#I meant this for people who said it was confirmed when Din and Bo just literally talked in episode 2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

littlemisspascal · 4 years ago

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Death and an Angel part 13

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Ahsoka takes Din on a journey through the past.

“You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

Rating: T

Word Count: 5,958

Warnings: angst, swearing, character death (canonical, but with my own twist), made up planet name that is ridiculous, dialogue heavy, plot plot plot, backstory

Author Note: Good lord this is soooo late coming out. To anyone who sent me an encouraging message I am beyond grateful because I really needed the encouragement to finish this segment. I hope more than anything this segment gives more answers than it raises questions (although reading your theories is both awesome and entertaining so keep them coming too!)

Links to Part 1 and Part 12 and Part 14

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

“Who the fuck is Moff Gideon?”

Ahsoka looks at Din, her brow furrowed deeply. He’s seen the expression on her face enough times to recognize its meaning: this is the face she makes when she is about to reveal a message directly from the universe itself. As an Oracle, she is the only immortal who can glimpse details of the past, present, and future. She has a soft spot for mortals, sharing the few precious snippets the universe allows her to with them in the forms of riddles and vague prophecies that never fail to give Din a migraine with their crypticness when he hears them.

“Moff Gideon is a Seraph who grew discontent with his position amongst immortals,” she says at last.

“Is he the one responsible for keeping my soulmate from me?” he asks, voice as harsh and unforgiving as the environment surrounding them.

“He is responsible for many sins.”

“I don’t have time for your vague answers,” he growls, hands twisting into fists. “You tell me not to kill this Seraph, then in the next breath claim he’s a threat. I am not a mortal who will be entertained by riddles, Ahsoka. You summoned me here to talk, so start talking. Tell me what you know.”

The Oracle’s mouth purses into a thin line. Nearly a full minute passes before she speaks again. When she does, the calmness is no longer natural, but forced. “Telling you what I know would be impossible.”

“Ahsoka—”

“But,” she pitches her voice higher than his protest while narrowing her eyes disapprovingly, “I am capable of showing you. You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

She reaches forward, pressing her index and middle fingers to the center of his visor. If not for his helmet, she’d be touching the space directly between his eyes and instinct tells him the positioning isn’t random.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she says, but her voice has changed from its usual cadence. It is ancient and youthful, a harsh scream and a hushed whisper all at once.

Din has only the slightest of seconds to process this in addition to the way her facial markings start to glow and her eyes flash white before he finds himself standing in the midst of a crisis.

There is mass hysteria every direction he turns. People screaming in terror, pushing each other and tripping over those who have fallen in their haste to flee an unseen threat; whole buildings are crumbling, sending flaming debris and shards of glass raining down upon the streets as smoke billows into the sky. The edges of his field of view are blurred, like he’s looking at everything through someone’s glasses, and it creates an ache behind his eyeballs. Fuck, is this what it’s like for Ahsoka when she experiences visions?

‘You remember the Fall of Mandalore, don’t you, Death?’ Ahsoka’s voice resonates from deep inside his brain, as if she’s fused her consciousness with his.

His jaw tightens when he says, “Of course.”

‘Oh, look. There you are.’

Sure enough, when Din looks forward he sees himself moving swiftly through the crowd, unaffected by the chaos as he stoops to reap the soul of a woman who’s had her skull caved in by the stampede of frantic civilians. He wonders how many others can say they’ve had an out-of-body-experience such as what he’s dealing with right now: reliving a traumatic event all over again while observing himself the same way a stranger would from a distance.

“Why are you showing me this?”

‘Because it’s important,’ Ahsoka answers, and the image of her frowning face enters his mind unbiddenly. ‘The universe has a plethora of endings imagined for every civilization, but it is the individual choices of the community that act as stepping stones bringing them closer to a specific fate.’

“Mandalore was always meant to fall apart. It was just a matter of how, not when,” he surmises, voice devoid of emotion. His words are punctuated by another fiery blast from a nearby complex, followed by an ear-piercing wall of a terrified child.

‘Precisely. But the same cannot be said for an individual’s lifespan. There are consequences if someone perishes before their time has come. You should know that better than anyone.’ There is a hint of accusation thinly veiled in her tone that has his body tensing reflexively.

His location shifts, shapes and colors mixing together without warning before another scene gradually comes into focus. It’s a large chamber with sparse furnishings, but its beauty is tarnished by the copious amounts of glass littering the room as every single one of the ornately designed windows have been shattered from the force of the explosions outside. Din knows before he even lays eyes on the throne he’s inside the royal palace because he first sees the familiar face of his most trusted reaper standing next to a blond-haired woman. Both women have such strikingly similar facial features nobody who sees them side by side can have any doubt they are related.

Whereas Bo-Katan dons gray-and-blue armor with a jetpack strapped to her back and two blaster pistols holstered at her sides, her sister, Satine, wears a garnet colored dress with a gold belt wrapped around her slender waist. In this moment, the sisters differ from each other as much as night and day; one a military leader, the other a pacifistic duchess.

“You need someone here to protect you. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with and it isn’t safe for you to be alone,” Bo-Katan argues, crossing her arms over her chest as if to intimidate her sister into submitting.

“Our people are scared and defenseless, Bo. They need your protection during this crisis more than I currently do,” Satine says, voice soft but firm in a way only those deeply involved in politics can master.

Bo-Katan glances out the broken windows at the burning city, stubborn loyalty to protect her sister warring with her duty to protect her people. “Then at least send a message to Obi-Wan to come here.”

Satine shakes her head. “Bo—”

“I know things are strained between you two right now—”

“That’s a glaring understatement.”

“—but he’s one of our best and most loyal guards. He’s proven more than a dozen times he’ll fight anyone who’s a threat to you.”

“I don’t need the reminder of what he’s done for me.”

Bo-Katan places a hand on the blonde’s shoulder and squeezes it when she says, “He’s the only one other than myself I trust to protect you if you were to encounter danger.”

“Just because I’m committed to peace does not mean I am incapable of looking after myself.” Satine reaches behind herself to detach a weapon that had been clipped to the back of her belt. She clicks a button on its hilt, emitting a white blade shining brightly like a beacon amongst the dark clouds of smoke tainting the air.

Din’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that…?”

‘The Lightsaber of Mandalore,’ Ahsoka confirms. ‘Made by the Armorer herself.’

The Armorer is deeply respected by both mortals and immortals alike. As the goddess of metalworking and blacksmiths, there is nothing she cannot forge and infuse with grand powers. However, she is exceedingly cautious about choosing who is a recipient of her creations.

Din is one such recipient, having been given his armor of pure beskar when the Armorer realized how dangerous his touch was to mortals. He remains eternally grateful for the gift not only because it prohibits unwanted physical contact, but also because it is invulnerable to damage or rust like other types of armor. Ahsoka’s dual sabers were also made in the Armorer’s forge, specifically designed for the Oracle’s grip alone and meant to protect her during her journeys throughout the galaxy, but in contrast to the white blade of the Lightsaber, the blades of Ahsoka’s weapons matched the same blue coloring as the stripes on her lekku and montrals.

According to the legends Din’s heard, the Armorer created the Lightsaber for the first ruler of Mandalore because she was impressed with their culture and strong military, and it was passed on to each new heir to the throne over the centuries. When wielded in battle, the Lightsaber made the user invincible against enemy attacks as it siphoned off energy from the souls of those it sliced through.

Throughout the long history of Mandalore, Satine was distinguished as the only ruler to avoid warfare as she sincerely believed negotiations and treaties could solve any problem quicker than bloodshed.

As such, Din isn’t surprised when Bo-Katan raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? I know you wouldn’t use the Lightsaber even to cut a piece of fruit.”

Satine sighs through her nose, sheathing the weapon once more. “Fine. I’ll contact Obi the second you’re gone.”

“You better.” Bo-Katan leans forward, pressing her forehead against her sister’s. A gesture of affection within their culture. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then she’s gone, flying out the nearby window and diving straight into the fray. As a mortal and as a reaper, the redhead is fearless in the face of danger. Some might consider the behavior reckless, but Din’s always been impressed by her dogged tenacity to achieve victory no matter the difficulty of her mission.

Din looks back at Satine. Now that she is alone in the room, she is able to freely express her distress at the unfolding situation, looking as if she’s aged ten years within the blink of an eye. She fiddles with the comlink around her wrist, seeming hesitant to call this Obi-Wan fellow like she agreed to.

‘They haven’t realized it, but they’re soulmates, ’ Ahsoka murmurs, low and melancholic. Hearing it makes Din’s chest constrict with unease. ‘They fought recently and parted ways upset with each other. Unfortunately, she dies before they can resolve their miscommunication.’

The next sequence of events play out startlingly quick, as if Ahsoka has chosen to suddenly jump forward in time. His eyes struggle to absorb the fleeting details—the doors to the throne room being blown open; a Seraph in black armor emerging from the smoke; his voice is unique, velvety and thorny at the same time, as he addresses the duchess by her full name Satine Kryze; Satine attempting to stall as she subtly taps at her comlink, only for the tactic to fail as the foe teleports closer, eliminating the space between them.

“You have something I want,” he tells her, seizing hold of her throat. “You may think you have some idea of what you have in your possession, but you do not.”

One of Satine’s hands claws at his face, attempting to gouge out his eyeballs with her nails, while the other reaches for the Lightsaber. Her fingertips brush against its metal hilt just as he throws her to the floor. The impact knocks the breath out of her lungs, eliciting a strangled gasp, and shards of glass dig into her exposed skin, dotting the pale flesh with beads of blood.

Gideon—Din doesn’t need Ahsoka’s input to know this, for who else could the Seraph be but him?—places the heel of his boot over Satine’s neck. He doesn’t apply pressure yet, but the action in itself has the duchess squirming with panic, hitting at his leg futilely. There is a red light on the comlink flashing insistently, indicating someone on the other end is speaking but they’ve been muted.

“Give me the asset I seek.”

Through clenched teeth, Satine wheezes, “It belongs to Mandalore.”

“I thought you might say that,” Gideon replies, feigning disappointment. “However, in case you haven’t noticed Duchess,” he gestures towards the windows, “Mandalore is dead. My accomplices have made sure of that.”

“You’re a coward for hiding behind others. You don’t deserve the Lightsaber.”

There is a sudden change in the atmosphere, air turning impossibly frigid and crisp.

“I deserve it more than anyone,” Gideon says, angry enough he is trembling. The Seraph’s stance shifts, and although Din has witnessed every type of brutal death imaginable, he flinches at the sound of Satine’s neck snapping beneath his heel.

Gideon rolls her lifeless body over and rips the Lightsaber off her belt, a satisfied smirk on his face. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, reward in hand, and an eerie silence envelops the room. It’s almost as if the palace itself is stunned by the loss of its ruler, struggling to make sense of the merciless act of violence.

Time skips forward again, showing a young bearded-man dressed in military armor clutching at Satine’s body, pressing his forehead against hers as he weeps. Over and over he keeps murmuring apologies for not being quicker, for failing to be there when she needed him, for never saying he loved her.

“How do you know Satine and Obi-Wan are soulmates if they never matched?” Din asks, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment despite not actually being there.

He thinks of a similarly phrased question he’d asked his angel on their way to Sorgan what feels like entire lifetimes ago: how will I know it’s my soulmate? Her eloquent response remains embedded deep in his memory, safely stored away along with every other moment they’ve spent together. Longing twists like a knife in his side as he allows himself a second of weakness to look at the soulmate marking on his palm.

‘I saw the life they were going to share,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘Satine Kryze was not meant to die here. She and Obi-Wan should have both survived the Fall of Mandalore, settling down happily with each other elsewhere in the galaxy. Gideon’s greed altered their destinies.’

The palace fades away to reveal a much older Obi-Wan, gray-haired and wrinkled. He’s in Mos Eisley; Din recognizes the crowded spaceport instantly having taken his ship there for repairs numerous times over the years.

‘The universe puts a lot of effort into making sure soulmates match with each other at a very precise moment. Even if the match is rejected, the individuals still had an important impact on each other’s lives. Timing is the most important factor for a soulmate pairing, and if it’s off then the universe will attempt to fix it.’

Obi-Wan stops to help a woman who’s accidentally dropped her shopping bag, contents spilling out onto the sandy ground. She thanks him as he offers her a polite smile, both of their attentions on each other’s faces and not their hands. More specifically: their marked hands. There is the barest brush of their fingertips as they reach for the same item before an invisible blast of energy erupts from their touch, splitting them apart and sending every person and thing surrounding them flying in all directions.

The shock on Obi-Wan’s face matches Din’s own beneath his helmet. He remembers his angel telling him after the failed match with Omera what happened on Sorgan wasn’t the first time an event like that occurred, but she hadn’t been privy to the details. Her superior had told her she wasn’t high enough ranking which Din had thought sounded like a load of bantha shit at the time.

“Ahsoka, what is the meaning of this?” Din asks the questions quietly, but there’s an audible coating of frustration that he knows she won’t miss. “Satine’s dead.”

‘You didn’t reap her soul,’ Ahsoka says. It’s said as a gentle reminder, but it nevertheless has Din feeling like the ground has disappeared beneath his feet as realization dawns.

“I...didn’t.”

A quiet sigh echoes through his head. ‘I forgot how ignorant you can be. You can’t reap a mortal soul that transforms into a new entity.’

“She’s a Cupid,” Din murmurs. Either that or a reaper, but he knows each of his reapers like the back of his hand and Satine isn’t nor has she ever been one. He shakes his head, thinking of Obi-Wan finding Satine’s body in the throne room. “That doesn’t make any sense. Obi-Wan clearly loved her.”

‘Rejection can sometimes stem from a misunderstanding. Satine’s last living encounter with Obi-Wan was him saying so long as he was part of the royal guard they had no future together. She perceived this as him denying he cared about her, not knowing he had made plans to retire in order to ask for her hand.’

In front of Din, Obi-Wan rubs at his soulmate marking while staring at the mess around him, lines of unease and confusion creasing his forehead.

‘You asked, what is the meaning of this moment?’ Ahsoka continues. ‘It’s one of the universe’s attempts to reconnect Obi-Wan and Satine so they experience their matching as they were intended to.’

“But they’re of different statuses,” he points out needlessly. “She’ll outlive him.”

‘Yes, but the matching of soulmates not only influences the lives of the pair, but the lives of other people as well in ways both obvious and invisible. Think of it as a ripple effect.’

“Did the universe’s attempt work?” Din wonders. “Were they ever reunited?”

‘When Satine awoke as a Cupid, it was a surprise to both her and Gideon. Rather than kill her a second time, the Seraph chose to inflict a worse fate. She became the first of her kind to have her memories erased. However, he’d never previously used his ability on another immortal before, resulting in him nearly wiping her entire mind clean. The universe is capable of many miracles, big and small, but every attempt of reuniting the pair failed. It remains the universe’s most profound regret which is ultimately the reason why the universe brought you to Trinomliaxeros without your armor so that history wouldn’t repeat itself.’

There is a strange, heavy feeling that suddenly inflates within the confines of Din’s chest like a balloon. It’s different from the rampant anger he can still detect simmering beneath the skin of his human façade. He tries to shake it off, focusing on his breathing and the desert heat emanating from the twin suns overhead, only to slowly realize that what he’s feeling is fear.

Within his memory he can recall just one other distinct moment in his existence where he felt this spine-chilling emotion, and that moment was experienced on Trinomliaxeros.

“What did you just say?” His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, but he can’t find any energy within himself to care.

A long stretch of silence fills his head; it’s the fragile kind, too, preventing him from snapping at Ahsoka to answer lest she become angry at him and yank him out the vision entirely.

‘Twice the timing of a soulmate match has been disturbed. The first pair affected was Obi-Wan and Satine. And the second pair was...’

“Ahsoka,” he says when she hesitates to continue, but any additional words he can think of saying catch in the back of his throat.

‘The second pair was you and your angel.’ Another pause of silence, shorter but no less meaningful. ‘Only fifty years ago, she wasn’t an angel.’

This is what Din remembers from Trinomliaxeros: feeling a pull so forceful, impatient and unanticipated it drags him across the galaxy in his civilian clothes, arriving to find the planet engulfed in smoke, unable to see his hand in front of his face, even without his gloves on. Finding skeletal remains burnt to blackened crisps with the souls inside shaking and traumatized, practically leaping into his outstretched hand, knowing either the afterlife or damnation would be better destinations than lingering there even a second longer. Explosions in the distance, bursts of flames as intense and hot as the sun, greedily consuming everything in their radius.

Out of the smoke and darkness, a survivor. A girl, covered in soot and sweat, colliding with his chest. The dead are calling out to him, pleading for him to reap them, to save them. Their voices swirl around his head, clawing at his brain and pounding against his skull. Shoving the girl aside, one foot in front of the other, letting his powers guide him to the next soul. Her voice cuts across the distance, a plasma bolt striking him in the back. We’re soulmates, she says.

His breath stills in his lungs. Fear spreads like a virus through his bloodstream, slipping beneath his defenses, turning him into a stranger within his own body. The declaration is a lie, an impossibility, a delusion. He has no match, hands unmarked, flesh poisonous and lethal. His words, too, are weapons themselves. Sharp, ruthless, desiring to wound her as she’s wounded him. You could never be my soulmate.

And then he’d left her.

This is what Din remembers. But, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurts, I’ve remembered everything all wrong.

Phantom hands gently press against the sides of his helmet, offering comfort without caring about the dried blood. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing it’s just a manifestation crafted by Ahsoka in his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself. This was the only viable outcome the universe could produce to ensure the bad timing would be remedied in the future,’ she says, but it does little to lessen the weight on his chest. ‘Your rejection saved her life. It granted you both a second chance of a first meeting.’

“How did—” Din struggles to string words together, to fucking breathe. “She—She knew. What we were. How…?”

The Oracle puts him out of his misery. ‘She found out the way all soulmates do: through touch.’

Din’s eyes fly open at that, and he has to blink a few times to bring everything into focus because there’s him and his angel right in front of him, frozen mid-collision. She’s grasping the sleeves of his coat to keep her balance, the palm of her marked hand touching his wrist. He stares at the point of contact for a moment, then barks out a laugh, hysterical and strangled sounding.

“That’s not possible.”

‘Soulmates can’t kill each other. She’s always been meant to withstand your touch.’

Din swallows thickly, staring at his angel’s face. He hates the question forming on his tongue, but it will haunt him the rest of his life if he doesn’t ask it. “In your visions, when I meet her at the right time, what happens?”

'You’re different by then, less broody and more accepting of the notion you could be loved. You have a soulmate marking,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘You fall for her hard, even before your hands brush. You love her throughout the entirety of her lifetime.’

