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The nightmares are new.
The kid’s had bad dreams before, when his usual, cheerful burbles turned to whines and low cries. But this is the second time in as many nights that he’s startled Din with a shriek like a hull breach, a piercing sound that sucks all the air out of Din’s lungs.
Din drops down the ladder and lunges into the bunk to scoop Grogu out of his hammock. Grogu’s claws hook over the top of Din’s cuirass, and the shrieks subside into snuffles, his little body trembling. As gently as he can, Din strokes the top of his head with his gloved fingers and whispers reassurances.
The second nightmare, the second time they’ve done their “Jedi training.” It can be no coincidence. Is it tiring Grogu out too much? Overwhelming him? Maybe Grogu shouldn’t—
An impossibly tall man looms in front of them, so vast he blots out the hold’s ceiling, sallow-skinned with eyes that glow a sickly yellow. He’s clutching Grogu’s arm, dragging his tiny green hand toward a laser sword, trying to change him, trying to make him become—
Din lurches back a step, and suddenly they’re alone in the Razor Crest’s hold, where Din’s ears ring with the silence even as his heart races and his breathing comes in terrified gasps. There’s no intruder, no one trying to make Grogu take up a weapon—a weapon suspiciously similar to Ahsoka’s Jedi blades.
Grogu whimpers, cuddling closer.
“Shh, just a dream,” Din murmurs, but even as he says it, he knows he’s wrong.
Because while the mysterious intruder isn’t there now, Din’s positive he was there in the past.
Ahsoka said Grogu has fear in him, that Grogu’d had to hide his powers to keep himself safe. Din’s chest aches with the impotent realization he’s just seen one of the people Grogu had to keep himself safe from. He sits down on the edge of the bunk, Grogu half-awake in his arms and just starting to burble for attention. Din strokes his ears and sings a lullaby, hoping to settle him down for a few more hours of sleep before they reach their destination.
~
After months without a clear path for his mission, Ahsoka’s guidance to consult the Seeing Stone on Tython feels definitive, like the satisfying end of a hunt with the quarry in sight. Din is eager to set those coordinates and go, but they don’t have enough fuel for hyperspace to the Deep Core, and they're too low on credits to afford it. So Din visits the closest Guild outpost and takes the only bounty on offer; a gang of bank robbers who have scattered across the system.
Within a day, he has the first two stowed safely in the Razor Crest’s cryo-hold, but the third proves cagey.
They’re on a preprogrammed flight path, slingshotting around a gas giant before a half hour’s flight to Port Kanis on the planet Rhee. Perfect downtime to conduct a little more training.
“Ready, Grogu?” Din holds out his favorite toy, the silver ball from the ship’s thrust lever, this time with a tighter grip.
Grogu has fear in him, and Din hates it—hates that Grogu is still afraid, even with Din there to protect him. Din knows what that kind of fear feels like—remembers it from his own nightmares of the day his parents died, the sounds and scents of the explosions as vivid in his mind as the sight of the storage locker door closing him in. The only way to comfort such a fear—the only way that worked to end his own nightmares—is training. Honing the mind and the body until there is no longer a need to fear, because you’re ready to face everything on your own.
The sooner Grogu embraces his Jedi powers and learns to wield them, the safer he’ll feel.
“Just like we practiced,” Din coaxes.
Grogu’s right hand lifts, his little claws spread, and his eyelids droop as he concentrates. With a soft grunt, Grogu yanks the ball out of Din’s grip so it sails across the hold and into Grogu’s hand. It’s the hardest pull he’s made yet.
“Oya! Good job!” Din praises, and Grogu gurgles with delight. “You’re getting stronger. Are you ready to send it back? Like Ahsoka did, with her mind? Float it back to me, so we can keep training.”
The kid blinks at him—Din can see that stubborn streak rearing its head—before dropping the ball and kicking it with his feet. The toy rolls to a stop mid-way between them, and Din sighs.
Training...could be going better. But Din keeps pushing, and he gets Grogu to make another few pulls, even if Grogu refuses to send the ball back with his powers. It’s still progress.
By the time they dock at the spaceport, Grogu’s eyelids and ears are drooping. He’s asleep on his feet, so Din tucks the ball away in a pouch and Grogu into his satchel, hiding him beneath his cloak when he heads out in search of their slippery target.
~
With three prisoners in hand—the third still conscious but bound securely and hobbled by a blaster-shot to the knee—Din sets a course back to the Guild agent. Once he collects payment, it’ll be a few hours’ hop to Tython, far better than the three weeks it would have taken without hyperspace.
Grogu snores peacefully behind him in the passenger seat, still worn out.
“Won’t be long now,” Din murmurs, mostly to himself, and Grogu hums back, as though listening in his sleep. This moment, like so much of the past months, is familiar and comfortable, their little crew of two safe among the stars.
Until a shriek lances through the cockpit.
Din lifts Grogu into his lap with hurried hands, already whispering, “K’uur, hush, little one. Grogu, Grogu, wake up, it’s alright,” jostling him lightly.
Grogu’s arm flails, bumping against Din’s helmet, and the child takes a deep breath and wails again, and—
A creature levitates before them, six legs hovering, skeletal fingers outstretched as if beckoning, but its thoughts reaching closer, deeper, trying to connect with his mind—
Din draws his blaster and very nearly shoots the control panel before the nightmare vision clears.
Grogu whimpers, and Din drops the blaster to hug him close with both hands. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry,” he says. Emotion swells in his chest like a deadly contusion, constricting his lungs and threatening to crack his ribs from the inside-out. He wishes he could go back in time and kill everyone who ever got their hands on Grogu, who tried to use him, to make him use his powers….
Just like Din had done that afternoon.
“Osi’kyr, I’m so sorry,” he chokes.
Maybe...maybe Grogu shouldn’t contact the Jedi, after all.
~
Din mulls things over while they refuel, trying to figure out the right path. Until Din reunites Grogu with his own kind, Din is as his father. He will do whatever it takes to protect Grogu...but what if Grogu’s kind are the ones he needs protection from? Din looks at the silver ball Grogu is gnawing on and can’t bring himself to encourage any more training. He doesn’t want to be like those people...those sorcerers...who tried to augment their own powers by using Grogu’s.
