#mandomera fic

[thefrogdalorian]

Only The Father You'll Be

Word count: 1,727 Rating: General Content Warnings: Mentioned grief and loss/mourning parents Summary: As he sits on the porch of his new cabin, looking on proudly as Grogu entertains himself with frogs outside their new home on Nevarro, it is a moment that awakens old memories in Din Djarin. Watching his son causes Din to reflect back to a moment when he watched The Child playing with other children in the idyllic village on Sorgan. Back then, Din wanted something very different for him and The Child… it was an occasion when their fates could so easily have diverged from their destiny. But now Din has the one thing that had always eluded him, that he never imagined for himself: a family. Link to read on AO3

Author's Note: I wrote some thoughts about this scene underneath this post yesterday and it just turned into this exploration of Din's contrasting emotions during two moments he spent watching Grogu play with frogs. Truly fulfilling my URL. I made myself emo with this one but I hope you enjoy!

The Mandalorian knew that he did not belong here. It was plain to see that in this idyllic fishing village, with its close-knit community of people, he would always be an outsider. How could a Mandalorian who followed the Creed as devoutly as he had from such a young age ever leave that behind? How could he ever get used to the sensation of feeling the sun on his face? Or feel comfortable in the expectation to meet the unrelenting gaze of others? 

It was true that the villager who had made it her duty to take care of The Mandalorian and the kid, a widow named Omera, had given him pause for thought as to whether he should go against his instincts and stay on this planet he had once dismissed as a backwater skughole. Omera was attentive and understanding of him and The Child, though they were so different from anyone that had ever stepped foot within the confines of their community before. There was no doubt, either, that there was something pulling The Mandalorian towards her. Every time they interacted, he felt a warmth; a tickling sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling that Din was unfamiliar with, but he might even describe it as pleasurable.

But The Mandalorian did not belong here. He knew that. And if he stayed, sooner or later, she would realise that, too. That would lead to resentment, distrust and they would end up right back where they had started, with him leaving this planet behind in a cloud of dust. Except he would have forsaken his Creed, everything he had ever known. Better to leave now and spare himself the anguish. The kid could stay, though. Leaving The Child behind here… it would be doing him a favour. 

Yet somehow, leaving without this kid, The Mandalorian felt it was wrong. If the cold, detached bounty hunter that had first encountered the bounty on Arvala-7, had been told that he would have felt sorrow at the prospect of leaving The Child behind, nor the lengths he would go to to ensure his safety, he would have struggled to believe that. The Mandalorian did not form attachments to others. He kept his head down, himself to himself, and carried business out with a ruthless efficiency that had garnered him a formidable reputation as the best bounty hunter in the parsec.

But, unbelievably, The Mandalorian did feel sorrow. The Child that he had risked everything for to rescue from the Empire on Nevarro, had quickly wormed his way into The Mandalorian’s heart. And now, as he stood there, watching The Child play with the village children, who were presently covering their faces in horror as he ate a frog, he knew the kid would be fine here... better yet, he would thrive. Seeing him there holding a frog in his mouth had reminded The Mandalorian of the time he had commanded him to spit it out when they were at the Ugnaught’s abode on the desert planet, where he had first encountered The Child as a bounty. Swallowing the frog had been the first sign of disobediance from The Child. A trend that had continued even when they had first arrived here on Sorgan, when the little womp rat had defied The Mandalorian's authority and followed him out of the ship even after he had made it clear that The Child was to stay put. How could he raise a kid that wouldn’t even listen to him?

The Mandalorian knew as sure as the two suns rose every morning over Tatooine, that he was not father material. He had enough scars from his past. The devastation of losing his parents at a young age had never truly left him. From that moment, The Mandalorian had vowed never to get close enough to be scarred by such loss again. That vow had been easier to stick to after he had, rather fortuitously, found himself adopted by a covert that rarely referred to each other by name and always hid their faces from view. It was impersonal, unfamiliar and yet… somehow intensely familial. The Children of The Watch were the only family The Mandalorian had ever known, certainly the only family he remembered. 

But this little child was not to be his family. He was too special, too different. He was hunted because there was something about him that people wanted, his destiny was something far more momentous than anything that could ever happen in a life with a bounty hunter. The Mandalorian wanted to go through life, blending into the background and doing everything he could to be perceived as infrequently as possible. With that child, that would be impossible... The Mandalorian was under no illusions about that.

The Child would stay here, The Mandalorian would leave. They would go their separate ways. Their song had been written.

As he sat there on the porch of his brand new cabin on Nevarro, Din Djarin thought back to the distinctive sound of The Armorer’s voice booming throughout the Living Waters:

“Let it be written in Song that Din Djarin is accepting this foundling as his son.”

It was the first time Din had a moment and pause to think about the momentous decision he had made on that day in the Mines. To watch his son play in the light and show his abilities with a Force that Din did not understand, but was always proud to witness. The older Mandalorian was reminded of the time on Sorgan when he had watched Grogu playing with frogs, much like he was doing now. It was a bizarre notion to Din, that he had almost left Grogu behind on that backwater skughole. Now, he could not imagine his life without the incredible little boy.

His son.

It was still a fact he was getting used to. Din still struggled to believe that Grogu was back with him, that Grogu had chosen to come back to him. The former Padawan had chosen a life as a Mandalorian foundling – now apprentice – over the path with the Jedi that he had been set on that far predated their encounter on Arvala-7.

Grogu had opened up parts of Din emotionally that he had long since thought closed off. He had shown him the depths of his capacity for love and the aching devastation of loss, when Grogu had firstly been abducted by Gideon and then taken with Skywalker to train. Din had discovered, then, that loss was still as raw as it had been when he had seen his parents murdered by battle droids on his homeworld of Aq Vetina all that time ago. Din barely recalled many details of his parents now, such was the time that separated him from those memories. But he remembered the pain of losing them, still as raw as the day it happened.

Din loved Grogu so much that he had broken his Creed for him, found himself cast out and brandished an apostate by the closest thing to a family he had ever known. All that, for the love of a child. 

And when it had been necessary to make his bond to the child official, so that Grogu could progress to the next stage of his life, Din had not hesitated in uttering those fateful words next to the waters where he had once redeemed himself: “Then I will adopt him as my own.”

Din now knew that he had been saved several times over in those waters, not only when he had sworn the Creed, or shortly thereafter when Bo-Katan Kryze had rescued him from the murky depths… but he had been saved once again from a lifetime of solitude when he had made Grogu his own. 

Even back then on Sorgan, he was kidding himself to ever think that it would be possible for him to let The Child go that easily. From the second Grogu had peeked at him from behind the blanket – his wide brown eyes searching curiously at this rude intrusion into his safe haven – Grogu had taken a piece of Din’s heart forever.

And as Din sat there, he thought again about his parents. They were never far from his mind, but since adopting Grogu, they had increasingly featured in his thoughts. Din wondered whether they had ever sat back and watched him play with the pride he now felt in his chest for Grogu. The boy was doing nothing more than playing with some frogs, but to Din, it was the most wonderful sight in the entire galaxy. There was no one there to laugh at him, for his difference. Din knew now that Grogu would never have fitted in on Sorgan, either. The children had been horrified by him eating frogs, but Din did nothing but love and nurture his talents.

To think that Din had once been so terrified of the protector role he had taken on so suddenly, that went against everything Din had spent his adult life following – a life of solitude. But, sitting there in the Razor Crest, holding that metallic orb and feeling the pang of guilt, it was a rush of blood to the head that sent him storming into the building to rescue Grogu. A momentous decision with such little thought that had terrified him in the early days that they had spent together.

Now, fatherhood felt like the most natural thing in the world. Raising Grogu to be Mandalorian, it was a privilege and an honour. Like his son, Din had not been born into the ancient warrior culture, but he was as devout as any who had Mandalorian blood running through their veins.

As he sat there watching Grogu, Din was reminded of an old Mando’a phrase, one of the few he knew:

Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la.

(Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you’ll be.)

Din now knew the type of father he would be to Grogu. Until his dying day, he would protect the boy with every ounce of strength he possessed. Now, they finally had a home together, here on Nevarro.

The Child that he had once been so determined to run from had – just as Kuiil once predicted – brought him a handsome reward. The greatest reward of them all… family.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Echoes (Playlist)

A little playlist of songs I associate with my fic Echoes (the one where Din has a clone baby and ends up on Sorgan again)

Little Apple — The Open Sea

Back to You — Canyon City

When the Cold Comes — Peter Bradley Adams

Bay of Pigs — Rogue Valley

Who Saved Who — Mindy Smith & Matthew Perryman Jones

From Where You Are — Lifehouse

Ivy — Taylor Swift

Sweet Troubled Man — Jill Andrews

Outlaw Man — Eagles

What a Woman Can Do — McAlister Kemp

Hurt — Boyce Avenue

Fading Bright Eyes Dark — Scars On 45

Nobody Knows — The Lumineers

All That I’m Asking For — Lifehouse

All Because — Ari Hest

These Times — SafetySuit

Living and Existing — CJ Starnes

Keep on Running — The Light The Heat

Hollow Sound — Satellite Station

Headlights — The National Parks

Runaway — Keith Johns

I Found You — Leire & Atticus Blue

Neverland (version two) — Joshua Radin & Maddie Poppe

Glad You Exist — Dan + Shay

She’s All You Need — Sister Hazel

I Stayed For the Girl — Sister Hazel

Somewhere in the World — Altiyan Childs

Treetops — Howie Day

The Tallest Tree — Lunatic Wolf

Not All Heroes Wear Capes — Owl City

We Can Find a Place — Davis John Patton

A Face Like Mine — Peter Bradley Adams

Not That Far Away — Jordan Moyes

Majorie — Taylor Swift

The Riddle — Five for Fighting

Boy — Lee Brice

How I Go — Yellowcard

[azertyrobaz]

Dank Farrik Drabble #48

Spoilers for the end of Season 3! I want to thank snowtheup on ao3 for giving me this idea. I guess I couldn't resist some Mandomera to kick off a new batch of chapters to celebrate the end of the season. More prompts to come soon! :)

Please enjoy Marketplace/Curious, and here are the rules if you want to participate!

************

It was Grogu who spotted the stall first. Which was no wonder, the little boy’s head always swiveled in every direction when they visited Nevarro’s marketplace, keen to discover if there was any new food he hadn’t tried yet. He thought his son had simply seen Karga at first, and wanted to say hi. Then he started paying attention to what the high magistrate was buying – spotchka, it looked like, which didn’t surprise Din. The saloon might have closed on the main street, but the man still liked his drink.

It said a lot about him that the first thing he noticed was the rifle on the woman’s back before he recognized the woman herself or the teenager next to her. He could give you the exact reference number of the manufacturer’s model. Tell you how precise it was and how long it could be used for before it needed to be recharged. Which parts were required to fix it should it break down. Where to get them for cheap. He used to own that rifle. It was a very good rifle. And he’d given it to someone who’d meant a lot to him.

But this was years ago, so surely –

Grogu jumped directly on the stall as soon as Greef’s back was turned. Din had only frozen for a couple of seconds, but it had been enough for the quick child to take matters into his own, tiny hands. Literally, it turned out, as he was now babbling like crazy and raising said hands over his head towards his old friend. The girl must have been fourteen or fifteen now, but her smile was just as wide as Din remembered, and she squealed in delight when the boy jumped again, this time straight into her arms.

“It’s you!” Winta said.

“It’s you,” Omera copied, more demurely, looking at him instead of his son, with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.

Din nodded, since this didn’t exactly require a verbal answer, and it had the welcome effect of making her smile. What now? He’d never expected to see her here. She and her daughter should be safe on Sorgan where he’d left them all those years ago. That place he’d often thought about with fondness and longing. That place he’d unwittingly recreated here, in his own way, for him and his son.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

And it was nice. Having a house of his own. A kitchen. A bed. A garden. A pond. Somewhere for Grogu to be a child. A place that they could both call home. A place that they could always return to, no matter what happened.

Din knew one of the reasons why he couldn’t say anything to her right now was because she’d been right all along. It was exactly what he’d always wanted. He just hadn’t been able to see it then. So he mentioned the one thing he could instead.

