light she was chasing…

“I know where the Darksaber is,” she confessed, the words feeling like they hadn’t come from her, like they hadn’t even left the confines of her mind; it took her a moment to register that she had truly spoken aloud.

Fenn didn’t rush to respond.

She waited.

She waited for him to not believe her.

She waited for him to question her, to challenge her, tell her she had it wrong, accuse her of making an issue of nothing, undermine her whole perception of the events she had witnessed firsthand.

He did no such thing.

In fact, he said nothing.

Her insides twisted. Steeling herself, she turned, ready to meet anything he had to throw at her with defiance.

But she couldn’t rightly fight the sincerity in his gaze.

His eyes flickered, searching her expression as she allowed him a full view of her face. 

“So it isn’t lost then,” he said, not quite as a question but as a prompt.

Koska shook her head. “It’s not lost—not… in the way everyone believes.” 

She took a moment, some detached part of her realizing she had reached a point of no return. If she continued, if she took just one more step, there would be no going back. Here was the line in the sand: either she stopped and turned around while she still could or she went on and killed Fenn’s ignorance, perpetually tying him into this tangled affair. 

She nearly took the first road.

But then he nodded, just a slight dip of his chin as his eyes locked into an unspoken promise to remain by her side.

He didn’t even know what her side was.

Frankly, neither did she.

“Before Lady Kryze killed him, Gideon said Din Djarin had won the Darksaber from him in combat,” she told him, the words not feeling big enough, loud enough for all they meant.

“Din Djarin?” Fenn repeated.

“The Silver Mandalorian.”

He chuckled, softly. “Ah, yes. The Silver Mandalorian. A character of modern Outer Rim folklore.”

Koska shook her head again, the fire rising in her veins again. “He’s not a story. I’ve seen him; I’ve fought beside him,” she told her mentor, force threading through her tone, desperation to be believed clawing at her, fraying her sharp edges, making her feel like a child. “He helped us on Trask to take the freighter.”

A frown wrote subtle strokes along his brow but Fenn didn’t discount or challenge her statements.

They hadn’t told anyone about the strange Mandalorian who popped up out of nowhere just days before their biggest heist. They hadn’t forgotten but neither had they told of his bravery; his contribution in taking the ship had been invaluable and yet news of it hadn’t reached their company.

“What’s the point?” Axe had asked her with a blithe shrug. “He won’t join us.”

At the time, she accepted that. It was more than enough reason to omit him from the tale. He was brave and strong, yes, he would be an invaluable addition to their ranks, sure, but he wasn’t one of them; he was just some stray zealot who only helped them on their mission because he wanted something from them. He didn’t care for Mandalore. 

He had said as much.

That planet is cursed; anyone who goes there dies.

How did he know? He had never been there.

But, then, neither had Koska…

“He’s a Child of the Watch,” she said, a vague bitterness spreading across her tongue, like a child saying a foul curse for the first time.

“Are you sure?” Fenn asked and she didn’t fail to notice it was the first time in this whole exchange that he was challenging her.

“He wouldn’t remove his helmet and he said we weren’t Mandalorian because we showed our faces.”

Fenn’s mouth pulled tightly, his brow knitting in the middle. “Was his armour truly silver?”

Koska scoffed. “The most silver armour I’ve ever seen.”

“Then he can’t be a Child of the Watch.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Children of the Watch rose from the remains of the Death Watch,” Fenn explained, so easily slipping into his storyteller voice, the one that had taught her how to pilot a Kom’rk around the cliffs of Kalevala as well as how to paint pictures in the stars. “They adjusted their ideology somewhat and it’s true they took on the ancient way of wearing the armour, but they kept the colours and crests the Death Watch had already appropriated from Clan Vizsla. This Din Djarin, did he wear any blue?”

“No.”

“Did he carry the shriek-hawk crest?”

“No.”

“Did he announce himself as a Child of the Watch?”

“No,” Koska again answered, feeling like a broken holo-tune. “Actually, he… he acted like he had never even heard of them.”

“Then I doubt he has anything to do with the Watch,” Fenn concluded, a deep, mellow tone settling into his voice, like he was reassuring her of something. “There are many tribes, verd’ika,” he reminded her. “Many tribes and many ways to walk the way of the Mandalore. Within the same house, even within the same clan, different ways are followed.”

“It’s why we are such a fractured people,” Koska said, airily.

“It’s why we are such a diverse people,” Fenn corrected.

Koska frowned, not seeing the difference. But she said nothing; this wasn’t the road she had come here to travel down.

“Well, whatever he is, he has the Darksaber now.”

“And what are we going to do about it?”

(“We” not “you.”)

“I don’t know. It doesn’t mean anything,” she said, tossing out Axe’s words, waiting on Fenn’s reaction to decide whether she believed them or not.

“Perhaps,” he replied, tilting his head one way, pausing, then tilting it the other way as if to hear another side of the argument. “It’s just a thing, after all.”

“But, in the wrong hands…” she left the oft-repeated statement hanging, waiting for him to complete it.

He didn’t. He turned to her, his eyes taking on a serious glint. “Are his hands the wrong ones?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “I don’t know. I only met him once.”

“And what was your impression?”

She shook her head, reluctant to answer. 

Of course she had an impression of Din Djarin but it didn’t match Bo-Katan or Axe’s impression of him. If she were the odd one out, then surely she was the wrong one.

She was young.

She was inexperienced.

She was born after the Siege, she was a teenager during the Purge, she had never even seen Mandalore.

She held a trusted position under Bo-Katan—a position she had trained for since youth, a position she had fought for and rightly earned. But she was still young.

Fenn laid a hand on her arm, just before her vambrace started. “This is important,” he told her, striking a balance between stern and inviting. “What do you think of him?”

“He was a good fighter,” she said, slowly, deliberately, combing through her thoughts and conclusions and trying to draw out the most objective. “He held fast to his word and saw it through, even when it almost cost him more than agreed upon.”

“What does he stand for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alright. Then what did he fight for? Himself?”

“No. He fought for his child.”

“His child?”

“He had a foundling. That was why he was on Trask in the first place. He was trying to find Mandalorians to help him find a Jedi to train his child.”

Fenn was quiet for a moment, absorbing those facts, filing them away. “And was he good to the child?”

“Yes. He was ready to die for him.”

He would have, had they not arrived on the scene when they did.

Had Koska not been on the docks that morning to spy on the Imperials and make sure their schedule hadn’t changed, she would not have witnessed the commotion of a wrecked gunship tipping into the water, prompting a frantic rescue by the sea-walkers. Had she not been drawn in by that chaotic incident, she would have left and never seen the strange Mandalorian come striding out of the broken and battered ship with two alien passengers in tow: one of whom he reunited with someone Koska assumed was the lady’s lover or husband, the other he kept at his side and promised to find a meal for.

She had followed, loosely, intrigue and curiosity building. The alien couple escorted him to the inn where they left and he entered. Koska didn’t see or hear whatever transpired within those walls but she saw when the Mandalorian exited, accompanied now by one of the notorious Quarren Brothers: a band of fishermen who dabbled in black market transactions. She, Axe and Bo-Katan had had run-ins with them already; they had their greedy eyes locked on their beskar and, she suspected, they had had success with some in the past or else they wouldn’t be quite so confident.

It was difficult to get a read on the Mandalorian but Koska knew he was walking blindly into a trap. She returned to Axe and Bo-Katan and the three of them set off to help their brother, arriving in the nick of time to save him and the child from a grisly death.

Then things went sour.

Yet when they met the second time that evening, he heard them out. He seemed tired and lost, directionless and maybe just a bit despairing. He didn’t care for their cause, didn’t seem to see a point in trying to reclaim their homeworld; his only priority was his child. Koska hadn’t seen such devotion since…

Fenn turned slightly to face her straight on. “Who are we?” he asked.

“Mandalorians,” Koska answered with a frown.

“No. You and I. What are we?”

“We are Protectors.”

“And as Protectors, what do we do?”

“We serve the interests of the Mand’alor.”

“Who is the Mand’alor?”

Here, she faltered. 

The first answer to spring to mind was “Bo-Katan Kryze.” But doubt clouded her thoughts, distracting her voice until it was lost.

Was she Mand’alor still? 

She had served in that capacity since the Siege of Mandalore, her title murky and unofficial but her fire for Mandalore undeniable. Then it was at last validated by the repossession of the Darksaber, and for a time, things were straightforward and orderly. Then, just a few short years later, on the very night Mandalore suffered her greatest tragedy, she lost it to Gideon in a duel witnessed by many. Since then, everything had been in a strange state of flux. Some had split away, unwilling to take orders from an illegitimate ruler; some had lost faith in the Mandalorian way altogether and turned their backs on their armour, their world, and their family. 

They—the ones here in this camp—were the last of the believers.

But what was there to believe now? What was the truth?

Was Din Djarin Mand’alor now?

Simply holding the Darksaber did not make one Mand’alor; if that were the case, they would’ve followed Moff Gideon after he defeated Bo-Katan. But it granted a credible claim to the throne and gave the wielder the right to rally the houses. Koska hadn’t heard of any call to assemble from this Din Djarin; she couldn’t even know if he understood what he possessed—if he indeed held the sword and that was not Gideon’s final lie. 

But if he did hold the Darksaber, then he held in his hands the power to either take or break all of Mandalore.

Such a thing could not be ignored.

“Verd’ika?” Fenn prompted.

“I don’t know,” she told him, shaking her head, feeling like a lost little kid left out to face the monsters alone. Suddenly, she wanted to leave. She wanted to take back everything she had said, cover over everything she had revealed and go away, go spar with Axe and forget all of this. “I don’t know what to do. I should just leave it alone; I shouldn’t… make waves.”

“Why did you?”

“Because…” she trailed off with a weary, weighted sigh, her head tipping back to send her gaze up to the sky, a sliver of the old Kom’rk’s wing cutting into her field of vision: grey on grey. 

What’s the point?

The question, rephrased and repeated over and over again, rang like the toll of a bell in her mind.

Why couldn’t she let it go? Why couldn’t she stay quiet? Why couldn’t she just do her job, do what was asked of her and go where she was told?

“Because I can’t protect a lie,” she admitted at last. “I can’t serve a pretender to the throne.”

Fenn nodded, gravely. “Then, ad, we have a long road ahead of us.”

Chapter Text

Din remembered when Jai acquired the Razor Crest.

It was a few months after his rescue and subsequent adoption. Although he couldn’t recall exactly how his buir had come into possession of the old gunship, he clearly remembered working together to get it into shape. Years later, he realized he—a child of small stature and little strength who lacked all mechanical knowledge—hadn’t contributed quite as much to the ship’s initial renovation as he thought he had at the time, but those little, inconsequential tasks his buir allotted to him had laid a foundation.

As time went on, he learned. 

Before he took on his helmet, he could name and fix every component on the ship; in his adult years, he looked after it all by himself. Although he allowed the mechanics at the starports he sheltered in to perform tune-ups and repairs, he oversaw the bulk of the ‘Crest’s maintenance and modification himself.

There wasn’t a single inch of that ship he didn’t know. More than a transport, more than an abode, it became an extension of himself—an armour beyond the armour.

It was gone now.

Just like bounty hunting, just like the way he used to follow, just like his buir; it was another thing he couldn’t go back to.

If pressed to be absolutely and brutally honest, a part of him still resisted the very notion of accepting a new ship, as if by refusing to take ownership of something new he could keep the door to the old and familiar open, could somehow find a way to trace his steps and get it back.

But he wasn’t a child. 

He knew he couldn’t have what no longer existed; he knew it better to be practical and present.

So he got down and worked on the Path Finder, putting forth effort to silence the voice in the back of his head that kept unhelpfully droning on and on that it wasn’t the Razor Crest.

It didn’t help that progress was slow-going. 

They spent the first few days figuring out what it needed to simply fly, then they had to gather the parts—most of which they could pry from the other ships Greef allowed them free rein on. But not everything could be dropped in, plugged in and switched on; a dizzying amount of retrofitting was required. 

Then came the more complicated systems and additions. Had Din merely wanted to restore the Path Finder, the work would’ve been done much sooner and it wouldn’t have taken much innovation at all, but his vision for the ship called for some intense creativity.

Thankfully, he had Sabine and Meg on board.

Reversible thrusters, signature cloaking, retractable defences—nothing was beyond them. He was sure if he said he wanted the ship to be able to fold up into a pocket-sized cube at the press of a button, they would’ve figured out a way to make it happen before the sun set. No problem stumped them for long, no dead-end deterred them; all was possible.

Still, after a fortnight of labour, the Path Finder wasn’t even ready for a test-flight in atmosphere. 

A part of Din didn’t mind that so much.

He didn’t mind because while the ship was still in progress, they lived a very normal life on Nevarro, and while they were doing that, he didn’t have to think about their next stop.

He didn’t have to think about it, but it crept into the back of his mind and loitered there like an unwelcome guest. 

It was inevitable.

They would finish the ship and then they could leave and nothing else prevented them from finishing the quest he had set out on almost a year ago: to find the tribe. 

Paz had left coordinates with Cara, scrawled in coded Mando’a on a crinkled piece of flimsi Din kept safe in a rolled up pair of socks at the back of the drawer. She gave it to him, saying something like he must’ve forgotten about it.

(He hadn’t.)

(He remembered very clearly that comm call all those months ago when she told him Paz had come and gone and left this for him.)

For as much as he wanted to stretch their time on Nevarro, every day they stayed, his paranoia grew louder.

Every shadow was a stalking hunter. Every noise was a footstep. Every flicker in the corner of his eye was a cocked blaster.

Vane never showed up on Nevarro, neither did the port droid ever mention any other suspicious characters coming through (though Din derived little comfort from the assurances of a machine). 

Realistically, he knew he didn’t have to worry so much. If there was a bounty out on him, it wasn’t through the Guild (Greef had checked—twice). So there could be a puck on him but no fob which meant he had to be tracked the old-fashioned way: through whispers and footprints and sightings. 

He wore the armour just once while on Nevarro, just to enter the covert, and he made sure to do so under the cover of night and never again; if that one instance were going to lure in a hunter, they would’ve shown up by now. The only ones who knew who he was and where he was were here with him and the few others who knew wouldn’t betray him. 

Still.

He couldn’t put to rest the feeling of being watched…

. . . . .

Sitting on the stone bench under the IG-11 memorial with the afternoon sun warming his face, Din couldn’t help but think that this was one of his favourite parts of the day.

He waited with over a dozen others—mostly parents, a few grandparents, some aunts and uncles—all of them either standing or sitting, a few conversing idly to pass the last bit of time before the bell chime rang out.

He found it hard to believe these people had lived on Nevarro their whole lives. He certainly never saw the likes of them before, when this was a backwater nowhere known for nothing more than its dens of pirates and mercenaries. The only children he recalled seeing on Nevarro back then were the covert’s children—the foundlings and the few tribe-born. He knew not everyone who lived here could be a struggling merchant or a spice-dealer or a bounty hunter, but he found it hard to fathom such normal, temperate folk ever eking out a life in such a place as this once was.

It added weight to the worth of the battles fought. So many of those skirmishes he had just stumbled into and these people weren’t in his thoughts while he was dodging blasterfire from Stormtroopers or getting blown up by an E-Web cannon, but here now, seeing them out in the daylight, in the middle of the city, talking with their neighbours while they waited to collect their children from school, he was glad he had won those battles, he was glad he had had some part in buying back their freedom.

Some thread in that line of thought pulled him to twist around and glance up at the statue standing guard behind him.

“Statue” was not quite an accurate term. 

After the battle on Nevarro, Greef and Cara had hired Jawas to scour the lava fields and salvage whatever they could of IG’s remains in the hopes there might be enough to reconstruct the bounty-droid-turned-nurse. They found a chunk of his torso, most of his head, an arm, and a pile of twisted and charred metal fragments, their original function and form impossible to identify. 

The droid’s self-destruction hadn’t totally disintegrated his body, but it had accomplished its goal of utterly destroying his memory banks and anything that contributed to his operating system. The flotsam could be used in the making of a new droid but anything that was IG-11 was gone forever. 

So they commissioned a replica of his body in bronze and completed the form with the salvaged, lifeless parts, immortalizing him in the centre of the city he gave his life to save.

Din supposed that was true: ultimately, everything they did that day contributed to this world’s liberation. But he knew the droid hadn’t sacrificed himself for Nevarro; he sacrificed himself for four people in a boat who had no way out.

He sacrificed himself for a child he had almost killed under orders given by wicked men but there, towards the end, regarded as his charge.

He sacrificed himself for a man who lost no sleep over shooting him in the central processing unit just months earlier but who now and forevermore owed him his life.

Din still didn’t profess to understand droids, but he knew IG’s sacrifice was not simply a part of his programming, and he believed it had as much value as that of an organic being.

The bell chimed then.

He dropped his gaze in no hurry.

The doors to the school opened and when the kids began trickling out, he stood and made his way over, his pace calm.

A cloud of noise erupted on the scene. He couldn’t distinguish anything through it but it didn’t bother him; it was a good kind of noise, all laughter and chatter, farewells between friends and promises to see each other again tomorrow, excited accounts of the day and its lessons to guardians as little hands slipped into bigger hands.

Somewhere in the middle of the crowd of children came his son, sitting in his pod, hovering alongside Chopper.

Grogu’s big eyes searched the square and when they finally latched onto Din, his ears flew up like flags, a smile bursting as if he hadn’t seen him in so long. Gripping the edge of his pod with one hand, he waved to his father with the other. 

Din closed the distance between them and scooped the boy up, bringing him up close to his face and laughing softly when the little one nuzzled his cheek fiercely, babbling away all the while.

“I’m guessing you had a good day, then?” he asked.

Grogu chirped, the sound frilly and happy—a clear yes.

Din turned his head to press a kiss to the boy’s head. “Tell me about it,” he invited as he settled the kid in the crook of his arm and turned towards the markets, Chopper trundling along beside him.

He walked with aim but without hurry, enjoying listening to his son’s chatters, paying shallow attention to the path in front of him as he tried to follow the boy’s signs.

He had gained stunning fluency in sign, grasping the language far quicker than Din had managed as a youth. Accurately and concisely, he told Din about a bout of pandemonium that broke out when one of his classmates opened their lunch box and a frog jumped out (a frog which was, apparently, a secret pet; it was caught and, to Grogu’s utter disgruntlement, released outside despite his very polite request to add it to his lunch).

He told Din about the lessons they had had and some other things his classmates did and said, all of it imparted with glee.

He was enjoying going to school.

And Din was glad of it, as was Sabine. But they knew it couldn’t last, and not merely for the fact that their time on Nevarro was limited.

The teaching droid spoke with them at the end of Grogu’s first day—his trial day, as they had dubbed it. She admitted she didn’t know quite which level to teach Grogu on: much of the subject matter he understood to a degree her secondary students couldn’t yet comprehend, but then other things—rudimentary things like just holding a pencil and copying down the alphabet—he struggled with. Because of that, her programming wouldn’t allow her to put him in a higher class, never mind what he could understand.

Din couldn’t say he was surprised but it still broke his heart.

For now, Grogu was content to sit in on the lessons, but if they were to stay and the end of the year rolled around with its final exams, it was a near guarantee he wouldn’t pass. When all his classmates progressed while he stayed behind, what then? Once, he might accept, but it wouldn’t be just once. 

It wasn’t something Din had to worry about; they would leave long before such a problem came up and Grogu had an abundance of willing and able teachers in his parents and the larger family he had become a part of. But it again served to remind Din of some painful truths.

Grogu understood language—he understood everything said to him and he could grasp sign—but speaking was still beyond him, and at this point, Din began to wonder if it would ever be in his reach. He tried sometimes. He mimicked sounds from new words, he had a small collection of words he used often, but coherency never formed and sentences never strung together.

It in no way affected Din’s love for the child, of course, but it was because he loved him that worry plagued him so harshly. There would always be people in this galaxy that would accept him as he was, people that wouldn’t think ill of the accommodations he needed to do things they took for granted, people that would love him and support him, but Din knew, intimately, just how cruel the galaxy could be to people who were different.

But today things were okay.

Today, the kid was happy and that was all Din cared about.

They meandered into the markets, seamlessly becoming a part of the growing crowd flowing along the streets awash in cool air and warm, purplish light.

As the afternoon wore down, most commercial and industrial work closed up for the day. Some went straight home, some made their way to the stalls and stands and shops strung along the streets. Some headed for taverns and inns and diners, some went shopping for goods and groceries, some purchased food already made and boxed. 

Din was a part of that last group today.

He set the boy back down in his hover pram as he wove his way through the ebb and flow of people, sights set on a shop with a neon blue sign perched above the awning. 

He had seen dozens if not hundreds of establishments just like this one throughout his journeys across the Rim; if ever called upon to do so, he was sure he could redraw the cartoonish box with an unfolded lid and the bright, blockish letters from memory. It was convenient and inexpensive and a box of blue krill noodles had kept him from starvation on more than one occasion, but he wouldn’t rush to call it a favourite.

But Bluedle Box was Sabine’s favourite.

As they approached the shop crammed in beside a small bakery and a butcher’s shop, Grogu’s ears twitched upwards and he twisted around in the pod, squeaking and waving a claw insistently to grab Din’s attention. When he had it, he pointed to the shop with the glowing blue sign, repeating one of the few distinct words in his vocabulary: “Mah-ya! Mah-ya!”

Din chuckled. “Yes, we’re getting dinner for Mah-ya,” he told the kid, feeling like he was letting him in on a planned surprise.

Grogu warbled, happy to be a part of the scheme (both in the process and product as the little womp-rat knew Din wouldn’t get food for just Sabine).

As they stepped into the narrow shop, the stark lights and white tiles washed out the mellow, warm ambience of afternoon. The pungent smell of sauces particular to this establishment and its menu flooded the senses and a ball of noise—hissing, dicing, clattering—floated through from the kitchen situated at the rear.

A motion-activated chime sounded as Din, Chopper and Grogu crossed the threshold, buying the attention of the young Togruta woman reading a book behind the counter. She looked up and recognition sparked in her eyes.

“Back again, Mr Djarin?” she greeted with a goodnatured tone of humour.

Self-consciously, Din ducked his head a little, still uncomfortable with being recognized even in such an innocuous capacity as this. He had come here a handful of times on days when work on the ship took them too far in the day to leave much time or energy to prepare food themselves. 

(Though that wasn’t quite the case today.)

(Today he came because Sabine hadn’t eaten much of the stew they had had the night before and he hoped a favourite meal might be more appetizing to her than leftovers of the same stew she hadn’t been so keen on the day previous.)

He placed his order and then took a seat at one of the tables lining the wall opposite the counter. 

At first, waiting was a quiet, calm affair. 

Chopper parked beside him while he and Grogu sat in silence, idly watching the goings-on outside. Din thought he could hear music in the distance but he wasn’t sure—he often saw a band of buskers occupying the street corners but, from far away, it was difficult to distinguish their music from the general crowd noise.

(There was a music festival coming up in a few days. He had seen the colourful flimsi flyers all over town—there was one even here, pinned to a board on the wall holding a variety of local advertisements.)

(Sabine would like to go to something like that, Din thought. Probably Ezra, too, and Meg. Maybe they could take the day off and go.)

Gradually, he lost grip on his musings. 

In the edge of his vision, he caught Grogu’s ears twitching stiffly. Glancing down at him, he saw the boy’s expression which had been content and bubbly just moments before turn pensive and alert.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice low.

Grogu’s eyes flicked to him for a second before fixing back on the view of the street. He seemed to be looking or watching for something—whatever it was, it wasn’t good: his little shoulders set rigid and his claws latched tightly on the pod’s rim. 

Just as Din was about to ask him again, he whipped around and launched into a frantic but truncated series of signs. Din caught “red,” “bad idea,” “hurt,” and what he thought was Hera’s name-sign but, without context, he couldn’t be sure.

“Slow down, ad’ika,” he said and signed as if to show the little one a pace to emulate. He turned in his seat to better face the child, assuring him he had his attention. “Take a moment, think of what you want to say, then try again.”

It was painfully obvious distress was setting in—fast. It wrung his heart to see the child’s gaze shifting wildly, his stance locking up as if bracing for a blow; it also put every one of his nerves on high alert.

“Bad people are here,” Grogu signed at last, clear and concise. “Looking for you.”

Even though a part of Din was expecting that, it still hit like a slap to the face.

He nodded, letting the child know he understood, his brain firing fast and frantic, muscles already coiling for a fight not yet begun. 

He glanced out the door but all he saw were ordinary folk going about their afternoon. No hunters. No pirates. No blasters or blades. Just regular people.

Blending in was out of the question now. If Grogu was right and whoever was tailing them was looking for Din, then they must know who he was despite the lack of armour. The puzzle snagged his mind, points begging to be unravelled and tied to conclusions, but he shut it out—right now, he had other things to focus on.

He couldn’t just slip into the crowd outside. He might have been able to hide that way but if a fight broke out, too many people would be in the firing line.

They were closer to the marshal’s office than the inn. Cara would be a great help but if he made his way there now, he would likely scare off his hunter. That wouldn’t buy him much of anything—he would just be attacked later and he might not have the advantage of being forewarned and aware next time.

No.

He had to draw them out, had to face them.

“Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, formulating the plan as he spoke. He motioned for Chopper to come closer. “We’re going to act like we don’t know someone is following us. You are going to close the pod and go with Chopper to Cara. She will keep you safe and she’ll get a cell ready for the bad people. Do you understand?”

“Where will you go?” Grogu asked, not missing a beat.

“I’m going to comm the others and I’m going to go somewhere where people won’t get hurt if a fight happens,” he explained while fishing his comm out his jacket’s inside pocket. He showed it to the boy as an assurance then slipped it back. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Grogu frowned, little mouth pressed in a sharp pout. He eyed his father, mistrust writ clear in his expression. 

Secretly, Din conceded that he deserved that.

In all their time together, “fine” had proven to be a rather two-faced word.

“I’m fine,” was a vain cover for intense pain and suffering.

“Everything’s fine,” meant everything was wrong.

“I’ll be fine,” usually came true… after a series of decidedly not-fine events.

But there wasn’t much time to argue at present.

Their food was ready—boxed and packeted.

To maintain the illusion of ignorance, Din paid and deposited one packet in the back of Grogu’s pod and carried the other. As they left, he discreetly sent an SOS signal on the comm, then he nodded for Grogu to close the pod and Chopper to take him.

The kid gave him one last meaningful look—a very clear admonition to stay safe and not get hurt—before pressing the button to close the pram’s bonnet.

“Droid,” Din beckoned before he trundled off. The orange head swiveled around and two glowing blue optics fixed on him. “Do whatever you have to to protect him,” he instructed, gravely. 

Chopper nodded, the gesture imbued with solemnity, then he returned his optics to the path ahead and continued on, looking for all the world like he was just going for a late afternoon stroll.

Din stood on the street a moment longer than intended, just to make sure. 

With effort, he unstuck his boots from the cobblestones and forced himself to move, to carve his way out of the marketplace, out of the main thoroughfare, away from the crowd.

(They would be okay, he told himself.)

(If anything, he should be more concerned about their pursuer.)

(If the idiot went after Chopper, no force in the galaxy could help them…)

As he ducked down a side street, he swapped the packet of food from his right hand to his left. 

He had his blaster on him, lying in the holster hanging on his hip. He also had a vibroblade sheathed in his boot. But that was it. He couldn’t carry all his gear: some of it was integrated into the armour, some of it was just too conspicuous without the armour and viable to give him away (though he supposed that was null and void now). The Darksaber, while most useful, was not something he felt comfortable wielding as a weapon when not in armour himself.

For all his disadvantages, however, he had the upper hand in other aspects. 

He knew Nevarro. He knew the streets—which ones led to dead ends, which ones offered ample exits. And he had back-up on the way (if his message was received, something which he couldn’t absolutely guarantee but he had little reason to believe he had been jammed).

He felt no shame in calling for help—community and solidarity were a part of the way—but there was a twinge of worry.

He didn’t know who was tailing him; he didn’t even know if it was just one person, a pair, or a whole group. If they outmatched him, that was one thing, but what if they overpowered his entire crew?

He tried not to give in to pessimism; tried, instead, to focus on factors within his control.

He made his way at a casual pace, veering off to a side street he last ventured down when retrieving the kid from the safehouse. In the year since, the street had been cleaned up along with everywhere else and the safehouse had been repaired and refurbished into a small clinic.

Coloured swathes of fabric lay strung between the buildings, sheltering the street beneath from the sun’s glare, tinting the light. Plants in pots both grounded and hanging decorated the entrances and windows. And the signature box lanterns continued down here, already glowing in preparation for the ebb of day.

There wasn’t anyone else down here for the moment, to Din’s relief.

He catalogued the street’s exits. He noted all the things in the environment that could be turned into makeshift weapons. He picked out places to duck and places to avoid.

For a moment, the warrior in him was looking forward to a challenge, to a chance to flex his skills and test his prowess.

It all evaporated in a split second.

All his planning, all his plotting disintegrated. Suddenly, his mind lost all capacity to hold the exits and defences and tricks he had been gathering.

All coherent thought turned blank when a voice reached for him, not from behind, but from a small alleyway up ahead.

“Mando,” crooned an eerie singsong voice, punctuated by an unhinged laugh that dragged like nails down his spine.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea, necessarily,” Omega said, slowly, evenly. “I just think it’ll interfere with the heat shielding. You know: the heat shielding we just spent two days installing?”

Sabine sagged into the couch, letting her sketchbook collapse on her lap. “I forgot about that,” she confessed as she screwed her eyes shut. “Do we even need a port thruster? Seriously? ‘Cause at this point, I think we should just scrap the whole stupid thing. It might save our sanity.”

Omega bumped her leg. “C’mon, that’s just the defeat talking.”

With more vim than she really had, Sabine shut her sketchbook and shoved it onto the empty side of the couch. She had purchased it at the start of the Path Finder project and well over half the notes and specs and anything else drawn, written or scribbled for the ship had been scratched out.

They were making progress; she knew it wasn’t all a hopeless, unsalvagable mess, even if, at the end of the day, that’s all it looked like.

With more measured motions, Omega gathered up some stray pieces of flimsi, arranged and straightened them, then closed up her own sketchbook, laying it along with her pencil down on the caf table. 

“Let’s take a break,” she said as she stood up from the couch and stretched leisurely. “For my sake,” she rushed to add as she caught Sabine taking the breath for a protest. “I need caffeine.”

“I could probably use some, too,” Sabine conceded.

Omega scoff-laughed. “You need to be plugged into a generator or something.”

It was a quip, she knew, but if there were any viable way to do such a thing, Sabine would’ve sprung for it.

She blamed the work on the ship but she knew it wasn’t that. She had been working on crafts since she was too little to look in a speeder’s engine without standing on something. The Path Finder was neither the oldest nor the most complex ship she had ever tackled, but something about this endeavour was taking it out of her.

Maybe it was this planet; maybe the gravity or the weather was messing with her. Or maybe it was worry for Din eating away at her slowly. 

She didn’t know. 

All she knew was that she had slept right through the night and stolen a nap (or two) in the day and it had meant almost nothing; she could fall asleep right here, right now, just sitting on this couch, and she wouldn’t care.

She had tried to push past it and just keep working—she had tried to not let it show in the first place. They were supposed to install the Path Finder’s hyperdrive today—something that was very much her area of expertise—but not an hour into the work, Ezra said they should stop. All of a sudden, he decided they all needed to take the day easy—still work on the ship but in “non-labour intensive avenues,” as he termed it.

She and Omega came back to the apartment to work on the plans, Din went into town to see about other parts they had ordered and knock off some errands while waiting to pick up Grogu, and she had to confess she didn’t know what Mayfeld or Ezra were doing.

“It’s working out,” Omega’s voice reached out to her, coming from the apartment’s small kitchen, interwoven with the little sounds of caf making. “Just gotta keep the faith, as Phee always says.”

Sabine took a breath and when she let it go, with it went some of the tension that had been winding up insidiously. It wasn’t all gone, but she put forth the effort to let her friend’s persistent calm drive some of her frustration away.

The late afternoon sun spilling in through the open windows helped some. It was hard to feel anything discordant or agitated when gazing at a sky arrayed in soft but stunning colours.

All in all, it was a nice day. 

Her family was safe and happy, the sky was beautiful, and all was well.

“What’s next on your agenda?” she asked Omega, twisting around on the couch to semi-face her. “In the grand scheme of things,” she qualified.

Omega shrugged, attention on scooping instant caf into two mugs (Sabine thought she and Din took their caf strong but Omega’s preference could leave a Devaronian with insomnia for a whole cycle). “Still wanna go see Hera,” she said. “I have got to meet Kanan and I promised Jacen I’d tell him all about my exploration of the Caves of Dy’Biit the next time I swing by. Then I was thinking it’s about time I head back and see the family. I promised Lucie she could come with me on an adventure when she’s old enough and she’s decided sixteen is old enough.” She sighed, over-dramatically, rolling her eyes heavenward and laying a hand on her chest like an elderly woman in a holo-film falling victim to nostalgia and sentimentality. “Oh, were we ever that young?”

Sabine breathed a laugh. 

She agreed: she thought sixteen was still very young, though she didn’t think it without feeling a twinge of hypocrisy.

At sixteen, she had been living on her own and taking care of herself for two years already (longer when she really thought about it, because her time in the academy, while coordinated and monitored by a parade of instructors and teachers, was not something she would describe as being cared for and raised—she was trained, yes, but not nurtured).

Omega’s life had had a different pattern. She wasn’t born into a family the way Sabine was, and although there were some who had had a soft spot for her, they didn’t quite take on parental roles. In a way, she was never even truly a child until she went on the run with her brothers, and then her childhood happened in scraps as she had to grow up fast in a life like that. Strangely, as chaotic and inconsistent as her childhood was, her adolescence was positively idyllic. Her family planted roots in one spot and she grew up the best way a creature could: wild and slow, surrounded by good people who loved her, shown how to live and how to love by example.

Between herself, Omega, Din, Ezra, and even Grogu, Sabine couldn’t help but marvel at the diversity amongst their upbringings, and yet, through them all, there were chords that played the same. They all knew what it was to be lost, they all knew what it was to be found; they knew what it was to be alone and they knew what it was to belong.

Musing on it was stirring a lot more emotion than she expected it to.

She had to be more tired than she thought.

She tied herself back to the moment, back to the little apartment with its ash-coloured wood and stone, the living room with its bookshelf and caf table and dark, multicoloured rug and the not-uncomfortable couches and armchairs.

Omega made the caf and brought it over, ribbon trail of steam rolling in her wake and disappearing faster than a fleeting whim. 

Sabine accepted the mug held out to her, even though she all of a sudden didn’t want it so much. She took the breath to speak, to ask what adventure Omega was planning on going on with her niece, hoping that after some more conversation she might settle and be able to enjoy the caf like she wanted to, but she didn’t get even the start of a word out.

A shrill, insistent beeping split the moment.

Coming from two sources simultaneously, it had a siren effect that only doubled the sense of urgency.

In sync, she and Omega retrieved their comms.

It was just a short message from Din but it cut the calm right out of Sabine’s heart.

Just three letters.

SOS

. . . . .

Din knew who it was from the voice alone but his blood turned to ice in his veins as Xi’an stepped out from a side-alley at the far end of the street and into full view. 

“Funny running into you here,” she remarked, tone deceptively casual and light as she strolled a few steps forward, the fading light filtering through the sunshades overhead playing strange tricks with her lilac skin, turning her orange then blue then green then maroon. The blade constantly spinning in her hand caught the coloured light in sliding glints and glitters.

Din felt his heart stutter, still, then strike in his chest. His eyes darted on automatic, scouting for any friends she might have brought with her, but he quickly abandoned the task and fixed back on her, too aware of how fast she moved, how slippery she could be.

Xi’an stopped walking. She set her weight on one hip and twisted her hands out, giving a small shake of her head like she was waiting for something. “What? Nothing? I know you’re a man of few words, Mando, but you must have something to say. Come on,” she raised her arms slightly and sprung her chin up, beckoning, “I’m open to questions.”

He had questions.

Of course he had questions; his mind was buzzing so loud, it was making him dizzy.

But he couldn’t find his voice for anything.

He was having a hard enough time getting through believing this was even happening so he could move on to getting out of this.

(In a way, he supposed he should be grateful it was her.)

(He knew her.)

(He knew how to fight her.)

“Alright. Fine. Tooka’s got your tongue.” She pushed out a ragged-edged sigh, feigning a weary tone and rolling her eyes. “Let me think…” she drawled as she began a slow, leisurely pace. She crossed the street, side to side, not closing the gap between them. As she strode along, she tilted her head, tapping her lips with the blunt side of her blade. “If I know you—and, oh, I know you—right now, you’re probably wondering: ‘How is ole Xi’an here? How did she get out of prison? And how does she know it’s me without the armour?’” She tipped her head to the side, an eyebrow arching. “Or maybe all you really care about is: ‘why is she here?’”

Something in Din snapped awake as if doused with ice water. 

He narrowed his eyes on her, a feeling like simmering venom rising in his throat. “If you lay one finger on the kid, there won’t be anywhere in this galaxy you can hide from me,” he warned her, his voice low, his jaw wound tight.

Xi’an laughed—that seesawing cackle that sounded like the rusted hinge of a broken gate. “So he does speak!” she exclaimed like she had just been handed a prize. But the glee evaporated in a blink, replaced by something almost bored. “Relax, Mando. I’m not here for the kid. You know I only have eyes for you.”

“Are you here to kill me?” he asked, cutting to the point.

She bobbed her head, side to side, like she was considering it, her lekku bouncing. “Short answer: no. Though it’s not like it wouldn’t be justified,” she spat, for the first time revealing a true emotion: bitter resentment. “I really should kill you after everything you did: leaving me in a cell, leading Rangers straight to the Roost—to our home.” She glared at him, poison and fire in her dark eyes. “They destroyed everything we built! They killed Qin and that’s on your head!”

“He got what he deserved,” Din told her, his tone as neutral as it could get without falling into outright disinterest. He had long-since dusted his hands of the whole mess and made his peace with it—whatever crumb of loyalty he had towards Ran dried up the second he changed the terms of the deal and Qin, especially, had exhausted his mercy years before. The only reason Din completed the job of bringing him to Ran was to get paid; there was no honour in letting a man like Qin live.

(Din considered bringing up the fact that Qin had been more than happy to abandon his sister on the prison transport, concerned only with his own freedom, and that Ran hadn’t said or truly expressed anything about her failure to return.)

(But now was perhaps not the time for that.)

Xi’an hissed, her face contorting in rage. Not thinking, she took a step to advance, to surge forward, but, abruptly, she stopped herself. 

Din took note of that. 

She didn’t want to shave the buffer of space she had cultivated between them and he had a pretty good idea why: physically, he was stronger than her; the last thing she wanted was to get trapped in another hand-to-hand scuffle with him—armour or no armour. 

Distance was her advantage.

She stole a moment to compose herself, her blade ever twirling, ever glinting between her fingers. “I’m not here to kill you. The commission was quite specific: you’re to be left half alive.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Din drew two conclusions from Xi’an’s statement.

One: there was a bounty on him.

Two: this next part was gonna hurt.

The first one intrigued him; the second he just dismissed as an unnecessary self-preservation instinct, the cocky part of him sure she wouldn’t get a scratch on him tonight.

In a motion he couldn’t track, she unsheathed a second blade. As she poised to fling it, he reached for his blaster, his mind going still and calm, reading her posture, tracing out what would happen next.

He unholstered his blaster but before he could unclip the safety and loose a shot, she pitched one of her blades. It sliced through the air, leaving a scant blue light trail that faded just as the blade struck the blaster’s barrel, knocking it clean out of his hand.

He expected that.

When it came to a quick-draw, they were matched; they had always been matched.

But when it came to tricks…

Before she could toss the other blade (most likely at a joint or ligament), he hurled the packet of boxed food at her, taking the sliver of a window he had opened and turning and launching into a run, hearing a very pleasing exclamation of surprise coupled with a short thunk and a muffled splat.

His plan was to get a head-start, slip into an alley, and, when she gave chase, catch her.

But he didn’t make it very far.

Someone stepped into his path and he ploughed straight into a wall of a body.

Stunned and smarting, he stumbled back, managing just to keep from falling on his backside. Blinking, he refocused and raised his gaze, tracing a hulking body clad in dark clothing up to a scarred red face.

A scarred red face painted with a pointed, twisted grin and topped with twin dark stumps where two proud horns once protruded.

“Oh, didn’t I mention I brought a chaperone?” Xi’an’s false “silly me” tone raked at Din. “I know how much you don’t like to be alone with me.”

She was still speaking and Din was still processing this development as a deep growl built in Burg’s throat and, the next thing Din knew, a solid fist rammed into his stomach.

It knocked the air right out of his lungs and sent him reeling backwards. His heel slipped and he fell on the ground. He was still registering what had happened when the pain exploded in his gut.

He fought the instinct to curl up, nurse the hurt, protect himself—it wouldn’t serve him now. Instead, he tucked into a sharp roll and twisted back up onto his knees, keeping his opponents ever in front of him.

Vibroblade in boot, his brain screamed at him over the flash recollection of his last confrontation with the Devaronian. Purposefully muting the cynicism the memory fed, he reached for his blade.

Just as he touched the hilt, Burg kicked him.

He folded and felt a rib break—hopefully just a rib.

The sucker-punch had winded him; this stopped him breathing for a few seconds. 

Down on the ground, instinct surged, his spine and his muscles locking him into a shrimp-like curl. Before he could form even a thought about it, another kick came, the force of it sending him skidding a few paces backwards, the stones scouring the skin of his cheek and temple.

His first fight with Burg hadn’t been much different. Even fully armed and armoured, Din hadn’t stood much of a chance; his only advantages then were a head start and two sets of blast-doors. Now, he had no protection and nothing so convenient at his disposal—nothing that stood even a hope against a juggernaut like Burg.

All he could do was brace for the next blow.

It didn’t come.

Burg paused his assault. He rolled his shoulders, looking mighty pleased with his work so far, and turned to Xi’an as if waiting on her permission to continue.

Xi’an sauntered over, her gait resuming its casual, self-assured swing. Despite the pain, Din felt some satisfaction at the sight of blue krill sauce dripping down her face and noodles splattered all over her dark shirt.

She said something. Din didn’t catch it and he thought nothing of that until she dropped to rest on her haunches and leaned forward to pick something up off the ground not far from his head. 

His heart raced as he saw one of his hearing aids dangling from her fingers.

She tilted her head as if to examine it, her already unnerving grin growing wider, like she had just plucked a gem from a pile of rocks. She laughed and Din was somewhat grateful he barely half-heard it.

“You need these to hear, don’t you?” she said, finding it amusing somehow. She looked to Din but he didn’t respond; he was too busy trying to prop himself up. “You really should take better care of them, Mando,” she admonished him as she straightened up and dropped the hearing aid on the ground like a used tissue, “if you leave them lying around like this, someone could just… step on them.”

Din saw it coming but even expecting it didn’t desensitize him. Revulsion and an acute sense of vulnerability coursed through him as she stomped on the little device and ground her heel into the stone, lifting her boot and feigning an expression of regret and apology as she gazed down at the smear of wires and broken plastoid.

She looked to Din and indulged in another laugh, enjoying this moment far too much. Then her ecstasy flatlined and she glanced over Din with a pensive frown.

“You don’t look half-dead yet,” she said, flicking a glance to Burg as if to ask his opinion.

Burg chuckled and, reading the cue correctly, advanced.

Din scooted away, one arm wrapped tight around his abused ribs, the other hand clawing at the stones for purchase. He made it look desperate, made himself seem as pathetic and exposed as possible, killing the notion that he had any fight left in him. 

Burg stomped towards him; Din felt every step rattle his spine as he scrambled to back himself up against a storefront. Burg’s growl tore into a brutal laugh as he pulled a fist back, preparing to pound the unarmoured Mandalorian like a too-soft creature denuded of its protective shell.

As Burg swung, Din threw himself to the side and hooked a potted plant with his foot. The pot capsized, the wine-purple leaves fluttering and shaking, some breaking and scattering as the plant hit the cobblestones. Not wasting a second, he kicked at it, sending it skittering across the stones and straight into Burg’s path.

As far as tricks went, it was crude, he had to admit, but it was effective: Burg tripped on the pot and went crashing down, hard.

Unfortunately, while it disabled Burg for a moment, it did nothing to Xi’an.

She had another two blades poised and ready to toss.

Without preamble, she hurled the first one… but it never so much as grazed Din.

A bolt shot across the scene, striking the blade and knocking it off course. 

Din and Xi’an whipped around to trace the bolt to its source. 

Relief was too small, too incomplete a word for what washed over Din as he saw Sabine standing there at the street entrance, twin blasters cocked, sights trained dead on Xi’an.

“I am only going to say this once,” Sabine said and despite the situation, Din couldn’t help but get stuck on her tone. He had never heard such a tone from her before—it was low, icy and acidic all at once, and even though he knew he was not on the receiving end of it, he couldn’t help but shiver and shrink back. “Either the blade drops or you do.”

Xi’an didn’t do anything. 

Din knew her, knew how she thought. She was weighing it up, she was thinking of where she could strike, she didn’t care about the repercussions; she just wanted to draw blood. But, even so, there was a war inside: she wanted to fight but she didn’t want to die.

Suddenly, she whipped around the other way. Din mirrored her, eyes flitting fast to see what could possibly snatch her attention away from the woman who just displayed such deadly ire and accuracy.

There, cutting off the other exit, was Meg, energy bow active and drawn, the glowing magenta thread highlighting her dead-set brow and dark, narrowed eyes. To remove any doubt of her intent and skill, she loosed two bolts in quick succession: one struck the ground just a mere inch from Xi’an’s boot, the other struck the spot where Burg had been about to plant his hand to push himself back up.

On a hunch, Din glanced up and, sure enough, there were Ezra and Mayfeld. 

Mayfeld took up a sniper position on the rooftop of the building across from them while Ezra nimbly hopped off the ledge, dropping down between the awnings and landing on the stones right behind Xi’an with the grace of a cat. The number of weapons armed and trained on her was already overkill, but Ezra went ahead and lit his lightsaber anyway, a dangerous taunt playing on his expression as he assumed a stance.

Almost in sync, Xi’an and Burg did the smartest thing they could have done in such a situation: they opened and raised their hands, slowly. The blade she had been holding clattered on the stones—Din sort of heard it; he still had one hearing aid intact and the blood pounding in his head had calmed. Xi’an backed a few steps away from him; Burg was still on his knees.

The stand-off froze for a beat. 

A breeze rustled the shade cloths and potted plants, sending the strings of lanterns swinging and rattling softly—such things seemed too sedate for such as a scene as had just played out. A few brave heads began poking out windows and doorways now that the spectacle that had captivated the streets so suddenly had come to a stalemate.

Sabine moved first.

She holstered her blasters and strode over to Din. He took her hand but stood by his own strength. 

“I’m okay,” he told her before she could ask. 

Lips pursed tight, she glanced over him and canted her head, face set in deadpan doubt. He couldn’t straighten up, couldn’t breathe without a pained wheeze, and as cool air swept through the street, he felt the blood trickling down the side of his face.

Rather than repeat his assertion, he raised his eyebrows as if to petition her to believe him.

She let go of a short breath and gave a small shake of her head and a fluttery roll of her eyes, but he caught the little twitch of her mouth that wanted to be a relieved smile.

“Nevermind. Sloan can deal with you,” she said and her concern was still there but now there was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes too.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know why you focus so much on adding all those thrusters and boosters and what-nots to your new ship when what you should be adding is a permanent bacta tank.”

Din resisted the urge to sigh—partly because he was not in the mood to debate mechanics with a droid programmed for medicine, partly because he had only just achieved a rhythm of shallow breathing that required the least expansion of his chest.

He was tired, he was sore, and he couldn’t figure out how Cara could get any paperwork done if she had to sit in this uncomfortable chair to do it. All he wanted to do was go back to the inn, curl up in bed and just slip into a long overdue coma; he didn’t want to be sitting in the marshal’s office with his shirt rolled up under his arms while a droid fussed over him. Unfortunately, no one would let him get away with his wounds untreated and there was still other business he had to attend to.

“If you want my opinion, we should just lock you in a bacta tank and get done; I think it would save us time,” Sloan continued grumbling as he worked to secure a bacta patch on Din’s side, the motions of his ministrations so careful yet so precise, it didn’t feel like he was even touching him as he worked. He made a sound that mimicked a sigh. “At least you didn’t suffer another concussion.”

“Are you done yet?” Din asked, suddenly. He was aware it came out as a snap and he wasn’t proud of it, but he was sick of sitting here.

“No,” Sloan replied, curtly. Then, with just enough mildness to be construed as sympathy, he admonished: “Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

“Well, hold still another minute.”

Din tipped his head back.

Consciously, he tried to stifle his petulance. 

The droid had worked quick and efficiently. He first cleaned and dressed the scraped flesh on the side of Din’s face—thankfully, it hadn’t required stitches, just cleaning by bacta and a few small plasters to protect the worst of the cuts and help them mend. A scan found, as Din expected, a broken rib, much bruising and some very minor bleeding, the kind which usually took care of itself and didn’t require a surgery. The bacta patch wasn’t absolutely necessary—he would heal from all this on his own with time and rest—but he didn’t refuse it; he would heal quicker and better with its help so he let Sloan apply it.

He just didn’t expect the droid to take all night about it.

(Which, again, wasn’t fair, he knew; he hadn’t been sitting there for even fifteen minutes.)

Small mercies: at least he didn’t have an audience.

Upon his crew’s dramatic arrival, the fight ended like a snuffed candle. Xi’an and Burg, recognizing when they were beat, surrendered and that was that.

Mayfeld had binders, courtesy of Cara. However, he had only the one pair; when Chopper and Grogu came to them and told them of the situation, they assumed there was only one hunter and Grogu was too distressed in that moment to clarify. Of the two, Din knew Xi’an was the one to cuff. He didn’t have to say anything; Mayfeld knew that, too.

Then it was a march (really more of a trudge) through the streets to the marshal’s office. There was no helping the spectacle they made, especially as Ezra kept his lightsaber alight the whole way to deter any escape attempts. The Nevarrans stared; they had seen much but this was the strangest thing to occur in a while.

Cara met them by the door and Burg and Xi’an went straight into cells. Din was in the middle of assuring Grogu that he was fine when Sloan showed up and now he was here, getting his injuries seen to in Cara’s office.

Din appreciated the privacy but the room was small and that shouldn’t have meant anything but, for some reason, it did, and he didn’t want to be here another minute.

The second Sloan stepped back, Din yanked the hem of his shirt down, the action terse as if to make a point.

In a measured motion, Sloan planted his spindly claw hands on his hips and fixed his static gaze on Din, tilting his head to telegraph a kind of mild disapproval. 

Mindful of his ribs, Din took a breath, closed his eyes, and forced calm. He exhaled slowly and softened whatever expression his face held. “Thank you,” he said to the droid, meaning it and the apology he was too wound up to commit to.

Sloan bowed his head in a nod. “You’re welcome.” He turned and began gathering up the supplies he had laid out on the desk. “I will conduct a check-up tomorrow morning, when convenient.” He swivelled his head but not his body to look at Din. “And I would like to remind you that I am well acquainted with and thus immune to your excuses, Mr Djarin.”

Holding onto the desk for support and holding his side, Din stood, making more noise about it than intended. His spine locked in a crooked arch for a moment; besides the broken and bruised ribs, his back hadn’t enjoyed the reunion with Burg. He could already feel the ominous tingling down his leg that preceded a flare-up.

Maybe, come morning, his fight would return and he’d put forth a valiant effort to evade the fussy med-droid, but, right now, he didn’t even care to grumble about the appointment.

Straightening up, he pulled together the dregs of whatever was keeping him motivated and headed out the office to join the others.

They were all gathered in the main area—some standing, some sitting, all silent. There was a palpable tension woven through the air, the strained strands starting at the cells lining the other side of the room. 

Burg paced his cell, looking generally put-out about his lot in life. He was still angry but it was a bed of embers, not a fire. 

Xi’an, hands still cuffed, stood right up by the bars, glaring at everything and everyone. She was still and silent and seething.

As Din entered, eyes turned to him. 

Sabine, holding Grogu, left her station leaning against the desk and came to him, gaze flitting over him, quickly examining Sloan’s work. Her hand twitched and he knew if they weren’t in a room full of people (or, rather, if it were only their friends and family filling the room), she would reach out and touch him. He was glad she didn’t, and not simply for the eyes on them; he couldn’t handle being touched anymore right now.

He still gave her a smile, though—her and Grogu. 

The little one didn’t look as distressed as earlier but it was clear he was still on alert. He clung to Sabine, looking very young and vulnerable, but Din knew his child—he was sticking close to her to protect her; it was something Din could read in his eyes: a determination, a sense of duty, a challenge to the galaxy.

Someone cleared their throat, purposefully. 

Din raised his gaze and pinpointed Mayfeld. He didn’t say anything but he lifted his eyebrows as if to remind Din they were still on the clock.

He nodded, drawing his shoulders back a notch.

He glanced to Xi’an. She had assumed a more relaxed posture, leaning on the bars like one would a cantina wall and watching the goings-on with keen yet casual interest.

“I need to talk with her,” Din said. After taking a fortifying breath and resisting the urge to squirm out of this, he added: “Alone.”

Cara, Mayfeld, Ezra, Sabine, Meg, Grogu, even Sloan and Chopper looked at him like he had just asked them all to do something immensely unpleasant. In the beat wherein he awaited a protest, he formulated an explanation, but it was unneeded.

Cara, shaking her head like she thought he had lost his mind, went over and unlocked Burg’s cell. “C’mon. You get a room out back, buddy.”

She ushered him out then stopped and turned, silently asking Din with a look if he was sure about this.

He nodded, just once.

She rolled her eyes in a “suit yourself” way and pushed Burg to get him moving. Without being asked, Meg followed as back-up.

Ezra took Grogu from Sabine. Neither of them looked okay with this, but they said nothing (though Grogu did shoot a scathing glare at Xi’an, keeping it locked in place until Ezra had carried him out of sight). Sloan and Chopper followed them out.

Mayfeld seemed the most likely to argue, but when Din’s friends and brother conceded and walked out, he seemed to lose confidence in his stance, as if he didn’t have the right to insist on staying if they decided it was okay to leave. He did hesitate another moment, glancing at Xi’an like he would rather keep an eye on her himself, but then he, too, left.

Sabine, as Din expected, lingered the longest.

He put a hand on her shoulder and gave a soft squeeze, an assurance and an urging all in one. He couldn’t help but marvel at the way her eyes held such warmth and concerned care when they were locked with his but then turned to icy daggers in the parting glance at Xi’an. 

Then they were alone.

It took Din a moment to really comprehend it. When he caught up to the situation, even though he had requested it, even though he knew its necessity, he still felt the sting of abandonment.

His instinct was to put distance and a barrier between them. He realized she was cuffed and there was a wall of durasteel bars between them, he had his blaster back and she had been relieved of every blade, but he still had to tamp down the urge to move around the desk.

He turned to face her straight on, his expression set in stone.

Control the situation or act like you’re in control: one of the principle rules of bounty hunting.

Xi’an, of course, never cared for the rules.

She began talking.

Actually, no: she moved her mouth as if she were talking, but she made no sound. 

“Knock it off,” Din told her, not in the mood for games.

“Oh. So you can hear,” she said with oversaturated surprise. “What? Those things for decoration then?”

He wasn’t going to answer that. She didn’t really care to know and he had no obligation to explain the intricacies of his condition to her (besides, he still had one intact hearing aid—he knew she could see it).

“This is what’s going to happen,” he began, taking a deep breath and pretending the broken rib didn’t feel like a jagged blade running through his side. “I am going to ask questions and you are going to answer them.”

Xi’an slipped her cuffed hands through the bars, let them hang casually off the horizontal bar. “And then what?” she asked with a flick of her hand like she was bored. “You’re just gonna send me back to prison?”

“That’s not up to me.”

“No. You’re just gonna turn me over to the powers-that-be and let them do the dirty work for you. Leaves you with a nice clean conscience, doesn’t it?”

“This is not up for debate.”

And there. That wretched cackle again. It ended with her sighing, her head falling to her shoulder as she turned a pitying look on him. “Is this you now, Mando? School runs? Playing house? Working with Rangers? Tell me: do you rescue tookas from trees, too? Help little old ladies cross the street?”

“Who hired you?” Din asked, ignoring her jabs.

“At least your tastes haven’t changed, I’ll say that much,” she continued, undeterred, and Din winced internally at that telltale shift in her tone. He knew where she was going—she always went there. “Didn’t realize you had a type. You like us dangerous, don’t you?” 

He gave no reply.

He learned a long time ago not to step in her snares.

“I asked you a question.”

Xi’an rolled her eyes and jerked her hands open, the binders clanking against the bars. “And I don’t see a point to this. If you’re not going to let me go and you’re not going to do any other favours for me, then why should I tell you anything?”

Din didn’t answer straight away. He leaned back to half-sit on the desk and folded his arms, levelling an unaffected expression and gaze on her. “Because prison is the favour I’m doing you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked as if he were irritating her, wasting her time.

He shrugged. “I could drop you on Nal Hutta.”

The threat—simply, coolly delivered—had its effect. Her eyes widened suddenly, like windows with the blinds snapped open. 

She stood mute for a moment, mouth opening and closing on words she couldn’t say, couldn’t form. Then she seemed to come back into herself and her gaze narrowed to a sharp slit.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he challenged right back. He tipped his chin up a notch. “I led the Rangers to the Roost, remember? I could have left that beacon on the prison transport. I could have dropped it in hyperspace. I didn’t. I put it in Qin’s back pocket.”

A part of him felt like he was going too far.

Her situation was not of his doing. The fate that awaited her on Nal Hutta, the fate he alluded to, was something she had brought upon herself—Lieutenant Davan was not the first man she had killed needlessly and without a thought to the consequences. Anything that happened to her there would not, technically, be by Din’s hand, but to purposely take her there and leave her, knowing what would happen? 

He couldn’t deny he felt a measure of satisfaction at seeing the fear creep into her eyes, but it quickly withered away.

To some degree, it was pity. Despite what people thought and said of him, he was not cruel. For all Xi’an had done, it didn’t feel right to drop her on a planet where she was blacklisted, especially when said blacklist belonged to the Hutts. There were fates worse than death and the Hutts wrote one of the guides on alternatives.

Regardless of what she did or did not deserve, he felt sick at himself for even suggesting it.

A threat was one thing, but torture was dishonourable and, frankly, disgusting to true Mandalorians. In the Fighting Corps. restraint was emphasized just as much as strength and skill. A true battle required some equal footing; torture was a woeful imbalance and abuse of power over another.

Was this why he insisted on doing this alone? Because he didn’t want the others to see this side of him he kept under lock and key? This side of him that toed the line of both the Mandalorians’ code and that of the Bounty Hunters? That, more than unyielding, he could be brutal and even cold when he deemed it necessary?

It told him something about himself that he made this threat. 

It told him even more that he could see Xi’an believed him.

“Alright, I’ll talk,” she said, actually taking a step back in her cell and holding up her hands. “Just… promise: not Nal Hutta.”

“You have my word,” he conceded, a part of him feeling relieved.

“Say it fully, Mando,” Xi’an insisted, the fear still straining her voice. “I know you.”

It stung but he couldn’t blame her.

Ran taught them both how to dance with their words.

He looked her in the eye—a thing he had never done. Despite her allusions and insinuations, in the years they had worked together, she had never once even glimpsed him truly; she had neither seen nor touched his skin, she didn’t even know what species he was, and she had certainly never seen his eyes. And even now, with the helmet gone, at no point in this unpleasant reunion had he had any inclination to meet her gaze with such purpose. 

But he did now.

For her, it was a formality and an assurance; for him, it was a chance to reclaim himself, to step back from the ledge, to not be the monster.

“I promise you will not end up on Nal Hutta. I will not take you there, nor will I let anyone else take you there.”

She held still for a beat, eyes flickering as she weighed his words and their worth, no doubt twisting them around in her own mind to see if there was any other way they could be interpreted, like scrutinizing a contract before signing.

“Thank you,” she said, eventually, her shoulders slackening slightly.

“Let’s go back a bit,” Din said, consciously unfolding his arms and planting his hands on the desk. “How did you get out?”

Xi’an still looked wary of him. She eyed him a moment, the easing of his posture seeming to confuse her. “Ran got me out,” she answered, eventually. Resuming a watered-down version of her self-assurance, she went and sat on the bench at the back of the cell. “He’s been slowly putting the crew back together after your betrayal. We’re back to working out of a garage, in case you care.”