An ade kemi evaar'la yust.
All children walk a new path. It was the armorer’s decree when Din first showed aptitude in long-range sniping, in the extra targeting programs his tribe programmed into his first HUD. Din’s role amongst the tribe wasn’t prescribed by his training but instead forged from his own talents and preferences—his own choices.
The urge to turn his back on his quest, to hide Grogu from the Jedi and the Imps, to keep the child safe and never have to say goodbye, lodges like a grappling hook in his heart. But he can’t make that choice for Grogu, no matter how badly he wants to.
~
A day later, they stand just inside the towering pillars of rock that ring the Seeing Stone, and Din’s doubts have only increased. But he doesn’t say Don’t call them. He doesn’t say Stay with me. He says only, “You don’t have to call them if you don’t want to.”
Grogu looks up at him, galaxy-deep eyes wide and certain. He toddles off with purpose, his little legs shuffling toward the rounded boulder in the center of the ring. Din follows to lift Grogu up to sit atop it.
Din’s fingers smooth out a fold in Grogu’s tunic. “Okay then,” he says, past the lump in his throat. “Do your thing.”
Grogu closes his eyes and raises his hands, and Din steps back to wait.
And then the enemy ships arrive.
~
No choice. No choice. No choice.
He doesn’t recognize the model of the ship that’s landing at the foot of the small mountain, but he can’t take any chances. Grogu is cut off from him by a forcefield, locked in some kind of Jedi trance, and no matter how hard Din pushes, he can’t break through to the Seeing Stone to grab him. So Din has no choice but to confront the interlopers before they come near enough to threaten Grogu. He draws his rifle and heads down the mountain to intercept them.
He doesn’t recognize the burly man, but he knows Fennec Shand; he knows exactly how lethal the assassin can be as she aims her sniper rifle at Grogu. He has no choice but to bargain with them, even though their terms are intolerable.
Before their deal is struck, more ships arrive, Imperial transports that disgorge squads of stormtroopers with a clear mission—stealing the child. Din’s anger at last outweighs his fear—this is one enemy from Grogu’s past that he can wreak vengeance on. He turns his back on the stranger and the assassin, Din’s own safety be damned, to protect his charge.
Amid the chaos of the fight, Din loses track of the strange man...only to spot him a few minutes later, emerging from the Razor Crest’s hold wearing the Mandalorian armor Din had retrieved from Cobb Vanth. Din’s blood boils in fury at this theft of the Tribe’s property, at the invasion of their home. But even though the thief has no right to it, the man wields the armor as though born in it, even demonstrating a mastery of the Rising Phoenix.
Firefights make for odd alliances, no matter how undesirable. Outnumbered and outflanked, Din has no choice but to allow the double-affront to stand so long as the Imperial threat remains.
Amidst a field of explosions and blaster fire, Din eliminates most of a squadron until he’s faced with the squadron leader. The trooper’s disarmed, already hit by at least one explosive that shattered his white armor in three places, but the Imp fights with admirable determination. If he weren’t after the child, Din would even respect his tenacity.
Din lifts his blaster for a merciful kill-shot.
But the sudden cessation of the droning noise that’s been prickling at Din’s subconscious draws his gaze to the top of the mountain; the Seeing Stone’s forcefield is down. And in that moment of distraction, the trooper rushes him, connecting with a sharp blow to Din’s lower abdomen. Din staggers from the pain more than the momentum, but he grits his teeth and shoves the physical sensations aside as unimportant.
Grogu’s defenses are down; he is unprotected and alone atop the mountain.
Din smashes his elbows down on the trooper’s back, further crushing his fractured chest plate against Din’s braced knee, and with a strong grip and twist, he rips the white skull helmet off the man, snapping his neck in the process.
“Grogu—”
Din sprints up the mountain, pushing past his physical limits to reach the Seeing Stone before anyone else can get to the kid. Instead of Grogu’s mischievous eyes greeting him, he finds his little green body slumped over, unmoving. Din reaches out a trembling hand to touch Grogu’s shoulder. “Come on,” he mutters, and cranks up the volume on his directional mics, hoping to pick up...breathing, low and whistling. He sees Grogu’s nostrils flare slightly and his tiny chest move the barest of millimeters.
Din lifts Grogu from the stone and coaxes him to wake up. He’s unresponsive.
Down the hill, the strange man and Fennec have routed the last of the stormtroopers back to their transport ships. As Din watches, the stolen Mandalorian armor releases a targeted missile that destroys both ships in mid-air, wiping out this batch of Imperials. The Armorer would be proud to see Mandalorian weapons wielded so competently against such a deserving foe.
But that and every other thought seems inconsequential compared to the need to get Grogu somewhere safe so he can look him over. Din does his best to circle past the two remaining threats, but when he peers around the last rocky outcropping, he finds them waiting in front of the Razor Crest’s open ramp.
He forces his bruised and aching body upright and tucks Grogu close against his hip, wishing he had his satchel to better shield Grogu from their greedy eyes. The child is worth ten times the price of a new set of armor, Fennec had said. She’d used similar bait to sway a rookie bounty hunter into betraying Din the last time they’d met. If he doesn’t get away from them quickly, she could convince her new friend to overpower Din and collect the bounty on Grogu’s head.
Din’s hackles and blaster are raised as he steps into view. “Move aside,” he orders.
Fennec smirks.
The man in the stolen armor ignores Din’s blaster and extends an open hand. “You have my thanks. I can’t tell you what it means to have my father’s armor back.” Din doesn’t move to accept the handshake. The stranger shrugs, withdrawing the gesture. “Here, I want to show you something.” He types at his wrist unit, pulling up a projection display that Din would have to move much closer to examine—an obvious gambit.
“Not interested,” Din says and angles his body slightly to better shield Grogu from their view. “Step aside. We’re leaving.”
The man’s shoulders drop slightly. “Very well,” he sighs. “But you should know about this, at least. Call it repayment for the armor.” He tosses a lump of wires and plugs to the rocky ground between them.
“What is it?”