“How’s that rifle been treating you?” he asked, gesturing for the weapon with his head.

“Very well,” she replied, unfazed. So maybe she didn’t mind his strange ways too much. “It’s brought me luck in the past, so I always take it with me on our travels.”

“You travel much?”

“Now that Winta is older, yes. Our village has grown, our production of spotchka as well.”

“I’ve never seen you here before,” he noted, observing how happy Grogu and the almost grown girl looked together.

“First time in Nevarro,” Omera explained. “We’ve only tried a few small marketplaces in trade ports on the Hydian Way, and we heard the town was safe again.”

“It is,” Din confirmed immediately.

“Good,” she nodded. They did seem busy enough Din thought, with prospective clients lining up behind him already. They should really be on their way, and he urged Grogu to let Winta be, but this wasn’t proving very successful as neither child was paying attention to the adults.

“Are you planning on coming back then?” he found himself asking her after he’d extracted the kid from Winta’s arms – he hadn’t even told her that they lived on Nevarro, maybe he should have started there. But again, she didn’t show any surprise at his unconnected questions.

“Next month,” she said, handing change to a woman who’d just bought several bottles and was now eyeing some of the clothes they were also selling with interest.

“So see you next month then?” Winta asked hopefully, the little boy cooing against his side.

And Din nodded, because all things considered, this was a pleasant thought. And something to look forward to. Maybe it would even give him enough time to figure out what to say to her.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"Battle Scar"

Type: One-Shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary:

In the aftermath of a battle on Mandalore, Din is confronted by a distraught Omera as she is further acquainted with a reality where her own authority is as revered as the Manda’lor’s, as his spouse and co-ruler. Amidst the chaos of miscommunication, Omera has been forced to issue a command out of duty which nearly cost Din’s life, and Omera was not happy at all. Arguments loom, and so do regrets. (TW: One-sided marital spat)

[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, seventh prompt: “Forgiveness”]

Read here or on Archive of Our Own

"Battle Scar"

“Mand’alor, I was told that the Lady Omera was not at the debriefing,” Din Djarin’s aide-de-camp informed him as Din limped into the modest rooms he shared with his wife. 

The Sundari Royal Palace remained grey and bleak, unpolished from debris and dust in its slow recovery from the ruin brought about by the Great Purge. The Purge was but a dreadful scar in Mandalorian history, remedied by the grueling work of reunifying clans and creeds until all arrived at the same page, and unequivocally under Din’s rule.

The Palace had only partially been rebuilt, with its construction relentlessly interrupted by reports of impending enemy attacks. Din could count past his ten fingers the instances he needed to cut quality time with his family short. Omera would be the one left to govern the Palace while Din stormed into the battlefields with his fellow seasoned warriors.

Omera had continued to coordinate with Din and his officers while she remained at her post in the Palace’s headquarters. These incidents of prolonged joint command happened more often than they thought was ideal. There seemed no trouble at first when Omera willingly learned the various forms of leadership required of Din as well as her. She was taught the necessary protocols and directives in the event that her husband could not issue them himself, for any grave reason. 

For a long and arduous streak, Din was leading the charge most of the time; Omera assisted, sometimes becoming her husband’s aide as she fastened the armor on him. That ritual had transformed into stolen moments of spiritual intimacy between them. With every component of the beskar’gam she placed upon him, their gazes would lock, intense and sublime, and little words were exchanged. Tension would always follow—and suddenly Din was off with Bo-Katan Kryze or the Armorer or Paz Vizsla into war, his cape billowing behind him like a rallying banner, the Darksaber clipped to his side. 

Din couldn’t remember the last time he had properly shared the marriage bed with Omera since their wedding night. He was always away, awake, busy… and sometimes Omera would be awake with him, would join him in briefings if only to feel his warmth at her side. The only other way she found to compensate for these growing times apart was when she made dinner for him. Even then, it was hurried, and conversation was sparse.

This most recent battle could have been the last straw, and yet it was a victory which concluded a crucial campaign, thanks to Omera’s impartial and quick thinking. It was as if all her training culminated to this one victory, and she was ready to keep to the shadows, out of everyone’s way.

And as the aide reported—Omera had opted not to attend the debriefing. To date, this only happened once, and only because she needed to see Grogu and Winta off as they were transported to safety through their Jedi ally, Master Skywalker. Din, at the time, was in the middle of the most decisive battle yet—the one to capture Sundari, Mandalore’s new capital and epicenter of authority before the Purge struck.

A knot of worry formed within Din as pain bloomed like searing coals all over his body. This latest maddening fray to recapture Keldabe, Mandalore’s ancient and former capital, had sapped him of his strength. He sustained some debilitating injuries that were treated on the field and after, in the secure confines of the med-centre tent.

He had spent an entire week away from Omera, and months away from Grogu and Winta, capped by the wars that poured themselves unto his lap one after another… Yet, in spite of it, Din kept his resolve sharp and his spirit from falling into shreds. 

But tonight, he was more than bone-weary. He was utterly exhausted, and all he wanted to do was be in his wife’s arms, hear her soothing voice, feel her soft caresses as she inspected the medic’s work. The medics may have done their best… but Omera, she would always find ways to make it better, for the wounds to somehow close faster and his pains to fade away which bacta couldn’t mend. It was not sorcerer magic, but Omera was gifted in her on way. That was why Din had always been so drawn to her.

Tonight, he was met by an empty hallway as the aide left him to his privacy—no wife to greet him or to walk astride him from a debriefing as they entered the chambers together.

Din limped further in; he looked around—the lamps were lit, the heating was on (Mandalore had cold nights this time of year), and… to his relief, the dinner was set.

No wife, however, graced the table.

Din groaned in relief as he gingerly took a seat at one end of the table. His side burned; he kept his hand there, already shed of glove and vambrace, and waited for the brief rush of agony to subside. He grimaced, closing his eyes. He leaned upon the seat’s headrest awhile, letting the harrowing memories of Keldabe melt away. Paz had offered to clean up; Bo-Katan and Fenn Rau (whose revived Skull Squadron offered air support) remained at the debriefing. It was at Paz’s urging which led Din to return to Omera halfway through the meeting. If she hadn’t shown up from the beginning, she wouldn’t do so for the rest of it—and there was an acute reason for it.

Din’s eyes flew open when he heard footsteps approach. His half-drugged vision focused on the source, and Din sighed; a weight lifted off him when Omera appeared at the other end of the dinner table.

Din stopped short of his greeting. Omera’s eyes were bloodshot as if from a thorough cry. Her beautiful raven-dark hair and clothes were disheveled. She had already shed the armor she ceremoniously wore even as she remained in the Palace as the Mand’alor took to the battlefields.

It was Omera’s grating voice which hit Din like a shard of ice. “Please eat,” she prompted him tonelessly. “Don’t mind me—I have no appetite.”

“Omera—“ Din ventured. Omera sharply turned her head away, avoiding his pleading gaze.

“I’ll sit here,” she said at length, breathing out her statement in a shuddering sob, “I’ll sit here because you’re my husband, and I still respect you…”

“Omera…” Din called to her again. He winced at how his voice sounded so fragmented and weak. He realized how more acquainted he had become with Omera’s own suffering, even before she could completely relay her side of things. 

“… and because I love you, Din, after everything—everything we’ve gone through!” Omera unleashed the words. Her voice cracked. “Especially after this… this… call I had to make.” 

A call, in this context, was a tactical decision a commanding officer had to make amidst the odds, and in some cases—because of it. 

Din was silent as he let Omera pour her enraged heart out. She shook as she spoke, visibly fighting for vestiges of self-control. Din knew this, because she could be recovering from shock. Din felt guilt wash over him, because he also knew how proud he was of his wife’s mandokar, but sadly, at her expense. Omera had carried out a decision too difficult even for a battle-born Mandalorian to execute. The responsibility behind it was crushing should things fall awry. 

Weeks beforehand, the Keldabe campaign fell into a string of countless briefings, once they had gotten word that Imperial Remnant forces were amassing an offensive to retake the old capital. Omera was present in all those meetings when they reviewed the plans over and over again… she’d joked once, when spirits were relatively high: “I’ve heard these operatives so many times, I can recite them by rote in my sleep!” She had laughed then—uneasy laughter, but Maker, his wife still smiled, wide enough so her lovely dimples showed. The radiance still lingered in her eyes.

Now, those eyes were dull, avoidant, and awash with the shackling fear of a loss which could have been, had the call she made not ended up being the staggering success it had become, to their great unfathomable fortune.

“Danger close,” Omera spat, as if drilling into Din his own awareness of the weight Omera needed to bear, of the gamble she was doing before she even realized it. “In a fatal distance from your position! Had I caught the report earlier, I wouldn’t have made the call to set an entire fire mission meant for the Imps practically right above your heads!”

Din leaned further into the headrest, studying his distraught wife. He felt disembodied as he witnessed her grief, and yet with the bond they shared between them, they both knew that Omera was duty-bound to make the call herself. There was no way out of it save for dereliction, and with it the capacity to undermine her husband’s trust.

Omera had risked an entire company when an airstrike targeted coordinates dangerously proximate to friendly troops in order to eliminate enemy forces—hence the term, danger close. “The message got to me too late!” her tirade went on. “I’ve only been informed of your situation right after I green-lit the fire mission… all I heard before the comms went down was, ‘the enemy’s in position, we got them where we need them to be!’ Comms were completely dead for a full ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life, and I know—I know the engineers have worked hard to get the comms back up, but… you told me, the enemy was in position. It was now or never, or retaking Keldabe would drain more of our resources; it could be lost to us for a long time. What I’ve not known until the last minute, when I had to give the order because you can’t, and because the comms were down—was that your own position hadn’t changed! You were pinned in place, and hadn’t relocated to a safe distance where artillery wouldn’t blow you all to bits! Oh Maker—Maker, Din!” 

Omera growled and stuttered; she quivered as her voice grew louder with every portion of her tale, until she was as good as hysterical. 

That was enough for Din to ignore his wounded state as he got up from his end of the table to limp his way to her—but Omera flinched. Din’s heart fell. Omera had deliberately shifted her own seat away from his reach, and Din was only clutching air mere inches atop her trembling frame. He could almost feel the heat of her turmoil emanate from her body.

Din couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the words, or express all of them at once—he was sorry, and yet pride overtook him, knowing his wife did what she had to do even as it went against the grain she had been raised in, among the peaceful krill ponds of Sorgan and only the annual harvest to preoccupy their minds until the Klatooinian raids happened. He knew that she knew that none of this was his fault, and he wasn’t faulting her either, but logic dissolved where emotions ran high and rampant. 

This could be a long night.

“What would happen if the fire mission failed despite danger close? You knew your position, you knew the enemy’s position, you knew mine—and that was to command Captain Fenn Rau and his squadron to fire on coordinates so close to you! And even Captain Rau had hesitated… but an order was an order. Tons of firepower a small distance from where you were crouched behind nonexistent cover, just so you could wipe the enemy out… I was going to kill my own husband—look at me, Din! (and yet her eyes remained averted)… Am I Omera, widowed again, but this time, by her own hand…?”

There, she said it; she told him what was tearing her asunder from the inside. 

Omera was a fragile leaf in a gale as she strung racing emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words as best as she could. Fresh tears and mirthless laughter wove through Omera’s feat at coherence. Din sensed that she’d finally reach the peak of her dark despondency, and the white flames of her anger were whittling to embers. Soon, he could touch her again without resistance. 

Din understood, and it hurt him deeply, yet he found Omera blameless. It was he who had kept himself and his forces in harm’s way, but the willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater good had always been the forefront of their arsenal. From the entirely challenging first year of his marriage to Omera, Din had learned how to decipher his wife—the outbursts, the occasional moments of silent treatment, the sobs of relief when he would return to her in one piece. She would then kiss and hold him as she had when he’d first offered his heart to her. 