Not that he wanted to, but Din recalled the early days. Before Ran owned a station and a hodgepodge fleet of gunships and fighters and freighters, he rented garages and hangars planetside as the base of his operations. It was enough like life with the covert to make Din—young, foolish, desperate, and more alone than he realized at the time—equate it with home.

“Couple weeks ago, we saw the bounty for your sorry hide come up,” Xi’an continued. “And we thought: why not? We get revenge and we get rich. Sounded like a good deal. But we needed a team. So we sprung Burg and we figured Mayfeld would want in, too. But he wasn’t in the prison registry anymore. Makes sense. He’s an Imp. Probably negotiated his freedom.” She let out an ironic laugh and shook her head. “Even now, the Imps still get a leg up, eh?”

She sighed and she actually looked tired as she leaned back to rest her head against the wall, bringing a boot up onto the bench, eyes roaming the blank ceiling. “We found out he was here, on Nevarro, so we came. But, when we saw he was real cozy with the stripes, we thought it would be better to cut him out of the deal. We were about to leave when, would you believe it, we see him talking to this guy with a very unique little green kid.”

Din felt his skin crawl.

He had traded the armour for anonymity and it had almost worked… except he hadn’t accounted for the possibility of being recognized through Grogu.

“Who commissioned you?” he asked, his arms folding in front of him again.

Xi’an shrugged. 

Din lifted an eyebrow, waiting her out.

“I don’t know,” she told him, blatantly. “All I know is it’s an open job: first come, first served. It’s a direct commission but the client only communicates through holo-call and their side of the transmission is always distorted.”

“And they want me half-dead. Why?”

“I guess they want to finish the job themselves. If it means anything, I don’t think they want information from you; they said it’s okay if you can’t speak.”

Suddenly, he wanted to get out of there. He settled for just a short pace across the floor, his chest constricting and not for the pain.

“And the payment?” he asked, aware it was scraping the barrel.

“That’s the interesting part.” Xi’an returned her boot to the floor and leaned forward, looking somewhat smug. “We get to keep your armour. Everything but the helmet. I suppose they want a trophy.” She tipped her head to the side, her gaze very obviously raking over him. “Though, if you ask me—”

“Enough,” he clipped out.

She rolled her eyes like he was killing the fun. “Where is it, anyway? All those years you went around like you’d die if a shoulder-plate fell off, now you’re dressed like a nerf-herder. You lose it in a bet or something?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Without a word, he left.

. . . . .

They congregated in the living room of Din and Sabine’s apartment.

The evening was well-along and dinner had been unavoidably delayed. Half of the food Din had procured had survived; that, along with leftovers, served as the group’s post-fight feast.

Din didn’t seem keen to eat anything and Sabine wasn’t surprised: he got like that when he was stressed or in pain. But this seemed to be something more. There was a worryingly detached look in his eyes, like he didn’t know how to leave the last scene and come into this one, this softer, safer one with his friends and his family.

For his sake, she tried to eat, to give him a cue, an action to mirror. It was a chore—her stomach was on the verge of rebelling at just the smell of the food. Something about seeing the noodles splattered all over that vile woman’s face had just turned her off everything tonight.

They discussed what had happened and Din relayed what he had learned in his talk alone with the Twi’lek woman—Xi’an.

(They had history. Mayfeld explained some of it while Sloan tended to Din’s injuries and Xi’an herself was very eager to chime in, especially to imply that she knew Mando deeper than mere acquaintance.)

(Whether or not it was true, it was the way she said those things, like she was trying to stake a claim on Din, as if he were some object to be possessed, that got Sabine’s hackles up.)

At least now there were two less hunters on his trail, but, if it was an open commission, that might be a mere drop in the ocean as there could this very moment be a hundred more honing in on him.

The Silver Mandalorian was an Outer Rim legend.

Din Djarin was just a man. 

But someone had connected his identities today, and that simple connection demolished their illusion of security and secrecy.

They had to move on from Nevarro and soon.

But how long could they keep running? How far would they get before whoever wanted Din half-dead caught up to them? Would they give up or was this to be the way of things forever?

They didn’t voice those questions. 

They asked things like where could they go, who did they know that could find out more about this, what further safety measures could they take? 

They decided on Tatooine, because it was big and Din had more hiding spots there than anywhere else, he knew a mechanic who would help them finish the work on the Path Finder, and Boba and especially Fennec would be helpful for unearthing more information about this off-the-books bounty.

But all while they weighed this place over that place, suggested this friend and that friend, Sabine could see those other questions looming over Din like a tidal wave.

And because she knew him—truly knew him—she knew the worry wasn’t all for himself. Some, yes, naturally, though not as much as there should have been; most of his worry was for her and Grogu.

She saw it starkest when the others left and he went to put Grogu to bed. 

He stayed well after the little one had drifted off to make sure his sleep remained sound. He stood like a sentinel by the crib, his face tight like he was trying to get control of some emotion. He reached out as if to run his fingers along the child’s brow but caught himself, his hand suspended and trembling before curling up and pulling back, the gesture that was almost customary aborted as if he had suddenly been told it was wrong.

She left then. 

She went and got ready for bed, feeling numb and adrift.

She sat up with her back propped against the headboard, reading a book and getting nothing off the pages while she waited for Din. It was a while before he came through and another while before he finished in the refresher.

Usually, he saw his ablutions through with the kind of speed and efficiency of a soldier on the frontlines. But, tonight, she heard the shower run for well over twenty minutes; it was only because she didn’t hear him fall that she let him be for so long. When the water finally cut out, it was another overly long stretch of time before he emerged, hair damp and eyes still not quite here.

He seemed to get stuck halfway between the refresher and the bed. He looked at it like it wasn’t something he knew, his gaze flicking everywhere but never so much as grazing her.

She closed her book and set it down on the nightstand. She didn’t do any of it quietly, hoping she might make enough noise for him to pick up but it was only when she moved that his head whipped up.

“Come to bed, love,” she said, at the same time forming a soft hook with her finger and drawing it towards herself then patting his side of the bed.

He didn’t nod, didn’t speak; mechanically, he took a few steps and came to sit on the end of his side of the bed. He grimaced and stiffened, his body jittering slightly as it tried to shift into a position that didn’t hurt as much.

The long day and the low light from the lamp deepened the dark smudges under his eyes. Bruises had begun blossoming down the side of his face, spreading like a backdrop for the scrapes and scratches. 

Suddenly, his eyes snapped to her. “You’re okay, right?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m okay,” she assured him. “I’m okay, Grogu’s okay; we’re all good.” (She held back from pointing out that the only person who had been in any way hurt during this whole ordeal was him. He knew that; he knew all of that—this was just him making sure; this was his way of coming down).

He nodded, absently, and, after a beat, let go of a quiet, juddering breath. 

She thought of things to say—quips and questions—but she let them run through her mind and go unsaid. He wouldn’t take a joke right now and they had exhausted the important topics.

Her next instinct was to reach out, impart comfort through a touch, but she could see he still wasn’t ready for that.

At least that distance in his gaze had begun receding.

“Sabine,” he said, eventually, his voice a small thing—unsteady yet fueled with purpose. He made himself lift his head, made himself look at her. “If Xi’an said anything… about… you know…” He gestured, vaguely, his expression pinched at the corners like he had tasted something rotten without warning.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sabine told him with a flick of a hand like everything Xi’an had said was an annoying fly she was chasing off.

“They didn’t happen,” Din said, and she could hear a thread of desperation, like his life depended on her believing him. “We never… I never…”

He stopped and huffed, his head turning away in a jerk. His jaw popped as he ran through things, trying to pull words together.

Sabine moved to sit near him, bending her head to catch his eye. He looked at her for a moment but then sent his gaze to the floor as if ashamed.

“Din, look at me,” she beckoned and waited until he found the courage to do so. “First of all: I trust you; not her. If you say something didn’t happen, then I believe you. Second: even if something did happen between you two, it doesn’t make me think any less of you, I don’t see any reason to hold it against you, and I don’t feel in any way threatened by it. I can see the way you feel about her and I know that you love me; you said the vow to me and I believe in it. And third…” here she tipped her head and allowed a small smirk to slip through, “you get overwhelmed every time I just kiss you. You think holding hands is intimate contact. You feel like you’re naked when just your wrists show. I can’t see you ever having had a casual fling with just anyone—especially her.”

And there, like that first ray of sun after a long winter storm, he smiled, the humour in her miniature rant not lost on him. It was small and it only held for a moment but it was genuine.

He reached out then and laid his hand over hers. His touch was still very reserved, very careful, like he was trying not to break something delicate.

“It’s important to me that you know nothing happened,” he said. “Anyone else can believe anything they want, but I need you to know the truth.”

“Alright,” she assured him. “Then I know.”

Chapter Text

Din didn’t know what was happening.

The ground was shaking. Not so hard that he couldn’t stand, but like something big and heavy was stomping about the town.

It distracted him from his task of picking spire roses for his mother. Little hands clutching an untamed bundle of stems, he stepped out onto the street.

He heard something in the distance—it sounded like something bursting and shattering and then someone screaming.

He tossed his head as he looked all around but he didn’t see anything. He didn’t see anyone. It was a bright, sunny day. Why did he feel like a storm was coming?

The wind roared around him.

A dark shadow fell over him.

He heard rumbling and whirring—like machines but louder than any he had ever known before. It was like slow, drawn-out thunder.

He tipped his head all the way back and saw a perfectly shaped dark cloud pull over the sun.

No.

Not a cloud.

A ship.

He didn’t know ships could get so big.

Dark things sprayed out of the ship’s sides like a swarm of insects flying out of a kicked hive. They quickly grew larger and larger as they flew in every direction, covering the city.

Some things flew in straight lines; some things flew around them as if to guide them.

Two of the things came towards him.

He knew droids. They didn’t have many in the settlement but they had some to help with harvesting and herding and even healing. But he had never seen droids like these. Dark, bulky bodies, stubby heads that didn’t have proper faces, hands that didn’t look like they were meant to hold things. They dropped down and hovered above the houses, waiting for something.

Down in front of them, leading them, a person came.

Din didn’t know who they were exactly but he knew it was a woman and he knew she was a Mandalorian. They had been staying here the past while—hiding from bad people, as Baba had explained.

This Mandalorian had a blue and white helmet. Din hadn’t seen her before. Maybe she was new? Maybe one of the Mandalorians he already knew had repainted their armour?

She flew down, swiftly, gracefully, and hung there in the air, helmet turning slowly as she looked all around her. The droids waited beside and behind her.

The rumbling, stomping grew louder. Din heard more shouts, coming from nearby.

He looked around, unsure, unaware, but feeling something was very wrong.

When he looked up again, the Mandalorian woman was looking straight at him.

She raised her blaster, the end of it aimed directly at him.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t know what to do.

She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t hurt him, would she? The Mandalorians had been helping them just as they had been helping the Mandalorians. Why would one hurt him now? What had he done?

Everything happened in the same moment.

His mother shouted his name.

The woman pulled the trigger.

His father ran into him.

The bolt shot past him, so close he felt the heat of it. 

The next thing he knew, he was in his father’s arms and they were running and he was looking at his mother’s frantic face and there were droids everywhere and dust and smoke and blasts and bolts and blood…

And he couldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear anything…

. . . . .

Din woke to his body locked up in a tight, self-protective curl. 

He was breathing too fast and his heart was pumping too hard and he was caught between realities for a frighteningly long moment. His eyes were open but not focussing and he didn’t know what anything he saw was, he didn’t know where he was…

In a way that was both sluggish and rushed, he came back. 

His mind cut a clear line between his present and his nightmares and he went boneless with relief when he realized which side of the divide he had landed on.

He saw the room—the room he had slept in for the past two weeks. The walls, the floors, all in clean, earthy shades of grey.

He lay on his side—his uninjured side, which meant he faced the window. Silvery gold sunlight fell in shimmering shafts through the pale curtains, stray specks of dust cast like glitter throughout. 

The light blinked as a pair of small birds flew by outside. They returned, alighting on the sill and flitting to and fro with little hops—that was how he heard them: not by sound but by their dance. Each little step, each little move of their silhouettes was like a note of a song.

A chill laced the air. 

The curtains fluttered and more cool air slipped in. The intensity of the nightmare had made him sweat and now it just made him cold.

He made to burrow deeper under the blankets but a burst of pain in his side—like the clench of a ragged claw—stopped him. He froze and lay there for a long minute, again breathing shallow and a little too quick until the pain calmed.

There was a moment of pure creature confusion, like an animal that didn’t understand why it was suffering. 

Then he remembered.

Xi’an. 

Burg. 

The ambush in the alley. 

Getting punched, kicked, kicked again.

Besides the broken rib, he registered the faint tug of the little plasters on his forehead and his cheek, and the widowed hearing aid laying on the nightstand gave a solid testimony to the events of the previous day.

And, just like that, dark clouds encroached on his soft morning.

Reality and all the practicalities to heed and mind and work out cut into his thoughts, drowning out the last lingering echoes of his nightmare. It would be a day of tying up their business here and farewelling friends and packing up the routine they had established. Then they would move on and who knew what awaited them from here?

He saw the whirlpool such musings posed but he wasn’t fighting the current, not until he felt the bed dip.

With great care, he rolled onto his back and found Sabine, not getting out of bed but, rather, returning, taking pains to do so without disturbing him (though that was pointless).

He caught a whiff of mint and frowned. He couldn’t smell food or caf. Why would she get up and brush her teeth only to return to bed?

He was still puzzling that out when she sidled closer and, without warning, wedged two very cold hands under his back.

It was a flash of ice and, involuntarily, he flinched, which was a mistake. The recoil made his muscles—muscles that had too recently served as a punching bag—contract and spasm.

He gasped and just managed to cut back a cry. The icy hands retreated in a snap and he thought he heard a soft apology.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he hurried to assure her.

He writhed for a moment, his still mostly asleep body trying to find a position that didn’t hurt when everything was suddenly hurting. Consciously, he made himself go still, knowing he wasn’t helping anything with all the half-curling and fidgeting.

When he looked over, he saw Sabine sitting up, guilty hands hovering over him, wanting to help but conflicted, knowing she had caused this. 

“Here,” he said, softly, taking her hand and guiding it to his injured side. “May as well put them to work.”

He didn’t really want a cold compress but it was meant to be a compromise more than a mutually beneficial arrangement.

(And he didn’t want her hands to stay so cold; that couldn’t be comfortable for her.)

She settled back down and when her head came to rest on his shoulder, he felt like he had won something. 

“For the record,” she told him, a lilt of humour in her tone, “you don’t see me getting all dramatic over your cold feet.”

He huffed a small laugh at that. 

A few minutes later, just as he was drifting back to sleep, Sabine lifted and turned her head. Suspecting she had heard something, Din followed her gaze to the door just as she softly called: “You can come in.”

The door opened and it was as if they had an invisible intruder: from where Din lay, he couldn’t see or hear the tiny figure that waddled in (though he knew, of course—this was how nearly every morning went for them).

Sabine didn’t unlatch from his side, but she did a half-roll, opening her arm out as Grogu scaled the side of the bed. He made it to the summit and, arms out, tottered a few steps on the rumpled sheets before purposely falling onto Sabine’s arm and letting her draw him in close.

She brought him to Din’s chest and he put a hand at his back to help steady him. He was still soft and warm from sleep, faint creases from his pillow crisscrossing his cheek, the downy hair on his head half flattened, half wild. 

The sunlight set a soft, golden fire in his hair. Din had noticed it growing in thicker and darker recently: less sparse, less wiry, more like how baby hair should be. It was such a subtle, minute thing but it was perhaps the most overt physical change he had ever detected on the child. Perhaps it was too much to hang on it, but it seemed like a confirmation that he was healthy and growing.

But he was still this morning, as he had been for the past year and probably would be for the next decade, a baby.

His ears did that trademark spring that said he was happy as he cooed and rocked forward, planting both little hands on Din’s jaw and affectionately headbutting his chin before pulling away and turning to impart the same morning greeting to Sabine. Then he nestled into the warm crook between them, keeping a claw on Din’s cheek and one on Sabine’s, endlessly fascinated by the contrast: one rough, one smooth.

For that moment, all the problems, all the nightmares were quiet. 

. . . . .

True to his word, Sloan caught Din during breakfast for a check-up, a whole hour earlier than agreed on the night before (and as annoyed as Din was by that, he had to admire the med-droid’s tenacity and creativity—he really had figured out how to handle him).

Although it was just him, Sabine and Grogu in the apartment, he moved to the bedroom and Sloan followed without a word.

Din sat on the edge of the made bed and he valiantly fought the urge to fidget as the droid scanned him and inspected his wounds.

His efforts, however, turned out to be in vain.

“I get the feeling something is on your mind,” Sloan remarked, casually, as he peeled the used bacta patch off Din’s side.

“You told me—” Din began but cut himself off. Jaw clenched, he looked away from the droid as a sudden wave of unease washed over him. It’s just Sloan; just a med-droid, he reminded himself.

“I told you…?” Sloan prompted.

Din closed his eyes. “When I was in the tank, I had dreams. You told me—you told me bacta does that. Makes people… remember things and see them like dreams.”

“I did,” Sloan confirmed, his tone measured. “And I can refer you to credible medical journals which expound on and verify the phenomenon.”

“No, that’s—that’s okay. I trust you. I just… I was wondering if—if it only happens in tanks. Can it—can it happen with just a patch, too?”

“There have been instances where patients have reported experiencing returned memories when exposed to lighter dosages of bacta, yes. Usually, it occurs not long after a period spent submerged in bacta. There are fewer medical journals I can refer you to on that particular matter.”

“But it can happen?”

“Yes.”

Din exhaled.

Sloan tilted his head, the apertures of his eyes widening and contracting. “You experienced another returned memory?”

“I don’t know. I think so.” 

It hadn’t faded the way nightmares usually did. Like the memory of his father saving him from drowning, it had stayed with him, just as vivid, just as real.

But it wasn’t so easy a memory to accept.

Sloan said nothing more. Quietly, optics ever trained on Din, he took a seat on the armchair opposite the bed. After a beat, he leaned a little forward, elbow joints resting on his legs, claw fingers interlocking in mimicry of a patient, receptive stance.

Some part of Din found it amusing and that helped melt some wall inside his mind.

“I remembered something from the day I was found,” he explained. “I don’t know if it’s a part I had forgotten, or… if it’s a part I was trying not to remember.” 

“Organic memories are complicated things,” Sloan agreed. “Many things you make yourself forget simply because you cannot bear the truth of what happened. I am a droid; I cannot do that. I retain memory of everything I experience and witness, regardless of the implications. I can only forget if my memory banks are erased or if they become corrupted.”

Din breathed.

Behind his eyes, the scene played over.

For the past thirty years, whenever he recalled that day when everything changed, he only ever saw the frenzied run through the streets, the devastation, the cellar, the farewell, the moment he believed he would die and the moment his new life began.

He never saw the start.

He knew there had to be a start, but…

“I think I tried to forget it because it didn’t make any sense,” he admitted. “And… some things that I know now explain it.” 

Until recently, he didn’t know why the Mandalorians were there or where the droids came from or why they were so hell-bent on destroying everyone in a peaceful settlement. 

Paz and Marida, both older and present when it all happened, had explained it to him.

The Tribe took refuge in Aq Vetina to hide from Death Watch and the Separtists, but their enemies eventually caught up to them. Din’s settlement was innocent but they lay right in the crossfire and they suffered in a fight they had no part in.

It was a difficult concept to get his mind around: Mandalorians had saved him, raised him, and given him a new purpose, but it was Mandalorians who threw his life off course in the first place.

Presently, he ran a hand over his eyes. It didn’t matter that it was morning and he had slept through the night, he felt drained. 

Sloan was silent for a moment, likely processing, trying to decipher the vague words. When he spoke next, there was a gravity to his modulated voice that defied his status as an artificial being. 

“Perhaps that is why you remembered it now: because now you can understand it, and you’re strong enough that it can no longer hurt you.”

. . . . .

Not long after Sloan left, Greef came by.

Cara and Mayfeld had caught him up on all that had gone down the previous day and he could not apologize enough. He had assured Din that his family would find safe harbour in his city and that promise had come violently undone.

It wasn’t his fault, and Din made sure to stress that to him. But even as he said things to relieve Greef’s unnecessary guilt, a cynical little voice in the back of his mind just kept chanting: I knew this would happen.

And, in a darker whisper: It will happen again.

He saw Xi’an and Burg just once more.

In the course of the morning, Teva and Dahlia arrived to take the escaped criminals into custody and return them to prison.

Din long ago determined Xi’an’s regard for Qin was superficial. It was, perhaps, the deepest she had ever cared for anyone in all her life but, at the end of the day, her love had shallow limits. She never truly loved anyone more than herself; even the ire that seemed to spill into her words as she declared Qin’s blood on Din’s hands was an empty show—just a thing she had heard people say, just a thing she thought she should say.

But he never appreciated just how pathetic her love for her brother was until he saw the contrast between her and Dahlia.

Dahlia had truly loved her brother. Din already knew that—it was one of the first things he had discerned upon learning of the relation. But he could see it now in the way she looked Davan’s killer in the eye. 

She kept her expression schooled—she had to; she was here in an official capacity—but her eyes betrayed all the emotions Xi’an lacked.

There was anger—rage against the senselessness, the needlessness of her brother’s death. There was grief—raw and painful like a reopened wound. And then there was something that came in like a wave washing over everything, softening the jagged edges but not taking it all away. It was difficult to name, but it was like closing the doors to a dark, horrible place.

Davan would not come back, but Dahlia could find justice and closure in this, in looking her brother’s killer in the eye and taking her back to prison.

Din exchanged no further words with Xi’an but he stood there and watched as Dahlia and Cara escorted her out the cell. 

They locked eyes for one brief moment. 

Din lifted his chin just a notch, as if to ask if she had anything further to say.

Xi’an’s gaze skittered away and her head dipped down. Someone who didn’t know her might read it as shame but not him; he knew it was the closest she could bring herself to thanking him.

Just… promise: not Nal Hutta.

His stomach clenched and something cloyed in his throat.

Before he dropped off to sleep, their exchange played over and over in his mind like some broken holo-record. His threat had produced results, he got the information he needed from her, and he had promised not to see it through, but he couldn’t get past the fact that it had been so easy for him to make it in the first place.

And there was a strange irony underlining the whole ordeal.

All those years Xi’an had tried to get under the helmet… now she had seen his face, seen him without any armour, and she had never been more afraid of him.

As Burg was taken to the craft, Teva caught Din’s eye and nodded pointedly to a corner of the marshal’s office. Din drifted to meet him there, consciously unfolding his arms, setting his hands to rest on his hips.

“I hear you had an eventful evening,” Teva said, raising his brows as he glanced at the side of Din’s face still red and raw and cut up.

“That’s one way to put it,” he replied, sensing this was more than mere small talk, that this was leading somewhere.

Teva took a breath and sighed, tiredly. He looked down at his datapad and Din saw a half-filled report sitting on the screen. “I trust you’ve… heard the news?” 

Din held still for a beat, gauging, reading the captain’s expression before giving one quick, nearly imperceptible nod. 

Teva’s head bobbed in an absent nod, gaze sweeping idly over the office lit by clean morning light. “The New Republic wants to talk to you about it,” he said, and Din appreciated the straightforwardness.

“I am not affiliated with those Mandalorians,” he told him, point blank.

“But you have worked with them before. On Trask?”

“How…?”

Teva shook his head. “Nothing stays a secret for long in the Outer Rim, Mando.”

Din narrowed his eyes on him. After the night he had had, he wasn’t feeling so charitable, but he had come to view Teva as an ally and a good man. Consciously, he tamped down the agitation winding up in his core. 

“It was one job. I needed information; they had it. I worked with them and they told me what I wanted to know. That was it. I have not seen or spoken with them since.”

“I know. I believe you,” Teva stressed. “But you have to understand: the New Republic is nervous. Things are unsteady at the moment. We’re just getting on our feet, the Empire’s still a problem, our resources are stretched thin, and now Mandalorians are attacking New Republic officers.”

“That isn’t what—”

Teva held up a hand to interrupt. “I know. I know. They were after Gideon. I understand. And, off the record, if anyone has the right to pass judgement on him, it’s your people.” The way his voice softened as he said it… for a split second, Din saw a mirror in his eyes and he realized he didn’t know where Teva was from… if it was a place he could return to anymore. “But the fact remains that a group of Mandalorians attacked New Republic officers, unprovoked, and their leader outright killed one of them. Actions like that make people scared.”

“I can’t answer for it,” Din told him, turning his hands open, desperation snaking up his throat. “I wasn’t there; I had no part in it.”

Teva shook his head, his eyes sorry. “I’m trying—really, I am. And I’m not the only one. But it’s difficult to convince the senate that Mandalorians are not a threat when they’re going around killing officers and raiding weapons shipments left, right, and centre.”

Din held his tongue on that one.

He recalled the job he had helped Kryze and her lot pull. They were reacquiring weapons pilfered from Mandalorian troops during the Great Purge, they were taking them back from the Empire—that was just, that was right, but he couldn’t say that was the only type of raid they conducted.

And he didn’t truly know Bo-Katan, but she had unwittingly revealed something to him: Empire, New Republic—there was no difference to her. If someone had something she wanted, if someone stood in her way, then they were her enemy.

Unbidden, the resurfaced memory that had so brutally woken him that morning flashed through his mind.

The blue and white helmet.

The Mandalorian woman.

It couldn’t…

Could it?

Teva said something.

Din blinked and fell back into the moment so fast, so abruptly, it made his heart pound.

“I’m sorry. Can you—can you repeat that?” he requested, his mouth dry.

“Who represents your people?” Teva asked.

Din shook his head while he was still thinking about it. “No one.”

“No one?” Teva repeated.

“We’re… we’re too few and too scattered to have a leader,” Din explained. “The time of the Mand’alors is long over. The Houses are broken. All that remain are a few clans and tribes, and they’re led by chiefs.”

“And what are you?”

“I’m nothing.”

“But you have the Darksaber. I thought that made you the king of the Mandalorians.”

Not this again.

Din worked to keep his expression from pulling in revulsion. “It’s just a thing. It doesn’t make me anything.”

Teva looked at him in disbelief. It faded around the edges, something sad and oddly regretful washing in. He seemed to deflate a little as he looked away. “That’s too bad,” he said as if he were extending condolences. “I’ve seen you lead. Your people would do well with someone like you taking the lead.”

Din said nothing. He didn’t agree but Teva sounded so genuine, so sincere; it didn’t feel right to shoot down his sentiments.  

Teva took a breath and ironed out his posture in a drilled manner. “I won’t mention you in the report,” he assured him and Din knew, coming from him, it was a grand gesture of friendship. “But you best move on. Soon.”

“That’s the plan,” Din told him.

. . . . .

“Hey! Whoa, hey! Don’t worry with that; I’ve got it.”

Sabine, halfway bent over a crate, paused and rolled her eyes to vent some frustration before whipping around to turn an unimpressed glare on Ezra.

“Here. Let me,” he offered as he came hurrying over. In a motion that could best be described as a swoop, he picked up the crate. “Where do you want this?”

“Seriously. What is your problem today?” Sabine asked.

“Problem? There’s no problem. I have no problems.” A beat off, he pulled on a grin, utterly untouched by her annoyance, and nodded to the crate he was still holding. “Where do you want this?”

Eyes fixed on him, she pointed behind her to the Path Finder’s cargo hold. Steps light, as if the crate weighed nothing more than air itself, Ezra walked up the gangplank, deposited the crate amongst its brethren, secured it in a flash, then came strolling back down.

“Alright. What else? That one next?” He pointed to another crate filled with ship parts waiting on the ground. He didn’t wait for direction this time, just went ahead, scooped the crate up and carried it aboard.

Sabine stood there, hands planted on her hips, head shaking in bewilderment.

For the entire morning, Ezra had been acting strange—well, stranger than normal. He didn’t interfere with every task she put her hand to, but anytime she went to lift something heavier than a tissue box, he appeared as if he had teleported and insisted she let him take care of it.

The first time it happened, she thought nothing of it; he was just being helpful. But after the third time in a row, she suspected a pattern was setting in and now it was fraying her nerves.

“I’m not sick,” she told him, flatly, as he continued carrying crates up into the ship. Even though she poured indignant heat into the assertion, a secret part of her felt it was a lie—she had, after all, started this day clinging to the toilet and throwing up, but that was more likely the work of bad krill than the symptom of some illness. She felt fine now—relatively fine.

“I never said you were sick,” Ezra replied, carefully yet breezily.

“Then why are you treating me like an invalid?”

“I’m just helping.”

“There’s about a hundred other things you could be doing to help.”

“But I want to do this.”

Sabine swiped a hand over her face and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t even noon yet but she could so easily go back to bed… She dropped her hand, stuffing it against her side as she crossed her arms. “Can’t you go bug Din or something?”

Her words—terse and sharp, sent out in a snap—rang in her ears.

She wasn’t that mad… at least, she didn’t think she was…

Ezra, bless him, didn’t seem to take offence or feel the sting of her venom. He paused and stood there, looking at her calmly. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her throat suddenly going tight. “That was… I didn’t—”

“It’s alright,” he assured her. She already felt bad about lashing out at him, but the warmth in his tone just made her feel guiltier.

Consciously, she took a breath, held it, and let it go. 

She looked away, sending her gaze over the sunlit shipyard, eye caught by the little golden flecks glinting on shined-up parts of ships and equipment. Gradually, she reigned her emotions in, unsure why they were bucking and rebelling in the first place.

She wanted to cry… she wanted to punch him… she really didn’t mind going back to bed…

Glancing around, her sight snagged on Omega. 

While they packed the Path Finder, she made sure the Marauder was tuned up and ready; as their ship still had no hyperdrive, they had to rely on her to get them to their next destination.

Sabine switched her gaze to Ezra then back to Omega, the kernel of a notion forming in her mind, pieces connecting maybe a little too quickly.

She cocked her head and arched a knowing eyebrow. “Are you trying to show off?” 

Ezra’s face folded into a frown. “What?”

Sabine flicked a pointed glance in Omega’s direction. 

Ezra whirled around, staring and blinking for a moment. He looked back at her, still looking utterly perplexed and oblivious.

Sometimes, it was hard to see him and Din as brothers. Their personalities were widly different, their habits and mannerisms bred in contrasting environments and circumstances. They didn’t look the same, they didn’t sound the same, they certainly didn’t act or speak the same. But, every now and then, a particular expression would break through and, in an instant, they became each other’s mirror image.

Din had that same look, that same untainted, unimpeded look of puzzlement. His came out a lot more; Ezra had built a better guard for his. But it was the same expression.

Perhaps it was something they had learned early in life, in the time they still had their parents, or maybe it went deeper, something encoded in their DNA. Whatever the case, it was wonderfully easy to read.

Sabine took an exaggerated step away from the crates, her hands up as if in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you,” she said. Then, louder: “I’m so glad someone so strong and handsome could help carry these really heavy crates for me. You’re so strong and so kind, Ezra. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

He levelled a mortified look at her. “Seriously?”

She grinned, enjoying this maybe a tad too much. “What you’re meant to say is: ‘thank you, Sabine,’” she told him, her tone overly saccharine as she patted his arm before turning to leave.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered without any sting as he went to lift another crate.

Chapter Text

Part III

The Tatooine Detour

. . . . .

Before the daylight faded, they left Nevarro.

The Marauder had to ferry the half-made Path Finder through hyperspace. They had the ships hooked up, double-decker style: a crude, somewhat comical configuration which was as effective as it was clunky.

But two ships were better than one, and with the journey from Nevarro to Tatooine being nearly three times longer than that from Morak to Nevarro, having enough bunks for everyone aboard was essential.

The cabins had been the easiest to renovate. The Jawas had stripped the bunks and discoloured squares on the floor betrayed the loss of other pieces of furniture, but they were simple things to acquire and fit in. The Path Finder had two separate cabins: one, of course, became Din and Sabine’s; the other Ezra had to himself, and Grogu had a hammock and a corner set up in each. 

To Ezra, the Path Finder felt like a condensed or fledgling version of the Ghost. It had yet to hold much history or memories, but already it felt like home.

He was used to planting and uprooting and making do with any place, any situation for however long he dwelled anywhere. He hadn’t had a “home” for a whole decade; most of the time, he didn’t even have a ship of his own as he kept trading and swapping them for the purpose of ever erasing his trail. And although he couldn’t know how long this arrangement would last, for the present, he had a claim on a space he shared with his family and that was no insignificant thing.

After settling in hyperspace, everyone went their own way. 

Unneeded for the time being, Sloan left to power down in the cargo hold. Sabine left the cockpit and headed for the cabin, relieved that she could finally go lie down. Chopper left to entertain himself at the dejarik table.

Ezra stayed for a while with Din and Grogu, watching the swirling tunnel of hyperspace—good old blue hyperspace, colours Ezra once feared he may never get to see again. 

He felt like talking—he always felt like talking—but something about the air around Din informed Ezra that he was in one of his mute moods. 

He was naturally a quiet person, but his silence had a spectrum. Quite often, even though he wasn’t disposed to talking himself, he didn’t mind someone else chattering away. But this was one of his noisy silences—the kind bursting with a hurricane of thoughts and conundrums and ponderings. More than that, there was a rigidity to him: a spike-studded brittleness that warned he wasn’t ready to speak and neither did he want anyone else to speak.

Ezra understood.

Later, he would part the silence and draw his brother into talking—if not to resolve anything, then at least to assure him he wasn’t facing the storm alone—but, for now, there was no harm in just letting him be.

So, quietly, Ezra left the cockpit. 

Near the galley, a ladder lay bolted to the hull, leading up to the hatch currently connected to the Marauder.

He climbed up and pressed the button beside the hatch as if ringing a doorbell. He waited and, within a matter of seconds, Meg opened it her side.

She was lounging in the pilot’s chair, leaning back with her feet propped up on the passenger seat. She peered down through her lashes and smiled at him easily like they were already old friends.

“Party getting too rough for you down there?” she quipped in greeting.

“Oh, it’s reached riot levels,” he replied as, rather than pull himself up the last bit and then get to his feet, he sprang on the last rung and landed cleanly, effortlessly on his feet.

She jerked a nod to the empty jumpseat diagonally opposite her and he came and sat without hurry or hesitation.

While the Path Finder was only just beginning to feel like a thing that belonged to someone, the Marauder oozed comfort and nostalgia. It was, as Meg described, her “home away from home” and the more Ezra got to know her, the more he saw this place as an extension of her. 

There was somewhere else, somewhere solid and permanent she returned to in between excursions and missions and adventures. Ezra hadn’t failed to notice the purposeful omission of a name and even a general location—he couldn’t even say if it was a planet or a moon or a populated asteroid. A cloud of intentional secrecy hung around the place. But, wherever it be, he knew her family was there. Her brothers, her sisters, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces—some blood, most not. She was not a lonely, lost thing, nor was she a restless creature dying for escape; she explored and roamed, a living embodiment of wanderlust, a piece of the stars happy to fly away yet just as content to stay in place.

Though she appeared content at the moment, there was a thin thread of unease, weaving secretly under the surface. It was tempting to pull on it but a little voice warned him: Careful. Not yet.

He settled into a posture mirroring her lounging lines as he cast his gaze around the space. The blue light of hyperspace clashed with and yet complimented the warm flame of the exposed lights strung about the cockpit and cabin, like a visual meeting between the new and the old.

“You weren’t showing off for me earlier, were you?” Meg said, coming in without preamble or pretense.

Ezra snapped to her. He blinked and heat flashed across his face. “Uh… no. No, I wasn’t,” he told her. He looked away, a hand coming to the back of his neck as some part of him feared the denial—true though it was—wouldn’t be believed. 

When he found the courage to glance up again, he found a keen expression on Meg. There was a tint of amusement, a sliver of something inclined to tease, but there was, predominantly, a bright perceptiveness and a kind of satisfaction, like she had just found the last piece to a puzzle and she was ready now to present it.

“Let me guess,” she began with a mild drawl. Idly, she swung her seat, putting on a contemplative look. “Sabine’s pregnant and you can sense it but she doesn’t know yet so you’re trying to keep her from doing things she shouldn’t do like heavy-lifting.”

Ezra’s jaw went slack.

“That was just a guess?”

Meg shrugged. “I have a horde of nieces and nephews; I can spot morning sickness a mile off. She’s been complaining that everything—even the water—stinks for the last few weeks and you have been hovering for about the same amount of time. Doesn’t take a genius to put it all together.”

Ezra stared at her—a bit amazed, a bit impressed. After a moment, he exhaled, releasing enough breath to physically deflate him, his shoulders sliding down in relief.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to convince Sabine to take things easy?” he asked, rhetorically, glad to have someone to talk to at last. “She’s stubborn at the best of times, but now… And besides trying to make sure she’s alright, I’m constantly bending over backwards to keep Grogu from blabbing.”

“It’s sweet what you’re doing. But… wouldn’t it save everyone the trouble if you just went ahead and told her?”

“Well, I could, but… it’s early. They don’t know. And it’s… it’s something that they should get the chance to find out about on their own, in their own time, and share when they’re ready.”

Meg blinked for a moment, then her eyes narrowed on him like she had weighed the validity of his reasons and found them lacking. 

She shook her head in a slow swing and hummed pensively. “No. That’s not it. You wanna know what I think?”

“You’ve, unfortunately, made me curious,” Ezra said, prompting her to continue with a “go on” wave of his hand.

“I think you just feel awkward about the whole thing.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“I’m not awkward about it! There’s nothing to be awkward about. I’ve dealt with this before; I’ve even delivered babies. Not—not my own, of course, or even remotely related to me. And one of them was, well, it was an egg… I don’t know if that counts. Anyway. The point is: I’m not unduly uncomfortable with anything to do with the subject. Honest.”

Meg didn’t look like she believed the last statement. “So why don’t you tell them? If you, me, and Grogu already know, what’s the point of them not knowing?”

Ezra opened his mouth for a response but no words came. With the distinct feeling that he had taken a false turn and hit a dead end at some speed, he snapped his mouth closed.

“It’s a perfectly normal part of life,” Meg told him with a a slight sing-song tone.

“I know.”

“I mean, it’s not how I started, but it’s how you started, and your brother, and Sabine, and—”

“Okay, okay! Point made, loud and clear. Thank you.”

Meg laughed, lightly, but there was a mellowness to her spirit that said she had had her fun and wouldn’t tease him any further.

“Seriously, just tell her. She’s Mandalorian; she’ll be thrilled.”

“I know she will be,” Ezra agreed, softly. 

Sabine and Din were already parents, and although he hadn’t heard any direct discussion of any plans to expand their immediate family, he knew they would welcome a new addition in whatever way it came: by blood or by bond, by surprise or by design.

But there was, through no direct fault of their own, a lot going on for them at the moment. A part of Ezra hesitated to reveal the situation too soon because it would, inevitably, add to their stress, which he feared would do more harm than good. As he had said, it was early: though he couldn’t sense anything awry, he knew how delicate a new life was.

So he decided to keep silent and just do everything within his power and within reason to keep Sabine safe until either the situation ameliorated or she learned of the matter herself. 

He had explained all of this to Grogu. He especially grasped the fragility of life. He had lived longer than any of them, had experienced more beginnings and endings, and his sensitivity to living things exceeded Ezra’s—in fact, he was the first to sense “the new little life” as he termed it. 

He brought it to Ezra’s attention during one of their lessons. For a paralyzing moment, Ezra wondered how he would explain it all to the child but, to his surprise (and immense relief), Grogu already understood much. He knew the new little life still had to grow, he knew it was a part of Din and a part of Sabine, he knew this child wouldn’t be like him, that they would take more care than he required. His only problem was that he didn’t agree with Ezra’s insistence that they keep it to themselves, but he had, begrudgingly and after much persuasion, relented.

(He could be as stubborn as his adoptive parents some days…)

“Speaking of Mandalorians…” Ezra began, eager for a subject change. He set that morsel out and waited until she caved and half-frowned in puzzlement, unable to predict where he was steering them. “Can I ask about your grudge against Boba Fett?”

Meg huffed and rolled her eyes away like he had told a joke she was tired of hearing. “I don’t have a grudge.”

“Every time his name is spoken, you bristle.”

“I do not… okay, maybe I do ‘bristle.’”

“You do. Trust me. You’ve been seething ever since Din suggested we go to Tatooine. And, frankly, I think it’s consuming you; you want to explain why you hate him so much.”

“This feels manipulative.”

“I would call it recompense, but,” Ezra shrugged, “each to his own.”

Meg let a smile come. It was nice but it faded too quickly. After a drawn-out moment of deliberation, she dragged in a steadying breath and returned her feet to the floor, letting her forearms support her on her knees. Her eyes flicked to the blue tunnel outside as she began unveiling the story, her voice low and level.

“Boba’s not like the other clones. He and I are the only pure genetic copies of the donor, Jango Fett. While Jango took Boba as his son, he viewed the rest of us as little more than objects—cannon fodder, just the result of a science experiment—and Boba grew to see us the same way. He even killed other clones. Jango trained him to be a bounty hunter, to follow in his footsteps, and after Jango died, that’s exactly what Boba became: a bounty hunter.”

“Well, there’s no shame in that,” Ezra chimed in, aiming to be the voice of neutrality.

“He wasn’t like your bounty hunter brother,” Meg countered without heat. “He was more than ruthless; he was cold-blooded and selfish. He set out to be the best, and to be the best, you have to get your hands real dirty. He worked for the Hutts; he became Jabba’s number one hunter. He worked for the Empire; he took direct commissions from Darth Vader himself. He hunted and killed Jedi survivors. And, in the last few years of the war, he went after Rebels—people I knew; people I flew with. Once he got their pucks, they disappeared and no one’s heard from or seen them since.”

Ezra could sense her spirit burning as she spoke, like a fire with a stream of fuel increasing steadily. It was strong and provocative; he could feel his own blood beginning to boil with indignation and disgust.

It simmered down a notch as she released a terse sigh. “It’s probably not right for me to say I hate him; I never met him. But I know what he’s done and it doesn’t make me want to know him. And if he’s keeping company with characters like Fennec Shand… well. That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

Ezra kept silent for a moment, considering. 

He had only met Boba and Fennec once. Fennec, Ezra interacted with little and hadn’t had much of a chance to read too deep below the surface, but Boba seemed kind and honourable. Din liked him, so did Sabine. But Rex had been hesitant to even stand near him. Ezra had noted that, but he didn’t understand it until now.

The Empire was (mostly) gone, the Rebellion had served its purpose and disbanded, and Boba, according to his own assertions, worked for no one now, but Ezra couldn’t say why; he didn’t know what Boba believed or thought or felt on the whole matter or in the grand scheme of things. He had helped Din rescue Grogu—a Jedi survivor—from an Imperial remnant, but was that enough evidence for Meg to trust him?

“People can change,” Ezra reminded her, mindful not to infuse any kind of rebuke in his tone. He knew she already believed that; he could sense as he said it that she had experienced the truth of that sentiment firsthand, that it was a fundamental brick in her foundation.

But the roots of this hurt reached down deep, old and tangled. 

Ezra leaned forward, matching her posture. “Tell you what. I’ll tell Sabine the news as soon as the next window of opportunity swings open, if you’ll give Boba and Fennec a chance. You don’t have to like them, you just have to try see them as they truly are.”

“Again. Manipulation,” Meg pointed out, flatly.

Ezra stuck out his hand. “Let’s call it what it is: a fair deal.”

. . . . .

“So. This is Tatooine.”

Din had to smile at the not-so-subtle twinge of disdain lurking in Sabine’s voice. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw her turn her head to look at him straight on. “Well?” she prompted after a moment.

“Well what?”

“This is the part where you tell me it’s nicer than it looks. That it’s just bursting with charm and whatever. That this is all just a facade and a paradise hides beneath.”

He chuckled, softly. “That sounds more like something Ezra would say.”

“No, Ezra would not say that,” he chimed in to defend himself, indignantly. “I may only have been here once but the experience assured me of one thing and that is: if there is a paradise on Tatooine, it’s buried so deep down it fell out the other side of the planet and got lost in the vacuum of space.”

“Yeah,” Din agreed, unable to suppress a smile at the hyperbole, “with Tatooine, what you see is pretty much what you get.”

Sabine mumbled something in response to that but she was on the wrong side of the one working hearing aid for him to catch it.

He had to pay attention to the controls for a moment. As soon as they cleared the upper atmosphere, they would uncouple the ships and with most of the bells and whistles of auto-pilot and auto-landing yet to be installed, it was going to take plain old skill, finesse, and some very potent optimism to guide the Path Finder down the rest of the way. 

When he could set his gaze out the viewport again, he saw the scene through a newcomer’s eyes.

Over-bright sunlight flooded a barren, reflective landscape of sand, sand, and more sand, rolling on and on, covering and filling everything, ending only where the horizon blurred into the colourless sky.

In the moment before one’s pupils contracted to hinder the drenching light, the world appeared empty and flat, devoid of distance and depth. Then, gradually, landmarks grew in place. Hills. Plateaus. Ravines. Canyons. Valleys. Plains. Dunes. The overwhelming stretches of sand rippled and waved and swirled, patterns painted by the wind, ever changing, ever new, ancient and unpredictable.

The comm blipped and blinked and he flicked it on without thought.

“You weren’t kidding; this place really is a dust-ball,” Meg said, her voice coming through the speakers a little distorted, a little flat but clear and loud enough. 

“At least this time we’re going to the inhabited part, eh, Chopper?” Ezra remarked, a hitch in his voice that Din supposed was a snicker (he really, really had to get that hearing aid fixed…)

The droid responded to that with a gush of noises Din didn’t even bother to decipher. Suffice to say, it was some inside joke between them.

No matter how many times he visited this world, the city always came as a surprise. It snuck up on him, the sun-bleached buildings of the Upper Sprawl appearing first as irregularities in the Dune Sea—at the right time of day, with the suns at their zenith, the dwellings lay invisible on the surface. As it was now, in the afternoon but still far from the relief of evening, slivers of shadows like scattered half-moons marked the existence of buildings, sparse and infrequent until their numbers all of a sudden exploded. Then, suddenly, they disappeared; as one flew closer, however, they found the true city, splayed out in a massive gorge.

“Alright,” Din declared to all. He glanced to Sabine, lifted his eyebrows in question and got a curt nod in response. He took a deep breath before leaning closer to the comm. “Ready when you are, Havoc 5.”

“Copy,” Meg replied. 

There was a pause, then a judder rattled through the ship—not hard but not soft, either—and, just like that, the Path Finder was finally on its own. 

Din and Sabine sprang into action as the ship dropped, held and propelled by nothing for one numb moment. Then the engines—which were already online but idle—burst awake. The thrusters kicked for the first time and it was like the ship had finally, finally come alive after years of hibernation. 

As the force knocked them all back into their seats, he thought he heard Grogu’s squeal of delight pierce through the rattles and clangs and thunks. The child was strapped into the seat behind Sabine and likely enjoying every second of this as if it were a joyride.

(He didn’t blame him.)

(The quick fix of adrenaline was exhilarating.)

Although they quickly gained control, Din couldn’t help but feel rippling pulses of panic. For a sickening moment, he was back in the cockpit of the beaten ‘Crest, battling to land without a crash on Trask. 

But this ship was intact and moving well under its own power. The guidance systems were responding appropriately and the instruments provided readings all within normal parameters. But it all felt so alien under his hands. The steering yoke felt wrong, the response time felt wrong, the rumble of the engines felt wrong—all of it wrong, wrong, wrong—

He killed whatever part of him fuelled that spiral, swiftly and decisively.

It wasn’t wrong.

He just had to adapt.

And he was a Mandalorian.

Adaption was one of the cornerstones of his entire ethos.

“Looking good there, ‘Finder,” Meg cheered through the comms. The Marauder was shadowing them, hanging close like a wingman as they covered this last stretch of the journey under their own steam.

“Feeling good,” Sabine replied. Din glanced to her and nodded his agreement and it was only when he saw her grin that he realized he was grinning, too.

They flew across the rolling dunes, skirting the city’s airspace and coasting, almost floating down to land in the shadow of the palace standing alone and stalwart.

The landing… could have gone smoother. Din mentally catalogued and named the components and stabilizers still missing as the ship thunked down, unsteady and uncertain, like an old, drunk thing.

But they had made it.

“Not bad for our maiden voyage,” Sabine declared as she reached up to flip switches.

“I don’t think that quite counts,” Din said. He didn’t want it to count. There was no take-off, no manoeuvring, no real test, just a more-or-less straight-forward descent and landing. 

“Call it… part one of the maiden voyage,” Ezra suggested. “But it was a success; let’s just hold onto that for now.”

They set the ship to rest and then, falling back into old habits, Din pushed off the floor and swung his seat around. As wrong and incomplete as the ship itself still felt, seeing Grogu strapped into the jumpseat diagonally behind him, high on the joy of flying, eyes bright and eager to see their new destination, made everything feel right and in place.

Grogu clapped his stubby claws, little feet swinging side to side, ears perked. Then, looking right at his father, he curled in two fingers on each hand, leaving one to stick straight up to mimic a thumbs-up and form the sign for “good job!”

Laughing softly, Din reached over, his arm brushing against Sabine’s as he unbuckled the belt holding the kid in place and took him into his hold. She put a hand on his shoulder as he drew back and gave it a soft jostle.

As soon as the ship was settled, they all rose and formed a loose procession as they made to exit the ship. 

In the cargo hold, they met up with Sloan who had opted to endure the arrival powered down—that way, if they crashed, he would not have to witness their collective demise, as he said.

There was a mild wind kicking around outside. It likely wouldn’t be too abrasive but Din had never endured the desert without a helmet, and although he was used to the sun on his skin now, he did not wish to test that ease with two of the galaxy’s harshest luminaries. So he covered his nose and his mouth with his scarf, tying a bandana around Grogu’s head to the same effect.

Sabine and Ezra covered up, too. Ezra went to the nth degree, donning full gloves, goggles, a cap, and pulling the hood of his jacket up, concealing every last sliver of skin.

“Bad experience,” he said when Din, Sabine, Grogu and even Sloan looked at him quizzically, his voice muffled to near inaudibility.

“Well, we shouldn’t be outside for very long anyway,” Din assured him as he pressed the button to open the bay doors.

“Good,” Ezra clipped out. Din wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not but he thought he caught a shudder running through his brother’s shoulders.

Just what “bad experience” he had had here, Din didn’t know. For as much as Ezra alluded to the memory, even quipping about it with Chopper, he never told anyone the particulars. Even Sabine had never heard the full story. She had been away with her family on Krownest when it all went down; all she knew was what Hera had told her later: that Ezra ran off, fell off the radar, and returned days later in a modified Mandalorian Kom’rk, dehydrated, starving, covered in sand and sunburn.

Din understood his brother’s mistrust of the desert world; he, too, had nearly met his end here on several occasions (though, ironically, not due to the elements or environment… depending on whether one considered the Krayt dragon a component of such things or not).

They joined up with Meg in the conjoined shadows of the ships.

Hands on hips, she craned her neck to scan the height of the cylindrical palace, a hand shielding her eyes from the glare. The walls were sheer and devoid of any artistry—no paint survived the suns and the carvings had long lost definition to the sand. So the palace lifted high and stood wide to make up for what spectacle it visually lacked.

She said something. Between a gust of hot wind hitting his ear and the bright red bandana covering her mouth, Din couldn’t catch most of it but he thought he heard the rhythm of a question.

“Well, he calls himself a daimyo,” Sabine said (she was nearby and stationed on the working-hearing-aid side). When Meg looked to her with a raised eyebrow, she shrugged and shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t really know. With how he’s running things, I would call him something more like a king, but he doesn’t seem to want the title.”

“He doesn’t want the trouble claiming the title would invite,” Din amended, solemnly. When he realized he had spoken, when he realized what he had said, he couldn’t look at anyone around him. Taking a deep breath of dry air, he made himself move forward, toward the palace entrance.

The gates were open, partway—not enough that a starship could enter or exit the hangar beyond but enough that humanoids of an average height range could come and go without having to duck.

As they approached, a figure emerged to meet them.

It was difficult—nearly impossible—to describe anything as “typical” on Tatooine, but the willowy frame arrayed in dark green and gold accented robes melting out of the shadows was not standard fare for the desert world. From the regal way he held himself to the smooth orange skin lacking signs of sun abuse, the Twi’lek man looked better suited to the courts of the Core Worlds than this dusty Outer Rim corner.

“Greetings! Greetings! Salutations!” he exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm and emphasis as if delighted he had just found a better, more appropriate word to use. He came to a stop a fair distance away from them, his robes swirling around his feet like stage curtains. He bowed with a courtly flourish, rose, paused and glanced over them then bowed again, a little deeper, ring-adorned hands ever swirling as if to make up for the lack of an accompanying orchestra. “We are most honoured to welcome you to our glorious, long-established abode. I,” and here he retired the flourishes to place a heartfelt hand on his chest, “am Graves Keefen: former majordomo of the former mayor of Mos Eisley. After a storied series of events, I now serve as Lord Fett’s majordomo. Lord Fett and Mistress Shand are in the middle of concluding some business with a few local figures, and, so, sent me in their stead to meet you and usher you in.”

“Wow. Someone who actually talks more than you,” Meg commented, nudging Ezra playfully.

Din offered the Twi’lek a polite nod because he looked to be waiting for something and he wasn’t sure how else to respond to the spiel.

Graves tapped the tips of his fingers together. When no one objected, he motioned to the palace with a sweep of his arm and led the way.

Din had set foot in this palace before, though, thankfully, not often. He had only just reached the caliber of hunter welcomed in these halls before everything went skud. For the short time he operated under the Tatooine chapter of the Guild, he delivered a few bounties here, always cautious to work through the Guild’s channels, ever dancing around direct employ by the Hutts. Oh, the pay and perks would have been better, but he had heard the stories: work for them once and kiss any aspirations of freedom and clean conscience goodbye.

Deplorable was too genteel a word for what this palace used to be. Worse than the Twi’lek Healing Baths and the Molten Inn/Brothel combined. But now, like Nevarro, it had been given a fresh start.

The detritus and unsavoury paraphernalia had been removed, leaving the passages and halls clear and spacious. The undesirable characters and suppressed creatures with tortured eyes were gone; now, though there were still guards and other members of the court milling about, they seemed a gentler sort, present by choice and finally content.

Perhaps the most surprising detail—visually, at least—was the abundance of plants adorning the interior. Pots decorated the walls and hung from the ceiling, leaves bursting and spilling over the sides like strings of jewels, a multitude of flowers catching the sunlight pouring in and colouring it, softening it, reinvigorating it.

“A part of Lord Fett’s tribute to Tatooine,” Graves explained, having noticed the train slowing to stare at the wide array of plant life cloistered here, sheltering from the direct glare of the suns. “Restoration efforts are, as is to be expected, slow-going and—I say this without malice or gripe, merely as a neutral comment on the state of things—tedious. However, grand plans must start somewhere.”

“‘Restoration efforts?’” Ezra repeated. He, along with everyone expect Din, had pulled the fabric down from covering his nose and mouth as soon as they had entered. “You mean Boba’s trying to do this,” he pointed to the plants then jammed his thumb in the direction they had come, “out there?”

Graves grinned, revealing perfectly white teeth. He took some steps back into the centre of the room—a kind of foyer just off from the hangar they had entered through—and spread his arms wide, hands naturally falling into those swirling flourishes he favoured so much. “All the flora you see around you is native to this planet. Once upon a time, this world hosted vast oceans and the relatively small pockets of land were fertile ranges and forests. Now, of course, little of this grows on its own; most of it is preserved only by the hard work of moisture farmers. Lord Fett endeavours to revive the land to its former beauty and bounty.”

Pointedly, Sabine looked to Din. “What were you saying earlier? Something about ‘what you see is what you get?’”

“Well, obviously, I didn’t know this was here,” he told her, distracted by trying to stop Grogu from grabbing a bright purple and orange flower dangling nearby.

“‘What you see is what you get,’” a deep voice echoed, airily, like they were reciting a philosophical poem. All eyes turned, tracing the voice to the man standing in the archway leading to the throne-room. Boba tipped his head as attention settled on him, a mild look of contemplation on his scarred face. “I’ve never trusted that phrase.”

“Lord Fett!” Graves greeted him, and if Din thought his courtly mannerisms were over-the-top already, they reached all new levels of excessive as his master appeared. “I was just in the middle of explaining your ambitious but generous endeavours to restore the lands of Tatooine.”

Boba gave a nod, much in the same way Din had earlier, and held up a hand. “Thank you, Keefen. I will take it from here.”

The Twi’lek bowed grandly. “Yes, Lord Fett.”

Boba’s jaw tightened but he kept a pleasant expression. “I’ve told you: no need to bow.”

“Of course,” Graves said, apologetically, as he bowed again.

Boba shook his head, fondly exasperated. He tossed a nod in the direction of a corridor splitting away from the foyer. “Go,” he instructed without irritation. “Let the cook know our guests have arrived but, please, remind him not to go overboard this time.”

Graves nodded and just managed to halt one last bow before turning and leaving in a swift whirl of robes.

Boba turned to his guests and a genuine smile broke out, warm and welcoming. 

“Su cuy'gar,” he said as he approached and extended his arm to Din first. His grip was firm and solid, grounding, secure. He copied the greeting with each visitor, even Grogu and Sloan. Only when he reached Meg did his smile slip, not with any negative emotion but simply like he realized he didn’t know this person. “And who is this?” he asked.

“Meg Hunter,” she introduced herself, and Din didn’t fail to notice the uncharacteristic stiffness with which she held herself. He knew she hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting. She wasn’t comfortable, her guard was raised to the highest degree he had ever seen it, but she was trying.

“She’s a friend,” Ezra jumped to add. “One who’s been so kind as to chauffeur our crippled hides around.”

“Well, we’re pleased to have you join us,” Boba said, cordially, before stepping back and gesturing for them all to follow him. “How is the ship coming?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to Din.

“So far, it can coast and land,” he answered.

“But that’s pretty much it,” Sabine finished for him.

“We have mechanics employed at the palace,” Boba offered. “Highly skilled; I even trust them enough to work on my own ship.”

“Thank you,” Din said. “But there is a mechanic in Mos Eisley—a friend—I want to let have the job.”

Boba nodded, not in the least put out. “I hope they will be able to fit you in. Boonta Eve is just around the corner.”

“Oh.” Din knew he had forgotten something and, apparently, that was it: he had neglected to check the planetary calendar.

“That’s the business Fennec and I were tied up with,” Boba explained. “This will be our first Boonta Eve serving the people of Tatooine and there’s much work to be done, especially as we desire to root out the sordid festivities. We’re taking council with the locals to work out an event that can be enjoyed by all. Fennec is just concluding the meeting.”

“So we came in time for a party, did we?” Ezra said.

Boba laughed. “That depends on how long you stay.”

Presently, they reached the throne-room. 

Din had never seen it empty before; it took him a moment to recognize it without the singers and dancers and performers, all garishly, scantily clad, all relieved from their senses by spice and spotchka. Now it was clean, the light pouring in soft and bright, the space enlivened by more of the secret plant life.

“Hey, Ezra,” Sabine called his attention and pointed to the ornate throne carved from stone and situated on a movable stage. “It’s your throne.”

Playfully, he batted her arm, and, like they were both kids again, she swiped at him back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

As they crossed through the room, headed for a staircase that spiraled up to the living quarters, Din felt Grogu shift in the carry sling against his chest. He looked down and saw the little one leaning as far as he could forward, ears up and alert, eyes scanning the ground.

Din was only puzzled for a second before he realized what the child must’ve sensed.

He stopped dead, boots scuffing the edge of the metal grating lying before the throne.

He snapped around to Boba. “You kept the rancor?!”

Boba didn’t look at him. Calmly, he reached into a small satchel attached to his belt, pulled out something and dropped it, giving a sharp, beckoning whistle as he did so—a treat of some kind, Din guessed as he watched, dumbfounded.

“This is not the rancor Jabba kept,” Boba said. “This one is still a calf. He was a gift, from the Twins. I hadn’t sat on the throne a whole month before they sent their assassins. Long story short, they failed, and, ultimately, gave up. The rancor served as a peace-offering.”

As if aware he were the subject of conversation, the rancor reached up and slid his claws through the holes of the grating. He bellowed or roared or something—Din felt the vibration of it and took a further step back, arms barring around Grogu who just looked even more entranced.