“And...when she dies?” The words taste like blood in his mouth.

‘Don’t torture yourself, Death. That timeline doesn’t exist anymore.’

For one brief, fleeting second Din is actually grateful Gideon altered their destinies. However, in the next, he’s trying not to let the fear gnawing at the back of his mind increase as it belatedly occurs to him that the universe is not as infallible as he’s always believed it was.

He wishes he could see Ahsoka, if only so he could glare at her directly. “Everything you’ve shown me has only further convinced me Gideon deserves death. Why have you asked me to promise not to kill him?”

'Do you remember what happens after this moment on Trinomliaxeros?’

Din frowns at the change of subject. “I continued to reap souls.”

'Yes. And then?’

He huffs a frustrated breath through his nose. This is Ahsoka, he thinks, at her most annoying. But, as much he loathes admitting it, this is also the most helpfully transparent she’s ever been. Today may be the only time she trusts him enough to share her visions. He owes it to her to be as open as she’s being with him.

That being said, he’s still wary of the memories he’s kept in the distant, shadowy corners of his mind being pulled into the spotlight. “Tell me we’re not gonna talk about the kid.”

‘We talked about the universe’s biggest regret. It’s only fair we talk about yours too.’ Ahsoka has found the crack in his armor he’s tried so long to conceal, peeling it open without remorse.

She doesn’t spare him time to argue. All he does is blink and he’s looking at his past self locked in a staring contest with a little green-skinned child who is propped up inside a floating, orb-shaped pram.

Of all the buildings and homes on the planet, only its temple had remained untouched by the destruction. Din didn’t know if it had been the structure’s own holy foundation keeping it standing or if it was the personal choice of the mastermind behind the attack, but he’d been drawn to it regardless, finding souls there to reap whose hosts had differed from other victims in that their throats had been slit. The walls of the temple were adorned with intricate murals depicting immortal figures and religious events of ancient history, but before he could observe the artwork closer, a quiet coo had stopped him in his tracks.

When he opened the pram, he hadn’t anticipated finding a baby of all creatures. When their eyes connected, every background noise abruptly ceased. Even the voices of the dead fell silent. Rather than rouse his suspicions, Din had felt only a sense of peace he usually only experienced in the midst of hyperspace travel where the stars were his voiceless companions.

An unspoken conversation transpired between the two of them, one Din still can’t translate into words all these years later, but it concluded with him knowing he would take the child with him.

Din had reached for him unthinkingly, the child lifting his arms up in eagerness to be held, but self-awareness kicked in right before contact and Din retracted his hands away so fast it startled the child into crying, brown eyes filling with tears. Panicked, he surveyed the room, looking for something to put an end to the wailing, before looking down at his own coat, experiencing a lightbulb moment.

“Alright, kid, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Watching his past self shrug off the coat, Din remembers it had been his favorite of his civilian clothes, well worth the cost for its soft fabric and length. He managed to successfully swaddle the child, ensuring his arms were safely tucked away to prevent him endangering his life, and Din exhaled a quiet breath of relief when the tears dried up almost immediately.

However, the ensuing silence wasn’t as peaceful as the previous one. Both past and present Din turn at the sound of distant shuffling echoing off the temple walls from another room.

“Ignore it,” Din tells his past self. “Just take the kid and leave.”

But his plea goes unheard and the past remains unchanged. Ahsoka is silent inside his head, either because she knows he won’t accept any more comforting words or because she thinks he’s undeserving of them for choosing to leave the child behind in his pram, closing it when he starts to whine again, so Din can go investigate the noise.

Din exhales a quiet breath, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides as he watches himself stalk through the temple halls, checking each room he comes across. It’s strange, seeing himself from this perspective. The distanced viewpoint allows Din to glimpse new details he hadn’t been capable of noticing back then.

Such as the reappearance of a familiar Seraph emerging from the shadows to stab him in the back.

Here’s one of the perks about being Death: he can’t be killed. That fact doesn’t mean there haven’t been attempts though. As Death, people sometimes look at his armor as a challenge. Like if they can fire a shot or throw a knife at just the right angle, it’ll wound him and allow them to live longer. Simply put, all those people are idiots.

When he looks like a regular, unintimidating civilian, he’s also been involved in violent predicaments where someone’s attempted to mug him or where he’s tried to save someone else from a similarly sticky situation.

Armor or no armor though, he’s always walked away from these encounters completely unscathed.

Well. With the sole exception of Trinomliaxeros where he was mostly unscathed.

It wasn’t the first time Din had been stabbed before. Usually knife wounds felt like a mild pinch. More irritating than painful, similar to a splinter stuck in one’s thumb. Once the weapon was removed, the damage healed within seconds, leaving behind no scar or proof he was ever attacked.

Usually, is the keyword to note here.

Ahsoka freezes time right when the blade of the Lightsaber is driven straight through the center of Din’s body, bone and flesh as easy to slice through as melted butter. His agonized expression—eyes screwed shut and lips open in a silent scream—would be comical if Din didn’t remember the exact emotions he was feeling in that moment.

Instead of a pinch, it’d felt as if thousands of invisible hands were pulling and scratching at him, attempting to strip apart his human exterior layer by layer—peeling off skin, scraping away muscle and bone marrow, seeking to reach the core of himself where his powers resided.

‘Looks like it hurts,’ Ahsoka says. The return of her naturally calm and neutral tone of voice seems almost cruel given the frozen, graphic display.

Din again wishes he could glare at her. “Is this funny to you?”

‘The transformation of the Lightsaber into the Darksaber is anything but funny.’

Lost in recollection, he failed to notice until now how the blade of the Lightsaber has changed in color from white to black. It’s the same inky hue that absorbs the brown in his eyes, that had dyed his veins during the execution of Hess.

‘The Armorer specifically instructed the Lightsaber only be used against enemies. As a neutral entity, you are, by definition, no one’s ally or adversary. By stabbing you, the saber became corrupted. It is a consequence Gideon still has yet to fully realize the monumental repercussions of.’

Time resumes, Din’s past self collapsing onto the floor, pressing a hand to the throbbing hole in his chest, attention too consumed by the franticness of his powers struggling to repair the trauma to notice Gideon lingering behind him. The Seraph’s stunned look of shock lasts barely ten seconds, morphing into one of deep contemplation as his gaze flicked between the weapon and Din, before he vanished.

When Din recovered enough to stand, he teleported back to the child’s location at once. He needs to get the little guy as far away from here as possible, somewhere peaceful and safe. His planning came to an abrupt halt upon finding the pram open and empty, his coat shredded and scattered about the floor in pieces.

“Gideon took him.” It isn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘The child was the intended target of this siege.’

“Why?”

‘He’s...very special.’ There is something about how her voice hitches when she says ‘special’ that has Din’s instincts prickling with alertness, but he holds his tongue. ‘Gideon considers him a tool he can take advantage of.’

The ugly, tight mass of anger swells inside of him and presses against his lungs, resulting in a low growl slipping out of his mouth. He curses his own ineptitude. If he’d paid more attention, hadn’t allowed himself to be wounded, he could have subdued Gideon and spared both his angel and the child from being captured.

“I warned you once upon a time, there would be consequences if you released your darkness,” Ahsoka says, her voice no longer emitting from inside his head. The vision fades back into reality the same sudden, jarring way one wakes up from dreaming. It takes all of Din’s self-restraint not to perform a full-body shake. “Your control is slipping as your rage increases. It’s making you not think clearly which is exactly what Gideon wants. That is the reason I am asking you to promise you will not kill him.”

Put like that, Din no longer thinks her request sounds quite so outlandish, even though he does still remain in the dark as to what consequences exactly will unfold. Ahsoka has remained stubbornly tight-lipped about the topic from their very first encounter, claiming the universe is adamant she can only share the details with one other person and it isn’t him.

“He deserves to die for all he’s done,” Din says quietly, but he’s self-aware to know his resistance is beginning to crumble.

“Between you and me, I think so, too,” she admits in the same low tone. Her ocean eyes are dark and stormy, reflecting her internal turmoil. “But rules are made for a reason and we would be fools to carelessly overlook the consequences of breaking them.”

The accusatory note from earlier has returned with a vengeance. He’s not surprised—of course the universe would utilize the Oracle to express its disapproval—but aggravation still thrums through his veins.

“Hess played a hand in my soulmate’s fate. He called her a whore.” Din’s upper lip twitches with the urge to snarl. “I don’t regret what I did to him.”

Ahsoka sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that. When you swore your creed, you promised the universe you’d only reap a soul when their host’s time has reached its destined end. By killing Hess, you not only broke a sacred rule, you also broke your creed.”

Din recoils, feeling like he’s been stabbed with the Lightsaber all over again.

“...What?” The anger is gone, extinguished by the weight of the revelation. Confusion and wariness are quick to fill the void. “What does that mean?”

She looks away then, but not quick enough to hide her troubled expression. “I...don’t know.”

He blinks, mind scrambling to understand the implications. “Isn’t that your purpose? To know everything?”

“For the very first time, the future’s unclear to me,” she murmurs, eyes briefly turning cloudy as if she’s trying to take a peek at the potential timelines right then and there. She shakes her head a beat later, frowning. “There are many choices left to be made, each one capable of influencing the fate of the galaxy. It is not possible at this time for me to predict our upcoming reality, let alone your consequences. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Din says, because it’s the truth and he doesn’t like seeing her crestfallen expression. Fuck, he might actually consider her a friend after all.

Whatever happens, he thinks to himself, it can’t be any worse to deal with than being separated from his soulmate. If he can survive this, he can survive anything.

“The last promise I made was broken.” He bites back a wince at the memory of his angel’s pinky promise. “But if making another one is the only way you’ll take me to my soulmate, then you have my word. I won’t kill him.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips before she grabs hold of one of his vambraces. “Take me to your ship. I will guide you to her location.”

“You don’t trust me to go alone?” he asks, unsure whether to be amused or indignant.

“No,” Ahsoka replies bluntly.

Din huffs. “Fine.”

“I may not be able to see much at the moment, but I know it’s never wise to turn down support. You’re going to need us.”

“Us?”

“It’s Bo-Katan’s choice to make, but you and I both know she’s never been one to back down from a fight. Especially once she learns Gideon is her sister’s murderer.”

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amiedala · 3 years ago

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SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 29: We Don’t Scare Easy

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content & descriptions of violence

SUMMARY: There’s a war coming,” he continues, and you feel the heaviness of his confirmation, “and I think the only way we’re going to win any part of it is if we work together.”

You smile down at him, strangely emotional. “I thought you liked doing things alone, Mandalorian,” you manage, voice high and breathy.

Din’s eyes flutter from your own and your lips, and you inhale sharply as he stares at you like he’s about to devour you. “Not anymore,” he answers, finally. “You’re proof that it’s so much better to be part of a team.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! this chapter is quite the whirlwind, i hope you love it! more notes at the end as always <3

Bo-Katan steps forward again. You narrow your eyes, straightening up as high as you can to try and match her intimidating, perfect posture. Her gaze locks on the Darksaber, once, twice, then she squares her shoulder, staring at Din. Even though the helmet, you can tell he’s staring at her right back. “We have a problem,” she says, lowly.

“Who’s we?” Din asks, voice cool and level.

For the first time, she looks over at you, not the Darksaber, not trying to size you up. You raise an eyebrow. “I said I’m not here for that,” she continues, pointing a slender finger at the weapon hanging from your grasp, “and I meant it. As much as I hate it,” she sighs, crossing her arms, “you won it in battle, Mandalorian. And it’s not really in my best interest to try and take Mandalore for myself again.”

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach flip over. You don’t know what she’s done in the past, you can barely string two events in the history of Mandalore together, but the way she insinuates another plot to take the throne puts you on edge.

“Then what do you want?” Din asks. His voice, through the modulator, is so even. There’s a sharpness to it that you don’t entirely understand. You glance over at Cara, her arms bulging from where they’re crossed against her chest. She shakes her head, almost entirely imperceptibly, and you inhale sharply, looking back at Bo-Katan like she’s a venomous predator, ready to strike the second you show her any weakness.

“You gave me Gideon,” Bo-Katan continues. “I took him back to Mandalore. We have facilities. Prisons. Holding cells. But I can’t get anything concrete out of him, and there’s something dark behind his eyes whenever we question him. Smug. And…” she sighs, “I would have no quarrel with killing him, but he seems to still be a part of something bigger.” On this last sentence, her gaze shifts over to you, and you swallow, feeling your heart flip over in your chest.

Din regards her. “What’s your point?”

“Well,” Bo-Katan says, looking back at Din. You can feel the way she’s steeling herself, pressing her lips down in a thin line like she’s driving a bargain she doesn’t think is fair. “My point is that I know Gideon’s the tip of the iceberg. And I know all you’ve wanted for months is to see him dead. I’m saying that if you come back to Mandalore with me and figure out what he’s planning…” she trails off, looking own to the blue armor of her boots, “then I’ll turn both him and Mandalore over to you. For real.”

You badly disguise a gasp. Din looks over to you, then the visor slides back to Bo-Katan. You’ve become an expert in reading his body language, knowing what he’s thinking from his movements alone. But right now, you feel entirely and completely out of your depth. You can’t get a read on him.

“If you’re looking to double-cross me,” Din finally says, voice icy, “then just fight me right here and win the saber back. If you want Mandalore, you can have it.”

“You’re telling me,” Bo-Katan starts, and you can hear the anger in her tone, “that you seriously don’t want the throne?

Din looks back at her. “Look at your helmet in your hands.” She does. “You can take yours off. You have no—no issue with showing your face. From what it sounds like, you know how to be a leader. I don’t have to understand, or like what you’re doing. I—” he cuts off, just for a second, and then he regains his vigor, “I don’t want to put more of a target on my back. I’m tired. There’s something darker out there that we’re only just now seeing. I’ll question Gideon,” he continues, “but if I do, then you take the Darksaber. You rule Mandalore. I’ll be too preoccupied helping my fiancé and the rest of the Rebel Alliance wipe Gideon and the evil he’s hiding off the face of the galaxy.”

Bo Katan’s eyes narrow. Your heart sings a tune of pride in your chest, fiercely and brazen. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is now,” you finally say, lifting your chin. “There’s something out there. Something that wants all of us to either become pawns for their evil cause or for us to die and stay dead. You want Mandalore to be taken care of?” you ask, stepping forward. Bo-Katan’s still guarded, but she nods, just slightly. “Then take care of it. We have to make sure that the rest of the galaxy survives, not just one planet.”

Bo-Katan stares at you, then at the Darksaber, then to the new Alliance symbol hanging from your throat. You bite down, hard, and you pull your hair to the side. In your palm, the Darksaber vibrates, and, immediately, her eyes refocus on the weapon. You wince, realizing you’re holding it there with the Force alone, your grip empty. “You can use the Force,” she says. Her voice sounds poisonous, and your heart starts thumping again, but then you remember that she’s the one who led you to Ahsoka, so she doesn’t seem to have any particular distaste for Jedi, even though you know most of the galaxy does.

“Do you know anything about the Order?” you ask. Beside you, Din sighs, thick and heavy, and you realize that asking someone who may not entirely be an ally about a mysterious collection of people trying to use you as a weapon might not be a good idea.

But in Bo-Katan’s face is a flicker of recognition. She swallows. “Come interrogate Gideon,” she says, finally. All the fire that was there a minute ago seems to drain out of her backward, and Din steps forward, just an inch, but you know he feels it too. “Figure out what he wants. Then, if you’re so adamant about not being Mand’alor, we can fight over the Darksaber. But you’re not allowed to go easy on me,” she continues, stabbing a finger at Din midair. “For me to retake the throne, it needs to be a real fight. Understood?”

Din nods, sharply and intently. “Don’t worry,” he says, and because you know him so well, you can tell that there’s a small smirk etched across his face under the helmet, “going easy isn’t really in my job description.”

There seems to be something ceremonial about boarding Kicker. The two of you are going to follow Bo-Katan to Mandalore. If needed, Cara will follow the both of you, but the rest are starting on their own missions, to try and track down any more information about this mysterious Order so that when you regroup, Wedge and the Alliance included, you have a fighting chance. Parting ways, though, seems to come after making sure you get back to Kicker safely, a small ensemble of bounty hunters and experienced fighters flanking both you and Din as you make the trek back to the ship. Everyone says their goodbyes as Bo-Katan boards her own ship. It’s sleek and newer than Kicker by far, but there’s an emptiness to it. You sigh, slinging yourself down in the cockpit, flipping all the necessary switches and preparing for takeoff.

“What exactly should we be expecting?” you ask, finally, breaking the silence. You’re jittery, chilled from something much stronger than the Nevarro night. That keyed-up, wired, electric current running through you matches the same one back on Khubeaie, after the strange, blaring messages, after thinking you saw Luke Skywalker. It’s unsettling.

Din sighs from behind you, low and heavy. You startle, just a little, because you weren’t expecting him to have moved, but his gloved hands find your shoulders, and you sigh happily as his fingers start pressing a familiar pattern into the sore muscles, coaxing them to release. “I don’t know,” he answers you, and you can tell he’s being genuine. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re walking into a trap, but Bo-Katan also helped me try to get the kid back. I don’t think she’s being entirely forthcoming, but I don’t think she’s trying to harm us, either.”

You nod, too preoccupied with the feeling of Din’s thumbs on either side of your neck to really care about whatever’s coming next. “I don’t think she’s going to hurt us,” you manage, voice much more blissed out than his is. “She’s—resentful. Angry. But I truly don’t think she actively means us any harm.”

Din’s quiet behind you, just moving his expert fingers up and down your shoulders, digging into the tension. You watch as Bo-Katan’s ship powers up, eyes squinted to try and see where she is in the cockpit. As she lifts off Nevarro’s molten surface, you power Kicker up and do the same, following closely behind in her stream as she jets towards the atmosphere.

“Whatever’s waiting for us on Mandalore,” he finally says, grimly, “I don’t think we’ll make enemies, but I also don’t think we’ll be met with that warm of a welcome.”

Despite everything, a small smile moves across your face. You punch the thrusters, eyes still locked on Bo-Katan’s ship. “Sounds about right on par,” you manage, “don’t you think?”

Din sighs again. You put Kicker on autopilot, slowly turning around your chair to look up at him. Even shrouded in the dark, even entirely armored, you can feel him underneath. What used to be so intimidating is barely anything anymore. It’s just Din, the man you love, standing over you. He tucks a loose lock of your hair behind your ear, and you smile up at him, leaning into his palm. “You really think I would be a good ruler?”

