#original foundling characters

[shadowphantomreaper]

Corvina Briggs of Clan Briggs Mandalorian Drifter

[drawboo22]

My Mandalorian character for a SW5E game I’ll be playing…eventually. She’s a Dathomirian Nightsister who was found by a Mandalorian and, well, “this is the way” actually has nothing to do with taking off your helmet and everything to do with adopting the first orphan you find.

[blackat-t7t]

I'm glad people are vibing with daddy kink Dogma

That was an idea that came to me when I was rotating my young-mandalor-Jango-gets-time-traveled-to-the-clone-wars AU in my head. Every time I poke at it, I end up shipping him with someone else. There are at least 4 versions now.

Anyway, in this version Jango is on Kamino planning how he's going to help end the war so he can take his whole clan of clones back to Mandalore, and he visits the clones that are in prison and hears Dogma's story about Umbara and Krell

And Jango's like "when this is over I'm going to get you some therapy"

While Dogma is like "please pet my hair and call me a good boy while I warm your cock, buir, sir"

[djarins-cyare]

✭ Series Masterlist ✭

Languishing in a dull and lonely existence on the forest moon of Endor after travelling there to help salvage Death Star wreckage, a nearly fatal encounter with a mysterious bounty hunter out in the forest heralds an opportunity to utilise long-forgotten skills and develop something more profound than you ever thought possible.

Second person POV, present tense. Set post-season 2, diverges from Canon events before TBoBF and season 3. This is a novel-length, exceptionally slow burn with an original plot, worldbuilding, and fully-developed characterisation. SWU concepts and lore are accurately researched.

WORDS: 406,560

PAIRING: Din Djarin x Female Reader/You

RATING: Explicit (18+)

CHARACTERS: Din Djarin, Reader/You/Female OC, Original Non-Human Character(s), Original Human Characters, Greef Karga, Cara Dune, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Peli Motto

TAGS: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Romance, Love, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Smut, Sex, Sexual Content, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Relationships, Healthy Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Dark Past, Additional Warnings In Author's Notes, Bounty Hunter Din Djarin, Soft Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Smart Din Djarin, Soft Dominant Din Djarin, Ewok Species, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a Language, New Razor Crest, Thoroughly Researched, Worldbuilding, No use of y/n.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This took me almost a year to write and four months to edit/proof. Each chapter is prefaced with specific tags and (where necessary) warnings, plus word counts. End notes contain translations and comments… this baby is thoroughly researched, so I’m sharing context where appropriate. I’ve also added definitions of in-universe terms so people less familiar with the franchise won’t be left wondering what the hell certain words or references mean. This is a slow burn (adult themes), and although the explicit content only occurs in the latter half, when it does, it warrants the ‘E’ rating. Basically, the first half is a love story, and the second half gets spicy. I hope you enjoy it!

READ THE COMPLETE STORY ON AO3:

(Chapters containing explicit content marked †)

Chapter 1: The Obstacle

Chapter 2: The Interrogation

Chapter 3: The Covenant

Chapter 4: The Snare

Chapter 5: The Strike

Chapter 6: The Groundwork

Chapter 7: The Genesis

Chapter 8: The Progression

Chapter 9: The Hide

Chapter 10: The Beast

Chapter 11: The Adjustment

Chapter 12: The Storm

Chapter 13: The Broadside

Chapter 14: The Intercourse

Chapter 15: The Village

Chapter 16: The Confession

Chapter 17: The Reprieve

Chapter 18: The Fortification

Chapter 19: The Ambush

Chapter 20: The Meridian

Chapter 21: The Homestretch

Chapter 22: The Union †

Chapter 23: The Overture

Chapter 24: The Crescendo

Chapter 25: The Harmony †

Chapter 26: The Cadence †

Chapter 27: The Ride †

Chapter 28: The Veneration †

Chapter 29: The Spree †

Chapter 30: The Tribute †

Chapter 31: The Courage

Chapter 32: The Feast

Chapter 33: The Exhibition †

Chapter 34: The Reward

Chapter 35: The Binding †

Chapter 36: The Synergy †

Chapter 37: The Match †

Chapter 38: The Flag †

Chapter 39: The Foundling †

Chapter 40: The Future †

✨Additional Media✨

@burntheedges has written a spectacular little drabble detailing what Din was up to during the paragraph break near the end of chapter 1 (*SPOILERS* you don’t find this out until chapter 27).

@roughdaysandart has sketched a fantastic study of chapter 33 and it’s absolutely perfect (*SPOILERS* cliffhanger ending for the chapter).

@djarin-desires has created some awesome AI images of a few scenes using Midjourney.

I spent a stupid amount of money on the Hot Toys official Din Djarin action figure, simply so I could photograph him in poses from my fic 🤷🏼‍♀️ This is just a taster of what’s to come, but here he is offering to help Reader climb onto the speeder in chapter 8.

🧡💚 Thank you for reading! 💚🧡

➤ MAIN MASTERLIST

Dividers by @samspenandsword

[lieutenant-teach]

Saw a post that stated ‘Sol is a secret Mando because he adopted Osha and Mae’. Strongly disagree!

First – aren’t Jedi ‘adopting’ kids? They have a whole Temple full of children! Adopted children! Yes, not traditionally adopted by parent/s, but by a whole community. Before anyone jumps to point out how ‘wrong’ it is – historically, it isn’t some alien idea to grow children outside of ‘modern nuclear family’ paradigm (hence an African proverb ‘It takes a village to raise a child’). After all, very different types of families do (did) exist outside of ‘nuclear family’ definition. Like the Iroquois traditionally named a father’s brothers as a child’s fathers, too; same with a mother and her sisters. In Mosuo matriarchal culture who’s a biological father is not important at all. Active extended family upbringing was widespread way back in time in Eastern European cultures and in some form continued up and during the USSR times.

Second – please, stop treating Mandos as some ‘perfect parents’! Why, if any character shows a bit of compassion towards a child, fans immediately jump to ‘he/she is definitely a Mandalorian at heart’? Let’s dissect canonical examples of parenting Mandalorians which are mostly thought of when speaking about ‘Mando adoption genes’.

a) Din Djarin ‘adopts’ Grogu, as fans love to say, but let’s be fair – during the whole length of three seasons he never calls him his son. In the last episode of the 3d season he names him a ‘Mandalorian apprentice’ (it’s disappointing – they both deserve being called ‘a family’ outright). Originally Din acts (and was meant to be before TBOBF retconned everything) like a foster parent to get Grogu to his real people – to the Jedi, who could share his abilities and be his family. He doesn’t immediately call him his own since the first episodes of the 1st season (though it doesn’t diminish his love for him later, ‘Clan of two’, etc.). Getting a kid out of danger of being experimented on and getting him to his real people is just a decent thing to do, not some ‘special Mando genes’ (considering Din is a foundling himself, not a born Mandalorian).

b) Din himself is adopted by Mandos. He’s raised with the Fighting Corps (similar to Jedi communal structure). He, like Grogu, was saved, too. But saving an orphaned kid is – again – just a decent thing to do; it doesn’t require any ‘special Mando genes’. And if we nitpick – why didn’t any Clan adopt him, if Mandalorians just can’t help but adopt all the kids they get their eyes on, as per fanon?

c) Jango Fett is the most referenced Mandalorian in terms of ‘Mando adoption genes’. As many, I love fics where Jango is a nice dad to all of his ‘kids’, but don’t confuse ‘fix-it’ fics and actual canon. Come on, he treated his blood sons/clones as cannon fodder! Only Boba was lucky enough to be named as a real Fett scion – and even so, Jango outright claims that he only wants an heir to carry on with his bounty hunter legacy. So all these annoying posts about ‘Clones show their Jango/Mando genes by adopting everyone’ are stupid – if it were true, Jango would’ve adopted all millions of clones. (And who are clones adopting anyway? Just being nice to kids doesn’t mean ‘adopting’.)

And in terms of Sol – his ‘adopting’ of Osha and Mae becomes his attachment which ultimately didn’t turn out well for him and anyone else.

Please, stop pushing Mandalorians where they don’t belong. Having close parental relationship with someone in SW doesn’t mean ‘they’re secretly Mandalorians’. Yes, Mandos are considered to be a largely adoption society, but – see the previous sentence.

[dead-lights]

grand occult baking championship || episode 1.7

Just a little interlude before judgment!

In case you haven't seen it, I've been posting little interviews with the cast. Please feel free to send me questions, anonymously or not! I'll put them up in batches between posts.

first // prev // next

Most characters have canon origin stories! It's just Elle, L, Brandy, and Morgyn who don't. Caleb isn't wrong about how long it would take to get through it all, but I can make some space at the bottom of the post :)

canon

Most of this comes from dialogue from Werewolves, which I put up here.

Celene & Lou: attacked by Greg while on a date after Lou provoked him - she took the cure, he thought he could ride it out.

Lily: fled into the tunnels when Vlad tried to turn her, where she was bitten by a rabid werewolf. Spent years wandering around feral before Kristopher found her.

Caleb: turned by Miss Hell in a bar bathroom with the door on backwards. It's unclear whether he asked to turn or not, but I'd say most likely not.

Jacob: got lost in the woods as a small child after being traumatically separated from his family. He was hunted by a werewolf and a vampire, and then rescued by Kristopher.

Wolfgang: visited Moonwood Mill to escape the rat race in San Myshuno, decided he liked the werewolf lifestyle, and asked Kristopher to turn him.

Inna: turned by Caleb in the official trailer. Based on promotional material and the paintings from vampires, she seems to have been a thrall for centuries before that, possibly as early as the 1600s.

Darrel: born a spellcaster. Because he has the strong bloodline trait, he must be at minimum a 3rd generation caster.

Emilia: recently ascended according to her household description, presumably by Morgyn, since they're the only sage she knows by default and they're both friends with Grace and Tomax.

deadcanon

Elle: born a vampire during the first half of the Century Conflict. Her parents were former spellcasters who were turned during Operation Eternal Flame.

Brandy: attacked and almost killed by a member of her girlfriend Samantha's coven of origin. Samantha turned her to save her life.

L: an orphaned street urchin. Was accidentally transported to the Magic Realm after pickpocketing a spellcaster and taking his Glimmerstone. She met Keisha and immediately started badgering her for power and secrets.

Morgyn: a teen runaway. They found instructions to get into the Magic Realm in a library book, thought the whole thing sounded extremely rad, made their way to Glimmerbrook, and immediately started badgering Tess for power and secrets.

I wanted a Century Conflict veteran, which is why I made Elle so old. Brandy possibly has a mundane brother, so I didn't want her to have been born vampire. I love foundlings in stories (yes, I'm a big Mandalorian fan, fuck off) so yeah Morgyn and L are foundlings.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

What Can Still Be Known

A/N: This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge... which I meant to have finished weeks ago, but since it's May the 4th, today seems like a good time to post it even if it is later than I originally planned. Thank you so much to Gin for putting this together! I love music prompts, so this was right up my alley. I can't wait to catch up on the other stories written for this event! Make sure you all go check them out, too! You can find them here.

Prompt: My song was Butchered Tongue from the album Unreal, Unearth, and my character was Din. I was delighted to get this prompt, because that song speaks to my soul. It's melancholic and beautiful, and I think it fits Din so damn well, so I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: angst, mentions of canon typical violence, mention of death of parents/family, you know, Mandalorian stuff.

Word Count: 3,545 (oops.)

Summary: Din doesn't remember much about his parents or his life with them... but that doesn't stop him from wishing it were different.

Nevarro’s sun burned bright and hot as Din crossed the scrubby stretch of flatlands that separated the town from the Mandalorian encampment. Shifting the crate he carried under one arm, he tilted his head down to where Grogu hopped along beside him, using the Force to propel himself every few steps to accommodate for his father’s much longer stride. The sight, along with the string of happy gurgles and babbles spilling from the kid’s mouth, made a smile sprout beneath the man’s helmet. 

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it buddy?” 

Grogu looked up at him and squealed happily, nodding and pointing one clawed finger at the semi-permanent settlement growing closer with every step they took. 

Though the efforts to reclaim their homeworld had been successful, a small group of Mandalorians remained on Nevarro during the rebuilding process on Mandalore - mainly those responsible for teaching and raising the foundlings and other young children that were not yet ready to start their trials. There were two combat instructors, two teachers whose focus was on the tenants of the Resol’nare, one additional teacher who was responsible for teaching Mando’a, as well as a dozen or so students and their guardians. Eventually they’d all join the rest of their people on Mandalore, but until things were more solidly settled there, Nevarro was as safe an option for an outpost as could be found in the Outer Rim. 

Din chuckled. “I’m sure your friends will be happy to see you again, too.” 

That response sent the kid bouncing with excitement, hopping high enough so that he could fit in a flip before touching down again, the rondel and small pauldron he wore clinging together like chimes with his motion. 

“Go ahead,” Din urged him, jutting his chin out in front of him. “You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll be right behind -” But the child was gone before the last word left his lips. He sighed and shook his head in amusement. “-You.” He watched through the tinted screen of his visor as Grogu darted towards the sparring grounds, no doubt in search of Ragnar.  

It had been a few months since they’d been back on Nevarro, Din busy taking Grogu through his apprenticeship, teaching him skills that he would need in order to move on in his training. Tracking, hunting, navigation, survival, negotiation, just to name a few. Every lesson took them to a different planet, some of them coming with the added bonus of coinciding with a bounty or paid favor. The most recent one, a lesson in tracking on Rodia, had resulted in uncovering a stash of beskar ingots that had been defaced with an Imperial stamp. 

Immediately after finishing up on Rodia - Din showing Grogu how to incapacitate an enemy without killing them - they’d taken the recovered beskar back to the Armorer on Mandalore, so that she could fashion it into new pieces for the foundlings. It was strange, but good, to see the glass encrusted planet so teeming with life. It was a relief to know that what his people had fought for for so long, what so many had given their lives for, was finally secure. Finally theirs. 