Ezra (being the suicidal maniac he was) stood right on the grate and knelt down. Gently, he stroked the massive claws hooked over the bulky lattice. 

Equally unafraid, Meg came and bent down beside him.

“I once rode a rancor,” she remarked, shifting to peer through the grate.

“I am having this one trained to be a mount,” Boba said and Din thought he saw something spark alight in his eyes, like they had just veered into one of his favourite subjects. “He has the temperament for it—his handler cared for him well from early on.”

It was a strange, spell-like moment. Din watched as his brother, Meg, and Boba admired the creature in a kind of enamored, companionable silence. 

In the sliver of time before it faded to an end and they continued on their way, Din saw Ezra shift focus from the rancor to Meg and Boba, neither of whom seemed to notice him. Din didn’t have to share his brother’s Force powers to see a portion of Meg’s walls had just dissolved. 

. . . . .

They would’ve been more than happy to continue using the bunks in the cabins aboard their respective ships but, of course, Boba insisted they take rooms in the palace.

Din had a hard time believing the veritable theatre he showed them to was simply a guest room. 

It resided in the tower and, thus, was circular. It was bigger than the throne-room with windows leading straight onto a balcony overlooking the Dune Sea—washing out to eternity one side, bleeding into the outskirts of the Upper Sprawl on the other. The stone walls and clay-red tiled floors breathed an earthy coolness into the air as dry air floated in, sending the delicate curtains billowing and fluttering. There was plenty of space to walk despite the massive bed, a full lounge set, a dining set, armour stands, a crib, and what Din supposed was a child’s playpen.

It was extravagant.

Automatically, he took the breath to decline, but he halted when he looked at Sabine.

They had come all this way and she looked exhausted. He hadn’t noticed earlier… she hadn’t seemed anymore tired than anyone else when they arrived. But now, after just a walk through the palace, she looked like she desperately needed to rest.

So he thanked Boba and let that be it.

“Is everything okay?” Din asked her once it was just the two of them (he let Grogu go with Boba to meet the rancor, trusting his friend wouldn’t let his child get eaten by the beast).

Sabine, halfway to the bed, stopped and whipped around, blinking like a kybuck caught in the headlights. “I’m fine,” she answered at last. And, then, to keep from being a total liar, tacked on: “I’m just tired from the journey.”

“You’re not just tired; you’re pale,” Din pointed out. He nodded to the lounge area and moved there himself, feeling slightly victorious when she rolled her eyes but followed anyway. They sat down on opposite couches, facing each other.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, firmer than before, more defensive. “There’s just been a lot going on lately. It… takes a toll.”

He couldn’t help but let his scepticism pull out a frown. “Have you let Sloan take a look at you? Even if it is just fatigue, I’m sure he could help.”

She drew in a sharp breath and blew it out like she was frustrated. “I have it in hand,” she assured him, her voice mellowing. 

“Alright. But, if it gets worse, you will let Sloan help, won’t you?”

“Yes, Din. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” he said, softly, reaching out to place a hand on her knee. “But I know you. You’re… like me. You’re too used to being strong all the time.”

She turned her head to look away and it cut his heart until he saw her blinking rapidly as if to hold back tears and then his heart was nothing but shreds. 

She got the emotion back under control a moment later and looked back at him.

“It’s probably just a bug or something,” she said. “I’ll shake it after a good night’s sleep. If I don’t, I’ll go to Sloan. How’s that?”

He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

. . . . .

Boba’s request to Graves to remind the cook not to go overboard with the dinner either got lost somewhere in transit or translation, or the banquet spread before them was as modest a meal as the chef-droid could manage.

Like the guest room, it was extravagant to Din. To him, anything cooked in an actual pot was a feast when he had lived maybe too long on ration bars and preserved foodstuffs. 

Boba sighed when he brought them to the dining hall and saw the copious plates and platters adorning the long table in the centre of the room as well as buffet tables set up along the wall.

A droid—a modified astromech—came trundling merrily into the dining hall from the kitchen, loaded with more platers.

“Cookie!” Boba called and the droid paused and spun its head to look at him. “What did I say?”

The droid turned its domed head to shift its optics to the table and the plates and then back to Boba. The lights on its body blinked as it replied.

“And what do you call this?” Boba asked, gesturing to the banquet.

Again, the droid looked around before replying, and Din wondered how it managed to look so sheepish.

“How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t need to prepare so much food,” Boba told the droid, no anger in his voice, just long-suffering instruction. When the droid trundled off, he shook his head. “I can’t get him to understand that he’s no longer cooking for the Hutts,” he said as he gestured for his guests to go on and take seats. 

“This is more food than I’ve ever seen in my life,” Ezra remarked.

“Hopefully, you’ll enjoy it. Whenever Cookie goes to town like this, the whole palace ends up living off the leftovers for a while. So whatever you don’t eat now, don’t worry: you’ll see it again later.”

Knowing there would be no unnecessary waste softened Din’s unease somewhat. Boba showed him to a chair with an attachment for Grogu to sit and join them without having to sit on someone’s lap and he set the child down in it. 

He was just pulling Sabine’s chair out for her when something moved in the corner of his eye. Raising his head, he saw a stranger—a girl, not yet a woman, with dark hair in a braid and freckled skin, wearing common Tatooine attire: loose pants, loose tunic and a long sleeveless coat with a sash tied around her waist. She entered the dining room like one walking about their own home, heading straight for the seat near Boba at the head of the table, eyes unafraid but still wary and sharp as she scanned the small crowd of newcomers.

“I’d like you to meet Kia Drash,” Boba announced, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder, his smile settling in warm and certain. “She’s one of the trustworthy, highly-skilled mechanics I told you about.”

Kia rolled her eyes in a slight flutter but she couldn’t help a small, fond smile of her own.

Boba went on to name each of his guests to the girl.

“Are you deaf?” she asked Din without any of the timidity he would’ve expected. When he blinked, taken aback by her directness, she pointed to his ear.

“Partially,” he answered her.

“Just in the one ear?”

“No, in both.”

“Then why do you only have one hearing aid?”

“Because the other got stomped on.”

Kia tipped her head, staring openly, unabashedly at the single hearing aid.

Din didn’t know why but her interest pressed him to come closer, remove the hearing aid and hold it out to her, to let her inspect it. She came over to him and peered at the device in his palm, and when her hand came up to tilt his to move the aid better into the light, he understood some things about her very quickly.

Her hand was artificial.

He noticed in time not to flinch when the cold, synthetic fingers touched his hand. 

“This is a very simple design,” she commented after a time spent poring over the little device. “I can make a better pair for you.”

Din didn’t know what to say. He glanced to Boba who looked as proud as a father.

“Kia crafts as well as repairs,” he said. “She helps Fennec maintain her cybernetics.”

Din nodded. “Thank you,” he said to Kia. “That’s… very kind of you.”

The girl gave no response, just returned to her seat by Boba. Raised rough, Din surmised: still new to gentleness and gratitude, unsure how to react to it. He was curious about the rest of her story, especially about how she had come under Boba’s care, but he didn’t ask, just in case it was too raw a topic for dinner.

He focussed on plating up for Grogu, keeping a surreptitious eye on Sabine as he did. 

After a rest, she did seem better. Less pale, less on edge. Still, he didn’t fail to notice that she didn’t fill her plate half as much as she usually did, nor did she go for the things he knew she liked. 

Grogu must’ve picked up on his concern. 

He tugged on his sleeve to get his attention and, when he had it, he started signing. He began with: “I want to tell you something,” his expression serious and determined.

Din set down the plate he had been spooning some kind of slimy green vegetable onto and turned to Grogu, giving a nod to let him know he had his attention.

But then a couple of things happened all at once, colliding into one another in a dizzying clash.

Grogu started to sign whatever it was he wanted to tell Din, getting only as far as making the sign for “mother” when Ezra, on the other side of the table, stood abruptly, bumping the table as he did so. Nothing toppled (thankfully) but he disturbed the things on the table, producing a ball of sudden, indistinguishable noise that snatched everyone’s attention. Then, as if he meant to do that, as if he wanted everyone looking his way, he gestured to the doorway with an announcing sweep of his arm.

“Fennec Shand!” he exclaimed as if an honoured guest had just arrived (as if he were the host whose job it was to welcome and announce such guests). “Wonderful to see you!”

Fennec, paused in the doorway, blinked—her only concession to surprise. “Good to see you, too, Bridger,” she returned the greeting, hesitantly. She flicked a glance to Din, a subtle dip of her brow seeming to ask if he was aware his brother had just gone insane.

Din just shrugged.

She shook her head and continued on into the room, her gait relaxed, like a thing carried in on a breeze, but her posture ever perfect. She took the seat at the other head of the table, the mildest twitch and judder in her motions betraying the cybernetics which had replaced her core.

Her greeting to them was silent otherwise: a glance and a nod of acknowledgement. She, like Boba, stuck on Meg: the only unrecognizable face here.

But her expression shifted quickly, setting in with slightly narrowed eyes and a tilt of her head like she had caught something.

“Have we met before?” she asked.

Meg pulled an “I’m not sure” face. “Maybe,” she answered, noncommittally, and if Din weren’t privy to the truth, he would have believed her.

Fennec stared at her for another moment, relenting at that point just before it became too intense. Din couldn’t read her after that, whether she had just decided to give it up or if she had actually recognized the younger woman.

. . . . .

and here’s some art of Ezra, Omega, Boba and Grogu with the rancor

. . . . .

and a concept design for this fic's version of Kia Drash

Chapter Text

This world, this palace and it’s king-but-he-doesn’t-wish-to-be-called-such was not what Omega had expected.

Admittedly, she hadn’t spent much energy or time pondering Boba Fett over the years. Growing up, she always knew of him but she had never felt any particular connection to him; even later, when Tech told her they were the only pure clones, she hadn’t felt like it really meant anything, not when one was claimed as a beloved son and the other was labeled defective and relegated to the submerged laboratories of Kamino.

Some of the other clones called him lucky and she thought so, too: he got to be a child, he got to leave Kamino, he got to travel, he got to see other worlds, he got the chance to choose what he became—things she grew up believing she could only ever dream about.

Then came the war and he disappeared and the clones finally got to leave Kamino but it wasn’t for the sake of discovery and adventure, it was to fight and to die—the former, they were bred, trained, and prepared for; the latter… ready or not, they had no choice but to face it. 

Then that war ended and another started before anyone could catch their breath but in that small window in between, she escaped.

She got to be the lucky one, too.

She got to have the kind of life the clones weren’t made for.

The one clone destined for free life never crossed her mind until came the Rebellion.

He was a whisper, at first. He was a name to know, a rumour to listen out for, a shadow to keep an eye on. While she grew up hidden and in peace, he grew his reputation loud and proud. 

Amongst bounty hunters, he was both feared and respected—feared because he was formidable; respected because he was, according to their standards, honourable.

To the Empire, he was a useful tool: if they wanted someone, they hired him and he always delivered. 

How he could work for the Empire after everything they had done was beyond Omega’s comprehension, but he was free to make his choice, just as she was.

She never thought she’d have to meet him.

She never thought he would be so… kind.

She expected someone harsh, someone corrupted and degenerate.

But he had a smile like Wrecker—warm and full, bursting with comfort and good humour. He talked like Tech—not with the same rhythm or content but with the same descriptive, eloquent words. He cared like Echo—offering everything he had to his friends. He worried like Crosshair—when he noticed Din was in pain, he insisted he make use of his bacta tank (which Din, predictably, refused).

And his eyes…

All the clones had the same eyes: it was the one thing that almost never varied. Always the exact same shape and the exact same colour. Towards the end of the war, when the Kaminoans sped up production and had to make do with an increasingly watered down genetic template, some clones came out with paler eyes, but even then, it was only ever a handful.

Their eyes were all identical, but no two ever truly looked the same. That saying—eyes are the window to the soul—no one exemplified the truth of that phrase more than the clones.

But Boba’s eyes were a lot like Hunter’s. Omega saw it starkest when, at dinner, he boasted about Kia’s mechanical prowess.

She stayed up long into the night, pondering it all.

The desert was quiet and the walls of the palace were thick; she couldn’t hear anything but the gentle rustle of the curtains. Almost as soon as the suns set, the warmth—which had been overwhelming and all-consuming—shut off like a switch had been flipped. The air drifting into the large room became surprisingly frigid.

She slept fewer hours than she lay awake contemplating but she awoke feeling rested and refreshed and renewed.

She beat one of the suns in rising but not the other. The day came in a rush, like it was afraid to be late.

She washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen, passing no one on her way. 

Boba had insisted they all feel free to come and go and treat this palace as their home; still, she felt like an intruder as she went about getting breakfast. She first had to convince Cookie the chef-droid she didn’t need anything (especially not an entire breakfast buffet). Ultimately, she worked out a compromise with him: she didn’t want him to prepare anything new, but he could plate up the leftovers she chose and present them however he wanted.

As she carried her plate to the table, a part of her mind strayed to this droid’s previous employers. She couldn’t imagine a hive of slimy criminals caring all that much for fruit cut into intricate flower designs…

She halted in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.

“Well, don’t let me chase you off,” Fennec, seated at the same end of the table as the night before but with her boot-clad feet propped up on the tabletop, said in greeting.

Skin prickling with the instinct to run, Omega forced herself to step forward and take the nearest seat at the other end of the table. Though cautious and uncomfortable, she didn’t really feel any sense of urgency to get away.

She sat and poked at her food, gaze constantly switching between her plate and her company, always finding the other woman’s eyes on her—settled, not piercing, not digging, but there was a glint, clear even from a distance, that was just too knowing.

“Sleep well?” Omega asked because what else was she supposed to say?

“Like a baby,” Fennec answered, breezily. She sighed, airily. “It’s nice having a bed bigger than a gunship’s cargo hold.”

Omega gave a distracted shrug. The guest bed she had been offered was undeniably comfy, but she’d rather have her cramped bunk surrounded by memories any night.

“Find out anything about Din’s bounty?”

“Not yet. Waiting for my contacts to get back to me. Might take a few days.”

Omega nodded, absently, and, having run out of topics, fell quiet.

Fennec ate without reserve, picking things from three plates laden with redressed leftovers. 

Omega had heard something about some part of her being cybernetic. With every part of her except for her head covered in thick black material, it was hard to tell what part was artificial, but Omega wondered if it was her stomach because no fully-organic being could handle that much food this early in the day.

“So,” Fennec drawled after a while spent in mutual silence. “How are we going to play this? Shall I fabricate ignorance while asking some subtle but poignant questions until you catch on and realize or shall I just come out and say I know who you are?”

Omega dropped her fork.

Fennec grinned like she was enjoying this game. “Because I thought up some really clever questions.”

Omega opened her mouth to say something, lost it, and just stared.

Then her guard snapped back in place and she narrowed her eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked with steel in her voice.

Fennec tipped her head to the side but she didn’t frown or let so much as a crinkle of puzzlement show. “Why is that the first thing you worry about?”

“Because I know you.”

Fennec chuffed. “No. You don’t,” she said, the way one does when humouring a child who’s asked a question they’re not ready to hear the full answer to. “We met twice and you were, what, eight years old?” She shook her head. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re a bounty hunter who took a job to catch a kid,” Omega threw back at her because, well, she already knew who she was, what was the point in denying it now?

“I was a mercenary hired to retrieve a target,” Fennec corrected, coolly. 

“And there’s a difference?”

“‘People don’t have bounties, only acquisitions have bounties.’ That’s part of the code.”

Omega took a moment to just breathe and wrangle the indignation coiling like a python around and through her. Objectifying people, taking away their status as individuals, as beings with worth, was just one of the problems she had with bounty hunters in general.

She scoffed, some belligerent, childish, spiteful part of her wanting to get a cut in. “Well, whatever you want to call it, you failed.”

“I didn’t fail.” Untouched by the jab, Fennec picked up her cup, swirled it around and took a long, hearty drag. “The client called off the hunt. So I went and got my next job. It’s as simple as that.”

“Nice try. The Kaminoans still wanted me.”

“The Kaminoans didn’t hire me.”

Omega frowned.

Fennec came after her before the Empire wanted her. Who else could’ve wanted her before them if not the Kaminoans?

“Well, it’s been almost thirty years; pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired by now,” Fennec remarked, setting her cup down and sliding her feet off the table to craft a posture better suited to serious-talk. She looked at Omega, unafraid to hold her gaze. “One Kaminoan hired me. A woman. Nala Se. When the other Kaminoans hired Bane, she upped the payment. When you escaped with the other clones, Nala Se paid me and called the job complete. She just wanted you out of the Prime Minister’s hands.”

As Fennec spoke, the feeling of being dragged underwater overcame Omega. She heard the words clear at first, then, gradually, everything grew murky and distant.

She never knew.

Nala Se’s regard for her had always been difficult to grasp.

Kaminoans were reserved by nature, and the nature of their work in relation to what Omega was—simply a product of said work—kept a distance between them. But while Nala Se was never quite nurturing or motherly, she was kind and gentle and patient, and Omega knew from young that serving as her medical assistant was no trivial thing, not when Nala Se could have had a better, more educated, more experienced, more-like-her assistant.

And then on Tantiss… all those months Nala Se defied orders to keep Omega safe, to keep whatever was special about her blood a secret from the Empire, and, then, ultimately, sacrificing herself…

It was all so far away—Kamino was just an ocean and Tantiss was just a forest, anything that had ever meant anything on either planet was buried and lost and long forgotten by the galaxy at large. Omega was one of the few left with memories of either place.

“So what are you going to do with what you know?” she asked, presently, regarding Fennec with more neutrality than ever. “About who I am?” she clarified, just so there would be no miscommunication.

Fennec sat back, head tilting a notch back and to the side, dark-lined eyes steady and strangely blunt, like the harmless side of a blade. “I don’t have any plans,” she said, plainly. 

“But… you know what I am. And you work for Boba.”

“He never asked me to find out who you are, and I’m not some lapdog who’s looking to get a treat for doing extra tricks.”

“So you won’t say anything unless it benefits you?” Omega summarized.

“Oh, she is smart,” Fennec said with a smile as if she were proud. The smile fell still like water after a wave. “I have no reason to tell him, so I won’t. It’s as simple as that.”

“Thanks,” Omega said, half genuine, half sarcastic. 

Fennec tipped her head in gracious acknowledgement and reached for a piece of fried bread.

Omega returned attention to her own breakfast but didn’t get to start before curiosity got the better of her.

“How did you figure out it was me? You haven’t seen me since I was a kid.”

Fennec arched a brow. “‘Meg Hunter?’ Really?”

“Give me some credit: no one else ever figured it out.”

“It’s cute. Very… cute. How is he, anyway? Still alive?”

“Still alive,” she said and left it at that, not sure how far to trust this newfound comradery.

“Also: your ship gave you away,” Fennec pointed out. “I’ve only ever seen one Omicron shuttle called the Havoc Marauder.”

“Well, technically, you’ve seen two. This one’s the successor.”

“What happened to the original?”

“My brother blew it up.”

. . . . .

A feeling not quite déjà vu, not quite nostalgia but something between the two flushed through Din’s veins as he set down in Bay 3-5.

He couldn’t believe he had visited this particular hangar just twice before. The high, sun-bleached walls, the murky tower window, the piles of scrap (which hadn’t moved or even changed since his last sojourn here)—all of it felt deeply familiar.

But it was creeping close to a year since he had last set down here and there were many, many things different.

The Path Finder’s cockpit sat lower than the Razor Crest’s had. While its footprint wasn’t significantly bigger, it was squatter and wider. Din knew all that already but he only truly appreciated it now as he came to land in the exact spot he had once occupied with his old ship and the view came to him from a previously unknown angle. 

But he would get used to it.

He was determined to get used to it.

As the ship came to rest, he saw Peli—or, rather, the silhouette of Peli—move in the oily light of the tower, and trepidation billowed underneath the déjà vu-nostalgia fusion.

Another person who only knew Mando was about to meet Din Djarin.

He thought by now he’d be used to this, or at least, be so well-rehearsed in the procedure as to be ready for another rendition.

He was not.

But he got up anyway. 

He made his way to the hatch. He had come alone, to save the others a pointless flight in the event the hangar was unavailable or if Peli refused the job.

Outside, it smelled all the same, only now, without the helmet’s filters, the smell of oil and rust and a myriad of substances used in the maintenance of starships rushed around him like a sticky cloud, carried on the dry desert air.

The trio of scruffy, out-dated pit-droids popped up as the gangplank lowered. Chittering amongst themselves and briefly squabbling, they picked up tools and eagerly approached to begin assessing what the ship would need.

Din shot the sand at their feet the first time he saw them, intentionally scaring them into retreating back into their shells and going inert. Now, he found himself smiling at their behaviour. They were like little kids—carrying tools that looked too big and unwieldy for them, keen to do the job given them, anxious to impress the customer.

Peli herself came sauntering out into the morning sun, eyes screwed up against the light, her halo of wild, frizzy curls making up almost half her size. 

She was talking before she even left the tower, voice rattling around the sheltered walls. Din only heard her when she came out into the open air but he knew he hadn’t missed anything more than her introductory bluster.

“You better just be here for a quick pit-stop, buddy,” she said as she approached the ship, gesturing with a clunky, old datapad, “‘cause I’m booked all the way until they scrub the spotchka outta the streets after Boonta Eve.”

She came to a stop and bent her head back, giving a low whistle as she took in the sight of the ship. Still relying on just one hearing-aid, Din couldn’t distinguish the sound she made from the general noise of cooling engines and wind, but the sliver of her expression visible to him was unmistakable.

“What a piece of junk!” she declared without cushioning. Her eyes skated over the faded hull, sparing just a glance at the man disembarking in favour of assessing the craft. “It looks like you haven’t shown this old girl some love since I was a knee-high. How did she even get you here?” Her pit-droids came and clustered around her feet. She began a circuit around the front of the ship, miraculously never tripping over the clinging droids. “Oh, honey, they should just let you die,” she said to the ship, patting its hull like an animal in pain. “You deserve to rest in peace now, baby.”

“I only just got her,” Din said, feeling the need to defend himself.

Peli turned to him, for the first time really seeing him.

He braced.

This part, he couldn’t stand: someone he knew looking at him as if he were a total stranger.

Somehow, he expected it to be worse this time. 

Because this was Peli with her guard up, Peli with her thick skin, Peli who had been taken advantage of too many times to be the warm, caring person she truly was. This was who he met the first time and now he had to go through it all again until he could convince her he was someone she already knew.

(What if he couldn’t convince her?)

(What if she didn’t believe him?)

“Well, strap me under a bantha and call it shady!” she exclaimed, something sparking bright in her eyes, altering her entire expression and demeanor. She twisted around to address her droids. “Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando!”

“Wait. How—how did you…?” he lost his question to a stammer, completely taken over by surprise and confusion. He stood there with his mouth opening and closing like a fish dumped on land.

Peli lifted her brows and fluttered her eyelids as she tapped her ear, looking generally smug. “I never forget a voice.” She parked her fist on her hip and looked him up and down with a jerk of her head. “No armour this time? What? You forget it at the dry-cleaners?”

He chuffed, suddenly feeling like he had found steady ground to stand on. “No. I… wear it a little less these days.”

“Oh. I thought maybe spaceport security didn’t allow it through this time.” Peli pulled a face like she was dismissing the subject, like everything that had to be said about it had been said and finished and she didn’t need anything more, and Din realized, distractedly, that she may not have known about the armour’s meaning before.

Why would she? 

He was the only Mandalorian she had ever met. Many people had heard the stories but not everyone knew about his Tribe’s ways, about how they regarded the armour as their identity, about how they viewed the removing of one’s helmet before those not of the same clan. There was every chance she had no idea the significance of him baring his face right now.

Like setting down in this familiar hangar in a new ship, the realization opened to him a new perspective.

His face really was just a face.

Din Djarin really was just a man.

And yet he was still the Mandalorian to her, armour or no armour.

It seemed such an elementary concept and yet it blared in his mind like a profound revelation.

“So. Where is he?” Peli asked, abruptly.

“Where’s who?”

“The little green fella. Last you were here, you said you were lookin’ for more of his kind. So? Did you find ‘em?”

Din blinked. “Yes.”

Peli nodded, her lips pressing down. She drew a sharp breath. “Well, I hope they’re good to him. Little man deserves a decent family.”

Din saw the road his misstep had led her down. “No, he’s… he’s still with me,” he amended. “He’s just… not with me right now. I left him with my wife.”

Peli batted his arm with her datapad. It came so suddenly and so hard that he flinched. “You went and got married?!”

“Some months ago, yes,” he confirmed, rubbing his arm (because of course she would whack the already bruised arm). 

“Is that the reason for the trade-in?” she asked, gesturing to the Path Finder.

Din took a step back and craned his neck as if to check where she was pointing to. “Not quite. The ‘Crest, uh… met its end.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call this a step up.” Peli strode forward and banged on the hull with the side of her fist, listening intently to the resulting clangs, gleaning more from the sounds than he could. She shook her head in disbelief. “How did you fly through hyperspace in this thing?” She clipped out a sharp, disapproving scoff. “This is gonna take at least a week to get in shape.”

“I thought you said you were booked up.”

Peli flapped a dismissive hand. “Eh. Forget them. You always pay what you owe. And I like you. So let’s get started.”

“Thank you.”

Another wave of her hand. “Save your mush, Mando.”

“Din.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“My name. It’s Din.”

“Well, okay, then. Din.” She turned and began walking away but he thought he heard her mutter: “At least it’s not something stupid.”

. . . . .

The first day, they didn’t do any real work on the ship as most of the time was spent just assessing what had to be done, what parts Din already had and what more was needed.

The next day, bright and early, they began.

This time, Din brought his whole crew: Sabine, Ezra, Meg, Chopper, and Grogu. 

“Oh, this should go a whole lot quicker,” Peli remarked as she met the speeder pulling up outside her hangar. “You are all here to work, right? Not just to gawk?”

“No gawkers present in this band, ma’am,” Ezra declared as he hopped out. “Just two mechanical geniuses, a dabbler in many trades, a warrior turned handyman, a droid, and a baby.” He put a hand up by his mouth as if to hide his next words from his company but he didn’t change his volume in the slightest as he added: “The baby, I’ll warn you, is a bit of a slacker.”

Peli glanced to Din. “And who’s this?” she asked, jabbing a thumb in Ezra’s direction.

“My brother. Peli, Ezra; Ezra, Peli.”

He really didn’t have to, but Ezra swept his arm out, tucked the other against his body and bowed dramatically, like an actor concluding a fantastic scene.

Peli looked between the brothers, thin eyebrows hiking up her forehead. “There’s no way you two share blood.”

“Blood and bond,” Ezra said, clapping a hand on Din’s shoulder as he walked past. 

“Yeah, we’re still trying to figure it out, too,” Sabine quipped. She came up to Peli and held out her hand. “Din’s told me so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Peli said as she accepted the handshake.

“He says you’re the best mechanic he’s ever met this side of the Outer Rim.”

Peli rolled her eyes. “Flatterer,” she grumbled, but Din caught the twitch of a smile out the corner of his eye. “And you must be Mrs Mando?”

“Sabine.”

“And you as good with starships as your man says, Sabine?”

“I try.”

Din listened to the exchange as he went around the speeder to take Grogu from Meg. The little one had been excited all morning, eager to reunite with a person he knew and liked. Now, he was practically vibrating as Din held him.

Peli was just as jubilant to see him.

“C’mere, you little womp-rat!” she exclaimed, holding open both hands and making a gesture for Din to hurry up and pass him over already.

Grogu chirped, cheerily, his whole face bright as he reached out to her. 

(Din joked at times that the easiest way to cement one’s self in Grogu’s heart was to feed him, and he knew Peli had done so, but he could never say the child was not an excellent judge of character. For as opportunistic and ravenous as he was, he never took food from any untrustworthy persons.)

“Look at you, all gussied up and dressed in your Benduday Best!” Peli gushed as she took the little one into her arms and readjusted the sleeves of his blue tunic, smoothing out the creases. “And, what’s this? You grow hair now?” She shook her head like she couldn’t believe it as she ruffled then rearranged the soft, darker hair on his head.

The child basked in the attention, enjoying being fussed over. He waved his hand, the way he did when he wanted to say something, then began signing. He launched straight into a tale of the adventures he and his father had had since the last time they had met her, listing the major things that had happened.

Like his guardian becoming his father. Meeting another Mandalorian who later became a part of their family. Finding Ezra. Finding home.

Peli watched the barrage of signs, never interrupting. When the little one seemed to wrap up his heavily condensed account, Din waited for her to glance at him for a translation but she just let out a low whistle.

“Oh, is that all?” she remarked, signing it with one hand, the other keeping the child propped on her hip.

Din remembered the way she so effortlessly translated for Dr Thorax and the Frog Lady, both of whom spoke very unique, very unusual languages, even for a place like Tatooine.

Not only had Peli seen all shapes and sizes, but she had spoken to them all as well.

She jerked her head towards the hangar. “Well, womp-rat. You gonna help us fix your old man’s junker ship?” she asked the little one.

“Grogu,” Din supplied.

Peli looked up at him. “Something stuck in your throat?”

“No. That’s his name. Grogu.”

Peli gave the child an exaggerated look of sympathy. “Oh, how could you, pops? Sweet little face like this and you saddle him with a name like that?”

Grogu patted her arm and signed. “I had my name before,” he told her.

“Well, okay then,” Peli said and Din admired her quick save. “Alright if I keep calling you womp-rat?”

Grogu chirped and nodded.

. . . . .

With so many hands at work and Peli with all her decades of experience at the helm, the Path Finder shaped up quickly.

For most of the day, they worked on the ship, taking breaks and shelter during the hottest periods. Time flew, either way.

Most evenings were spent at the palace, in quiet surrounds which gradually gained familiarity, but every other evening, Boba requested their company as he went through the town. The city was well enough now to sustain the decent kind of nightlife—local markets and street vendors and music for all to dance to. A few times, he took them to a place called Garsa’s Sanctuary—something of a restaurant/cantina/lounge.

And then the nights. 

While the others slept, Din trained.

Boba had converted one of the palace rooms into a dojo. Quiet, spacious, isolated—it was the perfect place to lose oneself to the forms and motions of training.

He worked with everything—the spear, the saber, his bare hands. He revisited and revised the forms taught to him in youth. He went until he was worn out and then he got back up and pushed further, carving his endurance deeper, building his stamina by sheer resolve.

He wouldn’t be surprised again.

He wouldn’t be thrown into the deep end again.

No matter who or what came after him and his family next, he would be ready for it.

He had to be.

. . . . .

“You still haven’t told her?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have been trying. But every window so far has been invaded by eavesdroppers before I could take advantage of it.”

“I should fire you.”

“You never hired me. It was a deal, not a business arrangement.”

“Well, I upheld my end.”

“Have you? Boba still doesn’t know who you are.”

“Hey! That wasn’t part of the deal! The deal was just that I see him and Fennec for who they are.”

“And? Do you?”

“Starting to… I mean, they aren’t what I thought they were.”

“Well, at least one of us is making progress.”

“Tell her.”

“I told you: I’ve been trying!”

. . . . .

Sabine didn’t know what was wrong with her.

Most days, there wasn’t anything wrong at all. 

Maybe she was a little more tired than usual but it was hard to worry about it when there were too many things to blame it on: adjusting to a new planet, adapting to the hottest, driest climate she had ever experienced, synchronizing with a new time cycle, working all day on the ship, run-of-the-mill stress… surely she wasn’t the only one exhausted by all that.

The out-of-the-blue nausea was harder to explain but it faded for some time—long enough that she forgot about it and then it surprised her when it returned without warning. It was strange: sometimes so intense, she couldn’t fight it down; sometimes just simmering low, present but idle, not strong enough to cause anything but just there enough to distract and irritate and ruin her mood and appetite.

Ezra must’ve sensed her out-of-sorts state. He continued his anxious hovering and taking over every slightly strenuous task. She fought it less each day—partly because it seemed pointless, partly because she actually appreciated the assistance.

He wasn’t around now.

Peli had sent him and Omega to meet some supplier in the city to pick up some parts she had ordered. 

Din asked if they could take Grogu with them. Generally, while they worked, they kept the little one occupied with small jobs or activities he could entertain himself with out of the sun, safe in Peli’s tower, and he was happy enough with that, but a change of pace and scenery wouldn’t go amiss. There were schools in Mos Eisley but not yet anything up to the standard set on Nevarro and nothing geographically near enough to the hangar for Din’s liking.

(After the Xi’an incident, he didn’t want the kid to be too far out of sight and Sabine couldn’t agree more.)

So it was just her, Din, Chopper, Peli and her small swarm of droids working on the ship this morning. 

Clouds covered the sky in shifting shades of washed-out grey. They may as well have been for decoration: though they softened the suns’ bite, they didn’t do all that much to cool the world below and any rain they shared was Devil’s Rain—drops that fell but evaporated before touching the ground.

Still, they brought some relief, and that was a blessing; Sabine didn’t think she could handle the glare on top of everything else going on right now…

Peli was working on the other side of the hangar, welding something, Sabine couldn’t recall what exactly. 

Chopper was inside the ship, in the cockpit, calibrating the Navi-computer. 

The pit-droids were all over the show, easily locatable via their constant chittering and bickering and general sounds of mild calamity.

R5, Peli’s ridiculously skittish astromech, was in the tower doing whatever (though, really, he was just staying clear of Chopper—the two had come to blows a few times already. Din thought they had both blown their logic circuits, Sabine knew Chopper was just asserting dominance).

She and Din were in a sheltered area of the hangar, working on a deconstructed portion of the engine. They had it strung up and suspended: she was on her feet while he was laid out on a rolling board underneath the contraption, just his legs visible to her. 

Bluish-purple light flashed and flickered around as Beady-Eye, Peli’s BD droid, illuminated the part Din was working on. 

(The little bipedal droid had the sweetest disposition of all her droids. R5 was a nervous wreck and the pit-droids were generally uncoordinated and locked in a constant competition with one another, but Beady was just happy to be by someone. He had taken a special liking to Din, following him around, eager to assist.)

(And Din liked him, too.)

(Even when he was a little less than helpful…)

“No. Over here. To the left—no, no, my left, not yours. Okay. Fine. To your right—no, not down. It was right where it was, I just needed it a bit to the side—hey! Not in my eyes!”

Din clipped out a short sigh but there was no real heat in it.

The light shifted, slipping through cracks of the engine and streaming out in silky beams that caught the dust in the air.

“Okay. There. Yes. Stay. Thank you.”

Sabine couldn’t help but smile at the antics.

“So? What do you think?” Din asked, a subtle shift in the tone of his voice signalling that he was addressing her now.

“About what?”

“About taking a drive out to the Jundland Wastes. Go see the stars. Maybe not tonight—no use going if it’s overcast—but maybe tomorrow night?”

Sabine hummed, half-focussed on the fuel-injector she was hooking up. “Maybe,” she mumbled, eventually, taking a moment to swipe a hand across her forehead, wipe away the beading sweat.

Din slid out from under the engine, just enough to look at her, eyebrows scrunched.

“That sounds nice,” she said, picking her volume back up.

He gave a nod and rolled back out of view.

(He was still relying on just the one hearing aid.)

(Kia said she was almost done, she just had a few extra features to work out. Having been barred from even glimpsing the work-in-progress, Sabine couldn’t know how it was coming, but Boba’s assurances and the girl’s own well-crafted and finely-tuned arm promised the final product would be well worth the extended wait.)

“The Tuskens say there were two oceans made for Tatooine: the water and the stars,” Din said, his voice taking on that special cadence reserved for folklore. “When the waters drained away, the stars doubled to make up for what was lost. It’s… more a case of the upper atmosphere thinning, but—”

“But the story’s much nicer,” Sabine finished for him, smoothly.

She loved his stories.

It was, perhaps, one of the first things that made her fall in love with him, his love of tales and poems and histories. She remembered her surprise when she learned he knew well the ancient Mandalorian poets such as Trojan, that he had curated and maintained a small collection of inked fables from around the galaxy, the first of the anthology being a book passed on by his buir. (That was all lost with his old ship, but they had started a new one together.)

She had, like anyone who ever met and dealt with him, thought him cold and serious at first impression, and he could be those things, but they had never properly taken root in his core. Deep under the layers accumulated to survive the harms of the galaxy, he was just a boy who wanted to hear and read stories, and more than just an avid listener, he had the storyteller’s gift.

It peeked out in moments like this: quiet, intimate moments when his audience was small and trustworthy. He told her about the worlds he had visited, the people he met there, the tales they shared with him because they saw a soul that wasn’t interested in conquering or acquiring, just in learning and understanding.

A beat off, she realized he was continuing the story.

She blinked, hearing but not hearing him for a strange, wavering moment. It faded quickly—she forced it to fade, forced herself to get back in the present and get back to focussing.

In one hand was a tool, in the other a part that looked like it connected to something… she couldn’t think of what it connected to…

Beady was readjusting the light and Din was talking.

“… it got infected and I didn’t realize—”

“Wait,” she said, her voice sounding odd, like it was coming, not from her, but from someone beside her. “What got infected?”

“The slug wound.”

“What?”

Din rolled out from under the engine, frowning up at her—she couldn’t quite see his face but she could tell he was frowning. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head as if it would get rid of the stuffy feeling clogging everything. 

It didn’t work. 

It just made her dizzy.

She dropped the tool and maybe the part, too. 

A whining buzz picked up in her ears and she shut her eyes, suddenly feeling like her whole world was reduced to a narrow tunnel. Was she breathing? She couldn’t tell. Her hands clamped down on the edge of the engine as her knees went soft and her balance wobbled around. She felt too hot and yet too cold, all at once.

In the haze, hands grabbed her. Big, hot hands. She could feel the heat like brands on her arms as she was moved, her feet dragging and catching and then, suddenly, not on the ground at all. Had she tripped? Why hadn’t she hit the ground yet?

She was against something warm, too warm. She was just trying to breathe and… and…

“I’m gonna be sick,” she said, maybe mumbling, maybe gasping, maybe not even forming the words past her throat, she wasn’t sure, she just felt like she should warn about it.

“Okay. Hold on,” Din urged her.

She registered that she was being carried just a second before he was setting her down on the ratty couch in the back corner of the workshop. Something about being semi-horizontal had eased the cotton-stuffed sensation in her head, enough that she was present enough to fight the wave of nausea.

There was scuttling and clanging and a sudden loud cascade of clattering. With her eyes screwed up tight and all her energy focussed on not throwing up on Peli’s floor, she couldn’t see what Din was doing but, from what she could hear, she guessed it was making a mess in his frenzied search for a receptacle of some kind.

She heard the rustle of clothing and the quick pounding of steps and the air around her shifted and, karabast, the stench of everything…

“Here,” Din said as he held something out to her, she didn’t care what, she just wrapped her arms around it.

And there was no stopping the rest.

She threw up until she had gotten rid of everything but her body didn’t feel like that was enough and so followed up with spasming dry heaves. 

She did feel minutely better, soothed by the cold of the bucket—she figured out it was a bucket. 

She felt less like she was about to blink out of consciousness, but now she was shaky and drained and just all over… yuck.

Din was beside her. 

Somewhere in the middle of the whole fiasco, she registered him sitting down on the threadbare couch next to her, his hand ghosting over her back, wanting to help, wanting to impart comfort but unsure how to go about it.

She spent a long time with her head in that bucket, then a good while more, just in case. 

When she could manage to glance up, she saw Beady at her feet, optic fixed anxiously on her, and, turning, she saw Din.

The look in his eyes was a stab in the gut.

“You okay?” he asked, brown eyes blown wide, looking helpless and terrified and worried and desperate—too many things, all at once.

She considered the question… but before the typical shootdown response sprang, she took stock and cancelled it, letting go of a sigh that rattled as she shivered. “Guess not,” she admitted, feeling miserable.

Hesitantly, his hand landed on her shoulder. The shirt she wore didn’t have sleeves and his hand was too hot, but she made herself put up with it, knowing he needed it more than she did. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to do. 

Before he decided on something, Peli came in.

“Hey. No hanky-panky; you’re on the clock, you two,” she said, crass voice splitting the quiet like a rusted hatchet. 

She came in swinging like a bag of hammers and bolts, speaking harsh as if to chastise them, but even exhausted and sick and acquainted with her less than a week, Sabine saw right through it. There was a sharp perceptiveness in the older woman’s small eyes and though her expression seemed tough and bitter, there was a warmth embedded underneath.

Just like Din, life had been hard and she had had to become hard to deal with it, but she kept some soft, hidden but alive.

“Something’s wrong,” Din told her before she could ask. “She’s not well. She hasn’t been well for a while but it—it wasn’t this bad before.”

Peli stood with her hands clamped on her hips, mouth pressed in a tight line as she switched her gaze between the two of them, her brow creeping down as she puzzled something out. Suddenly, her eyebrows shot up and her head jerked in a single nod—to what, they weren’t informed.

“Sun fever,” she diagnosed, decisively. “Seen it a million times.” She looked right at Din and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Fastest cure is meiloorun juice. Run down to the market. Find the shop run by old Riki. They don’t water their juice down, unlike every other two-bit merchant in this town.”

Sun fever—or heat exhaustion, Sabine guessed. 

That made sense.

Sort of…

Din made a move to stand, then aborted, brow set in a tight, consternated knot as he looked between her and the door. “I don’t know. I think I should stay. We can send Chopper.”

Peli shook her head. “Nope. Old Riki doesn’t trade with droids. You best go. I’ll take care of her, don’t you worry,” she tacked on, unfettered gentleness blooming in her voice.

Din hesitated a moment then stood and made to leave.

“Hey!” Peli shouted and he turned on his heel. “What are you getting?”

“Old Riki,” he answered then frowned and shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Juice. Juice from Old Riki.”

“Good. Now, off with ya.”

He left, glancing back over his shoulder as if afraid Sabine would crumble to dust the second he stopped seeing her. 

Peli muttered to herself as she grabbed a bottle of water from a small cooler (which Sabine had assumed was a tool cabinet but apparently not). “Here. Rinse and spit, sweetie,” she instructed.

She did so and then Peli wordlessly whisked the bucket away, replacing it with another without missing a beat.

“Thank you,” Sabine said, feeling like a little kid.

Peli flapped a hand as if to dismiss the gratitude but Sabine had come to understand that was Tatooine for “you’re welcome.”

She disappeared for a moment, leaving Sabine with just Beady for company. The little droid hopped up onto the couch, tilting his rectangular head up and down, rocking on his feet, trying to figure out what to do. Uncertainly, he inched closer and then came to sit beside her, folding his legs and setting down like a cat.

Peli returned shortly with a dark brown glass. “Here. This’ll help,” she said as she passed it to her.

The dark glass obscured the liquid’s identity. Sabine hesitated to check, afraid it would be some horrific concoction intended to cure nausea but with a texture and smell liable to worsen the condition first. When she had gathered enough courage to look, she found the glass was filled with magenta-coloured juice. And it smelled blessedly sweet and fruity.

She frowned. “But I thought you just sent Din to get meiloorun juice.”

“I did,” Peli confirmed.

“But… this is meiloorun juice.”

“It is. But that boy needed something to keep him busy or else he was gonna faint from all the fretting and fussing, and then I’d have two of ya’s to deal with and I’d prefer one at a time.”

Sabine smiled a little at that and gingerly took a sip. When her stomach didn’t revolt, she took another, revelling in the coolness and the smoothness.

Peli stayed silent while she drank. 

She stood for a while then, like she was relenting or giving into something, she came and sat beside Sabine, on the opposite side to Beady-Eye. She didn’t look at Sabine, rather just set her gaze out the doors open wide to the hangar, an indiscernible distance growing in her eyes, like she was travelling somewhere without physically leaving this threadbare, rusted, oil-stained spot.

“I got a strong constitution,” she said, eventually, voice softer under the hard shell she never quite shed. “Ain’t ‘cause of anything special I did; I just got lucky and got born that way. So when I do get sick, I remember it, and I’ve been sick like this exactly four times in fifty-odd years.

“First was the time I caught this nasty bug. I was, oh, about thirteen. I threw up so much and turned so red I thought my body had turned itself inside out—sure felt like it did. Then came the Boonta Eve I turned twenty-two. Got so plastered I couldn’t handle the light of a lamp on the next room over. The third time… actually, I vowed never to talk about the third time until certain other parties involved had either left the system or died and two of ‘em are still knocking around, so I’ll skip that one. And the fourth time… the fourth time was when I was pregnant.”

Sabine tilted her head, seeing this woman with her big attitude, big hair, and big mouth making up for her small stature in a brand new light. “You have a child?”

“Had,” Peli corrected. “Had a… yeah.” She drew a breath and pulled her shoulders down, nodding and straightening her spine like a soldier before releasing the breath and settling back into a seemingly relaxed hunch. Again, that terse flap of her hand. “Long time ago.”

Sabine returned her gaze to the glass. 

Sympathy swirled in her chest, too big to fit. Losing anyone hurt—she knew; she had lost parents and a brother and countless friends and other relatives—but that particular loss, the loss of a child, was a kind of grief she didn’t have to experience to know was the worst of all.

The story was vague, perhaps on purpose. She didn’t know if Peli lost her child to an accident or disease, whether they had reached adulthood or adolescence or hadn’t even been more than an infant when she lost them—it was possible they had never even been born…

Sabine almost dropped the glass.

“Wait. Wait, I’m not—” she couldn’t say it. The word lodged in her throat, heart pounding hard and stomach twisting again, pressing her to make sure the bucket was in reach.

Peli took it in stride. She cocked her head and arched an eyebrow. “Got a reason you can’t be?”

“I… I don’t know.”

She thought she did.

She had been shot, electrocuted, beaten and frozen to an inch of her life. 

After coming out of the bacta tank after almost dying on her first trip out to search for Ezra, Chi had sat down with her and explained there could be consequences—things the bacta just couldn’t fix. She remembered, at the time, being more concerned with the talk about the potential arthritis in the joints she had wrecked than the possibility she may never be able to carry a child.

Because she wasn’t going to have the kind of life where it could happen anyway.

She had been raised to expect an arranged marriage with whomever her mother decided would bring their clan the best advantage politically and socially, but when she ran away from the academy, that prospect disintegrated.

The only romantic relationship she had had was with Wedge and it was a mess. She got into it not knowing he would take it seriously. It was brief and it hardly got off the ground before she ruined it and she couldn’t really find it in herself to regret it and all the other things she lost along with it.

Even in marrying Din, she didn’t really think of it. Because they already had a child to raise and the galaxy was forever making lost things; she suspected it was just a matter of time before they stumbled upon another child in need of a family, and they would be happy to give what they had been given.

She always wanted a family.

Having a partner and a child was just one kind of family, but it was not the only kind. For years, she was content with the patchwork family she was a part of—Chopper, Hera, Jacen, Zeb, Kallus, Rex, Ahsoka, Ryder, Marida. She was glad to have Ezra and Kanan back and to count little Depa in, too. And she considered Din and Grogu family even before they became one clan and with them came even more people she counted as family.

She never felt like anything was missing.

But, if she were completely, brutally, unreservedly honest, she might admit she let herself think about it sometimes, and maybe she even let herself want it, just a little bit.

She just never let herself believe it would actually happen…

“Either way,” Peli said, shifting to pull something out of her pocket. She held it out to Sabine: a plain old medscanner. “Easy enough to find out.”

Holding the bucket with her knees, Sabine took the handheld device, the worn casing warm in her hand. 

Peli clapped her hands on her knees and stood like her work was done.

“Wait!” Sabine called after the older woman. When she turned around and lifted her brows, Sabine lost her voice a moment, biting down on her lip like a child afraid to ask for something. “Could you… could you stay? Please?”

Peli’s eyes flickered, maybe glittered, just a little, before she nodded, the tight line of her mouth wavering just slightly. “Sure thing, sweetie,” she said, softly, as she returned, sitting down beside Sabine again, putting her hand on her back and giving her a gentle, encouraging pat. “I’ll stay with ya.”

Chapter Text

Din made his way back to the hangar, his pace just a notch away from running, arms clutching three large bottles of meiloorun juice.

(Maybe it was too much.)

(But better safe than sorry, right?)

He didn’t spare much thought to what he must’ve looked like to the other pedestrians. Worry had whittled his mind down to a single point: help Sabine. Nothing else registered as even a blip on his radar.

His heart was trapped in a vice in his chest, beating like an animal cruelly chained and driven mad.

He hadn’t expected her to take such a turn.

He should have paid more attention, should have convinced her to let Sloan check her over; he shouldn’t have just let the problem fester. He saw she was tired, he saw she was out of sorts. But Sabine wasn’t reckless or stupid; he trusted if something was wrong that she would take care of it.

Maybe it was as innocuous as heat exhaustion, like Peli said. Sabine never did like hot climates as much as he did. She had grown up on a winter world and even after all her years on Lothal, he knew she still preferred the cold, even if she vocally insisted otherwise. 

So maybe all she needed was a moment to cool down and replenish and then she’d be okay.

But what if it wasn’t as simple as that?

What if she really was sick?

The kind of sick that needed medicine and hospitals and treatments. He’d make sure she got all that… but what if it wasn’t enough? What if it wasn’t something medicine could solve? What if she didn’t get better? What if…?

He knew he was spiralling.

He knew but he couldn’t stop his runaway thoughts from dragging him along.

All he could do was make sure he got the juice and got back to the hangar without dropping it.

Calm. He had to be calm. For her, if nothing else…

He made it to the hangar and nearly tripped over the pit-droids clustered by the entrance, waiting for him. Stamping down the urge to kick them away, he picked his steps carefully around the anxiously chittering contraptions and carried on.

“I got it!” he called as he navigated the tools and parts strewn across the sandy floor, making a beeline for the workshop. “I got the juice!”

Even though the problem was yet to be resolved, relief washed through him when he saw Sabine, still on the couch where he had left her, a clean bucket and an empty glass at her feet. Maybe it was just an illusion spurred by his desperate wish to see her well, but she looked a little bit better—less pale, more present.

Peli sat beside her, a supportive hand on her back. He was grateful she had been here. Though her expression wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, there was something in her eyes when she looked at Din as he came barging in.

“Hope you left some for others,” she remarked, raising her hairless eyebrows at the bottles he held like a life raft. She pointed to the bench set against the far wall. 

He went and set the bottles down, almost knocking them over as he grabbed one and began struggling with the cap, his fingers numb and uncooperative.

Before he knew it, Peli was up and at his side, gesturing tersely for him to pass her the bottle. He did so and, to his shock, she bashed the bottle on the corner of the bench. He flinched but there was no shatter of glass and splashing gush of liquid. With an efficient twist, she popped the cap clean off.

“You two take a break,” she said and didn’t tack on anything else, no sarcastic quips, no bluster. She glanced one last time at Sabine, giving a short nod as if tying off something they had been discussing before he returned.

“Thank you,” Din said and got a small chop of a wave in response as she left.

He went over to Sabine then and passed her the bottle of deep pink juice like it was some miracle elixir he had ventured long and hard to procure. He took the seat beside her, sitting down carefully, afraid to jostle her and make her feel worse.

She took a small sip and he waited for her to continue, holding his breath, some part of him aware he was stocking too much faith in simple fruit juice.

“Maybe you should try a little more,” he urged.

“In a minute,” she said, noncommittally.

She didn’t look like she was going to be sick again, but the last episode had escalated quickly and without warning, leaving him on edge. Her skin had it’s regular tan hue once again but her eyes weighed heavy and every line of her—from her expression to her posture—betrayed a deep fatigue. Randomly, a faint tremor ran through her shoulders and her hands. She looked more tired than nauseous now.

When that minute lapsed and she didn’t take that next sip, he took the bottle from her with no resistance and set it down on the ground, well within reach. Softly as he could without being too indistinct, he put an arm around her shoulders and took her with him as he leaned back into the couch. She came like a thing about to collapse, laying her head on his chest like it was the very pillow she had been searching so long for. She rested against him, bringing her legs up onto the couch and folding them, letting herself go boneless with a sigh.

They stayed like that for a while. 

He held her, letting her rest while he got his racing mind and heart to calm down and settle. It was difficult: any progress he made was promptly erased when the image of her fainting flashed behind his eyes, raw and recent.

He had been enjoying working with her. They didn’t get so much time alone, just the two of them. With Ezra, Meg, and Grogu off in the city to pick up some parts, and the droids and Peli working on the other side of the hangar, they weren’t really alone, but it was good enough. 

He had been in the middle of telling her about the time he spent with the Tuskens some years back, about how they took care of him when he was injured after that confrontation with Vane (or, rather, when the injury he had sustained had gotten worse because he hadn’t taken care of it as well as he should have, pushing on with his next job too soon and nearly killing himself for it).

(Yes, he saw the irony.)

(Like recognizes like, after all.)

She had been following what he was saying just before that, responding and finishing a sentence or two, but all of a sudden, she was distracted and he realized something was off. Then it all just… happened. She went white and dropped what she was working with and he clambered to his feet, fast as he could, grabbing her just as she collapsed, picking her up… she was so limp…

But right now, she was present and holding herself and while he could feel the weight and warmth of her, he could pretend she was alright.

But make believe wouldn’t change reality…

“We should get you to Sloan,” he said, rubbing her arm softly with his thumb, the gesture soothing him as much as he meant it to comfort her. “Let him—let him scan you. Check what’s going on.”

“I took a scan already,” she told him.

His heart thumped and he expelled a breath that threatened to cause his chest to cave in. “Okay.” He wanted to ask the results but he couldn’t get more than that one little word out.

So something was wrong.

Something was wrong and she already knew what and it must’ve been bad news if she hadn’t told him yet.

He swallowed and his throat almost completely closed. Positioned as they were, she couldn’t see his face, so he didn’t have to worry about whatever his expression was doing, but he knew it would affect his voice. So he let the pain pull for a moment, let the grief stab and twist, then he fought it down.

He placed a kiss on the top of her hair, holding it there for a beat longer, shutting his eyes so they’d stop stinging.

“So what—what did the scan say?” he asked and he managed to keep his voice steady enough (he hoped).

Sabine didn’t answer right away, giving his heart a chance to constrict so hard, he thought it would bruise itself. After too long (though, without the taint of anxiety, it was probably just a few seconds), she let out a breath. He didn’t know what it was—a sigh or a laugh or a choked off sob. He only felt it because her head was still on his chest and he had his arm around her.

Like a folded paper ornament, she unfurled so she could face him properly.

“It’s morning sickness,” she said, her lips fighting for a moment then giving into a smile, her eyes glittering but serious as they held his, promising she was telling him everything as it was.

He didn’t understand the smile. He didn’t understand the look in her eyes. He saw them, he read them, but he couldn’t figure out what they meant in this instance. He supposed she was trying to soften the news but it just poured fuel on the anxiety already burning his insides into charred pieces.

“Okay. And is there—is there… there’s medicine for that, right?” He was stammering, his words faltering and stalling. He was trying not to make such a verbal mess. He was trying to speak clearly and stay calm and deal with this but here he was, stammering regardless. 

Sabine’s smile disintegrated and she leveled him with a look—the one she seemed to keep reserved just for him, just for moments when he revealed he didn’t know something that was purportedly common knowledge. 

“Din. Everyone in the galaxy knows what morning sickness is,” she said, and it was hard not to read genuine humour in her expression. “I’m sure you know what it is. Just… take a minute. Think about it.”

He frowned and shook his head. 

No. 

No, he didn’t know what that was. 

Morning sickness. 

Was it another word for heat exhaustion, like Peli’s “sun fever?” That could explain why she saw a comedic side to all this: here he was afraid she was deathly ill meanwhile all that plagued her was a thing easily remedied. Even if it was something else, it couldn’t be something too bad if Sabine was smiling… right?

Morning sickness.

It rang a bell…

He must’ve heard about it, but so often people assumed something that was commonplace to them was known by everyone everywhere and sometimes it just wasn’t. Sometimes he just didn’t know things because he didn’t need to know them or he hadn’t been in the circumstances to learn them. Sometimes—

He jolted as if he had been shocked.

His brain spilled the answer out, like an overturned box, letting it tumble to the forefront of his mind. 

“You mean you’re—?” He blinked and looked her over as if to check in case he had missed something. She looked no different than when he left her less than an hour ago (though he knew, of course, that that wasn’t instant; that, in the early stages, you couldn’t tell at a glance).

In just one simple sign, she removed all doubt for him.

She placed a hand on her belly and moved it outwards.

Gently, he caught her hand, and when her fingers squeezed into his palm, it was something to hold onto, something to pull him back down to earth and keep him right there.

His other hand moved of its own accord, cupping the side of her face just in time for his thumb to catch a tear that escaped.

She was smiling so wide and he could feel it: the kind of smile you just couldn’t hold back. But she was also crying, and he knew it wasn’t because she was sad, it was just… a lot.

The sting in his own eyes crept back and he didn’t notice until he blinked and his vision blurred and cleared in that telltale way. His was relief—overwhelming relief. The joy built from there, soaring high as belief took root.

“You’re pregnant,” he said, because he wanted to say it, wanted to hear it, wanted to have her confirm it and make it real.

She nodded and, not retracting her hand from his, she twisted around to fish something out from between the couch cushions. She pulled out an old medscanner and passed it to him. “Evidence,” she told him as he turned it the right way for him to read the screen.

It took him a moment to focus and read the words, another to tie meaning to them. 

There was, indeed, a positive symbol on the line for pregnancy, and some associated readings, most of which he didn’t quite know the significance of with just a cursory glance but he gleaned some facts quickly.

There was just one baby, eight weeks along.

That meant she had been pregnant all the time they were on Tatooine and Nevarro, and before that, on Morak… she was likely pregnant during their mission to take out the refinery.

He hadn’t known; she hadn’t known. 

He stared at the small screen until it was imprinted on his retinas, leaving behind a ghost as he blinked and glanced back up to Sabine.

“You’re pregnant,” he said. He had already said that. He wanted to say it again for some reason. “So that’s—that’s why you’ve been sick?”

“And tired and dizzy,” she added. She scoffed and rolled her eyes in a short flutter. “And moody.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he remarked, flatly, meaning it as a joke but not sure his tone carried it out right. 

“Well, I know who to blame now,” she said, placing a hand on her stomach.

Ever so gently, he put the medscanner down and set his hand beside hers.

“Nothing to feel yet,” she told him, her voice softening. “Our baby’s barely the size of a Kothal nut.”

He let go of a light chuckle.

Our baby.

He couldn’t get his head around it.

But he had the time to; eight weeks was early—very early. They still had months to prepare. He was sure he could comprehend it within that time.

Right now, they could just be surprised and amazed.

“Is it—is it too early to tell others?” he asked.

“Well, Peli knows. And I think Ezra knows.” Sabine laughed. “Which would explain why he’s been acting so weird lately.”

“Ezra’s always weird.”

“Yeah, but he usually doesn’t go so far out of his way to try and stop me picking up crates.” Her eyes widened slightly and her gaze drifted off as she recalled something. “That’s why he kept stealing my spotchka at dinner the other night.”

Din returned his hand to holding the side of her face, making a mental note to thank his brother later. “If he knows, do you think Grogu knows?”

“Probably. He’s stronger with the Force than Ezra.”

She leaned into his hand, her eyes slipping closed. She looked at peace but there was a thoughtful knot stuck on her brow. 

It wasn’t real yet.

He leaned forward to kiss their foreheads together. “Let’s get you home,” he suggested.

She seemed like she wanted to protest. She took the breath for it and glanced out at the ship in the hangar, probably looked at Peli still doing work and thought she should pull herself together and get back at it.

He was glad she didn’t fight this one time.

Shoulders going lax with more relief than defeat, she nodded.

“And you’re going to let Sloan give you a proper check-up,” Din said, feeling vaguely like he might be pushing his luck but sure this was necessary. He pointed to the old medscanner. “Sloan’s better equipped than that.”

“Alright, fine,” Sabine conceded in a mostly put-on grumble.

. . . . .

The afternoon was well along by the time Ezra, Meg and Grogu returned to the hangar, their speeder towing a trailer laden with what mostly appeared to be scrap (and Ezra wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t scrap, despite assurances to the contrary from both Peli and the Jawas).

Typically, the clamour of work could be heard before one even walked in, but the place was still and profoundly silent.

Ezra exchanged a look with Meg. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

He didn’t sense anything wrong, as such, but things didn’t feel quite right, either…

They went ahead and entered and found the ship still standing there, looking a bit sorry for itself in the cloudy light, tubes and wires hanging out from misplaced panels. Parts and tools lay strewn about, left where they were, in the middle of work. Abandoned.