You blink at him, astounded. “Yes,” you enunciate. “I don’t…I don’t exactly understand what you’d be doing. But I’ve seen the way you lead, how you somehow bring people with huge differences together. I know you want to go back to before,” you say, softly, taking his other hand in yours, “but honestly, Din, I don’t think we can.” You swallow. “I think we’re meant for something more than bounty hunting and babysitting.”

He stares down at you, through the visor, and then his hand pulls out of yours so he can hook his fingers under the rim of the helmet and yank it off. You pull him in closer, staring at his tousled hair, his lips still pink from fucking back on Nevarro in that back alley. He looks guarded, unsure, but when you hold him, the tension seems to leave his eyes just a little. “I don’t want to do it,” he says, finally.

“That’s okay,” you interrupt gently, “if you don’t think it’ll be good for you—”

“No,” he says, suddenly, and you stop talking. “I don’t wantto do it. It seems like this giant responsibility that I’ve never been prepared for. But I would,” he continues, voice low and urgent, “I would, except that taking the throne means breaking my promises to you.”

You stare down at the ring on your left hand, then look up back to Din, who’s holding hesitancy in every tense muscle of his body. “What do you mean?” you ask, voice wavery.

“I mean,” he sighs, stroking his gloved thumb over your cheekbone, “that there’s Gideon to deal with, and we have so much work ahead of us with the Order, and we’re in danger wherever we go. This would be so high-profile. And, Nova,” he continues, and you swallow, “I’m not going to be the one to take you away from the Alliance. You deserve to be there, fighting. And I meant it when I said I’d follow you anywhere, and I don’t even want to be…” he trails off, lips contorting around the word Bo-Katan used earlier, “…Mand’alor. I want to stop the Order. I want to be with you. And I want our kid back.”

You stare at him. “Din—”

“I’ll let Bo-Katan take it,” he interrupts, his voice steadier, “and then we help the Alliance. And then,” he continues, stepping closer to you, between your splayed legs, “then, we find Luke Skywalker and get him to train you, too. We’ll give the Order everything we’ve got. When it’s safe, you and Grogu and I will be together again. For good.”

Your heart is hammering a staccato rhythm on the left side of your chest. You don’t know if this is what you want—him giving up everything to stay with you, in the same way he doesn’t want you giving up everything to stay with him—but the two of you have more pressing matters at hand. Bo-Katan’s ship ahead of you slows down, and you pick the controls back up in Kicker to move accordingly.

“We can’t have everything, Nova,” Din says, and you know he’s being logical, and even beyond that, you know he’s right. You both owe it to the Alliance—and the galaxy—to stop the Order, to wipe clean any Empire leftovers that you can find. It’s a battle you can feel is only beginning, not one that you’ll be able to tackle and finish within a few weeks’ time. More than anything, though, more than stopping the Order, more than figuring out your Force sensitivity and visions or even becoming a full-fledged Jedi, is for you and Din and Grogu to settle down someplace, at least for a little while, and soak in as much happiness and peace as you possibly can before yet another war inevitably rears its head.

You swallow, and as you follow Bo-Katan down into Mandalore, you turn to face him, forcing an edge of determination into your voice that you don’t know if you entirely believe. “Don’t be so sure,” you whisper, and even though you don’t really have a plan, something inside of you knows that there’s a way that you can have everything, even if it’s an uphill battle. Because what you said to Din, way back on Nevarro, back before your life really started, still stands true. You don’t scare easy. And you’re more than ready to fight back.

Mandalore is not at all what you expected. It’s clearly been through the ringer, down to hell, and back again, but the city you follow Bo-Katan to looks rebuilt, fortified. It used to be glorious. You can tell. There’s elements that remind you of Naboo—not its natural beauty, but its serenity. Even though you know that the Mandalorians born and raised here have been trained into warriors, there’s an odd, peaceful way about the planet that you weren’t expecting.

Especially not arriving with Bo-Katan. She walks strong and tall, and as you pass handfuls of people walking away from the building she’s leading you towards, they lift their hands in greeting. Whatever your own feelings are toward her aside, you can tell that she’s well-respected. Fierce, but loyal. Kind of like Din. Kind of like you. As she smiles back to people who grin at her, your eyes track the back of her head, finding a kindness there you didn’t see before.

Din’s quiet. It’s a keyed-up, anxious kind of silence. He doesn’t take his helmet off, and his back is rigid and taut. You glance your hand off of his, and he squeezes it once before he drops it back to your side. Immediately, you understand. He’s trying to be proactive in his defensiveness, so that if some sort of opposition descends out of nowhere, he can fight them off without having to think twice about it. You’re not quiet. You don’t say anything, but your breath is heavy in your throat, and your eyes roam over the outcroppings of buildings and peer down the narrow alleyways between them. It’s not as eerie as you were expecting, but there’s something sad and lonely here hidden under all the rebuilt infrastructure and architecture. Even if you didn’t know how violent Mandalore’s history was, you would bet your last few credits that you could figure it out just by the energy of this place.

Bo-Katan leads you up the steps of a large building. The whole way up, your focus shifts from being perspective of your surroundings. The strange, haunted feeling here reminds you of your screeching radio, of the visions of a Jedi back on Khubeaie, you and Din and Boba Fett all seeing Luke Skywalker. And then, you remember Wedge saying he heard from Luke, right before your commlink went haywire, and something dangerous and anxious leaps up in your stomach. You’re breathing a lot heavier than either of the Mandalorians around you are, and you try to regulate how much air you’re taking in, but you give up when the staircase keeps going. Large, shiny marble slabs of stone stack up on top of each other, and the pattern swims before your eyes the higher up you get.

Finally, you speak. “Where exactly are we going?” you manage. Your voice comes out all breathless. You wince as your aching legs carry you up the last few steps, your head lolling back to see the grandiose ceilings in the building.

“I told you I’d take you to Gideon,” Bo-Katan answers, voice clipped but much steadier that yours is. You scowl at her behind her back, looking at her streamlines, athletic figure. “I’m making good on my promise.”

“Shouldn’t we…” you trail off, glancing up at Din’s stoic, silent figure, “I don’t know, plan what we’re going to say? I don’t think we should go in there blind.”

“You’re not going in there,” Bo-Katan interjects, and you stare at her, coming to a full stop. You fold your arms over your chest. Sighing, she turns around to face you and Din where you’ve stopped in unison. “What? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It was implied,” you say coolly, staring at her. “Everyone in this galaxy associated with that monster of a man is after me. Not D—Mando. Not you. Me. I think I deserve the chance to figure out who I’m up against.”

Bo-Katan’s gaze flicks from yours to the visor, her eyebrow raised as if to ask Din for permission. You track the way his helmet tilts over to you and back to her. Eventually, he sighs. “She’s right,” he confirms, lowly, stepping forward so that he’s equidistant between you and Bo-Katan. “Besides, she did a better job holding him off than either of us did before he took the kid.”

You press your lips together, trying to look as intimidating as Bo-Katan does. You fail spectacularly, but when her eyes find yours again, she gives you a short, curt nod. Silently, the three of you fall into line. It’s a maze in here, cool blue and grey interior seemingly going on and on for miles. You swallow as you keep watching, weaving deeper and deeper into the complex, until the greyness of everything fades off into anesthetic, stark white. You walk down multiple hallways with holding cells, all empty, their lights blinding and too bright. You squint. You’re exhausted, and even though you don’t want to admit it to the two people around you who grew up in a community where fighting—and winning—was just a simple sixth sense, you have no idea what to say. Gideon doesn’t scare you, anymore—you’ve gotten so much better at staving him and his slippery evil off—but something about talking to him, milking him dry for information, in a place that’s not your typical playing field—well, it makes you anxious. Your stomach worries with an entire menagerie of butterflies as you follow Din and Bo-Katan into the belly of the beast, trying to plot out an even line of questioning in your head.

The door to where Gideon’s being held comes up out of nowhere. It’s menacing, thick, intentionally indestructible. You swallow again as the three of you buzz into the facility, eyes worried on the door when it swings shut, trying to not internalize the heavy click that signifies you’re all stuck in here, too. Bo-Katan is the only one who holds the keys.

She stops short in front of you, and you have to skid to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding into Din’s beskar as he stops walking. Bo-Katan turns around, looking at both of you. “I want to remind you,” she says, and there’s something complicated in her voice, “that he’s restrained. He—we have a strict protocol when it comes to dangerous prisoners,” she continues, staring over at you. “It’s just what we do here. But you need to know that when I turn him over to you, he’s yours. Completely. To do whatever you want with him. But I get to question him first, and only when I’m finished can the two of you start.”

You nod, slowly. Din doesn’t move at all. “And after?”

Bo-Katan looks over at Din, who’s still standing perfectly still. “You really don’t want the throne?”

He’s quiet. You hear him sigh through the modulator, so small that you don’t think she recognizes it. “I don’t think,” Din starts, voice measured and even, “that Mandalore would accept me as their leader. And I have responsibilities outside of this planet.”

Bo-Katan’s eyes narrow. There’s still something strange behind her eyes that you can’t quite quantify. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Din moved forward a half-step. “I’ll make it a fair fight,” he says, finally. “When we battle for the Darksaber. I won’t just give it to you. But you’re going to win, because this responsibility isn’t mine to bear. It’s yours, no matter what happened back on Gideon’s cruiser.”

Bo-Katan smiles, but it doesn’t fully meet her eyes. “You have no idea,” she says, finally, all the venom in her voice distant and faraway. “I question him first,” she reminds the both of you, and when she steps forward to rap on Gideon’s holding cell, all the nervousness that was fluttering around your body metabolizes in your diaphragm.

Gideon looks awful. He’s been stripped of his black robes, his cape that billow out like the personification of darkness. His hands are clasped in what looks like beskar handcuffs. There’s grey in his hair and the scruff on his chin, and he’s wearing pale blue scrubs that don’t do anything for his usually menacing exterior. When the three of you stand in a line in front of him, he looks up without a single glimmer of evil in his eyes. You swallow.

“How lovely of you,” he says, voice bracing and booming, “to come visit me.”

“You look great,” Bo-Katan spits at him, and even though the three of you have the upper hand, there’s something in Gideon’s face that starts glinting with that same wicked steel he used to hold. “Really taking to being in captivity well. What did you take that baby for?”

Gideon makes eye contact with Din. “He was important to me. Invaluable.”

“Important,” Bo-Katan says, evenly, stepping forward towards him, “right. Important why? Is Mandalore important, too?”

Gideon lifts both of his shackled hands, extends one long, menacing pointer finger in your direction. “She knows. Don’t you, Novalise?”

“Don’t say her name,” Din snaps, moving forward in a flash of beskar. You extend your hand as a barrier, and he stops behind it, even though you can feel him seething. “I should have killed you back there.”

“You should have,” Gideon agrees, with a sharp incline of his head. “Or you could have let me take her instead of the baby. Both would have been very useful. But the child served his purpose, already,” Gideon sighs, leaning back against the stark white bench he’s settled in on, “the girl has yet to serve hers.”

This makes the blood run white-hot through your veins. You clench your teeth together, narrowing your eyes.

“Why Mandalore?” Bo-Katan cuts in. “Why take the Darksaber? Why siege—”

“Why me?” you interject, stepping forward. You can feel Bo-Katan’s fiery glare on the side of your face, but you don’t dare take your eyes off of Gideon. “What value could I possibly bring to something that I hate so intensely?”

He smiles. It’s horrible. Even though he doesn’t show his teeth, you can still feel his venom lurking underneath. “You know the answer to that.”

“I’m not done—” Bo-Katan seethes, but you take another step, closer to Gideon. You can feel yourself shaking, and you clench your hands at your sides to not show him a single drop of fear.

“There’s not a thing in this galaxy you could do,” you say, inhaling sharply, staring down at the man in handcuffs in front of you, “that would make me join you. Ever. I’ll die before I let you take anything from me.”

Gideon smiles again, this time baring his teeth. “Oh, but you won’t,” he says, eyes roaming over you. You think you’re going to be sick. “You’re meant for great things. Far greater than being a Jedi. Far greater than being a silly little Rebel. The Empire didn’t die, girl. We only moved back into the shadows.”

You stare at him, shaking. “What’s the Order?” you ask. You want it to be direct, as sharp as Gideon is, but it comes out all wobbly. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to stand as menacingly as you can over Gideon, even though you know that even while he’s handcuffed, he could terrify an entire planet. You, for better or for worse, do not have that power. “What do they want with me?”

Gideon, for the first time, looks on edge. You track his eyes as they flutter; notice that his shoulders droop just a little under the weight of your question. Just as quickly, though, he recovers. Your heart is pounding a staccato rhythm of blood in your ears. “You think you’ve seen death and destruction?” he asks, and you hear Din sigh, angry and heavy, behind you. It startles you, and so does the sound of Bo-Katan’s boot on the floor. You were so preoccupied with Gideon, you forgot the both of them were there. You step back, towards the slight safety net of having two Mandalorians flank you, waiting for Gideon to continue. “You haven’t. We are going to rid the entire galaxy of opposition and build a bigger empire in its place. You will play quite the role. I’ve seen it,” he says, and even though the words terrify you, you catch a glimpse of a bluff.

“You don’t have the Force,” you retaliate, voice much more measured than you thought it would be. “There’s nothing special about your evilness. You haven’t seen a damn thing about what makes me up, but let me get one thing clear.” You squat down in front of him so you’re eye-level with his dark, malicious ones. “If the Order wants me, they’re going to have to catch me first. And even if they do catch me, I’ll die before they can corrupt a singular thing about me. I don’t know if you got the memo,” you continue, tilting your head to the left in the same way Din does when he’s bargaining, taking something in, “but I’m stronger than you. And however many members are in this Order, this new empire, know that each person resisting you and your tyranny is ten times the person that yours are.”

Gideon grimaces at you. You bare your teeth right back. “You have no idea what’s coming—”

“Tell me,” you interrupt him, jetting your chin up to match his menace, “or don’t. Either way, you’re going to rot in captivity, and your colleagues will be found. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the Empire lost the last war we had. I don’t think they have the power to win another one.”

Gideon’s anger melts away as you stare at him. Finally, you push yourself back up to a standing position, ignoring the way it strains your tired, sore knees. Silently, you turn and nod at Bo-Katan, who steps forward and immediately starts interrogating Gideon like she was never interrupted at all. You tune out of most of it, trying to register and metabolize every single thing that Gideon just told you. Frustrated, you blow a chunk of loose hair out of your eyes. You’re no closer to figuring out who the Order is and what they want, and all you know is that the Empire—or whoever’s growing in their place—is going to try to exploit you, experiment on you, use your sensitivity and power for their bidding. You thought this was going to clear something up, or at the very least, give you a lead to go on to share with the team on Nevarro and the New Rogue Squadron, but you’ve got nothing. You clench your fist, wracking your brain, trying to find any hidden clue, anything you can steal and get the upper hand on. Tiredly, as Bo-Katan and Gideon go head-to-head, your own drifts off to the Alliance, to Wedge and the rest of the team scouring the galaxy for information. Wedge, who keeps saving you. Wedge, who brought you back into a team that you had given up on a lifetime ago. Wedge, who—

Wedge who heard from Luke Skywalker. You gasp, making eye contact with Din under the mask. You can feel his gaze on you, and you offer up a small, crazed smile, indicating that you have something. You spin to look back at Bo-Katan, whose tone is just as even and scary as Gideon’s is.

“Wait,” you say, loudly, stepping forward. Everyone stops, staring at you. “You,” you seethe, eyes locked on Gideon, “you tried to put a gun to your head back on the cruiser once you realized who was coming to save them.” You look back at Din for confirmation, which he gives you by way of his swift nod. “You would have accepted death over meeting Luke Skywalker. You’re a coward,” you say, evenly, looking down on him. “You have no plans. You have no next moves. You’re just as much of a pawn in the Order’s plans as I am.” You cock your head to the side, mind racing a million miles a second. “This is bigger than you are,” you finish, finally. “You aren’t in charge of the Order. You’re scared of them.”

“Everyone should be!” Gideon snaps back, violently. There’s hatred burning in his eyes. You can feel the intensity of it even from a few feet away, and you try your best to keep your face expressionless, steady. “If you don’t turn for them on their own, they’ll make you. All the powers in the world can’t stop them from taking control. And no one can stop them. Not you. Not your Mandalorians. Not me. They’ll keep coming for you,” Gideon rumbles, jumping forward so that his shackles rattle. You try not to jump, but you take a half step backwards, trying to escape the sound. “They’ll come for the child. And they’re going to win.”

Something inside you breaks. You stride forward again, glaring down at him. “Not a chance,” you hiss, voice low and angry. “They’ll have to get through me first.”

Gideon curls his lips at you. “The First Order will strike you down or use you for your powers,” Gideon says, evenly, and your eyes slide open a tiny bit as his admission. Until now, you’ve only heard of the threat as the Order, and the addition of the word first pings something intentional. “All Jedi will be exterminated or turned.” You bare your teeth back at him, trying to match his evil smile.

“Yeah?” you say, staring at him, heart doing backflips in your chest, “well, I highly doubt that. Because Luke Skywalker sends his regards.” On that, Gideon’s malicious face turns ashy and grey, and you turn on your heel, rapping on the door for the guard to get out of the holding cell. Bo-Katan calls your name sharply, but you keep moving. Behind you, you hear Din tell her she can keep questioning Gideon, and then you feel the weight of his footfalls down the hall, catching up to you.

“Nova—”

“I have to tell Wedge—”

“Nova, slow down—”

You sigh, turning around. “He gave us something in there,” you say, earnestly, looking up at your own reflection in Din’s visor. “The First Order. That’s something specific. That’s a name. I need to call Wedge, and Boba Fett, and tell them what to be on the lookout for. I don’t care how powerful they think they are,” you continue, as you step closer to Din. Your voice almost sounds like it’s pleading, but there’s something volatile and huge building up to a crescendo in your chest, “we’re just as strong, and we can fight back.”

Din stares at you. Even under the visor, you can feel his eyes on yours. “Okay,” he says, finally, “what’s our game plan?”