He deciphered Omera’s grating, terrible confusion—how silly she must feel with these arguments, knowing well what she had gotten herself into when she married him, and when he made her his Queen and co-ruler over Mandalore and its neighboring worlds. She had made that pact with him, of bringing the Mando’ade together, of leading them together, and even leading them when they were physically apart. And the Mando’ade embraced the arrangement in turn, fully accepting her as their Queen, whom the Mand’alor had chosen to spend the rest of his life with whether on the throne or when that time had run its course.

Inching closer, he engulfed her in a tender, tenuous embrace. Omera was too vulnerable right now, after hitting a new level of reality. She knew as well as himself that Mandalore and its people came first, as long as Din remained their anointed leader, as long as he kept wielding the Darksaber and no one had challenged him—and his rule—for it.

If it meant losing the one she loved the most so that Mandalore continued to rise, so be it. It may sound cruel and counterproductive, as a leader usually fell with their kingdom, but not for Din Djarin. He had already planned two steps ahead for the loved ones he would leave behind, should his life end prematurely.

Omera was folded up on the chair, racked in quiet sobs. 

“Omera,” Din rasped out; it was taking his remaining strength to console her. He hadn’t slept and eaten well in days… but he needed to see to his wife’s welfare, after this awful trial by fire he had inadvertently put her through. “Y-you have to forgive me…”

His wife ceased her weeping; as if something snapped within her, she turned to him. Her eyes brimmed with fleeting concern. “Din, your voice—It’s scratched… Are you ill?”

Din smiled. With all his heart, he wanted to kiss Omera then and there. All her training, and yet the innocence borne out of her worry for him stood out to him like a flare in the dark. 

“I’ve been… screaming for all of ten minutes,” Din explained fondly, almost jokingly. “No comms, and I couldn’t get anything past a certain distance. I was yelling orders out manually. Thankfully, they all got passed down the ranks. We pulled through. Voice still got busted, though.” He had shed his helmet already beforehand; his gaze was full on her when Omera had tried to read his eyes, the shape of light in them, the shadows and this own unspoken words. 

“You’re hurt,” Omera remarked needlessly. Her expression had softened for a moment—then, to Din’s dismay, it grew distant once more.

There was a long silence again. This time, Din felt it sink well into his gut, into his system.

“Please eat,” Omera urged him one last time before she set herself to rights—dried her tears and smoothed her tunic down before she carefully rose from her seat. “See you in the morning, Din,” she whispered, resuming her cold treatment of him, but only after her beautiful almond eyes gently gave him a once-over—her lips parted. She thought twice and said nothing more.

She left him at the table alone; she had gone to their sleeping chambers as Din heard the door swish open and close in the wake of her fading footfalls.

***

Omera was startled awake by a chill in her bones.

She opened her eyes, and out of habit, she faced the side of the bed where Din should be—had he slept beside her that night.

Automatically, and in a sudden surge of loneliness, a palm reached out to smooth the empty space where her husband should be in his usual fitful, but much needed repose. 

The chill came from a half-empty bed. While there were times when Din would stay up so late in meetings or matters that needed his attention, long enough to leave his side of the bed bare before dawn, he would always return as often as he could. The bed would dent where Din’s weight pushed it down, and Omera would wake the exact moment her husband laid next to her. In a silent treaty, their foreheads met as they both returned to slumber. In a few hours, they would be up again, despite the limited hours Din had to recuperate to face another day as sole ruler.

In the past months since reclaiming Sundari, Din had been like water through a sieve—and she was the sieve. He was there yet not fully present. He was elusive even when he kissed her, but it had become dispassionate overtime. 

Omera sighed. The pillow was still wet whereupon she had cried herself to sleep that night. She didn’t need to check the chrono to reckon that it only past two in the morning. Mandalore had nineteen-hour days, lesser than most worlds and planets, but still falling in accordance to standard. Maybe, Omera thought, that was why she had felt that days flew by so quickly, and the nights were over in the blink of an eye.

She eyed the empty side of Din’s bed. Her lips quivered. 

She bit back the urge to loath herself. 

She had been horrible to Din at the dinner table. And Din, her sweet, noble, pure-hearted husband—he was simply there for her as he took all her scathing words in. She couldn’t even remember half of what she said, the burning statements she snarled out at him; she could only remember with embarrassment the blazing anger and confusion and helplessness she had meant to reel in, but ended in taking it all out on Din.

Now, in this moment of clarity hitting her like a slap, now that she knew that she may have hurt Din irrevocably and her heart had begun to hurt in turn—she recognized the rage which grew out of frustration over the situation rather than the people behind it. She had no way of channeling all the emotions that threatened to drown her in a misery she would have trouble delivering herself from. And there was Din: his kind eyes, his beautiful face, his serene disposition despite being almost taken from her by her need to momentarily command air support and artillery while comms were still running smoothly in the Palace. He was her shock absorber. And he was there for her every step of the way. And—gods, Omera felt nauseatingly dreadful. 

She was being petulant while her husband sat there, injured, patiently listening, waiting for a window to push forward and comfort her. 

Where did Din get all this self-mastery? How has being Mand’alor changed him in such an immense way, that Din the bounty hunter, Din the hunted—now held authority not only over the Mando’ade, but over his own once-turbulent soul?

Did he have any idea of the repercussions should the fire mission wipe them out with the targets? Omera knew Din had already been updating his will and testament. It was customary, Din had told her, of Mandalorian kings and queens. She shouldn’t worry about him departing this life too soon, and yet—he almost had. At least, she had thought bitterly, it would be a coveted warrior’s death.

Din’s hurt, was all her mind pondered afterwards as Omera rose from the bed, dressed herself in a robe and tied her hair up. Din was hurt, and he’s not in bed. She had to go to him, wherever he was. He should still be in the Palace. There was no way Din was still testing the limits of his mandokar after a week in a war zone.

Her steps moving out of their sleeping chambers felt like lead. Perhaps it was the guilt, the shame over last night’s hysterics which kept her from walking with her shoulders back and head up. 

The Palace seemed empty. Where were the other Mandalorians? After the Purge, there was so little of them left. Yet she had joined them, a new Mandalorian in their fold. She wasn’t Mandalorian-born, but wed to one, and through that custom, how quickly shall Mandalore rise again and be repopulated with new spouses and children?

Five steps, seven steps, nine…

She wove aimlessly down the empty halls where her footfalls echoed.

She didn’t know when her steps finally halted, but when she lifted her eyes to determine where her feet led her, she saw it was the door to one of the officers’ meeting rooms. She was surprised, however, when the door swished open—and out came Paz Vizsla, helmet perpetually on, but through his posture was visibly tired. She heard him sigh through the modulator, laced with heavy fatigue.

“Paz…” Omera called, and the heavy infantry warrior looked up to acknowledge her.

“Omera,” he answered back, his voice muted yet affable. He nodded his visored head. “It’s late. Should you not be in bed, my lady?”

Omera blushed. She could never get used to those titles, no matter how the likes of Bo-Katan herself, once so opposed to Din’s claim to the Darksaber, had convinced her that my lady was a noble title—and Omera was worthy of it. Bo-Katan had been very sincere, and very contrite.

Omera didn’t know what to reply. Her thoughts evaporated like steam.

Paz, to his credit, was no less understanding. He had been a stalwart friend to Din despite a history of scuffles and brief resentment over Din’s transgression of breaking the Creed. Paz had since forgiven him and took his place as a trusted comrade and brother-in-arms to Din in the battlefield. It was then no surprise to Omera when Paz offered, without her saying anything, “Din’s in there, my lady.” The large man motioned to the meeting room he’d just stepped out from. His deep baritone was gentle. “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Paz,” Omera greeted back as Paz nodded and disappeared down the long hall to his own quarters.

The sight which met Omera had set her heart alight and broken at the same time.

Din was on a chair by the heating vent, shed of armor and only in his flight suit—he had not even changed to clothes fit for longer downtimes. He sat up but his eyes were closed, and that was when Omera realized that Paz had probably caught his brother sleeping, and had decided to drape a huge blanket over the man. It looked almost comical—an oversized blanket over her husband, but it also made Din look so small. So… mortal.

Omera bit back a sob as she made her way to the slumbering warrior.

She couldn’t help but admire his features: both soft and sharp and wonderfully handsome. Din’s self-consciousness over showing his face was long gone. He now treated the helmet as Bo-Katan or Fenn Rau did, like a piece of armor to be worn only when necessity arose, and not as part of a fundamentalist religious pact.

Din’s face in his sleep made him look so serene, but it was the serenity of one confident in their own strength, and reliant on the strength of those around them. 

The Mand’alor felt secure in this room where battle plans were hatched, and yet—not secure in his marriage bed, with his wife.

Worry tore through Omera when she noted Din’s slightly labored breathing. There were bruises and minor gashes on his face, but not to an extent where he could be unrecognizable. The cut over his nose had already been bandaged. Omera smelled the faint scent of bacta underneath the huge blanket.

Unable to help herself, she willed her husband to wake with a loving kiss on his cheek, so close to his mouth. How she missed this sort of warmth she could bestow on him, when her heart was full and free of darkness.

Din slowly stirred awake. A breath escaped him, and he blinked. Immediately alerted to a familiar presence, Din turned to face her. Puzzlement filled the sea of brown in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected Omera to be at his side in this hour.

“Omera,” Din acknowledged his wife. The fatigue was palpable in his eyes and bled through the hoarseness of his voice. “I—I need to speak to you…”

“Right now, love?” Omera marveled at how Din could switch at once to a sort of business-like air, with both of them dressed down they were almost bare. Omera felt heat course through her body when Din had drawn his gaze over her entirety before meeting the warm depths of her eyes once more.

“Paz and I talked,” Din began, and he shifted his position so he sat up more fully. Din winced and Omera empathically winced with him as he registered the dull pain shooting through his body. “I… I know you’d want to find some peace again, after a long while.”

Omera’s brows knitted, not quite sure where Din was getting at. “Love—what are you saying?”

Din’s ever-so-gentle gaze kept her in place. His eyes were sad, so sad. Omera swallowed hard.

“He’s agreed to take you back all the way to Sorgan in two days’ time. I’ll have Skywalker and the kids know. I’ll accompany you as far as the blockade before the jump. I—I need to be on Mandalore, but you… Omera, you need to rest. I’m granting you this, and you should grant yourself that, too…”

“Din,” Omera shushed him, and she kissed him again, this time full on the lips but only for an instant. “Din—no, no. I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere…”

Omera felt her beloved’s gloveless fingers trace her cheek, then her jaw with a reverent affection she had missed so much that it ached. “You’re in need of a home now, Omera. Mandalore isn’t home. At least, not yet. Let yourself recover… I know I’ve put you through so much.”

She meant no disrespect at all, but she had chosen to deter her husband’s entreaty from sinking into her thoughts. Din loved her—oh, Omera knew that as much. But at this moment, he was being civil.

It shattered her heart even more, knowing Din was giving her a chance to reconsider their marriage, their eternal pact to each other, and he was bearing her no ill will over it. He would not judge her for it, and he would make sure that the rest of the Mando’ade would not begrudge their Queen her right to decide for herself, out of her own free will.

Omera felt those stubborn tears again. They hadn’t left her entirely since the night before. 

She felt great relief when Din accepted her embrace, and with it, a kov’nyn with foreheads pressed so close together, it could almost seem that they read each other’s thoughts. Omera wished that was so. She wanted Din to know.

“I’m staying, my love,” she whispered again, almost pleadingly. “Din—I’m so sorry about last night…”

Din was unrelenting, yet his scratched voice was compassionate. “You had every right to let me know how you felt.”

Omera nodded helplessly. She let her wet cheek grace over Din’s own, now covered in the stubble she had loved to brush her fingers over, when they still had their nights to themselves, when their marriage was raw and young. How everything leveled so quickly; how reality had set in so dizzyingly faster than a free-fall. “I could do better, my love,” she insisted. “I’m learning, still learning. You know that.”

Din had compelled her to meet his gaze without as much as a word. 

“Your welfare means so much to me,” Din added, superfluously. “Omera—you can never be happy on Mandalore, not while the war is still upon us.”

Omera had her mind set. She would hold herself accountable to it, once she’s relayed these words to Din. 