And there was Peli, sitting at a makeshift sabaac table, surrounded by her little army of droids. On the crate-turned-table lay an assortment of grease-stained hexagonal cards and stray bits and bobs used as currency for meaningless gambling. And a large glass filled with juice and those odd ice cubes not made from water which were common on Tatooine.

There was no work going on in this hangar.

“Where are the others?” Ezra asked.

Peli didn’t even glance at them as she jerked her frizzy head towards the door. “Gone home,” she said, concentrating on reshuffling her hand of cards. “The missus wasn’t feeling too good.”

Ezra glanced to Meg only to find her and Grogu already looking at him with very pointed stares.

. . . . .

Sabine considered keeping the fact that she and Din knew a secret—just for a bit, just to mess with Ezra.

She gave up on such designs when he and the others returned.

She was resting and he came alone to see her, looking sheepish and awkward, rubbing the back of his neck that way he always did when he wasn’t sure of himself.

“Hey, Sabine,” he said, his voice riddled with that delicate quality, like he was approaching a volatile wild animal. “How you feeling?”

“Wiped out,” she admitted, plain and pure. She shuffled around in bed to sit up with her back against the headboard. In truth, she felt significantly more human after a shower and some sleep (and some anti-nausea meds prescribed by Sloan).

“You got any idea why?” he asked, tentatively, voice high-pitched. He hung near the door, looking at the floor for the most part like it was the only safe place.

“Could be the heat. Could be the jet-lag. Could be the tiny human my body’s busy making.”

He cringed and, finally, glanced up at her with a look in his eyes like he expected her to snap at him. 

“So you know, huh?”

“Peli suggested it. Scan confirmed it, and, honestly, I feel kinda dumb for not even thinking of it earlier.”

He nodded, absently, and scuffed a boot against the earthy-red tiles. 

“How long have you known?” she asked, softly.

He shrugged. “Since just before we left Morak. Grogu actually brought it to my attention.” Ezra chuffed. “Little rapscallion’s been bursting to tell you.”

“Why didn’t you let him?”

Ezra rocked his head on his shoulders, face pulling as he thought over his answer. His gaze flit about the room, landing on the little cradle for a moment before continuing on to the balcony and the view of the clouded sky beyond. He fell still and calm, like the surface of a lake steadying as the wind of a storm died down. 

“Having a strong connection to the Force is a gift,” he said, his voice taking on that weighty, distant quality Sabine always associated with Jedi—coming from Ezra, with his boisterousness and his inexhaustible humour, it should’ve seemed out of place, yet this was as intrinsically a part of him as his laughter and his warmth. “But there are times when… when the things you can do and the things you can know can burden you. There’s a reason not everyone has it; not everyone should be able to see everything all the time… not everyone can live with knowing everything.”

She didn’t interrupt. 

He seemed to be rambling but she perceived something further to it. She and Din usually stayed quiet when formulating their thoughts; Ezra needed to hear his own words in his own voice sometimes before he could distill the point he wanted to make.

So she didn’t interrupt.

“I could sense the little one, once Grogu mentioned it. But… it was early—extremely early. You had no symptoms yet—you wouldn’t for another month. And I didn’t tell Grogu, but… I wasn’t sure if—if it would last. It’s happened before. Not to you!” he rushed to add, eyes wide as they snapped from the view of the sky outside back to her. “To others—some acquaintances, out in Wild Space.”

He ended there, abruptly, but he had given enough pieces for her to sum up the rest.

“So, you thought, if it didn’t work out, that it would be best if Din and I didn’t know what we lost?”

“I did. But then some time passed and—how do I put this?—things seemed more… permanent. More certain. You started getting sick—which is, believe it or not, a good thing. Meg even figured out what was going on. She… convinced me to get over my trepidation and tell you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was trying, I just didn’t get a chance. I wanted to tell just you, so you could put your own discretion to use in determining when and who to tell—first and foremost of which I presumed would be our dear Dinar as he is a contributing factor to the state of things and I know no one else who would get such a thrill from the news.”

She smiled and couldn’t help a small laugh. “Well, he knows now, too. I had to tell him; he thought I was dying just ‘cause I threw up a little.” 

“Peli said you were, and I quote: ‘Blowing chunks.’”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe it was more than a little. And I also might have kinda fainted.”

“Sabine, you have the constitution of an anooba. I can count on just one hand the amount of times I’ve seen you sick and I’d still have fingers to spare.”

“Well, I don’t know how much better it is now that he knows. He’s already banned me from working on the ‘Finder. Honestly, if he could get Sloan to confine me to bedrest, he would.”

Even as she griped, she felt no true resentment. 

Din was just worried and he had only insisted she leave the truly strenuous work alone—she could still program the Navicomputer and work on the other computerized parts or anything else that didn’t drain too much energy or require too much straining and effort. 

And it wasn’t without good reason.

After a more comprehensive scan and assessment, and taking into account her history, Sloan deemed it a high-risk pregnancy. She would need to be especially careful in this early phase.

But it was going well otherwise. 

“By the way, I’m sorry,” Sabine said, and now it was her turn to look sheepish. “I shouldn’t have embarrassed you in front of Omega.”

Ezra cracked a laugh—bright and boyish, a sound straight from their shared childhood. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, graciously, flicking a hand as if to shoo any lingering bad feeling away. “She knew what was going on. And she thought it was hilarious.”

“Well, thanks for looking out for me.”

“Eh. That’s what family’s for.”

Chapter Text

While Sabine rested, Din took Grogu to one of the palace courtyards bursting with plant life.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping through a portal to a different planet. The shadowy stone corridor with its tiny windows suddenly gave way to a large room with softened sunlight pouring in through tempered glass, the light stained gold and green by the proud foliage erupting from pots and large planters residing along the walls. 

The air had a humid quality to it, something he knew the child revelled in. As they entered, the sweet bouquet burst; every breath carried in a new, complex perfume. Grogu closed his eyes and tipped his head back, nose shivering as he tested the air, ears perking as all the variety came to him.

Feeling ill-prepared and, frankly, still struggling to get his own head around the facts, Din set the little one down on the mosaic-paved floor and let him run and explore for a while. As Grogu tottered along, examining the exotic flowers and grasses and leaves—scanning the plant-beds for creeping things, no doubt—Din strolled along behind him, letting his own gaze and mind wander in the green room.

After a while, he realized he had calmed down without meaning to. 

He crouched down and rested on his haunches, tipping a particularly tall flower over and holding it down with a finger for the child to smell it. When he let go, the white, bell-shaped flower sprang up and stood like nothing had disturbed it.

Grogu pointed to another tall flower further down the path and Din, wordlessly, repeated the action. The centre of this flower—a vivid purple star speckled with deep red splotches—was rife with loose pollen. When Grogu sniffed, the pollen loosened and some went up his nose, making him sneeze. The way he blinked as if surprised and a bit betrayed made his father chuckle.

“Ad’ika,” he said, hooking his sleeve with his thumb and wiping the little one’s nose gently. “I have something to tell you.”

Rubbing his nose, the little one looked up at him, eyes big and patient and attentive.

Din let go of a breath.

“You know how Mah-ya’s been a bit tired lately?” he began and waited for the child to nod. “Well, it’s… it’s nothing to worry about. She’s alright. But… well… as it so happens… you see, the thing is…”

He lost his hold on the words, like grappling with an oiled glass orb and finally losing the fight.

For a moment, Grogu’s expression remained passive and neutral. He blinked, waiting, but not worried. Then, suddenly, he heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes with a level of drama he had to have learned from somewhere.

He tapped the side of his head.

“You know?” Din asked to clarify.

The boy nodded. Then, to make sure there was no miscommunication, he made a gesture like he was cradling something in his tiny arms.

“You know about the baby?”

Another nod (and Din had to admit, his relief in that moment was immeasurable).

He repositioned himself. He committed to sitting down on the ground, not just resting on his haunches. Resting his back against a stone planter, he bent one leg, leaving the other stretched out more or less straight. The child climbed onto his leg and sat there and Din helped steady him, keeping a hand at his back.

“Our aliit keeps growing, huh?” he said with a soft laugh.

“I like it,” Grogu signed, expression bright.

Din’s mind fell back to a year earlier, when it was just the two of them—though, in truth, even though they were all each other had back then, they weren’t a family, not yet. That part took a little while, and then it took some time after that for him to accept it, to make it official and permanent.

Before, he didn’t think he’d ever have a family of his own; he didn’t believe he could have one.

But, then again, he also didn’t think gardens would ever grow on Tatooine.

Impossible things just happened sometimes. 

Things like a strange little child choosing him to be his father.

Things like a brother returning from nowhere.

Things like a woman promising him forever.

Grogu sidled closer, grabbing fistfuls of Din’s shirt to climb and latch onto his side—the side he used to have to work so hard to get to because of the armour always in the way. 

He never cared that it was difficult to get close to this person, that he was covered in a hard shell, all his warmth and softness kept hidden and protected—he knew it was there, right from the start, and his determination outlasted the Mandalorian’s.

That time—of silence, of not feeling, of not naming or even acknowledging their bond—felt like a memory of someone else’s life, one he had only heard of; not something he had lived himself. He was so used to holding people in his heart now.

If there was a limit, he hadn’t found it yet. Grogu was the hardest to let in only because he was the first in decades to come along and try, but once he stubbornly tore open a hole in what the entire galaxy had given up as a fossilized heart, once he found a spot inside to claim as his own, the rest came pouring in.

This family, this intertwined web of friends and allies he didn’t hesitate to call his vode, he wouldn’t have had any of it had it not been for this one child.

And soon there would be another child.

Din was still grappling with believing it. 

What would they be like? Who would they look like? How would it feel to hold them for the very first time?

Would they arrive safe? Would Sabine be alright? Where would they even be born? Where would they grow up?

He couldn’t know.

Not yet.

It was too early and there were many things at present that still had to be dealt with.

So, for now, he just sat in an impossible garden nestled away on a desert planet, holding his son as he drifted for a midday sleep, his own eyes closing for a while, memories and musings playing in dancing flashes, painted green and gold.

Chapter Text

Din couldn’t sleep.

He lay there, tightly wound muscles on an indulgently soft mattress, his gaze roaming about the dim cavern that was their room, catching on little things, like the silky curtains transformed into misty trails by the silver light of the triplet moons or the faint flecks of rainbow glitter cast on the ceiling by the rhydonium gem resting on his nightstand. His mind and his spirit stirred, keeping him restless and unquiet.

At least Sabine and Grogu slept peacefully. 

She was curled up, tight and comfortable, and he was grateful that the difficult day hadn’t bled into a difficult night—she needed the rest, now more than ever. And Grogu had abandoned his crib and come to join them, splaying out like a starfish across their pillows. Splat, his tooka doll, took up more space than he did.

Having them near and seeing them at rest was calming and reassuring, but still Din couldn’t get himself to join them in sleep. It didn’t take him very long to give up and extricate himself from the bed, picking and executing every move with a well-honed caution.

The tiles were cold under his bare feet, but boots would make noise and he wasn’t always so good at moderating the noise he made when he couldn’t hear it properly himself. This was not the first time he had snuck out of bed and he was becoming quite adept at the whole procedure.

The moons shared enough light to see the form of the furniture and the space of the room. He could easily gauge depth and distance. It just wasn’t quite bright enough to see details and colours, but it was sufficient for navigation.

Boba had had two armour stands set up in their room. Having his armour mounted on the skeletal frame reminded Din of his days in the Fighting Corps. Back then, most of his armour was durasteel and painted blue—when he stood lined up with his Vizsla vode, only his silver helmet set him apart.

(In the back of his mind, he wondered what they would have thought of his wife’s armour. He thought he had stood out then with his one unpainted piece and his lack of signets; all her colours and symbols would have made her stand out like a flashing beacon.)

The bare, polished beskar of his armour gleamed with streaks of moonlight. He ached to wear it again—to be all it encompassed. But now was not the time.

There was a chest beneath the armour where he and Sabine stored their gear. He opened it and took the one thing that caught the light the same way his armour did.

The Darksaber.

With the hilt in hand, he left the room, but even once out in the corridor, he kept up his careful steps. He didn’t usually welcome company at this hour but, tonight especially, he sought solitude.

The corridor was like a winding tunnel with doors spaced at far, inequal intervals. Ultimately, it led to stairs which corkscrewed down through the tower. Fett’s dojo was somewhere roughly in the middle of the tower, a good few storeys off the ground.

(An elevator was in the works, according to the majordomo.)

Once there, Din turned on the lights without reservation. 

This training room was every Mandalorian’s dream come true. The floor was strong yet springy, there was space for a dozen people to train without ever bumping into each other, and there was equipment for any kind of exercise one could think of. Sabine had told him this was nearly identical to the training room in the stronghold she had grown up in.

And there were mirrors—a whole wall just of mirrors, artificially but convincingly enlarging the room.

Din saw himself enter and walk up as if to confront himself, coming to a stop in the dead centre of the space. It was a moment of unreality, standing there, staring the other man down and not quite seeing himself.

Just a man.

A man without armour, dressed in simple, soft clothes, not even wearing boots or gloves, and holding the hilt of an ancient sword.

He didn’t ignite the blade, just held it and looked at himself and tried to hear, tried to make sense of the questions blaring in his mind—the questions which had stopped his sleep for too many nights now.

Even as he tried to face it all, he shrank back from the precipice, banishing the form of the questions before they came into clarity.

Though safe in the confines of his own mind, asking those questions would force him to ponder and reach conclusions, perhaps even make a decision.

And he wasn’t ready for it.

He knew the story.

He knew he had earned the blade.

Whatever happened to Gideon or Bo-Katan or any other previous wielder meant nothing to him and his claim on the weapon. But it felt like something had shifted, like it all meant something different now… he just couldn’t figure out what. It was all faraway and intangible and confusing. 

Never more so than now.

So he relented.

He turned his back on the mirror, placed the Darksaber on a bench and grabbed a wooden training staff instead.

He stretched. He warmed up. He breathed.

And then he trained.

He didn’t keep track of the time. He didn’t pay attention to his body’s signs and signals, he ignored the warnings of encroaching strain. He focussed only on perfecting the techniques he had been taught and pouring out his energy, striking against a formless dummy.

His mind went still and focussed at last. His heartrate was elevated but he was calm.

Eventually, however, his body forced him to stop.

He dropped the staff without meaning to, his hands reddened from keeping such a tight grip for so long. He was panting hard, his head pounding, the blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the ringing. Blindly, he reached out and leaned against the dummy, closing his eyes, resting his head on his arms. Belatedly, he realized he was shaking.

He wasn’t surprised.

He wasn’t disheartened.

He was still agitated; he wanted to keep going.

“I think you should stop now, beroya.”

Din heaved a sigh—it came out more like a grating wheeze.

He didn’t immediately look over at his intruder but he didn’t have to. He recognized Boba’s voice—deep and clear, furnished with a soft boom.

“Not… beroya… anymore,” Din said, an unintentional pause between each word as he struggled to get enough breath. Looking down at himself, he saw his shirt-front soaked in sweat; he hadn’t realized that, either.

If Boba said anything to that, Din didn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear if Boba walked further into the room—couldn’t hear if he walked anywhere—but he didn’t feel the telltale reverberations of the other man’s footsteps through the springy floor. Eventually, he raised his gaze and saw him standing just past the threshold, clad in the soft clothes he wore beneath his flightsuit.

“You seem to be fighting more than wood and canvas,” he observed, lifting his scarred brow in a way both knowing and mildly amused.

Din didn’t respond to that.

He let his head hang again and focussed on catching his breath.

Finally, he felt the other man take some steps into the room. He didn’t approach, however. When Din looked over, he saw him taking a seat on one of the benches running the length of the wall opposite the mirrors.

“What are you doing?” he asked, flatly.

“Sitting,” Boba replied, simply. He nodded to the bench. “You’re welcome to join me.”

Din ignored him for a moment. 

Then he realized he was portraying more petulance than he truly felt, and he remembered he was a guest, not a student who had been caught by one of his instructors doing something he shouldn’t. With a sigh, he relented and crossed the distance to the bench, keeping his head down and his gaze on his steps, feeling sheepish and chastised.

Once he sat down, Boba passed him a bottle.

Din looked at it then looked back up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Black melon water,” Boba told him, giving the bottle a shake as if it would make it more enticing.

Din accepted and took a swig. 

The milk of the melons that grew plentifully in the sands of Tatooine was one of the strangest substances he had ever come across. It was more like water than milk in consistency and faintly gritty, oddly astringent yet hydrating, and its smell and taste were repugnant the first few times—like rotten flesh—yet, after a while, a kind of tolerance built and then it smelled earthy but in a comforting way, like water from a clean river.

He developed his tolerance in the time he spent under the Tuskens’ care. They taught him how to find them himself, should he ever have to survive the sands alone—and he had, quite a few times.

The only person he had ever seen not gag upon their first introduction to the black melon was Sabine.

Right off the bat, she couldn’t get enough of them.

(Which… now made sense. Her body must’ve been craving the vitamins or something—Sloan said that would happen.)

Din wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the bottle back but Boba shook his head, silently insisting he drink more.

After another few sips, he felt restored.

That was good. He needed it for what they were about to discuss—he had no precise indication of the subject matter, he just knew Boba had come with something heavy to say.

He took a slow breath in as a quiet warning he was about to end the silence. Din turned to see him better, let him know he had his attention.

“Some of Fennec’s contacts got back to her today.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know. It’s an open bounty, hosted on unofficial lines—as far away from the Guild as one can get. The client is anonymous and direct communication is rare. They want you alive but barely.”

“And the payment is everything but my helmet,” Din concluded, feeling only vaguely violated.

Boba’s mouth set in a grim line.

If anyone could empathize, it was him.

His eyes took on a hard shell, like he wasn’t looking forward to this next part.

“Fennec has a plan,” he began, and Din sort of heard his voice set down deeper. “However, she will only proceed if you consent.”

“What’s the plan?” he asked, feeling his skin prickle with anxiety.

“She wants to take the job.”

Din tilted his head, his gaze turning flat and hard.

Boba held up a hand. “She won’t see it through, of course. But if she accepts the commission, she may be able to set up a communication with this shadow of a client.”

“Xi—the last bounty hunter that came after me said the transmissions were distorted. I imagine they were probably cloaked, too.”

“And Fennec didn’t become a legend by accident. She has the most sophisticated gear I’ve ever seen. She believes she might be able to unmask your pursuer; perhaps, at the very least, trace the call to within a parsec of its origin.”

“That… would be helpful,” Din said, distractedly.

There followed a moment of quiet. 

Din let his eyes fall to the floor and stay there, his rein on his thoughts fraying. As loud as his head was becoming, he never lost awareness of Boba’s gaze on him.

He felt exposed but in a numb, detached way, like he was getting all too used to being like this: vulnerable, unarmoured, without a mask or a cloak, left out in the dark, all eyes, too many eyes locked dead on him. He was too tired to worry about it—too tired of fighting it.

“Taking into account that you are a hunted man, this may sound like the remark of a fool, but something seems to be weighing on your mind.”

Din glanced to Boba. 

It was a question, though not with the standard structure. It was inquiring, not prying.

Din didn’t know what to tell him.

Or, rather, he didn’t know how much to tell him.

Because it wasn’t just one problem to solve, or one puzzle to put together, or even one enemy to face. 

Without him saying a word, Boba discerned all of that.

He turned slightly where he sat, reaching for something on the bench.

Din’s heart turned to lead and ice as he saw the Darksaber hilt lying inert and innocuous in Boba’s hands.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would it?” he asked, deceptively casual but with an all too knowing bend to his brows.

“Maybe,” Din clipped out, not wanting to touch this path.

Boba weighed the hilt in his hand, tilting it this way and that, examining the engraved lines—“beskar veins” as Sabine called them. He handled it not quite like an ancient artifact but not quite like a mere tool, either. He regarded it as a thing with worth, but not to the superlative degree.

“Why bring a sword here only to leave it spectating on the bench while you train with a stick?”

“Don’t wanna break anything.”

“Just yourself.”

The response—delivered with the same tone as he had used for his previous statements—surprised Din.

“You’re not the first,” Boba said with a chuff. “You’re never the first,” he added, a distance in his eyes like he was reminding himself of the fact.

“I’m not trying to break myself.”

“You’re not trying to save yourself, either.”

Din glared at Boba but he returned it coolly with a silent challenge of his own.

Ask me how I know.

“You’ll learn nothing beating that thing,” he said, gesturing to the training dummy. Slowly but with purpose, he rose to his feet, crossed the room, retrieved the wooden staff Din had dropped and picked up another identical one from the stands along the far wall. He tossed one of the staffs across the room to Din and took up a ready stance in the middle of the room.

“I’m tired,” Din said, weakly, as he caught the staff but remained sitting.

“You were forged in the Fighting Corps., were you not?” Boba countered and that was all he had to say for Din to hear the echoes of his instructors’ voices.

They were tough on him—they were tough on all the recruits. The Fighting Corps. was no club—it was an intense training program designed to refine the strongest warriors from every clan, to build guardians for the Tribe. Recruits were taken past their breaking points and then taught to reform the jagged shards into blades and shields, to take their weaknesses and reconstruct them into strengths.

It was not a “no pain, no gain” mentality. Din’s instructors used to spit on that phrase. No. Their training brought them to their limits and helped them build new, further limits. It was when they were tired that they learned what they could truly do, what they could withstand, how far they could go.

Din had always gone further than anyone expected.

Maybe his near-human biology granted him greater stamina, maybe others just set the bar too low, maybe there was something in him that refused to let him give up and fade away.

Maybe he just didn’t know when to quit.

He closed his eyes and searched himself.

He was tired.

He had pushed far.

But he was not yet at his limit.

He stood. 

His muscles were weary, but he still had that tight band of anxiety wound through his shoulders and around his head. And when he locked eyes with Boba, fire rekindled in his spirit.

He wanted this match.

“I’ve seen your technique,” Boba remarked as Din rolled his shoulders. “You’re trained in Ruug’la Kal?”

Din gave a nod. 

“Those Jedi teach you as well?”

“A fair bit.”

“Alright. Then show me what you’ve learned.”

As if to catch him off guard, Din lunged and struck before Boba had even finished speaking. 

Fast and precise, he issued a series of strikes, pouring out the forms he had made his own—the sleek, brutal elegance of his Mandalorian training infused with the Jedi’s artful restraint. 

Channeled, disciplined strength.

The harsh excision of anything superfluous. 

Purpose and finesse, fused together.

For the first while, Boba merely blocked as he got a feel for Din’s style. Every swing of the staff ended in a hard clack! as Boba brought his around to halt the blows from landing on him.

Then, without warning, he switched to active participation. 

It was exhilarating.

Boba feinted and parried and lashed out with his own strikes and slashes. 

Now Din had to think, had to watch and predict and react. 

He quickly recognized the moves. 

He had seen Boba’s gaffi stick but had never seen him fight with it. During their first meeting on Lothal—the confrontation that ended in an alliance—Boba and Fennec had warded off the platoon of Stormtroopers Gideon sent down while Din and Sabine raced to get Grogu to safety. He didn’t see Boba fight then; he only learned later of his assistance, rendered when their trust had yet to be forged.

Now Din knew.

Boba knew the ancient Mandalorian forms.

And he had also been trained firsthand by Tuskens.

To the untrained eye, Mandalorian and Tusken combat techniques probably looked no different from one another but to one who had trained and observed closely both styles, the differences were stark.

Mandalorians and Tuskens were strong and relentless, but Mandalorians had to make everything an art—there was always form to their brutal strength. Tuskens, on the other hand, valued survival far above elegance—if they could strike, they struck.

Boba was just a few years older than Din—a fact he had found difficult to comprehend at first: the acid burns marring every inch of the man’s dark tan skin had well obscured his age. After some time spent soaking in high-quality bacta, he had healed significantly—though many scars stubbornly remained, he looked healthier, and he moved with ease better suited to his true age. 

He swung and thrust his staff out, hooking under Din’s ankle. He had just one split moment to realize what was happening when, next thing he knew, Boba wrenched the staff and sent him sprawling, hands sticking out to catch him on the ground.

“You hold back.”

Din shut his eyes, his hands curling into fists.

It wasn’t the first time he had heard that particular criticism.

And he didn’t understand.

“There’s restraint and then there’s fear,” Boba explained, unprompted. “You are honourable, and mercy has its place, but this is neither. This is you afraid.”

Din bit down a scoff, his jaw clenching hard instead.

“What are you afraid of, beroya?”

He shook his head, tired and annoyed. “I told you: I am not a beroya. Not anymore.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m nothing.”

Boba was silent (or, rather, if he made some nonverbal sound, Din missed it).

Everything was still for a moment. Din felt like he was hanging suspended over a void. His heart was racing—from exertion and agitation. What had been a fulfilling sparring session hadn’t ended in satisfaction; now, he was even more frustrated.

Because Boba had more to say.

“‘Nothing,’ says the man who worked himself to death for his tribe. ‘Nothing,’ says the man who brings in strays and turns them into armies. ‘Nothing,’ says the man who has liberated not one but many worlds. ‘Nothing,’ says the man with a family he’s proven himself willing to die for. ‘Nothing,’ says the man who won and now wields the Darksaber.”

“I didn’t mean to win it.”

“But you did.”

“I shouldn’t have!” Din snapped.

And that was it.

The lit match fell on the pool of gasoline.

The gates split open and the floodwaters surged.

It was an explosion and an emptying, all at once. In a rush, catharsis and clarity came.

Din let go of his breath and let his frame collapse, let himself slump on the floor, half-huddled, half-limp. He rocked back and brought his knees up, his back bending and his arms folding, giving him a place to bury his head and shut out the world.

“You don’t want the responsibility,” Boba supplied, his deep voice nearer than before, lower. Din didn’t dare look up but he knew his friend had come down to the floor in front of him—sitting or crouching, he couldn’t be sure, but he was on his level now.

Din shook his head where it lay on his folded arms. “It’s not that.” He sighed, roughly. “I can’t be what that blade makes me. I can’t… I can’t be a king.”

“And why not?”

“I didn’t know what the blade meant when I fought Gideon. I didn’t fight for it because I wanted it. I don’t want to be a king. I don’t want that life.” Suddenly, a lump grew in his throat. “I’m nothing a king is supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?” Boba pressed, his tone ever gentle yet based on something solid and stern—he wanted to draw the answer out of Din… wanted him to face it.

Din curled in tighter on himself, like a child trying to block out the world. But the world wasn’t listening—just his friend.

Boba was a king.

He sat on a throne. He ruled. He judged. He made decisions that affected a whole population. He was responsible for innumerable people.

And it hadn’t been very long, but the results of his rule were already coming to light.

He was a good man.

But he hadn’t always been.

Din couldn’t attest to his sins, but in his own words, Boba condemned himself as one of the wretched—one of the ones who didn’t deserve recusing. Yet, rescued he was, and he turned the mercy shown him into something powerful.

Din was not like him.

He was still one of the wretched.

Because a good man wouldn’t threaten to drop someone on Nal Hutta, knowing what fate awaited them there.

A good man wouldn’t run from his enemies.

A good man wouldn’t keep grasping at every excuse to avoid facing his tribe.

A good man would accept the responsibility to lead his people.

A good man would confess his broken vow.

A good man would feel worthy of his family.

In the daylight, busy and distracted, he worried little over such things. But now it was night, now it was dark and quiet and his mind strayed down treacherous paths.

Hours ago, he was elated to hear the news of the child yet to be born; now, anxiety had burned all the excitement away like a wildfire through bushland.

He loved Grogu, but he had failed him. He turned him over to the Client in exchange for beskar. His weakness left him to fall into the hands of wicked men more than once. It had been a while since he had stepped so overtly wrong, but he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t do so again. 

Those failures cost him his covert, his vow, and a fair portion of his strength and ability which he would never recover; what would his next failure cost?

What if he failed this child, too?

They would be much more vulnerable than Grogu. Even those slighter mistakes, ones Din didn’t even think to list because they seemed so inconsequential, could have major consequences for a fragile infant.

In a creaking motion, he raised his head but couldn’t bring his gaze up, couldn’t look straight at Boba. Still, he knew he was there, waiting.

“I’m a coward,” Din confessed at last. “And I’m—I’m cruel. I can’t lead. I can barely take care of my family; I can’t take care of everyone else.”

“Then why don’t you throw it away?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? One less thing to worry about.”

Din shook his head with more force, fighting the urge to pull his own hair out. “The blade, it’s… it’s been in the wrong hands too many times.”

“So you will keep it, but not claim—is that it?”

“No, it’s… I don’t know.”

“Look at me,” Boba said, terse but not harsh, sudden enough that Din complied by reflex, flicking his gaze up and leveling it with that of the other man. “Answer me this in honesty: If someone came and challenged you for the blade right now, would you fight for it?”

Would he?

No.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t want to be what it made him.

Yet he recoiled at the thought of losing it.

He knew it now. 

He was so used to clipping it on his belt opposite his blaster. His muscles had memorized its weight and its rhythm; its song was written deep in his veins along with its story. 

He hadn’t wanted it when he first learned of all that its possession entailed.

But would he fight to hold onto it now?

“I would. I would fight for it.”

“Why?”

Din closed his eyes.

He thought of Gideon, of Bo-Katan, of accounts of times that occurred within his life yet he hadn’t witnessed, times he was ignorant about though they did affect him—of the blade landing in the hands of vile men such as a Death Watch leader and whatever a Sith Lord was.

Too many had held it over the people; too many had used it to kill and dictate.

It wasn’t meant to be such a scourge.

The one who forged it hadn’t meant for it to be a kingmaker. 

It was a fusion between two cultures which had a long history fraught with conflict. 

It should have been a key to unity.

What was there left to unify? The Mandalorians were few and scattered.

But the damage could stop here.

Din could at least make it stop.

“As long as I hold it,” he said, “it won’t be used against Mandalore.”

Silence met his answer.

When he looked at Boba again, he saw his face pull into something pleased and he nodded, slowly, as if Din had just passed some test.

“A shred of wisdom from someone a few steps further on this path,” he said as he rose to his feet and held out a hand to help Din up as well. “You may not know why you are where you are or why you have what you have, you may not believe you’re the one for the role you’ve found yourself in, but the chance to set anything right in this galaxy comes rare and at a cost… and only a good man worries he won’t do it right.”

Chapter Text

Kia gifted Din his new hearing aids with no great ceremony; she didn’t even employ the regular brand of ceremony.

She simply dropped a small box messily wrapped shut with paper and too much tape on the table at breakfast one morning, giving it a short shove to send it to the middle of the table.

Din had to stand slightly out of his chair to reach for it. Before he retrieved it, he lifted his brows in a silent request for permission, just to be polite. 

Kia gave a curt nod, her expression unchanged.

She looked uninterested and uninvested, like this was some cheap thing she was handing over, not a thing she had poured hours upon hours of intricate skill and hard work into. She sat back in her own seat, arms folded, head turning and eyes flitting away to watch Cookie come trundling in, toting three trays of steaming breakfast foods—too much food for just one man but Din hadn’t been able to convince the droid he just wanted a ration bar.

She didn’t move again but her gaze switched back to Din, quick and sharp and secret, like she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. The corner of her mouth ticked—a sliver of anxiety slipping through a crack.

Din pretended not to notice her watching him, focussing instead on prying up the ragged end of the tape with his blunt, stained nails. It was taking too long and the packaging wasn’t standing up to the attempted delicacy: the brown paper ripped easily—far easier than the tape—so he gave up and tore it asunder in one clean motion.

The box was plain but littered with the faint remnants of labels peeled off. It smelled vaguely of something sweet—some kind of candy, Din supposed. He could feel something light and hard rattling around inside.

He knew it was the hearing aids, but he didn’t know what they would look like. A part of him anticipated something identical to his old pair, but these…

These were a work of art.

Two moulded blobs—shaped just so to fit snug in his ears—with thin, clear cords leading to curved pieces of tech: batteries and receivers, if he wasn’t mistaken. They were twice as light as his old pair, slimmer and more likely to hold onto the shell of his ear.

“They’re silver,” he commented.

“They can be any colour you want; that’s not difficult to change,” Kia said.

Din set the empty box down and turned the hearing aids over in the palm of his hand. “Don’t people usually make them flesh-coloured?”

“If you want that, that’s fine; we can do that. But they’re a part of your life—they should be what you want them to be.”

“I like the silver. Thank you.”

Kia smiled.

It was such a quick, small thing—like a flash of light across her face, a lift of her lips and a jump of her brow. The expression didn’t die but, rather, it settled down to something soft and comfortable, returning to the careful neutrality she was more accustomed to.

But her eyes kept the spark.

Over the course of the last few weeks, Din had learned her story—partly from Kia herself but mostly from Boba and Fennec.

Tatooine, born and bred, she wasn’t a slave but she wasn’t quite a freeman, either. How she lost her mother, she didn’t know—she remembered too little of her to know anything for sure. The only family she ever had was a father who (in Boba’s uncensored opinion) deserved the title only for his contribution to her existence.

A standard childhood eluded her. Her formative years weren’t spent growing and learning and discovering; they were spent playing assistant to her father in his many get-rich-quick endeavours. He lacked good sense and paternal instinct, but he abounded in a variety of skills and crafts, not least of all being his natural aptitude as a salesmen which bought them constant (if not inconsistent) employ.

In Kia’s words, most of the jobs he got for them were stupid.

Harvesting meat and bones and whatever else from beast carcasses left rotting in the sands.

Cleaning and polishing the Jawas’ crawling fortresses.

Catching and training scurriers to sell as pets.

They even spent a stint as womp-rat exterminators (which, Kia had to admit, was their most lucrative business venture).

She almost didn’t mind those jobs. They were sometimes strange and sometimes so unnecessary they couldn’t get anyone to hire them, but they were innocuous and safe.

But her father didn’t care that they were safe.

He wanted them to be rich.

So he abandoned those endeavours and reached for others. He sought connections with deeper pockets and shallower ethics. He took the jobs ones with more sense passed over.

Jobs that nearly stranded them in the desert more than once.

Jobs that put their lives and health at risk.

Jobs that a child shouldn’t even know about, much less be asked to do.

Kia never felt safe, and though she voiced her concerns, they went unheeded. Getting into her teens, some part of her grew the awareness that she could refuse, she could leave, let her father chase his ambition to his grave by himself… but she didn’t.

She didn’t because he was the only family she had. He was the only person she knew; the only person she loved.

So she followed him everywhere—to Krayt dragon carcasses and rust-ridden Jawa fortresses, to circus grounds and casino lounges… to an abandoned ipsium mine.

Their final business venture—scraping an emptied mine for any last scraps of one of the most volatile elements known to the galaxy—ended in an explosion and a cave-in that cost Kia an arm and her father his life.

In one moment, her already unstable life lost its last shred of certainty. With her father went a measure of safety; now, she was an orphan, and, more than that, she was a disabled orphan.

A lost, lonely, broken thing, she only survived because other lost things found her.

Mods, they called themselves: a tongue-in-cheek name derived from the rumours ever festering and spreading about them—rumours such as they were perfectly healthy but chose to mutilate and modify themselves with droid parts, wanting to make themselves somehow better than everyone else.

But the truth was that they had lost nothing by choice.

No one else would help them replace what they had lost—limbs or senses, either in their entirety or just the full use thereof. So they pooled their skills and resources and made what they lacked in the form of cybernetics, prosthetics, and aids.

Kia already had quite an extensive knowledge of mechanics garnered in her unusual work experience, but she had never had to make something as complex as an arm before. The Mods taught her how and, in turn, she helped others.

She found a community, a kind of family to belong to, but she still couldn’t find paying work; what work she did manage to land typically underpaid.

She could barely afford water.

So she stole from her employer—for herself and for her fellow Mods.

The employer took the case straight to the newly seated daimyo, hoping he would be as sympathetic to his greed-riddled plight as had been his bloated predecessors.

Boba learned the truth of the matter quickly enough and, rather than punish the thieves, he offered them something they rarely ever came across on Tatooine.

A choice.

Come work for him and put their wide array of skills to use in rebuilding and defending this desert city, or continue however they like with their debts wiped clean and fair wages ensured.

Some chose the clean slate and the fresh start.

Kia and some others threw their lot in with Boba.

Din couldn’t say for certain, nor had he been told, but the girl didn’t seem to have any regrets.

“Try them on,” she urged, sounding for a moment more like the child she was and not the adult she had been forced to become too soon.

He put them on, surprised to find they fit perfectly and held on, secure as if they had been glued on. He was always aware of the old ones—their weight was slight but not slight enough to be totally ignored. These, however, he hardly felt.

Kia lifted her eyebrows and he read the cue to switch them on.

Strangely, the world fell silent.

His expression must’ve given that away or Kia had anticipated his reaction as she grinned.

“The ringing’s gone, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Almost all of it.”

He looked around as if in search of some visual manifestation of the low, insistent buzzing he had lived with for most of his life. He found none, of course, but the entire dining hall seemed different, as if he could take in more of it now without the distraction he had long forgotten to notice.

“You told me you were probably going to lose the rest of your hearing eventually,” Kia said, her voice just a notch quieter in sympathy (still, he heard it clearly; he didn’t even have to face her). “I don’t know if there’s any stopping that, but I padded these out with volume protection, so you shouldn’t lose anything any sooner than you have to.”

His breath hitched on an incredulous breath, his head shaking slightly, for a moment too stunned to speak.

He closed his eyes and just listened.

He heard Cookie puttering about in the kitchen—clinks and clanks and clatters, faint and a bit muffled by the distance and the closed doors but still so crisp.

He heard the rustle of cloth and the subtle creak of a chair as Kia shifted in her seat.

He heard someone singing.

He frowned and turned his head in the direction of the soft, undulating rhythm, keeping his eyes closed to keep his focus trained on just the audio. It was more than mere humming—there was a subtle sling and slip of words weaving into a melody.

Opening his eyes, he took the steps to trace the sound to its source.

It took him out of the dining room and down the corridor to a room not very far away but further than he could have heard with his old hearing aids… further than he even would’ve heard with his helmet unless he tweaked the sensitivity on purpose.

The room was one of those juncture points: a hall where the stairs leading to the private quarters fed into doors and more stairways veering off to ever more rooms. Coming slowly down the stairs, nearly at the landing, was Sabine.

He had heard her hum and sing before.

But never like this.

Never without the interference, never so clear and free.

He stood in the doorway, transfixed, his chest tight, feeling dizzy and detached. He watched her come down the stairs, carrying a still mostly asleep Grogu bundled loose in his blanket.

She stopped when she saw him.

It wasn’t an abrupt, surprised stop; it was just a pause, a glance at him and a morning smile. But then she realized something was different and her brow creased.

“Something wrong, love?” she asked.

Stars.

Her voice.

Din let go of a breath—a little choked, a little on the edge of laughing.

He heard her voice well enough with his old hearing aids, he heard her voice perfectly with the helmet, but this…

Not only could he hear her voice crystal clear, but he got to hear her and see her without the helmet cropping and filtering her image.

“Can you—can you say something again?” he requested.

She frowned but not a beat later her eyes flicked to his ears and she understood. “What would you like me to say?” she asked, teasingly, her smile crawling into something lopsided.

Some part of him registered that she was opening up for banter but he was too caught up in the moment to come up with a return quip.

He didn’t think he could handle much more when he heard a minuscule snuffle. His gaze shot down to Grogu.

He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes with loosely balled fists and making a string of tiny noises—squeaky grumbles and huffs, his disgruntlement at having to wake up made known.

Din knew those sounds already but since he wore the helmet less and less these days, he kept missing them.

These were aids, not permanent fixes.

He couldn’t wear them every minute of every day.

He would still miss things.

But he wouldn’t have to miss everything.

He turned around to thank Kia but she had taken advantage of his distraction and disappeared.

Later, in the markets to pick up a few things, Din spotted a stall selling a small variety of sweets. Amongst the sugar drops and fruit strips, his eye snagged on a small cart of boxes the exact same size as the one Kia had gifted him his hearing aids in.

It was in no way an equal compensation, but in lieu of a stipulated price, he hoped the gesture would suffice.

He bought a small stack of what he discovered was some kind of chocolate covered toffee. Knowing the girl found displays of gratitude awkward, he asked one of the droids serving in the palace to place them in her workshop when she was absent, along with a little paper bird Sabine folded for him and in which he wrote just one word.

Ori'vor'e.

. . . . .

“You treat her like an overprotective father. She’s ready! Just take her up and let her show you what she can do!”

Din ran his gaze over the ship, tipping his head back to get as full a sight of her as possible while standing this close.

He knew Peli was right.

The Path Finder was as ready as she would ever be.

Hyperdrive, navicomputer, lazer canons, life support, interior… she was complete and then some.

They had even baptized her with paint.

He was too worried about the fumes to have Sabine paint the ship herself, so, as a way to soothe it over, he allowed her to draw up whatever design she wanted, putting no limits on her creativity, and then he and the others would bring it to life (with Beady projecting a holographic template and Sabine supervising from the tower).

The end result was a little less colourful than he feared his carte blanche permission would unleash. He imagined a ship drenched in a dizzyingly vivid, clashing palette, overloaded with contrasting patterns, but the final product only solidified his faith in his wife.

For the most part, she left the grey-beige metal of the hull alone, but the wings and engine barrels bore broad smears of orange and purple (a lust for life and hope for the future). Down the sides and along the top ran twin yellow lines with a silver streak breaking through the centre—the colours of remembrance and redemption; the colours of their clan. And the ship’s boxy nose now sported a starbird, immortalized in flames of orange, yellow, red, and magenta.

Din had requested the starbird.

They could have created a new symbol for this ship, like the Ghost symbol Kanan had invented, and maybe one day they would think of something else, but the only image Din could envision on this craft was the crest Sabine had created for herself.

She made it as a teenager, disowned by her family, stripped of the signet she should’ve inherited through birth. Those bridges had been mended and now, as the last living Wren, she proudly bore her original crest along with Din’s. The starbird went on to inspire the Phoenix squadron and, later, the New Republic crest, while the original fell somewhat dormant.

Poetically, appropriately, this was its rebirth.

She was ready.

But Din was not.

He didn’t know why.

Peli smacked his arm, snatching his attention back to her. When he looked at her, she raised her brow.

“Well?” she said, expectantly. “What are you waiting for? The sky couldn’t be any clearer. If I could pilot, you wouldn’t catch me with my feet on the ground today.”

“She’s got a point, love,” Sabine chimed in. “The ship’s ready; all that’s left to do is a test flight.”

Din looked around at the others, gathering loosely around, waiting for him to make a decision. It was like some kind of intervention, though he tried not to view it so negatively.

And he couldn’t blame them.

They couldn’t keep working on this forever.

It was time to fly.

“Okay,” he said, and it sounded too simple to his own ears, too casual for something that was, at risk of overstatement, momentous. “You coming?”

Sabine glanced at the ship and grimaced. “Unless you want to spend the afternoon cleaning sick out of the cockpit, I think I’d better sit this one out.” She bent and picked Grogu up off the ground, promptly handing him over to Din. “You boys go have fun; I’ll spot you from the tower.”

Grogu chirped, looking excited.

He patted Din’s chest and pointed to the ship, then motioned to the two of them and made a gesture with his hand like something with wings taking off.

“Yeah. We’re gonna go for a flight,” Din confirmed to the child’s delight.

With a keen, off-putting sense of unreality, he boarded the Path Finder. 

The cargo hold, the cabin, the cockpit—it was already so familiar. Just like with the Razor Crest, he knew every panel, every rivet, every component; unlike the Razor Crest, he had chosen every piece.

The ‘Crest had been an extension of himself, as much a part of him as his armour was.

But he hadn’t picked that old gunship; his buir had. He inherited it, he maintained it, he viewed it as a fixed point in his life, and he didn’t appreciate how highly he valued it until it was broken, he didn’t realize how much he needed it until it was gone.

The ‘Finder would not have suited him as he used to be, but as he buckled Grogu into a booster on the passenger seat and then settled himself into the pilot’s chair, some part of him acknowledged that the ‘Crest couldn’t accommodate his life as it was now.

It didn’t have the capacity for all the modifications and safety features of this ship. Some parts could no longer be upgraded and he had to just live with things like leaking power lines and a hyperdrive operating at only 60% efficiency.

There was nowhere he could sleep comfortably with his wife, nowhere for his son to play without first rearranging everything, nowhere to prepare and sit and eat a proper meal with his family.

Still, he held onto a few echoes of his old life.

The controls and the steering yoke were nearly identical to the ‘Crest’s. And, through Peli’s somewhat dubious but dutiful suppliers, they had managed to put together a set-up so familiar, Din felt right at home as he keyed in the start-up sequence.

As he awakened the ship’s systems, the comm chimed. He flicked the switch to open the channel, his gaze springing to the viewport. He could see everyone huddled in the tower, watching on with wide eyes like he was a ringmaster about to commence a grand show.

“Now don’t you go too gentle,” Peli admonished him, sternly. “Remember: she’s built to fly and so are you.”

He huffed a light laugh as he reached up to deal with the switches on the panel above the dash. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The systems blinked on cleanly, smoothly.

The engines rumbled and thrummed.

His heart swelled and set off on a race, jumping the gun.

He reached for the gear knob but halted just before touching it. He turned to Grogu, eyebrows raised.

“You want to do the honours?”

Grogu perked up and nodded, then a veil of concentration fell over him. He half-closed his eyes and brought his hand up, miming the motion of grabbing something and pushing it forward. As he did so, the gear shift slid forward and the engines burst.

“Well. Here we go then,” Din said, grin growing as he eased the steering yoke back.

As the ship left the ground, he stowed the landing gear. Then, it was straight to the sky.

Up out of the hanger, the city sprawled out around them. They rose and rose until the buildings shrank and receded into shaped clumps of sand. When everything below had turned into a diorama set, the ride began.

There were, of course, speed limits in the city’s airspace. Anxious for the sky but unwilling to deal with touchy port-droids, Din scraped as close to breaking those limits as he dared, holding back until they had cleared the city’s jurisdiction.

Then he punched it.

The acceleration was a snap: they were already moving fast but they may as well have been idling the way they were kicked back into their seats. Din gasped; Grogu shriek-laughed.

The comm made a scratching noise then Peli’s voice cracked through.

“So? How’s the first impressions going?”

“She’s fast,” Din answered, breathlessly. “Acceleration’s on a hair-trigger.”

“That’ll settle, don’t worry. Now come on: see how she handles a real flight. Take her ‘round the canyons.”

Din nodded then remembered that Peli could track the ship but she couldn’t see him. “Copy that,” he made himself say as he guided the yoke in a tentative arch, the view of the desert horizon tilting as the ship turned.

With just that motion, he understood one thing very quickly: the ‘Finder didn’t handle like the ‘Crest. The ship responded too eagerly to his commands: no delay, no margin for error.

It’s just different, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath as the giddiness began to curdle into something hopeless. Different but not impossible.

The canyons spread out before them like a maze carved just for ships. It was plain to see Boonta Eve was near: even from a distance, the multicoloured banners decorating the sheer rock-walls were visible, like little strips of confetti scattered along the rugged terrain. But, fortunate for Din, the races were still a good few days away, leaving the passages empty of racers and spectators. The only living thing he might disturb out here were womp-rats and scurriers.

“Alright. You ready, kid?” he asked and turned in his seat to glance over his shoulder at Grogu.

The little one nodded and chirped, his feet swinging in excited anticipation, his arms locking around the belt keeping him strapped in place.

Din pulled up a map of the canyons on the dash, chose a course, and went for it.

He sent the ship into a cutting dive, pulling up at the last second and sending them shooting through the broken open veins of the desert.

At first, there was a zing of fear and a deep sense of dread, like something was going to go wrong and then everything would unravel and crash. Din felt like a teenager, sitting at the controls of a speeder for the second time, when the self-confidence had taken a humbling hit and doubt had grown in its place like a weed.

Brownish-red rock blurred past. The passage which had been relatively straight suddenly bent out of shape. 

Din jerked the steering yoke, yanking the ship to change course. Another twist came too soon but he reacted in time.

More turns.

More twists.

Forks and bends and narrowings.

He navigated them easily, his reaction time and reflexes mellowing into a rhythm with the new ship, his instincts fusing with the instruments.

Gradually, the trepidation dried up.

“Now you’re moving!” Sabine exclaimed. (He wished she could’ve been here but he knew she wouldn’t have handled all this rollercoasting, not at present.)

At the sound of her voice, his confidence flourished.

He pulled some tricks: hairpin turns and abrupt stops, some barrel rolls in points so narrow, an amateur wouldn’t have even dreamed of attempting such a stunt. But he was no amateur; he had been flying for the better part of his life. 

To really test the ship, he hauled them up out of the canyons and back into the sky, swooping into an unnecessarily high loop, the gravity pressing him into the seat, into the floor, pulling him to the roof and then tumbling all over again.

Grogu was squealing.

Din was laughing.

Another loop and he suddenly decided he had to go further, had to take them all the way up out of atmosphere.

He angled towards the sky and demanded everything from the thrusters.

The sky faded like a wave was washing it all away, stars blinking awake in the ebb. Pale blue bled into shades of midnight and then they were free.

Space—perfect, endless space, the black bursting with flecks of worlds and suns too numerous to name or know—filled their view.

He heard Grogu breathe out and utter a sound that came very close to “Whoa.”

The adrenaline was still pumping hard but there was a layer of peace to it now, like all the uncertainty had been cured. Din killed the ship’s speed and banked around to bring the planet into view.

They had broken atmosphere but they hadn’t gone so far as to shrink the planet into a marble. It flooded their sights: an expanse of sun-reflecting white-gold sand.

There were no people, no cities: not all the way up here.

For a moment, Din just let them hold there, let them drift.

He had no thoughts of running away, neither did his mind reach back to memories of when it was just him, or just him and the kid. For a moment, there was only the calm, rushing in on the tailend of the exhilaration.

He had flown ships since the loss of the Razor Crest.

But this was altogether different.

Because this was his ship; these were his wings.

And he was flying once again.

There was no reason left to stay now.

The realization crept in like a snake slithering around his feet, invading and choking the peace.

The ship was ready.

It was time to move on.

As if to block the thought out, he sent them back down.

On re-entry, he tested a few more systems, his enthusiasm duller than before. 

He circled back to the hangar in a beeline that wasn’t as loopy as before.

Upon landing, the thrill took spark again—it didn’t burn as bright as before, but enough of it was back that he could match the others’ enthusiasm as they came out to meet him.

. . . . . 

and here’s some art of the Path Finder…

Chapter Text

Their time on Tatooine was growing short.

Realistically, Omega knew she didn’t have to leave when the others left; after all, with the work on the Path Finder now complete, they didn’t need her to ferry them to their next waypoint. But she had already determined to stick with them and see this quest—of finding the Mandalorians and ensuring their safety—through to its end.

There was nothing keeping them here on Tatooine, and it would be wise to keep making tracks. No bounty hunters had cropped up during their stay but Boonta Eve would see many people come through the ports—it would be all too easy for unsavoury characters to slip in. Fennec and Boba were still looking into the bounty on Din, but anything they learned could be relayed over a comm call.

So it was time to leave.

And Omega still hadn’t told Boba who she was.

It hadn’t mattered to her before they arrived. Even now, she couldn’t see how her life would be any different if he knew. But some part of her revolted against the idea of leaving without first unlocking and sharing the secret.

It wasn’t because of Ezra.

She had thought his prodding annoying at first, but he hadn’t taken it very far—he hadn’t bugged her about it nearly as much as she pestered him to tell Sabine about the baby. Really, when she quelled the self-righteousness and the hot temper, she recognized that Ezra had been more guiding and reasoning than pushing.

She understood why he felt so strongly about the matter: he had only recently been reunited with his own brother and was still on the high of it all. But the shift in her perspective came from her high regard for family and her own observations.

Boba was not what she had expected, and after seeing him for who he truly he was, she had no reason to deny their relation.

A part of her wanted to tell him. Something in her needed to break the latch and release the secret, get it out of her system, out of her bones, set it free. She couldn’t name what that part of her was but she had learned—through trial and error and more than one close-shave—that whenever it was this loud and insistent about something, she did well to listen.

So here she was: standing in the corridor outside the rancor’s pen, pulling together the courage to see her decision through.

She was not a tentative person. Her approach to life married caution and reckless courage, and she long ago excised the paralyzing worry that came from imagining worst-case scenarios and caring too much about what others thought of her. But as she stood there gazing at the large doors, she felt a very old, very familiar fear creep up her spine and come to settle heavy in her chest.

The fear of rejection.

The woman she had become could knock on the doors; the child she would never not be wanted to go curl up somewhere and hide and not deal with this.

But she did knock, her hand moving as if under a power not her own, and then she stayed and waited for a voice on the other side to beckon her to enter.

She knew it was Boba on the other side but when she heard that welcoming “Come in,” sing through the solid doors, her mind tricked her, supplying the image of Hunter on the other side.

Before she pushed the door open enough to squeeze through, she heard the rancor. He was trilling, a vocalization that sounded very odd coming from such a big, rough animal; it was deep and rocky but unmistakeably happy. It lifted her spirits to see him excited and content, sporting a ragged-toothed grin as Boba scratched vigorously behind his ears.

“This little one did so well in training today,” he gushed, adoring eyes locked on the hulking creature he deemed a cherished pet.

Omega smiled at the sight, again wondering how this was the same man she had heard such terrible things about. He was guilty of things—perhaps all those things propagating rumours and shudders from one end of the Outer Rim to the other—and maybe his heart had been black and cold before, she didn’t know; she couldn’t say. But, here now, he was decent and kind and she could focus on that.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked, glancing to her and raising his eyebrows.

She shook her head. “No. No, I… just wanted to see the rancor,” she lied.

But it was the right thing to say.

Boba’s grin reached a new level of delight and he beckoned her over with a gesture.

She came and Boba stepped aside, nodding for her to take over. Even though the transition was smooth, the rancor noticed the change. He flinched and whined but settled quickly, returning to enjoying the attention, his happy sounds continuing.

It had been some time since Omega had interacted with a rancor, but she remembered the way their hides felt: like some mix between leather, rubber, and stone. With such thick skin atop dense muscle, one had to expend quite a bit of strength and force for such a thing as scratching behind their ears to be actually felt.

The rancor tossed his head, the way a house pet would. Globules of spit went flying; Boba easily side-stepped a blob, letting it splatter on the sand instead of on his face.

“I’ve been told there are cultures that view the rancor as a majestic beast; a symbol of elegance and grace,” he remarked with a humorous hint in his voice. Pointedly, he looked down at the puddle of spit and raised his brows. “I suppose they chose to overlook a few things.”

Omega breathed out a light laugh and gave the rancor a pat, signalling she was done. The creature whined and tipped his head, nudging her in a begging manner. Rather than give in, she ran her hand over his sheer, bumpy snout in a motion she had used to calm all kinds of animals in her travels.

It had never failed her before and it didn’t fail now.

The rancor’s begging whines melted into a low hum and his relatively tiny eyes slid closed, his head bowing. She slowed the motion and ended with her hand staying on his forehead for a moment before she stepped away.

The cavern was silent now with the rancor not asleep, just docile and relaxed. Omega glanced to the side and found Boba openly staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

He flicked his eyes to the rancor. “I’ve never seen him calm down like that.”

She shrugged. “It’s just a trick I learned.”

“From?”

“Well… not really anyone. I just sorta… figured it out by myself.”

Boba glanced between her and the rancor, a pensive crease in his brow. When his gaze switched to and stayed on her for the last beat, she read many things in his eyes, all at once.

Curiosity.

Wariness.

Puzzlement.

All so sharp and clear and vivid, and she wondered if that was something the Mandalorians were taught to do because Din expressed similarly: without filter or dilution. She supposed it was easy to let one’s guard slip when used to the safety of a helmet.

“You have the Jedi’s gift, don’t you?” Boba said at last, his voice low as if this were something they shouldn’t be heard discussing, never mind the fact they were alone (save for the rancor).

Omega shook her head. “No. Maybe.” She sighed, decades of unanswered questions digging themselves out of their own graves. “I don’t know.”

Boba’s gaze didn’t move from her so she looked away.

This wasn’t what she came to discuss; it wasn’t something she all that much cared about. After Tantiss, she made a conscious effort to put it behind her and forget about it, and with her feet planted firmly on Pabu, her days decorated with the sun, the sky, and the sea, it gradually became so easy to just move on.

The matter of what was special about her blood never came up again, and when she joined the Rebellion, she put in safeguards to ensure it couldn’t cause any problems—for her or anyone else. Things like changing her name and falsifying her records, creating a new fake chain code, making sure to have AZI and not another medic or droid treat any injuries she received. 

She didn’t have the Force—the Jedi’s gift, as Boba referred to it. Ventress said she didn’t have it. No one on Tantiss said exactly what she did have, giving it a tangible name, but whatever it was, it played well with midichlorians in their experiments. But the scientists working there were under strict orders not to interact with her and she didn’t pursue it—then or after—so she never got an definitive answer about her M-count.

Recently, she wondered about it. Meeting Ezra and Grogu seemed to pinch that long dormant question and drag it back into the light. Ezra hadn’t made too fine a point of it, but she knew if she asked him to test her that he would, gladly. She could have even gone to Sloan and gotten a clinical answer if she really wanted to.

She just… didn’t know if she needed to know anymore.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, feeling like a broken echo.

Boba nodded to that and the subject was silently, mutually sealed and placed on a shelf.

They stayed quiet for a while, the rancor’s steady, rumbling breathing the only sound keeping them company. Late afternoon sun trailed in through the grate set high in the craggy wall, catching on dust motes and sparkling faintly, gilding the leaves of the plants spilling from pots suspended from the far away ceiling.

Omega felt as calm as the rancor for a nice long moment.

Then Boba spoke.

“You didn’t come here to see the rancor,” he observed, taking on the tone of one trying to cross a river on slippery stones: uncertain yet determined.

“No, I didn’t,” Omega admitted, simply, drawing in a steadying breath letting it set her shoulders back like the soldier she was trained to be. She made herself look at him again, look into those eyes that were exactly like hers.

She was a clone.

There were hundreds in the galaxy with the same eyes as her.

But none as much as the man standing before her now, waiting to hear her out.

“We’re leaving soon,” she began, wanting to state her reasons clear, hoping they would build some kind of bridge to help her get across her trepidation and over to what she wanted to tell him. “Tomorrow or the next day; just depends on Din. I came because I wanted to say goodbye to you, and…”

All the courage she had pulled together evaporated in an instant.

One moment, it was there, buoying her along effortlessly, the next, she was cast overboard and left to sink.

A subtle frown etched into Boba’s brow as she spoke: attentive and patient at first then dropping into something confused. Her only consolation was that he didn’t seem to be taking her words and actions in a bad light: there was no discomfort written in his stance or expression. 

That surprised her the most.

He could have read something untoward in her or assumed wrong motives, yet it was too easy to see he wasn’t thinking of such things. He was just waiting for her to speak, basing whatever he thought on only what she gave.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she heard herself say, the words gushing out like a child desperate to explain themselves. “And I don’t… I don’t need you to accept me. I just want you to know the truth.”

“And the truth is?” Boba prompted, gently.

He cared like Crosshair. He looked like Wrecker. He waited like Echo. He listened like Tech. He sounded like Hunter.

She had only known him for a few weeks.

But he was family.

He always had been.

So she just said it. 

“I’m a clone. Like you.”

For a beat, she wondered if she had truly spoken aloud as Boba’s expression didn’t shift or change. He blinked, still looking patient, like he was waiting for her to say whatever it was she had come to tell him.

Then his lips pressed into a soft line and he nodded.

“I suspected as much. I’ve met other daughters of clones before; you look very much like them.”

Omega thought her heart might just snap the way it twisted.

She shook her head. “No. I’m no one’s daughter. I’m a clone… I’m a clone just like you.”

And then, like her words had broken a spell, Boba’s gaze turned hard and defensive as his guard raised and locked into place. “This isn’t funny. Only one female clone was ever made and she died many, many years ago,” he informed her, his voice losing that friendliness, that patience, all the gentleness and warmth, and turning to unflinching stone.

He was wrong. 

There was at least one other (that Omega had met, anyway). Emerie was a 99—a defective clone, though, true to Kaminoan classification, her “defect” was no real defect at all; she just didn’t fulfil their criteria of a standard clone. But she was healthy and she had a sharp intellect, so she was not decommissioned but, rather, put to work as a medical assistant.

And, last Omega had heard, Emerie was still very much alive and well and free.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Omega said, slowly, deliberately, “but I am a clone. I was created and raised on Kamino. I was there when it fell. I watched my home burn. And I survived.”