Your knees sag under you as gratitude and relief spreads through your body. You open your mouth, but then there’s a horrific scream from the holding cell, and immediately, Din turns around and sprints back there. You follow in his footsteps, slower but intentional, heart racing as you fly down the corridor to the holding cell. Somehow, Gideon has overpowered Bo-Katan, his chained wrists both anchored around her throat, tugging her body back with all of his might, trying to choke the life out of her. Immediately, Din runs toward them, but Gideon lands an exceptionally well-placed kick on the still-injured part of his leg, and Din stumbles back, winded. You panic in place, eyes fluttering back and forth between Gideon and Bo-Katan. His are evil, lit with a fire that you know he’s draining out of her. This is the most helpless you’ve ever seen her, this great Mandalorian warrior who could cut anyone down when they were standing. She stares at you, and it takes a half-second, but then the Darksaber is out of its holster on your belt, and the blade ignites, dark and electric. Gideon’s grip lessens, just for a moment, and you move to his side, positioning the humming, electrical current right at his left side, angling it so you can sink it deep into his chest without hurting Bo-Katan at all.

“You’d save her?” Gideon says. He looks like he could kill you with his gaze alone. “She wants to take this planet back from the two of you. She’s double-crossed you both before.”

“I’m not you,” you answer, simply, glancing at Bo-Katan, who looks like she’s seconds away from losing consciousness, and you level the Darksaber at Gideon’s neck instead. “I have something you don’t.”

He releases his grip. Din pulls Bo-Katan out from Gideon’s grasp, and, slowly, you point the blade at his Adam’s apple. Nothing in you is wavering. “What’s that,” Gideon spits at you, glowering. He’s unhinged. You offer him a smile, listening to where Bo-Katan is inhaling raggedy breaths in the corner. You feel Din step forward, and for a second, just for a fleeting moment, it’s you and your Mandalorian.

“Belief,” you say, simply, shrugging your shoulders, relaxing your grip on the saber. “Belief that there are far more people in this galaxy that will fight against evil rather than joining it. Belief that even if the Order does rise, it will inevitably fall the same way that the Empire did. I’m just a rebel girl,” you say, simply, “but I believe that when the First Order comes for me, they’ll be sent packing.” You hold his eye contact, just for a second, and then you straighten up. “I learned from the best. Luke Skywalker would call it hope.”

Gideon stares at you. You stare back. He doesn’t open his mouth, so you sheath the Darksaber, stepping back. There’s something that feels like a dove in your chest. You know this isn’t over. You know that this is just the beginning, that the battles you’ve been fighting all of your life are a precursor to the terror that the First Order could wreak on the galaxy. And you aren’t naïve enough to think that they won’t come after you or the people you love. But you know that you have everyone you need by your side, you know you’re going to marry the love of your life and be reunited with your kid, and you know that whatever the First Order holds, the Alliance has it tenfold. You turn on your heel, letting a small, genuine, tiny, fleeting smile slit across your face, revealed to no one except the heavy door of Gideon’s cell. This is how we win, you think, by fighting them with peace in mind.

But before you can get out of the door, you feel the Darksaber being seized from your belt. You whirl back around, horrorstruck, hands in the air to convey the Force to come forward, but it’s Bo-Katan. You lunge toward her, trying to stop her, but she isn’t trying to steal it out of your grasp. She moves forward, too swiftly for Din or you to stop her, and she ignites the blade, swings with intention, and plunges it through Gideon’s chest.

“What are you doing!” you scream, running towards her as that wicked light fades from Gideon’s eyes, “we could have kept him alive for bargaining—”

“No,” a voice rings out, and you spin around, distressed gaze landing on Din, who was the one who spoke. “No, we couldn’t have. If we took him out of here, Nova,” Din says, staring at Gideon’s freshly skewered body, “he would have escaped or hurt one of us.”

You stare at him. “Was this the plan all along?” you ask, voice wobbling. You look over to Bo-Katan, who’s still struggling to breathe, short red hair sticking out from her normally very neat bob. “Were you just going to kill him?”

“No,” Bo-Katan manages, “but he’s right.” She raises a pale finger to Din. “He gave us what we needed. The more of the members of the First Order are dead,” she says, pausing to wheeze, “the better chance we have of winning.”

You blink at her, shaking your head. You move away from both of them, closer to the open door. “Your sister tried to lead this planet with diplomacy and peace.”

A small smile snakes across Bo-Katan’s face, but you can see the sadness in her eyes. “I,” she sighs, moving towards you, “am not my sister.”

You watch, stunned, as her and Din make their way out the door, and you follow them, wordless, out of the maze of holding cells. The door to the cell Gideon’s being kept in buzzes to indicate when it’s swung closed, and you can’t shake the knowledge that he’s dead in there, that the evil you thought you were fighting for months is finished, but that darkness is nowhere near gone.

None of you have said a thing to each other when you resurface from the labyrinth of holding cells, or when Bo-Katan leads you down a new hallway. You’re drained, and you have no energy even to argue. Slowly, you trod after both of them, and the corridor opens up to a large arena. The seats aren’t filled, but you gape at how large this place is. It seems that the entire population of the planet could fit into this amphitheater alone. Finally, Bo-Katan stops, turning to face Din. “I broke my promise,” she says, finally, and there’s a weight to her voice you haven’t seen before. “I told you I would turn Gideon over to you, not that I would kill him. You have the saber,” she says, eyes glancing briefly off your figure, staring at where the Darksaber had hung from your belt, tossing it back across the air to Din, “it’s yours. I don’t have any grounds for dueling you. You’re the rightful leader of Mandalore.”

Din stares at her. Slowly, he shakes his head at Bo-Katan, taking a step forward. “Fight me for it.”

“I’m saying,” she sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in her voice, “that I don’t have any reason to duel you. You’re the rightful owner of that thing now, not me. Take it.”

Din throws it across the arena to you. “Fight me for it.”

Bo-Katan looks over at you. You gape, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I can’t.”

“Bo-Katan of the clan Kryze,” Din calls, voice booming and commanding, “as the rightful Mand’alor, I order you to fight me for this Darksaber.”

Bo-Katan looks over at you. You shrug, tossing the saber back through the air to Din. “He ordered you. I don’t think you have a choice.”

“Stop enabling him,” she grumbles, but she steps forward, squares her shoulders, preparing for a fight. You move to the edge of the ring in this giant, stone colosseum, sending a plea to the Maker himself that one of them doesn’t kill the other. They’re strangely on the same side, even after all of that, but you’ve seen how these two Mandalorians interact, and usually, every battle ends with the opposition on the ground.

Bo-Katan lunges. Din sidesteps her, quick and easy. He lets her jab and swipe and punch at him, pull at his beskar, and he just swirls around like they’re in a strange, choreographed dance. He’s good. He’s the best you’ve ever seen, quick and intentional, not pulling a single punch. But Bo-Katan is good, too, and she’s fast and fights with a specific vigor that Din somehow doesn’t match. You hold your bated breath in the hollow of your mouth as you watch the two of them lunge and toss the saber around, trying to knock the other to the dust.

For someone who claimed she had no legal or official standing to become the ruler of Mandalore, Bo-Katan fights like she’s in charge. She’s an expert, and her training outshines even Din’s. Her eyes aren’t even blazing with adrenaline. She’s just fighting like excelling is an extension of her body, like this is what she’s born for. Half of Din’s blows don’t even land on her, and neither of them are speaking or grunting. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they weren’t even breathing, just inhaling and exhaling punches and kicks, like that alone could sustain them.

You lean back against the ring, staring at them. Your hair hangs heavy in the braid it’s fallen out of, and exhaustion starts to leech in from the corners of your eyes, punishment from the sleepless night you had. It seems impossible that hours ago, you were being proposed to again. All of this feels a lifetime away from your real one, the strange, nomadic family unit you had on the Crest with Din and the baby. And you let your heart yearn for Grogu, which you haven’t dared to feel in months. It hurts too much to think about him, to remember that you didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye, that he’s off somewhere else in the galaxy and even if you could find him, you’d be terrified of the danger you might bring him. You uncross your arms over your chest and bring the pads of your fingers down on your shoulders, trying to eradicate some of the ache. Your eyes fall back on Din and Bo-Katan. She has the saber now.

You stare at her, watching her swipe the blade expertly at Din. You don’t know how much you trust her—you have faith that she won’t actively try to kill your Mandalorian—but the way she plunged the saber expertly into Gideon’s heart a few minutes ago is still a blazing image imprinted on the back of your eyelids. She catches the beskar, once, twice. You stand up straighter. You know Din said he’d let her win, but seeing him this much on the offensive is starting, jarring. It’s unlike him. She strikes, again and again, and right when you see him about to admit defeat and topple over, it’s like something ignites inside of him. Swiftly, he twists around, slides through the dusty ground, and lands his boot firmly against the plate of armor covering Bo-Katan’s stomach, knocking the wind out of her, pushing her into the dirt. You feel your eyes widen. Hers do, too. Din’s standing over her, triumphant, the flickering pulse and thrum of the Darksaber safely in his hand.

He hauls her to her feet. You’re expecting to see a bruised ego, to have to step between the two of them to play peacemaker, but there’s this intensity in Bo-Katan’s eyes that isn’t malicious or conniving. Impressed, you register after a few seconds of staring, she’s impressed. Her mouth is pressed in an even thin line, and she looks from the Darksaber to Din. “Told you,” she finally says, and there’s almost no edge to her voice, “it belongs to you.”

For what feels like the first time in this whole battle, Din looks down at the ignited Darksaber in his hand. It’s a wicked weapon, the outline spitting black and white sparks. It’s menacing and it’s scary and it doesn’t match the energy of Mandalore at all.

“Don’t tell me you still don’t want it,” Bo-Katan says, and there’s a spark of disbelief in her voice, “not after all that.”

“I want the weapon,” Din says, finally, his voice faraway. “But I don’t want the responsibility.”

Bo-Katan sighs, agitated. “You—”

“I won’t do it,” he interjects, looking from the blade to her. “Not unless you help me rule.”

You stare at him. Bo-Katan’s eyes bug out, and she furrows her eyebrows in confusion. “That’s not how it works,” she starts, and Din holds out a hand, stopping her.

“I’m Mand’alor now,” Din says, and the word, the regality of it, sounds like it tastes funny in his mouth, “I get to choose how I rule, right? I don’t want to do it without either of you.”

You step forward, looking at him. “D—Mando,” you start, catching yourself just in time, “we have—a war that needs to be won. We have evil all over the galaxy chasing us down. We—” you stop short, inhaling, “I don’t have—I—”

“Mandalore will be our home base,” Din interrupts. “We move the Rebels here, and this is where our hub of operations will be. For the time being, at least, until we fight back against the Order or someone else fights me for the throne. I said we can’t have everything,” he says, and you can feel the weight of his eyes on yours, “but maybe I was wrong.”

You stare at him. “This is a big deal—”

“I gave you my life, Nova, and my word. I’m never leaving you again,” Din interjects, looking back to Bo-Katan, “and I know no one will take my leadership seriously if you aren’t a part of it.”

Bo-Katan’s eyes narrow into slits. “I’m stubborn.”

“I know.”

“We’re going to butt heads ninety percent of the time. More, probably.”

“I know that, too. But I can’t—and won’t—do it without you.”

“Mandalore hates Jedi,” Bo-Katan continues, and you shrink when she looks over at you. “And they’re not the biggest fans of the Alliance. Not me. But most of our planet were purged by people who wielded the Force, and they’re not going to take kindly to her. And, in turn, they’re not going to take kindly to you, either.”

“I don’t,” Din starts, “hear the word no in there anywhere.”

Finally, something lights up as Bo-Katan smiles. “This is going to be hard.”

Din looks over at you, lacing his fingers through yours. You feel warmth spread through your entire body as he’s about to speak. You know exactly what he’s going to say.

“Well,” Din says, pulling you in closer, flicking the Darksaber off and tossing it through the air to Bo-Katan, “good thing we don’t scare easy.”

You’re fully expecting to spend the night on Mandalore back in Kicker, the place where you’ve made your home, and your bed, but Bo-Katan offers you a room at the inn attached to the main building, and sleeping in a real bed—not half-made ones in hostels and Rebel hideouts—is a luxury you can’t refuse. You spend what feels like hours just laying spreadeagled on top of the comforter, trying to take in everything from the last few days. Most of you is still shell-shocked in complete disbelief that you’re here right now, that Din will be ruling a planet, that Gideon is dead, and that you’re nowhere even close to figuring out what the First Order is or what they want with you. Power, maybe. Midichlorians, definitely. But so much of this is completely obscure, so hidden in darkness, and you have the sinking feeling that you’ve only won one tiny battle. The war isn’t here yet. And when it is, it’s going to take everything out of you.

You need to train. You’ve been so preoccupied with being on the run with Din, and just trying to stay alive as you move from place to place, that you haven’t spent enough time practicing your hold on the Force. You’re not sure where Din is—probably finding food for the two of you—so you sit up, looking for anything small and movable enough to practice with. There’s no little metal balls in the room, and your heart seizes with how much you miss the baby, but there’s small glasses next to the small food bay across the room, so you close your eyes, clear your mind, and let everything run out of you.

It should be easier by now. You’ve held Moff Gideon at bay. You’ve knocked down an entire regiment of soldiers. You’ve been able to do the impossible, by sheer energy alone. But there’s something preoccupying the rest of your mind, something pulsing and nebulous and just beyond your grasp, and you don’t know what the roadblock is. It takes almost all of your energy to move the glass across the room, and you sink back against the bed, depleted. You try to chalk it up to exhaustion, fatigue from running yourself ragged all over the galaxy the last few days, and there’s still that awful nagging feeling that you’re forgetting something, that you know what obstacle is in your path, even if you can’t visualize it.

It’s hopeless. You punch a fist into the soft down pillow and immediately settle your head down in the dent you created, letting your hair pool out of your braid and onto the bed. You sigh, watching night descend on Mandalore outside of the window. The planet plunges beautifully into darkness—it’s a slow, steady blueness. There’s nothing sharp about this planet itself, you realize, even though its people are. It’s fighting. Tired, but fighting. And something about that makes your heart ache in recognition in your chest.

There’s still a haunted part of you that needs to decipher the visions you’ve bene having—huge, symbolic clashes that are nearly impossible to figure out. Your visions and premonitions have always been hazy, but they’ve also had discernable elements—Ahsoka’s lightsabers, the expression on Grogu’s face, Din with his beskar staff. The only recent premonition that seems to have a directive is the one of you looking straight into Luke Skywalker’s face when he’s old and grey, his mouth twisted up into one word. Go.

The memory of him alone makes something frenzied catapult to life inside your chest. You push yourself off on the heels of your hands, ignoring the blissful way they gently sink into this mattress, digging through your stuff for your commlink. Hailing Wedge, who’s in the same sector as you are, shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but your commlink is impossible to connect. You curse, loudly, and you grab your blaster and strap the comm back on your wrist, about to run out the door to see if you have any better luck at a connection outside, until you collide straight into a full armor of beskar instead.

“Ow,” you remark, rubbing your forehead. “You know, having the skill of stealth is super useful when it comes to hunting bounties, but when it makes your fiancé run straight into indestructible armor, it’s not the greatest.”

Din sighs, airy and light, resting his hands gently on your shoulders. “Do forgive me,” he rumbles, and something wet and hot inside you ignites, “I couldn’t stand to be away from you a second longer.”

You grin up at him, all the frustration and urgency from the moment before slowly running out of you. “Where were you?” you ask, walking backwards, leading Din towards the big bed that swallows up most of the room. “I was getting worried.”

“Food,” Din says, and then he dumps a bag full of rations on the bed. You watch as he rotates around you, sitting on the bed. “We needed to stock up.”

You stare at him. There are weeks’ worth of food on the bed. “But—” you start, eyes tracking the massive bundle to his visor, “I thought we were staying here? On Mandalore?”

Din cocks his head to the side. “We will be,” he allows, sighing again, “but we still need to meet the rest of the team to fill them in on what we learned. And I have a feeling that Fett dug up more evidence than we did.”

You swallow. “Did you mean it?” you ask, and there’s a wobble in your voice you weren’t intending. “When you said that you’d take the throne, but only if the Alliance was able to operate out of here too?”

Din looks up at you, and then, before you can say anything else, he unlocks his helmet with a hiss, and you’re staring into his beautiful face. You step forward, hungry, trying to soak in every centimeter of it. Lightly, you press just your fingertips against his bare skin, landing between his open legs. For a minute, all you do is stare at each other in the silence.

“Yes,” he says, finally. His voice sounds so much freer out of the modulator. You nod slightly at his affirmation. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to ensure that this is our main base of operations, but I meant everything I said back there. There’s a war coming,” he continues, and you feel the heaviness of his confirmation, “and I think the only way we’re going to win any part of it is if we work together.”

You smile down at him, strangely emotional. “I thought you liked doing things alone, Mandalorian,” you manage, voice high and breathy.

Before he can say anything else, you bridge the gap between the two of you and kiss him right on the mouth. Everything in you is rushing and colliding, wet and hot. It feels divine. You’re dying for him. Every time the two of you have had your hands on each other since reuniting, it’s been quick and to the point, trying to inhale the other person longer than a handful of minutes. You sink up against Din as you kiss him, as slowly and worshipfully as you can, feeling his lips melding and parting yours. It’s fully dark, now, and you can make out the identifying features of his face only because you’ve spent so much time cataloguing it. His hooked nose, his plush mouth, his deep, devout brown eyes. You kiss him, and you keep kissing him, as you step closer and closer. He still has all the beskar on, and you don’t rush to yank it off. You press the flesh of your thigh up against his crotch, and you intake a sharp breath as you feel him harden against your touch. You don’t say anything. Neither of you do. You don’t need to, not right now. Your bodies can do the talking for you.

You’re sighing back and forth into each other’s mouths, like you’re kissing for the first time all over again. There’s something that feels ceremonial about this—so real, so far away from desert planets and back alleys and old haunts. This is the kind of love you made back on Naator, the pulsing warmth you shared on Yavin. There’s something more between the both of you, a nebula of energy and passion and knowledge that you’re equals, that you’ve been to hell and back together. As you slowly start removing beskar plates, letting the metal clatter to the floor at your feet, Din tugs at your outfit, removing the trousers he bough from you, his big hands lingering on the curve of your back, thumb pebbling over your tits, coaxing you closer and closer. When you’re both basically undressed—stripped down to everything except your underwear, you sink down on Din’s knee, and he moans into your mouth with the feeling of your slick on his bare leg.

“Stay,” he breathes into the hollow right under your ear, and a shiver of pleasure rockets white hot through your entire body. You obliged as his knee starts thrumming up against you, pressing that sweet vibration right into your clit, and between the intensity of that feeling and the way his mouth is mumbling kisses all the way down the slope of your neck, your orgasm comes quick and fast. You’re loud. Embarrassingly loud, the kind of loud you only ever feel bold enough to let loose when the two of you are alone on a singular starship in the crush of space. You don’t care enough to be ashamed as he keeps pulsing his leg up between your thighs, pulling at your hips to grind yourself down harder and harder on that same spot, your whole body shaking from the glorious impact.