“I don’t want to be happy all the time,” she told him pointblank, her voice surprisingly calm and resolute. “Of course, happiness is a gift. I’d want to be happy—but not at the expense of us. I was scared out of my wits with that danger close call yesterday. Yes. I was so upset and hysterical. Yes. I wanted to escape that pain for a little while. Yes. But Din—I want to experience every growing pain with you. My love—Sorgan is an old life. I would love to return there, but only if you come with me. But that won’t be after a while but it doesn’t matter. Do what you need to do—and I will always be by your side.”

Din was looking at her incredulously, truly baffled that his queen would rebuff a chance at solace, when she could still afford to do so. With that bafflement came a genuine spark of joy when he smiled—small, but with a vibrancy Omera had not seen on her husband’s face for a long time.

“Now come to bed,” Omera concluded, suppressing a grin that a dimple cratered on her cheek. 

“Smooth,” Din joked with a furrowed brow, and Omera laughed—what a freeing thing to do. 

Their foreheads met once more, and before Omera knew it, Din was kissing her again with a rekindled passion that sent Omera immediately on fire. To her slight vexation, Din cut the kiss short, only for her to realize that the culprit was his pained grimace, as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Uh-oh,” Omera riposted with her own jesting air. “Looks like someone needs some TLC.”

It didn’t take much for Din’s own dimple to emerge from his stubbly cheek. “Then you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Omera feigned an aghast tone. “Do you forgive me?”

Din’s airy chuckle sent her heart dancing when he leaned forward to kiss her again. She ran her hands over his curls as he entangled his fingers over the lush length of her locks in familiar playfulness. 

“I forgive you,” he muttered in between impassioned kisses.

“Then,” Omera replied, sighing in this tender exchange, as if they were saying their wedding vows again, “I forgive you too, my love.”

Soon, the sun was high on Mandalore, and another day of unmistakable challenges was at hand.

******

Author's Notes:

Mando'a:

*Mand’alor - the sole ruler of the Mandalorian people *beskar’gam - Mandalorian suit of armor (lit. “iron skin”) *mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life. *Mando’ade - the people of Mandalore (lit. “children of Mandalore”) *kov’nyn - a head-butt; a Keldabe kiss

Wikipedia as a reference is usually frowned upon in the academe, but for fic purposes, here’s the military definition of danger close - “If the forward observer or any friendly troops are within 600 meters of the impact point, to keep themselves safe, the forward observer would declare "danger close" in this last element.” I was quite intrigued with how something like that could work in a scenario like the one in this fic. I’m not an expert but sometimes writing about Mandalorians, a people well-versed in war, has you doing a bunch of research you don’t normally do. I’m not even entirely sure if I got this right, but I was curious so I went for it. ^^ Thank you for reading!

[ejunkiet]

okay, so someone definitely recced my din djarin/reader fic the helmet stays on, as I’ve been getting a steady stream of kudos the last few days -- thank you, whoever you are?? 😂

[newpathwrites]

In honor of pride month and in an effort to promote queer rep in fandom, I'm going to post a few of the queerest excerpts from my fics throughout the month.

Here I give you:

Din coming out to Omera in my mandomera fic A New Creed. Din is also demi in this fic which is hinted at here, as well.

————————————————————

“You’re thinking loudly, love.  Anything you’d like to share?”

He looked at her strangely then, almost like he was nervous - a rare state for him.  “Uhhh… there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you… but I wasn’t sure if…”  He paused as if gathering his wits and then pressed on with a bit more confidence.  “I told Jai that I’d never had feelings for anyone else before you… but it’s not true.”

Omera wasn’t exactly surprised by this information, though it was unexpected.  Sure, Din had always insinuated that he’d not had any other romantic relationships in his life, but they hadn’t met until they were already middle aged with a lifetime of prior experiences under their belts.  Of course there were probably others.  Omera had a husband in her past who she had loved dearly, and she’d told Din quite a lot about him.  Why would Din be so nervous about sharing this with her?

“He was my best friend… as a child on Aq Vetina…”

If Omera was shocked to learn that Din had once loved a boy, she didn’t show it.  She simply smiled at him warmly as she so often did when he shared something new about himself.  “Tell me about him.”

And so he told her everything he could remember. 

He and the boy next door had become fast friends when their mothers started a communal garden on the patch of land between their two homes, and they quickly grew attached.  And though it was the innocent kind of love typical of youth, it was very much real.  The two boys spoke often of getting married one day and tending a garden of their own.  Had they both survived the attack on their settlement, maybe they would have done just that.  Din would never know.

As Din got older and never developed such feelings for anyone else, he wondered if this Mandalorian version of himself simply wasn’t built for romantic relationships… or if maybe that boy was meant to be the one great love of his life… and that Din’s only chance at happiness died with him on Aq Vetina.

It was cathartic, really, to speak out loud what this boy had meant to him after so many years holding him only in memory - and to know that his wife understood and accepted it so tacitly… that was liberating.  He’d kept this from her for so long.

His fingers slipped through her hair as he spoke, lips brushing the top of her head.  “I never looked at anyone that same way again until you.”  It had happened slowly as they’d become closer, and it had taken him by surprise when it finally manifested itself in his conscious awareness.  He hadn’t thought he was capable of falling in love again. 

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Omera replied softly.  “Do you think about him a lot?”

Din nodded, a sad smile turning somewhat brighter.  “Winta reminds me of him sometimes… with her well-intentioned schemes… spreading joy and happiness everywhere she goes…. He was like that, too.”

“Thank you for telling me about him, sweetheart.  I know it’s hard for you to talk about your childhood.”  

He kissed the top of her head in response, and she hugged him tighter.   “You make it easier.”

“Can I ask you something personal?”  She lifted herself off his torso and swiveled to face him as he gestured for her to continue with that trademark tilt of his head.  “So have you been intimate with both women and men?”

There it was again - the fear .  She could see it in his face, but he’d already decided to tell her everything it seemed.  “Yes… I don’t have a gender preference… on the very rare occasions I indulged, anyway.”  He met her eyes before adding cautiously, “Does that bother you?”

She reassured him gently with a hand to his heart and a soft smile.  “How could I not love something that’s part of who you are?”

All of his fears dissolved in that moment.  Dank farrik , this woman never ceased to amaze him.  “I’m honestly not sure why you love me in the first place… but I thank the Maker for it daily.”

Omera leaned forward to kiss him softly.  “You don’t ever have to be afraid to talk to me… about anything .”

“I know,” he replied quietly.  “I love you, Omera.  Thank you… for being you.”

“I love you, too, Din - every part.  Don’t ever doubt it.”

————————————————————

[ahaura]

person who left a wonderful thoughtful comment on my mandomera fic i love you forever and ever

[azertyrobaz]

Mandomera Week 2022: Day#7 - Forgiveness

Yay, the final prompt, I made it, and only a couple of days late! :D

You can read below or on ao3.

************

Din had the strange feeling that everybody was looking at him a little oddly when he landed with Grogu on Sorgan. It wasn’t his face, because the novelty had worn off already. And it wasn’t the boy because there again, people were used to his quirks by now. No, they were staring at him, and Din wondered if they were angry with him for some reason. Sure, he hadn’t visited for a while, more than six months, but this was sadly nothing new.

It made him feel a little uncomfortable, as he was more used to a warm welcome. They weren’t mean to him, and most still nodded their head at him and Grogu or said hello - no, it was just that look in their eye. The one that made him want to apologize immediately, even if he didn’t know what he was apologizing for.

Yet, anyway.

Because when he reached Omera’s hut, he understood immediately what all the looks had been about and what they meant.

“Oh, good, you’re here!” Winta exclaimed. “Mom wants to talk to you,” she added needlessly, as Grogu jumped into her arms, sensing an escape was for the best. The children exited the house and Din felt very much tempted to follow them but knew it wouldn’t be welcomed.

Omera busied herself preparing caf, something she always offered him when he arrived, and he hoped that was a good sign. She took her time and he observed her home without saying anything, noting the few changes. Eventually, she poured him a cup and sat down at the table with a long sigh. Din took it as a cue to do the same. They stared at each other but no one knew how to start the conversation.

“Why didn’t you comm me?” he asked in a soft voice, eyes fixed on the caf cup instead of her.

“And say what?” she replied. There was weariness in her tone but not anger.

“Hurry back?” he suggested, and she shrugged.

“I can handle it on my own, it’s not the first time,” Omera reasoned, but she also had a hard time looking at him.

“I know you can,” he agreed. “But given the welcome I received from the villagers, it doesn’t seem to be the most popular decision.”

“They gave you a hard time, huh,” she said with a teasing smile, looking more like herself, and Din felt comfort in that.

“I can handle it,” he parried back.

“I know.”

Silent stretched between them again and Din took a tentative sip of caf. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she had been tempted to add something in it, but he shouldn’t have worried – it tasted wonderful as usual. In the dark depths of his cup, he tried to find the right words to say, and explain her behavior. But they had never talked about it, so he couldn’t very well blame her.

“Were you afraid I was gonna say no?” he asked with trepidation, stealing a glance in her direction to see her reaction.

“I don’t know,” she admitted after a few tensed seconds as she pondered her answer – it hadn’t been an easy one, but he could tell it was the truth.

“I wouldn’t have,” he assured her, hoping she could similarly read the honesty in his words. “And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”

“I’m sorry too, I know I should have commed,” she exhaled deeply, taking strength in her admission, when she had nothing to apologize for as far as he was concerned. But they were finally able to look at each other directly, and a relieved sigh escaped him as she grabbed his hands over the table.

“How are you?” she asked, and he chuckled because this was such an Omera thing to do.

“How am I? How are you?” he countered, shaking his head.

“Mostly good,” she said. “But I can’t wait for it to be over.”

“And when is that gonna be?”

“Depends, how long are you staying?” she wondered, and he squeezed her hands harder.

“I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”

“Well, let’s see how tomorrow goes, then,” she joked, and slowly stood up, her very pregnant belly making it more difficult. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need to pee, and then maybe we can go tell the villagers I’ve forgiven you, because I certainly wouldn’t say no to a welcoming feast, I’m starving.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed, helping her up. He had to sit back down heavily once she’d left the room. Hopefully this bout of dizziness would stop soon, but this was a lot to take in.

Grogu was going to be so happy, he realized, his smile wide.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"To The Letter"

Type: One-shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

“The community’s grateful,” Omera told the Mandalorian one afternoon by the ponds. Indeed, the little Sorgan village is thankful for their newfound peace. Beforehand, Omera thinks that sending a heartfelt thank-you note to the silver-clad warrior is an excellent idea. Or isn’t it?

(Written for Mandomera Week 2022, second prompt: “Secrets”)

read it here or on AO3 (with author's notes)

To The Letter

“Dear Mandalorian,” Omera started speaking into one of her old, pocket-sized datapads where she logged in her thoughts. 

Until recently, all her mini datapad logs contained holiday recipes, loom weaving techniques, and instructions of handy repairs around the humble hut which she and Winta shared.

Omera released a breathy, quivering laugh. She shook out the dream-fog that plagued her head.

“Delete salutation,” Omera instructed the log. Dear Mandalorian had disappeared into a clean slate.

“To the Mandalorian,” Omera recited into the data-log device, starting anew. “T-to…”

Omera sighed. Her mind had suddenly gone blank, right from when she had erased the entire “dear”-ness towards the letter’s recipient. A bubble of frustration began to brew within her.

She cleared her throat, composed herself, and took a deep breath. Her warm voice was the solitary reverberation in the hut. She had time for herself to do this, while Winta was at school, while the Mandalorian and Cara Dune did shifts at patrol rounds, and while a village matriarch took her turn in looking after the little green child.

It’s been two standard months since Cara, the Mandalorian, and his small son were greeted by the perimeter of their farm and welcomed with open arms. Bless them—he and Cara had been very sincere in their attempts to help and uplift the village, if not for their acute pragmatism which came as a shock sometimes. They had once suggested that the villagers relocate elsewhere, as their beloved krill farm was doomed should it suffer a Klatooinian attack aided by their AT-ST assault machine. 