“An Imperial-model beacon I just pulled from your exhaust unit. It’s how they tracked you here. It’s how we followed you, as well.”
Dank farrik. Din wants to challenge him to reclaim the armor, wants to unleash his fury at the invasion of their home—by this man as well as an Imperial spy...but he has no choice, not outnumbered by skilled fighters with Grogu in his arms. So he glares and says only, “You have what you wanted.”
The man nods.
Fennec says, “Good doing business with you, Mando.” This time they’re the ones turning their backs on him as they head for their own ship.
Once they’re alone, Din makes for the Razor Crest’s ramp. He spares a moment to torch the remains of the homing beacon as they pass it.
~
Grogu must have overexerted himself on the Seeing Stone.
Din curses steadily under his breath as he pilots the ship through a rapid lift-off with his left hand, his right stroking Grogu’s limp arm in the passenger seat. He’s so fragile, so vulnerable like this, and Din has no way to know whether Grogu’s pushed himself too far this time, or how to help him if he has. All he can do is wait and watch over him, and hope he wakes up soon.
They can’t stick around to see if any Jedi respond to Grogu’s calls on the Seeing Stone, not with the Imperials aware of their last position. They fly with the threat of more enemies on their heels, and Din activates the hyperspace drive as soon as they’re free of the atmosphere.
If Grogu were awake, Din imagines he would be whining to be returned to the Jedi temple so he could wait for whomever he’d been trying to contact. In the silence of the cabin, those imagined cries sting of betrayal and resentment at Din’s high-handedness.
“We’ll come back,” he promises Grogu’s sleeping form. “In a couple weeks, when the coast is clear. We’ll see if any of your Jedi tried to find you.”
And if they do come for Grogu, Din will be ready to judge their intentions before he lets them anywhere near the child.
~
As the urgency of escape fades into the mundanity of hyperspace, Din notices a persistent stitch in his side. He straightens in the chair and twists a bit, but the stinging pull intensifies, and he realizes there’s a dampness in his lap that can’t mean anything good. When he checks, his leather gloves come away stained red.
Haar’chak, that’s a lot of blood.
He leaves Grogu in the cockpit and heads down to the refresher to examine the injury. The pauldrons and cuirass come off first, followed by the vambraces, gauntlets, and flak vest. He peels open the flight suit, finding the source of the blood under his right ribs, where a piece of something metallic juts out of his skin, having carved a slice up his abdomen.
Din runs cautious fingers over the object, careful not to jostle it, and as his fingers smear the blood away from the edge, he sees a flash of white and remembers—
—a stormtrooper crashing into him, white plastoid arm-plating hanging in jagged pieces….
Din follows the cut lower, under his belt, to the initial point of impact just inside his right hip plate. All together, it’s a six-inch slash, mercifully shallow, from his hip bone to his ribs, with a piece of plastoid jammed up into his lowest rib. And while his trousers are soaked with blood, it isn’t a fatal wound. Din sanitizes his hands, takes a centering breath, and draws the long splinter out, grunting as it resists the initial tug and tears more skin on the way out.
With one hand holding up his ripped flight suit to stem the blood loss, Din digs through the medpac for some bacta patches. He finds only one. And blast it, he remembers slapping a few patches on that bankrobber’s leg just the other day, in too much of a rush to take stock of his dwindling supplies. A single patch won’t cover the whole wound, but it’s all he’s got. Din lays it over the entry point, where the skin is ragged and the bruising darkest. He packs gauze over the rest of the cut and winds bandages around his abdomen to hold the dressing in place.
He swallows a painkiller, wipes himself off as best he can, and goes to dig out a change of clothes before returning to the cockpit. He should be there when Grogu wakes up, in case he needs anything.
~
When they drop out of their second hyperspace leap a few hours later, Din checks the fuel gauge. Another leap will just about wipe them out.
“We should keep some fuel in reserve, in case we’ve been followed,” he says as he runs scans of the current system. “There’s a good space port here...but it’s a little close to an old Imperial outpost. And I don’t trust those to be as abandoned as everyone says.”
Grogu whimpers in his sleep, the first sound he’s made in hours.
Din turns, wincing at the pull of torn skin and muscle, and scoops Grogu into his lap. “Are you ready to wake up?” he asks, watching the twitch of Grogu’s eyelids, hoping to see them open.
Instead, Grogu goes rigid, his mouth opening in a wretched shriek, and Din should expect it by now, but the nightmare vision of the Imperial scientist sticking a syringe into Grogu’s shoulder is so real that Din slams his fist out even as he stands and backs away.
Din’s back hits the wall, pain from his wound jolting him like the electrified tips of his amban rifle, and Din closes his eyes before the vision even disperses, shaking Grogu slightly and talking to him, trying to draw him out of the nightmare. The next time Din opens his eyes, the scientist is gone, but the derelict Imperial base remains on the scanner.
Din sits back down and plots a hyperspace leap away from this kriffing system.
~
They end up in the Mid Rim territories, with the fuel nearly exhausted but no trace of the Galactic Empire on the scanners. Din makes for the mining colony on Yelenph, the only breathable planet in reach. He came here years ago on a hunt, but the shipyard looks almost empty now.
He carefully carries the still-unconscious Grogu down the ladder and into the hold, where he tucks him in the bunk before going to check his bandages. The mirror in the refresher reflects the overhead light as he leans down to inspect the wound. He’s healing. Slowly. The skin under the bacta patch looks less inflamed, and the lowest point is closing up a bit, the scar already setting. But removing the gauze from the upper portion breaks the scabs off. And even worse, some of the fabric has dried into the wound itself, and he groans as he pulls it out.
Grogu makes a noise behind him, and Din looks down to see him standing in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the blood on Din’s hands and at his waist.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Din says as he hastily re-wraps the bandages and puts his armor back in place. Grogu lifts his arms for up, burbling angrily, and Din grits his teeth to bend down and pick him up. Sweat breaks out across his brow and between his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t let the effort show in his voice when he says, “I’m glad to see you awake. You scared me. Are you feeling okay?”
Grogu fusses and yawns, a sign that he isn’t done recovering from using his powers.