“I’m not—” you choke out, voice laden with pleasure, “—going anywhere.”

Just as intensely as he started, Din’s mouth vacuums off of you, and the absence of his warmth is jarring. You gasp in the dark, feeling his scruff travel down the other side of your face. He stops right up against your ear. You wait with bated breath for him to speak. “Cyar’ika,” he whispers, “that’s my line.”

So quickly that you don’t have a singular breath to inhale before you register the movement, he’s throwing you back against the bed. You let out a gasp, and then you feel his teeth sink in lightly to where your panties are riding high up on your hips. He uses his mouth to pull them all the way off of you, and then he stands over you, staring.

“Open your legs.”

Shaking, you do. “Din—”

He looks up at you. You can barely make it out in the dark, but you know what his eyes on you feels like. You gulp. “This is my apology for not letting you fight your own battles back in Canto Bight,” he says, and then his mouth is between your thighs.

You should probably be used to this feeling by now. He’s an expert, his tongue swirling and flicking out hours of devotion on your clit, but somehow, he gets better every time. You cum again, then again, and then he pushes a finger inside of you, and you can’t even be embarrassed about the sucking, squelch of a sound that your pussy makes to let him in because it feels so fucking good. Then you’re on the edge again, and again, and then he’s pushed you over for the fourth time.

“Let—” you start, raggedly, “stars, Din, let me taste y—you—”

“Not done,” he murmurs from licking out his name between your legs, and you size the top of his soft, dark hair and pull him upwards.

“Didn’t say you had to be,” you breathe, licking a slight layer of your orgasm off his lips, “just that I wanted to even out the score.”

His moan is just as breathy and high as yours usually are, and you scramble off the bed to fall at his feet, wiping off the small bead of precum from the tip, trying your best to maintain eye contact as you take every single inch of him down your throat, not caring about the tears it makes your eyes spring up, and caring even less about the lack of oxygen. You just want him to feel as divine as he always makes you feel, and as his fingers clench in your hair without abandon, you gasp around the force of his cock pounding your mouth into the next universe. “’M close,” he rasps out, and, reluctantly, you pull your mouth free, marveling at how hard and swollen he is for your tongue alone.

“I can keep going—”

“No,” Din interrupts, and then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, spinning you around so you’re facing away from him, staring at the wall. You have no idea what he’s going to do, so you gasp when he pushes the head up against where you’re soaking, rubbing it up and down your slit, teasing you. Teasing both of you, really, by the moans emitted from his mouth mixed with yours, and when you bounce down to take a few inches, just a little bit, neither of you can control the rhythm. Din takes your hip with one hand, pressing the other flat against the small of your back, and you feel stars explode behind your eyes as his hand comes down to spank against your ass. It’s surprising and raw and when he takes his thumb and lightly drags it down the slit in your ass, you gasp, wet and hot.

“Do you like that?” he whispers, and you toss your hair over one shoulder, nodding vigorously. “Do you want me to play with this?”

Before you do anything but moan, he drags a clean finger through your slick, pushing just the tiniest bit against the hole.

“Fuck—” you manage, and as he wriggles his pinky inside you, you cum again. “Did—did you turn me around so you could do that?”

“Yes,” Din answers, one hand slinking over your shaking legs so he can rub at your clit again. “Moan for me, cyar’ika.” You do. Loudly.

“I want—”

“What?” he murmurs into your ear, “use your words.”

“When you take over the throne,” you gasp, blinded white-hot with desire, “I want you to fuck me like this on it.”

Din stands up. You aren’t expecting the movement, and you gasp as he walks you over to the wall. Before you can say anything else, his mouth is buried in the crook of your neck, telling you he’s about to cum. When he does, the feeling of him squeezing and shaking inside of you is enough to push you over the edge again. Slowly, slicked in sweat, both of you sink to the ground, still entwined, breathing heavily.

It’s so much like your normal position—up against the wall, staring at each other—that you start smiling.

“What?” Din asks, you can tell he’s wearing a grin, too.

“If you can lead just a fraction as good as you are at sex,” you breathe, “you’re going to be the best Mand’alor this planet has ever known.”

You hear him sigh, a tiny indication of a snort, and then his hands are on you, pulling you closer. “I can’t do it without you.”

You touch your fingers to his face, still warm. “Well,” you start, happiness flitting through your voice, “good thing I’m not going anywhere, remember?”

Din, suddenly, just pulls you closer. “Marry me.”

You blink up at him. “That is the plan,” you remind him, gently, and he shakes his head and starts redressing, throwing odd articles of clothing back over at you as he snaps the beskar back into place. “What are you—what are you doing, exactly?”

Din strides over to you, swallowing your face in his hands. “No. Right now Let’s go to the ship and say our vows.”

You stare at him. “I—”

“Do you not want to?”

The anxiousness in his voice nearly splits your heart in two. “Of course I want to,” you say, earnestly, closing the distance between the two of you, “but I—I’m not a Mandalorian. I want a ceremony. Somewhere—important to us. Like Yavin. Or Naator.” Your heart wrenches. “And I really want Grogu there.”

Din looks down at you, thumb stroking over your cheek. “Then we have a ceremony. With whoever you want. But I want to be able to take my mask off and kiss you as my wife, and I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

Your heart flips over. “Just the two of us?” you breathe, blood pumping in your ears.

“Just the two of us,” Din confirms. “No one has to know but us.”

A smile lights up your whole face. “Deal,” you answer, and then you’re being pulled from the inn by your Mandalorian, both of you racing back to the edge of town where Kicker is parked. Giddy, the two of you board, and once you’re in the cockpit, Din pulls off his helmet. You look around the ship for something light to wear in lieu of a vail, and you find a cream-colored shawl that you drape around your head.

“I love you,” you murmur to Din, staring up at him, taking in every inch of his face. “Ni kar’tayl su.”

“Darasuum,” he agrees. “I’m—I’m going to say my vows in Mando’a. You can, too, or you can say whatever you want.” He inhales, sharply, finger tracing a pattern over your cheek. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde, Novalise.”

Your heart turns over in your chest. “What—what does it mean?” Your heart is beating so fast.

“We are one whether together or apart,” Din recites, sounding dazed. “We will share everything. We will raise our children as warriors.”

“We are one,” you echo, softly. “We do share everything. But I think our child is plenty good at being a warrior on his own.”

Din lets out a laugh. A real one, unencumbered and free. “You have a point.”

“I love you,” you whisper again. “You’re the other half of my soul. You make me quiet when it’s loud; you make me bright when it’s dark. There is no other person I would rather fight this battle with.” You inhale, breath shuddering. “I know you. For an eternity, I’ll know you. And I’ll love you even longer.” You pulse up on your tiptoes, staring deep into his eyes. “This is only the beginning.”

Din cups both sides of your face with his big hands. “It better be,” he agrees, pulling your makeshift veil away from your head, “considering we have forever.”

You beam back at him, step one foot forward, and meet his mouth in the middle. The two of you kiss, in silence, in love, for what feels like an eternity. Only when your commlink starts bleeping do you break apart.

Your eyes find Din’s. He nods. “Hello?” you manage, voice an octave higher than normal.

“Rebel girl,” Wedge’s voice floats through. The both of you sigh, relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over a day.”

“Bad signal,” you say, glancing back at Din’s. “We were—uh, preoccupied. With Gideon. We’re on Mandalore. It’s a long story—”

“Nova,” Wedge interrupts, “I heard from Luke again.”

Your heart accelerates, then floats down to nothing. “What did he say?” you manage, breathily, voice quavering.

“He said,” Wedge sighs, “that you keep showing up in his visions. He wants to talk to you. No,” Wedge adjusts, “he needs to talk to you.”

You turn away from Din, pressing the comm against your mouth, bracing yourself against Kicker’s sturdy wall. “About what?”

“Something called the First Order,” Wedge says, and you whirl back around, making eye contact with Din. “And—and he said your kid wants to see you.”

Din grabs at your wrist. “Is he okay?”

“They’re both fine,” Wedge says, “but—uh, he gave me—a way to reach him. You can send him a hologram. I would do it now. Whatever he else he wants, I think he needs it soon. Did you—did you say that you interrogated Gideon?”

“Long story,” you mumble, brushing your hair impatiently out of your mind. “I’ll explain everything after I send a hologram to Luke.”

“Call me back,” Wedge agrees, and then he’s gone, with the address of where to send Luke Skywalker a hologram bleeping on your comm. Shakily, you inhale, and Din stands behind you. You project your two figures into your commlink, silhouettes blue and faded.

“General Skywalker,” you whisper, and then stronger, “My name is Novalise Djarin.” You inhale, exhale, looking straight into the light. “I hear I have something you want.”

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!!!! it's with such a bittersweet heart that i'm writing this message to all of you. it truly has been the joy of my entire year to write this story for myself, and then for all of you! we have one more chapter left (don't worry, it's going to be PACKED and likely extra long), and i cannot wait to share it all with you.

the sequel is coming! i promise! i might need a few weeks to prep and get all my thoughts in order, but i am so stoked to let this baby bird of a story fly free and start working on the next one. i've decided that i'm going to write it in third person, with Nova as her own character, so for all of you who typically enjoy OCs/third person POVs, this one is for you! it means the absolute world to me that you all care about Something More (and have come to love Nova) so much. SM started as something for me to write for my own sake, and when i decided to share it, it changed my whole life. i consider each and every one of you my friends, and i am so, so lucky to have shared this journey with you!!!

more details will come of course on tumblr (amiedala) and tiktok (padmeamydala) about the sequel and what the last chapter of SM is going to entail. i've also been brainstorming ideas for a new series of novels, so if you're interested in my writing outside of SM, i'll eventually post about that on tumblr and tiktok too!

CHAPTER THIRTY (the grand finale) WILL BE UP AT 7:30 PM EST SATURDAY, JULY 17TH!!! sending so much love to you all, let's do this fabulous thing one more time!

xoxo, amelie

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autisticdindjarin · 4 years ago

Text

The Guard of the Mand’alor

(AO3)

Summary: Omera was a foundling, taken in by Mandalorians when her family was slaughtered. She never met a certain Mandalorian on Sorgan, but when the Mandalorian throne is claimed by Din Djarin, he is in need of an honor guard. Omera steps up to the challenge. Rating: T Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera Warnings: One use of the f word. Notes: For Mandomera Week! Prompt: Bodyguard AU, This is separate from my other fic for Mandomera week, so it’s another idea I just came up with today rip.

(Masterlist)

(Chapter Two)

----------------

Din had been reluctant to agree to the traditional Honor Guard set aside for the Mand’alor. Bo-Katan talked him into it- bullied him into it- eventually, after she suggested he could pick out the warriors himself. To her exasperation, he took that to mean sparring with them himself.

But by that point Bo-Katan had been well done with negotiation, and let him have his way. Din couldn’t help but be a little smug.

Three had already been approved over the first week. That meant four more to go. Paz was already confirmed, as Din had fought beside him before and knew his skill. They might still butt heads from time to time, but he trusted his vod.

The sparring ring today wasn’t as crowded with spectators, which made Din feel more at ease. Mandalorians loved their fights. If they couldn’t participate, they’d happily settle for spectating and cheering on the challengers..

Din gripped his beskar spear in one hand. He slowly entered the ring, and his helmet scanned around for his opponent.

The Mandalorian to be tested came into the other side of the ring. They wore orange and blue armor, fully outfitted with a jetpack and whistling birds, though the latter would not be used. Din straightened his posture and nodded towards his fellow Mandalorian. There wasn’t much ceremony to these spars. He didn’t want it to be anything too fancy, just a judgement of skills on his part. He refused to make this into some big spectacle for political gain.

The other Mandalorian nodded back at him, accepting the challenge, and Din moved. His opponent moved fast, side stepping while balancing their weight on their own beskar spear. Din smiled beneath his helmet, a rush filling him as the fight intensified.

They traded blows. Nearly all were blocked by each other, and Din tilted his helmet in another nod of approval. This Mandalorian fought quick on their feet and sharp with their thinking, coming up with clever ways to unbalance Din that had his own mind scrambling to keep up and defend himself.

As the spar continued, his heart pounded hard in his chest, the satisfying thump of knowing he was alive. The ring of beskar hitting beskar sang pure and musical in the air, as if they were performing a symphony with their intricate dance.

They went toe to toe, and the fight kept dragging on. Din growled in frustration at their standoff. No one was getting the upper hand here; if one of them was hit, the other wasn’t too far behind. Every time one had an opening, it was quickly noticed and blocked. By now they both felt the strain of stretched muscles.

Din chuckled in surprise when he tripped over the beskar spear that had sneakily hit the inside of his ankle. He caught it on his own spear and slammed his weight to the side enough to make his opponent stumble in turn. They quickly balanced themselves once more, a picture of Mandalorian grace.

“Jate,” he muttered under his breath, but the other Mandalorian seemed to catch it, nodding. Good. Din deflected several more while the endurance was beginning to wane on both sides.

“Luubid!” Din finally declared. Enough. Sweat dripped down his face from under his helmet, and his chest heaved. It satisfied him to see his opponent leaning with hands on their upper thighs and catching their breath as well. They stepped back after a moment and then stood straight with the spear to their side, held vertically.

“I declare a draw. You’re in,” he stated. The other Mandalorian bowed their head in respect and acceptance as scattered applause rang from their small audience. Din straightened his cloak, approaching the other warrior.

“Talk to Bo-Katan, she’ll tell you what you need to know. Paz Viszla will be your first-in-command. You have a name?” he asked- not in a demanding way. People’s names were their own business.

The other Mandalorian nodded and reached to take their helmet off. Din paused. Sometimes it still seemed strange, watching a Mandalorian helmet being removed. But different Mandalorians had different ways, and as Mand’alor, Din had come to accept that his way was as valid as theirs.

A dark braid spilled out down the other Mandalorian’s back, revealing the face of a woman. She appeared to be around Din’s age, and he paused once more, assessing.

“Omera of Clan Thorne,” she said, voice kind and musical. She actually smiled at him, not something Din had gotten from any of the sparring partners sent to him so far.

“Olarom, Omera.” Welcome. It was strange, speaking Mando’a so frequently now, but Bo-Katan had heavily encouraged the practice.

“Thank you, Mand’alor,” she nodded and her eyes sparkled.

-----------------------

Paz didn’t take long shaping up his new charges. By the time Din had chosen his eighth, it had been a week after Omera had joined the force. The earlier selected guards already stood on duty, at least two nearby Din at all times. He learned quickly to ignore the feeling of being watched.

He made conversation with them often. He’d like to know the people who were guarding him, it only seemed right that, if you were going to ask a fellow Mandalorian to shield you, you at least earned their trust. While he already had that trust with Paz - though at times it was hard to tell from the outside - he needed to gain more rapport with the others.

The youngest of the guard was 23, the eldest 56, and they all brought their own unique skills. Koska had made the cut as well, and Din suspected Bo-Katan was to blame for that sparring test. Bo-Katan liked Din being surrounded by people whom she trusted.

Right now, Koska and Omera guarded the door to his chambers. He’d woken not long ago with no pressing issues being hurled at him, and he’d actually been allowed to sleep in for an hour.

Once he dressed and put on his full armor and cape, darksaber at his side, Din exited his rooms. Koska and Omera straightened their already perfect posture into something more deliberate, each holding a beskar spear, which had become a trademark of his guard.

“Udesiir,” Din said, joining them. Relax. They were both helmeted, but he saw them peer at each other for a moment at Din’s request.

“Is there a problem?” Koska asked, tugging off her helmet, addressing him in her straightforward, blunt manner. Fire always ran hot in her eyes, always ready for a fight. Din could appreciate that.

“No problem,” Din confirmed, glancing over as Omera slipped off her helmet. The armor of the guard was black and gold - again Bo-Katan’s input - and their beskar had been repainted as such. Black and gold. Justice for the future, and vengeance for the past.

Din’s own beskar still shined in its pure form. At first he’d just never gotten around to painting it, but now he liked the simpleness of it. Even if it made him stand out - as Mand’alor, he was never going to escape scrutiny.

“You two native to the planet?” Din asked. Both shook their heads, but Omera elaborated.

“I was a foundling,” she said. Din regarded her with curiosity.

“I was too. Clan Thorne adopted you?” he asked. She nodded solemnly, a hint of surprise on her face at his remembering her clan’s name.

“Yes. During the Trade Federation’s attack on my planet, decades ago. I was young enough that I don’t remember,” she shrugged. Din nodded at that, then turned towards Koska, waiting for her response. The younger guard shrugged.

“Zanbar, born and raised.” No elaboration there, which Din didn’t mind. He was already pretty familiar with Koska. Besides, Omera caught more of his attention. She was unknown and he was curious.

“Has Clan Thorne settled on Mandalore?” he asked, leaning against the wall, hands on belt. Koska rolled her eyes. Din frowned, but said nothing, keeping his focus on Omera.

“Some of us, though not many. There’s a strong presence on Balamak coming out of hiding. But my daughter is with me.”

“Your daughter?” Din’s curiosity came out.

“Yes,” Omera smiled proudly. “Winta. She’s ten and very focused on her training. She wanted to try out for the guard too.”

Din huffed out a laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

“Who knows? Wouldn’t hurt to add one more. She could replace Reeves here,” Din prodded, earning himself a raised eyebrow from Omera and a long suffering half smile from Koska.

“Funny,” she deadpanned.

A beat of silence fell and Din took it.

“Let’s go, I’m going to get some food,” he began strolling along without looking back. They’d catch up. He did hear their helmets slipping back on and the soft footsteps that dutifully trailed him.

-------------

The guards soon became comfortable in their routine, and so did Din. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be - they weren’t there to intrude, and he didn’t feel like they snatched away his privacy. They gave him his space, just close enough to jump in if there was any trouble. Paz grumbled about the job enough that Din asked if he’d like to resign. His vod seemed highly offended by the suggestion and had stalked off when Koska started laughing.

One evening, six months following the establishment of his guard, Din sat before the fireplace, reading one of the books Sabine - the leader of Clan Wren - had given him on old Mandorian art and history. It was more interesting than he thought it would be, and he made a note to ask Sabine if she’d like to revive some of the ancient artisan traditions that were described. He liked to think that it would give his people a morale boost.

His people. It was still hard to think that. Not when it came to being a part of them, but when it came to being their ruler. The ruler of a whole stars forsaken planet, of a whole kriffing creed.

A light knock sounded on the door, and he recognized Omera in the rhythm.

“Come in,” he called out. He turned around on his seat, twisting towards the doorway. Omera stepped in, fully armed and armored, and hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” Din asked, standing and putting the book down.