Omera couldn’t believe it at first, when the Mandalorian had formed a viable solution. He’d suggested with a casual air that the village can be taught how to fight, if they were willing to take up arms and train for days on end. An attempt of such a scale hadn’t befallen their village in decades—they were peaceful folk who only wished to do good business through their exceptional spotchka, which was their main means of livelihood for generations. 

The Mandalorian kept true to his word with a gravity that reflected the honor in which he had been raised. Not only had he lent his undivided attention to make sure everyone was as capable a shot as they could compared to Omera’s surprising expertise, he had lent his own weapons—dozens of hands touching the sacred objects of his religion, leaving a dozen more fingerprints upon the shiny metals from a variety of his personal munitions. 

Omera watched the way he talked, the way he moved, even the way he stood in tranquil stillness. He was precise, reserved, unpatronizing… genuine. 

His desire to help was real. He had already taken the downpayment for Cara’s own payroll, leaving nothing for himself and his child, save for food and lodging. Omera’s heart had sunken then, realizing that he had only wished for a place to lie low and think, and care for his child without the perils of the hunt and being hunted in turn—no more, and no less.

In his confidence over being able to restore the village to its post-raids state, his only valued transaction was a momentary home in exchange for his time, his blood, his sweat, his skill in the fight.

Now, in this noon hour, Omera remained stuck with her message to the Mandalorian. Cara’s had been easy; the other woman took neither flattery nor hyperbole, which Omera appreciated. She had found a friend in Cara. However, when it came to the Mandalorian…

Omera wasn’t one to curse, but this time, an ungainly swear word escaped her lips as frustration reached its peak.

“Fine,” Omera whispered to herself, relenting. “Dear Mandalorian…”

“Dearest Mandalorian and baby…”

“To our dearest Mandalorian and baby…”

“Our dearest… my dearest…”

Omera groaned, almost defeated but not quite. When she first came across the idea of a thank-you note, she thought that it was a lovely idea. She’d brought it up to Winta, and her little girl agreed with it whole-heartedly. When Omera had permitted Winta to go ahead with her own thank-yous into the log, the child went about it with an innocent ease of one unsullied by the humiliation of inadvertently saying the wrong things. 

With a tinge of good-natured envy, Omera watched and heard her child utter her own sweet words of gratitude. A child’s sincerity flowed from their heart quickly downstream, unhampered.

Then came Omera’s turn. As days passed by, dictation into the log became increasingly difficult. 

She couldn’t find the words to sort her feelings; or perhaps, she couldn’t decide on her feelings to sort out the words.

Omera was… conflicted. 

“Dearest Mandalorian…”

She remembered the way he trudged around the perimeter, unbothered like the sturdiest tree in the forest. He emanated a quiet confidence which needed no heralding or ostentation. It was ever-present like the air Sorgan breathed or the waters upon the river that shimmered under the sun, since the beginning of time. It was a confidence which inspired trust.

It was a confidence which inspired…

“Dearest Mandalorian…” Omera begun once more, for the umpteenth time.

Love. 

The Mandalorian was inspiring love… 

Omera felt discomfort and a muted horror over the epiphany, which she herself had acted as a barrier against. However, actively fighting it was affecting her clarity of mind and the serenity in her soul. If she resisted any further, she’d perceive herself a false person, unworthy of truth as she herself could not extend it. 

The truth, Omera decided, didn’t need to be paraded out in the open. If she could only be true to herself, that would be enough. All she needed to do was let all her thoughts out, starting with “Dearest Mandalorian” and all the words she wished she could tell him but couldn’t—shouldn’t. At this moment in time, it was still a very complicated thing, like a stove top too burning to the touch. 

If Omera could just let all those words out for him and yet treat all this as if no one listened, she’d find equilibrium again. The Mandalorian didn’t have to know. “To my dearest Mandalorian…

You are a force of nature, a blessing, a gift, a sign from our gods to guard our home.

When you walk around the circle of ponds, it’s as if you weave a spell of protection around it.

You keep all of us safe. You make us feel safe. We know we are safe because you made it so. You are a jewel.

And I love you for it.

I love you.”

A long silence followed as Omera felt the tears fall, as soon as she had uttered the last three words. The data-log noted it down like a faithful, automatic scribe. 

She began to feel a tremendous burden slowly lift from deep within her, but she couldn’t face herself over this tenacious, hidden confession just yet. When her many inner storms had settled, maybe she can go out in the open again and pretend she had never said those words…

Her mouth tried to utter something more. She wanted to dictate to the log… “delete last message,” but a huge part of her refused to. It was like taking her words back, her sincerity back. It would once again be a lie.

Wiping the tears, forcing out a long exhale of trapped emotions, she let her shoulders droop. She calmed the beating of her heart. It was hammering powerfully enough to knock the oxygen out of her brain, and she held her ground.

“I’ll be okay,” Omera promised herself.

Letting the draft of her secret letter to marinate in the log for a day or two, Omera stepped out of the hut to enjoy the vestiges of daylight. She had been at the log for hours. She needed to stretch her legs and check on her dearest Mandalorian and his sweet child while she’s at it.

***

“Winta!” 

Omera flitted around the hut like a caged bird all morning, flipping mats and pillows and folded laundry, tossing small household items here and there in clear search of something. “Winta, my love—have… have you seen my data-log?”

Winta was chewing porridge at the kitchen table. Her mouth was full when she replied, adding to Omera’s vexation. “Nnho, Mhama.” The little girl swallowed her food. “Mama—was that the same log with my thank-you letter in it?”

Omera wrung her hands, entangled her fingers over her braids as the plaits slowly came undone. “Y-yes. Yes. I’ve sent the log with your note to the Mandalorian. I don’t think I’ve sent mine—“ the young widow stopped short, catching her breath. 

She wouldn’t be caught telling her own daughter a lie.

Omera hadn’t been in her best mood ever since the Mandalorian, the baby, and Cara had departed the village at the same time. She and Winta had adjusted their expectations over the whole messy affair of the Mandalorian needing to be on the run again for the safety of his son. Her heart had ached so preposterously, that when she had been packing gifts for the baby which the Mandalorian took with him, she also had not been paying close attention to her actions. 

She had wanted to get over the pain of seeing father and son off, not knowing that she may have done so a little too hurriedly.

“Oh… Oh no. Maker…” Omera felt crushed as she collapsed on a wooden chair in their modest living room. Her chest heaved visibly and she seemed faint, enough for Winta to squeak and fetch her mother a tankard of water.

“Mama,” volunteered Winta at last, as Omera drank her fill, her eyes bloodshot and tired. “Mama… maybe you’ve packed it along with the baby’s gifts! It’s the tiny rectangle thing with a flap, right? I think I saw it tucked in the baby’s blanket…

Omera sat up, very attentive. Her eyes were wide as she stuttered at her daughter. “Y-yes, that one. It’s… it’s a tiny rectangle with a flap.” 

Her body turned to jelly. Her bones turned to ice.

She buried her face in her hands.

Winta was prodding at her mother. “Was your letter in there, Mama?”

Omera nodded, keeping her face shrouded in her palms, unspeaking.

Winta scooted closer to her mother. “Then why d’ya look so worried, Mama? Did you say something in the log by mistake which you weren’t able to fix?”

Omera let out a small sob; she sat still for long moments before finding the courage to peek out of her shell. 

She thought for an answer, unwittingly holding Winta close. The child, confused, simply embraced her mother back, her dark head resting under Omera’s chin. 

The young widow was learning the hard way that secrets—in one way or another—were not meant to remain so forever. Omera kissed the top of Winta’s head, resigned to her fate.

“No, my darling,” said Omera softly. “There are no mistakes.”

If Winta suddenly sported an even more baffled expression, Omera took no heed, as she felt her heart burst and she kissed her daughter’s soft crown once more.

***

The child patted his little three-fingered hands over the pocket-sized datapad with a flap on it. He wondered what that uncomfortable shape was digging into his side from among the blankets, and out of natural, immediate curiosity, the baby fished it out.

He uttered a pleasant trill which sent the Mandalorian’s visor facing towards him in the passenger’s seat. The man had been focused on the ship’s controls before then, as the Razor Crest whistled like a bolt through hyperspace.

The Mandalorian paused, intent over the object which the baby had found interest in.

“Whatcha got there, kid?” the Mandalorian inquired of the baby with ever-growing fondness. “More presents?"

The baby giggled and trilled, the magnetic pull of his huge eyes keeping the Mandalorian’s attention glued to his son.

A tiny, airy chuckle seeped through the warrior’s vocoder. “They’ve been spoiling you rotten, kid. I’ve never seen a womp rat get spoiled like you my whole life…”

The baby seemed to have other plans as his little clawed fingers played with the flap, and as soon as he pried it open, Winta’s cheerful voice filled the cockpit.

“To the dearest sweetest baby there ever was and his dad…”

The child’s ears flapped inwards and his face scrunched in delight. Winta’s thank-you message played on as the Mandalorian continued to fail at holding in a fit of tremulous laughter. That ecstatic sound was brief but tangible. The child loved his father’s laugh. He made that face again, and the Mandalorian chuckled again.

“…many many many hugs and kisses, and all the yummy frogs in the galaxy for you and all the oatcakes for your dad because you helped our village pres.. prosp… um—prosper again. That’s a big word we learned in school yesterday!”

Winta’s log-note soon came to a close, also translated in glowing little aurebesh letters as the little girl spoke her exuberant words. The child clapped, patted the little data-log once, as if to send a gesture of affection to Winta from afar.

The Mandalorian exuded one of his rare, wistful sighs (they were usually sighs of resignation). 

“That was very nice of Winta, kid. I’m sure you’d love to keep that log to tide you over while we hop around the galaxy for a little while…”

“To my dearest Mandalorian…” began a new message.

The child looked so amused when the Mandalorian’s head whipped back to the direction of the data-log, quicker than a finger snap or a flash of lightning. The man sat there on the pilot’s chair, unmoving. 

The Mandalorian had become paralyzed for an instant, his helmet tipping subtly, small movements missed if one should blink.

Then, the Mandalorian decided that hearing Omera’s voice again was a luxury he was unwilling to indulge in at the moment. He was unprepared. He swallowed hard, his breaths grew shallow, and he had sprung from his seat to carefully kneel in front of the child.

“…you keep all of us safe…” continued the young widow’s log-note, but the cockpit had grown abruptly silent when the Mandalorian had gotten hold of the device and snapped it shut.

The child cooed at his father inquisitively. He made cajoling noises of affection when the Mandalorian remained still, so still. 

Then his shoulders heaved in the wake of a tremendously strained sigh.

“I’ll be okay, kid,” said the Mandalorian at last. As an afterthought, he patted the closed log firmly with a gloved hand. 

“I know you’ll think me weird, kid,” added the man, his voice scratched with emotion. “But… I’d rather keep this a secret for a while longer…”

There was no judgment in the baby’s babbled response. The child reached out, and with surprising tenderness, laid a tiny clawed hand on top of his father’s helm.

“We’ll be okay,” the Mandalorian repeated, and the baby agreed.

****

[mandomera-week-2022]

Tomorrow!

This is it, the time has come! Mandomera Week 2022 is finally here, we can’t wait to discover what you will come up with (or already came up with if you’ve started already).

Please find the prompts here and some quick rules below, and feel free to read further on for more details.

Quick rules: Please use the hashtag #mandomeraweek2022 when you post your fanfic, art, gifset, drabble, playlist, chapter, etc. here on tumblr. There is one prompt per day of the week (7 prompts + 3 alternate prompts). You can either choose one from the General Prompts list or the NSFW Prompts list. You can even choose both! For fanfics, you can also post your writing on our ao3 collection (but no pressure!). Please remember to tag your creations properly for NSFW.

Have fun, and feel free to reach out to us here or on Discord (just drop us a line if you want access!) if you have any questions.

*You don’t have to stick to the order of the prompts if you don’t feel like it.

*You can do 1, 3, 7, 14 prompts, ALL THE PROMPTS, go wild, just have fun.