But despite the fact that the Mandalorian people finally had a safe place to call home, Din had yet to feel that sort of connection with the planet. Unlike Bo-Katan, he hadn’t been born there, nor had he spent any time there as a child. He’d heard stories about what the Great Forge had been like in its glory, how lush the gardens of Sundari had been long ago. But to him, a foundling Child of the Watch who had never set foot on Mandalore until he was a grown man, they’d always felt like stories about some fictional, far off place. He wondered if that would change, if he would ever feel at home in a place that brought him no nostalgia or warmth. 

A part of him hoped that it would. Because it wasn’t just Mandalore that he felt that absence of connection to. It was everywhere he went. A side-effect of losing every home he’d ever had, it turned out, was not knowing where your roots would grow if they could grow anywhere they chose. 

He knew he had a home once. A true home, one where he could have collected a whole life’s worth of memories, enough of them so that when he returned there they’d all come rushing to fill his heart with warmth and welcome. He knew he had a family before the Tribe had become that for him, too. A mother and father who loved him so fiercely that they sacrificed their own lives to save his. When he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still find their faces. His father’s was easier to recall because he himself wore so many of the same features. Every time he saw his own reflection he was reminded of the man who carried him through the battlefield that their village had become. 

His mother’s face was more difficult to recall in detail, but that didn’t mean he had forgotten her. He remembered her thick, dark hair and the way it curled at her shoulders. He remembered the texture of the red robes she wore, remembered tracing the intricate pattern of woven stitching on the cuffs of her sleeves with the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the thought that he must have remembered these things because she was the one who comforted him when he was hurt, sad or scared. That what he really recalled when he thought of his mother was the feeling of safety and warmth that her embrace provided. 

He remembered the tone of her voice, soothing but strong. His father’s was full and confident and always sounded like a smile was about to appear. He remembered that the two of them sang often. Sometimes he’d be hit with a snippet of a melody, the lyrics lost, turned to dust and ash like the rest of his homeworld, but he’d find himself humming and realize that it was one of the songs his parents used to sing. 

The forgotten lyrics were only a small part of a larger loss, though. They were written in a language that had died when the population of Aq Vetina had been snuffed out. So he could remember his parents’ voices. He could remember the melodies they sang. But the things they said, the words they used, the meaning behind them? All of that was gone. For all the languages and means of communication he did know, the first one he’d ever heard and learned escaped him. And in all of his travels since leaving his homeworld in the arms of an armored stranger that had become his Buir, Din had never met anyone who spoke his native tongue. 

It made him wonder if anyone else had survived the attack on his home that day, or if he was the last living member of a completely slain culture. 

Before he could ruminate on that thought for too long, though, Azil, one of the combat instructors, saw him walking towards the sparring grounds and waved him over. “Olarom, Djarin!” He pointed at the crate Din carried, tilting his helmeted-head in question. “Gifts from home?” 

The contents of the box shifted as Din handed it over, newly cast cuiresses ringing together in answer to Azil’s inquiry. “New beskar,” Din responded with a nod. “Freshly forged on Mandalore,” he added in answer to Azil’s question about where it came from. “I was told to deliver them to you for distribution to your students.” 

Azil set the crate down and clapped one gloved hand to Din’s shoulder. “Vor entye, vod.” 

Returning the gesture, Din did the same. “This is the Way.” 

“This is the Way,” Azil echoed, and then immediately set about unpacking the box of armor, sorting it by size, leaving Din to see where Grogu had gone. 

It didn’t take long for him to find his son. The long, green ears were a giveaway, sure. But so was the small crowd of other children gathered around to watch him levitate a black chunk of volcanic rock while Ragnar Vizsla practiced blasting it with training darts. With each successful hit, the other kids would cheer, a collective sound of amazement coming from them each time Grogu managed to evade the blast by redirecting the rock. 

Din stood watching for a few moments, silently appreciative that these children had this opportunity to laugh and learn and grow together somewhere open and safe and free. He could remember playing similar training games and showing off new skills with the few other children in his covert, though then it was all done underground, in hiding. But he couldn’t recall the kinds of games he might have played with friends in his village. If there were any nursery rhymes or tall tales he might have known once, they’d long since faded from his memory. 

It made him wonder if he’d eventually forget what little he could remember about his native culture. Would he lose it piece by piece? Until not even a familiar tune or the color red or his own reflection sparked any feeling? He hoped not, but it seemed inevitable. 

At least, it had. 

Suddenly - from a different group of children than the one gathered around Grogu, much to Din’s relief - a small child went darting by his boots, arms outstretched in front of her, the distinct sound of sniffles and cries trailing after her. Turning away from the training grounds, he watched as the child was scooped up by a woman who had just stepped out of one of the tents. He assumed that whatever sent the girl running was just the result of one of the other kids being a little too rough. Or perhaps one of Nevarro’s reptilian species had frightened the child. Either way, it was clear that there was no real danger and that the woman had things under control, so he started to turn back towards Grogu and Ragnar’s shenanigans. 

But then he overheard the woman begin to soothe the young girl in her arms. 

“Ny mo yariin, necta.” 

It stopped him in his tracks and sent his head swiveling back in the direction it came from. His heart pounded beneath the elongated diamond stamped into the center of his chestplate as he felt something unlock in his memory. 

He’d heard those same words before. So long ago that he was stunned when he recognized the phrase. So long ago that the meaning behind them was lost. But he knew they were spoken to him as comfort. He knew that they were words steeped in love. He watched the way the woman cradled the child to her armored chest, his eyes catching on the piece of red fabric that was pinned to the cowl of her flight suit. 

No matter how impossible it seemed that the words he’d just heard had survived what a whole settlement of people hadn’t, no matter how unlikely it was that it was there of all places that he’d heard it, no matter how slim the odds were that the tattered scarlet linen was the same fabric that he remembered from his home, Din found himself drawn to her. 

To you. 

—  —  — 

You were rewiring the com device in your helmet when you heard Tira’s cry. 

Though you knew that she was probably fine - there were dozens of other Mandalorian adults present in the settlement, and you knew that none of them would allow any real harm to come to the children - you immediately set your work down and stepped outside, senses heightened. But as soon as you saw her running towards you, you relaxed. She wasn’t hurt or being chased. She’d likely just been knocked over by one of the bigger kids while they played one of their games. Tira was small, but didn’t like to be told that. And since her older brother had begun his trials and wasn’t there as often to make sure she didn’t get pushed around by the others, she’d been having trouble adjusting. 

It didn’t help that less than a year ago, she and Maj had lost both of their parents in the battle to retake Mandalore, which is how the children had come to be in your care. 

As a former foundling yourself, you were more than willing to step in and raise them as your own, just as the Mandalorian who rescued you the day your village was attacked and your parents were killed would have done had he not been able to reunite you with your kin. You’d been brought to Corellia, where your mother’s sister lived with her family, and they’d taken you in and raised you instead. It wasn’t until you became an adult that you rejoined the Mandalorians and took the Creed, choosing to commit your life to the very people who had saved it. 

But though you mainly spoke Galactic Basic and were muddling your way through learning Mando’a, it was still your first language that came to you when you scooped a sniffling Tira into your arms and cradled her to your armored chest. It was still the words your parents - and then your aunt - had spoken to you when you’d been hurt or scared that you used to comfort the girl. 

“Ny mo yariin, necta.” 

You’re safe with me, sweet one.

You knew Tira and Maj didn’t speak Aquitto. They only knew the meaning of that one phrase because you’d taught it to them. And since your aunt had passed away, you knew that you were possibly the only person left in the galaxy who would even recognize it let alone speak it. As far as you knew, there hadn’t been any other survivors from your village that day. It struck you that every time you spoke it could be the last time it was ever uttered. 

Pushing that thought from your mind, you focused on Tira, kissing her cheek and letting her clutch at the sculpted pin that held a piece of red fabric - a remnant of the hooded robe you’d been wearing the day you were rescued on Aq Vetina - in place on your cowl. The pin had belonged to your mother, the woman pressing it into your hand before disappearing to go try to fight off the monstrous machines with the rest of the village. As a child you would trace the design on it with your fingertip whenever she held you, whenever she made the same promise you were making Tira. 

“Ny mo yariin, necta.” 

By the time you’d said it a second time, the girl had stopped crying. The words themselves weren’t magic, but the sentiment in them was. Even if they were the last scraps of the Aquitto language to live on, you hoped that one day Tira or Maj would pass them along to a child who needed to hear them, too.

Whatever had brought on the sudden storm of tears had passed, and Tira wriggled in your hold as she caught sight of some of the other children watching as the Jedi foundling levitated chunky rocks for Ragnar to blast with darts. You chuckled at her eagerness to get back out there with the big kids. “Okay, necta. But watch out for yourself, got it?” You set her back on the ground, stooping down to her level and ruffling her hair. “I know you’re a tough one, but you still have to be careful.” 

She nodded enthusiastically, telling you that she would be, and then she was gone, scurrying back across the crusty flatland towards the other kids. When you stood back up, you were met with the dark visor of Din Djarin - a man you’d never personally met, but who you’d heard a great deal about from the others in the settlement on Nevarro. You knew he was the Jedi foundling’s adoptive father. You knew he had previously wielded the Darksaber and that he was instrumental in helping Bo-Katan Kryze and the others take back Mandalore. You knew that he was responsible for reclaiming the beskar that your armor had been forged from. 

– – – 

“Oh, hello,” you greeted him, a small laugh in your voice that he figured was a result of the way he’d caught you off guard. You lifted a hand and reflexively tucked the piece of red fabric at your collar into place. “It’s Din, right?”

“Yes. Din Djarin. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, I-” 

You waved him off and introduced yourself. Smiling, you pointed in the direction that the little one you’d just set down had run off in. “That’s your son over there, isn’t it? Tira was excited to see him.” 

Din turned his head to follow your finger, though he didn’t need to look to know that you were indicating Grogu. “It is,” he confirmed, facing you again with a small shrug. “He likes to show off.” 

You laughed at that. “I would too, if I could do what he can.” 

“He’s a special kid,” Din replied, and you smiled again. 

“He is.” You nodded, and it was clear to him that you were still unsure of why he had approached you. “Is there-”

“Can I ask you something?” He tilted his head, hidden eyes fixed on the fabric at your neck - and on the sculpted pin that held it in place, the designs so familiar to him he could feel them on his fingers. 

You furrowed your brow, expression turning serious. “Of course. Not sure if I’ll be able to help you with it, but-” You held your hands up, palms to the sky. “Ask away.” 

“The words you just spoke to that little girl… Tira?” You nodded so he went on. “How do you know that language?” 

He watched your eyes widen with your blink. “You… You’re familiar with Aquitto?” 

Din sighed, giving a slight shake of his head. “I didn’t even remember what it was called, but… Yes. Or, that phrase, anyway. How do you know it?”

You let out a breath. “I… I was born on Aq Vetina. It was the language my parents spoke. It…” Again your fingers came up to the pin and the fabric that it secured. “It was my first language. I was lucky that my aunt knew it, too, or else I would have forgotten it completely after our village was destroyed and-” Something dawned on you and your eyes widened again. “You said you were familiar with it?” He nodded. “How?” 

You asked the question in a way that made him think you already knew the answer, but you needed - or wanted - to hear him say it. So he did. “Same as you. I was born there. It was my parents’ language. But I haven’t heard it spoken since the day droids raided our home.” He blinked, somewhat stunned that only moments before he had been mourning the loss of his native language and culture only to find a source of it right in front of him. “I didn’t know there were other survivors.” 

Your mouth fell open slightly as you stared up into the visor that hid his eyes from view. When you spoke again it was quiet, your words equally full of disbelief. “Neither did I.” Your lips twitched into a small smile despite the way your eyes had started to water. “I’m glad we were both wrong, Din.” 

“I am, too.” He felt a tightening in his chest, but it was unlike anything he felt before. It wasn’t from sorrow or anxiety, it wasn’t to alert him to a threat or caused by regret. It felt more like a connection forming - like meeting you had brought him closer to his own heart somehow. Instantly, a thousand questions popped into his mind for you, and he imagined you might have had some for him as well. But there was one thing he needed to know first. “Can you tell me what it means? What you said to Tira? My… I think my parents used to say it to me, and…” He trailed off, waiting for your response. 

“It means, ‘You’re safe with me, sweet one.’” You smiled again. “It literally translates to ‘You’re in my heart’ though. It’s… It’s what you say to the people you love most.” 

Just then, Grogu and Tira came tearing over, Din bending down to pick up his son and you settling your hand on the little girl’s head as she clung to your side. “Hey, Buddy. Remember when I told you about my parents and what I remembered about where I came from?” 

“Patu.” His head moved up and down, ears flapping with his nod. 

“Well, this lady comes from the same place that I do, and she just taught me how to say something in my old language. You wanna hear it?” 

“Patu!” He spread his clawed fingers over Din’s chestplate. 

Din looked over at you - at the warm smile on your face as you smoothed the little girl’s play-ruffled hair and gave him an encouraging nod - and then back down at Grogu. “Ny mo yariin, necta.” 

.

.

.

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[dindjarindiaries]

The Mandalorian Seasons 1 & 3: Direct Parallels

After rewatching The Mandalorian season 3 cohesively and thinking back to season 1, I came upon a realization that every episode of season 3 somehow directly parallels back to each respective episode of season 1. Below is a breakdown going episode-by-episode and diving deep into each parallel I noticed. Please keep in mind that these are my observations and theories, nothing more!

CHAPTER 1: THE MANDALORIAN & CHAPTER 17: THE APOSTATE

“Chapter 1: The Mandalorian” is all about setting up Din Djarin’s journey, mainly the job he’s tasked with that causes him to cross paths with a new ally, Grogu. “Chapter 17: The Apostate”—like many season openers—accomplishes the same thing: setting up Din’s journey and causing him to cross paths with a reluctant ally, Bo-Katan Kryze. IG-11 is an important part of each episode and helps to bring some comedic relief to the screen. In Chapter 1, Din utters the infamous “I like those odds” line when his odds are 4 to 1. Din also finds himself with 4 to 1 odds during the pirate showdown, where he takes down four of them and leaves Vane standing. Lastly, Chapter 1 reveals that the job Din’s taken is a very difficult one that other hunters either can’t complete or refuse to. Chapter 17 proves that Din’s journey to Mandalore is also seemingly impossible and many others refuse to do it.