“There’s someone here. She said you asked for her?”

He’d never heard Omera sound so unsure.

“Hm. No, I don’t think I had anything set up. Might’ve missed something. Who is it?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say her name, but I’ve never seen her before. She’s not Mandalorian, and she’s not armed, but she looks like a fighter. I don’t know if she’s even supposed to be in the palace.”

Din hummed, contemplating that.

“Well, escort her in. I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle?” He gave her a soft smile that she couldn’t see. Omera nodded, gripped her beskar spear in a well practiced hold, peeked out the cracked door, and gestured to someone on the other side.

The mysterious visitor walked in, followed closely by Paz and his staring.

“Fennec,” Din sighed, immediately recognizing the intruder. “How did you get in here?”

“I have my ways,” the small sniper shrugged, her eyes scanning over the spacious room. “Nice set up you have going on here, Mando.”

Omera’s spear was still half raised and ready to strike, as was Paz’s. Din put a hand up.

“Stand down. She’s an old friend.”

“Well I don’t know her,” Paz scoffed. Din rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get jealous about it, Viszla,” he said, leaving Paz’s glare on him, then looked back to Fennec. “What brings you sneaking in? Fett need something?”

“See, I told him you’d catch on quick. Can we talk in private?” Fennec asked, eyeing the two bodyguards. Din shrugged.

“Sure.”

“I don’t think-” Paz began.

“I’m fine, vod,” Din cut him off. A drawn out sigh left Paz, and Din knew he was pouting behind that helmet.

“We’ll be outside as always, Mand’alor,” Omera put in, taking Paz by the arm, and Din was impressed at how she dragged the much bigger man out of the room.

-------------------------

Fett was calling on a favor. Din was pretty sure they’d squared up, but he liked Fett, and he didn’t think he could ever really repay him for his help when Grogu had been taken. So he agreed, without any input from his council. Bo-Katan had been less than pleased, especially when she found out he was leaving Mandalore to do business with Fett on Tatooine.

“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed. Din sighed.

“It’ll be a two week trip, tops. You can hold the fort down til then, I’m sure. It doesn’t take a darksaber to run a planet.”

“You need to take your guard. All of them.”

“I’m not taking my whole guard with me. We’ll draw too much attention, and too much attention on Tatooine is not a good thing.” Din pointed out.

“You say that as if the Mand’alor being on Tatooine wouldn’t draw attention,” Bo-Katan scoffed.

“I can keep my head down. Look, I never asked for this job, okay? But I made a deal with you. I’ve held up my end of the deal - I still have the darksaber, Mandalore has been retaken, a new Mand’alor is seated on the throne.”

“You still have responsibilities, you can’t just run -”

“I’m not running,” Din growled. “I have a comlink to keep in contact for anything that comes up. Two weeks, Kryze. Consider this me putting in vacation time.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“Okay. Okay. Fine, I can spin this. Forging connections with the crimeking of Tatooine isn’t so bad an idea. We could use more alliances.”

“Please stop making this political,” Din all but begged.

“You have to take at least four guards with you, though.”

“One,” Din countered.

“Two,” She said, voice firm. Din hesitated, but nodded. Two was a hell of a lot better than eight.

“Alright. I’ll choose them though.”

“Of course, vod'ika.”

-----------------------------

That evening, Din asked around. Omera was off duty at the moment, and he realized he didn’t even know where she lived when she wasn’t in the palace.

Still on the palace grounds, apparently. Koska was pleased to inform him of this, and he immediately became suspicious at the gleam in her eye.

A small area, almost a village, stood within the walls for palace staff. It wasn’t crowded and it was peaceful. Serene, quiet from the bumbling rush that always seemed present in the main building. The cottages were very nice too, not exactly high luxury, but well near the low end of it.

Koska and another guard, Myrah, accompanied him, and they directed him towards where Omera lived. They were quite diligent about the surroundings as he made his way down the various little side roads.

“This is it?” Din asked, stopping in front of a blindingly blue door. Koska nodded, and Din stepped forwards, knocking.

The door swung open and Din found himself looking down at a bright eyed girl whose eyes looked familiar. She stood still when she saw him, her mouth dropping open.

“It’s you,” she said.

“Yes?” Din answered, not sure where to really go with this. He was, in fact, himself.

Koska snorted from behind him and then he heard her grunt when Myrah gave her a well placed elbow to the ribcage.

The girl turned her head slightly. “Mom! Your boss is here!”

Boss? That was a new title.

Sounds of rushed scurrying came from inside before Omera appeared beside her daughter. She looked - comfortable; Din had never seen her without her armor, and it was nice. Just casual clothes, a long cotton shirt and some leggings, but she looked good.

“Mand’alor, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” Omera said. She put both of her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and stood behind her.

Din cleared his throat.

“That’s fine, I’m the one intruding. Just wanted to, uh, ask you something,” he fumbled.

“You’re not intruding!” Omera exclaimed, stepping to the side. “Come on, come in, please.”

Din hesitated and then nodded, brushing past Omera as he walked in.

“We’ll be out here,” Myrah said from the front, and Din nodded in acknowledgement. Omera shut the door behind him.

“You can sit anywhere, sorry the place isn’t the cleanest right now, I had double shifts yesterday and Winta’s been so busy with her schoolwork,” Omera said, only slightly rambling. Din smiled at that and he did sit on the far left end of her modest little couch. The space was homey, and much more welcoming than his own quarters felt in the palace. It wasn’t lonely.

“It’s fine. You should have seen my old ship,” he said, attempting to ease either his nerves or hers. It seemed to work for her at least, as she smiled brightly.

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” she said and squeezed Winta’s arm. Winta remained quiet and simply stared Din down with wide eyes. He shuffled in his seat.

“I’m planning a last minute trip to Tatooine. Bo-Katan is insisting I take two guards along-”

“Only two?” Omera interjected, surprised. Din shrugged.

“We negotiated. I’d like you to be one of them. There’s plenty others to still ask if you can’t,” he added quickly, tongue doing everything not to trip over itself.

“I’ve never been to Tatooine,” Omera mused. “It’s not much to look at. I have a contact there I’m doing some business with,” Din shrugged. “It’ll be two weeks long, so I understand if you can’t.”

Omera appeared to think for a long moment. Din waited patiently.

“I’ll have to check with my neighbor Cheri-”

“I can stay with her! She said I’m welcome whenever,” Winta butted in while craning her neck up towards her mother.

“Two weeks is a long time for watching someone else’s kid,” Omera chuckled.

“It’ll be fine! It’ll be like a sleepover, she said she likes sleepovers with me! It’ll just be a long one,” Winta said with heavy encouragement.

“Hm. You won’t miss me then?”

“Well, maybe some, but - you’ll be back,” Winta shrugged then gave her a wide grin.

Din watched them with amusement. He felt something like contentment at the mother daughter interaction. It made him think of his foundling.

“Alright… well. No hard yes, I need to make a few holocalls, but very likely?” Omera turned towards Din. It took him a moment to realize she was addressing him.

“Oh. Yes, of course,” he coughed, standing up again. Omera smiled.

“I’ll let you know by this evening.”

“You have my com code?” Din asked. She nodded. Of course she does, she’s your bodyguard, di’kut. Idiot.

“I will … see you then. Again,” Din said. She reached out her hand, and Din immediately took it. It didn’t seem right to shake it though, so he just gave it a soft squeeze.

“Thank you, Omera.”

-------------------

It wasn’t the longest trip Din had been on, but it was a long one. His new ship, the Mudhorn - one of the perks of being the leader of Mandalore - slid like a dream through hyperspace, devoid of the rattling sounds Din had grown used to on the Razor Crest.

He had chosen the bodyguard Myrah Cadera as his second after Omera had accepted. Paz would be watching over things on Mandalore while he was gone, with Bo-Katan’s help, and Din felt confident with the planet in their hands. Fennec had left before they had, returning to Boba’s side in her own ship.

It relaxed him to be out in space again. The familiar thrum of it made his hands tingle beneath his gloves. While Bo-Katan had tried to convince him to take a hired pilot, he’d refused. If he went anywhere in his ship, he’d be the one piloting it. He’d been itching to fly for too long.

He sat in the hull now. It was too luxurious for him, really, but it was also nice not having to worry about the ship falling into pieces mid route.

Omera and Myrah had made themselves comfortable in the crew’s sleeping quarters, while Din had his own captain’s cabin that felt like too much.

He’d offered it to Omera, but she had given him a strange look before refusing the offer and scurrying off so fast that he wondered if he had offended her. Myrah had declined as well, laughing and chortling out something about the idea of stealing the Mand’alor’s bed from him, unless he’d like to share it, and that had made Din blush in flames and thank the stars once more for the helmet.

He idly cleaned his weapons as he sat at the fairly sized table to the side. Myrah worked on her art across the way, and Omera sat close to him, watching. Looking like she wanted to say something. Din could feel her gaze digging into him.

“What?” he finally asked when he couldn’t take it any longer. He swore she could see right through the helmet. He put his weapon to the side and faced her. Omera pressed her lips together, then spoke.

“Nothing, really. I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Silly things. How we don’t know much about you. At all, really. You always ask about us, find stuff out, but I don’t even know your real name ... “ her voice trailed off at the end.

“Would you like to know my name?” Din asked.

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. If you’re comfortable?” she questioned, eyes searching his visor.

“Sounds like you do want to know, then,” Din concluded. Omera huffed out a laugh.

“It’s nice to put a name to the helmet,” she teased. “You can’t blame me for being curious. I’ve never met a Mandalorian quite like you.”

“I could say the same,” he said. Omera frowned.

“I don’t know about that. I’d say I’m pretty average on the grand scale of-”

“Did you- did you just say you were average?” Din cut her off, incredulous. Her cheeks darkened in a blush. “Well, yes,” she shrugged. Din snorted.

“I don’t pick average Mandalorians to be part of my personal guard. You held your own and held it very well when we fought. You’re not anything close to fucking average,” Din said, offended by the idea. Omera blushed further under his words and his gaze, and she tucked some loose hair back behind her ear.

“I suppose. I think we’re getting a little off subject, though,” she smiled.

“It’s Din. Din Djarin,” he said quietly and looked away.

“Din,” Omera repeated in her pleasant voice. “I like it.”

“Well I’d obviously change it if I didn’t have your approval,” he added dryly, and Omera laughed sincerely at that. He couldn’t hold back the smile beneath his helmet.

“What else?” he asked. Omera furrowed her brow at him. “What else do you want to know?” he clarified.

“Ah. I don’t know. I guess the same questions you asked me? Where are you from? I know you’re a foundling, but you didn’t elaborate beyond that.”

“I was from a planet called Aq Vetina,” he shrugged. “Droids attacked the city during the Clone Wars. My parents hid me, and the Mandalorians saved me. I swore the creed when I came of age. And now, I’m here.”

It was a very watered down version, but Din wasn’t ready to give away everything just yet. Nevertheless, Omera nodded, hand finding its way to rest on top of his.

“We come from similar backgrounds, then,” she said quietly. “Even though I don’t remember any of it. I lived on Naboo during the occupation of the Trade Federation. Their battle droids killed my family. A Mandalorian named Khala Lodd was on the planet at the time, and she found me, got us off planet and past the blockade. She was a close friend with Clan Thorne, with my adoptive mother, and knew she had been thinking about taking in a foundling. So here I am,” Omera said with a smile at him. Her hand squeezed his.

Din nodded. It was hauntingly similar. At least Omera hadn’t been old enough to remember what it was like. They held each other’s gazes, deep in their thoughts.

“Hey, you got any ration bars that don’t taste like rokaria’an dirt fish droppings?” Myrah asked loudly from across the hull, effectively snapping Din and Omera out of the moment.

-------------------------

Fett had definitely made a name for himself on Tatooine. Din hadn’t realized how much, but they saw the effects as soon as they had landed at Mos Eisley spaceport. The town seemed brighter, and livelier, more hopeful. Still chalk full of criminals, of course, but that would probably never go out of style on Tatooine.

Din hadn’t even realized Tatooine had a palace until he’d heard it from Fennec. It stood out, gaudy against the desolate Tatooine sands. Fett’s flair for the dramatic only intensified the aura inside.

While Din expected a bit of a cantina scene to greet them, everyone seemed cordial. Nearly polite. Sure, there was drinking and loud laughter, but no atmosphere of everyone being on the edge of a bar fight ending with some body dumped in the sand to bleed out.

Fett sat on the throne like he owned the whole damn galaxy. Legs spread, body fully armored, and helmet intimidating. And while Din wasn’t personally intimidated by his ally, he could see where everyone else should be.

Omera and Myrah stuck close by him, with beskar spears ready for anything. His own spear was secured on his back along with his jetpack. He wouldn’t be needing it in here, but he liked having it with him.

“Mando,” Fett greeted, voice gravely and familiar.

“Fett,” Din answered back, and they took a moment to stare each other down. Fett eventually laughed and rose from his throne. Din felt Myrah tense from beside him, but Omera seemed unbothered, reading his own reactions.

“Mand’alor, huh? Stars be damned, I would’ve loved to see the princess’s face.”

“It wasn’t pleased,” Din agreed, and Fett laughed more. Din caught sight of Fennec across the room, near some stairs that he assumed led to other wings of the palace. She met his gaze and nodded, and he returned the gesture.

“Who are these? Friends or accessories?” Fett nodded towards Din’s guards.

“They’re not accessories,” Din clarified. Hardness laced his voice. Fett stared at him. Din sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “Bodyguards,” he admitted.

“Huh. Thought you could take care of yourself, Mando,” Fett stared at him.

“It was a negotiation. And I can take care of myself,” Din shook his head.

“Alright, alright. I won’t pry. Come on, we have some things to talk about,” Fett gestured to where Fennec stood at the stairs. Din sighed and nodded, and Fett led the way. Omera’s hand brushed against Din’s as they followed.

--------------------

Business talk was something Din had always found exhausting. By the end of the day, seeing the generous chambers Fett had given him just made him want to sink helmet first on the mattress and fall straight to sleep. He frowned upon seeing that Omera and Myrah were still in full guard duty mode.

“You can relax. It’s pretty safe here, Fett has his own guards, you know. I’m not expecting you to guard me here the whole time. You’re mostly here to keep Bo-Katan from going off the rails on me. Again,” he grouched out, mood sour. Myrah and Omera glanced at each other before the helmets slipped off. Omera looked as weary as Din felt. Myrah, on the other hand, had the energy of a solar flare. He began undoing the clasps on his boots.

“You trust him that much?” Myrah asked.

“I trust him with my life,” Din answered, then held back a yawn. “You can go. Relax, hit the cantina, get an early start on sleep in your quarters, whatever.”

Myrah raised a thoughtful brow before she nodded. She punched Omera’s arm in farewell before she disappeared out the door.

Din’s attention focused on tugging his boots off and setting aside his jetpack. He didn’t realize Omera still lingered at the door until she made a soft noise, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Din looked over at her and sighed.

“Go rest, Omera.” The words were not delivered rudely, but with a sense of affection in his tone.

“Not tired. Thought you might like company?”

Din chuckled.

“I’ve had too much company today. But you’re not company, you’re-” he broke off, flustered as he held back his words. Omera sat down beside him, taking off her own boots.

“I’m what?” she asked. Her voice teased him, and he was sure it was intentional. Din’s face burned beneath the helmet when she used that deep tone. Stars, they’d been playing this game well on four months now.

“You’re … a friend,” he said, lamely. Omera looked surprised yet pleased.

“Thought I was just your guard. I’m glad I wasn’t claimed as an accessory, though,” she joked out. Din stilled, reaching over and taking her wrist. His fingers encircled it, thumb rubbing over where her palm began.

“Sorry. Fett can be a lot.”

“I don’t mind. He was entertaining.”

“That’s … sure, if you want to put it that way,” he laughed, tightness leaving his chest. He released her wrist. Quiet settled and Din shucked his cloak off. He stretched his arms with a groan as he did so, and Omera placed her boots to the side, side eying him.

“Do you get lonely?”

Din’s helmet swiveled and he peered over at her. Her eyes were closed now, chin leaning against a fist propped up with her elbow. The question didn’t seem malicious, but Din felt like she was inspecting him. He wondered if she liked what she saw. He wondered when she would dig too far and run away when she truly saw the man beneath.

“Do you?” he turned it back on her. Her eyes shot open, a concern in them that unsettled him further.

“You’re deflecting,” she accused - gently.

“Does it matter? If I’m lonely?” he asked, averting his gaze.

“It matters,” she affirmed and leaned forwards, trying to get him to look at her again.

He didn’t.

Instead he studied his hands. His fingertips played across the rich wooden table.

“Sometimes I like being lonely,” he frowned. “It’s familiar.”

Omera reached forward and her hand trailed up to place her palm flat over his chestplate.

“It’s easier, you mean.”

He huffed out, squeezed his eyes, and shook his head.

“I … don’t know,” he admitted, voice breaking over the confession. He looked up at her again, and his eyes searched her face in the tension between them. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered out.

Something deep in her eyes flashed when she processed his words. A softness fell over her face that Din wanted to sink himself into, wanted to hold. He wanted her hand on him without the beskar covering everything, to feel her warmth against him. He reached his right hand up and tugged the glove off, and before he could overthink it, he rested the bare hand against the side of her face. He felt like his soul was bared as well.

Omera’s eyes fluttered closed and she made a small - nearly pained - sound. His breath hitched at it, and his thumb stroked over her cheekbone. Her skin was so warm and soft and she sounded divine and he couldn’t help but yearn.

Her hand moved up to cover the one on her face, leaning into it. Then, then he leaned towards her, his head tilting, the cool metal of his helmet touching against her forehead. A wide smile came from Omera, and her free hand grasped at the back of his neck, just below the helmet, her thumb brushing through some of the wavy hair that had escaped. Din sucked air in sharply.

“Ner cabur,” he breathed out. My guardian. Omera pressed back against his forehead at the words.

“Ner burc’ya,” Omera replied, and his left hand came up to the other side of her face, both hands now tracing across her skin, one gloved, one naked. My friend.

When he pulled away, a whined protest came from her, but he was taking off his chestplate now, and the remaining glove. He’d planned on leaving most of his armor on, as they were in an unfamiliar place, but he wanted something else more.

When he was left in his flight suit, Omera watching him curiously, he took her hand. His fingers laced with hers for a moment, then squeezed, before guiding her hand to his chest, over his heart.

“Ner kar’ta,” he said it with all the conviction he had in him. Omera’s eyes shot up from where they had been studying his chest. My heart.