*You can still post prompt after December 4, just remember to use the hashtag #mandomeraweek2022 so that we can still reblog your creations!

*You can explore any subject but please try to stick to the two main characters, Din Djarin and Omera. You can definitely add more characters too, the more the merrier!

*For darker/nsfw themes, please tag your works properly here and on ao3 if you decide to post there.

*There is no word limit, drabbles are as welcomes as 100k multi-chaptered fics.

*Similarly, you can post sketches for art.

*We haven’t answered your question? Please reach out! :)

[poetryinmotion-author]

Oh my goodness! Thank you so much @razorcrestpitdroid​ for recommending The Clan Djarin series! And I hope you like it @wild-karrde​, because there’s a lot more to come :)

#fandomfriday The Clan Djarin series by @poetryinmotion-author. It’s an AU where Mando came to his senses and went back to Sorgan so that he can have a family with Omera, Winta, and the Child after season 1 ends. It’s a superb blend of family drama and action story. The series consist of two stories: “In the Aftermath” and the recently concluded “Sanctuary”. She has a fantastic group of OCs who support the clan of four, but I love how she developed Omera further. You can go to her A03 page (link below) or go to her Tumblr page.

Clan Djarin on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetryInMotion/pseuds/PoetryInMotion

OOOOOOH! I have to say I loved Omera and did wish we got more of her (regardless of if it was in a romantic capacity or not), so this series sounds like it absolutely scratches that itch. I'm a sucker for found family and am ready to collect some more OCs like Pokemon cards, so THANK YOU SO MUCH for submitting this rec!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

[newpathwrites]

20 Questions of Writers 📑

Thank you so much for the tag @djarinmuse !

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Technically 19, but several of those are Mandomera week drabbles that I posted separately.

2. What is your total AO3 word count?

140,976

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The Mandalorian only

4. Top Five fics by kudos:

A Marriage of Convenience

Linked

A Marriage of Convenience Ending #2

A New Creed

A Marriage of Convenience Ending #3

A bit repetitive...

5. Do you respond to comments?

Always.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I have no angsty endings. Either it ends happy, or it doesn't end at all (like I will simply never write an ending, it goes on and on...).

7. What is the fic you wrote that has the happiest ending?

All happy endings. Happiest? Probably a 3-way tie between A Marriage of Convenience, A New Creed, and Arms Wide Open.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, I've been fortunate so far.

9. Do you write smut?

Rarely, pretty non-descriptive and minimally explicit. It almost always has some sort of asexual spectrum undertones to it, too. See question #16.

10. Craziest crossover?

I haven't done any crossovers.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not. If so, I remain blissfully unaware.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, and honestly, I don't think I'm capable of doing such a thing.

14. All time favorite ship?

My first and favorite ship ever is obscure - Colleen and Andrew from Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. I think I enjoyed that Andrew supported Colleen's plans to become a doctor and appreciated her skills in a time when women were not respected in medicine. Guess what I do for a living...

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The only one I may not ever find the motivation to finish is Trusted Friend which I started for a DinBo challenge - it's a stretch for me because it's planned to be a very smutty, friends-with-benefits kind of thing. It's just not quite as personal to me as my other fics which are more based in my own experiences.

16. What are your writing strengths?

For sure nonsexual and nonromantic intimacy. I started writing to represent the diversity of asexual and aromantic experiences which I don't see in this fandom, and I think I do it pretty well. My fics run the gamut from conventional romantic/sexual relationship to QPR to platonic partnership, and they all have some basis in my own life (or my own fantasy scenarios).

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I definitely rush to get it out once I start writing, and I feel some of my fics read a bit choppy. I also tend to go too heavy on dialogue.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I personally find it a little distracting, so I don't do it. Just an occasional Mando'a endearment.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

The Mandalorian

20. Favorite fic you've written?

This is hard, but I have to say A Marriage of Convenience which depicts a non-sexual, intimate QPR. This was my first fic which I literally wrote during a time of crisis IRL to portray the kind of marriage I wish I could have had (if I'd understood my aroace identity). I've explored so many aspects of asexuality in particular in that fic, especially relating to physical intimacy, and I've gotten amazingly satisfying feedback on it. I even wrote two alternate endings to explore how sex might fit into that relationship structure which was a really fun exercise, too.

That was fun!

Low pressure tags - sorry if you've already been tagged on this! @the-kittylorian-writes @sytortuga @grogusmum @aithnesroses @court-jobi

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Get To Know Me

Thanks for the tag, @oh-great-authoress

Currently Reading:

Book? Technically the last Trials of Apollo book by Rick Riordan but I haven’t had the motivation or spoons to finish it since it came out really. I’m maybe one third of the way through. Fanfiction? Nothing but hellcheer (and the occasional Steve/Eddie/Chrissy fic because fuck the ship war. Just ship em all together! Eddie has two hands!)

Favorite Color:

Purple and red

Last Song:

Tiny Voices by Bad Religion. I’ve kinda just been listening to the whole Stranger Than Fiction album but that happens to be the last song on it I listened to

Last Movie:

The Batman!

Sweet/Savory/Spicy

Savory, definitely. I can’t handle too sweet and the whitest thing about me is the fact that I can’t handle spice

Currently Working On:

*sigh* I’m trying to finish a Mandomera ficlet I started back in like beginning of last year but the motivation/inspiration just hasn’t been there. I don’t even have the motivation to write any new quinnflag ficlets

Tagging:

Let’s go with @foxlace and @amariemelody

[ahaura]

also im thinking about starting on the mandomera fic again...

[azertyrobaz]

Mandomera Week 2022: Day#5 - Possessive

A day late with this one, but it’s extra long! Delving again in the NSFW prompts while not making it NSFW at all (sorry about that again). Hope you’re still having fun with this Mandomera week!

You can read below or on ao3.

************

“There’s someone new at the village,” Winta told him brightly just after they’d arrived with Grogu. She’d been the first to greet them, as was her custom, and his little boy immediately jumped into her arms with a happy coo.

“Everybody seems to like him, he’s Stoke’s cousin or something, but I think he’s a bit strange,” the girl carried on as they made their way to the village.

“Strange how?” Din asked, already on his guard. He hadn’t visited for a few months and he’d never liked surprises. It would be just his luck for a dangerous stranger to show up in the peaceful village, though he had to remind himself he’d been that person once, too.

But this was different.

“I don’t know, he’s always extra cheerful,” she said, and Din wondered how cheerful that person had to be for Winta of all people to take offense. That sounded pretty harmless. “And he’s always trying to talk to mom and I think she finds it a bit annoying.”

No, this wasn’t harmless at all, and Din resisted the urge to use the jetpack to get to the village faster.

“What’s his name?” he wondered through gritted teeth.

“Jeff.”

Din quickly realized that this Jeff was a nightmare. He was handsome, he was chatty, and everybody wanted his attention. But the one person whose attention he wanted the most, Omera, was proving to be not too receptive to his winning attitude.

“Is he bothering you?” Din felt bound to ask her that very evening, after he’d observed him following her around all afternoon as she was working.

“I can handle him, he’s inoffensive,” she replied, unbothered.

It was in those moments that he wished he’d found the courage to remove his helmet in public. This was still strictly limited to Omera’s hut, and only her and Winta had seen his face. He was getting there, though. And he hoped it would make things easier for Omera, too, since they’d both decided they didn’t need to advertise their relationship either since it was no one’s business – Omera had told him repeatedly that everybody already knew anyway.

“Come to bed,” she urged him later still, aware that he’d been unable to shift this Jeff from his thoughts but with a clear goal in her mind to remedy the situation – and she proved absolutely right.

Up until the next morning.

“So, you’re the Mandalorian?”

Din looked up from his task, feeding Grogu his breakfast on Omera’s porch, because the boy had woken up absurdly early and he didn’t want to bother the other occupants who were still sleeping inside.

“Yes,” he replied simply, and wondered why he had even bothered to answer – wasn’t that obvious enough?

“People here have a lot to say about you,” Jeff carried on, and this time Din stayed silent. Maybe the man would realize he was hoping for a quiet moment with his son. And also the opportunity to drink his caf in peace.

“They all really love you,” he said, in a tone he couldn’t decipher. Was he imagining the jealousy he detected there? Probably. Omera had almost managed to convince him that he shouldn’t pay attention to him or feel threatened.

“So you’re staying at Omera’s while you’re here? Do you visit often?”

Almost.

“Yes,” he said again, just about preventing a long suffering sigh from escaping him.

“Bwah bah da!” Grogu added, which was indeed a great point, and Din handed him some more bread.

“It’s too bad you can’t take off that helmet, it’s going to be a beautiful day, I can tell. A scorcher really!” Jeff pointed out, looking at the already bright blue sky. Din felt tempted to remark that he certainly hadn’t been wearing his helmet earlier when he’d left Omera’s bed, but he didn’t want to resort to such crass tactics.

No, the silent treatment was better.

“So what do you usually do when you come here, do you just visit?”

“Mmh,” Din replied noncommitally. Could he just leave him alone already?

“I used to come here as a child, but I’m thinking of settling down permanently, it’s just so peaceful, don’t you think?”

Din handed Grogu some more bread with dried fruits – that child was having a very big breakfast.

“I haven’t decided yet, but it certainly has a lot to offer, and the people are just so nice. It’s a wonderful place to raise a family.”

Had he remembered to replace the fuel in his flame-thrower before he left the ship yesterday? He usually didn’t need it here, but there could be exceptions.

“So how well do you know Omera? Some people here seem to be implying that you’re…” but he didn’t finish.

“That we’re what?” Din pressed.

“Well, that’s none of my business, really.”

It really wasn’t.

“Boo, patu!” interrupted Grogu.

“He wants to go play, I’ll leave you to it,” Din said, standing up. Who knew what the child had meant, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. Jeff nodded, even if he clearly hadn’t been done with their conversation, and Din breathed a sigh of relief once he was back inside Omera’s hut.

Maybe he should try to talk to Stoke, and convince him Sorgan was not such a great place for his cousin to settle down. Or maybe he should just leave it alone, it wasn’t his business either. Who was he to dictate anyone’s actions? Especially when he was just a visitor, here. A regular one, yes, but even in Omera’s case, maybe she wouldn’t mind more stability, maybe someone like Jeff was exactly –

“Don’t tell me you’re still brooding over Stoke’s cousin,” Omera sighed when she arrived in the kitchen to pour herself a cup of caf. Din had been sitting very still at the table, observing Grogu as he studiously stacked wooden blocks in front of him. Was he really that transparent?

“Why do you think he wants to settle down in Sorgan?” he asked.

“I don’t know, it’s a nice place, isn’t it? What’s not to like?” she shrugged, sitting down in front of him and obviously not completely awake yet.

“Don’t you think he has any ulterior motive?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” but very much like Jeff earlier, he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Din,” Omera replied patiently, “he’s been chatting up all the single women in the village, not just me. He’s really not that hard to figure out.”

“Do you consider yourself single then?”

“No, who said I was?”

“You just said – ”

“Good morning!” Winta beamed, and Grogu immediately perked up at the sound of the girl’s voice, discarding his game.

Omera and Din stared at each other and silently agreed that they should pick up that conversation again later.

Din was distracted for the rest of the day, and kept wondering what he should do. Maybe Omera wanted something else. Maybe he should do the right thing and let her get on with her life. But he did want to commit to her. It was her or no one else. Would she be okay with that kind of life, though? Sure, he hoped that one day he could offer her more, but would that ever be enough?

He mechanically went through the motions and helped out the krill farmers, loading heavy baskets under the hot sun. Jeff had been right – it was a scorcher, but he was used to work in uncomfortable conditions with his armor. Still, that didn’t mean he wished he could –

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” murmured Omera as she handed him yet another basket.

Exclamations had risen around them and Din quickly realized what had prompted them – Jeff had decided that since it was such a hot day, it meant it was okay to take his top off while he worked. His smooth, unblemished skin and lean figure had already earned him a few keen looks from women and men alike. Din rolled his eyes behind his visor and gritted his teeth – this was silly behavior, he wouldn’t rise to the challenge or even make any remark. Ignore him, that was the best strategy. And possibly have a glass of spotchka or five that evening. He grumbled and went back to work.