CHAPTER 2: THE CHILD & CHAPTER 18: THE MINES OF MANDALORE

“Chapter 2: The Child” seals the bond between Din and Grogu as Din faces trials in his journey to bringing Grogu back to Nevarro. “Chapter 18: The Mines of Mandalore” seals the bond between Din and Bo-Katan as allies while Din faces trials in his journey to redemption on Mandalore. In both episodes, Grogu has to rescue Din when he’s in danger, and both times he tries to use the Force to do so. Each episode also features Din fighting off an ambush on his own, though that tends to be pretty common for him. Both episodes also featured a creature that hasn’t been seen in Star Wars live action before: the mudhorn and the Mythosaur, respectively. By the end of each of these episodes, Din’s gained at least one new ally and has accomplished his original goal (getting Grogu back to Nevarro and earning his redemption).

CHAPTER 3: THE SIN & CHAPTER 19: THE CONVERT

“Chapter 3: The Sin” and “Chapter 19: The Convert” both see their protagonists going against a set of rules they’re expected to follow in order to further what they view as the greater good. In Chapter 3, it’s Din breaking the Guild Code to rescue Grogu. In Chapter 19, it’s Penn Pershing breaking the rules of the Amnesty Program to restart his research. Both episodes feature a betrayal of sorts, Greef Karga and Elia Kane respectively. Additionally, the Children of the Watch in both episodes—most notably Paz Vizsla—start both episodes off by being hostile towards Din only to end up helping him in some way. In Chapter 3, it was saving him and Grogu from the hunters, and in Chapter 19, it was accepting his redemption as well as Bo-Katan’s. Each episode title also uses religious language.

CHAPTER 4: SANCTUARY & CHAPTER 20: THE FOUNDLING

“Chapter 4: Sanctuary” and “Chapter 20: The Foundling” each start off a 3-episode run of different adventures that fill in the storytelling space and offer the characters time to face trials and grow before the overall story starts to wrap up. In Chapter 4, Cara Dune mostly leads the effort to rescue the village. Bo-Katan fills this same role in Chapter 20 by leading the Mandalorians to rescuing the foundling. Interestingly enough, both these episodes also are some of the only to address how and when a Mandalorian should remove their helmets to eat. Chapter 4 offers some Din backstory that he gives to Omera while Chapter 20 offers some Grogu backstory. At the end of each episode, the rescues are complete, but another call to adventure haunts the protagonists.

CHAPTER 5: THE GUNSLINGER & CHAPTER 21: THE PIRATE

These two are probably the hardest to draw parallels on. “Chapter 5: The Gunslinger” starts with a dogfight, while “Chapter 21: The Pirate” features quite a long dogfight as well. Peli Motto was originally meant to appear in Chapter 21 and her introduction to the Star Wars galaxy was in Chapter 5. Fennec Shand tells Din of the Mandalorians’ fate on Nevarro in Chapter 5, but in Chapter 21, the Mandalorians are the ones taking down others on Nevarro. Each episode also leaves off on a cliffhanger that isn’t resolved by the next episode, with Chapter 5 featuring Boba Fett saving Fennec and Chapter 21 featuring the New Republic finding beskar within a destroyed shuttle.

CHAPTER 6: THE PRISONER & CHAPTER 22: GUNS FOR HIRE

This one has some of my favorite parallels, and for no good reason! In “Chapter 6: The Prisoner,” Din teams up with mercenaries he used to work for, while we see in “Chapter 22: Guns For Hire” that Axe Woves, Koska Reeves, and other Mandalorians have become their own band of mercenaries. Both episodes feature Din being very hostile towards droids, even more so than usual. They also both include notable cameos, Bill Burr and Matt Lanter for Chapter 6 and Lizzo, Jack Black, and Christopher Lloyd for Chapter 22. In Chapter 6, Din is against the side of the law, while in Chapter 22, Din is united with Bo-Katan on the side of the law. The end of Chapter 6 saw Ranzar Malk and Qin sharing some choice words about Din while the end of Chapter 22 saw Axe also sharing some choice words about Din. (It’s fun how similar these two episodes are to each other in my head!)

CHAPTER 7: THE RECKONING & CHAPTER 23: THE SPIES

“Chapter 7: The Reckoning” and “Chapter 23: The Spies” each act as a part one of the overall grand finale of their respective seasons, with each ending on a devastating cliffhanger of a main supporting character’s tragic death. Both episodes start with a somewhat reluctant team-up of Din’s collected allies to continue a journey. Each episode is also Moff Gideon’s first appearance in their respective seasons, with both featuring Moff Gideon’s holographic image on a call before his actual physical appearance. Both episodes see the groups venturing across a desolate landscape to get to where they need to go only to get led into an ambush. In Chapter 7, it’s Grogu who gets captured by Gideon, while in Chapter 23, it’s Din who gets captured by Gideon. Additionally, each episode has peril in which allies cannot be contacted by comms. Lastly, as referenced before, Chapter 7 ends with Kuiil’s tragic death, and Chapter 23 ends with Paz’s.

CHAPTER 8: REDEMPTION & CHAPTER 24: THE RETURN

“Chapter 8: Redemption” and “Chapter 24: The Return” both end on a hopeful and somewhat peaceful note for Din and Grogu with a brand-new call to action. In Chapter 8, Moff Gideon blows up Din, while in Chapter 24, Moff Gideon gets blown up. Grogu protects Din and his allies from fire in both Chapter 8 as well as Chapter 24. In Chapter 8, the Armorer tells Din he is as Grogu’s father, while in Chapter 24, Din officially adopts Grogu as his son. Din earns a mudhorn signet for Grogu in Chapter 8 and Grogu earns part of Din’s name in Chapter 24. IG-11 sacrifices himself in Chapter 8, but comes back to life to serve as the marshal of Nevarro in Chapter 24. Both episodes contain big battle scenes that eventually lead to an entire planet being liberated. Chapter 8 features the Darksaber’s first appearance in live action, while Chapter 24 features the destruction of that same weapon. Finally, Chapter 8 sees Din and Grogu leaving Nevarro, but Chapter 24 sees Din and Grogu staying there in a home of their own.

[writerlyhabits]

Aliit ori’shya tal'din

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 3 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 2 | Ch. 4

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – “I’m in grad school, I take forever to write things.Soon I will start grad school again, which means I’ll write this instead of my dissertation. I’m quite fond of the Mando Legends Lore, if you haven’t noticed. I literally got Kad Ha’rangir & Arasuum tattooed on me.”

This is the third part of a sister fic for my one-shot (Courting) a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! She is also sharing it on AO3, so be sure to send her your love and kudos there as well! We hope you enjoy 💛

Translations, in order of appearance:

Aliit ori’shya tal'din: Family is more than blood

Rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?:  Are you gonna tell her to kiss your ouchies?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.: Be careful, sister.

Aliit: family

Ad(e): child/children

Kar’ta beskar: the central "diamond" of Mandalorian armor; lit. heart armor

Mirjahaal: peace of mind, "healing", general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Beroya: bounty hunter

Kurshi: tree

Sen’tra: jackpack

Buir(e): Parent/Parents

Akaanati'kar'oya: The War of Life and Death (Mandalorian myth), creation story

Verd'goten: a special trial for one to become warrior; lit. birth of warrior

So'haale: births

Urman'gedete: prayers

Eparave: feasts

Cyarir evaar'la: Courting

Alii'aliit: meeting of the clans, the closest thing mandalorians have to government or parliament; lit. "clan of clans"

Tsad: group (of people), alliance

Bes'ede: Mythosaur

Kandush : inevitable doom

Time moves differently underground.

With Odona, the hours passed quickly. As a team, you could disassemble and reconstruct nearly any ship in their small fleet, save for a few parts— which no one had yet found and delivered. The days were faster when the guardsman opted to join you in his free time, his first visit and subsequent dialogue with Odona still memorable.

To what do I owe the displeasure; Oh Mighty Protector of the Covert and Savior of Foundlings?

The pleasure of my company is for your friend, ‘Dona.

Why? Going to terrorize her again, Ik’? Ven’rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.

You had sensed there was a joke hidden within their jibes, one you were unable to decipher in their foreign tongue, but neither took the time to explain. Whilst Ikarus lacked use for the labor that required fine motor control, his presence disrupted the monotony of the many tedious and repetitive tasks you and Odona spent much of your time doing— their frequent banter kept you entertained throughout the day. 

The time you had spent in the medbay was shorter— the most common injuries coming from the older adolescents early on in their training, whose resilience and constitution had yet to strengthen— as well as wrist and ankle sprains from poor fighting forms, the occasional laceration from knife safety training; and at worst, injuries from the teens and young adults earned from a vigorous sparring session.

But with Din, the mornings and evenings together never felt long enough. The hours were reminiscent of your time with him and the Child in the Crest, the warmth of your aliit protected by familiar cold walls; the stone of the cavern both analogous yet antithetic to the durasteel of your former home. 

One forged of hands, and the other of time— one of the fires of a furnace, the other the fires of a planet’s mantle. Your time together before was that of contrivance, engineered— with agendas to follow and assignments to complete— your interactions affable yet somewhat artificial, a present barrier precluding your companionship from evolving into something more… More natural, more innate, more intimate. Here, your time together had been more candid, endearing— Din no longer shied away from any probing questions or physical closeness, which allowed that previous barrier to melt and slowly flow away like that of bedrock to magma, reshaping and remolding your times of leisure together to hours of unified repose.

The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turn to this moment, where seemingly no time passes at all— blanketed in the familiar darkness of your room. The unlit and chilled space, at first an unacquainted oddity, now a comfortable companion to spend the sleeping and waking hours in. The ritual remains the same— awaken with the Child, have the morning trade-off with Din, make the caf, and begin the tasks for the day— like clock work, a well-oiled droid.

This morning is almost no different, and yet, you hesitate to leave your bed, your conversation with Din the previous morning still fresh in your mind— 

Din had sat aside the table, his body resting against the wall— unarmored, arms crossed, head tilted to the side, the same position as every morning. Once you handed him the Child and sat, caf in hand, he finally spoke.

“I’d like you to join me tomorrow,” he stated. 

The lack of pleasantries from him was unsurprising, though a teasing ‘Good morning to you, Din’ was a tempting response. Instead, you greeted him with a grin and an unobjectionable reply— 

“Alright, what are we doing?” 

He hummed, pleased with your immediate acceptance.

“The adults alternate supervising the ade. Tomorrow, it’ll be our turn.”

You gestured toward the Child in his arms, in a playful retort. “Don’t we supervise this ad every day?”

The Child cooed in his arms, his ears perked tentatively at his mention. Din sighed, with a smile in voice.

“We do. It’s tradition for all of the adults to care for the ade… All have wisdom to share.”

Skeptical, you thought: ‘What would I possibly teach them?’

You observed the Child resting so comfortably on Din’s chest— his tiny hand gripped tightly into Din’s clothes, right where his armor’s kar’ta beskar normally sat. It was a stark contrast compared to the Child’s behavior upon your first meeting. With any loud noises and sudden movements, he would shrink inwards in his cradle— as if he could make himself any smaller. Medical scanners made him grimace, unfamiliar places and people made his ears droop— seeing others upset made him wary. And yet, he was endlessly curious. Despite his initial unease with the two new adults in his life, the Child was quick to trust you both— and with his trust, his personality came through… his affection, his laughter, his love. 

From there, Din learned how to tend to someone outside of himself— what it meant to have someone that relied on him, and more colossally, someone that wanted Din, as he was. The Armorer branded him as the Child’s father, and the delighted squeal from the little one sealed the bond that Din had been trying to hide for so long. Just as the Child learned to trust Din with his welfare, so too did Din learn to trust the Child with his own mirjahaal.  

Perhaps it wasn’t the lessons they taught, but rather the connection they made, and the wisdom they sought.

With this, the true question then inverted from the skeptic ‘what would I teach them’, to the sanguine ‘what will I learn?’...

“...When do we meet them?”

—

To the ade, the former beroya is nothing more than a tall kurshi fit to climb. 

Somehow, Din appears endlessly patient and playful with all six of the young children. They utilize their limitless spurts of energy to continuously attack Din as a squad, bringing him to the ground— he’ll exclaim a faux wail, and collapse to his knees— and the collective giggles of the ade begin the cycle again. 

Whenever a child grows tired of their battle, they come to you— wanting to be tossed into the air, or onto the nearest surface. Supposedly being gently thrown around aids in their brain development, and ‘it’s good practice for their first sen’tra flight’, Din tells you. The logic is questionable at best, but hearing their joyous squeals makes the ever-growing muscle fatigue worthwhile. Even the child of the Djarin clan is as equally amused, his own little spirit mightily lifted by the experience of being with other kids again. 

During your time on Sorgan, the Child was happy to interact with the other children— but mostly, he watched them, rather than play. Perhaps he was still too shy or too wary to fully engage with so many people, but surrounded by these Foundlings now, he looks at home; like he belongs. Amidst this cohort, he’s made a new friend, Mara, the youngest of the lot. Her long and dark hair reminds you— and perhaps the Child— of Winta, Omera’s daughter. The two spent the most time together on Sorgan, and despite the little one’s inability to say, he misses her. 

Mara and the Child sit away from the squad play-fighting Din, in front of the single wall of volcanic tuff— embellished with crimps and pockets, graven by many hands. You watch them, as they examine the wall, looking up and down, side to side. Your eyes travel upward to the small cavate, almost eight feet from the floor. You watch as Mara looks to the Child and nods, and begins her ascent up— using her fingers and toes to grip tightly onto the various crevices in the wall— and the Child begins to follow.