“Din,” she whispered, raw emotion in her voice.

“You are. You’re so good for me, cyar’ika,” he breathed out. Sweetheart. “I wish I was as good for you.”

Omera pulled back, gave him a heated look that made his heart stutter, and then she was on him and wrapping her arms around him in a full embrace so quickly that Din took a while to catch up. He held her in a returned embrace, and his helmet rested against her shoulder while she buried her face against his neck. He shuddered at the nearly overwhelming contact, but held tight, not wanting to let go.

"You are," she affirmed.

And he didn’t let go.

(Chapter Two)

@mandomeraweek

#mandomera #MandomeraWeek2021 #din djarin #omera #the mandalorian #myfic #mine

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presidentrhodes · 4 years ago

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it’s spoiling @pedropascalisathot time 😏

Title: The Mandalorian Characters: Din Djarin, Peli Motto (feat. Boba Fett, Fennec Shand because they’re the superior trio) Summary: Din’s been laying low on Tatooine for months. It’s time he paid a visit to a friend.

Din leaned against the balcony ledge as he stared into the distance, watching as the fading suns reflected on sand dunes that dotted the horizon. With a deep sigh, he took another sip of spotchka and turned sideways, to face Boba and Fennec. “I am going to be away for a couple of days,” Din said. “There’s something I need to do.”

***

More than three months had passed since his life was thrown out of orbit, leaving him listless, in search for direction and for an identity. Bo-Katan wasn’t thrilled by his decision to return with Fennec to the Slave I, instead of fulfilling his promise to help in her efforts to retake Mandalore. Though she let him leave when Boba came for them, she left him with a pointed reminder of the responsibility that fell on him. Before he had left the bridge of Gideon’s cruiser, Bo-Katan had grabbed his arms and whispered: “I will find you again and when I do, I will reclaim what is rightfully mine.” It was both a threat and a promise, and Din had no doubt she would make good on her word when the time came.

After arriving on Tatooine, Din stayed away from Boba’s court despite the other man’s standing offer to have him as an adviser. Instead, every evening, he allowed Boba and Fennec into his quarters for a drink and to reminisce. Both of them had been tactful enough to avoid mentioning Grogu, but Din knew Boba already had Luke Skywalker’s location tracked and that Fennec stood ready for a covert mission to extract the kid if Din ever said the word. Though he loved them as friends, and saw them as the closest thing he had as a family, Din hated the subtle, silent devotion both Boba and Fennec showed him.

“Like it or not, you are the rightful heir to the throne of Mandalore,” Fennec had told him one evening when Boba was away on business. “Even he recognises that.”

“Boba doesn’t care about Mandalore,” Din had shot back. It earned him a smile from Fennec as she patted his shoulders and refilled his glass with spotchka.

“Well, yes, but he cares about you, and if you ask, I know he’ll follow you.” Fennec had raised her glass at him. “I will too.”

As the days passed, and Din grew accustomed to the heat and humidity on Tatooine, the Darksaber weighed him down as much as the beskar did. Residents and passers-by in the Hutt palace didn’t care much for his creed or his identity, as long as Din remained out of their way. One afternoon, things came to a head when he walked into Boba’s court, in search of his friend, and encountered a Twi’lek who flinched at his sight and, without prompt, fell to his knees and pleaded for mercy. That night, Din took off both the Darksaber and his armour, stashing them away under his bed.

Unlike the time when he was forced to take the beskar’gam off on Morak, where the knots in his chest twisted and made it harder to breathe, Din felt his appearance in public the next day liberating. Boba had raised a brow in surprise when Din walked into his court in a loose black tunic with gray tabards and a dark brown leather belt but no one ever questioned his decision.

Like everything else on Tatooine, the moment was fleeting and passed in a blink.

***

“Where will you go?” Boba said from where he sat on the floor, his back pressed against the ledge, while Fennec rested on a cushion, with her feet on his lap as he massaged them. She had returned from a hunt earlier in a foul mood that forced Boba to reconvene their daily meeting before the last of the daylight faded.

Din kept his gaze fixed into the distance. Somewhere beyond the dunes in the horizon lay the Mos Eisley spaceport and the familiar docking bay three-five. Taking another swig of spotchka, he said, “Mos Eisley. There’s someone I need to see.” Din looked down at his palms. “There’s a mechanic—well, she’s a friend. She cared about Grogu.”

“The less people know about the kid and the Jedi, the better,” Boba said after a long pause.

Din fought back the urge to tell his friend that he was wrong to cast doubt on Peli, that she loved the kid as her own and if anyone deserved the truth, it was her. But Din knew Boba meant well. The Imps wouldn’t give up on hunting Grogu just because Gideon had been captured and taken to Coruscant. The Empire was nothing but persistent and patient—on Morak, Valin Hess had all but confirmed that the Empire had its tentacles buried deep in the Outer Rim, beyond the notice of the New Republic, lurking in the shadows and ready to pounce when the opportunity presented itself.

“She doesn’t need to know all the details,” Din said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt the tell-tale signs of an approaching headache; a common ailment that he had gotten used to in the last three months where sleep became a rare commodity. Even as his body craved rest, his mind still galloped a million miles a minute in the crisp, warm Tatooine air, and the beige walls of his quarters closed in, leaving him trapped in his dreams. “Just—just promise me you’re not going to send someone after her. No intimidations either. Peli’s wellbeing matters to me, she’s a friend.”

Boba bit back a grin and it lightened some of the weight on Din’s chest. He had spent all day locked up in his quarters debating the best way to bring up his decision to visit Peli without Boba complicating things. The man cared little for his own safety, despite inheriting every one of the Hutt cartel’s enemies, including those still loyal to Bib Fortuna—Din was surprised to learn how brashly Boba had killed Jabba’s old majordomo. When it came to Din, Boba had developed an obsessive paranoia that became the butt of many jokes for Fennec. Din had confronted her one day. “I don’t claim to speak Boba Fett but if I had to guess, he’s hoping when you become king of your planet, he’d finally be welcomed there like his father was,” Fennec said and her response had left Din awake several nights in a row, contemplating the burden of the Mand’alor.

“Fine, I won’t bother her but make sure she’s not babbling away about the kid or you at Chalmun’s,” Boba said, kneading the balls of Fennec’s feet.

Din rolled his eyes.

***

Traveling from Dune Sea to Mos Eisley took Din several hours on a speeder, which left his back stiff and his hips sore. Moving around without beskar’gam eased the strain on his joints while the lack of a flight suit stopped his skin from chafing. He travelled light but still carried a couple of blasters tucked away in his leather belt holsters and a hunting knife concealed in his boots. It was the only way to stop Boba from sending a pair of armed guards on his tail.

As he walked into Hangar 3-5, he found the docking bay empty and the unoccupied landing pad made the knots in his chest tighten. Din remembered the first time the Razor Crest was cleared to land in the hangar: Grogu was still a stranger, a stowaway whom Din avoided beyond keeping him fed and healthy. Being on the run from the Imps and the Guild had pushed Din’s already frayed nerves to the edge—he had hoped Sorgan could’ve been a sanctuary, both for him and the kid, but fate had other plans.

He had come to Tatooine in search of a distraction and to earn credits; en route, Din learned how expensive it was to care for a child. While he had learned to survive on bare necessities, as part of his culture and his religion, Grogu required food and naps every few hours while his clothes fared poorly under his small but sharp claws. Now, the Crest was gone, and so was Grogu.

The pit droids spotted Din in the middle of reminiscing from his spot on the landing pad. They came running towards him, beeping with excitement and waving their spanners. The droids stopped on their tracks in front of Din and looked around the hangar in search of the ship—one of them tilted its head to the side and beeped in confusion. Another droid whirred and dropped its spanner on the floor. The third one stood with its metallic hands on its hips, its round sensor fixed on Din as if waiting for an explanation on why he had shown up without a ship.

In his few encounters with Peli’s droids, Din had never seen them as excited by his presence. He found the helper droids troublesome despite their well-meaning intentions and only trusted them after Peli had personally guaranteed that they wouldn’t wreck the Crest in their attempts to fix it. Din still felt uneasy around droids, especially larger ones which reminded him of the darktroopers that occupied many of his nightmares in recent months. In all of his dreams, they always took Grogu away and left him for dead, with his skull bashed inside the dented beskar helmet.

“Can I help you, Mister?”

Din turned to see Peli emerge from the building. She wore the same brown leather coverall with a blue undershirt as the last time they met. Her hair, still fuzzy, had grown longer, much like Din’s. Her expression morphed from curiosity to a frown as she looked around the hangar, similarly puzzled by the lack of a ship as her droids. Peli narrowed her eyes at Din as her grip on her spanner tightened. “What do you want?” She said without the usual welcoming warmth in her voice.

Shocked, Din took a step back. It hadn’t been that long since he came to her, searching for directions to Mos Pelgos in the hopes of finding another Mandalorian. Her face had lit up brighter than a thousand suns when she saw Grogu and fussed over the kid like a doting aunt. It occurred to Din that Peli hadn’t seen him without the beskar’gam before and Grogu wasn’t there to help her connect the dots—and, the twin blasters that Boba had insisted he carried with him were visible on his hips. Din held up his hands in the hopes that she’d realise he meant her no harm. “Peli, it’s me. It’s Din,” he said.

Her grip remained on the spanner as she looked at him, unfazed. “How do you know my name? Who are you? You have three seconds to answer that,” she said. In his periphery, Din noticed Peli’s helper droids creeped closer towards him, holding their spanners, as they waited for her signal to attack. Pointing a blaster at Peli wasn’t an option Din was ready to consider and even if he could dodge the first two droids, the third one was out of his line of sight. Instinct told Din it was behind him, ready to strike if Peli gave the word. With panic rising in his chest, Din blurted out: “It’s me, I’m the Mandalorian. You—you adore Grogu. The child. The green child. Peli, it’s me.”

Peli drew her lips into a taut line and as Din spoke, recognition flickered in her eyes before she heaved out a lengthy sigh. As she put her spanner down, the droids followed and stepped back from Din. “Dank farrik,” Peli said, softly thumping her chest. “Do ya have any idea how you scared me, Mister?” She paused and gave him a once over. “What happened to you? Don’t answer that, what happened to your ship and where is the little womp rat?”

Din let out the breath he was holding in as he closed the gap between them in a few, long strides and pulled Peli into an embrace. He didn’t know why he did that but the weight on his chest lightened further when she patted his back and said, with the usual warmth in her voice that Din had grown accustomed to, “All right, all right, I’ve got all night and Chalmun’s got a table with our name on it, let’s go.”

***

Chalmun's was packed to the brim when Din and Peli arrived. The dim-lit tavern had a reputation for frequent outbreaks of violence, frequented by misfits, smugglers, and bounty hunters. Din used to be a regular patron in his younger days when he was part of Ranzar Malk’s crew, before the Guild came calling. Memories from those days filled Din with shame and left him with guilt that he had spent decades atoning. Peli muscled her way through the crowd and slipped the droid bartender a few hundred credits; within minutes, a table was cleared for them, its previous occupants dragged out of the cantina by the bouncer.

Once they were seated, a waitress droid brought them cups of ardees. Peli pushed one of the cups towards Din and said, “Drink up. I can tell you need one to calm those nerves and then you’re gonna tell me everything and get it out of your system.” Even if Din wanted to say no, he knew he couldn’t. The decision to seek out Peli had been motivated by Din’s need for absolution, something only she had the capacity to provide. Fennec wasn’t religious and someone like Boba would’ve been seen by the Covert as the antithesis of what made a Mandalorian—their opinions couldn’t give Din what he needed. Peli knew religion even if she didn’t have one. He hoped she’d understand he didn’t become a heretic without cause, that his decisions had been influenced by something bigger than his religion. The sanctity of life, the life of a child, outweighed the sanctity of his devotion. Sighing, Din emptied one of the cups in a handful of quick gulps, wincing as the sharp, bitter ardees burned the back of his throat.

“I broke Creed,” Din said, clearing his throat. He reached for another cup; the less sober he was, the easier it’d be to confess. “Took my helmet off, my armour. When I did it, I thought it’d mean something. I thought I was doing it to save the kid, and, I was but once I took it off—” He ran a hand over his face.

“You weren’t sure you wanted to put it back on. You hesitated,” Peli said. She pushed another cup towards him and reached out to grab his wrist. “What happened to the kid? Is he—” She hesitated, unable to voice out her thoughts as she looked away from Din. He knew she tried to comprehend his unexpected arrival, without his armour, without his ship, and without the kid.

He shook his head and put her mind at ease. “He’s alive. He’s just—I found his people and sent him off with them,” Din said, weighing his words. Though he trusted Boba with his life, he didn’t trust the other man’s level of paranoia, heightened by a lifetime of violence and backstabbing. The last thing Din wanted was for Peli to get caught in the crossfire. “His name’s Grogu.”

Peli doted on the name as she repeated it. That was all they had left of the kid—his name and the memories he had made with them. “It’s cute for a little womp-rat. Where did ya leave him?”

Din shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Peli looked like she debated whether to berate Din for letting the kid go without knowing where he was being sent to. But when she spoke, her voice sounded soft and filled with understanding. “You think the kid is safe with his people?” She asked.

“I do. He’s safer with them than he’s with me,” Din said. The more Peli knew about the remnants of the Empire and the Jedi, the more danger she’d be in. Ignorance would keep her safe, Din reasoned. “I’ve been on Tatooine for a while now.” The confession earned him a surprised stare, but she said nothing more. He gulped down another cup of ardees, experiencing the same burning sensation in his throat. Din leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He felt lightheaded. “I’ve been staying with Boba Fett.”

“Ha,” Peli said, thumping her fist on the table. “I knew it. He’s one tough nut, I knew he was too stubborn to die.” She looked around the packed tavern and said, “He used to be a regular here, when he still hunted for the Empire. Polite manners, never started fights, but he was lethal in ending them.” Din hadn’t expected her to know about Boba nor had he known that his friend used to be a regular at Chalmun’s—Din assumed a spaceport cantina like that would somehow be beneath Boba.

“Have you ever met him?” Din asked.

Peli nodded. “Once. His ship needed repairing. He tipped well. What’s he doing these days? Word on the street was that he had died in the Sarlacc pit out in the Dune Sea.” Din smiled. Boba hated the fact that people on Tatooine had come to accept that the legendary bounty hunter Boba Fett met his end being slowly digested by a sarlacc. He shook his head and said, “He’s taken over the Hutt cartel. Business is booming, it’s keeping him busy.”

“And what are you doing with him?” Peli asked, without missing a beat. “You haven’t been doing anything illegal, have you? You’ve gotta set a better example for your young one in the company you keep.” She paused as the weight of her words sunk in. Peli looked embarrassed as she patted Din’s arm and promptly changed tact. “I have to be honest with you, I am a little surprised to see you without the armour. There’s a story in there somewhere—if you wanna get things off your chest. We’ve got all night.”

Din straightened in his seat. The alcohol’s effects kicked in; his tunic felt warm and the thumping cacophony of voices and music in the tavern sounded distant, and the room spun whenever Din moved his head too fast. He peered at Peli and looked into her eyes, where he saw concern and genuine affection. Her soft gaze reminded Din of the last time he had seen his mother more than three decades ago, the same earnest look in her eyes that masked the unmistakable sadness. Why is Peli sad? The question echoed in his mind. She pities us. Look at us, we are nothing. We have been nothing, hiding out here in the sands of Tatooine while Mandalorians around the Galaxy are fighting for our honour, our Creed. “You think I’m pathetic,” Din said, in a barely audible whisper.

“What?” Peli reached for one of the remaining cups and finished half of its content in record time. Smacking her lips, she said, “Of course not. But you have to admit, you’re a bit of a mess, and I don’t mean you being here, drunk on ardees. What happened?” The earnestness in her voice broke Din’s resolve and drowned Boba’s previous warning. He staggered up to his feet and pulled his chair closer to Peli and sank back down again. Leaning close, he said, “All right, Peli Motto, I’ll tell you everything.”

***

By the time Din finished narrating the last details of his life, the tavern was almost empty. He had told her everything: from the days where he played with other children in the streets on Arvala-7 to the day he swore the Creed, the day he broke it for the first time, the day he had lost Grogu and the day he had found him only to send him away forever. Peli listened without interruption and the cups in front of them were all empty. Slouching on the table, Din struggled to keep his eyes open as he mumbled. “I am a bad, bad man. Couldn’t even save the Covert, they gave up everything for me and I paid them back by breaking Creed. Boba and Fennec expect me to be the king of Mandalore but I am not fit to be a Mandalorian. I want Bo-Katan to take the Darksaber but she won’t, she wants to fight me for it. Have you heard anything like that? It’s crazy, I am giving it to her but she just won’t take it.” Din burped.

One of the waitress droids came over with a pitcher of water and Peli poured him a glass. “Drink up, Mister. Your brain’s turning into mush,” she said with a hint of her usual jovial nature. Din struggled and most of the water ended up drenching the front of his tunic. Taking matters into her own hands, Peli stood next to him and held Din’s hands steady as he sipped on the water. “Useless,” Din slurred. “Can’t even drink water and they want me to rule Mandalore. Crazy talks.” He heard Peli say something but her voice sounded distant—before he could comprehend, his world turned black.

***

Din woke up with a stiff back and a throbbing headache. The mattress under him was hard and the vicinity smelled like jet fuel; but it was the clammy heat that forced him to crack open his eyes, only to be blinded by the daylight that flooded into the room. With a low groan, he made another attempt: Blinking his eyes open, Din slowly sat up. “Dank farrik,” he muttered as his stomach churned. Stumbling to his feet, Din made a desperate attempt to search for a bathroom. On his way, he tottered down a narrow hallway until it led him out into the hangar where he noticed a familiar ship docked on the landing pad.

“What the—” Before he could finish that thought, Din vomited. He emptied the contents of his stomach on the floor and recoiled at the rancid smell. He heard the excited beeps from the helper droids that had come running to investigate the fuss. Before the droid got any closer, Din heard Peli’s voice in the distance, getting closer. “Hey! Leave him alone.” He heard footsteps and within moments, Peli had an arm around Din’s waist while he leaned on her. “Don’t worry about the mess, they’ll clean it up,” she said, guiding Din back into the building and to the room he had woken up in. After helping him climb into the bed again, Peli poured him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully. His mouth still smelled like an unwashed bantha but the water helped quell some of the nausea. Din looked up at Peli and flashed an apologetic smile. “I am embarrassed,” he said, looking down at his lap. “I let myself go last night.”