“Please don’t tell me you’re contemplating parading half naked just to prove a point,” Omera whispered a few minutes later, standing close to him.

“I’m not,” he replied, piling baskets with a little more force than necessary.

“Good, I don’t feel like sharing,” she said with a teasing smile, before moving to the next pond. Din squared his shoulders and immediately felt better about his scarred skin and beefy arms.

Sadly, his confidence didn’t last, and when he returned late that afternoon from taking Grogu and Winta for a well-deserved soak at the lake to give Omera an equally well-deserved break, she greeted him with the words he’d dreaded to hear since he arrived.

“Jeff invited me to have dinner with him this evening.”

“And you said…”

“No, of course!” she quickly replied, surprised. “Why would I accept such a proposal?”

Din shrugged, unable to come up with a valid answer, and Omera frowned some more. Soon, the children grabbed their attention, and they forgot about the very serious conversation they needed to have for a while. If it had been up to Din only, he would have gladly ignored it, but since Omera was far more pragmatic and comfortable with speaking her mind, this time she said the words he’d dreaded to hear ever since he returned to Sorgan.

“We need to talk.”

The kids were in bed, and he had no other distraction at the ready – he couldn’t very well refuse.

“Sure,” he agreed, schooling his features to appear unconcerned. It was such a struggle sometimes to not have his helmet to hide behind. But in this case, it actually proved helpful, since it allowed Omera to see how nervous he was, which was a rare occurrence.

“What’s really been bothering you?” she wondered, sitting next to him on the cushions. Din took his time pouring her a glass of spotchka, which she gladly accepted. But he still hadn’t managed to put his answer into words she would understand. Instead, he resorted to bluntness, which had always been the way he dealt with stressful situations in the past.

“Do you want to get married?”

“Right now?”

“Soon?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, thinking over her answer calmly, which amazed Din. “I’ve already been married once, I’m not sure I want to do it again, at least not for a while.”

“So what would you want instead?”

“From what?”

“From…me? Us?” he replied over the lump in his throat as his stomach also turned into knots.

Omera sipped her spotchka and looked around the room. She seemed utterly confident and untroubled by the very serious turn of their conversation. A conversation she had asked for, after all.

“Do you think I should get married? Do you think having a husband would make my life and Winta’s life better or easier?”

“You seem to be coping just fine,” he acknowledged, wondering where she was taking this.

“I think so too,” she agreed. “Would you want that for me, then? A husband? Living here with me and Winta all day, every day?”

“Well, it would mean I probably couldn’t visit anymore,” he smiled.

“That would make things a bit awkward, yes,” Omera nodded, smiling as well. She put her empty glass on the table and took his hands in hers.

“I don’t need a husband, Din,” she told him pointedly, looking straight into his eyes. “But if I ever want one, it would be you, and no one else.”

“So you don’t consider yourself single,” he made sure.

“Absolutely not, my heart is very much taken.”

Din closed his eyes briefly – her words filled him with joy and longing.

“And you don’t mind that I only visit every once in a while?”

“Like I said, I don’t need a husband. But I’d love it if you visited more.”

“I can do that,” he agreed. Yes, he could definitely do that. And he knew Grogu would also be in favor of more trips to Sorgan.

“So can we please not mention Jeff again tonight and have another glass of spotchka instead? Then go to bed?”

“Yes,” Din said.

The next day, he made an important decision, one he’d wanted to make for a long time – he’d only been missing a little push, one Omera had unwittingly provided when she’d confided her heart belonged to him. Which meant he also belonged there, even if he didn’t live on Sorgan all the time. He was home, so he’d better start behaving like he did.

“I told you he would be extremely handsome,” he heard someone whisper as he walked past to reach the next pond. “Omera is one very luck woman.”

Din paid no attention to all the other whispers after that – and there were many. But that was okay, the novelty would wear off after a couple of days, and it was decidedly more comfortable to harvest krill without his helmet or armor. He didn’t even have to resort to removing his shirt, which was definitely a plus. No, that hadn’t been necessary to captivate everybody’s attention for a while. That and making sure no one was caring about Jeff anymore.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"Priceless"

Type: One-shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

Din takes Omera to one of his most memorable getaway spots, inspired by fond memories with his adoptive Mandalorian father. But once they’ve reached Niamos, Din starts to regret taking his soon-to-be-wife there… 

[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, fifth prompt: “Vacation”]

read it here or on AO3 (with author's notes)

Priceless

“Call it a birthday present!” Greef Karga prodded, his face ruddy with elation over Din Djarin’s latest visit to Nevarro. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Din had brought a very lovely lady friend as well. 

Din’s voice was flat. “You don’t know my exact birthday.”

Greef cleared his throat, unbothered. “Well, is it today? Is it tomorrow? Was it three weeks ago or will it be three months from now?” He heartily chuckled over his own wisecrack. His beefy hand cordially patted Din so hard on the back, Din sucked in air, tightening his core to keep himself from toppling over. “It doesn’t matter. Call it an advanced or belated birthday gift. I insist! You know I’ll always be your good friend, Mando. And… won’t a good friend be further graced with the honor of an introduction?”

Karga’s grin widened and his eyes softened as Din followed the older man’s gaze, which landed on a resplendent Omera by his side. Din’s heart always did ten riotous backflips whenever he’d land his own gaze on her. Under the Nevarro heat and sky, she was as radiant as ever. Her dark hair was knotted in plaits that cascaded down her back, and her skin the shade of nutmeg was bronzed so beautifully in the fading light of day.

Din sighed. Before he could even make a move to introduce Omera, Greef had excitedly taken him aside, with a polite nod to Omera, and began singing Din his praises, how he’s missed his best bounty hunter “but that was old times,” and how he’s missed “the little green baby with the magic hand thing,” et cetera and so on. Greef was extraordinarily chatty and in very high spirits. Half a standard year had passed since they’ve had their last crime committed on Nevarro, and it hadn’t even been a grave offense. It was a miracle streak unheard of in these parts before.

“Marshall Dune’s been busy,’ exulted the magistrate earlier. “She’s wanting to extend her reach to one of Nevarro’s moons to clean up so I’ve sent her there. Cara’s stationed herself there awhile, and she’ll probably ignore my message of your visit until she’s done. Laser focus and all that good stuff. It’ll take a few days. I’m sure you’d want to preoccupy yourselves in the meantime!”

Thus, Greef Karga had offered an all-expense paid trip to anywhere among the galaxy’s hotspots; there was a ceiling to the amount and distance, of course. Even then, Din had thought it seemed too bloated an offer. While already generous, Greef was making an offer for a trip for two. Magistrate Karga was very indulgent, especially when Din had chosen to visit wearing only light armor… and with a bare face. It was a giant leap of faith and act of trust, so Greef bounced off the walls, basking under the honor the Mandalorian had chosen to bestow on him.

…Which arrived to this moment when Omera—after noting Din’s tongue-tied dilemma, naked face beet-red, and giving Greef a bright, tender smile—stepped forth, extended a hand, and introduced herself. “Omera,” she said in companionable ease, her musical voice like rich, mulled wine, “from Sorgan, magistrate Karga.”

Greef was over the moon. Omera giggled when he’d planted a gentleman’s kiss on her knuckles, and gave her hand a warm, fatherly pat. 

Din nearly choked on his own breath when Karga concluded their reunion, and sealed the deal regarding the trip with a: “All right then—I’ll call it an advanced wedding present!” 

The magistrate roared out a belly-deep laugh, sending Din further into a silent and red-faced oblivion.

****

Niamos.

It’s been more than twenty years since he’d been to the planet, and that was when he was a young teenager by his adoptive Mandalorian father’s side. 

Greef Karga had allowed him time to decide on a destination. Omera wasn’t very well-traveled, and that alone sent Din’s mind into paralysis at the presence of so many options. Din, in stark contrast, was very well-traveled, at least to the outskirts of the Mid Rim and to most of the Outer Rim. 

Din was seventeen when his buir had taken him on an exposure trip to Niamos with the Tribe’s permission (not easy to get). It was what his father dubbed a “working vacation.” While Din’s buir scouted the planet for future client prospects who could use the services of skilled warriors for tasks that needed heavily armed manpower, Din only accompanied him when needed, but mostly, Din kept to his own devices. At the end of the trip, however, they had quality time as father and son, just the two of them—and it had been such a wonderful time, a fun interlude from Fighting Corps training, that it had lingered willingly in Din’s mind. To this day, it remained one of his fondest memories with his buir, and with Niamos by association.

Din recalled the tall palm trees that skirted the beaches for miles and miles. It was paradise where only a few wealthy personages made their sojourn. There had been nothing on Niamos then that spelled the lavishness of Canto Bight or the chaotic extravagance of the likes of Coruscant. 

The air was fresh and the waves which kissed the shores were clear. There had only been two main hotels miles apart from each other, one of which Din and his father had stayed for a full week. Niamos was only beginning to flourish as a hotspot. The various fauna didn’t shy away from the vacationers; the flora sprung aplenty. Din had even felt so much grass on his toes on his way to the hotel once, when he’d taken off his boots to wade in the ocean water.

There were also mountains far away. A seeming lifetime ago, Din could see their solid outlines from where he’d stood on the beach. 

Now, the outlines of those peaks only appeared at a certain time of day, when the smog abated from the worsening traffic. 

He and Omera hadn’t set foot on Niamos for an hour, and Din was already miserable.

“It was nowhere like this the last time I’ve come here,” Din muttered, darkly disappointed.

Omera laid a compassionate hand on Din’s arm as they elbowed their way through the thick crowds of tourists milling across the cramped and noisy beaches. There was crass laughter, yelling and tomfoolery, and the blaring of loud, bludgeoning music everywhere. 

Din was devastated, tempered to remain in his best behavior while in Omera’s presence. “There’d been no trash by the shoreline,” he grunted low, appalled. “Vendors weren’t even allowed this close to the coast. You can only take food as far as the amphitheater. Hardly any garbage to sweep at the end of the day because people actually knew what they were doing. Spoiled rich kids aside—they actually cared about Niamos…” then he finally sighed, defeated. “…once.”

Omera’s voice was soft and kind when she sought conversation with her beloved. “Wasn’t that during the time of the Empire?” 

They had mustered the sacred closeness of being able to confide in matters once so sensitive to the other. 

Din shook his head once, crestfallen. “That was before the Empire had fully sequestered it. The wealthy were still able to buy the Imps off, until one day, deals didn’t fall through. Good thing my father had brought me here before things went down. I just—“ He shook his head again, sullen and speechless. 

He should have known. The brochure Din had acquired over the HoloNet was rife with false advertising, only showcasing images from when Niamos was still mostly pristine, from how Din had remembered it. He should have known before he sold the idea to Omera.

And dearest Omera… she had agreed whole-heartedly. She seemed so excited; this was a frontier experience for her. But the ugly contrast of the Niamos of his adolescence and the Niamos now, post-Empire, had crushed him. This is what happens, Din thought, when he gives in to sentiment. This was not the same place he and his father had gallivanted on, all those years ago. 

He should have known.

“Did you want to go back to the hotel, love?” Omera suggested amiably. Din flinched at how his beloved was taking everything in stride, gathering special pains to cheer him up, when it was he who should be bringing her joy during these moments of supposed solace.

Not when he’d found the courage at last to propose to her.

Here, in Niamos? In this tourist trap that was once a crystal blue paradise? He swallowed hard. 

Din released a breath, letting tension melt away. Omera’s touch was very reassuring, comforting. He draped a hand over her own which was clutching at his arm like the felt-coated claws of a sapphire-blue Niamos seagull. 

Din shook his head in response. He’d take this responsibility. Besides, it’d be disrespectful to Greef, who’d probably spent most of his own magistrate’s salary to make sure Din and Omera had a great time. They couldn’t just up and leave, cut the trip short and say that because things on their chosen destination have changed, they’d decided to give up on this gift.