You step forward, almost instinctively, wanting to call out to them to stop, wanting to reach out to the children to prevent a fall—

Then, from nowhere, Din appears at your side, extending his hand to stop you. “Don’t,” he says softly, “Let them try.”

You look at him puzzled, and he continues. “If you distract them now, they might fall…” he pauses, and turns his head to watch them, “...but if you allow them to focus, they can succeed. Watch…” 

The pair silently step closer, closing the distance between themselves and the wall, watching the two ade slowly make their way up to the cavate. Mara climbs inside first, and lays on her belly, reaching out to the Child to help him trek the final span of the wall. Once inside, the Child turns around, to face the entire room below him. He squeals a little clamor of excitement, proud of his triumph, before looking down to his buire.

“Good job, kid,” Din says. “Come on down, it’s time to go.”

The Child looks at you both doe-eyed, his ears drooping, as he peers over the ledge. He looks back to Mara, and back down over the ledge, contemplating his next move. 

You lean slightly towards Din, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t think he knows how to get back down.”

“He can do it,” Din says confidently. 

You challenge him, “He looks scared.” 

Din insists, “Then he’ll do it scared.” 

He steps forward once more, his body almost pressed against the wall, reaching one hand up. “Come on kid, climb down.”

The child’s ears droop even lower, letting out a quiet whimper, a little anxious look on his face. He looks back up to Mara, who gives him an encouraging “You can do it,” before he finally begins his descent towards you and Din. 

Carefully, his little clawed feet grip into the same pockets he used to climb up, and his hands hold onto the ledge. He looks down at his buire with a slightly quivering lip, then back up to his hands. Slowly, he presses on, his movements deliberate and cautious, gravity tugging at his little limbs with relentless persuasion, clammy clawed-hands threatening to slip free from the cold stone. His disgruntled babbling fading with each tentative step, footfalls growing more steady with every downward stride. 

His little foot finally reached something soft— the hand of his buir, waiting for his arrival. With an excited squeal, he looks to Din, holding out his clawed fingers for Din to grasp. Din takes the Child into his arms.

“Good job… I knew you could do it.” Din whispers to him.

With his ad in hand, Din looks back to the cavate, where Mara sits silently. “You too, Mara, come down,” he says. 

Mara, unlike the little one, is less graceful, only climbing down two feet of wall before leaping off. You instinctively reach your arms out to catch her, but are a few seconds too late, as she lands confidently on her feet, smiling up at you. She giggles, asking the Child “Wasn’t that fun!” and the little one cooing affectionately with a bright smile.

“They need to rest.” Din says, before leading Mara and the Child back with the other ade. You follow him in toe, and aid him while he attempts to settle the children in preparation for them to sleep. 

The chamber is bathed in the soft, warm light of the cressets along the walls. The ade sit and lay in a circle on the floor, looking up at the two adults expectedly, waiting for you both to join them. Din gently places the Child in Mara’s lap, seating himself amongst them. 

The ade demanded a story before they would agree to their midday nap, and with only one long sigh, Din relented. As you sit beside him, the tale of Akaanati'kar'oya begins.

—

In ages past, when cosmic realms were naught,

Two gods emerged, each with a purpose sought.

Kad Ha'rangir, embodiment of change,

A dance of growth, His essence did arrange.

Arasuum, the god of slow decay,

In stillness thrived, where life would fade away.

Eternal foes, in battle they engaged,

Ideals clashed, the cosmic script was paged.

Kad Ha'rangir, with eyes of vibrant light,

Envisioned galaxies in endless flight.

His very step, a ripple through the void,

Transforming all, where life and change enjoyed.

Arasuum, with eyes as deep as night,

Desired a realm where stasis held its might.

Decay His touch, a silent, withering breath,

A universe in stillness, touched by death.

In ceaseless clash, their cosmic struggle roared,

A dance of gods, where destinies were stored.

Stoic truths emerged from this grand design,

A tale of action, life's breath so divine.

"For action is the breath that life bestows,

A vital force, as mighty river flows.

Inaction, slow demise, a creeping shade,

A silent death in stillness' dark cascade."

Through galaxies and time, the story spread,

Of Kad Ha'rangir, where change was bred.

Arasuum's touch, a cautionary tale,

A realm in stillness, where all things frail.

So heed the moral, in verses spun,

That action is life, beneath the sun.

For inaction's grasp, a silent breath,

A slow demise, an encroaching death.

—

The ade rest together in a haphazard heap of limbs on various bedcovers and furs draped across the floor. Exhausted from their Beroya Battles and abseil adventures, they finally sleep, leaving the two adults to quietly watch over them together. In the chamber’s silent embrace, the air hangs heavy and chilled— a symphony of stillness envelops the room, broken by the muted shuffle of shifting bodies, and the hushed breaths of the ade. The only audible rhythm is that of the pulsating cadence of your own heartbeat and the rush of blood moving inside your head. 

Your eyes scan over the ade, finding a sense of calmness watching their steady breaths, in… out. 

In… out.

In… out.

Your gaze once again falls onto the Child, cuddled against Mara, also breathing steadily. In the gentle cradle of his friend’s arms, he looks peaceful. Had he ever slept this soundly on the Crest?... Who held him every night before us? Who will take care of him after us?

In the softest whisper, to not disturb the ade, you lean closer to Din, telling him the obvious— “He’s happy here.”

“...Yes,” Din replies, just as quietly. 

“Was this your experience, too? After the Mandalorians saved you?”

“No.”

His visor is trained on the little one’s sleeping face—the same face of a child who was once trapped in the suffocating darkness of a sealed cradle—a cage, a cage whose opening only revealed another prison, in the form of two bounty hunters hovering over him like… a B2 Battle Droid, with a blaster pointed in a child’s face. A child rescued from death at the last possible moment by a shiny warden, offering an adiaphorous detainment. 

“It was… a time of war. I was trained to fight in it. I hope… that they never have to.” Din says, his gaze scanning over the ade once more. 

“I thought all Mandalorians were warriors.”

He, too, believed the same notion for many years. Training from the day he was rescued to the day he became an adult, after his verd'goten, life became a perpetual streak of jobs. Commission, retrieval, payment. Commission, retrieval, payment… Until a strange, golden, aureate armorsmith joined his tribe, bringing tales of the “Great Forge of Mandalore,” and the songs of the artificers that echoed through the speos as they worked. He remembers the first time he kneeled in front of her small, austere forge, in a dark room beneath a busy market above, listening as she spoke of the ethos, the rites, the latria, the true way of the Mandalore. 

“No. Everyone is trained to survive. But… we used to live, too.” 

“...Until Mandalore was taken.”

“Yes.”

So'haale, urman'gedete, eparave, cyarir evaar'la, alii'aliit… A cultus he could only dream of, but never truly have. Spoken knowledge fades into whispers, slipping through his fingers like sand as the voices of the ancestors grow ever fainter. Each decampment a dissolution of tsad res publica, each step forward a battle against oblivion. 

“I’m sorry.” You lean over, resting your head on his pauldron. “...Maybe there’ll come a time when we’ll live in the light, on a planet that welcomes us.” 

Din knows that within every Mandalorian is a patchwork of unfamiliar faces and ever-changing landscapes, their solace and safety as elusive as a bes'ede itself—and yet they endlessly repugn the kandush they have faced time and time again, guided by the conviction that within the uncertainty of the cosmos lay the promise of a sanctuary forged from the resilience of their spirit. 

He tilts his head, resting it atop yours. “There will.”

Ali'nare vencuyanir yaim. This is the Way.   

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

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[armageddon-generation]

The One Who Waits Should’ve Been the God of Fiction, not Sutekh

Sutekh was wasted as Series 14’s Big Bad & had no thematic connection to the rest of the stories. He was only there for fan-service. I realize this is partly Big Cope on my part, trying to rationalize the bad writing decisions this series, but it would’ve made way, way more sense thematically for the One Who Waits to be the God of Fiction, from the Land of Fiction.

The Land of Fiction is a pocket dimension the Second Doctor visits in The Mind Robber. Created by the Gods of Ragnarok, in it all the fictional lands and characters ever created exist and evolve, powered by the belief of our universe. It’s perfect for the themes RTD is exploring with series 14.

The God of Fiction latches onto the TARDIS at the edge of the universe during Wild Blue Yonder. The TARDIS as the ultimate narrative machine, the centre of so many twists and stories and myths, all the central plot-developments of this universe. Meta-commentary on the Doctor having slowly become the ‘main character’ of the universe. Of course a parasite that feeds on fiction would attach to him!

Now all s14’s fantasy elements- Goblins, a Bogeyman powered by storytelling, the folklore Fairy Circle, Boom tapping into faith & the afterlife, Rogue’s Bridgerton-fanfic romance & cosplay, all tie into the series arc. Narrative purpose for the experimentalism and scattershot tones, as the God of Fiction forces the TARDIS to new narrative extremes to feed itself.

(Also, 73 Yards- where Ruby is trapped in a nightmare world fuelled by dream-logic that she applies the structure and rules of traditional narrative to, latching onto a villain she has to defeat in order to make sense of the inexplicable- now becomes a microcosm of the whole season.)

People were initially worried RTD might re-use his original plan for Rose with Ruby- i.e. the Doctor manipulating her life to create his perfect companion. It’s a bad idea, but what if it was an external force? Like what Missy did with Clara, turned up to eleven.

The God of Fiction chose Ruby, the foundling, as 15’s perfect companion. The God is the one who shrouded Ruby’s regular human Mum in a Dickensian cloak, and the reason Ruby’s attempts to find a perfectly normal woman failed. They’re dressing her simple story up as a mysterious fairytale. The ‘we create legends out of ordinary people’ idea is baked into the spine of the season.

(This also lampshades 15 & Ruby being BFFs from the start. Skipping over/fast-forwarding through vital Doctor-companion milestones is explicitly because the God of Fiction has seen it all before & wants to get to the good stuff.)

Mrs Flood, with her fourth-wall breaking winks to camera, would be the God of Fiction’s servant in this version.

All the mystery boxes without satisfying answers this season- Susan Twist, the snow, the changing memory- were overtly placed by the God to keep 15 & Ruby on the hook. This way we can talk about the show’s overreliance on the Mystery Box structure, and the nuances of subverting expectations. The God knows they’re in a TV show! They acknowledge baiting 15 & the audience with Susan as shallow key-jangling.

By defeating the God of Fiction at the end of the season, through the genuine, human connection they’ve forged travelling together irrespective of mystery boxes or plot-twists or destiny, Ruby is freed from the constraints of the Narrative, and finally allowed to reunite with her Mum.

15 leaving Ruby would also make way more sense here; Mr. ‘I bring disaster, Kate’, ‘Maybe I’m the bad luck’ just got told his best friend’s life had been manipulated by a God because of him, and the foundation of their relationship was itself orchestrated, choreographed, puppeteered from the outset. He leaves Ruby to finally let her live a real life.

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 17

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, angst

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

Disclaimer: This chapter marks the point at which this story starts to overlap with canon events. I have heavily referenced events from Chapter 14: The Tragedy. You will find some additions and revisions to allow the reader character to fit into the story, but a lot of the dialogue is the same as in the original episode.

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In the far reaches of the Outer Rim, an Imperial cruiser drifted between star systems.

To some, it appeared as a relic of a bygone era – a time of darkness and turmoil that few remembered fondly. To others, it was a cautionary tale – a warning of what might again come to pass if the forces of greed and a hunger for power were to grip the galaxy once again.

But to Lieutenant Elia Kane, and to thousands of other young hopefuls roaming the corridors of that cruiser, it was a symbol of the glory that awaited them on the other side of this long dormancy. If, of course, they had the discipline, the fortitude, the loyalty to seek it.

Lieutenant Kane was determined to find that glory, and with the message she was about to deliver, she felt herself grow one step closer to achieving it. With a self-assured nod at the trooper guarding the door, she thumbed her access code into the control panel and crossed the threshold into one of the most exclusive sections of the cruiser.  

“Moff Gideon. The tracking beacon has been installed on the Razor Crest.”

Turning on his heel to face her, the older man offered her a small, pleased smile and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Does he still have the asset?” Gideon asked, dark eyes flashing.

“Yes.” Kane felt a swell of pride rise in her chest, drawing herself up a little straighter. “Our source confirmed it.”

He nodded to himself then, and Kane thought he looked confident, resolved, like one who had spent months setting up his pawns one by one, in a perfect line, and was finally settling in to play the game. To the death, if needed.

“And we will be ready,” he said, and the lieutenant permitted herself the faintest smile.

Yes. They would be ready. She would make sure of it.

---

“Dank farrik!”

You looked up from your datapad at the sound of Din’s cursing echoing from the cockpit and down into the cargo hold.

After the last week in hyperspace, the anticipation of waiting for the silhouette of Tython to appear in the viewport had been too much for you. From the moment the Razor Crest had dropped to sub-light speeds earlier this morning, the tension and the uncertainty had been palpable, close and unavoidable like the stale, recycled air. Din was always a bit stoic, a bit difficult to read, but if nothing else, you knew that Grogu could sense something was amiss. No matter how hard you attempted to engage the boy in a game or a song or a story, he had been completely uninterested, seemingly absorbed in playing with that little silver ball he loved so much and intent on avoiding eye contact with both you and his guardian. Feeling a bit useless, you had retreated into the hold nearly an hour ago, desperate to distract yourself.

Now, it seemed as though you were missing something important happening on the second level. Abandoning your datapad in the bunk, you crossed to the ladder and gripped the rungs, ready to climb up and see what all the fuss was about.

“ – did good!” Din’s voice reached you at the foot of the ladder, only slightly muffled by the closed blast doors at the entrance to the cockpit. “I just…when the nice lady said you had training, I just… You’re very special, kid. We’re going to find that place where you belong, and they’re going to take real good care of you.” You felt your heart seize in your chest when you realized what you were hearing, what you had inadvertently eavesdropped on. He sounded so hopeful, so positive, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether that emotion was genuine or if it was an act, something he was putting on in an attempt to ease Grogu’s worries. Or perhaps to ease his own.