Peli snorted. “Oh quit your whining or you’ll rust,” she said, but Din heard the concern in her tone loud and clear. “So, you passed out and had to be carried home. Big deal.” Her gaze softened as she reached out to smoothen his fringes. She pushed them back with her fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt worse,” Din said, looking out the window by the bed. From there, he could see the Slave I on the landing pad. “You called Boba?”

“Nah, why would I do that? He was at the tavern when you passed out. He carried you back here. If he wasn’t there, I would’ve had to drag you home and you’d be covered in skid marks.” Peli gave him a soft nudge. “Don’t worry, I’ve sent him away for a while. I figured you didn’t need an overbearing ex-bounty hunter on your shoulders right now.” Din’s grin widened and he reached for her hands, holding them between his.

“What would I do without you, Peli?” He asked.

She scoffed but her lips curled up into a smile. “Probably mope around some more. Now, you listen to me carefully, Mister,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You did what you had to, to protect the little womp-rat. If you didn’t break your Creed, he’d be lost to us. Those Empire buggers don’t care if it’s a child they’re hurting to get what they need, but we do. Even in a place like this, in the middle of all the scum and villainy that is Tatooine, there are lines we do not cross. That is what makes us different from the Empire. Remember that.” Peli caressed his cheeks. Din leaned into her touch, biting back the tears that threatened to well up.

“From what you told me and what I have heard about your people, you are honourable folk. That’s the warrior way, isn’t it? The way it looks to me, taking your helmet off doesn’t make you any less deserving of being a Mandalorian. I mean you fought in that big hunk’o beskar all your life didn’t you? You fought for your people, you fought for strangers, heck you saved my life from that little punk buddy of yours, you took on the Empire just to save a kid and I don’t know about you, but I don’t know too many people who’d do that for people they don’t know.”

Din hung onto Peli’s every word as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Peli wiped them away as Din dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from sobbing.

“I can’t say anything about your religion but if it doesn’t recognise what you’ve done, everyone that you’ve helped along the way, the lives that you’ve saved, then maybe it’s the religion that’s the problem. You’re a good man, with or without your rusty armour, one that I am proud to call my friend. And I know that wherever the kid is, he knows how much you’ve done for him. He’s gonna remember and I hope that one day, you’ll see him again.”

Silence descended on the room as Din searched for the right words. After a lengthy pause, he said, “I don’t know if I can wear the armour again, Peli. It feels—I don’t know how to be someone other than who I have been.”

“And who’s that?”

Din closed his eyes. For weeks, he kept the beskar’gam and the Darksaber hidden out of sight because their presence was a cruel reminder of what he had sacrificed to protect Grogu, only to lose him in the end. He had given up the very fundamentals that made him, him, to protect that child and it had left him without a home, without a family, alone in a vast, uncaring galaxy. Except—he had Peli. She had dropped everything to spend the night listening to his drunken rambles. He had Boba and Fennec. They had followed him to the jaws of death once to rescue Grogu and he knew they’d follow him again, no questions asked. He had Grogu; the kid had faced his fears to save Din’s life. And the tribe—whoever survived the massacre in Nevarro—was lost somewhere in the galaxy, perhaps waiting for Din to find them again. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to the Creed than beskar’gam and perhaps now that Din had completed his task, of delivering Grogu to the Jedi, the road ahead could lead him to that discovery.

Din smiled at Peli; his first, genuine smile in months, one that reached the creased corners of his eyes and made his brown orbs sparkle. “I am a Mandalorian.”

#the mandalorian #din djarin #peli motto #boba fett #fennec shand #rhea writes

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melancholicumsomnia · 4 years ago

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The Redeemers (A Mandalorian Fanfic) Chapter 2

All warnings/pairings and other info to follow per chapter. For now, this is safe reading for everyone. Forgot to mention that this fic will most likely not follow established SW canon. I’m actually getting dizzy checking the timeline.

Tagging @pedrocentric. Hope you like this second chapter.

You can read Chapter One HERE.

* * * * * * * * * *

THE REDEEMERS

Rory

Chapter Two: The Broken

“Thank you for agreeing so quickly to meet with us, Dr. Pershing. I know the circumstances of our first meeting were quite…tense.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you again, no matter what the circumstances are. But since it’s about the Mandalorian here…”

Ahsoka – who stood quietly in a corner of the freighter’s med center – eyed the Imperial doctor whom Bo-Katan was addressing with suspicion. However, as Dr. Pershing hurried to take out an examination device from his bag, the Jedi saw how the doctor was very much at ease with his present company, belying his earlier statement. There were a couple of moments when he seemed to be on the verge of saying something to Bo, but then shook his head and decided that whatever concerns he had could come later.

When Bo-Katan told her that they would be calling Dr. Pershing to check on Din Djarin’s condition, Ahsoka was swift to offer her misgivings, being aware of the doctor’s reputation for cloning experimentation. But because of what they experienced on Mortis, the Jedi acquiesced on the condition that Din Djarin remain helmeted throughout Dr. Pershing’s examination.

Before the Imperial doctor arrived, they bathed the Mandalorian and trimmed his hair, mustache, and beard. They also dressed him in clean clothes, before laying him on the bed in the med center. Throughout this process, not once did the Mandalorian rouse from his insensate state. His right fist remained tightly clenched and they could not pry his fingers open.

True enough, Dr. Pershing’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of that helmet. To Ahsoka’s surprise though, the doctor just proceeded to perform a thorough examination of his patient.

After checking and crosschecking the findings on his device, Dr. Pershing asked, “May I take a blood sample? Don’t worry though. The results will be between just the three of us. I will delete whatever I find immediately afterwards.”

It was Ahsoka who gave her approval this time, causing Bo to give her a curious gaze. “Yes, you may. I’d like to see if your findings will confirm what I suspect.”

Dr. Pershing’s eyes grew wide at that remark, but opted not to say anything else. Bending down, he extracted the blood he needed from the Mandalorian’s bared arm and ran the diagnostics. As the data filled the small screen, the doctor could barely suppress his gasp. He looked at the two women, his mouth agape like a fish.

“His M-count…” Dr. Pershing blurted out, scratching his head. “How can this be? According to our records…my past encounters with him… He hasn’t demonstrated any Force powers at all!”

“What is his M-count, Doctor?” Ahsoka inquired.

“It’s in the same range as the Child’s. 20,000 plus. But, even if I hadn’t tested him before, I’m sure that he is not Force-sensitive.”

The Jedi let out a long, harsh exhalation. Seeing the questioning expression on Bo’s face, she told the doctor, “Dr. Pershing, if you’ll excuse us, I would like to speak with Bo-Katan in private.”

Hearing this, Dr. Pershing straightened up and stood firm. “If you please, I would like to join in your discussion.” To emphasize his position, he presented his device with the screen facing them. With a press on a button, the screen went black as all the data was erased. Seeing the wariness in their eyes, he reassured, “No, I haven’t transmitted any of the data to the Empire.” The doctor then quietly confessed, “The same way I deleted the facial scan records, the security feed, and blocked the transmission of the video that revealed the Mandalorian’s face from Morak.”

“And you expect us to just take your word on that?” Bo said, incredulous.

“I don’t presume that you can trust me so readily. I know how much your people have suffered under the Empire.” Dr. Pershing looked at Ahsoka. “And also our constant battles with the Jedi. In my defense, I can only say that if you hadn’t trusted me, even just a little, after I helped you…willingly…in retrieving the Child from Moff Gideon, you wouldn’t have asked me to come here.”

The two women exchanged quick glances, with a small smile forming on Ahsoka’s lips. “Very well, Doctor. Besides, we may need your medical opinion on this matter.” Turning to Bo, she said, “Tell us what happened to the Mandalorian…from the beginning.”

Bo folded her arms over her chest. “Ten years ago, after we rescued the Child, I convinced Din Djarin to join the Nite Owls. In truth, he had no other choice. The Razor Crest was destroyed, so he couldn’t continue his life as a bounty hunter. Boba Fett and Fennec Shand had also wanted him to join them on Tatooine. In the end, Din chose to be with us. I suppose he wanted to learn more about the Mandalorians, having lived for most of his life with the Children of the Watch. I thought it best to give him further training in fight and battle techniques and teach him about the true history and culture of Mandalore.”

“And by ‘true’ Mandalorian culture, you mean the current pacifist views that were espoused by your sister, Satine,” Ahsoka noted. “You were once a member of Death Watch yourself. So you know that you cannot just rewrite the entire martial history of Mandalore.”

“No, just certain aspects of it.” One red eyebrow lifted as Bo glowered at the helmet that Din Djarin was wearing. “In particular, that little matter that he could not remove his helmet to show his face.”

“Why would you do this, Bo? Why would you go so far as to teach him all this?”

“Because this is knowledge that he needs to lead the Mandalorian people.” Bo heaved a heavy sigh. “Din Djarin is the current wielder of the Darksaber, which, as you know, makes him the rightful ruler of Mandalore.”

Seeing the surprised expression on the Jedi and doctor’s faces, Bo-Katan narrated the events that happened on Moff Gideon’s cruiser.

Continuing, Bo said, “In the two years that we were together, I had somehow cracked through some of those stubborn beliefs he held. I had…hoped…that I would bring him to Mandalore so that he could take the throne. Maybe reunite the clans and especially bring the Children of the Watch back into the fold.”

“But right from the start, he never wanted to be Mand’alor, did he? In the brief time that I’ve known him, I know that his sense of honor would not allow him to accept the Darksaber.”

Bo nodded. “True. He kept on insisting that the Darksaber belonged to me. He did not want to rule Mandalore. Unlike with Sabine, I cannot in due conscience accept it every time he offered it to me…not after the way I lost the Darksaber during the Great Purge. As per tradition, I would’ve had to fight him for the right to wield the sword, but it wouldn’t have been proper to do so back then. When he seemed so…lost…after he entrusted the Child to a Jedi.”

“Grogu found a Jedi?”

“Grogu… Is that the Child’s name?” Bo let out a wry laugh. “Yes, I guess that little kid had found a Jedi. It was the Jedi who saved us from the Darktroopers. We never learned his name though. I know Din missed the Child terribly and I told him that we could track that Jedi down, but he refused, always saying that Grogu was in safe hands and…”

“And…” Ahsoka gently prodded.

“He said that he could feel the Child, whatever that meant. That he was reassured that Grogu was alright. That he was safe at last.”

“It’s definitely because of the bond,” Dr. Pershing interjected. “When I first had the Child, I could already see that there was a strong attachment between them.”

“But after two years, something happened, am I right? Din Djarin told you that he wanted to leave, that he cannot be the king that you wanted him to be,” Ahsoka then put in. “He was so desperate to leave, but you refused every time. He still got away from you though. That was your Gauntlet I saw on Mortis. And when he was gone, he left behind the Darksaber.”

“I admit that I was happy at first that Din had forsaken the sword. At that time, the only people who knew that the Darksaber was back in our possession were Koska, Cara Dune, Fennec – who I am sure told Boba Fett about it, but the man could be trusted to keep a secret – and, of course, Moff Gideon. Axe would know about it later. For eight years, I bided my time, continued on our mission to gather weapons for our cause to reclaim Mandalore and…”

At that moment, Bo paused, realizing what she just said. “Eight years…”

It was Ahsoka’s turn to nod. “The way I see it, a very powerful Jedi Mind Trick had been placed on you. I’m pretty sure Din Djarin put it on you, although he was not consciously aware that he did so. The only reason why you started your search for him was because the Darksaber no longer allowed anyone to wield it, including you. The Darksaber brought you back to yourself because it wanted you to find its rightful wielder.”

“Yes. It’s weird. In all those eight years, I never saw the need to use it. I didn’t want it stolen again, so I kept it in deep storage. But then, rumors started to spread in Mandalore that the Darksaber had been found again. I don’t know where those rumors originated, but I suspected that the Empire was behind it. I was going to claim the sword as my own. After all, no one knew about Din Djarin. But…the Darksaber rejected me. I was with Axe at that time, so that’s how he knew. No one could pick it up without getting burned or hurt in the process.”

Dr. Pershing shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. I’ve seen Moff Gideon brandishing that sword about. I mean, it’s just a laser sword. How can it choose its wielder?”

“Lightsabers, the Darksaber included, are nothing more than weapons. Anyone can wield a Lightsaber, but it requires training and skill. I must admit that the Jedi’s expertise with the Lightsaber arises from the fact that we are able to complement its use with our Force powers,” Ahsoka explained. “But the way the Darksaber is behaving now, it’s clear to me that the Force is behind it. Unfortunately, the only way that I can see how the Darksaber works in relation to the Force is if and when Din Djarin awakens and chooses to use it.”

“I confess that there is very little that we Jedi know about the Force. I’m sure the same can be said for the Sith and the Empire,” the Jedi revealed ruefully. “That fact could not be more obvious than the situation we have here, right now.” She waved a hand to the Mandalorian lying on the bed. “I can say for certain though that the reason why Din Djarin left the Nite Owls and abandoned the Darksaber was because Grogu severed their bond.”

Bo and Dr. Pershing could not contain their horrified gasps.

Ignoring them, Ahsoka continued, “The severing overwhelmed Din Djarin. Even I felt just how raw the wounds in his mind and heart remained, even up to now. It made him distraught with worry and fear for Grogu, very powerful emotions that drew the Force to him. From this point on, this is all just pure conjecture on my part. I believe that the Force sensed these emotions, his intense need for Grogu that it summoned him to the one place where he could possibly find the Child – a place that is similar but more powerful than Tython, a place that could awaken the Force that lay dormant inside him.

“Mortis was the home of the Force-wielders. Obi-Wan Kenobi told me what the Force spirit of his former Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, revealed to him about Mortis – that it is a ‘conduit through which the entire Force of the universe flows’, that it is a ‘planet that is both an amplifier and a magnet.’ But Mortis is not just those two things.

“You may have heard rumors about the Sith Lord, Darth Vader, he who once was my Master Anakin Skywalker. It was said that Anakin did not have a father, that he was conceived through the Emperor’s manipulation of the midi-chlorians in his mother’s body. But I believe that Ani was created by the Force itself to restore balance in the galaxy. Seeing the…changes…in Din Djarin, I believe that he was…gestated…in the raw power of the Force on Mortis, transformed into a being with immense Force potential so that both the Light and the Dark Sides continue to battle for domination over him.”

Ahsoka could not contain her shudder. “I dread what would happen if the Dark Side wins.”

For a moment, a heavy, fearful silence fell among them, as they mulled over the Jedi’s troubling words. The quiet was shattered, however, by a soft, pained voice coming from the bed, uttering a single name, “Cara…”

Suddenly, the Mandalorian’s body jerked upward, forming a stiff arch. As he plopped back down on the bed, he started twisting and writhing, muffled screams coming from his helmet.

“HOLD HIM DOWN!” Dr. Pershing cried as he hurried to the bedside. Hearing the harsh, rasping breaths, he pulled off the helmet, revealing Din Djarin’s tear-filled, agonized face.

As the two women kept the Mandalorian from thrashing about, the doctor rummaged inside his bag for a syringe and immediately filled it up with fluid from a vial. Before he could plunge the needle into a swollen vein, Din Djarin’s body made one last upward surge and he fell back onto the mattress. His right hand dropped limp to the side, his fingers opening so that a gleaming silver ball fell and rolled on the floor.

Dr. Pershing quickly ran his examination device over the Mandalorian. “HE’S NOT BREATHING!” Without hesitation, he proceeded to apply chest compressions. Bo-Katan went to his aid, tilting Din Djarin’s head back and blowing precious air into his mouth. The passing seconds seemed like an eternity, and they feared that they wouldn’t be able to revive the Mandalorian.

Then, the door to the med center opened and Axe Woves entered, bearing the crystalline case containing the Darksaber. Opening it, he seized the pulsating sword inside. In an instant, a burning smell filled the room. But Woves didn’t let go. Instead, he laid the Darksaber over Din Djarin’s chest. As soon as contact was made, the crackling energy of the blade branched out, spreading all over the Mandalorian’s body so that he seemed to be enveloped in a bright, jagged net. The net pulsed and throbbed for a minute before dissipating. To their astonishment, they saw that Din Djarin was breathing again.

Seeing the questioning expression on Bo-Katan’s face, Woves explained his unexpected entrance, “The Darksaber started pulsing like crazy. I figured something might be wrong, so I decided to bring it along for you to see. I never thought it was reacting that way because of Din. Is he okay?”

Dr. Pershing again examined his patient. At the same time, Ahsoka went toward the still figure and laid her palm over his brow, a deep frown wrinkling her own forehead.

“Yes, he’s fine…for now,” Dr. Pershing confirmed. “But I…”

The doctor was interrupted by Koska, who barged breathless into the med center. “Something terrible’s happened! I intercepted a transmission from the prison ship that was supposed to transport Moff Gideon to Oovo IV. The ship was ambushed by an unknown spacecraft. Before the transmission died, the pilot said that Gideon and a Morgan Elsbeth were retrieved from the prison transport. He also said that…”

It was the Jedi who finished her sentence for her as she drew away from the Mandalorian with deep sorrow. “Marshal Cara Dune has died. The moment that Din Djarin went into seizures, he felt her die.”

Bo-Katan was stunned by this news. In the brief time that she knew Cara Dune, she had been impressed with the Marshal’s bravery and loyalty to Din Djarin.

Dr. Pershing gazed at the Mandalorian before him and made up his mind instantly. “That settles it. I would like to join you…if you’ll have me.”

Everyone in the room stared at him. But the doctor said, “I’ve long been thinking about leaving the Empire, especially after the things that they made me do to the Child and…and…” Dr. Pershing found that he could not continue. The thought of the experiments he had done filled him with shame. Instead, he said, “I always made the excuse that it was for science, but my conscience knew that what I was doing was wrong.” He turned earnest eyes to the people before him. “Please. Allow me to help the Child’s father. Din Djarin has spared my life on two occasions. I owe him and the Child this. Also…I’m afraid that he’s dying. If you know where…Grogu…is, I believe it is only he who can heal the Mandalorian.”

Bo thought for a long while. When she lifted her head, determination was set on her features. Turning her gaze to Ahsoka, she said, “I think we should pay a visit to our old friend on Endor. I’m sure she can help us locate that mysterious Jedi.”

Ahsoka smiled at the memory of the kind, valiant Twi’lek general who was both comrade and friend. “I agree. It’s been a long time since we last saw Hera. A reunion is definitely forthcoming.”

The Jedi bent down and picked up the silver ball which was once the Child’s favorite toy. “And as soon as we find Grogu, I’d like to hear his explanation on why he hurt his father this way.”

TO BE CONTINUED

#mandalorian fanfic #fanfic #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #the redeemers fic

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