Din carries him back to the bunk, explaining where they are and what they’re doing as he reloads his weapons and tucks Grogu into the satchel with an extra blanket wrapped around him for warmth. “So we’re gonna go outside and get more fuel now. I’m gonna find us a place to hide out for a few days. And then we’ll go back to the Seeing Stone.”
Grogu’s eyelids start drooping as soon as he gets him slung over his shoulder. Din spreads his cape over him, slides the rifle over his other shoulder, and straightens up with a stifled grunt. The armor is heavier than it's been in a long time.
But he once walked five kilometers through the burning Tatooine desert, carrying all of the same, plus a spare set of armor and thirty pounds of blood-hot Krayt Dragon meat. This is nothing to complain about.
He arranges for refueling with the station attendant and makes some loud inquiries about the guild outpost. The more people who know he’s a bounty hunter, the fewer will want to give him any trouble. Unfortunately, there’s no good news. Ever since the mine cut wages, people’ve been relocating away. Only the most desperate remain.
Well, with an Imperial force tracking them, Din is desperate, too.
He resettles his rifle and satchel and starts the frigid, wind-swept trek into town.
The shipyard is the only part of the colony built on solid rock. The colony-proper rests atop an iron framework of scaffolding rising up from a fathomless crevasse, further hollowed out by decades of carnium mining. The colony’s exterior flooring is metal grating, allowing the steam from the thermal reservoirs below to continuously filter up, blanketing the walkways in a dense fog where the hot currents meet the cold surface winds. The buildings are all single-story, survival for most species only bearable in the narrow altitude where the two temperatures commingle in unpredictable drafts.
With the sun long-set, a murky orange glow emanates up through the grates from the mine below. Din follows the illuminated patches of fog to the closest bar.
His trousers are steam-damp up to the knees by the time he arrives, and once indoors, the wet fabric clings to his calves, the immediate chill making him shiver. He feels eyes all over him, confirmed by a quick look around. Maybe twenty colonists, most of their glasses empty, like their pockets and their stomachs.
He tries to barter for a room, but the barkeep tells him that nobody offers hospitality anymore. Even insisting that his credits are good gets him nowhere.
She just shakes her head and mutters out the side of a false smile, “I’m doing you a favor.”
Grogu snuffles in his sleep, and Din catches the man next to him studying the lump under Din’s cape.
“At least point me to the med clinic,” Din says.
Thankfully, she does.
Back out on the street, Din knows he’s being followed. He finds the clinic a couple streets over, but keeps walking, hoping to double-back once he’s shaken his tail. He’s tired, and the damp chill climbs higher the longer he walks, weighing down his clothes and his cape, sinking into his joints. It’s hard to distinguish clanks on the walkways from the clanging in the pit below, and his thermal vision is useless amid the swirls of hot and cold air. He ducks into a narrow alley between two buildings and shelters in a deep doorway to avoid engaging anyone while he has Grogu tucked against his back.
The fight finds him anyway.
A blaster shot to his pauldron knocks him out of the doorway, and he sees three shapes moving in the fog, crowding the mouth of the alley. Grogu squeaks in distress, and Din swings his rifle into position, taking a couple shots of his own, but their attackers scatter into the fog. He catches movement close on his left side and swings the rifle, striking someone’s head before they answer with another blaster shot, point-blank against his cuirass. The beskar saves him, but the kinetic kick against his wound reverberates like a bell, sending waves of pain up his right side. They grapple, Din blinded by the fog, before both of their weapons are knocked aside, and Din slugs his attacker in the gut, taking them to their knees.
Another blast cuts through the fog, this one winging his helmet, spinning him down to the iron walkway. He lands on his shoulder and has to take a moment he doesn’t have to refocus his mind on the need to fight, the need to survive, the need to win. He takes a breath and accepts that he’s in no condition for fighting blind, not with Grogu so vulnerable and his wound still bleeding sluggishly.
His flamethrower licks out joyfully, catching on the clothing of two people as the third turns tail and runs. Din picks up his rifle and obliterates the two men thrashing and screaming on the metal grates.
When the alley is silent again, he swings the satchel around to check Grogu over. He seems fine, wide-eyed and nervous but unharmed, thank the stars. His ears look cold; Din tucks the blanket in tighter.
Voices call out from the street, doubtless summoned by the sounds of violence, and Din makes for the main road back to the shipyard, his hope for sanctuary and a few days to heal evaporated. Too many desperate people saw him in the bar and could describe his armor if an Imperial scout came sniffing. They need to get off this planet right now.
He barters with the station attendant for more bacta packs and a month’s worth of rations. The cost is exorbitant, but worth it to be able to take off immediately. He loads the cases himself, concealing his weakened right side from the watching laborers, whose eyes have the same hollow, hungry look as the colonists in the bar.
~
For their next destination, Din chooses a lesser moon—not breathable, but they’ll have no reason to leave the Razor Crest. Looking out on the craggy purple landscape, dawn filtered through a thick haze of nitrogen gas outside the cockpit, he says, “We’ll just stay for a little while. Then we’ll go back to the Seeing Stone, I promise.”
Grogu mutters crankily, already climbing down from his chair and heading unsteadily for the ladder.
“I guess you’re hungry, huh?”
Din switches off most of the ship’s systems and makes himself drop down the ladder first. He lands with a groan and clutches the rails for support as his torn abdominal muscles scream in protest. Grogu whines above him, and Din lifts his arms to catch and lower him to the ground.
He warms up a ration pack for Grogu and sits him on a low box to eat while Din grabs a handful of bacta patches and heads for the refresher. He eyes the red, swollen edges of the untreated half of the cut with concern. When he presses on them, blood oozes out, thickened with cloudy pus. Din pants through a wave of nausea and breathes shallowly until it passes. The wound isn’t fatal. He’ll be fine. A spray of sanitizer makes him snarl at the burn, but he slaps on two fresh bacta patches that finally cover the whole length; their analgesic agent should start working in a few minutes, so relief is on the horizon. In the meantime, he swallows another painkiller before putting his clothing to rights.
He slumps his way out of the refresher and over to Grogu. He should heat himself some food as well—anything to make the freeze-dried rations more palatable—but first he’ll sit a bit and catch his breath.