“This is Tython,” he explained, continuing in that bright, energetic voice, one he only ever used when speaking to the boy. “That’s where we’re going to try and find you a Jedi. But you have to agree to go with them if they want you to, understand?”

Silence greeted his question, and you leaned your forehead against the ladder’s rungs, afraid to move, afraid to breathe should you accidentally interrupt this tender, significant moment between the Mandalorian and the child who had been like a son to him for so long.

When he spoke again, the bounty hunter had sobered somewhat, his words more wistful, more somber. “Plus, I can’t train you. You’re too…powerful. Don’t you want to learn more of that Jedi stuff?” Again, you heard no reply – no giggle or squeal or even whine from the little boy, and instead Din sighed, and you felt the Razor Crest dip beneath you. He had begun your descent through the atmosphere. You would be landing soon.

“I agreed to take you back to your own kind, so that’s what I need to do. You understand, right?” he asked after a moment. He sounded resolute to your ears, committed to his cause, and again you wondered who he was trying to convince – Grogu or himself. Either way, it made your chest ache.

A handful of minutes later, and you felt the telltale jolt of the reverse thrusters engaging. A groan from the ship’s underbelly told you landing gear had been extended, and then the deck plating beneath you vibrated with a heavy thump. As the hum of the twin engines wound down into silence, a pair of dusty brown leather boots appeared at the top of the ladder.

“Time to go?” you asked as Din descended into the cargo hold, Grogu clutched close to his chest.

The Mandalorian nodded once. “I ended up having to set us down a ways out – the peak where the temple ruins are is too small for the Crest. We’ll have to travel the last stretch with the windows down.”

You frowned, puzzled by the turn of phrase. “Meaning?”

However, rather than responding, Din instead proceeded to rummage through one of the smaller cargo bins, one you knew held tactical gear that was too bulky to fit in his beloved weapons locker. Shifting aside what looked like an ancient, weather-worn breastplate that appeared to have been painted green at one time in its storied history, he withdrew something that gleamed silver in the dim light of the cargo hold, something heavy and solid and unmistakably featuring twin rockets at its base.

His jetpack.

With a practiced, steady motion, the bounty hunter slung the jetpack over his shoulder and mounted it to his backplate, the hulking thing snapping into place as though tailor-made to do so.

“We’re…flying?” You cursed the tremble in your voice, the way your nerves were immediately apparent in the stammer of your question.

Something like a chuckle filtered its way through his vocoder. “Unless you’d rather walk, cyar’ika.”

You ended up making the journey to the peak cradled in Din’s arms like a damsel, tucked close to his chest with your braid whipping in the wind and Grogu strapped securely to your torso in his leather carrier. For the first time since you had woken than morning, you saw the brightness return to the boy’s eyes as he soared through the open air, and although your stomach was full to bursting with butterflies and enough adrenaline coursed through your veins to make your hands shake, you thought you might just understand. Nothing had ever felt so freeing – nothing but the beating sun, the arid breeze, and the strong, competent arms of the bounty hunter you both loved keeping you safe.

---

When Din had told you that you were taking Grogu to the ruins of an ancient Jedi temple, you had pictured something grand. Old, certainly, weathered and worn with time and the elements, of course, but in your mind, the structure had been stately; it had possessed a certain gravitas that would make its link to the legendary order clear to the naked eye. And at the very least, in your mind, it had been enclosed.

What you found as the Mandalorian landed the three of you gracefully on the leveled peak of the mountain was…rather simple in comparison. Instead of a temple, you found a stone henge – edged in giant, jagged rocks that seemingly sprouted directly from the mountain itself and tilted slightly inward to create an open-air, dome-like effect. At the center of the henge, in a shallow, sunken circle, sat another rock, this one much smaller, perhaps half your height. It was rounded, as smooth as the others were coarse, and situated as though a perfectly spherical stone had been buried half in the ground, leaving only one hemisphere exposed to the elements.

The only ornamentation to be found in the entire space was a ring of glyphs you didn’t recognize carved shallowly into the surface of the center stone. A humbler “temple” you could not have imagined.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Din said tentatively, setting you on your feet at the edge of the henge. You watched as he scanned the area, his steps cautious as he approached the stone in the center of the circle. “Does this look…Jedi to you?”

Almost unconscious of the gesture, you ran your hand over Grogu’s back, pressing him closer to you in the carrier that you had strapped to your front today. Your other hand rested warily on the hilt of your blaster, a concession that your bounty hunter companion had only agreed to when you reminded him of how close you had come to putting a shot right through Kevok Teklolq’s head.

“It looks ancient,” you quipped.

He nodded slowly in agreement then beckoned you forward, urging you deeper into the circle. Slipping Grogu from his carrier, he bundled the boy close to his chest then brought him over to the rounded stone.

“I guess you sit right here.” Din settled Grogu on top of that stone, right in the center, then took a step back, leaving him a wide berth. With a deep exhale and one final scan of the surrounding area, he added, “Okay. Here we go.”

For a moment, both of you stood there watching the kid look around aimlessly, babbling and cooing to himself as he watched the shrubs wave in the wind. He followed a little butterfly with his eyes, completely content to just sit and watch the world go by, and you and Din looked at each other dubiously.

“What’s…supposed to happen?” you asked after a beat, voice almost a whisper, as though afraid to disturb whatever supernatural forces might be at work in this place that you couldn’t see.

The Mandalorian shrugged, letting out a sigh as he took a step closer to Grogu again, trying to get his attention. “This is the ‘seeing stone.’ Are you seeing anything? Or are they supposed to see you?” He brought a hand up to the side of his helmet, flipping on his thermal scanners as he paced around the stone. “Maybe there’s some kind of control or something.”

He examined the base of the stone and ran his fingers over the shallow ring of glyphs that spanned the circumference but to no avail. For his part, Grogu simply reached out a little three-clawed hand to grasp at a butterfly that had fluttered too close to his face, completely unaware of the apprehension of both you and his guardian.

“Oh, come on, kid,” Din groaned, a mild annoyance creeping into his modulated voice after another unproductive moment of silence. “Ahsoka told me all I had to do was get you here, and you’d do the rest.”

Before you could offer any of your own encouragement, a rumbling sounded in the distance. Deep and loud, the sound echoed through the mountains and valleys, bouncing off of the massive rocks surrounding the henge. Your gaze instantly jumped to the bounty hunter, who already had his blaster out of its holster and his visor tilted up to the sky. You did the same, pulling your own blaster from where it hung from your boilersuit pocket, heart in your throat as the rumbling grew ever closer, ever louder.

It was definitely a ship – something with three engines but not a model you immediately recognized by sound alone. All you knew for certain was that it sounded old, and it seemed to be heading straight toward you.

You did not have to wonder for long, however, for just as you were about suggest to Din that perhaps you should come back to the peak later, when you were certain you were alone, a distinctive silhouette dropped through the atmosphere and arced toward the mountain where you stood. Painted in worn patches of tan, sage green, and red, with a wide, round base reminiscent of a deep space scanner dish, two small wings, and a long, narrow body, the ship flew in a way that made it look like it was standing upright. You felt your jaw drop at the sight, your unease suddenly tempered by fascination and something like awe.

“No way,” you breathed, watching the ship round the mountain peak and begin a landing pattern in the distance, just over the nearest hill. “Is that a kriffing Firespray?”

Thankfully, Din didn’t appear to be the least bit distracted by what kind of ship had just landed. Instead, you watched as he darted over to the edge of the stone henge, adjusting his helmet scanners in an attempt to spot exactly where among the hills and brush the ship had touched down. You couldn’t see a thing from where you were, but when you heard him curse under his breath, too low for his vocal modulator to pick up, your unease returned with a vengeance, causing your hand to flex over the grip of your blaster.

“Well?”

With a kind of tight, emphatic urgency you had rarely seen in him, the Mandalorian spun around, ignoring your question completely and going straight for where Grogu sat on the seeing stone.

“Time’s up, kid – we’ve got to get out of here.”

However, just as Din stretched out his hands to pluck the boy from the center of the stone, his wide, beetle-like eyes slipped shut, a calm, pensive expression washed over his little wrinkly face, and those mysterious glyphs ringing around the surface of the stone began to glow. Watery, blue-white light poured into the henge, shooting up from the ground in a narrow circle around the seeing stone, streaming into the air in a hollow column with Grogu in the center. Even from your position several meters away, you could feel the energy radiating from that light as though it were a physical thing. You felt it pressing against your skin, tugging your hair out of your braid, plastering your boilersuit to your skin. There was no wind, not really, and yet you squinted against it instinctually as though staring into a gale-force.

Grogu was doing it. He was actually doing it.

But you were no longer alone, and suddenly everything Din had told you about his and Grogu’s past – how he had been wanted by ex-Imperials, how he had been tracked and chased across the galaxy a dozen times over, how his life was in danger every time they got close – came crashing back into your memory, and you knew. The kid couldn’t stay here.

Din, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion. Eating up the distance between himself and the seeing stone in a handful of long, reckless strides, he snapped, “We don’t have time for this! We’ve got to get – ”

As though he had run headfirst into a wall made of rubber, the moment the Mandalorian made contact with that shimmering blue-white column of light, he seemed to bounce off of it, the energy field sending him flying backward almost to the edge of the henge in a crumpled beskar heap.

“Din!” You darted to his side immediately, horrified, but before you could lay a hand on him in concern, he was already staggering to his feet breathlessly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he panted, waving your concern away as he limped back toward the seeing stone, back toward Grogu. “Hey, snap out of it, kid! We’ve got to get out of here!”

If the little boy could hear him, he gave no indication. He had settled into a peaceful, meditative posture, his arms loose at his side, his fingertips pressed together, and his face serene. Whatever was happening to him, whatever he was doing in there, it didn’t seem to be hurting him.

“I think we have to let him finish,” you said, glancing between the child and the tense, battle-ready bounty hunter now pacing the circle of the henge like a caged animal.

He shook his head at that immediately, the noon sun glinting off of the beskar dome of his helmet. “It’s too dangerous. We’re too exposed here.” He crossed to the edge of the henge once again, staring down between the massive rocks, zooming in with his helmet scanners with his shoulders on edge. After a moment, he said, “Yep, we’ve got company. At least one humanoid heading this way.”

You swore colorfully. “You go, head them off. I’ll stay here with Grogu.”

Meeting your gaze with his for the first time since the ship was spotted, you watched as he silently debated with himself. The hand around his blaster hilt twitched, his other hand balled in a tight fist, and he seemed to take you in – from the top of your head to the toes of your dusty boots, and you thought you might have heard him sigh. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you two up here on your own.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice.” You drew yourself up to your full height, hoping that perhaps if you carried yourself like you were confident in this, like you were certain you would be safe, it would somehow become true. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Din hesitated for only another moment before his shoulders softened somewhat. Nodding once at you, he leaned around you to shout in Grogu’s direction. “I’ll see if I can buy you some time, kid. Can you please hurry up?”

With one final glance in your direction, Din took off down the side of the mountain, blaster at the ready.

---

As you stood in the silence of the mountain peak, nothing but the breeze and the thrum of the energy field to break it, you were reminded of that first night on Maramere. Hovering at the mouth of the Razor Crest, damp in the salty night air, a blaster you were only barely familiar with heavy in your palm, eyes always scanning, searching the horizon. Waiting. You were always fucking waiting.

There had been a handful of blaster rounds exchanged soon after the Mandalorian had disappeared into the brush along the side of the mountain. Far away and faint, you hadn’t been able to identify anything further about them – like who might have shot them or at whom – but minutes had passed since then, quiet minutes with nothing but you, the meditating child, and the Force that did nothing to assuage your anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself against the pull of your own thoughts, your own fears, steadying your hands, slowing your heartrate. You could not allow yourself to succumb to the sickening dread at the idea that those shots you heard might have met their mark on Din. Grogu was vulnerable, alone, and inaccessible. Your boy needed you clear-headed. Your boy needed you strong. You could not, would not fail him.

But then a military transport shuttle dropped from the sky, and its familiar shape had horror sinking like lead in your stomach, bleeding through your limbs, robbing the calm, collected breath from your lungs.

It was Imperial. An Imperial military transport shuttle. Which could only mean…

You rushed to the edge of the henge, shielding your eyes against the glare of the sun as you watched the shuttle land mere feet from the Razor Crest. The rear of the ship dropped open, extending a wide durasteel ramp, and a glint of white armor flashed in the noon light.

Storm Troopers. A whole platoon of Storm Troopers.

You lurched back toward the center of the circle, inching as close as you dared to the repellent energy field, putting your back against the radiating force of it as you positioned your body between the child and the direction of the shuttle. Blaster drawn, you brought it up to the ready, both sweaty hands wrapped around the hilt. You kept your eyes on the space between the rocks where you thought they might appear, and you sent up a silent prayer to every deity you had ever heard of that it would be enough – that Din was alive and well, that he had seen the Troopers descend through the atmosphere and would be ready for them, that he could handle that many. If he could not, it would all be down to you.

Tell-tale, high-pitched shrieks of blaster fire erupted outside of your line of sight – dozens of rounds, more than your ears could track, accompanied by the sound of shattering rock and incoherent shouting that echoed through the mountain range. The sound gave you hope at first, told you that at least someone was putting up a fight, but the longer it continued, the more uncertain you became of who exactly was doing the fighting. Was it really just your bounty hunter? It sounded like more than just him. Who had he found, emerging from that Firespray? Was it possible that they were an ally?

The fighting seemed to stretch on and on, and just as you were beginning to wonder whether you might be better served descending the mountain to help, a flash of beskar caught your eye just over the ridge, and your knees nearly gave out beneath you in relief as Din Djarin came barreling into the circle of the henge.

“Time to go, kid!” He was winded from the climb, his chest heaving beneath his breastplate, and his jetpack had seemingly gone missing, leaving his tattered black cape to flutter unencumbered in the breeze.