Boba shook his head all while she spoke, denying everything she gave. He took a step back as if to get away from her.

“No. You can’t be her,” he insisted.

Fury replaced the fear.

She could feel it heating her blood to a boil, fast and angry. 

How dare he!

She hadn’t come here asking for anything. She hadn’t come here demanding acceptance from him. She came only to get the secret off her chest so she could move on and here he was pushing back against it.

“Do you have any idea what it’s taken me to tell you?” she asked, rhetorically, her volume rising. A little ways away, the rancor lifted his head and peered at them as if they had disturbed his peace. For his sake, she reined herself in. “I didn’t even want to be in the same room as you when we arrived,” she said, forcing calm and a levelness she didn’t feel all the way to her core. “But I got over myself and I gave you a chance.”

“A chance?”

“I know what you did, during the war: the jobs you took from the Empire, the people you hunted. You killed rebels—you killed people I knew and fought with. But I believe everyone can change, and I believe there’s a capacity for good in everyone. And you are good,” she said like a confession, her indignation simmering down in a rush. She sighed, the sound weary and ragged. “Like it or not, you are my brother… and I just wanted you to know the truth about who I was because I’m never gonna get another chance.”

It was hard to tell if her words had touched Boba at all. He continued looking at her like she was something terrible and impossible, his expression twisting in a battle between confusion and disbelief, his head ever shaking.

“No,” he said, in a whisper just to himself. “No. You can’t be her.”

“Who? Who can’t I be?”

Boba turned away, abruptly, like he had to stop seeing her. He stalked the length of the room, to the door, and stopped dead. He froze there for a long moment.

When he spoke next, it was to the doors.

“They said you died.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, softly, and there again, that sense she couldn’t name, prickling along her skin, warning her that she had just trod on a path of no return.

Boba seemed unable to form speech for a while, too overcome with something confounding and emotional. When finally he turned and looked at her again, there was a wavering, glistening sheen to his eyes.

“You’re the Omega clone,” he said so softly she nearly missed it.

“I am,” she confirmed, lifting her chin like a soldier at roll call.

“They said you died,” he repeated.

“Who? The Kaminoans?”

“Yes.”

Omega frowned. “Why would they tell you that?”

“They didn’t. They told my father. I just happened to overhear.”

She opened her mouth for another question but no words came. She didn’t know what more to ask; something here was not adding up.

Boba didn’t hold his tongue to force her to ask, but he did take a moment to look at her—really look at her, like she was something he recognized, something he had lost a long time ago and had just now found lying in the sand.

When his eyes reached hers again, she saw no trace of denial.

“When I was little, my father decided he wanted another child,” he began the explanation. “He requested one from the Kaminoans and they agreed. I remember him telling me our family was soon to grow; that I was to become an ori’vod. He even took me to see you growing in the tank. I remember it so clearly: how excited he was, how happy he was.” Boba exhaled a soft chuckle and a smile dwelled for a moment before departing, leaving something somber to take its place. 

“And I remember… I remember one of the Kaminoans coming to our apartment one evening. The way she stood with her head bowed and her hands laced, as if she were trying to look sad but had too little reason to be. She said something had gone wrong, that the clone was defective and… nonviable. I don’t know what was said after that—they went out into the hall to finish speaking. They did that when they felt I shouldn’t hear something. When my father returned, he couldn’t speak, but I knew something awful had happened. He was crying like I had never seen before and he fell on the ground and hugged me for a very long time.

“When he could speak again, he explained it to me as well as he could manage. I wondered why he didn’t just ask them to make another, but I knew not to say it aloud. I was young but I knew when he was in pain. Some time later, when he seemed healed, I did ask, and he told me you were the Omega—the last or the end. You were gone and he did not want to merely replace you.”

She listened to the story, every word a slash of a blade to her moorings.

It all felt like a fairytale—something contrived, something unreal. How could any of it even be verified? All other parties—Jango, the Kaminoans—were long gone. Only herself and Boba were left.

But she had just spent these last few weeks learning what kind of man he was.

Stalwart.

Generous.

Loyal.

Honest.

She had two options: believe him or don’t. She had done what she came to do, she had told him who she was; she didn’t need anything more. She could leave now with a clear conscience and a checked to-do list.

But if what he said were true…

“Jango… wanted me?”

Boba nodded, solemnly. “He did. We both did.”

She crossed her arms and looked away. The suns were sinking low, the light gliding into the cavern tinted in vivid shades. “But I was female, so the Kaminoans decided I was defective.” The words tasted so bitter.

“No. Our father specifically requested a daughter.”

Our father.

“He had had a sister,” Boba explained. “She died young and never had the chance to have a family of her own. He wished to raise you and name you in her honour.”

She gripped her arm tight as if it could ground her.

She hadn’t known that.

She hadn’t known any of that.

“What—?” Her voice cracked. She glanced up at the ceiling and drew a breath, purposely ignoring the blur creeping across her eyes. “What was her name?” she asked, casual tone too forced to be believed.

It didn’t matter.

Her name was Omega.

Yes, it was just a designation at the beginning, but it had turned into a name—her name. She had attached meaning to it, connected accomplishments and relationships to it. She reformatted it into a new name, tying it together with her brother’s name—specifically the brother who felt the most like a father to her.

But, even so, “Omega” was still just a designation. It had not been bestowed on her in love. No thought had been spent on its meaning. No one was remembered by its utterance. 

She never even imagined there was another name she was meant to have.

“Arla,” Boba shared, unreservedly.

The name echoed in her ears, earning an instant spot in her memory. In a stray, slightly humorous musing, she wondered what her brothers would think of all this.

That she had met the most famous clone and discovered he was a good man despite his past.

That she was not a mistake but had actually been intended as Jango’s daughter until she had been deemed defective for some unknown reason.

That she had a name—a proper name that honoured a girl long dead.

They’d believe her; they always believed every story she told them. And they’d probably ask her what she did after she found out.

And she wasn’t sure how much she would go into it because, really, it was mushy, but they’d want to hear how Boba noticed her blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her brothers were sentimental saps; they’d probably tear up as well if she told them how she didn’t know why, but a calmness spread through her in that moment, like the feeling of coming home after a journey you thought would strand you somewhere you don’t belong. And she wouldn’t even have to tell them, they’d just know that she hugged Boba and wondered what it would have been like if they had had the life their father meant them to have, if they had grown up as siblings.

She decided she would leave that last part out on purpose.

Because the first part of her life was lonely and sterile, yes, but she got to grow up wild with the best brothers in the galaxy and she never wanted anything else.

And Boba was her brother, too.

They could pick up from here.

. . . . .

It was hard to tell what was food and what was art on the table at dinner.

Despite Boba’s best efforts to keep Cookie uninformed, somehow the chef-droid heard that this was to be the last night with their guests and he, accordingly, went to town—there was hardly any space left on the table for the diners’ plates.

“Please take some with you when you go,” Boba implored, less for the sake of hospitality and more just plain desperate. “Our cold store is already filled to the brim.”

“Hey, if you’re offering,” Peli said, holding up her hands. (Din had invited her to join them, as a kind of celebration, and to thank her for all her help with the Path Finder.)

Boba looked at Din and Sabine, his eyes pleading.

“We could bring some to the covert,” Sabine suggested and watched Din’s reaction closely.

He got that jolt in his eyes, like a skittish animal disturbed by a loud noise, but otherwise his expression remained neutral and he simply nodded in assent. But when he glanced over the table bedecked in decadent, decorative dishes, he grimaced just a bit.

“I don’t know what they’re gonna think of this,” he muttered in a tone that suggested he knew exactly the kind of response he had in store: derision.

“Hey. It’s free food,” Ezra pointed out, sticking out his hand and using the Force to pry a meatball out of a pyramid stacked on the far end of the table from where he was. “No one complains about free food,” he said as the meatball drifted like a moth through the air, swooping up and down in a few unnecessary loops. When it was within reach, he plucked it out of the air and popped it straight in his mouth.

Grogu, seated on a raised stool between Din and Sabine, perked up. In a snap, Sabine figured out what was about to happen; Din, however, had his gaze turned somewhere else at that very moment. She chose not to do or say anything, sitting back and just watching as Grogu stuck his little claw out, face scrunching in concentration. 

She flicked her gaze to the meatball pyramid as it wobbled and rocked. Five meatballs (not just one) burst out of the formation and flew straight through the air like miniature cannonballs. Without flinching, she grabbed her plate and held it in front of Grogu like a shield, catching the meatballs just in the nick of time. At the sound of the sauce splatting on the plate, Din whipped around.

“Crisis is in hand,” Sabine assured him as she set the plate down by Grogu, picking up a napkin to wipe away some stray splotches of sauce.

Din looked at the plate and frowned as he glanced around, eyes widening when he spotted the meatball pyramid too far away for either of them to have reached without special help.

He looked conflicted for a moment, like he was trying to figure out how to tell the boy not to do that again, but he quickly gave up, a corner of his mouth twitching as he fought down a smile.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful.

For a little while, they put the world and its worries aside and just enjoyed this pocket of peace. 

They had only spent a short time here on Tatooine, but so much had happened; so much was different. 

Not only did they have a new ship, but they had a new family member on the way. And while Sabine hadn’t asked and Omega hadn’t said anything, she could tell a bond had been struck between her and Boba.

Din, especially, needed this.

He was determined to return to the covert, he wanted to reunite with his tribe, but he was still afraid of how he might be received.

The point about his new way may or may not come up, but even if it remained a secret, it was not the only reason the tribe had to shun him. 

His mistake—knowingly, willingly turning a child over to Imperials—and then his attempts to rectify the situation had landed him in deep trouble. He hadn’t called on the tribe for aid, but it was part of their code to help and, by doing so, they revealed themselves and devastation followed.

Paz said there were survivors.

He also said there were losses.

Din felt responsible for every fallen vod.

Sabine knew the feeling. And she knew how difficult it was to return to people who had reasons to turn you away.

But for tonight, he was surrounded by people who accepted him in his entirety. She hoped he was taking it all in, storing it in his heart for later, for strength.

She certainly was.

After dinner, they relocated to a lounge where they could sit more comfortably and talk the last hours of the evening away. One story sparked another person’s story, and a steady train of anecdotes carried them along.

. . . . .

The palace was never exactly silent and it certainly was never empty, but after everyone retired for the night and went their separate ways, Boba realized just how much he was going to miss having them all here.

Despite the late hour, he still had business to attend to. It had been waylaid—first by his talk with Omega which stretched on past sunset, then by the dinner he wanted to be present for. Tired but duty-bound, he made his way to the throne-room and forced focus as the droid read petitions and statements and a few tributes from various characters throughout the city and beyond.

When Fennec entered, he sat up straighter, feeling like his deliverance had arrived.

She said nothing, just looked at him and flicked a glance at the droid, her sleek eyebrows jumping ever so slightly. 

He understood.

“Thank you,” he said to the droid. “That will be all for today.”

“A thousand apologies, Lord Fett, but I have not yet read the Klatoonians’ complaint,” the droid protested, rickety head wobbling.

“It can’t be any different than the last two dozen complaints they’ve already filed.”

The droid consulted his datapad. “It is not,” he confirmed.

“It will keep until morning then,” Boba concluded, gesturing for the droid to leave them.

Once alone, he stood and took a moment to stretch his back before nodding for Fennec to walk with him through to the greenhouse.

“You have something to report, I presume?”

“It’s not good news,” she told him, bluntly.

He sighed. He had been having such a good day; he didn’t want to end it on a sour note.

“It’s about Djarin’s bounty.”

“Have you learned who set it?”

“No. I haven’t even managed to secure a communication with the client. Whoever they are, they’re very careful.”

“So what did you find?”

Fennec stopped walking, calling Boba to halt as well. He turned so as to face her.

He had met some of the greatest sabaac faces in the galaxy but they all paled in comparison to Fennec Shand. If she wanted nothing to show, then nothing showed, nothing even slipped.

But she was not devoid of emotion, nor was it impossible to glean her true feelings on any given occasion.

She had no ticks, but her unnecessary yet intentional pauses betrayed her graveness. The way she drew her breath—a little slower, a little more deliberate—and the subtle lift of her chin bespoke a kind of sympathy, like she wouldn’t wish the fate she was about to reveal upon her worst enemy.

Those little things ensured Boba’s hackles were raised before she delivered the news.

“Cad Bane’s taken the job.”

He didn’t question her. 

He didn’t ask how she had found out—she had never provided him with false or misleading information in all the time they had worked together (and most of the time when he requested a source, he received a mischievous smile and a vague remark in response). 

He trusted he could take anything she said as an irrevocable fact.

And this… this was a terrible fact, indeed.

“Have you told Djarin yet?” Boba asked, a dark sense of impending dread blocking out the day’s brilliance and warmth. 

Fennec gave a curt shake of her head. “I only just found out now and he’s gone off to bed. Figured I’d let him have one last night of peace.”

“If Bane is on his trail, he may not get even that.”

Boba changed direction and set off to return to the throne-room, but before he got very far, the administrator droid met him in the hallway.

“A thousand apologies, Lord Fett,” he said, bowing his head and trying to hold his skeletal arms out in a ceremonial placation but with one arm twitching rustily, he only half-succeeded.

“You’re forgiven,” Boba clipped out, tired of the rituals so deeply embedded in the servants but aware only time, patience, and affirmation would uproot such things. “Listen. I need you to go to the Mods’ quarters and summon them for me. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“A thousand apologies, Lord Fett,” the droid repeated, standing rooted to the spot but swaying like he intended to go and fulfil the request but he had another task to see through first. “I came to inform you of guests.”

Boba and Fennec shared a snap glance.

“What guests?” Boba demanded, distinctly feeling like he was standing in a castle with broken walls.

“They are Mandalorians, Lord Fett.”

Chapter Text

By accident, necessity, and somewhat by choice, Din had become soft. 

He had given up denying it.

He just couldn’t figure out when that devolved into him becoming the designated pillow.

With his belly full and his energy spent, Grogu was asleep before they retired to their room. He was completely unresisting as Din washed his face and swapped his day clothes for a soft sleep robe. Now, he was a warm little bundle on Din’s chest, his soft, rhythmic snoring setting the pace for his father’s heart beating right beneath him. 

Sabine lay curled right up against his side. She was not far from sleep herself; the arm she had flung over him was heavy and her eyes were closed, her voice laced with a soft rasp as she and Din concluded the day with their routine conversation.

They went over their day and wandered down whatever warrens and trails they stumbled across. Sometimes, Din paused and tried to trace his way back to see where they had begun, endlessly fascinated with the way they could go from innocuous, mundane chatter to some of the strangest topics.

Talking about his new hearing aids led to marvelling over Kia’s mechanical prowess, which slipped into observations about Boba and the father figure he had obviously become to the girl, which somehow tripped into talking about the ship and the first flight, and somewhere along there, Sabine quipped that it was a good thing someone else had named the ship or else Din would just keep calling it by its model number.

He laughed at that: a soft, breathy thing designed not to wake the child sleeping soundly on his chest.

Sabine was quiet for a minute. Then she said, with as much gravity as someone on the cusp of sleep could manage: “We should think of a name.”

Din frowned. “I thought you liked the Path Finder.”

She lifted her head, just enough that he could see the little glitter from the moons reflecting in her eyes. “I meant a name for the baby,” she corrected.

“Oh.” His frown faded then returned. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

It would still be months before the child arrived—Sabine didn’t even really look pregnant yet (though, in the last few days, he could have sworn her belly had a slight bump).

“No harm picking a name out early,” she said as she settled her head back down. “We don’t have to keep it.”

“Okay.”

“So? You got any ideas?”

He considered it.

Really, he did.

But his mind hit a blank wall very quickly, very firmly, and he knew there was nothing behind it.

He sighed without sound, the lumpy form of Grogu and his tooka doll sliding out of his field of vision as his chest deflated. “I got nothing.”

“It is late,” Sabine offered as if to excuse him.

“What names have you come up with?” he challenged, goodnaturedly.

She didn’t answer right away; somehow, it came off as more shy than sifting through thoughts.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Alright.” She breathed out—with the new hearing aids, he caught the little wisp of her voice in the exhalation, like a faint sigh. “When I was younger—and I mean a lot younger, like… I think I was about eight or nine—I thought if I ever had a baby of my own, I would name them after colours.”

Despite his promise, Din breathed out a soft laugh (however, it was of fondness, not derision). “Of course you did.”

One of her skills (or perhaps it was better to call it a quirk) was the ability to distinguish every single shade of colour on the visible spectrum and name them. What he would just call “black” she would call “onyx” or “charcoal” or whatever the kriff “ebony” was. He marvelled at the encyclopaedic lists she had seemingly memorized (though, at times, he couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t just making it all up to mess with him).

But he couldn’t think of anything. 

Mandalorians didn’t really have any hard-and-fast naming conventions—it was impossible to set dogged rules on how to name one’s children when foundlings were as common as clan-born, if not more so, and they were encouraged to retain their given names as much as possible. 

He would ask Ezra in the morning, but, off the top of his head, Din couldn’t recall any Lothali traditions. He was named after their father’s father, but he wasn’t sure if that was convention or simply a choice their parents made.

He wasn’t good at naming things.

Sabine joked but she was right: he had never called his ship anything besides the model name. He went half a year just calling Grogu “kid/buddy/pal” even though he could have named him, and, after the Armourer deemed them a clan, he really ought to have given the child something to be known by—he had no way of knowing he would eventually learn the child’s real name.

He knew the importance and power and intimacy of a name. He knew well how many things a single name could hold—history and tribute, reputation and honour, grief and reformation. 

Naming a ship was a trivial matter. Naming a person… 

All of a sudden, Din felt a crushing weight on his chest that had nothing to do with Grogu.

It wasn’t a totally bad feeling. Some of it was anxiety, yes, but it was also something else, something he wasn’t sure there was a name for.

This discussion—light-hearted and drugged with drowsiness—brought the concept of a new life, a whole new person, a little further into belief.

They would come without a story, without a record. No sins committed, no deeds done, no history, only a future. Din couldn’t imagine giving them someone else’s name or burdening them with a name they would have to live up to. 

They should have something new; something that was all theirs.

“I think a colour name sounds nice,” he said. 

He thought Sabine might go on to tell him her favourites—if this truly was such an old desire, then she had had time to think it through and she would’ve had a list prepared—but she just hummed vaguely in response.

Awkwardly, he craned his neck so he could plant a kiss on the crown of her head, wishing her a peaceful sleep.

For once, he didn’t have to switch off the lamp because they hadn’t had to keep it on while they talked. They had left the moons to gild the dark with their dim shimmer as they lay down comfortably; Sabine didn’t have to make sure Din could see her mouth as she spoke. 

Talking with her was the part he cherished most; however they had to do it—through speech, through sign, through signals or symbols or scribbles—he didn’t care. Her thoughts and expressions were what mattered, not the medium used to communicate them. He was grateful they had so many ways to converse, grateful that she thought nothing of utilizing alternatives, but there was something special about her voice when it was quiet and on the precipice of falling to sleep and he latched onto every little nuance, catching them like fragments of shooting stars.

He didn’t dare shift around too much but he was comfortable enough as he was; he had certainly slept in worse places and positions. Absently, he wondered if his little family’s using him as a glorified pillow wasn’t some kind of intervention, some tactic to ensure he didn’t sneak out of bed and sacrifice sleep.

He didn’t dwell on it.

He closed his eyes and breathed out and willingly, blessedly surrendered to sleep’s strong current.

It had been a while since he had been able to fall asleep so easily…

. . . . .

He wasn’t very deep asleep when the sound of the doors opening and a slightly nasally voice disintegrated the peace.

(In the disorientation of waking suddenly and abruptly, he registered that he had left the hearing aids on.)

He lifted his head and squinted against the light flooding in from the corridor. He could make out the distinctive silhouette of the Twi’lek majordomo, robes swishing audibly as he entered the room but halted just over the threshold.

“My deepest, most sincerest apologies to the Lord and Lady,” he said and Din realized he had his hand up to cover his eyes as he addressed them. “I severely regret to disturb you, especially at this hour as you seek solitude and rest in your chambers. I assure you that, could it have been avoided, every effort would have been made to do so.”

“What’s wrong?” Din asked, not really trying to erase the irritation from his voice as Sabine unfolded from his side and groggily lifted her head, glancing about with bleary, unfocussed eyes.

Graves dipped his head to the side and made a gesture with his other hand like he was trying to placate and keep everyone calm. “I was not told anything is wrong, per se. However, Lord Fett desired you be kept abreast of some recent and unexpected developments.”

Din resisted the urge to snap at him to get to the point. Forcing a cap on the short temper sparked by the sudden awakening, he transferred Grogu from his chest to Sabine’s and then extricated himself from the sheets, reluctantly but swiftly. “What developments?” he asked.

“Callers have come for you. I have not seen them myself, nor was I given names, descriptions, or intentions to relay to you. Again, I extend a heartfelt apol—”

“It’s okay,” Din interjected, too tired, too done to deal with Graves’ over-the-top mannerisms. “Thank you,” he made himself say, both to be polite and to give the other man his cue to leave.

The majordomo bowed, the hand not employed covering his eyes swirling decoratively through the air as he did so. Then he backed out the room and took his leave, likely waiting on the other side of the doors to escort Din down to wherever he was to meet with these callers.

For a minute too long, Din sat there on the edge of the bed, utterly reluctant to go any further. He scanned the floor for his boots, a part of him cringing at the idea of going down and meeting whoever had come calling for him in his sleep clothes, the other part too exhausted to even care.

He spotted his boots in the corner where he had left them too few hours ago. With a groan, he drew up the very dregs of his willpower and got up.

Sabine got up, too. 

“You can stay asleep,” Din told her.

“M’awake anyway,” she said, losing the fight to yawn as she pulled on a cardigan.

Grogu was the only one still asleep. Din looked at him all snug and warm in the centre of the big bed with something like envy stirring in his chest. But if the little one was this calm, then whoever had come couldn’t be a threat.

Din and Sabine followed Graves. 

With every step along the winding staircase, they woke a little more until they were as alert and aware as someone woken just after midnight could be.

All the way, Din pondered over who might have come for him. It couldn’t be an enemy if Boba sent Graves to retrieve him, and he doubted there was some trick at play: Graves was one of the worst actors Din had ever seen (and in his career as a bounty hunter, he had met every shade of liar and pretender the galaxy had ever produced). Even if it was an enemy, Din doubted they could cause much trouble in the middle of a palace full of warriors. 

He couldn’t conceive of who it might be, so he entertained neither anxiety nor anticipation until he reached the throneroom.

He first saw Boba and Fennec: Boba sat seated on the throne itself and Fennec was perched on the armrest. Boba’s posture was rigid, his expression guarded, his eyes hard as flint; Fennec looked especially cool and relaxed, which meant she was ready for trouble to erupt any minute now.

Standing before them were two people: Terrans, a man and a woman. They both wore Mandalorian armour but no helmets. The man looked to be in his sixties, his hair white but laced with a fading copper tint; the woman was much younger and Din immediately recognized her by the unique braids crisscrossing on her forehead.

Koska Reeves.

As he came and froze on the threshold, she turned her gaze coolly towards him, dipping her chin to look him up and down. There was no reciprocal spark of recognition; in fact, her expression didn’t alter in the slightest. She locked eyes with him as if he were a stranger, a slight arch in her brow silently asking who he was and what he was doing here.

The man accompanying her turned a beat later and he, too, looked Din over. He didn’t hide his puzzlement as Koska did, letting his brow wrinkle and his head tilt. His armour, Din noted, was blue as well, but a distinctly different shade to Koska’s, and lacking the Nite Owl signet.

He opened his mouth as if to ask something but then it snapped shut as his eyes skipped to the side and widened in shock.

“Sabine?” he breathed like one beholding an apparition.

Din heard her gasp as he whipped around. Her expression mirrored the stranger’s.

“Fenn?” she said, taking a step but then halting as if approaching any further would erase him from her sight.

Fenn (as Din presumed was his name) froze for a moment, too, but he broke out of the spell first. With a few quick strides, he closed the distance and before anyone knew what was happening, he wrapped Sabine up in an embrace.

“You’re alive!” he choked out, and whatever concern Din felt dried up as he saw the telltale glitter of tears in the older man’s eyes.

Sabine was not a hugger, but she completed the embrace without hesitation, folding into Fenn’s arms like a child coming home.

They held onto each other for a while and the others in the room were reduced to awkward spectators. Din split his time between watching them and glancing at Koska, his head buzzing and bursting with questions. For the most part, Koska stared at her companion and then shifted to staring at Din. She kept her expression schooled but it was clear to him she was also confused.

“I don’t understand,” Fenn said as he pulled away, keeping his gloved hands on Sabine’s shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. He shook his head and huffed an incredulous breath. “Kryze said the whole Wren clan was killed in the Purge.”

“They were,” Sabine told him. “But… I wasn’t with them. I should’ve been,” she added in that quiet, self-hating voice that never failed to break Din’s heart just that much more.

“Nonsense,” Fenn said, firmly. “Knowing you, you were taking the fight right to our enemies’ front yard.”

Her head bowed down as if in shame. He was right, but she was still struggling to make her peace with it all.

Fenn curled a finger and gently nudged her chin up, coaxing her to look him in the eyes again. “They would be proud to see you living to fight another day in their name,” he assured her in a voice soft and low and warm.

Din could only see a slice of his wife’s face from where he stood behind her so he only caught a glimpse of her twisting expression as she fought not to cry. She was tired, it was late, and her hormones weren’t helping things: tears slid down her cheeks freely but Fenn just quietly wiped them away.

The name didn’t ring a bell to Din. Perhaps Sabine had mentioned it but he couldn’t call up the memory right then. Regardless, it was plain to see this was someone who knew her, someone who had cared about her, someone who still cared.

That didn’t answer quite as many questions as Din would’ve liked.

“What are you doing here?” Sabine asked, drawing her sleeve up over her hand and swiping it across her face.

Fenn lifted his head in a dutiful, grave manner. “We’ve come looking for someone,” he said, but, rather than elucidate further, he glanced pointedly past Sabine to Din who had stood silent and unobtrusive throughout this reunion. A not so surreptitious wariness tightened the corners of Fenn’s expression. “Who is this?”

“Oh.” Sabine whipped around and extended her hand, beckoning Din to come to her. “This is—”

“Her husband,” he blurted. He came and planted himself behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Belatedly, he thought he should put on a friendly smile (it felt stretched and false but at least he was trying). “I’m her husband,” he repeated, giving Sabine a few soft, secret taps with his thumb, hoping she would catch the hint.

She reached up and laid her hand over his. “We’ve been married a few months now,” she said and he felt like collapsing from sheer relief when she didn’t give a name or even mention he was Mandalorian.

“He’s good people,” Boba chimed in. “You can trust him with knowledge of your quest.” 

(Din didn’t fail to detect a hidden note of warning in his friend’s words, or the glance in his direction coupled with a meaningful lift of a single eyebrow.)

(Thankfully, it seemed Fenn and Koska missed that silent exchange.)

“We’re trying to track down the Silver Mandalorian,” Koska said, stepping forward to take her station at Fenn’s side. 

“We heard from some sources that he had had dealings with Boba Fett,” Fenn added, nodding to Boba sitting on the throne. He shook his head, still struggling with belief. “We had no idea we’d find you here,” he said to Sabine.

“What do you want with this… Silver Mandalorian?” Din asked, hoping his hesitation came off as ignorance.

Koska’s critical gaze stuck on him again.

He wondered how long they had been here already. Had they managed to see him in town with Grogu? That was what led Xi’an to conclude who he was.

Or did Koska by any chance have as sharp an ear and memory as Peli, who managed to recognize Din merely by his voice?

Din didn’t know. 

He just stood there, feeling very much exposed while Koska looked at him like he was a mystery but not a particularly interesting one. 

“We’ve been told he possesses the Darksaber,” she said to Sabine, very pointedly switching to Mando’a. She tilted her head back lopsidedly and watched her.

Sabine quietly blinked, not with surprise, not with anything. “And what? You seek to retrieve it for your lady?” she asked, her Mando’a flowing crisp and fluid.

“We seek the truth,” Fenn concluded in Basic, giving Koska a slightly chastising look. “And we come with a warning.”

“What kind of warning?” Din asked.

Koska rounded on him. “What does it matter to you?”

“Easy there, little one,” Boba said as he rose and took his time striding down to join their circle, very obviously planting himself near Din as if readying to shield him. “You do well to remember you are all guests in my house and I expect my guests to treat each other with respect.”

Koska looked about ready to throttle Boba but a glance to Fenn—who dipped his head in an abiding nod to the local king—stopped her.

“In our travels, we’ve learned that a bounty has been issued for him,” Fenn divulged. 

Fennec, who had slid from the armrest to the centre of the throne where she sprawled like a Loth-cat and made herself quite comfortable, laughed. “Yeah, that’s yesterday’s news, pal,” she said.

“We have been looking into it for him,” Boba explained, carefully.

“You looking to collect?” Koska accused, taking a bold step forward, coming very close to, if not outright crossing a line.

Din expected better of Boba. He really did. But his friend also took a confrontational step forward, his face hardening.

“And what if I did? Would I deliver him to you or to that Death Watch hut’uun you call your master?”

Din read the rising tension and acted before the bubble burst. He pulled Sabine behind him, getting her well out of the way just as Koska lunged at Boba.

A short brawl ensued.

She knocked him to the ground but he twisted out of her hold before she could pin him to the sandy floor. He sprang up to his knees and thrust out his arm, shooting out his whipcord and catching her by the arm. He yanked hard to pull her down but she resisted, keeping her arm staunch in the air. Both of them were straining from the tied tug-of-war: it was clear on their faces and in the clipped grunts they let slip. Boba brought his other arm up, grabbing his vambrace with the whipcord anchor and doubling his efforts but still she didn’t budge. Then, suddenly, she went slack on purpose and he almost fell backwards. She took the sliver of surprise and launched at him but he wasn’t where he was. As she came hurtling towards him, he dove to the side, cutting the whipcord to allow him to buy distance and try another trick.

Despite everything, Din had to admire the display of strength and skill—on both sides. Koska had the raw energy and vitality of youth; Boba had the prowess of a trained and tested warrior.

But now was really not the time for such a pointless fight.

(Especially not above a rancor pit.)

(They were just lucky all their scuffling hadn’t woken the beast below.)

As both Boba and Koska ignited their flamethrowers, Din stepped in.

“Enough!” he snapped, loud and sharp. 

In sync, both warriors extinguished their fires, dropped their weapons, and looked to Din. Boba had the audacity to look surprised; Koska looked like she was just treating this as a breather and then she was going to go right back at it.

Din pointed to Boba. “You should know better than to antagonize; and you,” he pointed to Koska, “shouldn’t have taken the bait. You are Mandalorians; you should not be so eager to fight one another.”

“And what do you know of Mandalorians?” Koska challenged him.

Din resisted the urge to sigh and took a deep breath instead, raising his head and straightening his shoulders. Before he could reveal what and who he was, Fenn spoke up.

“Verd’ika,” he said, addressing Koska, “you would do well to show our Mand’alor some respect.”

Her eyes narrowed on Din and she didn’t even consider the statement for a full five seconds before shaking her head. “That’s not him. He’s in his pyjamas.”

Of course, Din thought.

The last—in fact, the only—time they met, he still observed his former way of never removing his helmet in the presence of ones not bound to him by clan.

For a moment, he considered leaning into it, but it was one thing to hide who he was from lowlife scum and enemies after his head, it was another thing entirely to lie to his fellow Mandalorians.

“I am who he says,” Din declared, honestly. 

“No. You are not. You show your face,” Koska pointed out, bluntly.

He sighed. “Things have… changed since then.” Rather than get into it, he turned to Fenn. “How did you know?” 

“I didn’t,” Fenn confessed with a blithe shrug. “But I had my suspicions. Boba was clearly protecting something and when everyone began dancing around saying who you were, I thought I’d take a chance and see if I couldn’t catch the truth. I had nothing to lose if I was wrong.”

Koska continued to look dubious, but her fiery denial was weakening to embers. “If you are the Silver Mandalorian,” she said, looking Din right in the eye, “then you will know the name of the town Lady Kryze provided as payment.”

Din nodded and answered without hesitation: “Calodan. She told me I would find a Jedi there, and I did.”

“Do you really have the Darksaber?” she asked, looking marginally more inclined to believe him.

“I do. Only… I am not your Mand’alor.”

“Did you not win it in combat?”

“I did. But I make no claim on the throne.”

“Why?” Koska demanded, and, oh, she sounded so young then, like a child who couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t do all they could with something so valuable.

Din opened his hands. “What is there to be king of? Mandalore was poisoned; we cannot set foot there. Our people are few and we are lost and divided.” Pointedly, he glanced between Boba and Koska as if to highlight their little skirmish. “I am no saviour and I am no ruler,” he concluded.

Koska looked ready to argue that but no words came into the air. Her brow crimped with confusion, she regarded him with a strange mix of emotions: confusion was foremost, but there was something like disappointment simmering beneath it, like she had expected so much more from him and here he was, letting her down.

Perhaps if it weren’t so late and he wasn’t worn so thin after so many sleepless nights worrying for his family and living with a target painted on his back, he might feel sorry.

“Why have you come searching for the Darksaber?” Sabine questioned, sounding more open to mutual discussion than him.

“We are Protectors,” Fenn told her not like he was informing her but, rather, like he was reminding her. “We serve the interests of the Mand’alor. Lady Bo-Katan’s legitimacy and compentency as ruler of our people has come into question as of late. For the last few years, finding Gideon and obtaining the Darksaber has consumed her to the point she has slowly sacrificed the welfare of the people under her care. After finding and killing Gideon, she lied about the Darksaber, saying it had been lost forever when, in fact, she knew who held it.” He looked at Din and there was a layer of disapproval in his gaze. To Din’s surprise, sympathy covered it. “You may not want the responsibility that comes with the blade, but you will still face its trials. The bounty on you… we fear it may have been set by Bo-Katan herself.”

Din’s mouth went dry.

He had considered it.

After learning of Gideon’s fate, he had asked Sabine how desperate she believed Bo-Katan was for the sword, if she was desperate enough to go so far as to hire bounty hunters to track Din down.

It would be dishonourable, Sabine had said, and, until now, that was enough for Din and he didn’t consider it again.

But lying was dishonourable.

Neglecting one’s duty to their fellow Mandalorians was dishonourable.

Going back on one’s word and changing the terms of a deal in progress was dishonourable.

He had only met the woman once, and while he could set aside their differences and work with her towards a mutually (if not equally) beneficial goal, he could never follow her lead. And he had only seen a glimpse of her fall from grace; he couldn’t have known it had been a steady deterioration, beginning long before their paths crossed and continuing well after.

He had struggled to believe she would hire bounty hunters to track him; learning the terms of the job, that he was to be beaten within an inch of his life and the bulk of his beskar used for the payment… it made him sick to even think a Mandalorian of any tribe or way capable of such a thing.

But she wasn’t just any Mandalorian.

She had been with Death Watch; she had willingly shared in their deplorable activities: lying, raiding, killing without need, without honour…

Attacking innocent settlements.

He couldn’t know if she regretted those things. He couldn’t know if she had truly denounced that way of life. People could change, but not everyone stayed changed… and not everyone changed for the better.

“Alright,” he said, presently. He looked between Fenn and Koska. “Maybe… maybe we should talk.”

and some art for this chapter

Chapter Text

With news of Cad Bane taking the job and Fenn and Koska’s suspicions about Bo-Katan setting up the bounty in the first place, they decided it would be wisest to move on as quickly as possible.

It meant they weren’t going to get anymore sleep that night.

Amidst the preparations, Din slipped away from the palace, grabbed a speeder-bike and rode into the night-covered city. It was not the kindest hour to go knocking on someone’s door, but, come morning, he would be gone, and leaving without a proper farewell felt wrong.

Peli’s voice through the intercom was groggy but still full of spit and vinegar as she snapped at her late caller. It cut Din deep, not her reaction—that he understood and forgave immediately—but he realized in that moment just how much he was going to miss her.

In between her threats, he slipped in a small “hi, Peli,” and as soon as she heard his voice, her tone changed completely, turning motherly and concerned while still keeping all that Outer Rim gruffness as she bombarded him with questions about what was wrong, what did he need, how could she help.

“I just came to say goodbye,” Din told her, halting her flurry of worry. “Something’s come up and… we have to leave.”

There was nothing but crackly silence on the other end. 

He tried pressing the button on the intercom again and was just about to repeat what he had said when the door off to the side opened and out came Peli, greasy overalls swapped for what he assumed was her sleepwear: loose pants and a loose shirt, her hair concealed in a soft, faded bonnet.

(Honestly, he didn’t recognize her at first without her dome of frizzy curls.)

Her arms were wrapped crushingly tight around his ribs before he knew it.

“You take care of yourself and that little family of yours, you hear?” she said, sounding stern and a bit choked. “And I expect you to send a butt-load of baby pictures.”

Din engaged in the embrace, awkwardly at first, then not so awkward, his arms wrapping around this small, fiery woman who had become a part of his family.

“I will, I promise. And thank you. For everything.”

She squeezed him a bit tighter. 

Finally, she pulled away. 

It was late. She was lit by patchy streetlights and whatever moonlight could pierce the city’s light pollution. She looked so different without the suns: older, wiser… lonelier.

In that moment, she looked at him like he was something more than just a customer. She looked at him as if he were someone else—someone she knew very well he could not be, but her heart had gone and let him take that place anyway. There was a thread of guilt, so thin it was lost in the grief and longing.

And suddenly, wordlessly, Din understood.

She had had a child, once upon a time. She had never breathed a word of it to him, but he could read it on her in that moment. 

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her because the other one—the real one—couldn’t.

She nodded, her lips pressed tight, her eyes glittering. “You better be, you womp-rat.”

. . . . .

They left Tatooine with another ship and another set of Mandalorians added to their caravan.

It was Fenn and Koska’s decision. 

Din knew about the Protectors. He knew they were an ancient tribe specifically tasked with protecting the people, their home, and the Mand’alor. As he refused to claim the title of Mand’alor, they had no extraordinary duty to him, yet they determined to stick with him and protect him. Some part of him tried to see that as nothing more than the fulfilment of their code, their duty to one another as Mandalorians, but he suspected they were holding out for something more, for him to change his mind.

He didn’t plan on changing his mind anytime soon, but he sensed now was not the time to make too fine a point of that.

The old Kom’rk was larger than the Marauder and the Path Finder. While Meg’s ship looked like something belonging to a traveller and every effort was put into preserving the ‘Finder’s non-threatening appearance, the Kom’rk gave no thought to concealing its identity with its sharp, proud wings drawing an imposing silhouette.

Fenn and Koska were much the same.

Though they were liberal with their helmets, they made no attempts to hide their armour. While the others could blend in with the locals of just about anywhere with their attire, they stood out.

No one drew any attention to it, but Din felt extremely exposed when standing beside them and not wearing a single scrap of beskar.

That would change soon, he knew. As soon as they arrived at the coordinates Paz had left, he would don his armour and he would wear his helmet just as he had for decades.

It felt like lying.

Deep in his heart, he believed it was a lie—wretched and weak, worse than the original sin itself. But he had to keep up appearances, just for a little while, just until they had found the covert.

He had to complete his mission.

He had to find them, had to pass on his earnings, had to make sure they were safe.

And he had to ask for their help one last time…

. . . . .

Though the ‘Finder could fly completely on its own now, they linked up with the other ships before entering hyperspace. In part, it was a way to save fuel, but it also allowed Din to keep the covert’s coordinates confined to the ‘Finder’s navicomputer.

An added benefit was that the occupants of the caravan could mingle freely during the long journey. 

Ezra found himself drawn to the Marauder. 

Everyone had someone: Din, Sabine and Grogu were a family in their own right; Sloan and Chopper seemed content to keep each other company, playing sabaac or dejarik and conversing in a way oddly civil considering their respective natures; Ezra sensed a familial bond between Fenn and Koska, and all the Mandalorians on board had a connection despite their differences. And Ezra himself had a tie to just about everyone, being either a brother or an uncle or a friend.

But Omega had no one.

He knew she was used to travelling alone, but he got the sense that she shouldn’t be alone right now.

So he followed that sense, that intangible tugging that always pulled him to where he was needed most.

She wasn’t in the pilot’s seat; this time, he found her reclining on her bunk, arms latched around an old stuffed Tooka doll, her gaze roaming the pictures littering the walls.

She would’ve heard him coming but she didn’t budge. He sensed her awareness of him but didn’t sense any aversion to his presence, so he proceeded, coming into her space with a soft pace.

The mood was heavy in that ship, heavy and trapped, like a thing sinking in dark waters. Ordinarily, the little dotted lights strung about the cabin trimmed the space with cheer and a feeling of home; now, they brought a somber, maudlin quality to the scene.

Ezra came and sat down quietly on the seat stationed at navigation, diagonally across from the bunk. He didn’t speak, though words were right there: ready, willing, waiting. As much as the Force enabled him to read emotions, as much as it could guide him to the best responses, it couldn’t tell him exactly what Omega needed. Only she could do that.

Eventually, she let go of a breath.

“I told him,” she said, quietly.

Ezra had figured that out already. “How’d it go?”

She smiled and her eyes caught flecks of soft light as they flickered, her mind replaying the recent memory. “Better than expected.”

He nodded but held back from speaking. 

He wanted to commend her, he wanted to ask her to relate exactly what she said and how Boba responded, he wanted to express how nice it was to find a connection to a brother you believed you would never get the opportunity to even meet.

But he restrained the urge to prattle and just kept the silence comfortable and open.

Slowly, Omega’s smile ebbed away. There was still a sense of fulfilment—she was pleased with the way things had worked out—but there was still that inexplicable cloud hanging over her. Ezra wasn’t sure whether to read it as regret or dissatisfaction so he did his best not to label it as any one thing until she gave him more to work with.

“They wanted me,” she said at last, her voice small. She shook her head, still semi-lying down, her arms latching tighter around the old stuffed Tooka, her bent legs hunching closer to body. “All my life, I’ve believed I was a defective clone. That’s what I was told I was. That I was some broken thing that came out wrong. That the only reason I wasn’t decommissioned was because I was healthy enough to be useful and there was something unusual about my blood the Kaminoans wanted to study further.” A bitterness laced her tone but just as quickly as it spread, it dissipated, like a fire threatening to rage with crackles and roars only to meet sand. “I made my peace with it. I’m alive; that’s what really matters. And someone once told me we aren’t to blame for how we begin; what counts is everything we do once we’re here.”

“Wise words,” Ezra chimed in, gently, as if to remind her he was here and he was listening.

The concept of the clones had always been intriguing to him. 

As a child, hearing stories about an artificially created army of identical soldiers fascinated him; it sounded like something right from a holo-film. In all honesty, it may as well have been: the war ended the very day he was born and it never quite reached as far as Lothal. By the time the Empire came to his world, stormtroopers had long replaced clone troopers. He was a teenager before he met a real clone and learning they had been forgotten and discarded by the galaxy they had fought so hard to protect… it broke his heart.

Rex was always happy to talk to him, always willing to tell him stories from the war or tell him about his brothers. Identical DNA, yet no two souls were ever the same. Purpose locked in before they took their first breaths, yet some believed in the fight and some didn’t; some poured everything into the battles, some chose to leave and seek a different life. 

And then, more recently, he met Boba and that unlocked a chapter of the story Ezra hadn’t had the faintest idea even existed. The template for the clones had taken one to be his son, to carry on his name and his legacy. And, here now, he realized another chapter was opening: one that even Omega hadn’t seen coming.

“Jango wanted a daughter. He wanted me,” she said, the little flecks of light in her eyes gathering as the facts spilled into emotions. She closed her eyes as if that could get it under control again. “They told him I died and I never met him; he never got to hold me. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about all of this. It’s not like I wish my life was different; I’m happy with the family I have. I just…”

“I know,” Ezra offered in commiseration.

He meant to leave it there, but Omega glanced at him and raised her eyebrows and he took it as a cue to continue. “My life is very different from yours, but… I hear an echo in it. Maybe you will, too. I grew up with my parents for a few years, but they never got to see Din and me together; they died believing he was long dead. At the strangest of times, it strikes me that we could’ve been a complete family, if things had just gone a little differently. But then I think of the family I do have and I know I couldn’t have had both. And then I don’t know what to think. Ultimately, ideally, I wish I could have them all: I wish my parents were still alive. I wish Din and I had grown up together. I wish I never got separated from the Spectres.”

Feeling a bit winded, he stopped and sighed, and somehow that little beat of silence after ripped the claws out of all those disappointments.

“So what do we do?” Omega asked.

Ezra shrugged and found his gaze drifting over the pictures, coming to settle on the viewport and the swirl of hyperspace beyond—mostly blue and a bit silver and gold. 

“I’m gonna carry on,” he heard himself say. “I’ll always mourn the family I lost and I’ll always hold onto the family I have, and I’ll cry some days and forget to cry others, I’ll feel too much one day and go numb for another, I’ll make a mistake or someone else will make a mistake and we’ll get into arguments and I’ll probably hate myself for it because I love them and I don’t want to fight but these things happen. They’ll keep on happening. But we’ll keep finding ways to make it okay again and we’ll all just keep carrying on. My parents would’ve wanted that for me. I’m sure your father would’ve wanted the same for you and Boba.”

Once it was all out, he worried he had talked too much.

He had come here with the intention of listening and maybe contributing a few delicate, well-chosen words; he hadn’t meant to come gushing sentiments and thoughts like a broken fountain. 

But when he looked over at Omega, she was sitting up and looking back at him without any trace of annoyance or desire for him to shut up. She had a small smile: slightly amused and a bit relieved.

“Thank you,” she said, genuine and sweet.

He tipped his head in a lopsided kind of bow. “Anytime.”

He expected their conversation to just end there or perhaps drift to something lighter, but Omega’s brow crimped and curiosity bubbled around her in the Force.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

Her gaze flickered away and she drew a breath, more hesitant than bashful. “Is it too late to test me?” she asked after a moment of internal debate.

“To see if you can wield the Force?” Ezra clarified.

She nodded. 

“It’s never too late.”

She held up a hand. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And, if I am, you don’t have to train me.”

“That would be up to you anyway, not me.”

“I just… I think I need to know. I’m ready to know.”

“Alright,” he assured her in the gentlest tone he could find. “But not right now. You’ve already climbed a mountain; best to recoup before hiking up another. Later, once we’ve dealt with the Mandalorians (and assuming they don’t shoot us out of the sky), I’ll test you.”

Omega frowned. “Why would they shoot us out of the sky?”

“They’re Mandalorians. It’s how they say hi.”

. . . . .

Throughout their journey, from the mission on Morak to the sojourn on Nevarro and the subsequent stay on Tatooine, Sabine kept in touch with Hera and Kanan. 

She kept them up to date with what was happening and where they were going, she caught up with news from their side, and she asked Hera to see what she could find out about the bounty on Din and get a feel for how antsy the New Republic was over the whole Bo-Katan incident.

(So far, Hera hadn’t found out anything about Din’s bounty but if what Fennec had unearthed and what Fenn and Koska suspected were true, then there was little else Hera could dig up that would rival the severity of such things.)

(But she could confirm the New Republic was still on edge about Mandalorians and still seeking to question the Silver Mandalorian.)

(It meant they had to be careful… which was how they were operating anyway.)

Sabine had quite the list of updates to share on this particular holo-call.

She started with how they had finished the ship and were now on their way to see Din’s covert—the simplest facts of the bunch. They meandered on those points for a while, Hera asking specifics about the ship’s modifications and giving some suggestions on how to improve or fix a few things they hadn’t had the chance to address before leaving, Kanan asking how Din was feeling about returning to the covert and how Sabine felt about meeting his tribe.

(She didn’t water anything down for them. Din was nervous—terrified, really, if she could be so brutally honest. And she was, too, on his behalf, but, beyond the empathy, she was looking forward to it; she wanted to meet his tribe, his family, the ones like him.)

Then they got interrupted for a stretch by Jacen who heard his aunt’s voice and came running, little Depa squealing and toddling clumsily behind him, chasing him. It was a sweet, welcome interruption; Sabine enjoyed his chattering and his excitement about everything. He had so many good things in his life right now: he had his parents and a little sister and they lived in a house in a neighbourhood and his father had taken up his long-awaited Jedi training.

As he chattered like a little bird, she picked up every word, but her mind drifted just a little bit. 

Would her child be talkative like Jacen? What would it be like to hear their voice for the very first time?

He, in turn, listened enraptured as she told him about Tatooine (no, she didn’t ride a bantha or go see a sarlaac pit like the ones Uncle Din mentioned—maybe next time). By then, Depa was running off to mischief and Jacen wanted to chase after her, so he tossed out a farewell and flew away, leaving behind his parents, both smiling fondly.

Now or never, Sabine decided, mustering up courage.

“Hey, uh, Hera?” she said, tone deceptively casual. “I just remembered there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Hera’s eyebrow did a little jump. “Yeah?”

“I know it’s been a while, but do you happen to recall when your morning sickness eased up?”

Hera hummed, her eyes flicking to the side as she sent her mind back. “Well, I had bouts of it throughout, but I’d say it got easier around four months in,” she answered, obligingly (and, to Sabine’s utter amusement, obliviously). Her head tilted as her brow creased ever so slightly in a puzzle. Her mouth opened for a question but then her eyes blew wide as she figured it out. 

Sabine felt her face crack into a grin and that was enough confirmation for her friend.

“Are you serious?” Kanan asked, his voice going up in pitch in excitement.

Sabine nodded and tried to smooth down her grin (to no avail). “We found out a few weeks ago.”

Hera looked like she wanted to hug her right then, but they were half a galaxy apart and they were just small blue, semi-transparent figures to each other, so she had to settle for latching onto Kanan’s arm and jostling him.

“I’m too young to be a grandfather,” he grumbled, jokingly, shaking his head, but he was grinning, too, the corners of his eyes crinkling deeply.

“Does Din know?” Hera asked, suddenly, her whole demeanour shifting in an instant from ecstatic surprise to serious.

“Yes, he knows. We kinda found out together,” Sabine assured her.

She couldn’t help but feel a conflict of emotions in that moment. A part of her was deeply grateful for the way things had worked out for them, but there was also a sting of sympathy for what her friends had gone through.

For a decade, Hera carried a heavy grief. Losing Kanan was hard enough, but losing him while pregnant with their child compounded the pain. And her greatest regret in the years that followed was that she had hesitated to tell him about the baby only to lose him before she could.

They were reunited now and it was a comfort to know he had sensed the new life they had started together—it was one of the reasons he kept pressing her to consider a life outside of the Rebellion. But all that pain and regret had left scars—on both of them.

“I’m sure he’s excited,” Kanan remarked, warmly, and although Sabine suspected this was dredging up some hurt for the both of them, they weren’t letting it taint their well-wishes for her and her family.

The topic rightly dominated the rest of their call. 

Sabine had such a story to share with how they had found out, how Ezra knew but couldn’t decide when best to inform them, how Grogu was the first to find out and how he had tried a few times to tell them, only to be thwarted by his mentor (sometimes in the most comical incidents). 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Sabine wondered what it would’ve been like to share the news with her own parents.

Would her father have smiled the way Kanan did?

Would her mother have been as excited as Hera?

What would Tristan have thought of becoming an uncle? 

Her heart twisted when she thought of how this child would carry the Wren name and legacy but would never see their clan as it once was. They would never see the beauty of their ancestral home, they wouldn’t get to craft their armour at the grand forge in the heart of the stronghold, they would never hear their traditional songs sung by a sea of Wrens and while she would of course teach them her dialect of Mando’a along with Din’s, they would never hear it spoken with the lilting, tonal accent she had grown up immersed in.

It was another part of navigating the aftermath of the Great Purge she hadn’t seen coming.

. . . . .

They were two hours away from their destination and Din couldn’t settle, so, rather than pace the ship flat or lie restless in bed, he tended to his armour in the cargo hold.

He set it out on the floor, constructing a neat skeleton. He ensured that every component and gadget operated as designed, he cleaned every inch of every piece of armour and gear, and he polished every last ounce of beskar.

Though the procedure was embedded in his bones, he did not work automatically. Every piece he inspected, he inspected with precision and mindfulness; every piece he cleaned, he cleaned with conscious care.

He recalled how each part came to him: the armour forged from beskar earned by a terrible deed, the gear procured and modified over the years until only he knew how it even worked, the non-beskar parts of his armour glommed on as trophies or worn as reminders. 

And the helmet.

It had been with him the longest, over twenty years now. He remembered the day it was forged and bestowed on him, the vow he recited as it settled on his head. It was not a crown—it did not signify any special station in the tribe nor did it call for any extraordinary reverence from his fellow tribesmen—but it may as well have been a crown to the boy who had lost everything and had found a new home, a new people, a new purpose and a new path.

He believed in the armour. He believed in their ways. He wore the helmet proudly to identify himself as Mandalorian.

He still believed.

He was still proud to call himself Mandalorian.

He just wished…

“What happened?” a voice from behind asked, cutting into his solitude suddenly and bluntly.

Din tensed but he didn’t jump and he just managed to stop himself from grabbing the blaster and rounding on his intruder. Instead, he turned his head (perhaps a bit stiffly) and saw Koska standing beside the hatch connecting the Path Finder to the Kom’rk.

She peered down at him as he knelt on the floor before his disassembled armour. Her expression was blank in a reserved way, a subtle rigidity in her brow betraying curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he replied.

She motioned to the armour with a curt nod. “Why did you remove your helmet?”

Din watched her for a moment as if holding out for her to cancel the question or ask something else, something easier to discuss, but she did no such thing. She waited, quietly standing her ground, wanting the answer.

He sighed and returned to his task. “I thought I was just some idiot from a cult,” he said, pointedly.

“I never called you an idiot,” she corrected, her voice softening rather than going on the defensive. “And… I was wrong. You weren’t part of the Watch.”

He carried on with what he was doing, going through the motions of picking up a pauldron and checking the fine circuitry hidden within, but it was more act than task as his mind wasn’t focussing on anything therein. After a minute, he checked in his peripheral vision and saw she was still there.

He set the pauldron down.

“I removed my helmet to save my son,” he explained, quietly, plainly. He reached over the armor skeleton and picked up the helmet, inspecting the already cleaned and polished surface, seeing but not seeing his reflection staring back at him. “Gideon had taken him and the only way to find him was to get coordinates from an Imperial base, and the only way to do that was to let the—let the computer scan my face. I couldn’t—” he had to pause for a second as his chest constricted. He breathed through it, his shoulders rising and falling. “I couldn’t find a way to do it without being seen.”

Those words ended his explanation and the cargo hold fell silent.

The hearing aids cancelled out the ringing in his ears, allowing him to hear clearly the smooth hum of the hyperdrive and the low drone of environmental systems. He also heard a faint rustling as Koska shifted the weight on her feet.

Eventually, he glanced over his shoulder.

She was still standing there, still outright staring at him.

“Well?” he prompted.

She blinked then shook her head. “No. I just… I wondered…” she trailed off and again Din wondered how old she was. When she was giving attitude and acting as Bo-Katan’s right-hand woman, the confidence and fire made her seem older. Now, broadcasting uncertainty and puzzlement, she seemed much younger, not in a childish way but in an inexperienced way. “When I first met you, I wondered how far you would take your rules, if there was a line or a limit.”

Din huffed a soft breath: the ghost of an ironic laugh. “I used to believe there wasn’t one. I was prepared to die to keep my vow.” Absently, he ran his hand over the crown of his helmet, his fingers catching on the jaig eyes. “More than once, I nearly did,” he admitted, quietly.

“But you wouldn’t sacrifice your child for your helmet.”

“No. Never.”

“Do you regret it?”

She asked it quietly, hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to push this far.

But he detected something more. He suspected that, had this happened months ago when they met the first time, she would not have asked such a question. Had he gone through this then, the script would have read very differently. 

If he had (for whatever reason) had his helmet removed during the mission to take the freighter on Trask, he doubted he would have had much sympathy from the ones who insisted he belonged to a cult he had never heard of. Might they have jeered? He could picture it; after all, he vividly recalled the glint in Kryze’s eyes when she recited “this is the way” in a mocking tone he was used to hearing from ones like Xi’an and Qin but never in his entire life imagined coming from someone who called themselves Mandalorian. 

But Bo-Katan was not here, nor was Axe; right here, right now, Koska was alone with no one to match or mirror. And Din didn’t know what had happened in the interim between their meetings, but if what Fenn said of Bo-Katan’s worsening obsession with Gideon and the Darksaber, then young Koska’s world had likely been tipping over for some time.

He genuinely considered her question—Do you regret it?—as he laid the helmet down where it belonged, completing this skeleton missing only his body now. “A little less each day, to be honest,” he answered with a small shrug. “I haven’t abandoned my way; I’ve just… I’ve learned and I’ve changed. The armour… it isn’t all there is to a Mandalorian—to a true Mandalorian.”

She was quiet for so long that he assumed she had slipped away. Just as he was about to turn around and check, however, she came around and knelt on the ground in front of him, mirroring him.

Her eyes travelled over the armour, a sliver of a smile appearing.

“My father used to set his armour out like this in the evenings,” she revealed.

“Mine, too,” Din shared.

“Did you inherit his?”

He shook his head. “No. He was… killed by Imperials when I was eighteen and his armour was stolen from him. I earned all this myself.”

“My father was killed by other Mandalorians. Traitors,” Koska clarified. “They wiped out the Protectors of Concord Dawn.”

“You don’t wear the Protector crest,” Din pointed out with as little accusation as he could.

“I’m a Nite Owl now,” she said as if that answered it, but a tug of her expression suggested she didn’t believe in it any more. 

They fell into silence again but this time it felt like the silence between friends, not rivals or reluctant partners. 

Eventually, Koska bowed her head in a respectful gesture, then stood and took her leave. But she paused just before she disappeared through the hatch.

Turning back around, she looked at him with a complicated expression.

“I hope your tribe will take you back,” she said, a little unsure of her word choice, but nonetheless sincere. “You deserve to belong somewhere.”

He bowed his head. “Thank you. And I do belong, if not to them, then to my clan—always to my clan.”

She smiled at that, and the smile had the opposite effect of her earlier expression. Where her puzzlement betrayed her youth, the smile held a weathered, grave quality that aged her.

“It would be nice to belong to both.”

Chapter Text

Part IV

The Return to the Tribe

. . . . .

The coordinates Paz left with Cara to pass onto Din traced back to a metropolitan moon dubbed Kyn-13.

It resided in a belt of moons orbiting an uninhabitable gas giant. The moons—of which there were more than twenty—circled the planet tightly, each one like a distinct gem in a necklace. 

All of it fell under the Mining Guild’s jurisdiction: the planet produced a luminous blue gas used for fuel and explosives, and the various moons hosted factories, processing operations, refineries, and cities where the workers lived and trade thrived.

Kyn-13 stood out against the massive orb of electric blue as a darker marble struck through with pulsing neon veins. The perspective was deceptive: the moon was as big as Nevarro, but compared to the gas giant it orbited, it seemed minuscule. 

Upon exiting hyperspace, they split their caravan apart and headed down.

As all ships were unregistered (and as this was a corner of the Outer Rim the New Republic didn’t have the energy to deal with just yet), they managed to slip into the starports without incident. Still, they truncated their arrival and landed in randomly assigned hangars so as not to seem connected.

It was, according to local time, the middle of the day, but there was no daylight: the moons of Kyn resided far from the system’s sun and the gas giant blocked the light and warmth for most of the satellites. Kyn-13 lived in eternal night, forever embellished with artificial lights from buildings, streetlamps, billboards and neon signs.

The most unique feature of the moon was a series of interconnected canals woven throughout the city. As they flew over, Grogu cooed with fascination at the colourful splotches of light decorating the waterways.

The coordinates from Paz only led as far as the district; Din didn’t know exactly where in the city the covert resided. Peering out the viewport, he frowned to himself. 

Where could they hide in a place like this?

The city was far more populated than Nevarro. Granted, just from the condition of the starport, he deduced this place was not quite as riddled with scum and despair as Nevarro had been, but a denser population automatically spelled increased danger.

Thoughts like that kept bubbling up.

Instincts. 

Coming here wasn’t like going to Lothal or Morak or Tatooine or anywhere else he had travelled to in the past year. With the covert set as his destination, he found himself reverting to his old ways of hunter and prey.

It was surprisingly easy to slip back into.

But even as he did so, he didn’t lose awareness of the things vital to his new ways. Taking priority over his concern for his covert was concern for his clan.