The kid looks up from his empty bowl and coos at him.
“Wow, done already! You want some more?”
Grogu sets the bowl aside, hops down, and shuffles over to Din’s knee.
“What is it?”
Grogu raises his arm, lids lowering with that familiar look, like he’s tapping into his Jedi powers.
Din closes his fingers gently around Grogu’s claws, pushing his hand down. “No, no more training. I’m not going to…. We’re not doing that anymore. Here, you can have it.” He pulls out Grogu’s silver ball and hands it to him.
Grogu immediately drops it and raises his arm again.
“Grogu, I said—” With a hideous drop in his stomach, Din realizes that Grogu is pointing at his injured side, and no no no, not him. He closes his hand over Grogu’s again, leans down despite his protesting flesh, and says harshly, “No! No healing!”
Grogu jerks back, looking scared.
Din softens his voice. “Don’t use your powers on that, it’s not…. I’m fine. I can heal on my own, and you’re already too tired. I don’t want you to heal me. You got that?”
Stubbornness is plain to read on Grogu’s face.
Din sighs. “Look, I’m fine, see?” He stands up and starts putting together a ration of joppa stew for himself. “We’re safe here, there’s no rush, just let me heal on my own. I’m fine.”
Grogu’s little chin stays cocked, his eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he picks up his own bowl and holds it out to Din.
“You got it, kid,” Din says.
~
Something lands on his shoulder, waking him up from a restless sleep in his bunk. It feels like Grogu’s small weight, dropped down from his hammock overhead.
Before he lifts his head to check, the kid chirrups at him and clambers awkwardly over the mountains of Din’s knees and out into the hold. Din should get up; he should make sure Grogu’s not going to get in trouble, or make a mess, or destroy the ship...but he’s so tired. He’s both hot and cold, like he’s still on Yelenph. He shivers under his armor and lets his eyes close again, just for a few minutes.
He wakes with a definite fever. All of his muscles ache, worn out and weak like he’s been shivering for hours. His throat feels dry and swollen, and he croaks Grogu’s name when he doesn’t see the child in the hammock. Did Grogu leave the bunk earlier? Was that real, or a dream? Din forces himself upright, his hand pressed to his side. On the floor of the hold, he spies Grogu asleep in a nest of Din’s spare clothing, surrounded by empty food rations. A fold of Din’s cape partially covers Grogu’s legs like a blanket.
Din staggers out of his bunk and lets gravity take him to the floor next to Grogu. The child blinks up at him, barely awake.
He should scold him, should clean up the mess and tell him not to do it again. But Grogu only acts out like this when he’s upset about something, and since Din’s clothing was targeted, it’s most likely he’s upset with Din. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to find them. I’ll get better, and then I’ll take you back to the Seeing Stone in a couple weeks. We just have to hide out for a little while.”
Grogu’s eyes slip shut.
He pets Grogu’s back, humming a lullaby until it scrapes his throat and turns into a cough. He pops another painkiller for the aches, downs half a canteen of water from the overturned provision crate, and lets himself grab a little more rest curled up around Grogu.
~
It’s hard to tell how much time has passed when he wakes; his eyes don’t want to focus on the digital display. Grogu has moved across the hold; he spots him chewing on a loop of cable Grogu must’ve pulled from one of the storage lockers—possibly the munitions locker. Din can feel the fever pulsing in his temples, but he knows he has to get up. He’s all Grogu has out here—hell, he’s all Grogu has in the entire universe. He’s the only one who can protect him.
Getting off the floor feels impossible.
But it isn’t. He just has to prioritize and focus on one action at a time. He climbs to his feet and starts moving.
First: make sure the munitions locker is double-sealed. Thank the stars, it still is. Second: find the silver ball to swap for the cable. It takes some stooping, but he finds the toy buried in the clothing-nest and successfully distracts Grogu with the ball long enough to hide the cable away. Third: feed Grogu again. A hot bowl of stew proves equally distracting, at least for a few minutes, and it eases the clench of worry in Din’s chest to see Grogu looking more alert; the kid’s barely stayed awake long enough to eat, these past couple days.
Next: get up to the cockpit and check the perimeter on the monitors. He stands at the ladder and...can’t.
Okay. That’s okay. Focus and redirect.
Next: strip out of the armor and shower. The sonic shower is necessary but utterly exhausting. He ends up collapsed on the recycling tank for a few minutes, feeling like he’s shaking apart. But he has to keep going. Fifth...or sixth: apply fresh bacta patches. His side looks swollen and two shades darker, but the edges of the wound are looking healthier and closing up along the full length. He just has to let this fever burn off the infection, and he’ll be back to fighting strength. He’ll be fine.
Next: fresh clothes and armor. The helmet is easy, but climbing into the flight suit and boots almost kills him. He gets one vambrace on and gives up on the rest of his armor.
Next: get up to the cockpit and check the perimeter. Two steps up the ladder, Din’s legs give out, and he slumps to the ground. Frustration wells up, aggravating his sore throat and his throbbing head, and bringing with it a crushing sense of failure. He needs to do this; he’s letting down Grogu. Letting down his Tribe....
No. Focus on what’s manageable.
He should drink and eat something. He crawls over to Grogu’s nest and tears into a ration pack, but his throat rebels when he tries to swallow the dry wafer. He blinks and realizes he’s on the ground, helmet pillowed on his arm.
Next.
Next.
Dank farrik, get up.
Grogu pokes at Din’s side. His eyes are so big in his little face.
Grogu’s claws stroke over the flight suit, over the bacta patches, and he coos a question. Asking permission.
“No,” Din says. He picks up Grogu and rolls onto his back, depositing the child on his left side, away from his wound. “I don’t want you healing me.”
Grogu huffs angrily, but he curls up in the crook of Din’s arm after a minute, and his slowing breaths against Din’s ribs are soothing. If Din’s eyes are misty, it’s because of the fever.
He still hasn’t checked the perimeter. We’re not secure. Grogu isn't secure, he thinks over and over, forcing himself to remain awake to listen for any alarms, the sounds of approaching ships or surface vehicles. But his vision narrows, micro-moments lost to longer blinks, increasing periods of inattentiveness as the fever wins out.