“Honey, breathe,” you coaxed, meeting him halfway to the seeing stone with a steadying hand on his pauldron. Your palm rested over the outline of his Mudhorn signet, its familiar shape soothing you. “What did you find?”

But he simply shook his head, brushing your touch aside, visor singularly focused on the boy behind you. “No time to explain. We can’t stay here, there are too many of them.”

Slipping around you, and without another word, the Mandalorian angled his broad, armored shoulders into the force of the energy field and began fighting his way forward, once again trying to breach its borders and snatch the child from its center. His progress was impossibly slow, as though he were attempting to push the seeing stone up the side of the mountain, and he grunted and groaned with similar effort. Hands outstretched before him, arms trembling with the strain, you watched in horror as the tips of his fingers just barely brushed the inner layer of the energy field before the blue-white light seemed to pulse, and the bounty hunter was flung back through the air with a cry. Mere inches from the edge of the stone henge, his body crumpled to the ground in a pile of dark fabric and beskar, face down in the dirt, limp and unmoving.

“Din!” You sprinted to his side, tucking your blaster into your pocket as you went. Collapsing to your knees beside his prone form, you heaved him over onto his back, the bulk of him plus his full suit of armor almost more than you could budge on your own. “Come on, Din, wake up. Wake up!” You shook him by the shoulders, loose hair and panicked sweat falling into your eyes as you stared down at him. You met your own reflection’s gaze in the ink-black surface of his visor, but you didn’t need to examine your face to know that you looked as distraught as you felt as the Mandalorian remained motionless beneath you.

You tried in vain for a few more moments to rouse him, but it was no use. He was out cold, and the fighting down the side of the mountain had only gotten louder, which you presumed meant it had gotten closer. Crawling over to the edge of the henge, careful to stay low enough to the ground to be hidden by the brush, you risked a peak down the slope and into the valley below.

There, far enough in the distance to keep you safe from blaster bolts but still far closer than you were comfortable with, you could see two foreign figures picking off the wave of Storm Troopers one by one, and you realized then that these must have been the people that had arrived in the Firespray. One appeared to be a woman dressed in orange and black tactical gear, a sleek helmet on her head blocking most of her face from view. Even from a distance, you could tell she was a wicked shot, taking out trooper after trooper even in the short amount of time you had been watching. The other figure was far more mysterious – a bald man with deeply tanned skin clad in flowing black robes, carrying a long, thin blaster rifle and some kind of curved polearm strapped across his broad back. He, too, was an excellent shot, though his blaster seemed to pack less of a punch than the one wielded by his companion.

Crouched there in the brush, you watched as the Storm Troopers advanced relentlessly even as their numbers dwindled, driving the other two combatants to retreat further back, taking shelter as they could behind the rocky terrain. It was clear from where you stood that although the troopers far outnumbered your mysterious allies, the skill advantage clearly went to the two figures in black.

However, just as you were beginning to feel confident that they might be capable of defeating this insurgency on their own, without Din’s help, the Storm Troopers produced a small, freestanding artillery, and your stomach dropped to your feet as they began to loose volleys of explosive rounds along the side of the mountain. The ground shook beneath you, and you bit back a startled scream as the impact sent chunks of rock and clouds of dust pouring from the cliffside where your two allies hid. They wouldn’t be able to withstand that kind of firepower, and neither would you, should they get make their way much closer. You needed Din.

Scurrying back over to his side, you redoubled your attempts to wake him. Saying his name, shaking his shoulders, running your hands across his body, focusing on the parts you could touch without beskar getting in the way. Tucking your fingers under the folds of his cape, you managed to find a scrap of skin just on the edge of his cowl, and you dug your fingernails into that flesh, catching on his collar bone, hoping the sting would be enough to bring him back to himself.

And then a second Imperial transport shuttle dropped through the sky, the sound of its engines joining the commotion of the firefight, and as though that was the cue that he had been waiting for, the Mandalorian startled awake with a groan.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” you sighed, falling back onto your haunches where you knelt beside his body. You wiped sweat and dust from your brow with the back of your sleeve, praying that the tears of frustration and fear that had been prickling the backs of your eyes stayed put in your tear ducts. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” The bounty hunter sounded dazed, exhausted. “The kid – ”

You held up hand, interjecting immediately. “He’s still in a trance. I can’t get through to him. And more troopers just landed at the base of the mountain.”

“I have to try again.” He staggered to his feet then, immediately lurching in the direction of the seeing stone where Grogu still sat, unmoved and unaware of all that was happening around him. “That’s it, kid! We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Din, don’t – ” You jumped to your feet, fingers scrabbling at the back of his cape as though to hold him back, but the man was insistent and would not be deterred.

Extending his gloved hands once more into the corona of the energy field, he was once again repelled backward, this time somehow managing to keep his feet.

“It’s no use,” you snapped, frustration rising in your chest. Clearly flinging himself at that ray shield-like force wasn’t helping. The man was getting frantic, and it scared you. If he would just slow down and think for a second… “We’re going to have to wait it out!”

“We don’t have time for that!”

You paused for a moment, forcing back your short-tempered retort. You had one idea – just one, and you didn’t like it. But up here, you were useless, and if you tried to meet the Storm Troopers head-on, like Din would, like the two mysterious figures at the base of the mountain would, you would get yourself killed, and then you would less than useless. There was only one thing you could think of that you could do in this situation that would actually help. If you were brave enough to do it.

“What if…what if I went and got the Crest?”

The Mandalorian came up short at that, turning to face you head on with a cocked helmet, silent incredulity rolling off of his posture.

“Grogu isn’t coming out of that energy field until he’s done with whatever he’s doing. We’re just going to have to keep him safe until he quits on his own. I’m a decent shot in a starship, and we’re going to need more than blasters if we want to fight off that many troopers.”

He appeared to consider the idea, looking like he wanted to protest but unable to come up with a reason why, or better yet, a different idea all together. Another explosion rocked the mountainside, blaster fire continuing to sing in the distance, and after a beat, he nodded once.

“Okay. Yeah, okay. I’ll cover you.”

Drawing your blaster once more, you spared a quick glance at Grogu’s sweet, serene face, and then both you and Din crossed to the edge of the henge one final time.

“Okay, we’re going to protect you. Just stay there,” you called back to the child. Imbuing every ounce of confidence you could muster in your words, you added, “We’ll be back soon.”

The bounty hunter wrapped one of his hands around your elbow then, urging you to meet his gaze. As gently as he could manage in a rush, he ducked down and butted the forehead of his helmet against yours. “Be careful, cyare,” he rasped, and you felt yourself smiling in spite of the circumstances. There he was. That was your Din.

“You, too,” you whispered. You allowed yourself a singular moment to breathe in the scent of him – beskar and blaster residue, sweat and spice – and then you ducked into the brush and began your descent down the mountain.

One hand wrapped around your blaster hilt, the other held out to your side for balance, you kept as low to the ground as you could manage, your boots slipping and sliding through the dirt and gravel on the steep slope down. You kept your eyes on the conflict as much as you could, taking shelter behind rocks or flattening yourself against the ground when blaster rounds strayed too close to where you crept. Everything was so loud – the incessant blaster fire, the intermittent explosions from the artillery, the shouting of the troopers. It all had your heart hammering in your ears, your stomach tight and leaden with anxiety, and you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you were to come upon a trooper now and be forced to defend yourself, your hands would be shaking too badly to level your blaster. Instead, you prayed that Din’s return to the battle would be enough of a distraction to keep you from their notice.

Once you got to the Razor Crest, you would be safe.

Once you got to the Razor Crest, you would keep your boy safe.

Those thoughts, those promises you made to yourself, were the only things that kept you from curling into the smallest ball you could manage and wedging yourself behind a rock to wait out the conflict.

Your prayers were answered the moment Din made it back to the fray. Back-to-back with the strange woman in black, you watched in awe as he activated the battery of small guided missiles built into the back of one of his vambraces – whistling birds, he called them – and launched them all at once. A dozen tiny rockets streaked through the air, leaving smoke trails in their wake, and ripped through the flimsy plastisteel armor of as many Storm Troopers, crumpling their bodies to the ground.

That was your chance – your window of opportunity. You took off at a sprint, arms and legs pumping, fighting to keep yourself upright on the incline of the ridge, forgoing the shelter of the rocks and the brush in favor of speed. All of the efforts, all of the attention of the troopers were now squarely focused on Din. You had to make it as far as you could before they realized you were there. The Razor Crest was so far away, but you could make it. You just needed enough time…

You made it almost all the way to the flat, barren clearing where you had landed, a mere 150 meters from the bottom of the Razor Crest’s familiar ramp, before the telltale sound of jetpack engines filled your ears. You had just enough time to drop to the dirt before a dark form came arcing through the air around the side of the ridge, sailing directly into the center of the conflict.

An explosion greater than any you had seen thus far heralded his landing, and your palms flew to your ears instinctively against the thundering blast. You felt the detonation in your bones, your eardrums ringing, your skull feeling a bit rattled, and you watched with nothing short of awe as from the smoke, a man clad in a familiar set of weathered, green-painted beskar rose unscathed.

It was the man from earlier, you realized – the strange man in the robes with the alien-looking polearm strapped to his back. Except now, in addition to the polearm, he was wielding a blaster, multiple rocket launchers, and a full complement of Mandalorian armor, and he moved with the confidence and the ferocity of a man who was quite accustomed to doing so.

You had watched Din fight. You had seen the way he transformed under the pressure of battle – the way he slipped into this other identity, this other state of being with his blaster in his hand. He was focused, fierce, competent – fluid and yet sharp simultaneously, unrelenting in his assault, unforgiving in his intensity. This man fought like Din but with the addition of all the blunt savagery of a bull determined to break out of its pen, and you couldn’t help but hesitate in the face of it.

You couldn’t help but stop to watch.

With a heavy swing of his vambrace, the mysterious man backhanded the nearest trooper across his helmet, shattering the thing upon impact and sending the infantryman toppling to the ground. He took out three more with his blaster in quick succession, felling them where they stood, then took aim at the portable generator powering the artillery. The generator exploded in a burst of flame, sending several nearby troopers into the air with the force of it, and then he was eating up the ground in long strides, alternating between his blaster and some kind of projectile weapon built into his vambrace. Everywhere he went, Storm Troopers littered the ground, falling in the face of his violent strength.

This man was magnificent and utterly terrifying.

The Storm Troopers seemed to agree. Once it became clear that there was no victory to be found for them now that this newcomer had joined the fray, their commanders gave the order to fall back. A thrill shot through you at the sight of their gleaming white armor retreating under a rain of blaster bolts, and before you knew it, both of the transport shuttles were in the air and rapidly ascending back into orbit.

They didn’t make it far, however. Taking aim with the oversized artillery shell mounted to the side of his jetpack, the man in the green armor launched the rocket in the direction of the retreating vessels. You followed the arc of the round through the air and watched as it collided with its mark in a burst of flame. Black smoke belched from the hull of the hit shuttle, pouring into the afternoon air, and with an echoing groan, it fell from the sky, taking the other shuttle down, too, in its descent.

You couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away from the wreckage. So dumbstruck and impressed by the raucous display of power were you that you nearly missed the single, red laser cannon burst that streaked through the atmosphere.

In the same way that it had in the forests on Maramere, when you had leveled your blaster at another being for the first time and pulled the trigger, time seemed to slow to a crawl as you watched that laser burst part the clouds on its way down from orbit. Ripping its way through the air, it zipped unerringly toward its target in one clean, continuous line. Your eyes widened with horror as you tracked its path, and you thought you might have loosed a shout of warning, but it hardly mattered. There was nothing you could do to stop it.

The laser burst tore through the Razor Crest like it was no more substantial than a brittle, fallen leaf, and you watched, helpless, as the ship burst apart at the seams in a ball of flames and shrapnel.

You were so close to the impact that you didn’t even have enough time to dive for cover. The force of the blast hit you like a wall of bricks, lifting you from the ground, throwing you back several feet, limp as a rag doll. All of the air evacuated your lungs as you collapsed onto the hardpacked dirt, and white-hot agony seared through you as the roiling wave of fire that exploded from the ruined ship licked at your exposed skin, singing your hands, your neck, your face.

The Razor Crest. They had destroyed the Razor Crest.

You tried to suck in a breath, but the air was so hot, scorching your lungs, coating your throat with ash and dirt. Coughing and sputtering, you lurched to your feet, needing to get away from the epicenter of the flames, but Maker, your ears hurt – they were ringing in your head, drowning out the roar of the fire, the labored sounds of your own breathing, even the thunder of your own heartbeat. It was making you dizzy. You could barely keep your feet under your body.

The world was spinning.

The Razor Crest was gone.

You could feel astringent tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, streaking through the dirt and the soot and the raw skin on your cheeks. Were they from the smoke, or from the grief in your chest?

Din’s ship. Your ship.

Your home, the only real home you had known since you were a child. Gone.

You dug your blunt nails into the nearest rock, scrabbling along its jagged surface, feeling the inflamed skin of your fingertips catch on the ridges to keep you upright. You had to get to Din, to Grogu. They would be coming for him now.

Now that you couldn’t run away.

With every wavering step you took out of the blast radius, you could feel your vision clearing, could feel your breath coming a bit easier in your lungs. Your body still ached everywhere, and your skin felt like you had been laying out under Tatooine’s twin suns with cooking oil slathered across your body for several hours, but you could move again, and the more time you spent on your feet, the more your equilibrium began to restore itself. It was a level of pain that you could push through, and in that moment, you were determined to push through it.

As the mountain peak with the stone henge began to take shape in your field of vision once again, you noticed several things at once. First, you could see both Din and the strange woman in black and orange tactical gear racing up the side of the mountain, weapons drawn, scaling the steep incline at a shocking pace. Second, you noticed that the blue-white column of light that had surrounded Grogu had disappeared. Finally, peeking through the craggy rocks along the circumference of the henge, you could see the glint of metal. A lot of it, like whatever had joined Grogu in the center of the circle was absurdly large.