Sabine, Grogu and the droids would be staying on the ship along with Ezra. Din didn’t have exact coordinates to the covert, nor did he know what this world was like on street-level, nor could he guarantee that the covert was even still here. Searching for a covert was always dangerous business, but if they had already been discovered and forced to move on, then this world was especially a trap for Mandalorians.

Din had proposed that he, Fenn and Koska go out and search for markers while the others wait with the ships. He could focus better on the task knowing his son, his wife and their unborn child were protected by a Jedi.

They landed and set the ship to rest. They spoke only by necessity during the arrival and landing. Now they sat with the muffled pinging and dying whirring sounds of the settling engines cracking the glassy silence.

Belatedly, Din’s hands slipped off the controls and fell awkwardly to his knees. The joints in his fingers ached from holding himself needlessly stiff. Mechanically, unthinkingly, his hands worked in and out of fists, gloves creaking rhythmically in the too-loud quiet.

With his gaze trained on nothing dead-ahead, he couldn’t see Sabine sitting beside him or Grogu sitting behind her; he had almost no peripheral vision with the helmet.

He didn’t remain glued to the seat for long.

Something got him up on his feet. It wasn’t will, it was more like drilled-in duty or whatever pulled criminals to the end of death row. He turned his chair and he stood and he took a few steps, looking at no one before stopping, abruptly, just a few inches away from the steps leading down out of the cockpit.

This was it.

Over a year of drifting, searching, and avoiding ended today, one way or the other. Either he found the tribe or he found they were gone forever—either outcome would close this chapter.

His mind overflowed with thoughts of how it might go, of what he might find, of how he might be received. Dread and anticipation warred within him, winding his core tight, setting his nerves alight. 

The realistic, reasoning part of him fought to tame the less rational part of him. But while his belief in belonging was so much older, his fear of being cast out was stronger, meaner, and far less inclined to fight clean.

“Have faith, love,” Sabine encouraged him.

Just the sound of her voice—gentle and strengthening, brimming with the certainty he wished would come to him—cracked something deep in him.

He closed his eyes and turned his head as if to get away from all the things threatening to spill and unravel inside him but he didn’t uproot himself and take the steps he knew he would have to take.

He heard her come around to stand before him. He felt her arm rest against his shoulder as she laid her hand on the side of his helmet, a substitute for cradling his cheek.

“And just remember,” she continued, a thread of sternness piercing her softness, “however this day goes, whatever you find or don’t find, you will still have me, you will still have our children, you will still have your friends—no matter what, you will have this family.”

Her hand moved to the back of his helmet and he complied, bowing his head to let their foreheads touch gently. He wanted to stay. He wanted her to come with him. But their separation wouldn’t last long and perhaps it wasn’t even necessary, but he wanted, more than anything, to keep his family safe.

He opened his eyes and made himself memorize Sabine’s smile in that moment.

He heard something and glanced to the side to find Ezra approaching him with a dark swath of fabric in hand and Grogu perched on his shoulder.

“Keep your head low, your eyes level, and your hopes high,” he told him as he flapped the fabric out and draped it over his shoulders, wrapping it around to cover his cuirass and create a hood. When done, he gripped his brother’s arms, looked him up and down like he was checking his handiwork, then came right in for a hug, not caring at all about the hard, unforgiving edges of Din’s armour.

Din expected it, and as much as he failed to understand Ezra’s persistence in seeking physical contact at every turn, he appreciated the support. Awkwardly, he returned the hug, turning his head to see Grogu as the little one laid a claw on his helmet and cooed a string of his own sentiments and admonitions.

Something swelled in his chest in that moment. It wasn’t quite what he’d call confidence, but it could carry him through any storm. 

He pulled the hood up over his head as he exited the ship. 

The Silver Mandalorian (he still balked at the ostentatious, fairytalish name) was a wanted man, and a highly recognizable one, as it turned out, but he couldn’t find or enter the covert without his helmet, so a cloak would have to suffice. It was also helping to hide his gear, such as the Darksaber clipped to the back of his belt.

Fenn and Koska were waiting for him just outside the hangar, having arrived earlier than him. They, too, wore their full armour hidden partially by cloaks. 

Din acknowledged them with a tick of his chin and they fell in beside him as he continued on his way, walking briskly, as if he knew where he was going.

(He didn’t, but walking with direction and purpose facilitated the image of a thing that belonged, killing the idea of something vulnerable and weak, easy to pick off.)

They left the starport and Din led them to an alley between shops—the third viable spot he identified for a small, clandestine conference.

They slipped in like shadows and stood silent and still, waiting for a group of pedestrians to pass by.

“Alright,” Din declared at last, his voice flat and low through his modulator. He held up his vambrace and keyed in a short sequence. “This is what we’re looking for.” The holo-emitter in his wrist-piece blipped and produced a flickering image of a covert symbol: a simple T with mirrored arcs beneath its arms depicting a common Mandalorian’s visor. 

He explained how to set their viewfinders to detect the chemical used to draw the markers and both Fenn and Koska did so right away.

“Each marker should have another symbol beneath it,” Din continued. “They’re usually simple arrows but they could be anything. If you see this,” he pressed a button on his vambrace’s cramped keypad and the holo-image of the covert marker suddenly acquired a jagged slash through it, “it means the covert has left and there are no Mandalorians here.”

“How can you be sure?” Koska questioned. Fenn and Din looked to her and kept quiet, waiting for her to continue. She gestured to the crossed out symbol. “What if they left in a hurry and didn’t have time to go and cancel out all the markers?”

“A Mandalorian would come back and cross out the markers,” Din told her, “even if it meant laying down his life. A covert doesn’t leave a place for no reason; if it wasn’t safe for them, it won’t be safe for anyone else who comes after. The markers must be slashed if the covert leaves.”

The Armourer had slashed the markers on Nevarro. She was the last to leave and she made sure no one in the future wasted time or risked their safety trying to find their way down to an abandoned covert.

The only time the markers were left when the covert was gone was if the covert was completely decimated by enemies.

It had happened before.

Din’s stomach churned as his memory cast back to the meeting with Gor Karesh.

Usually, I have to seek out remnants of you Mandalorians in your hidden hives.

That crime lord was dead, but he was not the only one in the galaxy who made a living out of raiding and trading beskar; he was not their only enemy…

Din closed that line of thought before it could pull him down to deeper, darker places.

Sabine’s words, simple as they were, helped bring him back on track.

Have faith.

. . . . .

They split up to cover more ground.

Din veered towards the warehouse district while Fenn searched the streets around the apartments and Koska covered the markets.

There was a keen sense of excitement as they set off—excitement and the overwhelming sense of standing on the precipice of something new and foreign but important. 

That was how Koska felt about it, anyway. Fenn seemed as calm as ever and she didn’t quite know how to interpret the slivers and hints of expression Din let slip through his armour.

She struggled to tie Mando and Din together as one person. When she saw the Mandalorian step off the Path Finder, her mind insisted Din was still back on the ship because there was no way that very ordinary man with soft eyes was underneath the expressionless helmet. The disguising effect of his vocoder didn’t help the impression: the man she spoke with just a few short hours ago spoke quietly, his voice a gentle, unobtrusive thing, shot through with emotion; the Mandalorian’s voice was hard and flat and came across deadpan half the time.

Mandalorians tended to be soft-spoken, especially the ones prone to wearing their helmets. Koska supposed that was to blame: until recently, Din had worn his helmet constantly; perhaps he was still getting used to his natural voice. Or maybe he had always been a soft thing both protected and hidden under the impenetrable beskar…

Musings like that kept her company as she weaved her way through the bustling streets, scanning every viable surface for the markers, walking amongst yet evading the notice of the pedestrians.

She was comfortable in her armour—she had forged and reforged it to suit her preferences until it was as much a part of her as her skin. She trained in it, she lived in it, she knew its weight down in her bones. When on missions or in unfamiliar places, it was not uncommon to sleep in armour. But it had never been a thing to hide under, nor had she ever had an issue taking parts off if she wanted to or if a situation called for it.

She had often left her armour behind when sent out to spy on someone or something—it was just easier to move quiet and quick without it, easier to fit into tight spots, easier to blend into the shadows or the crowds.

And, of course, she took her helmet off frequently. 

It was common courtesy to remove one’s helmet when conversing with another off the battle field; it was a sign of respect, of mutual trust—you wouldn’t remove such a vital piece of protection and identification in the presence of an enemy, after all. 

Fenn had admonished her to keep her helmet on for the time-being. He believed Djarin’s tribe would accept them as they were but things would go a lot smoother if they took the initiative and showed respect for their stricter ways. 

Every hour that trudged past, every unmarked corner turned, she gained a new perspective and a new appreciation.

She grew up in a Mandalorian settlement. Her home, her friends’ homes, the streets she played in and the fields she trained in were all above ground. She knew clean air and weather cycles. She counted stars at night with her parents. Even after the massacre on Concord Dawn, the various camps she resided in were always above ground; they evaded the Empire but that never translated to hiding underground.

Was that how Din Djarin had grown up? Underground? What would that life have been like?

She couldn’t get the answers to those questions from her own experience, but she saw Din, she saw how different he was to any Mandalorian she had ever known… and yet, at his core, he was the same.

Perhaps his tribe would be, too.

Axe and Bo-Katan and others in the camp had had much to say about them. Their words echoed in the back of Koska’s mind as she pierced deeper into the city, words like “cult” and “breakaways” and “zealots.” It wasn’t easy to mute their critical tones, but Fenn hadn’t used such terminology, so she tried to erase them. Her mentor had never steered her wrong before; if he was approaching this with an open mind and an impartial heart, then she had reason to try do so too.

She scanned the walls of alleyways and the sides of dumpsters. 

She scanned the corners of stalls and the poles of streetlamps. 

She scanned the pavements and the edges where buildings met their foundations. 

She scanned steps and boards and even random crates.

Nothing.

She paused. She looked around.

The buildings were tall and tightly clustered together but they didn’t block the view of the sky—and what a strange view it was: the gas giant loomed like a misty blue veil pulled across half the sky, the other half fell into the black, and a handful of the Kyn moons bobbed about in the expanse: some close, some far. It had looked like such a messy jumble on the map, but now here in the midst of it, Koska perceived a distinct, finely tuned order that kept everything spinning in its lane.

The moons depended on each other. Aside from the astronomical factors such as gravity and radiation shielding and whatever other cycles they kept in place for one another, the people of the moons were connected, not by race, but by their interconnected business. The mining operations fuelled everything, and the people lived in a semi-self-contained system here.

(Not unlike Mandalorians…)

Fenn and Din checked in with her.

They hadn’t found anything yet either.

They kept going.

She walked the main markets flat and explored the smaller businesses branching off down side streets. She swore there was not an alleyway she had missed.

And she was beginning to draw the notice of some particularly paranoid shopowners.

In the edge of her visor, she caught them watching her and whispering to their neighbours, hands (or paws or tentacles) shielding their mouths, giving them away. 

She pulled the hood further down on her helmet and continued her search, uncharacteristically aware of every eye that could possibly be following her.

Suddenly so preoccupied with a newfound sense of vulnerability, she nearly missed it.

There, on the side of a post near one of the many short bridges connecting the various islands of which the city consisted of, was a marker.

It was the size of her palm and it had no slash through it—a fact that sent a lightning like thrill through her. Underneath it was an arrow pointing over the bridge.

Feeling like a prospector who had just brought up a pan brimming with gold, she snapped a still and sent it to the others along with her coordinates.

Perhaps it would have been wisest to wait there for them to join her, but she felt a high like a runner sighting the finish line and it spurred her on.

Over the bridge, on a trash receptacle bolted to the pavement, was another marker. Again, a guiding arrow, this one bending strangely. After a moment, she figured out it meant for her to go straight then turn down a street and continue on. Her interpretation of the direction proved correct as she found another marker and another arrow.

The trail led her away from the markets at a sharp angle, the starting point a spot easy to slip into without drawing attention. The path wound and twisted and at one point back-tracked, but it made sense: unlike the crowded marketplace, these streets were near deserted. They seemed to reside in a different time without the flashy neon signs and multi-coloured lights. Most of the buildings here seemed to be used for storage rather than residence or business—less likely to see regular traffic.

The streets narrowed and darkened, the lamps growing further apart and ill-maintained—some dying, some already long dead. The city noise softened, the sound of the water lapping the sides of the canal calmed the silence.

She had just found another marker and was about to follow its arrow when a voice from behind clipped out a command.

“Ke’mot!”

She halted.

“Tion’cuy?” the voice asked.

They sounded wary but not suspicious. Their voice—deep and robust—came filtered through a vocoder but it wasn’t as flattened or disguised as Djarin’s. 

Without fear but with a heart pounding, Koska turned until she saw a Mandalorian, cloaked in the shadows between two buildings, standing just so a sliver of light fell across their visor—if one weren’t looking for it, they’d never notice it. 

“Ner gai Koska, aliit Reeves,” she answered, promptly, proudly. “Me'vaar ti gar?”

She heard the softest breath of a chuckle slip through the other Mandalorian’s vocoder. They didn’t reply immediately, rather, they stepped out of their hiding place, letting that sliver of light wash over them.

Species was always difficult to determine (and Koska was trying to keep an open mind after Fenn told her the tribe was likely to be made up of many different species, not just Terrans), but he was humanoid and he was taller than her, his frame neither slim nor broad. He stood straight but with an ease that reminded her of Fenn; she supposed he could be about the same age. His flightsuit was old and faded and had been repeatedly repaired over the years, his forearms wrapped in cloths where the sleeves had perished altogether. His armour was of an old, segmented style and it mostly matched. It had been painted white and orange once upon a time but much of the paint was chipped and faded to the point the white was either grey or beige in some areas and the orange leaned more towards brown.

He held a rifle—again, old, but well-maintained and clearly treated to multiple modifications. He had it at the ready but he was not pointing it at her; he must’ve been standing guard here.

“I’m afraid not a lot happens around here,” he said to her, his voice taking on a friendly, playful lilt. “But that’s generally a good thing. Ados Zif,” he introduced himself, placing a hand on his chestplate. “Clan Eldar.”

Koska glanced at his pauldron. She hadn’t recognized it before but the old clan crest was there, painted in black that had faded to ashy grey over the years.

“I assume you’ve come looking for the ranov’yaim?” he ventured.

Secret home. 

The covert.

“I have,” Koska confirmed. 

His head bowed in a slow, accepting nod. “It has been a difficult journey, I‘m sure,” he said, kindly, warmly. 

Behind her visor, she just blinked.

She hadn’t known what to expect when following the markers.

She thought maybe she’d find some more concrete evidence that Djarin’s tribe was here or had been here, or perhaps the entrance to the covert itself.

The last thing she imagined was that she would be welcomed.

Ados held out his arm, gesturing in the direction opposite to where he had been hiding: the entrance, she presumed.

“I… haven’t come alone,” she said, feeling strangely like she was admitting to some wrongdoing. (There was no deception in her words, but she had, without meaning to, given him the impression she had been seeking the covert for her own refuge… she made him think she was one of them when she was not.)

He lowered his arm and seemed to consider her for a moment. “You have brought more vode?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“I’ve come with the beroya Din Djarin,” she said and watched Ados’ reaction carefully.

He was already very still and measured but he froze stiff when she said the name. “Dinui?” he breathed. He came forward and grasped Koska’s shoulder, his visor level with hers as if to look into her eyes to find the truth. “He’s here?”

She hadn’t decided on a response when they both heard the sound of approaching footfalls. Whipping around, she saw as Fenn and Din came running down the same street the markers had led her down to here, the patchy beams of the streetlights catching and releasing them as they jogged along.

Din halted abruptly, falling back a step as if caught by surprise.

Ados stared. His arm holding his rifle at the ready fell slack, almost releasing the weapon. Din, for his part, didn’t move a muscle, though Koska could see his cuirass rising and falling with quick breaths in a way that made it look like he was being rattled.

And then, with just a few strides, Ados closed the distance and enveloped Din in an embrace.

. . . . .

As Ados approached, Din couldn’t decide whether he was in for a greeting or a punch straight to the helmet.

Either way, he braced.

There was a flash of surprise and bewilderment as the older man latched onto him like he was something he couldn’t bear to lose again. Din stood stiff and let it happen, the way he did with Ezra, fighting the urge to recoil, struggling for a moment to convince himself he wasn’t being attacked.

(Had Ezra been a Mandalorian, he would have fit in well with the Eldar Clan, that was for sure…)

When Ados pulled away, he set his hand on the side of Din’s helmet. His own helmet bobbed up and down as he looked him over, his visor pausing, catching on the crown of Din’s helmet, on the jaig eyes that weren’t there the last time they were face-to-face. 

“What stories you must have to tell,” Ados said.

Din let go of a soft, choked laugh. “A few,” he admitted, his stomach tying into an uncomfortable knot, like he half-expected Ados to demand he tell them all right there and then.

He didn’t.

“Come,” he beckoned instead, stepping away and gesturing for Din and the others with him to follow.

A lump lodged in Din’s throat. It was made of so many things—dread, anticipation, longing, wretchedness, guilt, relief. It cut his voice clean off, leaving him rooted to the spot like a defunct droid.

“We have others in our party,” Fenn informed Ados. “We left them behind for safety.”

Ados looked at him then back to Din. “You’ve gotten popular,” he quipped. “Well, more Mando’ade will always be welcome.”

“They are not all Mandalorians,” Din confessed. “Some are outsiders.”

“Do you vouch for them?”

“Yes. I swear they will cause no harm to the tribe.”

Ados took a moment to consider but it wasn’t long before he nodded. “Then they are welcome as well.”

Fenn turned to Koska. “Let’s go get them; show them the way,” he suggested, nodding to the street they had just come down.

Koska’s helmet swivelled, looking between Din and Ados before complying and following Fenn.

A part of Din was immensely grateful for Fenn’s handling the situation where he fell short; the other part felt abandoned all of a sudden.

He watched them leave, forcing his boots to stay rooted to the spot and not go after them.

He realized Ados was moving. In the corner of his visor, he watched him drift towards the shadows of an alleyway. Automatically, Din followed.

“It is so good to see you alive,” Ados said, softly, placing his hand solidly on Din’s arm, beneath the pauldron. “When Paz told us he had found you, we couldn’t believe it.”

Din swallowed. “What else did Paz tell you?” he asked, cautious not to sound too careful.

“He told us you were injured and could barely walk.” Ados squeezed his arm. “Have you recovered well?”

Din could only manage a small nod to that, his mind too loud as he sifted through the crumbs, trying to glean what else Paz might have divulged. “Anything else?” he prompted, feeling like he was pushing his luck right over a cliff.

“He said you had still a quest to complete but he didn’t tell us any particulars. Did you succeed?”

“Yes,” Din answered, figuring the only quest Paz could have meant was the one to find Ezra. Relief flushed through his veins like medicine as he discerned Paz’s discretion.

Ados gave a single nod, like he was sealing the matter. He turned his helmet, looking up and down the street, ever keeping watch.

“How many?” Din asked, unable to bring his volume up or draw the question out fully.

But Ados understood. “Less than a hundred,” he told him, his voice falling low and quiet and somber.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t do that, Dinui. You are not to blame for what happened. The Imps already knew we were somewhere on Nevarro; they were just waiting for the time to strike.”

“And I opened it up for them.”

Ados turned to face him and gripped his shoulder. “If you hadn’t spurred us to action, we would’ve all been in the tunnels like animals in a pen when the Imps came. We are less than a hundred now, yes, but we would have been none had we not already been in motion when our enemies arrived.”

Din shook his head, unable to take what his old friend tried to give him. Absolution. Forgiveness. Reassurance. It was too ironic to be true: that by calling in their destruction, he somehow saved them.

“No one blames you,” Ados insisted. “You are a part of the tribe, Din, and this is what tribes do: they fight for each other.”

He couldn’t say anything more to that.

He couldn’t find the strength to accept it but to deny it would be to betray his beliefs. 

So he stood there and retreated into silence and just waited.

. . . . .

Fenn and Koska again split up and truncated their arriving back at the side street Ados guarded so as not to draw attention with a crowd in tow.

Once they had all gathered, Ados led them down to a maintenance tunnel, forgoing introductions to get them moving quickly. (Though Din didn’t miss the double take he did when he saw the two droids in his party.)

The dark, narrow passage sloped downwards. The steps were wet but not slippery, the air damp and cool, the stone walls coated in faintly glowing algae of an indigo hue. At irregular intervals, water dripped, the sounds varying in distance and volume, painting the scope of the tunnel system.

Din checked on his visor as they continued down and, sure enough, they had passed below the waterline.

“These tunnels weave all the way under the city and the canals,” Ados explained as they went, his voice playing strange in the tight walls and long passage. “There was a small remnant of another covert already down here. It was a miracle we found them at all: the network is missing many links.”

“I know,” Din chimed in. Sabine, walking behind him, reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

She may not have lived his life, may not have known underground coverts and the delicate spiderweb network thereof, but she knew his search: it was, after all, how he had found her.

“How do you live down here?” Koska asked, genuinely wanting to know.

Ados chuckled. “Don’t let this passage dishearten you, vod’ika. The tunnels lower down are quite roomy. They used to be transport lines with shuttles until there was an accident which caved in a vast portion of the line. They decided it was too expensive to salvage, so the main entrances were closed up and the tunnels labelled condemned. But they left the maintenance entrances—lucky for us.”

Grogu, held by Sabine, chittered conversationally, a little upwards lilt at the end suggesting a question.

“Grogu would like to know if frogs frequent these tunnels,” Ezra translated. Another string of chirps and meaningful snort-huffs. “He feels this would be an ideal climate for them.”

Ados turned his helmet slightly to look back at them but didn’t stop walking. “The child said all that?” he said, dubiously.

Ezra shrugged. “That’s the gist of it.”

“With embellishment,” Meg muttered in good humour.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, ad’ika, but I haven’t seen any frogs down here. However, there is a section near the cave-in where we like to go fishing. Maybe we’ll catch something that’ll take your fancy.”

Grogu trilled, pleased with this information, and Din couldn’t help but smile.

The dread died a little when he had his whole crew surrounding him. As they drew nearer and nearer to the covert, there were spikes of fear, but the anticipation had begun to burn brighter.

It had been over a year since he last saw the tribe. Though he was used to spending long stints on the road, there had always been frequent returns sprinkled throughout. All those homecomings—short and unceremonious though they were—were enough of a fix for him to keep going, keep working, keep earning, keep providing.

He had a pouch of credits clipped to his belt and hidden out of view. It was a substantial amount—more than he had ever brought back in one go before (excluding the monetary value of the beskar haul). It was half the reward from the New Republic for Gideon’s capture; the rest he had left on the Path Finder to retrieve and bring later—he didn’t think it wise to take all of it with him at once. 

He had used some of it to pay the medical bills on Lothal, but he had long since replenished the sum spent (plus interest). Not a single credit had come from bounty hunting; he had earned the money through the work of his own hands, fixing things.

For a while, the distant drips and their parade of steps were the only sounds in that seemingly never ending tunnel. Chopper hovered down and Sloan went slowly—his feet were built for nice, level medcentre floors, not the uneven stone steps of an underground maintenance tunnel.

The descent levelled out eventually and, after a short flat stretch, they came to a door.

It was really just an archway with a curtain. Ados swept the thick, tattered fabric aside and nodded for everyone to step through.

As he had said, this section was not as cramped as the tunnel they had just traversed. They came into an artificial cavern that had once upon a time served as a transport station—there were even still benches and long-faded information signs dotted about, confirming this place’s previous life.

Now, however, it was clearly a settlement.

The overhead lights had gone out long ago, but a warm, inviting light coated the space, provided by a variety of lamps placed at regular intervals. There was a chair set near the entrance where another Mandalorian sat guard—Din didn’t know their name but he recognized them from the Nevarran covert. A little way away, two older Mandalorians sat down to a game set up on a crate-turned-table. Further down, a group of teens trained under the tutelage of an instructor, copying his motions with a training staff as well as they could.

There was the smell of food cooking—full and rich with spices—wafting in from somewhere around the corner. The sounds of Mando’a spoken low in conversation or clipped out in instructions filled the air like songs.

Ados announced that the beroya had returned and brought with him tribesmen and friends. Din heard him as if he had been left halfway back in the tunnel.

It wasn’t quite a sea of helmets that turned towards them, but every visor present fixed on him and his company. They didn’t flood them but neither did they hesitate to set down whatever they had been occupied with to come and greet them. More joined, pouring in from the connected tunnels and rooms, pulled in by Ados’ announcement.

Some Din recognized, some he could name, some he had never seen before.

They came and, like Ados, they welcomed him and the ones who had come with him. 

They took turns either grasping his forearm in traditional greeting, patting his shouders, or outright hugging him—it was as if they absolutely had to touch him to believe he was real and present and not some ghost who came floating in with the appearance of their beroya.

It confused him.

Even amongst these people who he claimed and loved so much, whose ways and traditions he upheld so firmly, whose welfare he cared for so deeply, he had always been an outsider. He never took pains to endear himself to them, never attached himself to them, never stayed and got to know them—helmets and crests, he recognized, but he couldn’t tie a name or a story to most of them.

He didn’t really know them and they couldn’t know him, yet here they were, welcoming him as a son and a brother.

The children—the little band of foundlings and clan-born who used to play in the middle of the covert in Nevarro—came bounding up to him. Two of them latched onto him immediately, little arms wrapping tight around his waist. The other two bounced up and down in front of him, asking him questions about where he had been, what he had seen, what he had done, and who were these people with him? Why didn’t they all cover their faces? Was this his foundling?

That was familiar, at least.

He remembered these children from Nevarro; they had always greeted him like this (though they used to be a little more reserved).

He didn’t feel so awkward answering them.

“This is my clan,” he said, proudly, putting an arm around Sabine. “This is my riduur, Sabine, and this is my son, Grogu.”

Grogu was still in her arms and he waved to the children, ears up and excited to meet them.

The other children giggled and the smaller ones waved back. 

“I like your helmet,” a little girl—Ayisa, if Din recalled correctly—said to Sabine, pointing to what was likely the most colourful helmet the little foundling would ever see.

“Thank you,” Sabine replied, and Din could hear her sweet smile.

“And who are these aruetiise you bring with you?” a deep, oh-so familiar voice boomed, demolishing the moment.

The gathering parted.

Din raised his head and there, standing tall and unmistakable, was Paz.

He hadn’t changed a bit, but beside him stood a youth whose only armour was a bright blue helmet and dark blue vambraces. 

Ragnar, Din supposed, pride swelling in his chest, for a moment overriding the tightness in his throat.

The boy had grown and had received his helmet; he had truly become one of them.

The little crowd of children peeled away from around Din and Sabine as Paz approached.

A hush fell over the tribe, like they were all holding their breath.

(Or perhaps that was only Din…)

Paz strode up to him, taking his time, keeping his arms folded. 

“You’ve come with outsiders,” he said as if his point had not been made clear enough.

“They are trustworthy,” Din asserted, a tone of challenge rising in his voice, his muscles winding up. “They are my friends and they are my family.”

“Hi! I’m the family,” Ezra chimed in with a tone entirely too cheery for the situation. He came forward with an almost lazy step and slung an arm around Din’s shoulders. “Little brother to the beroya. Biological little brother,” he added, pointedly. “And if you take issue with that, I apologize from the bottom of my heart but nothing can change that.”

Paz’s helmet shifted as he glanced between Ezra and Din. 

He could have said anything at that point; Din prepared himself for any way this could go because one could never be sure with Paz.

But then he unwound the tension he knowingly spun so tight and thick with a single chuff. He unfolded his arms and held out a hand in welcome to Ezra.

“It’s good to finally meet another of Djarin’s blood,” Paz said, grasping Ezra’s forearm and giving it a solid pump. The hold would’ve been crushing—Paz never watered his greeting down—but Ezra didn’t flinch; in fact, Paz was the one to release first, shaking out his hand as if stung.

Paz turned to Sabine and bowed his helmet. “Welcome to the clan at last, vod’ika,” he said, warmly.

Introductions ensued for the rest of Din’s company. 

The tribe positively buzzed with chatter as his clan and crew dispersed among them, pulled into a greeting here, pulled into a discussion there. The ones in charge of preparing dinner that night decided they had to make something special for this occasion, Ados requested quarters be prepared for them, Ragnar collected Grogu at some point and the little one got absorbed into a new group of children.

In the middle of it all, Din breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He tried, in the slivers of free moments, to scan the gathering, searching for one particular helmet he had yet to see any sign of, a sense of dread creeping through his veins every second that scraped past without a glimpse.

Had she made it out of Nevarro? Had she made it here? Was she still alive?

Eventually, he saw her.

Hovering near the edge of everything, keeping quiet and out of the way, was the Armourer.

The vice around Din’s heart released when he saw that golden helmet with the distinctive coronet of spikes.

He tried to make his way over to her but she slipped away before he could reach her, melting into the shadows so seamlessly, it was as if he had been chasing a figment of his imagination.

He let her go.

Later, after a meal and once the excitement and hype had ebbed (or when he just needed a break from it all), he would find his way to wherever she had set up the forge and, like old routine, he would give over his earnings and inform her of his completed assignments and quests.

He had much to tell her…

. . . . .

here’s a sketch of Ados Zif

and here’s a painting of Koska Reeves

Chapter Text

Sabine had had time to consider and imagine all the different ways meeting Din’s tribe might go but the reality exceeded all her expectations.

Standing there surrounded by Mandalorians felt like a dream. She hadn’t seen so many of their kind alive and together since before the Purge—the last time was back on Mandalore, when she passed the sword to Bo-Katan.

Despite the occasion, she hadn’t featured much in that crowd, hadn’t been noticed, and she understood: the spotlight was on their Mand’alor, on the return of the Darksaber, on their victory over their enemies and their renewed fight, not her: the wayward daughter of Mandalore. At the time, it hardly registered to her; after all, her heart wasn’t completely invested there, it was back on the Ghost, with the family she chose, the family that needed her more.

Now, over a decade past and with a mountain of loss grown in the interim, she stood once again amongst her people, and it wasn’t anything like she remembered or even imagined.

She knew Din would be welcomed—he doubted, but she believed. She just didn’t expect to be drawn into the warm welcome as well, but every arm that wrapped around her husband, came and wrapped around her, too. Grogu was appropriately cooed over and adored by all. Even the strangers to the tribe—Fenn, Koska, Ezra, Omega, and the droids—were greeted and drawn in like long-lost friends.

Because friends of the beroya were friends to the tribe.

They weren’t like anything Sabine had ever seen before. Even the tales and historical accounts which gave her a picture of their customs hadn’t prepared her for the reality.

The Wren clan had had little variation in their armour designs and they all used the same colours for identification (though each individual modified the ratios). It had been similiar with the Protectors and every other clan or division Sabine had ever known. But, down here, no two sets of armour matched. Though families were still distinguishable with similar colour schemes and signets, every individual customized their armour to their own preferences.

Much of their paint had faded, however. The soft parts of their gear, the clothes under the armour, were worn and in need of repair or replacement, and nearly everyone had extra cloth layers—ponchos, wraps, shawls, and the like—to combat the cold of the underground. 

Perhaps the most unique thing that stood out to Sabine were the ones not wearing beskar at all.

A few wore soft armour. She glimpsed a youth, a teenager, wearing an open-backed helmet made of leather with a visor made of mesh rather than transperisteel. Also some elderly ones, their bodies bent and frail, unable to support armour any longer, wore fabric head coverings that mimicked the unique style of their helmets but weren’t as heavy or restrictive.

It was also obvious they were not all Terrans.

She saw helmets accommodating the horns of Devaronians and Zabraks, the head-tails of Twi-Leks and the montrals of Togrutas. She saw the distinctive frames of Rodians and Ugnauts and even an Anzellan.

She knew, of course, Mandalorians didn’t have to be human; they could be any race. But she couldn’t recall the last time she had met a Mandalorian of a different species. 

Overall, they were as eclectic and diverse and endearing as Din had described.

. . . . .

The tribe decided the return of their beroya was cause for celebration (which Ados admitted in a not-so-quiet whisper was really just an excuse to break out the tihaar).

They had arrived in time for dinner, so before they were allotted quarters, they were all whisked away to the dining hall.

The abandoned transport tunnels provided all the necessary facilities for sustaining a tribe. There were already refreshers and wash-rooms, and there were shops they had easily converted into kitchens and an accompanying food court they had transformed into a dining hall.

It wasn’t quite like the illustrations of ancient Mandalorian enclaves Sabine had studied as a youth. The different areas for clans to eat together were not divided by stone or leather or even canvas; rather, sheets of fabric—colourful, old, and mismatched—hung as dividers, strung up on a network of strings.

The sweet smell of bread and the complex, hearty aroma of tiingilar filled the air.

Pots of the heavily spiced stew and loaves of bread lay spread out on a long counter. As the tribe poured in, they formed a kind of order: elderly and families with young served first, the stronger eat last.

Sabine felt they fell in the latter category but Din, apparently, thought otherwise.

She hung back but he made to continue on towards the serving tables.

She put out a hand to stop him. “I don’t mind waiting,” she whispered to him.

His helmet whipped as he glanced at the counter then back at her. “Sabine. We have a young child and you’re pregnant,” he told her, matching her hushed tone, going quieter with the last part. “If they find out I let you wait for food, I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

“Okay,” she conceded, secretly touched to be cared for.

Din didn’t continue on immediately. He paused and put a gentle hand on her arm. “Can you manage food tonight? It’s not… you don’t feel too sick?”

“I’m good. Actually, I’m starving.”

A light huff of a laugh brushed his vocoder. “Alright. Wait here,” he said, giving her arm a soft rub before peeling away to go dish up for his clan.

She watched him go and join the loose crowd of Mandalorians collecting by the serving counters. She captured the image and held on tight. The way he stood out yet irrevocably belonged, the way the others just absorbed him… as simple an occasion as it was in the grand scheme of things, she wanted to remember this moment forever.

While he picked up a tray and began loading it up with his family’s meal, she looked around, trying to find all her own.

Grogu she spotted first, still with Ragnar. He was perched on the boy’s shoulder—Ragnar had gone through quite the growth spurt since she last saw him and his shoulders had broadened significantly, making a perfect spot for Grogu. They were still playing with their friends, biding the time until their parents called them to come eat.

She saw Fenn and Koska by Ados, hanging back with others waiting to get their food later. Sloan was talking to a Mandalorian Sabine assumed from their distinctive white armour to be the tribe’s medic. And Ezra and Chopper she spotted making their way unhurriedly towards her.

She tipped her helmet to the side and Ezra cracked a grin.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said.

His eyebrows danced. “Immensely. Apparently, the fun Mandalorians all live underground.”

“He just likes them because they haven’t tried to shoot him yet,” Chopper pitched in.

“Well, that may not last for much longer. I’ve already received three separate invitations to spar tomorrow.”

Sabine was genuinely impressed. 

A Mandalorian inviting someone to a sparring session—especially an outsider—was a significant gesture of friendship.

(It could also be a come-on.)

(But she thought it best not to mention that; it was better to assume it stemmed from hospitality, anyway.)

“Where’s Omega?” she asked, turning her head to scan the buzzing crowd.

Ezra gestured with a quick nod of his head. Not too far away, Omega stood talking to the teenager with the soft helmet Sabine had noticed earlier.

“His name’s Heshel,” Ezra told her, his voice taking on a softer quality. “He wanted to know if we were like him.”

“As in…?”

“Heshel can’t wear a traditional helmet. His skin is too sensitive and his lungs are weak; he also can’t train as much as others.”

Sabine’s heart twisted in sympathy.

“Omega’s telling him about one of her brothers,” Ezra explained as they watched her from afar, her eyes bright as she talked to the youth. “One who was born different than the others, who couldn’t train with the rest but still was a warrior to the end.”

“Trust Omega to have a story about one of her brothers for every occasion,” Sabine remarked, proud of her friend.

Ezra chuckled. “Well, I suppose that’s one of the benefits of having over a million brothers.”

Keeping her helmet still, she switched to watching him in the edge of her visor’s range.

There was a comfortable warmth emanating from him—it wasn’t just from being here in this welcoming, familial atmosphere.

A part of her wanted to tease him about it again, but the other part of her sensed that he was content with wherever this thing was at right now and she didn’t want to disturb it, didn’t want to risk wounding him again. Ever since his return, there were moments when he seemed like a thing out of place, a piece that didn’t quite fit anymore, a creature that couldn’t settle. 

She understood.

So much had changed in his decade long absence. No one was quite who they were when he left. She was different, Zeb was different, Hera was different, Kanan was different, and change hadn’t missed Ezra.

It sliced at her heart to confront the fact that there was no true Ghost crew anymore. Hera and Kanan had a little family of their own they wanted to focus on now, Zeb had found a place amongst the Rangers, and Sabine had braided her life with Din’s, tying her purpose together with his. Ezra was welcome anywhere any of them were anytime, but he hadn’t quite found his place yet.

If something was falling into place for him, if something was working out, she didn’t want to knock it off course—for him or Omega.

She remembered meeting Omega for the first time. She and Ezra missed each other like ships in the night: just as one left, the other came in. 

The grief of losing both Ezra and Kanan was fresh and raw when Omega entered the scene, joining Phoenix Squadron and the cell on Yavin. She arrived in the nick of time: Hera needed all the support she could get, and an old friend was a balm. Sabine hadn’t realized it, but she needed help, too; she was taking on too much, taking care of Lothal, taking over Hera’s duties while trying to take care of Hera and be there for her during her pregnancy. Omega was as much an asset to the Rebellion as she was a pillar of strength for the fractured Ghost crew.

It hurt that she was so much like Ezra.

Excitable and adventurous and so, so sweet and kind. Fiery and hot-headed, yet endlessly patient and caring. So often it struck Sabine that she and Ezra might’ve gotten along like a house on fire if only they could’ve had the chance to meet.

Now they had met and they did get along—so much better than Sabine imagined.

Ezra’s gaze skittered away from Omega and swept over the dining hall. Automatically, Sabine followed, glancing around at the families slipping behind partitions and sitting down to eat together, their silhouettes seeping through the colourful swathes of fabric.

“Uh… how does this work?” he asked her, lowering his voice. Before she could ask him to elaborate, he gestured to the partitioned areas and back to himself with a spin of his finger, pointedly raising his eyebrows.

She wasn’t entirely sure; all she could do was take a stab at it.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to.

“You are a part of Djarin’s family; that makes you a part of our clan,” Paz explained, coming up to them. He looked at Sabine and lifted his chin, grasping her attention before nodding to a section of the dining hall somewhere near the far corner. “We usually eat there.”

“But I’m… not Mandalorian,” Ezra pointed out.

Paz chuffed. “That’s true. But if Din claims you, then we are family, regardless of the path you walk. Does Din not show his face to you?”

Sabine turned sharply to Ezra, her heart shooting a harsh, tense beat.

“He does,” Ezra confirmed and wisely, calmly left it at that.

“Then it’s only right we claim you as family, too,” Paz concluded. His helmet rocked softly on his shoulders. “It… is an unusual situation,” he admitted.

Sabine wondered if he had considered this beforehand. He seemed quite certain of what he said, yet there was a slight brittleness to him, like he feared he might not be able to support his stance if questioned.

They weren’t going to question it.

Ezra’s gaze shifted, past the hulking form of Paz back to Omega in the distance. “I mean no disrespect,” he said, looking back at Paz, his tone infused with warmth and caution, “but I will decline on this occasion.” A placating hand sprang up. “Not on account of any grievance or prejudice, I assure you, but… my friend has no clan or kin present. She shouldn’t have to be alone.”

Paz nodded, solemnly, approvingly. “Very well,” he said, and Sabine didn’t miss the subtle softening of his shoulders—he was relieved.

She gave Ezra a companionable pat on the back before following Paz. 

As they went, he whistled to grab Ragnar’s attention. The bright blue helmet sprang up and nodded. He split away from his dwindling group of friends and carried Grogu over to the spot Paz had indicated to Sabine was theirs. 

The boy dashed ahead and drew back a sheet (bright orange with faded floral designs printed in magentas and purples). He held it back and respectfully waited for Sabine to step through. 

“We don’t remove our helmets until all are present,” Paz informed her, dropping his voice low to keep it between them: the fabric partitions weren’t sound-proof, after all. “You’ll know when that is.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took Grogu from Ragnar.

There was a low table in the middle of the tent-like space with a variety of mismatched cushions surrounding it. Sabine chose a spot and sat down, setting Grogu down in the dip created by her crossed legs.

Paz lingered as if to make sure she was comfortable, then he gave a nod and slipped away, presumably to join the queue.

Ragnar stood awkwardly for a moment before sitting down a few cushions down from Sabine. 

“I see you’ve taken on your helmet,” she said, hoping to put the boy at ease. “Congratulations.”

Self-consciously, Ragnar fiddled with the lip of his helmet. “Thank you. I’ve had it for two months now.”

“Still getting used to it?”

The boy sighed, deeply, and for a split second Sabine had the image of a young Din flash through her mind. “It was fine at the start,” he admitted, “but I think it shrunk or something since the Alor forged it—it keeps rubbing my jaw weird.”

“It’s more likely you grew. You’ll need to get it readjusted; no point suffering, ad’ika.”

He nodded to that, seriously, like she had just given him the most sage advice he had ever heard. Then he snapped to face her. “Do you wear your helmet all the time now?” he asked, frankly.

“No. I still walk my way.”

“But you married Ba’vodu Din.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to change my way.”

Ragnar’s helmet dipped, his visor setting on Grogu. “Which way will he walk?” 

“Whichever he chooses,” Sabine answered, running a hand over the little one’s head, trailing a finger along the edge of a leaf-shaped ear. “We will teach him our ways and he’ll learn his people’s ways, too, and he will decide how he will live his life.”

“Like Ba’vodu Din’s brother? He doesn’t wear armour.”

Sabine shrugged, unsure how to explain all that, unsure how much was safe to say with sheets for walls.

Ragnar took the breath for another barrage of questions but didn’t get the chance to loose one before someone else came and entered their little tent.

A thick, log-like arm swept aside the partition and Sabine looked up at a man who made Paz look petite. He also had blue armour with the shriek-hawk painted proudly on his cuirass and double stripes running down the crown of his helmet. He stood aside and let an elderly woman shuffle in.

“This is Ba’buir Vizsla and Pekka, my dad’s little cousin,” Ragnar introduced them. 

Sabine managed to suppress a laugh at the irony of “little.”

Grogu (the rat) giggled and signed: “He’s BIG cousin.”

(Thankfully, that seemed to be lost on them.)

“This is Dinui’s riduur?” Ba’buir Vizsla asked, her voice crackly through her antique vocoder, like it was relayed through a radio just slightly out of tune. Her helmet bobbed up and down as she looked over Sabine. She shook her head slowly and made a disapproving sound. “She’s as skinny as he is!”

“Ma, be nice,” Pekka implored, his voice so much gentler than one would picture coming from such a massive figure. 

“I am working on it,” Sabine said, enjoying her own little joke. 

The elderly woman pointed to her with a pale knobbly finger. “You’re a Wren,” she said, her tone changing, softening.

Sabine frowned and looked down at herself, at her armour. “How did you know?” she asked.

Ba’buir Vizsla tapped her shoulder, where there once was a pauldron, no doubt. “Vizslas have wings but only Wrens have feathers,” she said, motioning also to her helmet, drawing circles above the visor, indicating the owl eye design Sabine had painted on hers.

“I am a Wren,” she confirmed. “The last.”

Ba’buir nodded slowly, sympathetically. “No shortage of lasts these days,” she said, quietly, as she shuffled over to the spot beside her and let Pekka help lower her down. She leaned over and took one of Sabine’s hands in hers. She wore no gloves; her hands were weathered, the skin pale and paper-like and cold, such a contrast to Sabine’s tan, warm hand. “But we Mandalorians are very good at making new things from broken pieces, aren’t we?”

Sabine didn’t really know what to say to that, didn’t know what she could get past the sudden lump of emotion lodging in her throat, so she just nodded and gave the old woman’s hands a soft squeeze.

Din came soon after, carrying a tray holding three bowls of steaming tiingilar and a pillowy loaf of bread. He paused, his helmet jerking back slightly as he beheld the sight before him.

“Well, don’t stand there letting the food heat the air,” Ba’buir chastised him, waving her arm, beckoning him in. “Come in. Sit down. And that better not be all you’re feeding your family.”

Din sighed and dutifully trudged in, setting the tray on the table by Sabine and Grogu, holding up a finger to tell the little one to wait. “What part of ‘wait here’ did you not get?” he asked Sabine in a whisper, sounding more tired than genuinely upset.

She shrugged, innocently. “Paz told me we were going to eat here.”

Din shook his head. “That sha’buir,” he muttered.

“Dinui!” Ba’buir chided, sharply. “Language!”

Din ducked his head. “Sorry, Ba’buir,” he said, sounding so much like a child caught in the act. 

. . . . .

Two more joined their table: a pair of grown twins, Delta and Gamma, who were also labelled Din and Paz’s cousins.

Paz was the last to return. When he pulled the curtain closed on their area, everyone began removing their helmets.

The faces weren’t what Sabine expected.

Ragnar she already knew—he hadn’t had a helmet yet when he came to Lothal with his father. He didn’t look much different, save for the taming of his shaggy, long hair.

With the lack of gloves, she could tell Ba’buir had light skin, but she couldn’t picture a face. It turned out the antique helmet hid a remarkably gentle face, wrinkled and weathered but surprisingly soft, with expressive blue eyes, milky with age but still so full of life.

At first glance, Delta and Gamma shared the same face, but Delta had a sharper nose and Gamma had a softer jaw. They had colouring more like Din’s but they shared their grandmother’s blue eyes.

(Sabine wasn’t too sure how the blood lines ran or intersected with this lot, if any of them even shared any at all, and she wasn’t about to ask.)

Pekka, like Din, had a very soft face and an even softer voice without the helmet’s vocoder to compensate. When he spoke, Sabine found herself leaning in to hear him. He looked like he could be related to the twins but it was difficult to see any of the grandmother in him.

Paz, though, was the biggest surprise.

With no further frame of reference, Sabine defaulted to imagining a visage akin to the clan-born Vizslas she had met previously: sharp features, pale complexion. She once heard Ragnar remark that Din looked nothing like Paz, and Ba’buir was fair, so she assumed the image was somewhat correct.

But the reality was the complete opposite.

With the removal of their helmets, no one looked remotely related (except for the twins, of course).

Din hesitated to take his off. 

Sabine suspected he might, but she wasn’t going to push him on it or make any point of it. 

He played the distraction card, taking Grogu into his lap and helping the little one eat (though they both knew he didn’t need half as much help—just give him a bowl and a spoon and he was set).

Sabine went ahead and took her helmet off.

“Wizard hair!” Delta exclaimed, his eyes widening.

“Is it natural or did you dye it?” his sister asked.

“Dyed,” Sabine answered.

“You really like your colours,” Pekka remarked, and it sounded like a compliment.

Sabine shrugged and picked up her bowl of stew. “I have a lot to say.”

The tiingilar smelled incredible—she was so glad they had come on a day when the morning sickness was under control. She often made it herself—it was the very first meal she had shared with Din and Grogu, all the way back in the tower on Lothal—and Din sometimes made a version of it which was half traditional, half Lothali, but it had been a very long time since she’d had the genuine article made for her.

For a little while, there was no conversation, just the collective quiet of eating. She could hear the other clans in the other sections: spoons softly against bowls, little murmurs of conversation slipping around mouthfuls, younger children playing with their food and receiving mild correction therefore.

Grogu wanted the chunks of meat and mushroom more than the other components of the stew. Din anticipated that, and so fished the most desirable pieces out of his own bowl and passed them over to Grogu’s, hauling the parts he wasn’t interested in over to his bowl. 

Once he had accomplished that, he stirred his bowl slowly, contemplatively… hesitantly.

Sabine leaned over him to grab a part of the loaf. On her way back, she stayed closer to him, pressing her arm against his, secretly nudging him. When his helmet turned just enough to bring her into his line of sight, she lifted her eyebrows in a silent encouragement.

He looked back down at his bowl and for a moment he just hung there. He wasn’t making any great show, but she saw the slight tremble in his hands, the too-quick pace of his breaths. 

A part of her expected him to get up and leave, abruptly. She prepared an excuse (something along the lines of “oh, he must’ve forgotten something,” or “he had to go check on something with someone.”) 

But he didn’t bolt.

He drew a deep breath and took his helmet off at last. He wasn’t quick about it; just as the lip cleared the lower half of his face, there was the slightest pause, but he marched on. He set the helmet down beside his hip, as had everyone else, and kept his head down.

Sabine saw his flitting eyes and his clenched jaw. She saw the little judder when he exhaled, struggling to get his nerves under control. 

It made her heart twist up tight in her chest.

Grogu sensed his father’s discomfort, too. His enjoyment of the dinner cooled and he swivelled around, putting a claw on Din’s arm, signing: “Are you okay?” with his other.

Din swallowed and nodded, forcing a smile. “Eat your food, ad’ika,” he told him, gently, giving his cheek a featherlight nudge with a single knuckle.

It wasn’t just the things that had transpired recently that had Din on edge. Besides his complicated relationship with the helmet and his altered views of the wearing thereof, it had been many, many years since he sat and ate a proper meal with the Vizslas.

Paz told Sabine the last time he saw Din’s face, he wasn’t yet twenty. After losing his buir, Din pulled away from everyone.

This was a massive step for him.

Sabine wasn’t sure if the others around the table perceived it as such, but Paz, at least, did.

He sat opposite Din. When his brother finally took his helmet off, Paz gave a nod, like he was expressing his approval. 

It went missed by everyone—the others were all busy eating while partaking in some mundane debate Delta and Gamma had sparked, Ragnar was breaking off a part of his bread and passing it to Grogu, and Din still had his gaze locked down on his untouched bowl of tiingilar.

But Sabine saw it.

. . . . .

The dinner would’ve been over fairly quickly if it weren’t for all the talking. 

Everyone wanted to hear the full story of Din’s adventures, specifically how Grogu came into his life and how he met Sabine.

Din obliged, but he didn’t put as much into his storytelling as he usually did. Fewer flowers, more to the point. It didn’t seem to bother his audience, but Sabine noticed.

Still, he seemed more at ease as he recounted how he found the child, how he stole him back from the Imperials (twice), how he found Sabine while trying to find a covert, how that led him to find his homeworld and his brother.

He left out many, many details—the Darksaber, the helmet, the fact that his brother was a Jedi, the price on his head and the bounty hunters on his tail. Even though Sabine knew he was omitting things, his narrative never read as incomplete—for a while, she even believed it had all been as simple and uncomplicated as he made it sound.

In between all that, Din didn’t eat much.

In fact, as far as Sabine saw, no food ever passed his lips. Grogu got all the interesting pieces of his stew and the rest she caught him surreptiously adding to Pekka’s bowl when the other man wasn’t watching.

When everyone else was done eating, Din was the first to don his helmet, doing so hurriedly. He stacked their empty bowls on the tray and made to stand but Pekka held out a hand to halt him.

“Udesiir, vod,” he said, and coming from his inexplicably gentle voice, Sabine felt a wave of peace. “You’ve had a long journey. I’ll take it for you and I’ll be back with the tihaar.”

Din didn’t move but neither did he put up any resistance as Pekka took his tray, stacking it with the others. The big man put his helmet back on and slipped out of the partitioned off section, doing so in such a way that never exposed the others to the hall.

The post-food coma was already claiming Grogu. With limbs going soft, he scaled Din just enough that he could get himself situated: feet tucked into his belt, claws latched onto his flak vest, little face nuzzled into his unarmoured side. Automatically, Din wrapped an arm around him, his other hand coming up to cover him like a blanket.

It struck Sabine how much this was like the first time she met them, yet everything was different now. She took a moment to absorb it all: the atmosphere, the company.

Back when they first met, they made a deal. At the time, she had simply hoped to see the tribe, just to confirm there were still Mandalorians in the galaxy, preserving their ways, carrying on their history. 

She didn’t expect to feel like she belonged.

Pekka soon returned with the promised tihaar in an old flagon riddled with dings and dents.

From underneath the table, Paz began pulling out a troop of cups. In short order, they were filled and passed around to all except Ragnar and Grogu.

Sabine discreetly passed the cup destined for her to Din.

Maybe on an ordinary night it would’ve gone unnoticed.

But their arrival was the very reason the tribe was bringing out the liquor in the first place.

And Ba’buir’s eyes were not yet dull.

She leaned over to Sabine and not so quietly, but thankfully not too loudly said: “There’s only one reason a Mandalorian would refuse tihaar.”

Sabine glanced to Din.

They weren’t really trying to keep it a secret—with how they had found out, it was impossible to do so—but they had only intentionally told their nearest and dearest. 

He tipped his helmet in a way that said “up to you.”

She took the breath to speak but before she could string two words together, Ba’buir concluded she had assumed correctly and clapped her hands in delight.

“Did the tiingilar taste sweet or bitter?” she asked, grabbing Sabine’s arm and gazing at her earnestly.

Sabine frowned. “What?”

“If it tasted sweet, it’s a girl. If it’s bitter, it’s a boy. It’s never failed.”

“Hey, wait,” Delta piped up. “Does that mean the tiingilar was both sweet and bitter to our mother?”

“No, your poor mother couldn’t even eat it,” Ba’buir answered. “She survived on dried bread and tea. Which always means twins.”

The old woman whipped around, looking expectantly at Sabine.

She didn’t really believe in the method—it was just another old wives’ tale—but Ba’buir was eager and excited and, well, what was the harm?

“It was a bit sweet, I think,” she offered and the old woman clapped her papery hands together again.

“Another fine warrior for you two to raise,” she declared, looking like she was about ready to tear up.

. . . . .

Various parts of the once station and transport tunnels had been transformed into living quarters of varying configurations. Some were meant to accommodate just one person, others had multiple rooms sectioned off for families. 

The arrangements were simple: just sleeping pads and blankets and pillows. 

After the journey and the welcome, Sabine felt she could sleep on just the bare floor.

Ados showed them to the alcoves that were to be their quarters. During dinner, he and some others had worked to get them ready, preparing spaces for all who had come.

Like the rest of the tunnels, the alcoves smelled of the sea and things that grew on beaches. It felt more like they were in an ocean cave than in an old transport tunnel. In the distance, Sabine could hear dripping water and the soft moaning of air rushing in through the ventilation system.

Their alcove had walls, but, like the dining hall, a colourful old sheet cordoned it off, serving in place of a door. It filtered the light of the tunnel, tainting it a gentle flame colour that went well with the little lamp glowing at the head of their bed.

Grogu was out like a light, snug in a basket beside their bed, wrapped in his blue blanket. Sabine sat on the edge of their sleeping mat, gently running her fingers along his brow, seeing his sleep stayed soft.

“I like your grandmother,” she remarked to Din as he doffed his armour and set it up in the corner for the night.

“She’s not my grandmother.”

“Alright. Paz’s grandmother.”

Din shook his head as he brought his foot up onto a crate so he could unclasp the greaves without bending all the way over. “Not Paz’s, either. Or Pekka’s or Delta and Gamma’s. She’s no one’s grandmother—not anymore,” he explained, quietly, his voice carrying a tired rasp, amplified through the vocoder. “She is a Vizsla, but her family all died in the Siege and the Purge. We sorta adopted her. We call her ‘Ba’buir’ out of respect.”

“Well, she’s nice.”

“Yeah. She is. She likes you.” He chuckled. “They all do.”

“They like you, too—Dinui.” She put emphasis on the nickname and waited for him to respond. 

A groan, a grumble, hopefully a quip—just something she could use to gauge how he was really handling all of this.

But he carried on taking off his armour, setting it up, keeping the helmet on unnecessarily and giving no response… which was a response in itself.

She decided to let it alone for now.

After a few days, he would settle. His tribe had welcomed him; he just needed time to accept that.

“Hey,” she said, softly, breaking his concentration again without remorse. She waited until he looked over at her before pulling on a smirk. “Our deal’s finally complete.”

His helmet canted to the side for a beat and she could tell he was frowning in confusion. Then he shook his head with a light huff of a laugh. “Is it?” he said, and the little note of humour in his voice was music to her ears.

“Yup.” She scooted back on the mat, taking her side of the bed. “You helped me find Ezra, and I got you back to your tribe.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” 

“I’m taking credit, yes.”

He didn’t say anything in return to that and she mourned the sudden loss of their banter.

But when he was finally done taking his armour off and he had come to settle down for the night, he smiled to her—that small, warm, genuine smile that held gratitude and adoration like the most precious treasures in the galaxy.

“You do deserve the credit,” he said to her, his voice whisper-soft and clear without the helmet in the way. “I wouldn’t have found my way without you.”

Chapter Text

These tunnels—this entire world—was a far cry from the sun-drenched landscapes Koska dreamed of.

But down here, with damp duracrete for both sky and ground, lived a warmth she had believed long extinguished in this galaxy.

There were no families among the Nite Owls—they were soldiers, not parents; it was a camp, not a crèche. Since the Purge, everyone’s sights were set on Mandalore, on reclaiming their homeworld. Once they were settled and safe, then they could have families and focus on raising the next generation, but until then, the fight was all that mattered.

But Mandalore the planet held no allure for the Tribe.

They had nothing down here.

Yet they lived as if they had everything.

She never saw such contentment back in the camp, nor such community. They weren’t constantly at each other’s throats, but there was always this undercurrent of competition: everyone had something to prove. Here, the shoves and pushes—verbal or physical—had a safety to them, like animals play-fighting. There was no true intent to harm one another.

When the liquor came out, Koska tensed, waiting for the veneer of civility to wash away. Whenever the alcohol started flowing back in the camp, their casual rough-housing turned harsh and boundaries in general ebbed thin and vague. Although she couldn’t see how much the others drank—having no clan, she ate alone—she didn’t hear the telltale signs of intoxication spreading anywhere: no slurring, no over loud jeering, no sudden shouting matches. The laughter was a little loosened, but when they emerged from their sectioned off dining areas, their steps were still certain.

Now she lay on a pallet in an alcove not much bigger than a maintenance closet—it may well have been a maintenance closet, once upon a time: every part of these abandoned stations and tunnels had been ingeniously repurposed. She listened as others slipped into their own alcoves. She closed her eyes and sank into the ambience of quiet conversation, the voices soft enough to keep the words to only their intended audience.

A baby cried and a mother’s cooing voice quelled it.

A couple of kids giggled, received a firm reminder that it was time to sleep now, and then a few minutes later giggled again and received a fondly exasperated sigh.

Some muffled snoring broke out, uncommonly fast.

Water dripped in the distance, painting the cavernous size of the tunnels.

A generator or some other kind of machinery hummed low and consistent.

Though the environment was drastically different, there was an atmosphere here so like the Protectors’ village.

It sent a wave of nostalgia crashing over Koska—as painful as it was comforting.

She wondered what the others in her camp would think of this place, of these people. What would Bo-Katan say? What would Axe say? Whenever they spoke of other tribes, their lips curled in disgust. But it was ignorance—it had to be. If they saw this—the families, the safety, the contentment—they wouldn’t scoff. Maybe other tribes deserved scorn, but not this one. 

Surely, if they saw this tribe, saw how they made a life out of nothing just so they could see another day with their families, they wouldn’t have a bad word to say about them; they wouldn’t have any reason to spit at the ground after mentioning them. 

Perhaps this didn’t look like the model Mandalorian home and society, perhaps their ways were a little different and foreign, but was this life not precisely what they were fighting to bring out into the light?

Wasn’t this the reason they were working so hard to reclaim their homeworld?

Even as she thought that, however, a cynical voice lurked in the back of her mind, sounding so much like Axe that night when he warned her not to make waves or else risk drowning.

What if it was all an act? An elaborate trick? A play?

She hadn’t been here longer than a few hours—how could she really know enough about this tribe to deem them one way or another?

Sentimentality and the fear of being naïve battled within her.

She would just have to wait and see, she decided.

Wait and see…

. . . . .

Once Sabine was asleep, Din slipped away—partly on purpose, partly by route.

It was becoming a habit, he realized with a weighty measure of guilt. He tried to smother it with the assurance that he didn’t do this every night—some nights he stayed and tried to sleep and he even succeeded, perhaps less for his efforts and more for the fact he wasn’t a being that could remain perpetually awake.

He excused himself this time on account of this being the first night in a new place. Rest was never easy to find in a foreign bed—especially when said bed was a padded mat on the floor of a windowless niche in the wall. He needed to exhaust the last of his energy.

And he had business still to attend to.