When the next nightmare comes, Din's not certain whether he’s conscious or trapped in his own dream. He sees himself, wearing his old, rust-colored armor, bent over an open camtono, bathed in its seductive red glow. His hands are full of Imperial-stamped beskar as that blasted scientist drags Grogu away, and Grogu is reaching for him, wailing in terror, ignored.
Din turns his helmet against the floor and squeezes his eyes shut to block out the image, but he can’t block out the soft cries Grogu makes in his sleep, his little body shuddering against him, nor the knowledge that he, too, is one of the monsters haunting Grogu’s dreams.
~
As his fever rises, Din loses himself in a flow of half-resolved images, twisted and indistinct, but all mired in dread. His instincts scream of danger, of being hunted, cornered, of the enemy closing in, of Imperial ships landing all around them and—
He wakes too late to the klaxon of the Razor Crest’s proximity alert and a hand, far larger than Grogu’s, pressed firmly to his bare chest. His eyes snap open inside his helmet; there’s someone crouched above him, a blurry mass, moving closer. Din can barely think, but he always knows what weapons he has to hand. He shifts his left arm, snaps the wrist down to activate the Whistling Birds system. The targeting interface lights up in his HUD, and he aims—
“Stop!”
Din stops.
Stops breathing, stops blinking, stops sliding his gaze toward the Whistling Birds launch command.
The word, snapped in an unknown voice, has frozen him completely. He can’t move a single voluntary muscle, can’t complete a single voluntary action, and he doesn’t understand. The klaxon blares, an enemy is upon them, and he wants to roar in fury and frustration and a fear so vast he could drown in it—he is drowning, he’s suffocating, overpowered and helpless, and he can’t see what’s happened to Grogu—
“Oh kriff, I’m sorry,” the voice gasps. And then, with the same inexorable power as the previous command, it says, “Sleep.”
Din sleeps.
~
He wakes to disorienting silence, his pulse no longer pounding in his ears, and the proximity alert switched off. But that’s wrong. Wasn’t it going off before? No, that must have been a dream. The Razor Crest is quiet, and he relaxes back toward sleep.
But he hears someone talking. The voice is quiet, the words unclear. Greef? Cara? Stars forbid, Peli?
He hears Grogu’s name, and adrenaline jolts him fully awake. The only other person in the galaxy who knows that name is Ahsoka Tano, and this isn’t her. He sits up, left arm raised to trigger the Whistling Birds—
But his vambrace is missing.
“What the shab?” Din snarls.
He gets eyes on the intruder, a humanoid male with blond hair, wearing a black t-shirt, with the top of an orange flight suit folded down over his belt. No concealed weapons show up on a quick x-ray. He’s turning to face Din, his hands holding something, Grogu standing below him. Din lurches upright and staggers, centers himself for a charge….
And sees Grogu shuffling over to him, and the man holding what looks like a bowl in his left hand and a spoon in his right, and there’s no Imperial armor in sight.
“It’s alright,” the stranger says, appeasing.
“Who are you?” Din demands.
“I’m Luke Skywalker. Your son called me.”
Grogu comes close enough that Din can snatch him up and sink back against a storage locker as he checks him over. Grogu babbles happily and grabs the rim of Din’s helmet with his claws. He’s okay, thank Ka’ra.
Din’s eyes want to close with relief. He keeps them wide open. “You’re a Jedi?”
“I am.”
“Prove it.”
The man looks perplexed for a moment. Grogu stretches his arm out toward the pile of Din’s armor and weaponry, still piled by the refresher door, and Skywalker’s expression smooths out. “Ah. Grogu thinks you would like to have your weapons closer to you.” He raises his hand, points with the spoon, and levitates Din’s armor toward him with the kind of control he’d seen Ahsoka wield. He says with a wry smile, “My apologies for disarming you. I got the impression you were about to kill me.”
Din ignores the display of power in favor of glaring at the Jedi. He knows his expression won’t translate through his helmet, but the man’s slight smile drops as if he caught it.
So. A sorcerer has found them after all; Din’s stomach twists, remembering the predatory figures from Grogu’s past. He deposits Grogu behind his legs and realizes with surprise that his side no longer hurts. A quick glance shows his flight suit unbelted and hanging open, and the glisten of fresh bacta smeared over his wound. From the pungent smell, it’s the costly, extra-strength variety. Not something Din keeps in his own medical supplies.
Ahsoka had been kind to them after her initial ambush, he reminds himself. Perhaps all sorcerers make a bad first impression—even the good ones.
His armor comes to a gentle landing beside him, and Din grabs the blaster. If his aim is half-hearted as he points the barrel at the intruder who took the effort to nurse him, no one has to know.
Skywalker doesn’t seem perturbed by the blaster, anyway. He sets the empty bowl and spoon aside and pulls a canteen from the crate. “You’re dehydrated, and you need to eat. You’ve been unconscious since I arrived.” He holds the water out temptingly.
Din’s throat aches with thirst. “Toss it over. Don’t come any closer.”
The man’s face brightens with a wide grin, there and gone as quick as the flash of sunlight on water; it makes him look younger than Din had initially thought. “This isn’t a silver ball, but I think I can play the game just as well.” The canteen flies swiftly from his hand, coming to hover directly in front of Din.
Grogu cheers, and Din growls. But he grabs the canteen, pries off the lid, and tips up his helmet far enough for a quick sip. The water feels amazing on his parched lips and tongue.
“Not even for that, huh?” Skywalker says to Grogu. “You weren’t kidding.”
The Jedi’s been talking to Grogu; Din’s blood boils with suspicion and an even darker streak of envy. But he makes himself swallow the water along with some pride before he asks, “You didn’t remove my helmet?” needing confirmation.
Skywalker shakes his head. “Your son was very insistent about it.”
Your son. It’s the second time he’s called Grogu that. The words settle uncomfortably under Din’s lungs, stinging like a bur trapped under his armor, but he doesn’t correct him.