Or like there were many of them.

Packing away the pain in your muscles and the agony in your lungs, refusing to acknowledge either of them, you broke into a run.

---

“Abort pursuit! Disengage! Do not harm the child!”

You were dead on your feet as you staggered into the circle of the henge. Utterly winded, gasping for breath, muscles seizing and shaking with overuse, eyes watering, burning your tender skin as tears spilled over. Neither Din nor the woman acknowledged your arrival at first, both of them staring into the clear, blue sky, their bodies bent over the comm link in the woman’s hand. Stomach sinking in your abdomen, you glanced around them both toward the center of the circle.

The seeing stone was empty, dormant once more, and Grogu was gone.

A gruff male voice echoed from the strange woman’s comm link, one you had never heard before. “Copy. I’ll do a loose follow, see where they’re headed.”

You leaned heavily back against the closest stone, woozy and wrung out. You had failed. You had promised to keep him safe, and you had failed.

Half a breath later, and the comm link crackled to life once more. “They’re back,” the voice on the other end said.

The woman was quick to reply, curt and direct. “Who?”

“The Empire. They’re back.”

“That can’t be.” The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, and both Din and the woman whirled around to face you, the latter’s hand flying to the grip of her weapon.

“Cyare,” the Mandalorian breathed, taking an uneasy step toward you, hand outstretched. You couldn’t imagine how you looked to him then. Limp and listless against the rock, barely standing, dotted with burns, covered in dirt and soot, steeped in heartache.

For her part, the woman glanced back and forth between you and Din for a moment, dropping her hold on the blaster rifle strapped to her body only after she had determined that the two of you knew each other. Speaking into her comm link again, she snapped, “The Outer Rim is under the jurisdiction of the New Republic.”

The reply back was just as quick. “This isn’t a spice dream. I can see the Imperial cruiser with my own eyes.” A brief pause, and then, “Heading down.”

For the first time since you had spotted the Firespray descend through the atmosphere, silence fell over the mountain peak. Din couldn’t seem to look away from you, nor you from him, though neither of you moved to be closer to the other. The woman in black stood by and said nothing, clearly an outsider in the grief that was beginning to settle over the two of you. Feeling a fresh wave of tears welling behind your eyes, you whispered, voice breaking halfway through, “Grogu?”

Your bounty hunter shook his head once and broke your gaze, turning instead to stare at the column of smoke rising from the remains of the Razor Crest. “He’s gone.”

You swore you could feel your heart crack inside your chest, and those tears spilled unchecked and silent. He sounded hollow, empty and lifeless inside, and you wanted so badly to go to him, to say his name, to comfort him somehow. Perhaps also to seek comfort from him, if you were being honest. But as you pulled yourself away from the support of the rock behind you, he held up a hand, the same hand that had been reaching for you a few moments ago, and stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m going to survey the wreckage,” he announced, visor pointed toward the ground, away from you, away from the other woman. Before you could say another word, he disappeared over the edge of the peak, descending the mountainside once more.

You took a single, feeble step after him before your thigh muscles gave out beneath you, send you toppling toward the ground. But the woman in black got there first, catching you beneath your armpits, hauling you back onto your feet.

“Whoa, easy there,” she said. “And who might you be?”

You sniffed heavily, dragging your sleeves across your tear-stained face. You winced at the feel of the abrasive fabric against your burns, but you gave her your name all the same. Your voice sounded small, wrecked even to your own ears, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed. Your ship was nothing but a smoking crater in the ground. The Empire had kidnapped your little boy. Your entire body ached. You couldn’t be bothered with trying to put on a brave face for this stranger.

“I’m…I’m his…” You struggled to put your relationship with Din into words, to phrase it in a way that could be understood by someone else, particularly when you weren’t even certain you understood it yourself. You were his crew member. His engineer. His nanny. His friend. His lover. You were just…

“I’m his.”

The woman offered you a puzzled look, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in something like a smile. “I’m Fennec Shand. Mando and I are old…acquaintances. What happened to you? You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“I was going after our ship, the Razor Crest, while you guys were fighting those troopers,” you replied, finally starting to feel a bit steadier on your feet with Fennec’s support. “I was going to offer air support. I was nearby when it blew up.”

“Dank farrik.” She looked you up and down, dark eyes shrewd. “We have some medical supplies in our ship. It’s not much, but it’ll stop these burns from getting infected, and it should help keep you from scarring.”

You shook your head immediately at that. “No, I have to go, I have to be with him – ”

“Okay, okay, one step at a time. You’ll never make it back down the mountain on your own.” Fennec looped one of your arms over her shoulder, anchoring you to her body with a strength that surprised you. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

---

As Din Djarin picked through the paltry remains where the Razor Crest once stood, Fennec Shand and a man you had learned was named Boba Fett looked on with somber expressions.

The former had calmly, patiently, tirelessly helped your battered and bruised body down the side of the mountain, supporting your weight when your legs threatened to give you beneath you and catching you up as best as she could on what you had missed while you stood guard over Grogu. When you reached the scorched patch of earth, still trailing whisps of smoke into the air, she had found you a relatively flat rock to rest on. Now, you joined the bleak, silent vigil, allowing your Mandalorian to scavenge through what was left of his home in relative privacy.

Maker. How could any of this be real?

“May I offer you a handkerchief, little one?” You startled at the question, glancing up over your shoulder at the solemn face of the man in the weathered green armor. This was the man you had watched so effortlessly eliminate so many troopers from your hiding spot in the brush, but in contrast to when he was in battle, he had removed his helmet, choosing to carry it in the crook of his arm instead. He had a worn scrap of black cloth in his hand, and it fluttered in the faint breeze in a way that reminded you of Din’s cape. “It looks as though you might need it more than I.”

You studied the man, Boba Fett, for a moment before nodding and accepting his offering. Passing the handkerchief over your face, you sighed softly in relief. The fabric was so much softer than your boilersuit, so much gentler on your injuries. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of Din bending down to uncover something from the ash. Grogu’s favorite little silver ball, crusted in dirt but miraculously intact.

More tears streamed down your face at the sight, and you quickly wiped them away. If Boba spotted the furtive gesture, he had the good grace to not say anything about it.

Clearing your throat, you opened your mouth to ask him about the armor he wore, to confirm that it was, in fact, what you thought it was, and that it had come from the Razor Crest before its destruction, but before you could form the words, Din had clambered his way out of the shallow crater left by the detonation, a long, metal spear in his hands.

“This is all that survived,” he said, showing Boba the weapon.

The older man quirked an eyebrow knowingly. “Beskar.”

Din nodded.

“I want you to take a look at something.” Thumbing a quick combination into his vambrace, a holographic projection appeared in midair between the two armored men. “My chain code has been encoded in this armor for 25 years. See, this is me, Boba Fett.” He pointed at the section of the code that indicated his name, his planet of origin, and some biometric data. “This is my father, Jango Fett.” He pointed again, this time at another section of text further down on the display.

Din drew back somewhat in surprise. “Your father was a foundling,” he said, recognition in his voice.

“Yes. He even fought in the Mandalorian Civil Wars.”

You felt your own eyebrows raise at that. Whether Boba himself was Mandalorian remained unclear, but from what you knew of the Creed, it hardly mattered. If his father was Mandalorian, Boba was owed the same inheritance.

Like Grogu.

“Then that armor belongs to you,” Din agreed.

Boba offered him a serious half-bow, the gesture almost courtly. “I appreciate its return.” His gruff voice took on a note of sincerity then, a note of warmth, and you felt the corner of your mouth quirk up at the sound.  

“Then our deal is complete.”

Boba hesitated at that, holding up a hand to pause. “Not quite.”

“How so?”

Din was done with this conversation, you could tell. He wanted to leave, to be done with this place and leave the smoking pit where his ship used to be behind, where he didn’t have to look at it anymore.

But the other man appeared undeterred by his surliness. “We agreed, in exchange for the return of my armor, we would guarantee the safety of the child.”

“The child’s gone.” You felt your heart stutter at his words, the matter-of-fact way he said them, the hollowness in his voice. It made your lower lip tremble, and again, you wished you could reach out and pull him to you, hold him. But he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t want that right now, and you certainly weren’t about to force the issue. Not in front of two strangers, anyway.

“Until he is returned to you safely, we are in your debt.”

Din was silent for a moment, glancing between Boba and Fennec for confirmation. The latter nodded once, deadly serious, and a surge of hope welled up in your chest at their clear, steadfast commitment. Both of them were skilled fighters. The countless, white-armored bodies that littered the valley and mountainside were testament enough to that. Would they be willing to put themselves at risk for the sake of the child? It certainly seemed so.

“If you truly mean that,” Din began, hesitant but considering, “I have some thoughts on how you might pay back that debt.”

The other man inclined his head him, quick to retort, “My word is my bond, Mandalorian. We had an accord, so shall it be done.”

“Good. Then we need transport to the Outer Rim.”

You frowned slightly at that. Back to the Outer Rim? Even the closest planets in that region were several days away at light speed. What was Din after?

 Boba seemed to have no compunctions with this plan, however. “Of course. Where are you heading?”

“Nevarro,” he replied. “If we’re going to find the cruiser that took him, we’re going to need help. I have a contact on Nevarro with New Republic law enforcement rights. She might be able to pull some strings for us.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? I would bet that most of us don’t exactly have the best history with…agents of the law,” Fennec quipped wryly.

“I understand. But I trust her. She was a gun for hire for years before she went straight. Even if she can’t help us, she’ll be discrete.”

The other woman exchanged a significant look with Boba, the two of them seemingly having a discussion without words. After a beat, he nodded and said, “Very well. The journey to Nevarro is a long one from here. Come, we leave immediately.”

Fennec was at your side almost instantly, pulling you to your feet from the rock on which you perched. You winced as you settled onto your legs, having gotten stiff while you waited, but she was patient as you found your footing. You offered her a soft smile of thanks, but before you could take your first step, another set of gloves appeared in your peripheral vision.

“It’s all right, I’ll get her there,” Din said, extending a hand to you in offering. Your eyes snapped up to his face, meeting his gaze through his impenetrable visor. It was the first time he had looked you in the eye since the two of you had left that mountain peak, since he had pressed his forehead to yours and asked you to be careful. You couldn’t help but feel as though the man staring back at you had been fundamentally changed in the intervening hours. This man was colder, more distant, cloaked in grief and vengeance.

He was right there, with his hand outstretched, and yet, he had never felt so out of reach.

But you could not bring yourself to say no to the chance to be close to him. And so, swallowing thickly, you nodded in agreement and allowed him to sweep you up into his arms.

Din was silent as he carried you to where Boba Fett’s Firespray had landed, and if he noticed the fresh tear tracks you hid against the folds of his cape, he did not acknowledge them.

[titikawai]

Essay : DinBo is another Star Wars take on courtly love!

The Accolade by Edmund Blair Leighton (1901)

The concept of courtly love has long been a recurring theme in literature and storytelling, and it finds its way into the vast galaxy of Star Wars. While Leia and Han, as well as Padme and Anakin, have been prominent examples of such romances, the relationship between Din Djarin and Bo-Katan Kryze introduces another Star Wars take on courtly love. It is often compared to other notable courtly love couples like Jonerys from Game of Thrones.

According to Francis Newman in The Meaning of Courtly Love, vii: Courtly love “an experience between erotic desire and spiritual attainment, a love at one illicit and morally elevating, passionate and disciplined, humiliating and exalting, human and transcendent.”

Din and Bo’s relationship can be seen as a representation of courtly love, a concept that originated in medieval literature and poetry. It typically portrayed a noble knight who fell in love with a high-ranking, unattainable lady, and their relationship was often characterized by chivalry and devotion. While Bo and Din’s relationship might not mirror all aspects of it, its core elements are very well present : 

1/ Unattainability: Courtly love often featured a love interest who was unattainable, typically due to social status, marriage, or some other obstacle. In the case of Din and Bo-Katan, she is the leader of Mandalore and carries the responsibility of reclaiming her homeworld, Mandalore. She is seen as a hero and has a noble lineage, making her an influential figure in Mandalorian society. Her elevated social status, leadership role, and reputation contribute to her unattainability. Meanwhile, Din is a foundling and a bounty hunter, which creates a social divide between them, reinforcing the notion that they come from different worlds.

2/ Adoration and Service: Din and Bo both display their attraction through non-sexual deeds with a big emphasis on the eyes and the glances they give each other, especially since it is the only thing we can notice when they are wearing their helmets: 

In many scenes, Din is shown admiring her from afar, for instance when in awe of her skills as a warrior : 

source: @supermarvelgirl15​

He respects her leadership and goes to great lengths to assist and protect her, offering his services and support in her mission to reclaim Mandalore. His actions demonstrate his devotion and desire to serve her, just like a knight in shining beskar would serve his lady. He does heroic deeds of valour which win her heart: he saves Ragnar, fights in the sky with her, gifts her the Darksaber and fights Gideon by her side.

 3/ Chivalric Code: Courtly love was closely associated with chivalry and the knightly code of conduct. Knights were expected to demonstrate virtues such as bravery, loyalty, and honour (does that right a bell?). Similarly, Din embodies many of these chivalric qualities. He is courageous in battle, displays unwavering loyalty to his allies and Bo, and adheres to his personal code of honour, following The Way. Just like a Middle Age knight, his own religious beliefs are challenged when meeting her: he finds out about the existence of the several ways of being a Mandalorian with some removing their helmets and others not. We know that he feels this want of showing his face to those he loves because he showed it to Grogu in hope to finally attain real intimacy with him (a state a security of which he was robbed as an orphan) and maybe later with Bo while also wishing not to break the creed?

  4/ Declaration of passionate devotion :

In his pledge, Din emphasizes that his love for Bo-Katan surpasses superficial aspects such as the Darksaber, station, or bloodline. Instead, he places honor, loyalty, and character as the true measures of his devotion. By declaring that her song is not yet written, Din pledges to serve Bo-Katan until her destiny is fulfilled, showcasing his unwavering commitment and willingness to sacrifice for her. There was no need for Din to be all poetic like that if he didn’t courtly love her <3.