“We’ll try to make the most of it,” Din whispered so close to Omera that their foreheads met, as they strolled past a group of rowdy Rodians in the middle of a toast. “If… if that’s what you want…”

Din could almost see Omera’s sweet dimple crest over her cheek as his beloved spoke. “Yes, my love,” she acquiesced. “I’d want that… as long as it’s with you.”

****

Din couldn’t find the appeal in the blaring casino chambers, or the fun in the light-up dance floor that could conjure up a seizure for the most unsuspecting and sensitive of individuals, or even the small cocktails Omera had picked for them with tiny, glimmering umbrellas, which barely had a kick. It was watered down, bland and cheerless, and it had cost twenty-five credits each.

Omera wanted to use the more well-maintained freshers; she had told Din, reluctantly, that getting into those cleaner facilities had cost her fifteen credits. Din insisted; he only ever wished to make her stay on Niamos comfortable and—by the gods—sanitary. They would have opted to return to the hotel, but the blinking fee sign at the freshers’ had caught Omera by surprise that she had been ambushed to pay by a Mon Calamari custodian before she could head back to Din.

The seventy credit’s worth of sandwiches lacked flavor. The fifty-credit dessert was too cloying; Din sadly left half of it uneaten. His palette had changed greatly over the years after long periods subsisting on ration bars.

When a waiting Toydarian doorkeeper had charged them both to pass through the back alleyway, which led to the less unruly areas of the city proper without having to go around the coast had they exited from where they’d initially come in, Din had had about enough.

“It won’t be long until they’ll start charging for the very air we breath,” he grumbled, frustrated and quite emotionally tired. Not only were they charged every step of the way, they were charged an obscenely expensive amount.

Omera shushed him, soothed him; she laid her plaited head on his arm. 

“We’ll head back to Nevarro tomorrow, love,” she suggested, bearing no judgment in her tone. “I’ll tell the good magistrate everything. In fact—“ her smile widened, pearly teeth in full view, and Din was mesmerized. “Greef might even arrange a full refund of our trip, knowing we’ve been deceived by the advertising. He’d probably even issue a rain check for another trip; he seems a man of his word where it counts, love. You’ve also told me many times that he does have powers of persuasion!”

Din sighed again, a bone-deep one. He closed his eyes. He planted a soft kiss on Omera’s head, still leaning towards him in loving proximity borne out of trust.

He didn’t deserve all of Omera’s patience, kindness, fortitude… not while all he did was complain and wail over spilled milk. 

Those amazing memories he’s had with his father—that was all they will ever be, not that his buir was long-gone. Niamos wouldn’t suddenly transform magically into the old paradise overnight just to accommodate his whims.

Only memories now… He and his buir racing the entire length of the shoreline in full Mandalorian regalia and with no one batting an eye as their booted feet added real challenge to the run… with him reaching the finish line out of breath and so revitalized, laughing until his sides ached as his father caught up, winded and jokingly growling out obscenities… And that memory of him and his father in the shooting gallery by the vibrantly lit carousel—now since dismantled—hitting each target and winning each prize, their helmets glinting under the bright crimson and spring-green lights; they’d donated the prizes to the waiting line of delighted children behind them. 

There was he and his buir locked in their hotel room distracting themselves with a game of Cubikahd as they fleetingly shoved food in their mouths with their helmets left unshed, and they’d also slept with their helmets on. One can never be too sure even within the privacy of a public resort.

But there was one particular memory which Din had held the most dear to his heart.

It couldn’t have been too sullied like the Niamos coastline, which held most of the infrastructure and bulk of activity. The sun was setting and trash piled in the amphitheaters. Din shuddered. He didn’t want to stay along this tarnished shoreline another minute longer. He’d take the gamble. He was ballasted by the solid feel of the tiny felt box buried deep in one of his trouser pockets.

“Omera,” Din offered, voice firm. “I—I’d like to take you somewhere… and cross your fingers that it’s still somehow the way it was since I’ve last seen it.”

Omera giggled. She closed the gap as their foreheads met. “Okay. Lead the way, Din.”

****

The hover-shuttle trip cost a hundred kriffing credits, and to Din’s dismay, the stop was still a mile away from the foot of the mountains—where he had gained the last of his sacrosanct memories with his buir on their final day on Niamos, before Din headed back to Fighting Corps training with Paz Vizsla and the rest.

“Upsy-daisy,” Din urged Omera with a glint in his eye as he bent low enough for her to clamber on his back for a piggy-back ride. “It’s going to be a hell of a walk, Omera, and I wouldn’t want you too tired before we reached the top.”

“Oh, quit that,” Omera chided him, blushing hard. But Din was being too endearing; with some reluctance, Omera gave in. “But just for half a mile. I’d walk through the rest,” was the bargain. Din agreed.

There was no one else around. Tiny roadside lamps were the only source of illumination that snaked from the lone shuttle station to the mountains. It seemed deserted enough… perhaps no one else had the mind to give up the creature comforts of the capital for a grueling hike in the middle of nowhere. This was a part of Niamos Din hoped the damning hand of enterprising civilization hadn’t smitten yet. 

The trek to the mountains was made in comfortable silence, with Omera resting her head on Din’s back as he diligently trudged forward. His breathing was unstrained, making Omera further realize how physically fit Din was. She herself was no dainty glass doll, and can withstand hard labor… but Din was indeed something else. He was a tank when it mattered.

Omera buried her face further into the folds of Din’s rough-spun tunic, taking in his woodsy scent. She held him closer; Din’s breathing hitched a little, and she smiled.

As promised, by the half-mile mark, Omera climbed off the piggy-back ride. She made a jest of having Din clamber on her back for a ride this time, and Din had chuckled so hard Omera wished the day wouldn’t end. The sun had already set, in fact. The brilliance of Niamos’ moons filled the expanse; the tall rock formations glowed like upturned icicles under pale moonlight.

“This mountain’s peak is called the Rainbow Shard,” Din began, breaking the silence as they plowed forward the rest of the mile, hand in hand. For Omera, this was more than she could ask for—a great improvement from a Din who would shy away from affection and touch, and now—sans helmet in the duration of the trip, welcoming of her touches and embraces—Omera only marveled at his tremendous transformation. Patiently, she listened on. How she loved her noble-hearted Mandalorian.

“My father had egged me on to race him to the top. It’s actually not a tricky hike, but it had its obstacles. He made sure I used a good amount of grappling cord before I barely beat him to the Rainbow Shard. I’ve won by six seconds.” The fondness in Din’s smooth baritone was like a calming song. Omera dared not break the spell. Din chuckled. “To this day, I still believe he let me win.”

“Why is it called the Rainbow Shard?” Omera inquired, genuinely curious and reverential to Din’s treasured memory.

There was a smile in Din’s voice. His head was bent low. “You’ll see.”

“Din,” Omera said at length, “you’re not making me piggy-back on you again while we get to the Shard…”

Din fought off a playful pinch on his side from Omera’s vengeful fingers when he’d responded with a, “…then we’d never get there.”

But they did reach the peak, with Omera holding Din close again in piggy-back as he tirelessly hiked up the mountain path which led to the Rainbow Shard. 

He set her down, and she climbed off; there was no sound but the soft whistling winds. Even at the top, the climate was mild. There was a traceable chill in the air. 

“Niamos has moons that reach their dark cycles every five years’ time,” Din explained. “And we’ve made it just in time before another dark cycle begins. When my father and I visited, the moons had just gone through their dark cycle, making way to full moonlight in turn, for a few years. It was a timely trip, and I’m pretty sure my dad scheduled it that way so I can have a glimpse of the Shard in its glory—“

As if on cue, the moons reached a majestic summit so that a huge rush of brilliance filled the place—and then, the glimmering sandstone in the rock beds began to reflect the light, and in the process, broke light apart into a thousand spectrums, and minuscule rainbows shimmered all around them.

“—just as how you see it now,” Din punctuated, and he held back a moment’s desire to preen. He did hit perfect timing, and Omera was agape in ceaseless wonder. 

She walked a few paces away from him so that she could absorb everything; she held her hands aloft as if to cradle the thousand glittering rainbow lights. They reflected on her bronze skin, over the silkiness of her hair, and when she looked up at Din—and that took Din’s breath away—those tiny rainbows danced in her eyes, enough to move Din close to tears of joy.

The last time he was ever this emotional was when he’d given up Grogu to the Jedi in the meantime for his schooling, but his son had reunited with him since then. The child and Winta were safely tucked in Sorgan; Din and Omera had time in their hands for each other, even for a little while.

Din stilled his quivering breaths as he reached for the felt box in a trouser pocket as he carefully made his way to Omera. He wanted to commit her enchanting smile to memory as she giggled like a child again, letting the lights play on her open palms. 

He had taken the box out of his pocket, and he was moving closer, closer. 

Omera continued to be blissfully distracted by the wonders of the Rainbow Shard in full force, under encompassing light of the moons.

“Omera…” Din finally called her attention.

Omera lifted her crystalline-agate eyes so that they met his… and her brows furrowed for a split-second before she discovered that Din was much lower than her eye level—as the man was on the rock, bent on one knee, and was holding up a newly opened jewelry box…

Omera’s head spun. Her world was in a standstill. She held her breath, and her heartbeat pummeled her from within with a wondrous, euphoric force.

Din had posed the question so steadily; he had built his nerves and she had rewarded him with a yes—of course it was a yes!—and suddenly she was sobbing. She flung herself into Din’s arms just as when he had slid the many-faceted bejeweled ring of mixed beskar onto a finger. He had hinted to her months before that Mandalorian wedding rings were forged from pure beskar should they choose to wear them. Many Mandalorian marriages of old had held strong and fast, wedding rings or none. When a Mandalorian had made up their mind on matrimony, it was a lifelong vow, so much like the Resol’nare in deep respect for their chosen spouse.

Omera was still sobbing, chanting her yes’es like a mantra, eyes shut as her tears flowed freely.

Then they hungrily leaned into each other for a lingering kiss, one passionate enough to render them both breathless. It was a slow and relished dance of mouths, noses, and physical maneuvers, hands boldly venturing and exploring in a tangle of sighs and quiet laugher, until Omera was gleefully in tears again. She’d embraced Din once more.

Din held Omera back ever so tightly. He’d almost completely forgotten his horrible experiences earlier over at the Niamos’ capital, where everything had a price, and one thing would cost so much more than the other.

Here, upon the Rainbow Shard, no price can ever be placed on this hallowed moment. He’d pay a billion credits ten times over for it—but thankfully, all Din had to pay was the hover-shuttle back to the capital, so he and his beautiful fiancé can celebrate quietly in their hotel room, and if he can teach Omera some makeshift Cubikahd while savoring dinner in bed—why not?

****

Greef Karga had fallen into a flurry of misty-eyed babbling that for a moment, Cara thought he’d instantaneously burst out in huge tears as soon as Omera showed him the engagement ring.

True to Omera’s word, she and Din did return to Nevarro the next day, and sincerely relayed their not-so-grand experiences on Niamos to the good magistrate. Greef had been graciously dismissive over the affair; so once more, Omera had been right—he had been issued a partial refund, at least, but that was better than nothing. Greef made a swift holo-call, and was very terse yet pleasant over the proceedings. Cara admitted she wouldn’t have kept her cool once she’s realized she’d been ripped off by a trip which a brochure boasted was completely worth the time.

In hindsight, although their Niamos trip was cut short… Omera and Din couldn’t deny that in spite of the setbacks, the trip had indeed been worth their hard-earned time, breaking away from responsibilities of krill farming and child-rearing (among many others) for a precious instant.

“Congratulations!” Cara beamed, and she’d gathered both of them in a crushing hug (much to Din’s chagrin). “So… are we having the wedding now, while we have a weeping magistrate at our disposal, you two lovebirds you?”

Din aired out a rather uneasy chuckle. Omera seemed to have understood him completely, so she replied for him with a dimpled giggle. 

“Maybe after we’ve saved up a bit more—we mean, not just for the wedding but… for married life in general.”

Cara’s own dimpled smile was aglow. “Of course. Not that I know anything about marriage and all that jazz… but really, what you and our dearest buckethead boy have with each other—it’s surreal. It’s damn priceless!”

*****