Din looks down at Grogu’s hopeful expression peering up at him. “Thanks, kid.” Grogu tugs on his trousers and looks at the Jedi. “Alright. I guess he’s okay. For now.” Din considers the blaster in his hand, recalls how good Grogu has gotten at yanking the ball out of his hand, and figures a fully trained Jedi will be even stronger and faster.
Not to mention whatever strange power he used that made Din stop breathing on command.
Moving slowly, Din leans down and sets the blaster on top of his armor.
The quicksilver grin stays longer this time, giving the man an open, friendly appearance. He gestures to the bowl on the counter. “I was going to fix him more stew. Would you like some?”
Din’s stomach grumbles, but he shakes his head. “Just a nutripaste pack. Please.”
While Skywalker digs through the crate, Din pulls his flight suit aside and pokes at the wound—or the scar, since that’s all that remains. It’s longer than before; there’s a new, straight-line section over his lowest two ribs, made by a blade instead of a piece of jagged armor. More evidence of the man’s care.
“Thank you for this,” Din says.
The Jedi makes a sound, and Din looks up to see him staring at Din’s bared chest, a faint flush in his cheeks. Shivering at being so exposed to a stranger, Din closes the flight suit over the slick coolness of the bacta even as Skywalker jerks his gaze away.
“Don’t mention it,” Skywalker says, and digs back into the crate.
Din pulls on the flak vest, belts on the hip plates, and settles the cuirass and pauldrons in place, sealing away his vulnerability until he feels secure enough to trust, at least for the moment.
Eventually, Skywalker emerges with a fistful of ration packets. He tosses a few to Din—no magic powers this time—and Din looks at the packets and the man, considering. After a moment, he murmurs, “Sha'kajir.”
Yes. It is time to talk; not as enemies, but as potential allies.
He lowers himself to the floor, weapons within reach, surrounded by familiar walls, and Grogu immediately crawls into his lap.
Skywalker mirrors his movements, sitting several feet away. “Sha'kajir—what does that mean?”
“It means we talk.”
“I thought we were doing that already.”
Din’s silent glare earns him that youthful smile again. It’s distracting, the way it completely changes the man’s face from one moment to the next.
“So let’s talk,” Skywalker says agreeably.
The nutritional paste is bland and thick, but the easiest meal to eat under his helmet, and gentle on his stomach. Din swallows and asks, “How did you find us?”
“Grogu called me through the Seeing Stone, and I traced him to Tython. When I couldn’t find him there, I used the Seeing Stone to reach out and find him in the Force. He was frantic when he responded; he showed me your injury. I’m glad I had that warning, so I could pick up supplies.” Skywalker frowns. “You were…not doing well when I got here.”
Grogu saved him. Again. Din thinks distantly that he shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore. “Good job,” he whispers to Grogu. Grogu coos and wraps his claws around Din’s finger, clinging. “How long was I out?”
“I found you nearly two days ago. I can’t say how long before that.”
Din nearly chokes on paste. “You’ve been here two days?”
The Jedi nods. “It’s been pretty quiet. After I dug that piece of plastoid out of your ribs, Grogu sacked out, and he’s slept nearly as long as you.” His smile looks forced when he says, “Next time, don’t get so up-close-and-personal with stormtroopers. For both our sakes.”
The Jedi was here for two days, and he didn’t take Grogu and run. Din breathes through the passing wave of terror over a danger that’s already come and gone. If he’d lost Grogu, it would have been his own fault, and he wouldn’t have known until Skywalker was lightyears away—if he ever woke up at all. He swallows more water to clear his tight throat.
Skywalker looks concerned. “What is it?”
Din shrugs his question aside and pushes forward. “You weren’t followed from Tython? You didn’t run into any Imps?”
Skywalker’s face darkens. “Is that who you need protection from? I saw the bodies and the transport wreckage. I don’t think I’ve seen an Imperial force that large since the Empire fell. How the hell’d you make it out of there alive?”
Din doesn’t want to talk about Fennec Shand and the man with the stolen Mandalorian armor, now or possibly ever. “What do you mean, ‘protection’?”
“Grogu called for help. For protection for the both of you.”
Dank farrik, he shouldn’t have had to do that. Not if Din were a good enough guardian. Din’s heart breaks, but he keeps his tone neutral, laying out the facts. “There are Imperial remnants organizing all over the Outer Rim. They were doing experiments with his blood….”
Grogu trembles in his lap, and the Jedi’s face goes deathly pale. Considering the Jedi’s telepathic ability to communicate with the kid, Din wonders whether Skywalker just caught a glimpse of that blasted Imperial scientist and his menacing syringe. Din tosses the empty packet aside and strokes over Grogu’s ears, comforting him.
“They’ve put a bounty on his head. Everyone’s after him.”
“Including me?” Skywalker asks shrewdly. He glances at the blaster still close to hand, and Din almost regrets his wary reception. But Skywalker’s right; that’s exactly what Din was thinking when he saw him.
He shrugs instead of apologizing. “I’ve been searching for the Jedi for months. Grogu’s like you; he just needs training. He was supposed to be calling for a teacher, not protection.” He leans over Grogu and shakes his helmet, trying to project disapproval instead of sadness. Grogu blinks up at him, unrepentant. “What were you thinking, kid?”
“I’m thinking he likes you alive,” the man says, his smile too warmly teasing to be a smirk. Skywalker opens a ration pack for himself, sniffs it, and pops a wafer in his mouth.
Din thinks about opening another nutripaste, but his throat still aches. Grogu is a bottomless pit, though, so he opens one and hands it off. With only a brief grumble over the flavor, Grogu slurps it down.
Skywalker swallows and clears his throat before saying, with a more somber tone, “Grogu can’t use many words yet, not even in the Force, but he’s showed me images, memories. A lot of bad people, and a lot of violence. And you, always standing between them and him.”
Grogu chitters and waves his arm.
Skywalker nods and reassures the child, “Yes, I’m telling him.” He meets Din’s gaze with his own look of disapproval. “He’s afraid for you.”
Guilt settles heavily over Din’s shoulders. He’s failing his foundling, making him scared, making him feel unsafe. Grogu deserves someone better, someone who wouldn’t have handed him over to that remnant, someone who didn’t drag him across the Outer Rim to hunt bounties while an entire army bays for his blood. But instead, Grogu has him. And Din has to be honest about the results of his failure.