5/ Secret love that is not so secret : When Bo-Katan asked for volunteers to retake Mandalore, Din stood up for her in front of everyone, showcasing his unwavering support and loyalty to his lady : 

Additionally, their physical proximity at the bonfire, sitting extremely close to each other, suggests an intimacy and closeness that goes beyond mere friendship or camaraderie : 

The way people refer to them as a pair further emphasizes the perception of their relationship by others. Whether it is the way they interact, the unspoken understanding between them, or the chemistry that is palpable to those around them, their connection is evident and acknowledged by those who observe them. 

However, despite the undeniable bond between Din and Bo-Katan, their romance remains unfulfilled due to their differing priorities and the challenges they face. Their respective paths and responsibilities may require them to focus on their individual missions : her leading Mandalore again and him teaching Grogu. However, it is worth noting that while their love story may be unfulfilled at present, the potential for its development and resolution remains.

[kaxtwenty]

I think the thing I like the most about Mandalorians is how much it sucks to be one.

Like, the older I get the more I understand Satine. Any society that revolves around fighting and conquest as much Mandalorian society tends to suck to live in.

Pretty much every major Mando character has this moment where they’re just like, “Why are we like this?” And it feels real in a way that few bits of SW lore ever come close to.

To gloss over it a bit. Nearly every planet they’ve inhabited has been glassed 1-12 times. The foundling system, while cool, has its roots in slavery and forced assimilation (which can still be seen in some cases). Pretty much every major clan or house are the descendants of people who were forced to assimilate to Mandalorian society (not even that far back in Clan Wren’s case). They fought so much that the original Mandalorian race, the Taung, went extinct.

And to top it all off the literal inception of their entire culture was when they saw a planet full of Kaiju and one guy decided they should subjugate and hunt them to extinction. Which is to say nothing of all the civil wars their whole feudalistic house/clan system practically encourages; along with the ever lingering question of how often do Mandos who aren't soldiers get to have full citizenship?

Hell, there was one time a Mandalorian straight up became a Jedi, ruled as Mand’alor only to have his kids steal his saber from the Jedi Temple and use it as a symbol of violence and supremacy.

I’ve always liked to think of Mandalorians as the sort of “wildcard” faction of Star Wars. They can be either the heroes or the villains and vary wildly in how they fulfill those roles, you never quite know what you’re gonna get with them on an individual level. But just about every one of them has had to confront their history and how it affects them now. And their views are often informed their upbringing and different experiences.

There's this constant through line of characters trying to reinvent what it means to be Mandalorian, all of them coming to their own conclusions, usually with the help of a Jedi or two.

Idk, I wouldn't say I'm an expert on Mandalorians or anything (I'm much more of a Jedi guy), but I got a lot of thoughts about them and how their current culture is informed by their history of imperialistic warfare.

"I think... I think I need something more than killing and fighting in my life." - Canderous Ordo

[jellicle-chants]

Guess what I just found in my drafts that I meant to publish like... a year ago 🥴🙃🥲 Anyway, have some details about my CATS Speakeasy AU! I'm really hoping to get back around to this in more detail sometime soonish, so better to study up now...

Munk is the adopted son of Old Deut, who raised many such foundlings and in general created a safe place for anyone who didn't have one. In the narrative of the AU, he's trying to solve one of Macavity's plots (probably some kind of kidnapping situation). He also takes care of Jemima, who was left on his doorstep in an echo of his own origin. Plato tags along as his apprentice, although he's not often helpful with his two younger brothers, Tumblebrutus and Pouncival, getting in his way.

The titular speakeasy, The Smitten Kitten, is co-run by Deme and Bomba, as a way to get back on their feet after escaping from Macavity (along with Alonzo, who plays piano). Tugger is also here, doing miscellaneous jobs and generally being an obnoxious flirt. Romances are undefined as of now but definitely happen.

Bustopher Jones is a British expat who moved to the US with his housekeeper (and requited crush) Jennyanydots, in a misguided attempt to straighten out his godchildren/wards, Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer. It does not go well, especially when Munk needs to call on the twins' troublemaking abilities to infiltrate Macavity's lair.

Some other things I've worked out, but haven't managed to integrate into the main plot yet:

Jellylorum and Asparagus (Gus Jr) run a struggling off-Broadway theatre started by their father. In between shows, they rent out the stage to Cassandra and Misto, who alternate their acts, and a spare dressing room to Coricopat and Tantomile. The twins, Cass, and Misto all met in the circus, but split off because of mistreatment and nonpayment. Victoria joined Misto's act after failing to find work as a ballet dancer elsewhere, and the two now brand themselves as siblings. The group don't mean to take advantage of the siblings, but attendance is inconsistent, to say the least. Of course, Jelly and Gus Jr would never kick them out — they know their father would loathe to see the building closed even temporarily.

Skimbleshanks is a trolley driver. (I know this entry is comically short compared to the last one, but I imagine he'd just pop up occasionally throughout the story. Sometimes simpler is better.)

I really want to fit Algernonny (my OC) in here somewhere, but I haven't settled on anything yet. Maybe he drives a bookmobile??

Olivetti (my other OC) is a bit easier to place, since he'd be a reporter, but I'm not sure what effect he'd have on the story at large.

Some relationships (familial, platonic, and romantic) I want to emphasize:

None of Munk/Tugger/Mac are related, nor are any of them directly related to Old Deut. In my eyes, Macavity has always worked better as an entity lurking in the shadows than someone who is well-known and emotionally tied to the other characters.

Re: the Smitten Kitten bunch, I haven't untangled who I want them and Munk to end up with (or maybe they just all end up together?). There will definitely be some one-sided Platugger flirting because I can. (Algie/Alonzo is also a done deal, but that doesn't mean Alonzo doesn't get to participate here too.)

I haven't decided whether I go the Victeazer or Tantoteazer route yet. I'm leaning towards Mistojerrie though as a new thing for me.

Asparagus and Skimbleshanks will end up being a thing, because I can't get enough of them two <3

I haven't decided if I want Jenny to be Plato (etc.)'s mom. It would be easier to tie that household into the main goings-on that way, but also (if you couldn't tell) I'm trying to improvise on a lot of these characters and come up with new relations -- at least for the ones for whom I don't already have a ship I'm attached to.\

[jennadknowsbest-blog]

Here’s a template you can use below for describing your Mandalorian OC (original character) regardless if it’s for fan fiction, role play, cosplay, or to just create a new character for fun.

This is my Mandalorian OC/Custom Mando

Name:

Gender:

Pronouns:

Species:

Year of Birth:

Parents:

Siblings (If any):

Significant Other (If Any):

Children (If Any):

House:

Clan:

Title(s) (If any):

Appearance:

Height:

Skin Color:

Ethnicity:

Face Shape:

Hair Color and Length:

Eye Colors:

Facial Features:

Notable Skills:

Here’s where you can write down the skills that your Mandalorian is known for and how they help them overcome obstacles in their daily life. Also include how that character acquired that skill and who taught them that skill in the first place.

Additional Information:

•What’s your character’s history?

•What’s their clan’s history?

•Was your character a foundling?

•Were they born into the clan?

•What’s their relationship with their friends and family like?

• What accomplishments have they fulfilled? Do they have any hobbies?

• What other fun and exciting trivia would you like to share about them?

• What role do they play in helping to shape Mandalorian society and culture?

•What adventures have they had?

Feel free to get creative with their backstory as much as you wish to do so.

Strengths:

Describe the positive traits of your character which includes parts of their personality.

Weaknesses:

Describe the negative traits of your Mandalorian, which includes parts of their personality.

Armor:

Now this is the fun part of this entire template. Here, get creative with what their set of armor is like from sigils, to signets, and armor designs. Armor designs can comprise of helmets, chest pieces, Pauldrons, and more.

Armor Color Scheme:

Get creative with any color you think would work for your character and their clan.

Soft parts:

Get creative just like with the armor.

Belt:

What type of belt and holster do they need to wear to carry their weapons and other necessities around throughout their journey?

Weapons in Possession:

What weapons do they possess on them?

[princesssarisa]

Some questions about Andersen's "The Little Mermaid" (not Disney's)

I'd like to ask other people these questons:

In Hans Christian Andersen's original story of The Little Mermaid, how do you feel about the Prince? And how do you think we're supposed to feel about him?

Reading various comments about The Little Mermaid online or in non-fiction books, it's clear that it's popular to hate the Prince. People talk about what a "jerk" he turns out to be, and how he "betrays" the Little Mermaid.

Some adaptations also make him more blatantly selfish and unlikable he is in the original. For example, by having him become the Mermaid's lover, only to betray her with another woman, or to reveal that he's already betrothed and never planned to marry her. Disney of course makes Eric fully sympathetic, but does have him fall in love with Ariel and only stray from her because Ursula hypnotizes him. And a few versions have him realize too late that the Mermaid was his true love whom he should have chosen to marry, which never happens in Andersen's version.

Part of the hate Andersen's Prince gets is obviously irrational. At the very least, in the original story, he never betrays the Mermaid because they're never a couple.

But each time I reread the story, I don't know what to make of him. Are we meant to like him or dislike him?

The first detail in his favor is that his subjects seem to love him. The Mermaid overhears fishermen praising him in their boats. When a character is in a position of power, it's always important to notice how the people under his power talk about him.

But speaking of people under his power... his family has slaves. Now, from what I've read, Andersen was anti-slavery. But in the context of this fairy tale, I'm not sure if he meant for the presence of slaves to paint the royal family negatively, or if they're just a part of the implied "exotic" setting, like the presence of citrus and palm trees.

Now let's move on to the heart of the issue: the Prince's treatment of the Little Mermaid in her mute human form.

Obviously, we can't blame him for not realizing that she saved his life, or for crediting the Princess who found him unconscious on the beach with saving him. He has no way of knowing that it wasn't just the waves that swept him to shore.

And it's hard to fault his basic treatment of the Mermaid. He finds a mysterious mute girl on the beach, and despite having no idea of her family, her background, or where she comes from, he brings her to live in the palace, has her richly dressed, and makes her his constant, dearest companion. His affection for her is clear and strong throughout their time together and she loves him more every day.

Yet instead of giving her a proper bed, he has her sleep on a velvet cushion by the door of his room. Like a pet.

He never treats her as an equal, but loves her "as he would love a little child," despite being only a year older than she is. Just because she's mute, and because she's socially beneath him (or so it seems, since he doesn't know she's a princess), he infantilizes her.

Yet sometimes, he shifts away from treating her like a little sister or a pet, and does seem to treat her as a potential romantic partner. He tells her that she reminds him of the girl he loves, whom he thinks he'll never see again – it's implied that much of his fondness for her stems from her resemblance to the Princess. He also tells her "you have almost driven her image out of my mind" (what does that bode for his future with the Princess, if he can freely talk about almost forgetting her in favor of another girl?), and that if he has to marry but can't have his beloved, then he would rather marry his "little foundling" than anyone else.

He freely takes her in his arms too, kisses her forehead and mouth, plays with her hair, and rests his head on her chest. By 19th century standards, would this have been "seemly" or not?

What are we supposed to make of all this? Is the Prince just a kind, affectionate friend who takes comfort in his "little foundling's" presence after losing his beloved, and who values her enough that if he can't marry for love, a platonic marriage to her would be the next best thing? Or should we see him as toying with her and using her as a substitute for a romantic partner, yet because of her disability and lack of status, never humanizing her enough to go all the way?

Then, when he reunites with his Princess, he fails to see the Mermaid's pain, but expects her to "rejoice at my happiness." Is this innocent on his part, or unforgivably self-absorbed?

Part of the problem is the fact that this story is from 1837. The cultures of friendship, romance, male-female interactions, class relations, and disability were obviously all different back then, and hard to fully understand from a modern perspective. I'm not sure if the original readers would have viewed the Prince with more sympathy or less than modern readers tend to.

When his treatment of his "little mute foundling" seems ableist by today's standards, did Andersen mean for it to be ableist? Or would he have seen it as "only natural" to treat a mute girl that way? Was Andersen critiquing ableism, or being ableist himself? And in an era when social class was more rigid than it is today, would it have seemed "only natural" for a prince to treat a homeless girl of unknown origins like a child or a pet instead of an equal, and to never consider marrying her even when romantic potential was clearly there? Still, you'd think that even by 1830s standards, her sleeping on a cushion by his door would be seen as dehumanizing.

Of course it doesn't need to be either "the Prince does nothing wrong" or "the Prince is a self-absorbed jerk." It could also be that he's a good, warm-hearted person, but unfortunately has grown up in a classist, ableist, slave-owning environment that hasn't taught him to treat people like "the little mute foundling" as equals. Andersen might have meant to criticize class divides and ableism without meaning for us to dislike the Prince as a person.

This issue is complicated even further by the generally agreed-upon fact that the Mermaid is Andersen's gender-bent self-insert, and that the story is based (a) on his struggles to fit into upper class society despite his lowly birth, and (b) on his closet bisexuality and unrequited love for his friend Edvard Collin, the son of his patron. He's known to have sent Collin a copy of the story, though it seems that commentators disagree about whether it was meant as a "rebuke" or a "love letter."

I tend to like versions of the story where the the Prince is sympathetic and a true friend to the Little Mermaid, just not in love with her. Maybe that was Andersen's intent; after all, he and Edvard Collin stayed close friends throughout their lives, long after The Little Mermaid was published, and were even buried together.

But maybe he didn't mean it so kindly. Maybe at the time when he wrote the story, Andersen did feel dehumanized and toyed with by Collin, and by the upper class in general. Maybe we are supposed to blame the Prince for the tragedy, and maybe to portray him too sympathetically robs the story of its power.

I'm sorry for rambling on and on. But the Prince is a difficult character and it's no wonder that he's so divisive, or that adaptations tend to change his character drastically in some way or other.

How are we supposed to feel about him?