He had only caught one glimpse of the Armourer upon their arrival. It was such a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment that he had begun to wonder if it wasn’t some trick of his imagination; perhaps his wish that she was safe and present had painted the image, just to reassure him. Regardless, it had been his intention for months now to find the covert and hand over his earnings—whether that was to the Armourer or someone else, he needed to see it through.

He needed to see that the tribe was taken care of and he needed to ask for their help one last time.

So he donned his helmet again, pulled on his gloves and boots, and hooked the Darksaber to the back of his belt but forewent the rest of his armour and gear. He checked that his wife and his child were still sound asleep and then, silently, he left their alcove and stepped out into the main tunnel.

There was a faint, artificial light softening the darkness, its source difficult to trace. A glance up and down found only dark curtains: everyone was asleep in their alcoves, including the others of his crew.

He made his way along, looking around corners as he went, trying to get a feel for the layout. He found training rooms and storage but no forge. These tunnels weren’t as cramped and tightly twisting as the Nevarran sewers, but they were just as maze-like.

He wandered for a while, like a leaf surrendered to the current of a river. He took corners at random, choosing paths by whim.

Eventually, he realized he wasn’t deliberately searching for the forge anymore.

He was procrastinating.

Acknowledging that, he paused and looked around, purposely seeing the place instead of passing idly through.

He was in yet another tunnel. Raised platforms ran either side of a carved-out ditch, tracks for a hover-train ran straight down the middle. He climbed down and stood in the perfect centre, armed with the knowledge there were no shuttles in service but still feeling a daring thrill.

There was nothing here but chilled air and ancient litter—rusted and crumpled drink cans; bits of flimsi takeaway containers, their colours and labels faded beyond recognition—and the planet’s attempts to reclaim this abandoned structure—sprouts and bundles of some kind of silvery weed that apparently needed no sunlight to thrive. This place was too secluded even for graffiti artists to find (though a bountiful canvas it made…)

He turned his head, looking up and down the tunnel. The tracks led to nothing but an endless, suffocating abyss on either side.

He craned his neck back to look up at the high, arching ceiling, and the strangest sense of irony washed over him.

This very moment, throughout the Outer Rim, hunters were scrambling to catch his scent, spot his trail, and track him down. Everyone from failed pirates to veteran mercenaries were going mad trying to find him. The New Republic, too, wouldn’t mind getting their hands on him. And, of course, there were those enemies he had made—knowingly or unknowingly.

They were chasing whispers and rumours, grasping at every shadow that looked vaguely like a Mandalorian, getting excited by every silver glint.

And here he was.

Standing alone in a dark underground tunnel.

A laugh bubbled up his throat. It escaped and ran off into the echoes, the flat sound making the tunnels sound haunted and lonely.

The ever cocky part of him saw the humour in it: the whole galaxy was after him and yet here he was, literally under their feet.

But the other parts of him—the serious, mortal parts—they weren’t laughing.

He may have earned the reputation of best bounty hunter in the parsec, but every other parsec had its best and its worst and they were all after his hide. He couldn’t outrun them all—not forever.

He knew, from the very start of this when Vane appeared on Morak, that he would have to come up with a plan. Initially, he hoped it would go away on its own: people were always going to be after his beskar or revenge or a quick ticket to forge their own legend, but they usually got tired of chasing a thing they couldn’t grab, much less see, so he would run while they were interested and hide while they hunted and when they gave up, he would come out and carry on with his life like nothing had happened.

Then Xi’an caught up to him and it wasn’t for his beskar or plain old revenge.

There was a price placed on him, a demand that he be found and left for dead. That was hard enough to stomach, but then to learn another Mandalorian had commissioned the job… it set ice in the deepest recesses of his bones to even consider such a thing.

He had had little over two days to ponder over that new fact.

But he had reached a conclusion within just minutes.

This had to end, and the only way it could end was with one of them dead.

Kryze had issued no duel, but she had made her intentions very clear in setting this bounty.

She wanted her sword. 

She did not want to fight him; she did not want to risk losing. Why else would she rig the odds so?

Strictly thinking in terms of Mandalorian honour, Din couldn’t fathom such a concept, but he had been out there, he had walked amongst the unscrupulous, amongst murderers and thieves and would-be usurpers, he knew how the underhanded and devious thought, he knew a dizzying spectrum of double-crossers and back-stabbers. So even though it went against his sensibilities, even though it violated the very foundations of their supposedly shared beliefs, he understood her plan.

Call up the most unprincipled hunters, dangle the prize of beskar, reputation, and maybe even a little bit of revenge before them, press them to refrain from killing him, then blow the horn, open the cages, and let them loose. Let them chase and corner him, brutalize him, leave him just clinging to life, then she could come and deliver the final blow, giving her a thin but tangible claim to the Darksaber. Then she’d let them take the beskar and she would take the helmet as proof of his death—it would be enough; after all, no one knew his face.

He doubted she would tire or grow bored and just give up. She had been after this blade longer than he had had his helmet—perhaps even longer than he had been alive. And she wouldn’t have gotten as far as she had by just giving up when things got a little difficult. Desperation and obsession were a formidable combination.

Going after him was one thing, but she had already proven herself dishonourable. How long until she targeted his family to get to him?

They didn’t deserve that. And this life on the run couldn’t last forever either.

It had to end.

And he could see only one way to end it.

But before that, he had to make sure his family would be kept safe.

His mind set, he began walking. Out of the tunnel, out of the maze, he wound his way back to the main station where they had entered, hoping to locate the forge from there.

The place was abandoned now: the game tables left as they were, pieces paused in the middle of a campaign. A few of the lights were left on—just enough to keep the path clear and walkable.

Din had no intentions to linger, but his plan went up in smoke when his gaze fell on the armoured figure sitting near the entrance, a heavy blaster his only company.

“Sleepwalking, Djarin?” Paz questioned, tipping his helmet to the side.

Din sighed. “Something like that.”

Paz remained still and silent for a long moment—longer than was comfortable—just watching him. What he saw and what he thought, Din didn’t even try to consider. He reached some conclusion and threw a curt nod over his shoulder, inviting Din to come and pull up a seat by him.

Din turned his head, looking around before conceding and going over.

Paz’s seat was just a crate so Din grabbed a loose crate nearby and dragged it over, stationing himself on the other side of the entrance as if joining the guard post.

“It’s good to see you well again,” Paz remarked. “With the state you were in, I’m surprised to see you walking.”

“I’m doing a bit more than walking these days.”

“So I’ve heard. We’ll have to spar again—make sure your skills haven’t rusted.”

“You that eager to get your shebs handed to you?”

Paz just chuckled and Din felt something unwind in him: a tension he hadn’t acknowledged. For how long and deep the rift between them ran, it amazed him how quickly they had rebuilt their bond. 

“Congratulations, by the way. A new addition to the clan is a cause for joy.”

“Thank you,” Din said. “It… was a surprise.”

Paz chuffed. “It usually is.”

He said it without any extra layers but Din’s heart weighed heavy in his chest, struck through with a spear of sympathy and grief. Paz had had children before Ragnar—some foundlings, some born; all lost.

“Any, um… any advice?” Din asked, aiming for a light tone and landing close enough.

“You’ll be hearing a lot of advice, vod,” Paz said like he was warning him.

“Yeah, but… I want some from you. You and Lindy raised fine warriors.”

Paz took a long slow breath and his posture softened ever so slightly. He considered for a long time before speaking. “If you really want something, I’ll tell you what my father said to me: Be there. Whenever you can, however you can, be there for your family. The protecting, providing, and training, it’s all necessary, but they need you more than anything else.”

Din nodded, slowly, absently, as he took the words to heart, running through them in his mind to make sure they stuck in his memory.

But as they sank in, his plan slivered up to the surface, and he saw the clash. He couldn’t help his family by being with them this one time.

A feeling like hypocrisy clutched at his heart, tearing it this way then that.

He shoved it back down.

Paz didn’t know the other things at play; his advice was nice and it worked in general but it didn’t apply to the situation at hand.

The silence they shared after that wasn’t so strained.

It was cold down in these tunnels. Din had come with his flightsuit over his clothes but still a chill seeped in, pulling him to rub his arms when Paz wasn’t looking his way.

Maybe it was the late hour or a strange sense of sentimentality cropping up from the occasion, but he didn’t want to leave so quickly. It had been a long time since he and Paz had shared such easy trust; he had gone without it for so long, he had forgotten to crave it, but now that they had reestablished their old friendship, Din found himself drawn to stay like one drawn to sit by a fire on a long, cold night.

He had still so much to tell him.

The Darksaber, Gideon’s death, all the business with Bo-Katan and the bounty…

Just listing them in his own mind doused the fledgling feeling of warmth and safety. He was so tired of his plagues. And he knew Paz: the minute he brought up his problems, he’d give him solutions and want to hear his plan for fixing everything. Din had a plan, but Paz wouldn’t like it; he’d argue and try to stop him and then nothing would get resolved.

So he put a solid lock on those things and turned his mind to other topics.

“Ragnar’s come a long way in his training,” he commented.

He didn’t have to see Paz’s face to know he was grinning now—beaming with pride. “He’s the youngest I’ve ever had to take their helmet. I was afraid he wasn’t ready, but he was eager and he passed the trials two months back.”

“I’m… sorry. That I wasn’t here for the ceremony.”

Paz waved a hand, dismissing that. Really, there had been no way to know—it wasn’t like they could send messages freely. But if he hadn’t procrastinated coming here…

“You’re here now,” Paz said, a distinct sternness in his voice sealing the issue. “And here to stay for a while, I hope?”

“A while,” Din echoed, noncommittally.

“Well, however long, we’ll put you to work. The young ones could benefit from a new instructor. And I’m sure they’ll learn a thing or two from your Jedi.”

“You haven’t… advertised that too much, have you?”

“I haven’t, but neither do I see any point keeping it a secret. Our kinds are not at war any longer, and the only reason this one is even here is because you deem him trustworthy.”

Din nodded vaguely and meaninglessly to that, saying nothing.

Ezra hadn’t shown any signs of unease down here. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself. He was welcomed and he was making himself well-liked.

It hadn’t been even a full day, but the others in his party seemed comfortable here, too. Fenn had had no shortage of people to speak with, Koska was absorbed right in as if she were a long-lost friend, Sabine was treated as a daughter and a sister, Grogu was universally adored, even Omega and the droids were fitting in.

And Din knew he was welcomed, too. 

The Vizslas made no point of the fact it had been eighteen years since he last joined them for a meal (though Ba’buir did make a few comments on his facial hair, at first surprised, because the last time she saw him he couldn’t grow anything more than fuzz, then it turned to observations regarding the patchiness of his beard—something to the tune of why didn’t he grow it properly? It’s because he’s not eating enough protein, no doubt. Well. More tiingilar should solve that, don’t worry). 

He could take the needling and the nagging—it came from a good place, after all. And it was reassuring to pick up right where they had left off and carry on like there was never any rift.

It reminded him why he had poured so much of himself into taking care of them.

Because they were his family.

“How is the tribe?” he asked, presently. “They seem… comfortable down here.”

Paz rocked his head slightly on his shoulders. “It’s better than Nevarro. Quieter. Safer. And we have more space,” he added, sweeping an arm out and raising his voice just enough to send it bouncing off the cavernous ceiling.

“Still underground,” Din pointed out.

“Still underground,” Paz echoed, far more accepting of their life in the shadows than he was a year earlier—his time spent separated from the tribe must’ve fostered a new perspective.

“How are you supported?”

“We have a beroya. A youth, Riel Rook.”

Din frowned. “I don’t remember the name.”

“You wouldn’t; he was a part of the covert here already.”

“Is he Guild?”

Paz shrugged. “I don’t keep up with those things. He goes, he does his work, he gets paid and he keeps the tribe fed—that’s all that matters.”

“Oh, so it’s only a problem when it’s me going out and bounty hunting.” Only after the words left his mouth Din realized the shove in them. He couldn’t help it; his work had always been one of the main roots of their conflict, whether it was how he was doing it or who he was doing it with or who he was doing it for or how long he was spending away from the tribe doing it—Paz never ran out of issues to take with it.

But here now, he didn’t shove back. He sighed, wearily, his helmet sliding to the side like he was regarding Din with a tired expression. “Riel is not my little brother running away a week before completing his training in the Fighting Corps. to join a gang.”

“It wasn’t a gang.”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

“It wasn’t a gang,” Din insisted, “it was a crew. We had no affiliations with the crime families and we weren’t trying to be one ourselves.”

A line of light slid slowly along Paz’s visor as he pointedly tilted his helmet, saying without saying: Do you really want to fight about this now?

“And I didn’t join them right away,” Din continued, the fight fading from his tone while the indignation still stirred in his gut. “Those first few years, I took jobs on my own. Probably… probably should have stuck with that.”

“It’s easier to just say: ‘Paz, you were right all along and I’m a di’kut,’” he said. No self-righteousness, no true “I told you so,” just a thread of a tease woven through mild words.

Din latched onto that thread like it was a lifeline. “I can’t do that. Lying is against our code.”

It pulled a laugh from Paz: a gruff but hearty chuckle that filled the abandoned station like sunlight.

“Alright, enough with you,” he said and jerked his head in the direction Din had come from. “I don’t need another visor out here. Go back to your wife and children; they’ll be missing you.”

“I will,” Din promised as he stood. “But I have to check in with the Armourer first. Where’s the forge?”

Paz raised an arm and pointed to a non-descript archway leading to a dark corridor. “Down there, first left; can’t miss it. She should be asleep, too, but you know her: she’s always kept odd hours.”

“Thank you,” Din said and took his leave promptly though a part of him wanted to stay, unreasonably afraid that he would lose what he and Paz had established if he turned his back now.

His steps echoed as he made his way. The corridor wasn’t lit but it was short and the room housing the forge was generous with the soft, warm light it bathed in. The familiar smell of metal and fire swept through the air, coaxing out memories of all the forges Din had seen over the years.

The last he set foot near was the forge Sabine constructed in the base of her tower on Lothal. Simple and small, it was where she added the jaig eyes to his helmet and it was where they made their clan’s new signet.

Above the archway leading to the forge hung the Mythosaur skull, catching the glimmers of light and holding them like eternal embers. Din walked under it, his heart pounding while a feeling of returning warmed his bones.

She was there: awake and still working.

She stood stationed at a counter at the back of the room, her back turned to him, the fur of her cloak seeming to shiver like a living thing as her shoulders moved, her hands ever at work, plying the intricate circuitry of a chestplate.

For a moment, Din remained there on the threshold, holding his silence, watching her work, waiting—for permission or recognition, he wasn’t sure, but he felt he couldn’t continue without some form of invitation.

She carried on her work for a while and Din realized he would have to speak up or enter of his own accord—she didn’t seem to know he was there, and how could she? She hadn’t glanced his way and how could she hear his steps over the constant low roar of the fires?

However, she banished his deliberation before he could reach a decision.

“Come,” she beckoned, not pausing her work, not turning his way.

He bowed his head and stepped in. 

The configuration of this forge was nearly identical to the one on Nevarro except the room was more cavern-like and the walls grey and vaguely reflective, painted with flickering streaks of violet and silver from the flames. He was too far to feature in the walls, but her helmet cast a faint yellow flicker above her work station.

Midway between the entrance and the forge sat a low table with two shorter barrels for seats either side. Din went and took the seat nearest the entrance.

He waited.

He breathed.

He set his hands on his knees and kept his posture straight.

Both anxiety and calm washed through him like two oceans meeting and colliding but never quite mixing. He kept still but his gaze flicked from one spot to the next as if searching for something untoward, something that might attack him, or perhaps something that could help him.

The Armourer didn’t hurry or pause her work. He assumed it was at a stage she couldn’t simply leave it, so he thought nothing of it. He listened to the little string of sounds as she connected this, set that, cut this, switched that, taking the extra buffer of time granted him to order his thoughts and prepare his words.

“It is good to see you alive,” she commented, out of the blue, her tone as regal as ever but softer than he remembered, more… sentimental.

He nodded, then realized her back was still turned to him. “Thank you. It’s good to see you alive, too. I… worried you might not have made it off Nevarro.”

“I had work to finish,” she reminded him, evenly. “The beskar from the fallen needed to be salvaged and the trail to the covert cut off.”

He recalled the slashed markers on Nevarro. As tragic as they were, seeing them was a reassurance: it meant someone had gone through and crossed them out, and it meant no one else would be lured into a trap there.

He looked around then, not perceiving his own intent until his gaze found a beskar ingot laying on another stretch of the counter on the other side of the room. There was a container nearby, most likely filled with identical ingots.

“You have brought more outsiders to the covert,” the Armourer remarked, breaking him out of his grave observations.

He ducked his head as if to brace for a scolding. But there came none; she continued working.

“They are trustworthy,” Din assured her. “They are all warriors I have met on my travels.”

“They are not all Mandalorian.”

“No, they are not. One is a soldier and one is a Jedi. He is my brother.”

She paused her work for just a slip of a second but he didn’t miss it. “The soldier?” she questioned.

“No. The Jedi. In searching for the covert, I… unintentionally found my way to my birth home.”

“Lothal?”

“Yes,” he answered but then frowned.

How did she know? He hadn’t known, hadn’t remembered, and he had only met her after the Purge.

He didn’t dwell on it for long. It wasn’t recorded in his chain code or in any other register, but Paz or Ados or even Ba’buir could have shared the name of his homeworld with the Armourer outside of his hearing—they had all known him as a young foundling, after all.

Finally, she laid her tools down, neat and in line with their brethren. She left the chestplate where it was and turned around at last. Their visors met and she bowed her head in proper greeting before coming over and sitting across from him.

She sat stiffly, he noticed, absently. He wasn’t sure if it was from sore joints or some other complaint, but it was a signal of some measure of discomfort.

“I presume, then, that you have completed your quest?” she asked.

He nodded. “I searched many parsecs and at last found one of the child’s people. But she refused to take the child into her care.”

“She,” the Armourer repeated. “You found another Jedi besides the one who is your brother?”

“Yes. I found her first. She would not take the child but she spoke with him and he made his wishes clear.”

“His wishes?”

Din grappled with the words for a moment. It had been many months now but still something in him struggled to believe it hadn’t all been a fantastic dream. “Grogu wished to stay with me.”

“Grogu?”

“That is his name. The Jedi can speak with one another without words; somehow, he told her his name.”

The Armourer regarded him for a moment but said nothing more on the subject. “So you have adopted… Grogu?”

“I have.”

She was silent for a moment. Her helmet turned ever so slightly, the line of her visor reangling, aiming towards his shoulder. “And your clan has grown in another way, I see,” she said with a nod to his pauldron.

A thrill bloomed in his heart. “In my search for the tribe, I found a Mandalorian who had no clan. She is now my riduur and we have combined our clans to carry on our families’ legacies.”

The Armourer was still for a moment before nodding to that, the elongated pause making it seem like she wasn’t sure of her response. “Just so,” she said, eventually, a thin streak of something in her tone he couldn’t parse; it sounded… regretful.

He wanted to carry on, tell her everything, share the whole story. Of all the Alors he had known throughout his life, the Nevarran Armourer was the most unique. Other chiefs felt like mentors and leaders, but something about the way she guided and protected the tribe under her care felt distinctly maternal.

But it was late and she seemed tired; better to get on with business and let her rest.

He unclipped the pouch from his belt and set it down on the table.

Her helmet slid down then back up, looking from him to the pouch then back to him. “What is this?”

“For the tribe,” he answered, simply.

She reached over, plucked the pouch up and brought it closer to her. Opening it, she sifted through the credits with two fingers, the light metallic clinking abating the silence along with the consistent hum of the flames behind her.

“This is generous,” she remarked, genuinely impressed. She looked up at him again. “This is more than you have ever earned before.”

“It is a reward,” he explained, haltingly, feeling unreasonably uncomfortable about the matter all of a sudden, “from the New Republic… for the capture of Moff Gideon.”

She tilted her head in the Mandalorian equivalent of an eyebrow raise. “You captured Moff Gideon?”

“With help from allies. He had stolen the child from me; I was only trying to get him back.”

“Your child is safe now and the Moff is captured—that is good news.”

“The Moff is dead.”

Again, a long, waiting pause. 

“He is not dead by your hand,” the Armourer finally surmised.

“No. He was killed by Bo-Katan Kryze.”

“I know the name,” the Armourer interjected just as he took the breath to supply a description.

Din swallowed and exhaled in a rush. He had to force his hands to stay still on his knees. “She killed the Moff and now she hunts me.”

“For what reason?” the Armourer asked, each word a little clipped from its neighbour; he got the sense he was testing her extraordinary patience.

His mouth wouldn’t open, wouldn’t bring out anymore words, so he reached behind him, unhooked the Darksaber from where it lay across the back of his belt, brought it around and placed it on the table.

Her helmet tipped down and her visor froze there, locked on the ancient hilt. The only assurance that time was still moving along at a regular pace was the faint flicker of the violet flames behind her.

“The Darksaber,” she said after a full minute of tenuous silence. When he didn’t say anything in response, she raised her head slowly to level her hidden gaze with his. Rather than ask or prompt, she pointedly tilted her head, calling for an explanation.

“Bo-Katan Kryze once possessed the sword,” he told her. Vaguely, he felt foolish, something in him suspecting she already knew this—she seemed to know everything. But not knowing precisely what she knew, he could only pick a point and carry on from there. “On the Night of a Thousand Tears, she lost it in combat to the Moff.”

He noted a shift in the Armourer’s posture. Slight, easily missed, but betrayed ignorance of the latter fact.

“To save Grogu from the Moff, I had no choice but to fight him.”

“He fought you with the Darksaber?”

“Yes.”

“How were you able to beat him?”

Din made a meaningless gesture with his hands as he struggled to find the words for an answer. He hadn’t expected this point to draw to a question.

“I was gifted a beskar spear for helping the Jedi with her quest.”

The Armourer nodded, satisfied with the explanation but not wanting to dwell there. “So you won the Darksaber in rightful combat?”

He held down a sigh. “Yes.”

“You know what that entails?”

“Yes. But that’s not… that is not what I have come here to discuss.”

She sat back slightly, her shoulders sliding into an almost defensive position.

He pointed sharply to the saber hilt, lying innocuous and meaningless on the table between them. “Bo-Katan lost the sword to Gideon. She wanted to retrieve it. But I got in the way and now I have the sword and Bo-Katan is desperate. She has every two-bit bounty hunter in the Rim chasing me like a diseased scurrier and I’m running out of places to go and I just want to keep my family safe.” 

He stopped, abruptly, realizing with some regret that he had let his voice rise along with his emotions. He took a moment, took a breath, and forced his composure back in place, pinning it there with solemn resolve. 

“I need to ask a favour,” he said, quieter, steadier, controlled once again. “I have to leave. I have to go and face Bo-Katan. I need to—I need to get her to call the bounty off. While I’m gone and if—if something should happen, I need my family to be protected. The tribe is the safest place I can think of.”

Silence rushed in. 

Even the flames of the forge seemed to quieten down as if aware of the gravity of the moment.

He watched her, reading every line, every angle, every motion, straining to perceive her reaction, desperate to decipher her wordless response.

But she was as still and calm as ever he had known her. She showed nothing she didn’t want seen.

When she stood, it was like a droid: mechanical, obeying a command without wish or reason. She rose and turned and went back to the counter she had been working at when first he arrived and recommenced her craft as if his interruption hadn’t even occurred.

His heart turned to stone and sank within him. 

He felt like a child abandoned in a crowd, left to fend for himself against things he couldn’t withstand.

It was too much to ask, he realized, not as ashamed as he was dismayed. 

Had it just been himself on the line, he wouldn’t have come here, wouldn’t have requested the tribe’s assistance—he hadn’t before. In thirty years, he hadn’t ever asked for anything more than he was given, and he spent every day repaying and making up for what was gifted him.

Because he never deserved it.

The care, the protection, the training… he never deserved any of it.

He didn’t even deserve to be saved that day in Aq Vetina.

What was he—a too-small, freshly deafened child—compared to the other families who lost their lives and loved ones that day? He had no skills, no talents to give, he didn’t have any great strength or potential; he didn’t even have a normal set of basic senses anymore.

And yet he was saved, he was cared for and protected and trained, and he was grateful for everything spent on him: time, resources, effort. And that child from Aq Vetina, he didn’t know how to show gratitude in any other way than to refill, replenish, repay. He didn’t know what was enough, so he gave everything.

But everything, as it turned out, was not enough.

He stood.

He couldn’t stay as he was: sitting, left on a lower level, relegated to a child’s view of someone he respected. He stood and took a step but halted his approach before he could go any further, an ingrained sense of honour and propriety pushing him to stay in his place. 

“Please,” he begged. “Kryze has proven herself dishonourable. She won’t stop until she has her sword. I know—I know what it means and I can’t let her have it, but I can’t let her hurt my family, either. I can’t protect them on my own; I need the tribe’s help. Please.”

He curled over himself at the end, just slightly, the words taking so much more out of him than mere breath and voice. 

It seemed an age before the Armourer laid her tools down again, the sound of beskar clean and refined on the stone countertop.

“Of course the tribe will protect your family,” she assured him, speaking to the wall.

He didn’t get a chance to feel any shade of relief from her words as she let go of a strangled breath: a slip of emotion so uncharacteristic, it twisted something inside him and made his skin prickle with the sense of something wrong and out of place.

She hung her head for a moment, her helmet shaking like she was debating something within herself and woefully losing the argument. Her hands, he noticed, gripped the edge of the counter tight as if it were her only tether to the world.

“Even if the tribe will not, I promise you I will,” she said, forcing herself to straighten up again and regain herself. “I will protect your family… because they are my family as well.”

He was still processing that statement when she reached up.

He heard the hiss of a slackened helmet seal and something in him screamed to turn around or close his eyes or shout for her to stop because this… this was… this couldn’t be happening.

The golden helmet with its regal, royal lines and defining coronet lifted and Din felt like he was witnessing some surreal, uncanny event. He knew, logically, that it was not surgically attached to her, it was not fused to her in any way, but he couldn’t comprehend its removal now in this moment.

He made a sound: some word that got stuck in his throat and came out a choked, unintelligible gasp. Either she didn’t hear it or she ignored it as it had no effect on her: she didn’t pause, didn’t slow, didn’t halt this unspeakable act.

He never really knew who or even what she was. 

She was the tribe’s chieftess and armourer; she took care of them, guided them, and kept their armour in good repair. She was wise and stalwart and ever patient. She had no name and no clan and that unnerved some but Din felt a kinship with another solitary shadow devoted to the way and the tribe.

But whatever she was beneath the helmet, he made no attempts to learn or imagine.

He was not prepared for the black and silver hair, braided and pinned and frayed from days spent under the helmet. It felt wrong to learn she was Terran as he was. And when she turned around and looked him straight in the eye…

He already knew her face.

Or, rather, he knew her face younger, a little darker, and framed with short, violet coloured hair…

Chapter Text

“Who are you?” Din demanded, his voice level and low.

The woman before him—the Armourer with her helmet removed—took a breath and lifted her chin (and, oh, how much she looked like Sabine as she did so—she always did that, exactly that when she was gathering courage and strength to say something difficult…)

“My name is Ursa Wren,” she declared, her voice just as regal and defined without the vocoder as with but notably softer and more distinct.

Din shook his head. “No. It can’t be. Ursa Wren is dead. She died with the rest of her clan in the Great Purge.”

The older woman’s eyes softened and drifted away as if in shame. “I should have but I did not.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything further but this was no true silence. The ringing in Din’s ears intensified, the pounding of his heart taking up residence in his head as questions—a myriad of loud, sharp, fervent but wordless questions—rushed through his mind, repeating, going around like objects caught in the clutches of a violent whirlpool.

The Armourer’s eyes lifted to meet his visor again. A crinkle in her brow seemed to issue a request. He wasn’t sure if it was what she meant, but he realized he had not reciprocated and removed his helmet as well. 

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

A slight pull of her lips—the ghost of a smile—told him she understood and her brow smoothed out, erasing the request.

She turned around and set her helmet down on the counter, readjusting it with the most delicate nudges of her gloved fingers. Light from the forge and overhead reflected in soft pools on the golden surface, running down and highlighting the lines and angles of a face Din thought he knew.

It was a childish notion, perhaps, but he felt as if he had just seen the Armourer beheaded.

“It happened suddenly—you would remember,” she began though he hadn’t managed to voice any prompt for an explanation. “While the rest of the galaxy was cheering the destruction of the Death Star, the Mandalorian sector faced the most fierce, most unforgiving attack in history. The Empire had contingency plans in place for their downfall: they were determined to take enemies and allies alike down with them. We received no forewarning on Krownest, just as there was no warning for Mandalore, Kalevala or Concordia. The Night of a Thousand Tears swept in and we all fought and fell—some in death, some in loss.

“My clan fought well, but we could not withstand the onslaught. I watched my family fall. My son, my husband—”

Her words cut out, like the flame of a simple candle snuffed by a sudden gust of wind. The only visible slip of emotion was a slight turn of her head and a twitch of her jaw as her lips pressed tight against the grief.

She drew a measured breath and moved away from the helmet to walk along the counter, her hand trailing along the edge. Din did not move from where he was just standing by the table and barrel seats; he let his head drift to follow her as she carved a slow, deceptively deliberate circuit.

“I was struck down in the battle. I continued but I was too weak to fight off the troopers. They overwhelmed me and took me captive. A wretched way to survive,” she said like a confession of some horrid sin, her expression contorting with ire and disgust aimed at herself and her enemies.

She paused at a point where the forge stood right between them: a barrier, a buffer, yet somehow a bridge.

“I was taken to Nevarro by orders from the Moff and brought before him. He stripped me of my armour and placed me in a cell deep within the base. I soon learned I was not alone: other Mandalorians had been cursed with the same fate. Some were clan leaders, too; others were merely soldiers. We were to be reconditioned, and if we did not comply and change our allegiance, it was made known to us we would become test subjects for the Moff’s experiments. None of us knew at the time what the experiments pertained to.” She looked directly at him and tipped her head to the side. “Now I understand it had some connection to the child—the one whom you rescued.”

The one I first brought in then rescued, Din thought, regret resurfacing, vile and nauseating.

His head and heart pounding, he sat back down. He hadn’t donned his full suit of armour but he felt as heavy as if he wore three layers of beskar. He sank down on the seat, his back arching without his consent. He was so tired—from the journey, from all his dilemmas and decisions, from revealing and speaking and pleading. He was so tired, his heart beat sluggishly and faint starbursts littered the edges of his vision.

“How did you—how did you escape?” he asked, forcing himself to raise his head and look at her.

A shaft of light fell across her expression, bringing out not quite a full smile but a soft, subtle brightening of her features: her story had reached the point where she climbed out of the hole. “Some of the Mandalorians I was imprisoned with reminded us all that we are more than our armour and that no cage can hold a True Mandalorian. I was impressed by their resolve and hope, especially when I learned they adhered to the ancient way.”

“They were of the Tribe,” Din surmised, the notion kindling a feeling of pride within him.

“Indeed,” the Armourer confirmed. “They had not shown their faces to ones outside their clans since taking on their helmets—for some, it had been decades since another living being had seen them. They had had their honour ripped away by the Empire, yet they chose to fight on. In our escape, we raided the storerooms for our armour—much of it had been lost or smelted; we had to make do with what we could find.”

“Your helmet…”

She didn’t respond immediately. At her own pace, she made her way back to the spot she had left her helmet. She wrapped her hand around the side of it gently as if caressing a child’s face, her thumb tracing the ridge curving down below the visor as if wiping away phantom tears. “It belonged to their Alor. She died fighting for the tribe. In gratitude for leading a successful escape, I was gifted her helmet. I then joined the way, as did all the survivors.”

Din had heard of ones joining the tribe in their older years but he hadn’t met many; he certainly had never heard of a Mandalorian of a different way switching rules.

As he thought that, a poignant sense of irony twisted within him, growing like an incessant vine.

He was a Mandalorian who had changed their way.

His head drooped slightly. Had he not had the helmet on right then, he would have rubbed his eyes. As it was, he settled for propping his arm on his leg and resting his head in his hand.

She looked tired, too.

There were faint, dark smears beneath her eyes and a heaviness to her gaze that was part emotion, part fatigue. He noticed, too, symmetrical marks on her skin, imprinted by the helmet’s inner padding. Her fringe lay haphazardly plastered to her forehead—sweat from working in this inherently hot room for hours on end.

“But why did you stay on Nevarro?” he inquired, his brow knotted tight. “Why didn’t you leave?”

“Where could we go?” she asked in reply. “Mandalore and all her sister worlds were lost. It was too dangerous to leave and try to find a new home: the Purge ushered in the most uncertain time for all Mandalorians. We escaped the base and took refuge in the city, in the abandoned sewers. We sent scouts, hoping to find safer places, but all we found were other lost souls. The sewers weren’t meant to become a permanent home,” she admitted, nodding her head to the side as she conceded the point, “but we had little choice.”

Din shook his head. Frustration rose like a slow-building fire, heating his already erratic heartbeat. “But why didn’t you leave?” he demanded, his hand dropping from holding his head as his posture locked up. “Why didn’t you go find Sabine?”

The woman on the other side of the forge regarded him coolly, features setting up a guard. “The tribe had lost its leader and its armourer. I was the only one with knowledge of how to forge beskar. They needed me.”

“Sabine needed you, too.”

“I didn’t want to know.”

Before he realized it, he was standing up and taking a hard step forward. “Didn’t want to know what?”

Eyes like steel bored into his visor… resolute and stubborn, just like Sabine could be…

“As long as I was with the tribe, I couldn’t hear news of outside, and I could believe she was safe and alive.”

“So you just abandoned her.”

“You have no right to—!”

“She went to Krownest,” he interjected, the vexation simmering down, leaving his voice under control once more but it didn’t leave; it was there, burning him from the inside out with indignation. “She saw the wreckage and the carnage. She buried what was left of her clan with her own hands. And she left and sent herself into exile because she believed she had failed her entire clan!”

“She didn’t,” Ursa refuted, her eyes losing their hardness and widening as if the reality was sinking in.

“Well, no one told her that—no one she could accept it from. She would’ve come with you to the tribe,” Din told her, and he didn’t want to, but his tone fell soft. It wasn’t for her; it was purely because of Sabine.

He remembered the first time he met her, the way she spoke of her heritage and the way her voice broke when she revealed she hadn’t met another Mandalorian since the Purge. 

She lived alone in a tower on a world where she was the only one of her kind. She even admitted she stayed away from other Mandalorians on purpose, not because she didn’t want to meet them and help them, but because she believed she was some irredeemable Demagolka who deserved to be shunned. She threw herself into the efforts to rebuild the family she had made with the Spectres because she believed they were the only family she could ever have.

Hera, Chopper, Zeb, Kallus, Rex, Ahsoka, Ryder, Marida—they all tried to keep her together, keep her grounded, and it was a miracle that she let them succeed to some extent, but they could never heal that one wound.

What happened on Krownest was horrible enough as it was, but Din suspected something more had happened, there or shortly after—something Sabine couldn’t bear to tell even him. Whatever it was, no one else had witnessed it; he had tried to pry it from Hera—she was there; she went to help Sabine with the burials on Krownest—only to learn she was as ignorant as he was.

He didn’t know what happened to drive her to cut herself off from her people so totally, but he knew what it took to bring her back.

Her own mother could have saved her so much sooner, so much better than he had…

“Her place is not here, hiding,” Ursa asserted, “her place is in the light.”

Din turned his head sharply, removing her from his sight. He couldn’t stand to look at her right then: this woman who had appeared out of nowhere and killed the Alor he trusted and respected so. 

He drew in a breath and let it go in a deflating rush.

He was exhausted and wrung dry from too many emotions. Without thinking, his hand came up to rub his eyes only to bump the unyielding visor. Feeling like it had betrayed him with intent, he wrenched his hand away and locked it into a bone-aching fist.

He wasn’t being fair, some voice in the back of his mind chided him. 

Who was he to pass judgement on her? Who was he to condemn anyone? Who was he to say these faults and missteps could not be repaired?

“Will you show yourself to her now?” he asked, forcing his tone into something like an open hand reaching out.

When he heard no word for too long, he made himself look over to her. 

She averted her gaze.

“Answer me.”

“I haven’t decided,” she said, blinking rapidly as her head shook slightly.

He took a step forward and stopped himself. He was drawing his full height and squaring his shoulders as if readying for a fight.

He tried but the indignation wouldn’t die no matter how much reasonableness and empathy he employed to extinguish it. All he could see, all he could feel were the times he held Sabine when the grief and the loss overcame her stoicism and she broke in that heart-rending way only strong things break.

I just want my family back, she had confessed through tears held in too long.

“How can you claim me as family but not your own daughter?” Din asked, his voice low like storm clouds about to break.

“You do not understand,” Ursa shot back, hotly.

“No. You don’t understand. Sabine has been fighting to put her life back together ever since the Purge. She nearly died trying to find the people she viewed as family because she believed her true family was dead. Even in exile, she wore her armour and upheld our ways. She has worked every single day to make up for her mistakes—things she was used to create. And I have seen her fighting to drown out your voice, to let go of all the impossible things you wanted her to be, to try find some smidge of approval in all your criticism. And even after all that, all she’s ever done is love you.”

His words had some effect on her, though what it took from him to get it said made it difficult for him to read the micro shifts in her expression. 

He knew if he stayed any longer, he would lose what little grip on civility he still had and who knew what he would end up saying then.

Sharply, irrevocably, he turned his back on the Armourer—on Ursa.

“Return your helmet and never remove it in my presence again,” he told her, steady and gravely serious. “We are not family.”

. . . . .

Never once on his way trudging back to the alcove allotted to his clan did Din pause or falter or look back. He forged on with a flaming heart and a pounding head.

He had only just enough presence of mind to grab the Darksaber from the table before storming out. As he navigated the dark tunnels, the ironic thought occurred to him that the blade was no longer his most vexing problem.

But it all died like a fire doused with water—all the churning, bursting indignation and hurting sense of justice just turned to smoke when he returned.

He parted the overly-bright curtain at an angle, creating an opening just wide enough for him to slip through.

It was a totally different world from the forge.

The lantern on the floor was still on, he discovered: it cast a soft, warm glow on the small room and its slumbering occupants. It had also shifted from his side of the sleeping pallet to hers, he noted.

At some point in his absence, Sabine must’ve woken and turned on the light. She was asleep again now, curled on her side, her expression relaxed and peaceful.

Grogu was still in his crib, though he had wiggled out of his blanket. Though the air down here was cold, it was also quite damp and he enjoyed damp air most of all. 

Din made quick, silent work of doffing his gloves, his boots, and his helmet. He laid the Darksaber hilt along with the rest of his gear and removed his belt. 

It was common in the covert to sleep with their armour and gear in place, but as he was not on any guard duty and there was no active threat, he could safely reduce himself to just his flightsuit or the clothes beneath. Strangely, though, even just the pants and shirt he wore under the flightsuit seemed hard and unyielding to him now—lately, he had grown accustomed to even softer clothes for sleeping.

He bent down to re-tuck the blanket around Grogu, sparing a moment to draw a featherlight line across the little one’s brow. 

The child’s features smoothed out, his ears flicking softly as his head moved, unconsciously following his father’s hand.

Din’s heart ached.

He was so precious to him; he couldn’t imagine…

Shaking his head to terminate that line of thought and all the roads that fed into and branched off from it, he straightened up and made his way around to his side of the bed.

As he knelt down and pulled back the blanket, Sabine stirred and he felt wretched for disturbing her rest.

She turned her head and cast barely open eyes on him, the smallest, most beautiful smile sliding on her lips.

She said something—a remark, a question, a quip, he didn’t know: her voice was just an inaudible mumble, her mouth barely moving.

“I can’t hear you,” he reminded her in a whisper. 

She dismissed whatever she had said as not worth repeating with a little jump of her eyebrows. Then she frowned and turned over onto her back. “What’s wrong?” she signed.

“What?” he signed back, frowning in puzzlement and shaking his head while internally he panicked.

Everything that had just transpired in the forge flashed through his mind as Sabine pointed to him, drew her hand down over her face and then jittered her fingers near her temple. “You look worried.”

“I was. I am,” he corrected, speaking aloud, his voice feeling gritty. He pointed to the light and hoped it could save him, redirect her attention.

She glanced over and understanding unknotted her brow. “Oh. Had to get up and find the bathroom. Not to throw up,” she assured him, her voice a little stronger than before. “Figured I’d leave it on for my wayward husband to find his way back.”

“I’m sorry.”

She flicked a hand and fell victim to a yawn. “S’alright.”

“No, I shouldn’t leave you. You don’t—you don’t deserve that.”

Too late, he realized he had let too much emotion fall through his voice. 

She opened her eyes a bit more concertedly and looked at him seriously. “Din. I don’t mind. I know you have trouble sleeping.”

He let go of his breath and stopped himself from saying anything more, too afraid of what he might unwittingly reveal.

His mind went back to Ursa but now here, back with Sabine, he didn’t feel so much anger as he did complete and utter confusion and bewilderment. 

How could anyone not love this woman?

Why did so many people disown her and cast her aside?

All she ever did was care and love and fight for others. The galaxy showed her a bleak picture and where others would just submit and take it, she dug her heels in, shook her head and decided there would be colour and life no matter what it cost her.

And all she wanted, all she ever asked for was a family.

Gently, he brushed her hair from her face before laying his hand on the small bump of her belly. 

This child wasn’t named or born, they weren’t even grown enough for either of them to feel that often celebrated kick yet, but he couldn’t imagine leaving them all alone on the other side of the galaxy.

(And, yet, wasn’t that the very thing he was planning to do—leave them?)

(But, no; that wasn’t… the two couldn’t even be compared. He had to go and face Bo-Katan Kryze in order to protect his family; he wasn’t… he wasn’t doing what Ursa did; he wasn’t hiding and abandoning them.)

Sabine’s hand came and covered his, her thumb stroking his calloused knuckles. “We’ll have a new reason to lose sleep soon,” she said with a humorous tint nowhere near as strong as the adoration in her voice.

Chapter Text

The only person Din told—the only person he could think of telling—was Ezra.

Frankly, he was surprised he didn’t already know.

“That’s not how the Force works,” Ezra reminded him, flatly, even rolling his eyes to further express his exasperation with his brother’s inability to grasp the inexplicable, invisible, intangible thing he knew so intimately.

Din frowned. “I thought you could…” he trailed off and gestured, vaguely, with a sharp flap of his hand, “I thought you could sense… people.”

Ezra sighed and didn’t say anything for a moment. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say or didn’t wish to speak, but right then a group of young men of various species in dirty miner’s uniforms came down the street, drunkenly jostling one another, blabbering over each other to string together some joke that never reached an intelligible punchline before they were howling in laughter, the sound bursting over the general clamour of the marketplace.

Night shift workers heading home after a hard-earned sojourn at the local tavern, no doubt.

They were exhausted and inebriated and incognizant of their surroundings—Din and Ezra swiftly split away to allow them to stagger and wobble on down the sidewalk.

As soon as the local clocks had deemed it morning, Din and Ezra set out from the covert and began weaving their way back through the streets to the hangar housing the Path Finder (utilizing a different route than the one they had followed the night before). They had much to retrieve and bring back to the covert—the rest of the reward money and all the food Boba sent them with as well as other miscellaneous supplies Din had procured and curated over the past few months (things like med-kits and tools and little things he knew they needed but always ran out of, things like socks and cloths and soap).

(And, maybe, some items that weren’t completely necessary, like some tooka dolls like but not identical to Grogu’s beloved Splat.)

(He intended to ascribe Grogu the credit for the contribution, but really, he had had the exact same thought when they saw the colourful stall in the markets of Mos Espa.)

They would have to make a series of these trips, spacing and spreading them out randomly to avoid sowing suspicion or familiarity.

To that end, Din went without armour.

Or, more accurately, he left the covert wearing his full armour, but once above ground, he ducked into one of those ignored alleyways and disassembled himself. Now he walked around in dark, non-descript clothing with his hood pulled low and his face partially masked by his scarf while his armour lay hidden in a sack guarded by Chopper.

It was necessary.

He was more accustomed to this attire.

But he would have rather risked an attack from a whole mercenary gang than what he was risking now: the chance that someone in the covert might learn of his changed way.

“It’s complicated,” Ezra began to explain as they drifted back together and continued on. “If I’m not searching for something, it’s not likely I’ll just find it unless someone is actively hurling it at me. And, as I’ve tried to explain to you before, some people—even ones without a sensitivity to the Force—are extremely talented at covering and hiding themselves in the Force. Sabine is one of those people; Ursa is, too.”

Din listened with half an ear, too preoccupied with the overall issue (and all his other dilemmas) to spend much interest on the intricacies of what Jedi could and could not sense.

“I don’t know what to do about this,” he admitted, shaking his head in tired exasperation. “I know I should tell Sabine, but Ursa doesn’t plan on showing herself to her, so I don’t see a point in telling her—it would just be cruel. But at the same time, I don’t want to keep something like this from her. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, what have you done so far?” Ezra asked.

Din heaved a harsh sigh. “Probably ruined everything.”

“Well, I doubt you could’ve ruined everything.”

Again, they had to put their conversation on hold as a short but thick-set Sullustan man—a foreman, judging by his apparel—came trudging down the street, walking as if he had some written right to this pavement and others were expected to defer to him and move out of his way. Din stepped aside but still a stout shoulder bumped him in the ribs (the drunk workers had had more coordination than this man).

It took great self-control not to throttle the man.

Consciously releasing his gritted teeth, Din realized he was more tightly wound than he thought.

Thankfully, for the most part, their fellow pedestrians were pleasant, or, at least, they weren’t as rude and disruptive. The flow of people was participularly thick with the change in shifts at the plant and refinery occurring simultaneously, but that presented an advantage: with so many people coming and going, in a rush to get to work or in a rush to get home, it was easy to blend in even if it wasn’t such a smooth trek to get to their destination.

Morning looked the same as night on Kyn-13. The sky still held stars and the misty visage of the gas giant and the neighbouring moons loomed over the tall city buildings. Streetlamps and storefronts and a spread of signs were the only sources of light. 

Din and Ezra didn’t speak as they rounded a corner and switched to the opposite side of the street, exchanging the strip of stores for the canals.

Water lapped calmly at the stone walls, agitated now and then by a boat of this kind or that passing by.

“Family is no small thing to Mandalorians,” Din said, eventually, his voice low. “To be a parent is a privilege and a heavy responsibility. To neglect one’s family—especially one’s own child—is a sin. She could have gone to Sabine—she should’ve—but she didn’t even try.”

“And yet that’s not the part you’re most upset about,” Ezra commented with the delicacy of one who knows they’ll have to inflict some discomfort in order to help.

Din glanced sideways at him but quickly returned attention to walking. 

“Dinar?” Ezra prompted, slowly, sternly. There were only two occasions when he used his brother’s full name: in jest or in absolute seriousness. This was the latter.

“I disowned her,” Din confessed in a rush, like ripping off an adhesive bandage. “I declared we are not family.”

Ezra winced. He understood how grave such a thing was to Mandalorians. “Do you regret it?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.” He shook his head in a wavering, noncommittal manner, like he was still trying to land on a decision. “Some part of me does.”

All through the night and even now, when he closed his eyes, he saw her, saw the look on her face… he had turned his back to make the declaration but he caught a glimpse of her as he turned and wished he hadn’t. He could be sure of his reasons and his actions if he didn’t see how much it hurt her.

“Some part of me doesn’t.”

Crowding out that image was every single memory of Sabine, collapsing and shattering under the weight of her grief and guilt—things that could have been remedied before they had a chance to grow roots and torture her.

The revelation and all the puzzles flowing in on its wake hadn’t left his mind for a heartbeat, nor had the torrent of emotions—vicious, pelting, conflicting: no sooner had he named one then the next rained down.

He hadn’t found a solution. Nor had he found agreement or solidarity within himself.

He hoped he could find at least one of those three in speaking with Ezra—really, any one would do, but his wounds wanted solidarity the most, just someone to come and stand in his corner and affirm they felt the same way about it all.

But, of course, it was never so straightforward with Jedi.

“Why are you so calm about this?” he asked, point blank, irritation rising too fast to the surface. “It’s Sabine. You care about her, too; you grew up with her.”

“Yes, but I also spent a decade away in Wild Space,” Ezra reminded him, his voice soft yet the words, the intent as sharp as an unseen blade. “And I’ve made no secret of the fact I could have returned years earlier.”

Din stared at him a moment, some detached part of his consciousness registering that they had stopped walking for this portion of the conversation—he couldn’t remember who stopped first.

He saw the parallel, instantly. 

A bitter taste filled his mouth but he shook his head against it, against the implication, the comparison Ezra was so generous to extend.

That’s different, he wanted to say but couldn’t; he hadn’t enough resolve to draw his voice out again, had no solid enough ground to plant his convictions in.

But it was different.

Ezra was very, very far away and he had the battered, half-dead dregs of the Empire to fight while the rest of his crew had a New Republic to establish back home. Returning would have taken time—time wherein scores of innocents would have died and potential fighters and contributors to the cause would have been lost.

And while his connection to Sabine was not something to be doubted or taken lightly, he was not her keeper, nor was he her parent or clansman.

But perhaps the most damning difference was that he had had the power and the means to return at any time if he so wished. 

Ursa did not.

The covert had a few old shuttle crafts they kept hidden in caves near the edge of the Nevarran lava plains. They had only enough fuel for a trip to the next system over—they were meant as a last resort, should the tribe need to evacuate in haste. They were not available for just anyone to take for a personal quest. And as Chieftess, Ursa had to put the tribe’s interests and concerns and sensibilities ahead of her own.

But she didn’t have to take those crafts. At any point, she could have asked Din to take her in the Razor Crest. Lothal was just a system over: it was no great strain on him or the ship, it wasn’t even all that out of his way; he went further out of his way just to catch limp-willed bail-jumpers. Even if it were a costly endeavour, he would’ve done it and made up the difference from his own pocket if all it provided was a mere chance of bringing a fractured family back together.

Or, if she truly didn’t feel she could leave the tribe even for a day, she could have asked Din to go find Sabine himself—either to make sure she was okay or invite her to the covert. He had found her with only a vague direction to go on in the first place; he likely would’ve found her quicker with a fuller description from her own mother.

But Ursa didn’t do any of that.

She hid and made an active, conscious choice to stay ignorant.

“I made a choice to stay,” Ezra said, his voice breaking through all of Din’s conundrums and hypothetical solutions to a problem not his own. “I believe it was right, but even the right choice can hurt someone you love. I can accept that fact and regret it at the same time. I knew continuing the fight meant remaining separated from my family and I knew it would hurt no one more than Sabine. I also knew she wouldn’t want me to make any other choice.”

Din turned his head sharply to tear his gaze away from his brother’s.

Childishly, he wanted to take his hearing aids off, so he wouldn’t have to keep listening to him, wouldn’t have to hear him making sense and laying such a strong case for forgiveness.

In his head, Din understood. He knew he had to let go of his resentment. In his mind, he could see past the things he didn’t agree with and understand the reasons and justifications.

But his heart… it was too sensitive on this matter. 

The abandonment of a child appalled him. It always had, but ever since handing Grogu over to the Imperials (despite the fact they weren’t family when he did so), his inherent disgust at such action had developed into an absolutely venomous loathing, so much so that, to this day, he had yet to find it in himself to forgive his own shortcoming.

He knew Sabine was an adult, not a defenceless, dependant child, and that did make a difference—he wasn’t so sure he would have simply stormed out the armoury had Ursa confessed to abandoning a child that needed her to survive. 

But he knew the rest of the story. 

He knew about the rocky clashes between Sabine and her mother throughout her developmental years, he knew of the impossible standards Ursa had held her to and the rigid, planned life she intended for her, he knew she sent her child away to the Imperial academy to curry favour with the Empire, and he knew she didn’t stand by her daughter when she needed her most.

Ursa had abandoned her daughter before.

Din didn’t think Sabine could take being abandoned again.

Better to live with the dead she had forgiven than learn of the living who didn’t love her.

. . . . .

Every hour spent in the covert brought a new understanding of the tribe and that, in turn, solved some mystery regarding Din.

Sabine had long wondered what parts of him came from his parents, from his brief upbringing on Lothal, and what came from the Mandalorians who took him in. She tended to ascribe the softer, gentler aspects of his personality to his original heritage, the same way she attributed the same qualities in herself to the Ghost Crew, but just two days spent in the covert opened a new perspective.

Everything felt like an epiphany, though most things were inconsequential, really just shared idiosyncrasies and minor details, like learning the particular rhythm and clip in how he spoke Mando’a was precisely how everyone down here spoke it.

She was surprised to learn his strangely refined manners hadn’t cropped up in a vacuum. Pleases, thank yous, pardons and excuse mes were pillars of everyone’s speech—young and old. 

There were specific forms of address for every relation and station. They were as formal as the Wren Clan, yet it wasn’t the same. Where the Wrens used full names, titles and honorifics as a sign of respect and regard, the tribe used them warmly, almost as if they were terms of endearment. It was not merely expected, it was not just a case of propriety; it was a privilege.

That didn’t mean they didn’t use first names or nicknames.

According to Paz, besides the nickname of Dinui, Din was also referred to as Ge’tal’ad (“red child,” based on the vivid colour of the robes he was wearing when rescued). Those names, however, were only used by his clan and his close friends; in the tribe in general, he was simply Beroya or, more recently, Beroya Din Djarin. But since this tribe had another Mandalorian serving in that role, Din’s title had been promoted (much to his private chagrin) to Ori’Beroya, to denote his seniority.

Sabine was Vod or Vod’ika Sabine Wren to nearly everyone, ori’vod or ba’vodu to the young ones, and ad’ika to Ba’buir (and to Ba’buir only). Ragnar took it upon himself to coin a Mando’a name for her and, after some consultation with his friends (who were more fluent in the language than he), he conjured and offered Sal’verd—“colour warrior.” 

When spoken about outside of her presence, however, she learned she was referred to as “Din’Sabine”—a way to denote their permanent connection. Din, in turn, was “Sabine’Din” and Grogu was attached to both their names, in any combination or just one at a time, depending on who was talking about who in that moment.

“It’s only a formality,” Paz assured her when she confided her fear that people would get confused or, more likely, run out of breath if they kept referring to Grogu as “Din’Sabine’Grogu.” “It’s not how he will be commonly addressed, but it’s custom to use all names given to a child in their first year after birth or adoption, as often as possible as a way to cement the ties. It’s an old practise,” he admitted, rocking his helmet side to side in concession. “Some say it comes from the time when registers weren’t reliable so names had to be impressed on memories for legacies to be continued. We believe individual names are just as important as clan names.”

Fenn and Koska were given titles, too. For Fenn, this was nothing new: the Protectors operated in the same formal manner—he was used to being called Ori’Verd. But for Koska, it was entirely, heart-breakingly new.

“In the camp, ‘vod’ is normal, but if someone called you ‘vod’ika,’ it usually meant you messed up,” she admitted to Sabine, privately. She then shrugged, blithely. “That’s the only time they used it for me, anyway,” she added, as if it didn’t matter, as if it were something that could be joked about or dismissed and she wouldn’t care either way.

Ezra was “Jetii” or “Jedi”—a moniker said with some humour and a thin layer of exasperation. He was not regarded with suspicion or disdain, as most Mandalorians of any house or denomination tended to view their ancient enemy. Down here, “the Jedi” was merely short for “that weird guy Din brought with him” (which Sabine had heard used just as often). 

(It didn’t help that Ezra was feeling comfortable and, thus, uninhibited. He used the Force as freely here as he did amongst the Ghost Crew. He was unabashedly showing off, which was only confirming his madness while somehow endearing himself further to this lot. There was a daily queue to spar with him, they admired his courage displayed in tales of his feats against the Empire, but at the same time, they viewed him as something like a court jester.)

(Sabine just figured it was a good thing no one was taking his presence as a declaration of war.)

Omega was just Omega.

She knew Mando’a. Or, rather, she knew the derivative of Mando’a the clones coined, but it was close enough to make her understood. At first, her knowing a Mandalorian dialect confused the tribe—to them, the language was reserved for Mandalorians and Mandalorians alone. But when she declared herself a clone and the lost daughter of Jango Fett, all was understood. The once Mand’alor was a legend to this tribe, as was his father before him. 

That was another thing Sabine had to marvel at: the tribe’s regard for history.

“The songs” they were called. Legends, accounts, stories—they were all tied together and recounted in poetry, in verse, in actual song, in spoken tales and even in reenactments. 

Every day, children were taught by a rotating roster of instructors. Lessons covered everything from basic skills to survival training to language to inscribing their people’s history in their memories. 

She could see where Din’s love of stories had been seeded and nurtured.

The day after their arrival, while he and Ezra left to fetch the supplies kept aboard the Path Finder, Paz roped Sabine into “sharing a song,” as he called it.

“Tell us a story about your clan,” he told her before she could expose the fact she took that request literally and ask if she should sing a ballad or a lullaby.

She turned her head to glance over the assortment of children gathered in a loose circle. Some wore helmets, some did not, some had merely training helmets: lightweight durasteel helms with visors either made of mesh or absent altogether.

Grogu sat with them, enjoying this class even more than the school on Nevarro, wearing his beskar cuff over his sleeve proudly. His ears perked at the prospect of his mother sharing a story amidst their lessons.

“Alright,” she agreed, because, really, there was no other option—she certainly saw no reason to decline. She made to lower herself down to their level, sitting cross-legged on the floor, but Paz stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. He went and pulled a barrel seat over for her.

(That was another thing: chivalry was not exclusively a Din thing.)

“What story should I tell?” she asked as she sat down, her mind drawing a blank all of a sudden.

Ayisa, the smallest child of the bunch (second only to Grogu, of course), raised her hand like a shot. 

Sabine nodded to her. 

“Tell us how you met Beroya Din Djarin!” she exclaimed, eagerly, eyes glittering in the way belonging only to those who still believe in folklore.

“Ori’Beroya,” Ragnar corrected her.

“She knows who I mean,” Ayisa shot back.

“I do, and it’s a really good story,” Sabine said and then began.

She was careful to omit certain details—they didn’t need to know she walked a different way, so she made it out as if Din’s initial dislike of her sprang entirely from his outrage at Chopper for stealing his blaster, shocking him, and making him chase him through a crowded marketplace.

“Beroya doesn’t like droids,” Ayisa pitched in, wrinkling her little nose like she was affronted on his behalf.

“Well, he’s learned not to mind them so much,” Sabine told her, evenly, feeling like she had to cover a potential spoiler for the story though it was no secret he accepted mechanical beings now, having not one but two in his party accompanying him.

She told of their deal but skipped through the various iterations and hiatuses they went through, making it seem like a much straighter road. 

Grogu’s abrupt kidnapping and subsequent rescue had the children on the edge of their seats. In fact, the intrigue and suspense drew others in the covert. Sabine noticed the crowd amassing in the edges of her visor’s range but kept her attention on her initial audience. 

(She didn’t mention the Darksaber, only that Din fought the Moff valiantly, painting him as much as a hero as he already was to the children.)

(Maybe just a smidge more…)

By the time she got to the Wild Space expedition, her audience had more than quadrupled. It wasn’t a new tale to some—they had shared all this with the Vizsla clan at dinner the night before. But everyone was up for a good story and it had been a while since a new one had trickled all the way down here.

The part of her and Din falling in love and getting married ended up sounding like some sanitized fairytale from the Core Worlds. Sabine hadn’t intended that, but that’s how it came out. No one seemed to mind (though she realized they may have gotten the impression she and Din exchanged the vows in battle with how she condensed events).

(A part of her might have done so intentionally.)

(After all, there wasn’t anything more romantic to Mandalorians.)

When she got to the Morak mission, she noticed a new figure join the crowd.

Tentatively, a woman with a maroon chestplate and a golden helmet topped with a row of little spikes drifted near but kept a defined buffer of distance, hovering on the fringes of the loose gathering. She wore only the two pieces of armour, Sabine noticed: the rest of her attire was soft, like the leather skirt, thick, insulated gloves and a distinctive fur cape.

She couldn’t recall seeing her the night before.

More than just standing apart from the crowd, she didn’t look like she belonged. No other Mandalorian wore the same colours or the same design of armour. Although she stood at a distance, Sabine couldn’t see any sign of a signet or identifying symbols on her armour.

She didn’t stay to the end of the story.

Before Sabine’s account of the Morak mission wrapped up, the strange Mandalorian woman left, vanishing swiftly as if she had only ever existed as a figment of imagination.

When she was finished telling her story and the next instructor came to herd the children for the next lesson, Sabine made her way to Paz. The woman had sparked her curiosity, so she described her and asked who she was.