“Ahsoka Tano said he has too much fear and...attachment to train safely.”
Skywalker snorts dismissively. “I don’t know who Ahsoka Tano is, but I doubt they’ve ever had an entire quadrant of Imperials and bounty hunters chasing after them. Fear is perfectly understandable in Grogu’s situation, and it will fade once he feels secure.”
Once he's been trained to use his powers. By a sorcerer with magic to rival his own. Din nods his agreement.
“And his attachment to me—that will fade as well?”
Skywalker looks startled. “I’m not going to take him away from you.”
Something surges up inside Din. It burns like anger but tastes like grief as he spits out, “Then why did you come, if not to take him?”
The Jedi goes still for a long moment. And then with a great gust of breath, he releases a torrent of words, conviction radiating off of him. “You wanted him to call for a teacher, and he found one. The Jedi Order fell a long time ago. I’ve been piecing together the old teachings, trying to rebuild the Order, and I’ve started a school for Force-sensitive children. When Grogu called out, he already knew about the Jedi. He wants to be one. I had to come for him, to bring him to my school. I didn’t come to take him away from you—”
“It’s his choice,” Din cuts him off. “He is a foundling, under my care until reunited with his own kind. This is the Way.” The words have always given him comfort and purpose before, but there’s no comfort in speaking them now.
“You say that like it’s temporary, but his bond with you is anything but.”
“Skywalker—”
“Luke,” the Jedi says firmly, a hand raised to gentle the correction.
He must be a good teacher.
Din growls with frustration. “It’s Grogu’s choice whether he wants to be trained. He called you; the choice is made. Will you take him or not?”
“Tell me your name,” Luke says.
“Will you take him?”
Luke says nothing, waiting.
Dank farrik, are all Jedi as stubborn as Grogu? “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”
“Listen to me, Din. I want to bring him back with me, but I don’t want to separate you. I’ll bring you both, if you’ll come. It would be an honor.”
“He’s better off without me. Ahsoka said—”
Luke scoffs. “Right, that attachments are bad. Nope. Wrong. I have no problem with his attachment to you.”
Din feels transparent, like Luke’s seeing past his helmet, past his words, into the very core of him. It’s agony. “He’s safer without me,” Din insists. “I could’ve gotten him killed on this miserable rock.”
“And you’ve saved his life a dozen times over.”
“He’s afraid of me!” Din shouts, the echoes of that nightmare lodged deep and festering like the plastoid armor.
Luke rocks back at his outburst, his expression unsurprised, if a touch sad. But then he looks at Grogu and smiles with unexpected serenity. “You don’t know what you look like through his eyes. Every image he’s shown me of you has this...glow, so bright it’s hard to look at.” When he turns his gaze on Din, his eyes are big and full and so unbearably kind. “You’re limned in shining silver, like a signal tower that guides the way home. That’s what you are to him. That’s how he sees you. As his home, and his protector, and his whole world.”
Din’s struck speechless. He looks down, and Grogu is reaching for him, his dark eyes luminous. Din picks him up and cuddles him against his chest because he has to. He could never say no to those eyes.
“You’re his father, and he loves you. He wouldn’t allow me to separate you, even if I wanted to.”
You’re his father.
Not ‘as a father,’ not ‘until,’ but permanent and real, an anchor that will hold. He lifts Grogu up to visor height, meeting those intelligent, mesmerizing eyes, and he sees that it’s true. Very gently, Din touches the forehead of his helmet to Grogu’s brow. “Ad’ika,” he breathes.
Grogu burbles eagerly and presses into the touch, and Din’s armor can’t contain his happiness.
Luke rises and slips his arms into his flight suit. “My X-Wing is just outside. I’ll give you some time alone to rest; you both need more sleep. In the morning, I’ll send you the coordinates to my school. I hope you’ll follow me there. I would be very pleased if you joined me.” He chuckles and adds with an impish smile, “I can give you a tour. You probably know some tips to make the place more secure.”
He picks up a helmet and pauses alongside them, resting a hand on Din’s shoulder that Din feels no urge to fend off.
“And you’ll be welcome to stay, or to come and go as often as you’d like. Think about it.” His grin is infectious as he slides on the helmet, raises his oxygen mask, and heads out the porthole under the aft wing.
Grogu watches Luke leave, then heaves a big sigh and sags in Din’s hands, like he could fall asleep right here, with his arms wrapped around Din’s helmet.
Din tucks him against his throat and rubs his chin over Grogu’s softly furred head for a long minute as he thinks about Luke Skywalker, the half-solemn, half-cheerful Jedi sorcerer, who stared down a blaster like it was nothing and rendered Din helpless with a single word. He must be fearsome indeed, Din decides. If any enemies dare approach his school, Din has no doubt they’ll be thoroughly obliterated.
The thought is deeply satisfying.
But Luke was also kind to Grogu and Din when he didn’t need to be, and patient with Din’s anger. Din thinks of Grogu’s thieving fingers and innocent giggles, and he’s glad that Luke isn’t stern or cold.
Outside the hull, an X-Wing engine turns over, but no launch thrusters follow.
“I guess we found you a teacher, huh?”
“Boo,” Grogu agrees.
“And...you want me to come with you?”
Grogu’s favorite toy levitates off the counter, soars across the hold, and crashes into Din’s cuirass with a resounding clang. They both look at where the silver ball still hovers, pressed as tightly to Din’s chest as Grogu is.
“Okay, okay,” Din chuckles. “I got the message.”
~
After two days unconscious on the floor, Din is grateful for the comfort of the bunk. Grogu balks at the hammock, insisting on curling up to sleep on top of Din’s armored chest, and Din can’t bring himself to argue. His son craves closeness, and Din wants it, too. Tomorrow they'll head for the Jedi's school. But for now they fall asleep listening to one another’s breathing. A clan of two.
And when Grogu dreams, Din thinks he sees himself again, but this time there’s a glow from his armor, blinding silver instead of dull red, and he’s holding Grogu in the crook of his arm, where Grogu sleeps, peaceful and safe.