“She’s the Alor,” Paz answered simply.

“Alor what?” Sabine asked.

Paz shook his head, the gesture slow and sad. “She has never shared her name. It is not uncommon for ones without clan to make such a choice.”

. . . . .

Sabine already knew the woman—the Armourer, as was her unadorned title within the tribe.

Or, rather, Sabine felt like she already knew her from Din’s accounts of her. He spoke so highly of her, of her wisdom and her expert craftsmanship. She had forged his beskar’gam, bestowed his clan’s signet, and set him and Grogu on the path which led them to her, to Lothal, to Ezra, to all the epiphanies and discoveries and transformations that made them all who they were today.

He held her in the highest regard.

So the behaviour Sabine observed over the next first days made absolutely no sense.

He never said a word to the Armourer; even just being in the same room as her appeared to appall him. Deliberately, he turned a cold shoulder to her whenever they crossed paths down in the tunnels. He went out of his way to avoid her, turning his head sharply as if just the sight of her were abhorrent.

Initially, Sabine attributed the militant aloofness to Din’s fear of being found out, but his actions didn’t ring with trepidation and worry; there was a very clear certainty to all this.

What made it stand out more was the fact he avoided no one else.

Ados noticed something was wrong.

“Look at his hands,” he said to Sabine, keeping his voice low as he leaned over to her. He pointed across the meeting hall where the tribe was slowly filtering in for a gathering. 

Din stood by the entrance, hanging back as a kind of guard while everyone came and took a seat around the welcoming fire pit. His posture was upright and straight, solider-like, but his hands at his side, though relatively still to the unobservant, kept slowly working in and out of fists.

“He’s been doing that since he was a child,” Ados said. “It means his world’s falling apart and he doesn’t know how to fix it.”

“I know,” Sabine told him, softly. “His world’s fallen apart a few times since we met.”

Ados chuckled without any real humour, just fondness and a weathered sympathy founded a long time ago. “In a way, it’s a good sign. Means he’s tryin’ to figure it out. It’s when he’s still that you gotta worry. That means he’s given up.”

Later that night, when back in their alcove, Sabine brought it up.

In preparation for what was likely to be a difficult conversation, she asked Ezra to take Grogu for the night. Din’s disproportionate panic at the empty basket beside their sleeping mat was just further confirmation something was wrong.

He had been with her in bed every night after the first but he hadn’t been getting any better sleep. If anything, the forced inactivity was sapping more from him than the pacing or late-night training ever did, winding him up on a hair trigger, his nerves frayed, all that unspent energy turning acidic and rotting him from the inside out.

Sabine didn’t understand why he did it—it was less like he was trying to improve his sleeping schedule and more as if he were trying to prove some point.

“Talk to me, love,” she implored. “Something’s not right.”

He looked at her for a long time but she didn’t know how her words were received: he hadn’t removed his helmet yet.

(That was deliberate, she realized but decided not to point it out.)

(One issue at a time.)

“You’re not acting like yourself. I’ve never seen you give someone such a cold shoulder before. And don’t deny it,” she told him, pointing a stern finger. “Let’s just skip the back-and-forth and all the beating around the bush and just get to the part where you tell me what’s wrong and we start fixing it together.”

The helmet didn’t move, but she read a subtle stiffening of his shoulders he tried his hardest not to give in to.

She waited.

Usually, he opened up when given enough time and patience. But the silence was stretching on and on and he didn’t so much as sway out of the statue he had become.

At least he wasn’t denying something was wrong, but locking it up inside was no better.

Eventually, Sabine relented.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to Sloan or the baar’ur,” she said, hard enough to make it clear this wasn’t a trivial suggestion, soft enough to convey her concern, “and you’re getting something to help you sleep. You can’t keep going like this.”

. . . . .

A day didn’t go by that Ursa didn’t have visitors to the forge.

Whether seeking repairs or guidance, she aided all who sought her—with the work of her hands, with words of hard-earned wisdom, or with simply a listening ear and a patient presence.

She recognized all in the tribe by just the sounds of their footsteps. Pekka Vizsla’s gentle lumbering gait, Ados Zif’s drilled marching step, the faint clink and jangle of Din Djarin’s gear. She had heard the young ones whisper that she had eyes on the back of her helmet or perhaps some extra, uncanny sense, but the truth was merely that she had had time and occasion to memorize the minutest details about her tribesmen.

The steps coming down the corridor towards the forge now—smooth, sure, measured—were foreign to her.

Foreign, yet they should have been the most familiar for they were the ones she knew better than any other.

They stopped at the threshold.

Ursa’s heart thudded in suspense, her throat closing as if something was slowly, insidiously coiling around it and constricting.

“May I come in?” Sabine requested, polite as a child.

“Of course,” Ursa replied, amazed her voice could bypass such obstacles. “The armoury is open to all.”

She continued her work, keeping her hands moving in phantom motions while she tried to gather the fractured shards of her mind, bring it back to the task. What had she been doing?

With no small feeling of dismay, she realized she was in between projects. The parts she had worked on were resting and cooling and in no further need of attention. She was busy now reorganizing and tending to her tools—a task which didn’t require much concentration.

“This is a beautiful forge,” Sabine remarked. Though Ursa had her back still turned, she could hear from the shift of the source of her voice that she was making a slow, semi-circuit around the forge, admiring the set-up.

A trivial, automatic reply sprang to her tongue but Ursa could not give it voice, not then when the memory of the first time she showed Sabine their clan’s forge flashed before her eyes.

She was such a small thing then, only four years old, her syrup-brown hair gathered into little fountains either side of her head. Ursa had carried her on her hip, giving her a tour of the armoury and the forge, naming things and explaining their purpose; hard, unyielding things inside of her melting every time her little girl repeated a word, her child’s tongue butchering it hopelessly.

Her little head rested on her shoulder, growing heavier and heavier until she just fell asleep, feeling safe, feeling loved.

Presently, Ursa blinked as mist crept across her vision and the bridge of her nose prickled.

That was one serendipitous advantage of always wearing a helmet: no one could see those stray expressions and unbidden emotions.

For a long moment, Sabine’s soft steps were the only sound. The flames of the forge had been Ursa’s companion for too long; she forgot to hear them now.

Eventually, the steps stopped.

Sabine drew a breath and Ursa tensed.

“Look, usually I wouldn’t do this,” Sabine began, her tone warning of serious-talk. “I don’t believe in making excuses for others, and I’m not going to apologize for Din, but he has been under a ton of stress lately and it’s affecting him more than he realizes. The way he’s been acting… it’s not the real him.”

Ursa shook her head but still couldn’t bring herself to turn around. “He has not done anything wrong.”

Sabine scoffed, the sound brushing through her helmet’s vocoder clearly. “That’s kind, but he has been a bit of a jerk.”

“I am not offended,” Ursa insisted.

Truly, she wasn’t.

Over the course of the last few days, she had noticed Din’s active avoidance of her. It ran her through like a sword and there was a part of her that felt righteously insulted and mistreated.

Within herself, she put him on trial. In the privacy of her own mind, she hurled it all back at him, making the case that he was unfair and rigid, restating the point that he didn’t know all the factors she had to take into account, all the reasons that pressed her to make the decisions she had to live with. He had never had to choose a course with the fate of a whole clan or tribe to take into account.

But then, just when she felt justified and exonerated, the case turned and she was put on trial.

What began as a way to re-examine the path that led her here, to shore up her resolve, led to a brutal interrogation she could not withstand.

Because she knew, all along she knew what she should have done.

She should have sought Sabine. If she were alive, she could have made sure she was safe and well; if she were dead, she could have mourned her properly. Instead, she chose ignorance; she chose to protect herself with a fantasy destined to collapse.

So while her pride was wounded and she felt herself wholly misjudged, she could not rightly take offence because Din was not wrong in underlining her shortcomings and missteps.

“He speaks highly of you,” Sabine assured her, stubbornly eager to heal every wound. “He respects you. He’s just… got a lot going on right now.”

“I know. He told me of the bounty Bo-Katan Kryze set on him.”

Sabine was silent for a moment. Out of fear she might have left, Ursa turned around, only to find her on the other end of the worktop, trailing her fingers along the dome of an unfinished helmet with a touch too soft to unsettle even dust.

Though she stood a distance from her, this was the closest she had been to her since arriving. 

Her armour had been reforged, Ursa noted. Her chestplate had been reconfigured, as had her pauldrons—they all protected more of her as opposed to the shorter plates she had preferred as a youth. 

But, of course, her colours were still the main event.

They were the very first thing Ursa had noticed. 

When Din had entered the covert with such a varied company in tow, Ursa had made it a point to clock and catalogue each one. The first one she recognized was Fenn Rau—his armour had not changed in the years since she last saw him. Although she didn’t recognize the young woman in blue armour at his side, she could determine she was a Nite Owl, even before she saw the insignia on her pauldron. She didn’t recognize the outsiders (though later she learned she should have: she had met Ezra Bridger before, but the beard threw her).

And then there was the Mandalorian woman who kept close to Din’s side. The colours identified her instantly.

Ursa had never met a Mandalorian who loved colour as much as her daughter. Ones in the tribe could get mighty creative with their colour combinations and designs, but none held a candle to Sabine.

And if the colours weren’t enough, the Starbird on her pauldron and the Wren feathers painted above her visor served as further confirmation.

Looking at her now, however, up close and under the clear light of the armoury, Ursa couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. Her armour was not as colourful as it used to be, nor was it as crammed with contrasting patterns and those random splashes of paint she never understood the appeal of. There were still more colours than anyone else in the tribe, but for Sabine, it was a dark and dull palette.

It looked more mature, and once upon a time, Ursa would’ve approved, but now it just cleaved her heart in two.

There should never be so much grey on her daughter’s armour…

“The hunters are bad enough,” she was saying (and Ursa had to force herself to pay attention), “but I think it’s the fact that another Mandalorian commissioned the job in the first place that’s really killing him. He can’t get his head around it, how a Mandalorian can do such a thing to another.” She huffed a light, deflating laugh, shaking her head softly. “He can be naïve like that, sometimes,” she said like it wasn’t entirely a flaw. 

Ursa picked up a tool and a rag and began cleaning it though it was already clean.

“Bo-Katan Kryze has long strayed from the way,” she remarked. “Her courage and valour—once legendary—have devolved, her zeal has grown roots, not in Mandalore, but in her own throne. She is Mandalorian in nothing more than blood now.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Sabine hadn’t heard her—she gave no reaction. Then, slowly, her helmet reangled in such a way to allow her to view her from her peripherals.

“Has Din… told you anything else?” she asked, carefully.

“I know of the Darksaber,” Ursa confirmed, plainly and without hesitation. “It is a noble and storied weapon. It is good that it has found its way to someone who will not abuse it. Though, for what the sentiment is worth,” she added before she could finish the internal debate on whether she should or shouldn’t go this far, “you wielded it well and fair.”

It might have been a jump of her eye, but she thought she caught Sabine cringing. “You heard about that, huh?”

“It is written in song,” Ursa told her, and she was mostly right, but the song betrayed no names. She was the young, the wayward, the valiant. She was the bird that fled and returned with the ancient blade clutched in her clean talons. She was Mand’alor the Restorer.

“I’m not sorry to have given it up,” Sabine asserted, as certain now as she was over a decade ago. “I was a child and my heart was in a different fight. A divided leader is no leader at all.”

Ursa said nothing to that, too afraid that refuting it would expose her, but the silence that followed bred such sickening, damning things that she wished she hadn’t allowed place for it.

She remembered when Sabine returned to the stronghold on Krownest—the first time she had seen her in years. She came with two Jedi and as if that weren’t bad enough, she then produced the Darksaber.

The last time Ursa saw that singing blade was in the throneroom in Sundari, slipping out of the hands of Pre Vizsla and into the iron grip of an even crueler outsider. That day, her reverence for the blade and its story took a cold hit. Seeing it return years later in her daughter’s possession, Ursa had been too stunned for words.

Initially, she tried to get it away from Sabine, knowing too well the trouble it brought in its wake, unable to rid herself of the image of her daughter losing it the way Pre did and suffering the same gruesome end. There were perhaps more delicate ways to go about it, but going for the throat was her preferred method for everything from battle to politics, so she attacked the legitimacy of her claim to it (she plainly admitted she had not won it in combat), and made it very clear that a bit of training meant nothing; holding onto it so no one could behead you with it was more important and, frankly, near impossible.

But then Sabine just… handed it to her.

After everything that had happened between them, she trusted her and deferred to her. She still viewed her as her mother and her clan leader.

Ursa was never prouder than the moment Sabine bested Gar Saxon in combat. Seeing her take charge, heeding the Jedi’s words and seeing the capable, intelligent woman her daughter had become warmed her heart.

And yet, when the time came to take her place as Mand’alor, Sabine declined.

She stated her ruined reputation and her stronger inclination to serve the rebellion as her reasons, and though she made no point of it, perhaps didn’t even conceive of such a thing herself, Ursa knew that was her all fault.

She was known throughout the clans as the one who built the Duchess: the abhorrent abomination that turned their beloved beskar against them. What most did not know was that she designed it at the Imperial Academy on Mandalore—the academy her own mother sent her to.

Her heart was invested in the rebels’ fight against the Empire, and that was noble in itself, but beneath the drive to fight was the drive to go home. That motley cadre of lost souls had become dearer to her than her own family, and Ursa could not blame her for they gave her the support and approval she was starved of for too long.

Sabine had the wisdom and the strength of a ruler. Mandalore would have flourished anew under her care and guidance. But she did not believe the clans would follow her, and her heart steered her elsewhere, and it was all because of Ursa.

“May I make a request?” Sabine asked, cleanly moving on from those weighty matters.

Ursa inclined her helmet to the side in an assenting gesture.

“If it’s not too much to ask, can you forge something for me?”

“Faulds?”

“What?”

Ursa motioned to her. “You are a Wren and you have married. Traditionally, you would add faulds to your armour.”

It’s what she had done—though, admittedly, she procrastinated adding them to her armour and then often found excuses not to wear them in her first few years as a wife. Gradually, she got used to them. Now, although her original armour was lost and her husband dead, she held to the ancient tradition still in the form of a leather apron skirt. 

“Oh, yeah, that,” Sabine said, distractedly, like she didn’t want to be reminded. “I might—later—but, for now, I’m thinking something smaller. I’ll provide the beskar.”

Ursa had to stamp down the urge to needle her on that errant “later.” (Did she mean “later” as in she would get to it at a later point in time, or did she just throw it out as an airy assurance she had no intention of revisiting in any serious capacity?)

“There is no need; we have plenty to share,” she said instead. “What do you have in mind?”

“A mythosaur pendant.”

She set down the tool she had been pointlessly cleaning and moved to the cabinet housing her moulds. “That is no hardship. For yourself?”

“No, not quite.” Though Sabine’s face was hidden, Ursa heard the light little note that only a smile played. As she moved around the forge to ready things, her daughter shadowed her loosely. “Din explained to me it’s custom in your tribe to gift a mythosaur pendant to each child—found or born. He passed his on to Grogu and, well… I don’t have one to pass on…” 

Something in the way she trailed off rang as deliberate, like she was leaving the rest of the story to tell itself.

Ursa went still but her heart leapt in her chest.

“You are with child?” she surmised, her vocoder struggling to cover the sudden choke in her voice.

Sabine ducked her head slightly in a nod, a soft breath of a laugh slipping from her helmet. Suddenly, intensely, Ursa wished she could see her face—it had been years since she had wished such a thing of anyone. 

“Yes,” she said, and that smile sounded like it had grown. “This isn’t just bloating,” she quipped, placing a hand on her belly.

Observing her more closely now, Ursa could see her flightsuit just starting to strain at the seams over a small bump, but the larger cuirass and all the belts and sundry disguised it well.

“You should sit,” she said, suddenly, motioning to the seat her guests usually took.

“I’m fine, really,” Sabine said with a dismissive little shake of her head.

“Please,” Ursa insisted, restricting herself from crossing the distance, taking her daughter’s shoulders and steering her to the seat.

Sabine conceded without any further fight and took the seat. 

“How far along?” Ursa asked, forcing her interest to sound casual as she returned to the requested task.

“It’s early still; not yet three cycles.”

“Does Din Djarin know?”

“Yes. It’s probably another reason why he’s so stressed.” Sabine huffed a hybrid between a scoff and a laugh, and the little tilt of her helmet betrayed a rolling of her eyes. “And I thought I’m supposed to be the hormonal one.”

Ursa couldn’t help a smile at that.

She began her work with purpose. Everything she ever made, she made to the highest standard—her craft was her pride. But this was now a most special piece, and she wished to pour finesse into it.

She had forged over a dozen of these pendants. Every occasion remained in her memory as it meant their tribe was growing, but there was an unspoken tragedy weighing on most requests.

Ones of the tribe only requested a new one be forged if they had already passed theirs on to their first-born or first-found and now another child had come along. When a Mandalorian who came to the covert with no pendant and no children with them requested one, though it went unsaid, Ursa heard their loss.

“Have you been in good health?” she asked, recalling how difficult the early stage had been for her on both occasions… how much she had wished, more than ever, for a mother right then; someone who had gone through all this already and who could illuminate the road ahead, assure her, aid her.

“Well, the morning sickness is getting better, if that’s what you mean,” Sabine said. “That was not fun.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Ursa agreed, letting the sympathy seep through without restraint. 

“Have you had children?” Sabine inquired, carefully. “This way, I mean,” she clarified, awkwardly.

Ursa swallowed, thickly, but continued her work.

“I have.” She prepared the smelting pot, the flames changing their tune as the pot disturbed them. “Two, in fact. But one is lost. And… I fear I have lost the other as well.”

“I’m sorry,” Sabine said, her compassion a tender, genuine rush of warmth and light against the cold and the dark.

They shared little more conversation after that and the creation of the little mythosaur skull did not take very long, though Ursa made sure to take her time and spend care on this, all the while thinking of how it was to go to her grandchild—someone she had believed since the Purge would never exist.

As she removed the little skull from the mould, her heart grew heavy, knowing their time here together had reached the conclusion of its purpose.

She stretched the time out a little further by searching for a leather cord for the necklace, though she usually left that up to the recipient. She threaded it through and held it to the light, examining its shine, ensuring its quality.

She came and took the seat opposite Sabine, setting the newly forged piece on the table as she did for all her guests.

Sabine took it and held it in her palm like something delicate and precious, tracing the little tusks softly.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, and Ursa heard the swell of emotions in her modulated voice. They were not for her—she was just a stranger to her daughter now. When she held this pendant, she was grateful, yes, but her mind was on a future day, when her own child was grown enough for her to gift it to them.

She got up to leave then and Ursa mirrored her as she rose. 

All of a sudden, she had so much more to say and, yet, no voice strong enough to bring it to bear.

Sabine bowed her head in respect and turned to take her leave. Ursa’s heart lurched, feeling as if someone had tied a string around it and tied the other end around her daughter; now that she was walking away, she was pulling her heart out and taking it with her.

But Ursa did not call out.

Just as she had down over a decade before, she did not ask her to stay. 

But before she was out of earshot, a surge of courage released her voice.

“You will make a fine mother, Sabine Wren.”

Her words were not missed. Her daughter paused her exit and turned back to bow her head again, this time in acknowledgement and thanks.

Chapter Text

The alcove, while diametrically opposite to the cavernous, luxurious guestroom in Boba’s palace, was comfortable, in its own way. Returning to it at the end of the day felt like coming home, in any case.

Din and Ezra did not venture topside for another supply run this day, choosing to rather skip a day to dissolve any pattern of their movements. However, that did not mean they had the day off.

Never at any point did Din think returning to the covert would be some kind of vacation. Unlike Morak, Nevarro, and Tatooine, he was not a guest here: he belonged here. He didn’t have to find work; work found him.

All were expected to pull their weight around here. Every single day, things needed to be cooked and cleaned, children had to be looked after and taught, training was never to be neglected, and each one’s own armour and gear was to be tended to and maintained. On top of such routine things, the tunnels needed to be patrolled, the entrances guarded around the clock, and there was always something in need of repair or modification. 

Though Din was not currently serving as beroya, he was not left to idle. Outside of the supply runs, he was employed as another watchman and Paz was determined to see him train the youths.

Watch duty was easy: he was given a portion of tunnels to patrol and left alone in silence. It was peaceful, for a while, but he had only his mind for company and he wasn’t on such good terms with himself at present. He wound up pacing, embroiled in silent debates and arguments within himself. 

Interrogating, cross-examining, fault-finding, justifying, condemning—it was exhausting being both plaintiff and defendant, advocate and judge, innocent and guilty, excused and accused. When his replacement came for their shift, he could have collapsed from sheer relief.

(He genuinely considered bringing Chopper with him on the next round; the cantankerous droid would provide a decent distraction, and if he so much as suspected Din was getting lost in his own head, he would haul him out by mocking him mercilessly.)

(Or shocking him senseless.)

(Either way, Din would have something else to focus on.)

Training the children was a significantly more pleasant task. It had been some time since he had been roped into instructing a class, but he was not as out of his depth now as he had been before. 

Having looked after a child of his own for over a year, he knew how to capture a limited attention span, knew how to reword complicated things so they could be more easily grasped, knew that showing was infitinitely more effective and productive than mere telling. Above all, he had learned how to blend firmness with patience.

These students were easier to direct than the people of Sorgan—though all were under thirteen years of age, they had already cultivated discipline, had already developed a healthy, balanced appreciation and knowledge of their gear, and they understood how imperative it was to learn to defend themselves and their tribe. 

He focussed on training them with staffs (and he couldn’t say he was annoyed that a portion of the lesson was derailed by their admiration of his beskar spear and pleas to hear the story of how he obtained such a treasure).

After that, Gamma asked to spar with him, then Ba’buir needed help fixing the heater in her alcove, then Paz pulled him into helping him fish for that night’s dinner.

By the end of the day, Din was good and tired, and his little clan’s alcove called to him like a sanctuary.

The tribe only ate all together in the dining hall on special occasions or at the end of the week; the rest of the time, individuals and families ate when they pleased either in the dining hall or in their alcoves. 

Today was just a routine day and it was Din’s turn to get dinner, so, once all work was done, he stopped at the kitchens, filled three lidded containers with freshly grilled fish and fried rice, grabbed some leftover sweet buns from Boba’s offerings, picked up a flask of tea and headed home, purposely travelling along the shadows to cut down the chances of any further social interaction.

With his arms full, he had to gracelessly worm his way around the curtain. 

Sabine shook her head at him.

“I could have opened it for you,” she said from where she sat on a mat on the ground, cleaning her armour.

Din said nothing to that—it wasn’t anything he felt they needed to dwell on. 

He glanced around and quickly found Grogu on their bed. 

He saw him earlier in the day, accompanying Ezra first and then slipping under the watch of various different ones in the covert. He didn’t take part in all the lessons with the rest of the children—he was too small and too young for most combat training. However, as Din was in charge of the lesson today, he was there with the rest, using a dowel in place of a staff.

(And perhaps it was just the bias of a father, but Din thought the kid was rather proficient. He mimicked all his forms perfectly and never stumbled or lost grip on his staff.)

Now he was sitting in the middle of their bed. Arranged around him, fanned out in a patterned sunburst, were a variety of bits and bobs: his beloved gear knob, his mythosaur pendant, a bottle cap, a belt buckle, a fork, a good few pebbles, a button, a scrap of tin foil rolled into a near perfect ball, Sabine’s hair clip, a mythosaur pendant, a shell…

Din did a double take.

“What’ve you got there, buddy?” he asked. 

The child looked up at him and tilted his head questioningly, so Din nodded to his displayed collection. That was too vague, but Grogu took it in stead. He hovered his claw over each piece in turn, looking up at his father and waiting for him choose. When he landed on the second mythosaur pendant—this one attached to a distinct rich blue cord—Din stopped him with a simple: “Yes. That one.”

Grogu’s ears perked up and he trilled. Snatching it up, he held it aloft in a presenting manner before setting it back down and signing: “It’s for the baby!” (He pointed to Sabine to finish, lest his father assume he meant some other impending arrival.)

Din set the food containers down on the small, low table and came over, all the distance between covered in just a few, short strides. He knelt down beside the bed roll and reached for the little skull. Grogu eagerly pushed it towards him. 

Pinching one of the tusks between gloved thumb and forefinger, Din held it and turned it this way and that, watching the warm light glide over the perfect silver form. It was like his one—the one he had bequeathed to Grogu—only softer, less ragged, the shapes more feather-like. A different mould was used.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, careful to keep accusation and interrogation out of his tone.

“The Armourer forged it for us,” Sabine answered, simply.

Din whipped around. “She made this?”

Calmly, coolly, Sabine nodded and continued her work, tuning up the gadgetry embedded in her vambrace. “Yes. That’s what I just said.”

“She made this and gave it to you?”

“I went to her and asked her to make it.”

Din felt his throat tighten up, his skin crackling with that subtle, electric awareness of something wrong. “You… went to the Armourer?”

“I did,” Sabine confirmed, slowly, not in a condescending way or like she thought him stupid, but in a way that said she was standing her ground on her actions. “I went to her, I apologized for my husband’s jerk behaviour, and I asked her to forge a mythosaur for our baby.”

“And did anything else happen?”

“We talked a bit. She was really kind.”

Distractedly, Din laid the little skull down. Grogu quietly returned it to its previous spot in the line-up he was curating.

His mind was reeling with undefined thoughts—notions without shapes or words, just feelings, conflicting and fighting one another—when Sabine’s voice reached for him again.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but is it really something you can’t forgive?” 

She asked it softly but with clear purpose. There was no heat, no sting, no reproach, only a wish to understand, to see peace restored.

Din breathed out in a rush and felt the warmed air blast back into his face. He reached up and removed his helmet for the first time since morning and cold raked through his hair. He sat on the bed, turning the helmet around in his hands so the visor was staring back at him, his reflection trapped in the transperisteel.

“I… learned something about the Armourer and I… I overreacted,” he admitted, unable to meet his own eyes in his reflection, staring instead at a trace of dirt on the crown, inflicted at some point in the sparring session with his cousin. Idly, he wiped at it with the pad of his thumb, to the end of smearing it rather than cleaning it.

“She doesn’t hold anything against you,” Sabine told him. When he heard her start to speak, he had to look at her to make sure he caught what she said. Looking at her directly, she latched onto his gaze and it made his heart twist to think of all she didn’t know. 

He almost told her.

He took the breath and he opened his mouth but it all dried there on the precipice.

It was not his secret to tell. And Ursa may have been kind to Sabine and forged the requested mythosaur, but she clearly hadn’t revealed herself in the course of their meeting. Had her feelings changed? Did she hold back because of his rejection? Or was she determined to maintain her anonymity to eternity’s end?

“You should apologize to her,” Sabine said.

Din deflated. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“No, no ‘maybe.’ Tomorrow, first thing, you should go and apologize.”

“I could go now.”

Sabine shook her head. “You’re only allowed to go after a good night’s sleep.”

Din chuffed and pulled on a lopsided frown. “Under whose orders?”

“Mine. And Sloan’s. Did you go see him today?”

“Yes.” It was the very first thing he did upon setting out from the alcove.

“Good. Did he give you something?”

He sighed, gruffly, tiredly, and pulled from the pouch clipped to his belt the little bottle of sleeping pills the nurse-droid had gone and procured from the market himself. Din gave it a rattle as if to further confirm its existence. “But I don’t need—”

Sabine cut him off. “It’s either that, or I’m getting Grogu to put you to sleep.”

Frowning for real now, Din glanced to the child gnawing on the gear knob, happily swinging his feet side to side. “Can he do that?”

“Take those pills and you won’t need to find out.”

. . . . .

The vast spiderweb of Kyn-13’s abandoned transport tunnels, tracks and stations lay buried deep under the city and the canals. While much of the structure’s foundation was laid on the seabed, some sections—due to a combination of natural erosion, shifting currents, and the cave-in Ados mentioned—had lost their solid foundation and had the water running beneath them. In some of those places (not everywhere), the floor had crumbled away, but, thanks to the air pressure, the water didn’t rise and flood the tunnels. This created convenient pools for fishing.

The pool closest to the covert was simply, uncreatively dubbed “The Fishing Hole.” Omega quipped that it sounded like the name of a dingy seaside tavern, the kind that used desiccated fish carcasses, broken nets and sun-bleached buoys as decor.

There was no such decor at the Fishing Hole. There wasn’t anything but steps leading down to a ragged-edged platform encircling an unceremonious hole in the ground. But the water had a faint turquoise glow to it, produced by the bioluminescent algae coating the seabed and breaching the confines of the water to rim the edge of the platform and climb up the stone walls. The soft jewel light coupled with the faint breathing of the water cast ethereal rainbow ribbons on the walls and ceiling, making the whole place seem to sing without making a single sound.

Aside from providing a steady supply of fish, it was a good place to think, to contemplate… to be alone.

Din had never seen the Armourer anywhere other than the forge. Some part of him could not comprehend the image of her sitting by the water’s edge when he had only ever seen her in the company of flames, sparks, and molten metal. Her stillness and the otherworldly ambience painted her as a creature caught in the wrong realm.

His careful steps on the slick stones, the water dripping faraway and the water lapping at the edge of the pool were the only sounds.

She didn’t turn her head, didn’t so much as sway or twitch, but he knew she knew he was approaching.

There was no space between her and the water’s edge for him to move in front of her and he was silently grateful—he carried too much shame to look her in the visor. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, directly behind her.

The dynamic between them had shifted since her reveal and his subsequent rejection. Frankly, “shifted” was the wrong term; “shattered” was more apt. Trust and societal roles had eroded, the disintegration occurring with such violent speed that Din had to believe she was a different person entirely just to begin making sense of it all.

But she was not a different person.

She was the Armourer. She was the tribe Alor. And if she was nothing else, she was still his elder—if he could no longer accept her as anything else, he could respect her age and her experience.

“Thank you for forging the kyr’bes,” he said, and how strange and distant the enclosed pool made his modulated voice sound.

“It was my pleasure,” the Armourer replied, speaking with her characteristic placidity.

Din swallowed, thickly, turning his head to secure his gaze to the algae-coated wall. “And thank you… for being kind to Sabine.”

“I would not be anything else. Not anymore,” Ursa added, softly, regret playing a low chord in her voice.

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” Din forced himself to say, aware that if he hesitated now he would lose what little resolve he had managed to scrape together for this. “And… I’m sorry for the way I have acted towards you every day since. I was out of line.”

“You were protecting Sabine; I cannot find fault in that.”

And it was done.

He had apologized, weaving therein an expression of his forgiveness. She had accepted it and, in turn, forgiven him. The balance was paid and the ledger cleared.

But he didn’t leave. 

Something like the awareness of unfinished business kept him rooted to the spot. He awaited an official dismissal, feeling that such a show of respect would seal the patch on their damaged dynamic.

She did not dismiss him.

Instead, he heard an entirely new sound from her: an exhalation, heavy and weary. 

“I did not know it would be so… difficult to see her again,” she confessed.

Din closed his eyes, his face pulling as the emerging emotions clutched at his heart. She sounded so vulnerable, so remorseful—he had never witnessed such things from her before. It was like seeing a broken lighthouse in the midst of a storm, a frayed rope on an anchor—she was the guide, she was the stabilizing force, but here she was, lost and untethered, unable to fulfil her cherished, designated role.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked, his voice steady though his guard was up.

He looked over to her and caught a small shake of her head. But it was not an answer. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, plainly.

Such words from someone he respected, someone he had turned to time and time again for guidance and reassurance should have shaken him like an earthquake, yet it had a very different effect.

All of a sudden, they were in the storm together. And maybe she was a lighthouse without a light and he was a captain of a lost and sinking ship, but perhaps they could still find their way through this.

“I can help you,” he said and realized only as the words came that he meant them. “I’ve… had some experience with this.”

There was no verbal response from her, but the subtle sinking of her posture betrayed her wish for assistance.

He came and stood beside her a moment, leaving an entire stride between them. Up near the pool’s edge, he breathed in the briny, almost medicinal smell of the water. He kept his gaze on the gentle waver of the water’s surface for a while, wondering, absently, how deep a dive it was to the ocean floor. Schools of fish passed through here—just the day before, he caught some with Paz—but what else lurked in these distant, unknown depths?

“The way of the Mandalore has given me purpose, but I have confronted the reality of my decision to take the creed,” Ursa said with both confession and acceptance. She paused and hung there; to encourage her to continue, to assure her he was listening, Din sat down, mirroring her position. “I chose it out of cowardice. I chose this helmet and this identity as a way to bury all that I was. It was no cin vhetin; it was a mask, a disguise, a cocoon.”

“You said it yourself: no coward can walk the way of the Mandalore,” Din reminded her.

“Then perhaps I am not worthy of it.”

“If anyone here is not worthy, it is me; not you.”

Only in the silence that rushed in after he spoke did Din hear what he had said. 

He hadn’t come here to confess this—he had no intentions to ever let this sin see the light of day—yet here he was, on the edge of the cliff of revealing the thing which could unmake him. Yet he felt no crushing wave of guilt, no sickening flood of wretchedness, no sense of impending banishment.

Perhaps it was because, unlike how he imagined this confession unfolding for the past few months, he was not speaking to someone higher than him. He was on his knees, not in front of but beside another, and he knew now that she was not perfect.

He also knew she had walked a different way for most of her life.

“I hid the truth. I have removed my helmet,” he said, amazed at how easy the words came. In the corner of his visor, he saw Ursa’s helmet turn, looking at him for the first time since he had arrived. “My son was taken and the only way to find him required I reveal my face to outsiders. Then I was injured in the fight with the Moff. When I was able to wear the armour again, I adopted Sabine’s way.”

He remembered that moment as clear as he saw the world around him at present.

It was his first time wearing his armour since the duel on the Light Cruiser. He remembered stepping out of the Ghost and into the hangar for a training session with Sabine. He remembered how foreign and heavy and yet how familiar every plate felt as he went through the forms with the Darksaber. He vividly remembered his mistake which left a scar on his leg he bore still.

And he remembered the moment he made his choice.

Really, he made it before he even put the helmet back on. He had uprooted all doubt and decided this was the way he was going to live now: no longer concealed, no longer faceless, but a Mandalorian still, through and through. But his choice was only made official when he took his helmet off, looked Sabine in the eye and made his declaration.

This is the way I choose.

“I do not regret it,” he said now. “But… I know what I have forfeited. I believe I am still Mandalorian, I will always live this way, but I understand I cannot be a true part of the tribe any longer. It is why I hesitated to return for so long: I have only come to give over my earnings, ensure the tribe is safe, and ask that my family be protected. Then I will leave.”

He had had months to distill his motives and his goal, and though it had felt shrouded and vague even in his own heart for so long, he spoke now without wavering. Every word shared, every truth revealed lifted the burdens he had carried for so long. It wasn’t like having a load taken off his shoulders, it was more like having massive growths cauterized and sliced off his flesh—he was raw where they had been, he was bleeding and vulnerable and hurting and some things were never going to look or function the same; forever more there would be scar tissue. 

But he had killed the cancer of it all by himself.

He was now free of the slow, insidious death.

“You removed your helmet to save your child,” Ursa affirmed, and there was a distinct note of approval in her voice. When he looked over to her, she lifted her chin as if steeling herself. “And I put mine on to save myself.”

She was not judging him—she stopped just short of admitting she could not judge him. 

Here they were, two Mandalorians who had fulfilled their vows: he to the intent, and she to the letter.

He realized then that she had completed the picture for him—a picture he had slowly been realizing for some time now, light shining on one piece at a time. He had now seen every shade of Mandalorian on the spectrum.

Not all could be called Mandalorian—Cobb Vanth was an outsider, Boba Fett still refused to accept the full breadth of his heritage, and Bo-Katan Kryze had proven herself unworthy. But they had, every single one of them, taught Din a lesson, and he was grateful to them all, even to the one who had become his enemy.

And now it was time to share his lesson.

“I no longer believe we uphold the way simply by wearing armour. Anyone can wear the armour—ones who don’t know our ways, ones who won’t call themselves Mandalorian, ones who selfishly dishonour our creed every single day. The armour does not make us Mandalorian; we are Mandalorian by how we choose to live, by what we choose to fight for, and what we choose to die for.

“For me, it is my family; for you, it is the tribe,” he said, not in condemnation, though she hung her head anyway. “You have done right by them—they are alive because of you and that is no small thing. Secrecy is survival; survival…” he trailed off, leaving the phrase unfinished on purpose.

She drew a breath and at last her posture lifted, returning to a semblance of that blend of grace and strength, elegance and resolve she was renowned for. “Survival is our strength,” she concluded. She turned to him. “Thank you, Din Djarin.”

He bowed his head.

They remained in silence for a while, as if they had to recuperate after a session of such intense confessions.

Nothing was changed, nothing was resolved. They could neither judge nor acquit one another. But they had reached a level of understanding neither of them had ever conceived of. They sat now as equals.

“I can tell Sabine, if you’d like,” Din offered.

Ursa was still for a long moment before giving a soft nod. “Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding thick. “Only if—if it will not be too great a shock to her.”

“I will take care,” he assured her, already running through in his mind how best to broach the topic. “She needs a mother—now more than ever,” he added, as if to assure her of the rightness of her decision.

She gave no response or dismissal but with where they were right now, it wouldn’t have felt right anyway, so he waited for none. He rose at his own leisure and turned to leave.

But when he came to the foot of the steps, he stopped.

“I have one last question,” he said, turning his head and speaking to the wall, his voice low.

“Proceed,” she permitted.

His mouth went dry.

Again, he teetered on a precipice of no return. Once he asked this and she answered, and if the truth be what he feared, he would never be able to claim ignorance again, and he wasn’t so sure they could return to any iteration of the trust they had so tenuously reestablished here.

But he had to know.

He had taken the sleeping pills, as Sabine wished, and he had slept the night through. It was restful, he felt better today than he had in weeks, his mind clearer, his emotions easier to wrangle, but the vivid memories the bacta had dredged up had returned again in his dreams.

Specifically, the memory of the attack on Aq Vetina.

The woman in blue and white armour, hovering above the houses, scanning the streets, spotting him, coolly taking aim and firing; missing him yet permanently damaging his hearing…

“I know you were a part of Death Watch,” he began, struggling to keep his neutrality. “Thirty years ago, Death Watch attacked a settlement on the planet Lota where a covert was taking refuge. Did you lead that attack?”

This time, there was no beat of hesitation. “No. I did not.”

He gritted his teeth and reminded himself he intended to believe and accept her answer, whatever it may be. “Are you sure?” he heard himself ask despite that resolution.

“I was a part of Death Watch, I won’t deny or water that down. But there were things they did that even I could not partake in. I did not agree with hunting the Haat Mando’ade simply because they would not join us in our crusade; if I did, I would have had to turn against my entire clan for they descended from the same creed and did not support Death Watch either. I never gave those attacks my support, and I certainly never led one.”

He had been holding his breath as if a mere inhalation would cause him to miss a vital word in her response. As soon as she finished, he gave his lungs permission to empty and the deflation bent his spine.

“Was that where you were found?” Ursa inquired.

“Yes.”

A pause. A drop of water broke the quiet, echoing in the stone. “You make a fine Mandalorian, the tribe is fortunate to have had you, but I am sorry for what it cost for you to come to us.”

. . . . .

Ursa did not make mistakes at the forge.

Masters of any craft can have a bad day or a bad run of things, be caught off guard by the sudden failing of a trusted tool or the unprecedented shortcoming of an ingredient or supply item, unexpected circumstances and unpredictable situations can befall anyone. Mentors teach their students to handle such things, to distinguish what they can salvage from what they’ll have to discard or tear down before they can begin again. 

Mistakes happen; fix what you can, let go of what you cannot, and move on.

But her teacher—her father—did not teach her such things.

There was no flaw or impurity in beskar and the ones with the responsibility of shaping it had to be just so. Mistakes and mishaps were for children and if they persisted, they marked the unworthy.

That lesson was branded into her at a young age.

Worthiness came hand-in-hand with perfection, and perfection was to be obtained and maintained by any means necessary, be they brutal or unkind, all was excused so long as you reached your goal.

In nearly forty years, Ursa had not slipped—in metal-working, in combat, in leading her clan.

But outside the forge, outside the battlefield, outside the throneroom… all she ever made were mistakes. She had left a devastating trail of destruction in her wake: innocents cut down for her fear her people’s warrior ways would be consumed by the weakness of the New Mandalorians; her family fractured by choices made not for them but for good of the clan; her own daughter and then her son sacrificed to the Empire to quell their hunger, ensure their good favour, spare the rest of them.

She had never misspent or ruined a single ounce of beskar. By that metric, she was worthy. But she had lost battles and won others she should never have fought in the first place, she divided her own family, betrayed her children, and watched her clan fall before her very eyes.

She failed as a countess and, more damningly, she failed as a mother.

All she had left was the forge.

It was her salvation, her sanctuary, her refuge. In the armoury, she found her place, her purpose, her peace. 

Today, however, it was her cage.

After the talk with Djarin, she waited all day and then all night but neither he nor Sabine ventured near the forge. As the next day began, she realized she might have to be the one to approach them if ever they were to put this ordeal to rest.

Just as she reached that conclusion, steps came travelling down the corridor, headed for the forge.

The rustic clink and jangle of Din Djarin, and the smooth, regal confidence of Sabine Wren: side by side, in strangely perfect harmony.

For once, Ursa did not prioritize the beskar over the ones entering her refuge. The instant she heard the steps approaching, she laid down her ever faithful tools and took position in front of the fire.

She let not the fear eroding her core taint her posture. Ever a warrior, she set her shoulders straight, kept her stance even and sturdy, and raised her chin.

The steps halted before they came into view. She heard no voices, no whispers or rustles or breaths. Before she could wonder if she had imagined the steps, they recommenced and into view came her daughter with her husband and their adopted child seated in a pram hovering beside her.

They made an eclectic group: a man wrapped in silver, a woman swathed in colours, and a child of indeterminate species. The one thing that united them was their signet: the mudhorn and the feather. 

(The fact was not lost on Ursa that she had designed and bestowed both parts of the now combined signet, but it was difficult to wrap one’s mind around such an intricate working of fate.)

At various different points in her acquaintance with Din Djarin, she had wondered what her daughter might think of him. She didn’t muse such things in regards to every single person she met, but the beroya endeared himself to her in a way few others did. 

Perhaps it was his exhaustive list of peculiarities. Before she met him face-to-face, she was warned that he was strange. 

He had two family names listed in the registers, common for foundlings, yet he had long come of age and had neglected to choose one for his own clan.

Despite his high station in the tribe, he had not renewed his armour nor had he added the Rising Phoenix to his gear. He had a gleaming, finely crafted helmet yet the rest of his armour was either beskar-durasteel alloy or salvaged bits and pieces of what amounted to flotsam.

It was clear he had at some point chosen to paint his armour red—a very distinct choice heavy with meaning given that he was still aligned with the Vizsla Clan. But he had not redone the paint in years, letting the red fade into a dull, brownish hue.

And then there was the matter of his signet. Aside from the foundlings in the tribe who had come of age but had not yet chosen or found their signet, he was the only one without a clan symbol. He was in his thirties and his accomplishments made no paltry list, yet he continuously refused a signet.

He was kind and cultured yet gruff and solitary. He held an almost child-like, black and white code of morality, yet he had travelled extensively and it was clear he perceived and understood the galaxy’s shades of grey.

It took Ursa a few years to realize the main reason he endeared himself to her so was because he was so much like her children.

His rigid sense of duty and honour reminded her of Tristan, but his gentle demeanour and high regard for community and family reminded her of Sabine.

It was a salve to her grief, imagining that they might have gotten along well had they had the chance to meet. She never expected that any of them would, nor could she ever have predicted that her daughter would fall in love with him.

(She was still trying to figure out what to make of the fact Din was related to Ezra Bridger by blood, but some things were beyond her ability to comprehend at present.)

Though their faces were hidden, a million other things attested to Din and Sabine’s bond.

Din stood near her side, offering solidarity and support, but he was holding a half-step behind, letting her lead, letting her set the pace for this. And though her stance bespoke confidence, there was a subtle lean in Sabine’s posture, a gravitational pull towards him. He was her anchor and she wanted him near.

They entered and brought a crushing silence with them. 

A kind of stand-off began.

Ursa had had time to consider what she would say to her daughter should they reunite. Fire consumed all the scripts now that the moment had arrived, leaving them standing there, staring at one another, separated by a physical distance of mere metres yet a chasm lay between them.

Sabine, of course, was the braver of the two, the humbler, the more insightful, and so she spoke first.

“Is it true?” she asked, not a waver or a blade to be heard in her voice.

Ursa dipped her head but aborted the nod before it could serve as an answer. Instead, with a surge of numbing courage, she reached up and removed her helmet.

When she looked over and locked her gaze with her daughter’s visor, Sabine instantly turned her head away, the motion sharp and jarring.

“Sabine,” Ursa said—implored, really, if she was being honest (and she was trying to be nothing else). “I’m sorry. For not coming to find you. For… leaving you.”

She didn’t turn to look at her. Her arms, which had been folded across her chest when she arrived, constricted, like she was holding herself in, shielding herself.

Din put a hand on her shoulder, just before her pauldron. Ursa expected Sabine to shrug him off—her daughter usually detested physical touch, especially when she was in some kind of distress—yet she didn’t push him away in any manner.

How things change…

“You have every right to be angry,” Ursa assured her.

“I’m not angry,” Sabine snapped.

Ursa pressed her lips together.

This was not going any better than the stacks of arguments they had engaged in before. Neither of them ever truly won those matches, nor did they ever reach resolutions, they simply ended when they lost steam. 

Grogu, sitting in the hover pram, made a short, clipped sound, directed at Sabine, his face scrunched at the edges, his ears slanting low.

Sabine sighed, roughly. “Fine. I’m angry,” she admitted.

The admission should have returned them to the road they were on but instead it abandoned them on a dead end. 

Ursa didn’t know where to go from here.

She glanced helplessly to Din.

He tilted his head, catching Sabine’s line of sight and giving a single nod of encouragement.

Her shoulders softened ever so subtly. “I’m angry… but I’m glad you’re alive,” she said, quietly.

Ursa felt like she might collapse from the relief. As it was, her eyes stung and she couldn’t trust her voice.

Then Sabine took the next step across the chasm and removed her helmet.

Though they had shared a few holo-calls in the years before the Purge, the last time Ursa saw her daughter in the flesh was over a decade ago on Mandalore. 

She remembered every detail with precision: her hair, dyed a startling white that faded into rich lilac and violet tones, cropped in an asymmetrical crescent shape. Her face, more defined and structured than when she last saw her at twelve. Her features, what parts she inherited from Alrich, and what parts she, Ursa, had passed down.

Now, she was older, her face still soft but the structure more defined. She kept her hair a little longer, the colour a uniform deep violet with her dark roots beginning to bleed through. Most notably, she had a prominent scar on her left cheek, a little lightning bolt under her eye.

Ursa could not help herself.

She took the steps without thinking and reached out but caught herself there, her gloved hand hanging in mid-air. Initially, Sabine leaned away, just slightly, the motion easily a reaction not a decision, but it tore her mother’s heart asunder and she reeled her hand back.

For a moment, it seemed they were cast back to opposite sides of that chasm, cursed to remain forever apart.

Then Sabine’s expression crumbled. 

Emotions fought, tugging at her brows, at her mouth, pulling her eyes closed and wrenching out a clipped but keening little cry. She let the things she felt show, let herself cross the last bit of distance between them, let her arms wrap around her mother.

It was a shock to Ursa. 

She stiffened at the contact, having not been touched for so long. Even at their best of times, Sabine had rarely—if ever—embraced her. The only time Ursa could remember such an event occurring was when her daughter was very, very young.

But now her arms were there, around her—all the way around her and not just there but holding on tight—and her face was pressing into the crook of her neck.

Ursa never had maternal instincts.

Conceiving, carrying and birthing her daughter was just a part of her duty. Her line needed an heir, the clan needed a leader for their future, and so Ursa provided one, approaching the whole matter as if it were the forging of a suit of armour or the planning of a battle. Whatever else she felt about it, those odd little slips of longing and attachment, she attributed to the necessary hormones her body produced to carry out the task.

She was young and strong and she recovered from it all easily enough. Her heart was set on the fight to preserve their people’s warrior ways and her father was still alive and acting as clan leader, so she was free to join the fight as a Nite Owl. The infant was in goods hand with her sister-in-law—really, better than hers could ever be—so she left.

She was gone for two years, and aside from the battles and the losses—they lost their leader, their world, their honour, and their way—she struggled with something no one else in her company understood.

There were some physical things. Her body kept trying to provide and care for an infant she was parsecs away from. It was inconvenient and nothing she was warned about and she had to hide it and deal with it all by herself to avoid scorn from her fellow warriors. 

Worse than that were the things she couldn’t really describe.

Everything that so much as sounded like the cry of an infant snatched her attention, pulling on something lodged deep in her chest. She once woke in the middle of the night, frantic and desperate, only to uncover the rusted hinge of a blaster locker creaking in the wind as the culprit.

When she returned home, her daughter was no longer an infant but a child toddling about on her feet, using her voice liberally, curious and eager to discover the whole world. 

And she was a stranger to her.

She remembered the way she hid behind her father, little hands clutching his pant leg, big brown irises shining as they peeked out at this woman she did not know.

For a long time, Ursa was painfully aware that she was inserting herself into this child’s life.

And yet… despite the time lost, they managed to forge a connection.

One day, when Sabine was four years old, she tripped and skinned her knee. Such a mundane, typical childhood injury, but to her, it was pain and it was shock, and she cried out for someone to help, make it better, stop the hurt, and she cried—not for her father, not for her aunt—but for her mother.

Sabine probably forgot all about the incident the very next day but Ursa never did.

Ursa never had maternal instincts.

But somehow she became a mother and even though she made horrible mistakes which should have tarnished her worthiness in the role, her daughter came back to her—once, twice, and now a third time.

She wrapped her arms around Sabine, carefully, as if she had to be delicate with her. She tipped her head, her cheek laying soft on her daughter’s head. 

“K’uur, Sab’ika,” she hushed when her daughter gave into a cry and buried her face deeper into her shoulder.

There was still so much to talk about. There were entire years of each other’s lives to learn about and still many wounds to tend and bind. There was also a new life to prepare for, a new child to welcome.

They could start again.

And perhaps this time they could get it right and forge from the ashes something that would last.

But, right now, her daughter needed, not words, not grand gestures, she needed just her mother to hold her.

. . . . .

The Armourer

Mother & Daughter Reunion

Chapter Text

It had been a rather standard run of jobs, nothing to write home about, and although Riel Rook had fulfilled the commissions to the letter, his expectations for pay weren’t high.

He had left the system with six jobs—three were Guild, three were not. The direct commissions promised better pay than the Guild jobs, but he could only trust the Guild to actually pay their fares in full—independent clients tended to get a little bit creative with the transactions after a job was complete.

Nevertheless, six completed jobs would see the tribe fed for at least two cycles (three, if he was paid in full) and that was all that mattered to Riel.

The tribe resided on Kyn-13, but the Guild chapter operated out of Kyn-7. Also locked in eternal night, this moon contained a similar atmosphere and a similiar sky but the parallels ended there. The city here was denser, older, and cracking, groaning, warping under the weight of constant activity and use. There were no refineries or plants on this moon, no canals—no trace of water of any kind, in fact. This was a residential and commercial moon, not an industrial one. It was bursting at the seams with apartments and casinos and bars and clubs and all those unsavoury places Riel made a point not to so much as glance at as he passed by on his way to the main watering hole.

Like most anywhere in the cities on the Kyn moons, this cantina was bursting with neon lights. The lights were low but saturated with the entire spectrum of throbbing colour. Stepping in from the cold night felt like wading into a pool: a bar packed with patrons and an indefatigable band belting and banging out music created a thick ambience.

Riel paused on the threshold and discreetly fiddled with the controls on the side of his helmet, readjusting the audio, visual, and air filter settings like one about to dive into deep waters.

The audio input refocused to a point, muting but not entirely killing the popping, thumping, spiking music. The visor readjusted, easing the strobing lights to milder flashes. And the filters kicked on, allowing him to breathe air that blessedly smelled of nothing.

He looked around but couldn’t see the Guild leader present. He sagged a bit at that; without the Guild leader to liaise with, he would have to conduct the rest of his business on the Holonet terminal.

The Guild leader was notoriously difficult to get a meeting with (unless you owed him money or had fouled a job—then he was the easiest person in the galaxy to find). It wasn’t much of a hardship to conduct business over the Holonet, and most of the independent jobs relied on Holonet transactions as it was, but it rendered the trip to the cantina wholly unnecessary.

Well. 

He was here now. 

May as well get it over with.

Thankfully, the terminal was free right then. The bar was packed, all the booths and tables were occupied, but no one was busy with the few Holonet terminals, clustered together and looking more or less sorry to exist.

The routine was muscle-memory now. Riel approached, scanned his chain-code, and made contact with the Guild and the different clients. He had already delivered the independent quarries where requested and the Guild’s lackeys should be offloading the rest from the Nomad right about then. Now it was just a matter of waiting as the network confirmed and matched pucks and chain-codes, and then processed his payment.

He hated waiting.

This was the downside of not dealing directly with a certified Guild rep. Physical transactions were not always comfortable but they were quick and he could get his next batch of jobs straight away, maybe even haggle for the slightly better ones he didn’t technically have the Guild rates for just yet. Even the more unruly independent clients were quicker to deal with than the Holonet.

The longer he stood here, the more likely someone would—

“Hey! Look what the tooka dragged in!”

Riel rolled his eyes and blew out a ragged-edged sigh.

Troy, the barkeeper, was always a little too happy to see everyone. Everyone was his favourite customer, even Riel who only occasionally ordered a boxed meal to go. He was old, rotund, and could have passed for a Terran if it weren’t for the six arms and greyish-brown coloured skin (as it was, Riel only knew the colour of his skin because he had been through here often enough that he had seen the man under a variety of lighting conditions; currently, with the lights pulsing and roving and changing colour with every drumbeat, it was impossible to tell what colour anything truly was).

“Aw, c’mon, Rookie; where’s a greeting for your old pal?” Troy pressed, raising his already booming voice as his lowest pair of hands set down a freshly cleaned glass and picked up another to work on while the next pair vigorously shook a drink-mixer and the top pair spread wide in a welcoming gesture—he did all this without ever looking down.

Riel tilted his helmet and, predictably, Troy belted out a laugh.

“And you says you have no sense of humour!”

“Don’t have time for one,” Riel said, flatly but without sting because Troy was irritating but harmless (and maybe he thought it was a good idea to stay on the better side of the guy who owned the cantina the local Guild chapter operated out of).

Troy chuffed. “S’Wonder you have time for anything. Always zipping off, chasing your bounties. You must’a racked up a fortune by now. How much more do ya need?” he asked with a thrust of his chin and an exaggerated arch of a bushy brow.

Riel didn’t answer. 

It was partly jest, partly a genuine question: this wasn’t the first time Troy had asked such a thing, after all. He doubted the old man had any ill intentions, he was just curious—as Mandalorians became rarer and rarer in the galaxy, anything the local Mando did became an object of fascination.

And it was for that very reason Riel had to tread carefully. He had to keep everyone believing he was the only Mandalorian hanging around the Kyn system, had to let them think he was raking in credits and reputation for his own sake, had to let them say and think and perceive whatever they wanted to no matter how much it grated on him.

The tribe was to be protected above all else.

So he said nothing.

Troy flapped a hand, dismissing the matter with as much care as swatting away a fly. “Well, your itchy feet will be off again soon enough. Your next job’s already lining up.”

Mostly as a means to telegraph his disinterest, Riel had let his helmet drift to check the terminal screen—the transactions were almost complete and it looked like he hadn’t been as short-changed as he feared. Now he whipped around sharply to face Troy.

“My next job?” he questioned.

Troy pointed with the hand holding the drying cloth towards a booth near the back of the cantina, in a spot furthest away from the blare of the band. “Strange fella came ‘bout an hour ago, asking to hire you specifically,” he explained.

“Strange?” Riel repeated, hoping to draw out Troy’s observations—as annoying as the old man was, he could be rather sharp-eyed at times.

Troy shrugged all three levels of shoulders. “Just don’t think he’s from around here, is all. Don’t seem like a miner or a city-man. Sounds Outer Rim, born and bred, but he ain’t of Kyn stock.”

He said the last bit with a slight sneer, like it was a dishonour to be born anywhere else but his beloved system of symbiotic moons drowning in neon lights and revolving around a gas giant.

(But, then, the entire concept of taking pride in the location one was born was a little difficult for Riel—who was born right slapbang in the middle of a covert relocation—to grasp. He didn’t feel anything for the backs of rickety transport shuttles held together by tape and prayers.)

Riel glanced to the booth with a more critical eye. The figure was dressed in dark clothes that didn’t catch or hold the colours splashing all around him. He couldn’t be a miner—the quality of the clothing was too fine, too tailored; the Kyn miners practically lived in their overalls and they had the stains to show for it. And city-folk around here preferred wearing some colour—all black attire was uncommon.

Most peculiar was the man’s headgear—a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, utterly obscuring his face, so much so that it was impossible to determine even his species.

Riel had never seen anyone wear such a hat anywhere in the Kyn system.

Not a local then.

That was odd.

Everything about it was odd. He tended to make contact with independant clients over the Holonet, perhaps meet them in person but rarely on any of the Kyn moons unless they were mining employers wanting rogue workers brought back.

The terminal made a crackly, cheery chime then.

Transaction complete.

The program closed itself and Riel stepped away, glancing once to Troy. He didn’t know if he was holding out for the old man to reveal this was a practical joke or if some part of him was asking for support, but he received nothing more than a facial expression that said: “Well, this oughta be good.”

Riel made his way over to the booth.

His helmet reduced the clamour of the patrons and the music’s volume but he still felt the drumbeat, pounding through the floor, resetting his heart’s rhythm against his will. He swung his head, glancing around, looking for signs of a trap or associates but he saw no one wearing anything akin to the loner: this dark-clad man with the odd hat was alone.

To his credit, he had chosen a decent spot to conduct business. The booth resided in a deadzone as far as the music was concerned, and the worst of the strobing lights ignored this area.

Riel stopped at the table. He exaggerated the lift of his helmet just slightly to make it clear he was regarding and addressing this man.

If the man heard, saw or knew the Mandalorian had approached him, he made no sign he had registered him.

“Hear you wanna hire me for a job,” Riel said, plain and straight-forward.

The man didn’t answer. He continued lounging in the corner of the booth, head low, an arm slung over the back of the seats, the other hand idly fiddling with something by his mouth—a death-stick, Riel presumed, except he saw no telltale trail of smoke.

His stillness and silence stretched on too long for Riel’s patience.

“Listen, I don’t have time for this,” he told him, blankly, and turned to leave.

“You’re not the Mandalorian I wanted for the job,” the man said to Riel’s back.

He spoke low and slow and there was age and wear in his voice. As Troy had observed, he had a distinctive Outer Rim drawl.

Riel turned back around, hackles rising—partly because he got the impression this man was treating him like a pet and partly because of course he wanted the other Mandalorian bounty hunter.

“Yeah, well, I’m the only one you’re gonna get around here,” he told him, flatly.

Again, the man was in no hurry to speak. He tipped his head to the side without revealing so much as a sliver of his face. “What happened to the other one?”

Riel crossed his arms. “Why do you think I would know or even care? Look. Do you want to hire me or not?”

“Mandalorians are a tribal people,” the man remarked, conversationally, altogether ignoring Riel’s question. “They live in herds.”

“You don’t know anything about Mandalorians,” Riel snapped.

After a beat, the man chuffed like something Riel did or said amused him. “Sit down,” he invited with a sweep of his hand indicating the opposite side of the booth. “Have a drink.”

There were two glasses on the table already when Riel had walked over but they hadn’t meant anything to him earlier. Now he noticed they were both filled to the brim, one sitting in front of the stranger, the other waiting on the other side of the table.

“I will not,” Riel said and left it at that. “What is the job?”

The stranger took a breath and readjusted his position at his leisure. At last, he lifted his head and nudged the wide brim of his hat up to reveal his face. A Duros, recognizable by large eyes without pupils and a long, flat face with nostrils far off to the sides. The colour of his skin and eyes was difficult to determine under the cantina’s pulsing light-show but the age Riel had heard in his voice he saw now on his face.

“Oh, it’s a little beyond your pay grade, son,” he drawled, passively.