Chapter Text
It’s been three days.
That’s not including time spent in hyperspace, but three days since they returned to Yavin 4, and three days since the unending waves of misery began.
At first, Grogu had been excited. But then he’d asked where his father was, and why he wasn’t there, and Luke had had no answers except honest ones, no matter how gently he tried to give them. And then the child had become completely inconsolable.
At first, he’d cried, and Luke had panicked about that – he’d never dealt well with crying when babysitting Ben. He’d thrown himself on the floor and wept, tiny, high-pitched sobs that drove straight into Luke’s heart and shattered it. He’d cried himself to sleep the first time, and tuckered himself out with even more tears when he’d finally woken up, cranky and hungry as well as heartbroken. And when the tears had finally run out, he’d just become sullen and distant.
And that’s where they are now.
He picks at his food morosely, and sits sadly on the ground, no playfulness Luke would normally associate with a child this young. Whenever Luke tries to converse via tendrils of the Force cautiously extended, Grogu (at least he managed to learn his name, Luke’s relieved at that), all he gets is a brick wall of utter despair, and a distinct, clear vision of a man in shining silver armour radiating unending waves of love and devotion. It’s a place to start, so Luke tries with that, asks gentle questions through the Force about the Mandalorian who took care of him, and Grogu perks up, tells him everything his child’s mind has understood about him.
He saved me, Grogu reveals, though not in words as much as… sensations, abstract concepts, visions. He takes care of me. He loves me. I’ve been very alone, and he was there, he always came. Why is he gone?
And it makes Grogu sad all over again, and he pushes Luke away to curl up in his own grief. Luke wasn’t even aware that a child so young could feel emotions for so long, and so intensely. He does respond well to gentle touches and physical comfort, and slowly he allows Luke to extend it to soft, soothing pulses of the Force.
But he is still miserable. He wants his father.
There’s no way Luke can teach him anything in this state. He knows that, eventually, Grogu will ‘get over it’, but he also doesn’t want to even imagine what that might do to the psyche of a child who has obviously already been through so much. Luke has caught glimpses in between the rock-solid, glowing presence of this Mandalorian, snatches of darkness and fear – many, many years of it, as well. Luke doesn’t want to compound another trauma by forcing him into weathering the storm of his father’s disappearance from his life.
And Luke… well, he wants to kick himself. He’s been so stupid, a complete and utter idiot. Why did he just leave, sweeping away with a swish of his cloak like some sort of… child-stealing phantom? Why didn’t he get the man’s name, his commlink, a location, anything that would keep them in contact? He doesn’t want to be like the old Jedi Order, but he sure karked this one up pretty badly by acting exactly like them. Grogu needs his father, and Luke was in too much of a rush, head full of the child’s emotions that had hit him – first, like a sledgehammer, then continuing to rattle around inside his head like chance cubes in a cup. He hadn’t been thinking straight at all. Get in, get the child, get to safety.
He paces while Grogu wallows. Although he knows what he has to do, he also knows the task will be absolutely gargantuan. How does one even find a single Mandalorian in the entire galaxy? Truly, the dictionary definition of a wild mynock chase.
He’s going to have to head to the Outer Rim and planet-hop until he has some sort of clue. A man in that much beskar catches attention, and the galaxy’s seedy underbelly isn’t that big of a place. Mandalorians stand out anyway, rare as they are. Find one, you can probably find others.
Luke isn’t used to putting off the inevitable – quite the opposite, in fact. Once his mind is made up, he marches into his sleeping quarters and pulls out a cursory travel pack to stuff in the X-Wing. Grogu, curled up in the centre of Luke’s bed like a depressed Loth-cat, turns to peer at him with wide, baleful eyes. His ears droop pathetically.
Luke fits on an encouraging smile. “We’re going on a little adventure, kiddo!” he says.
Grogu sits up. Artoo, who has taken to holding a silent vigil over the dejected child, beeps curiously.
“I need to find someone,” Luke says. “Someone very important. And I’m going to bring him back.”
Artoo questions further as Grogu tilts his head – curiosity, Luke thinks, is better than apathy, at least.
“We’re going to find Grogu’s father,” he announces, which sets off a bunch of excited, shrill whistles from Artoo. Grogu perks up considerably, uttering a small, tentative coo. Luke kneels beside the bed, folding his arms on the mattress.
“Listen, it’s very dangerous and it might take a while,” he says. “I need to take you to someone so they can look after you. They’re very nice and they’ll take very good care of you, and you’ll be able to make a friend your own age.”
Grogu’s immediate distrust turns to cautious intrigue, and Luke allows a vision of Leia to flood the connection between them: her warmth and love, her dedication and resolve. The vision then gains a small boy, a little older than Grogu, with messy black hair and large, brown eyes. Grogu warms up immediately.
“Leia is my sister, and she’s wonderful,” Luke assures him. “You’ll love her. And she’s strong in the Force as well, so you won’t need to worry about talking to her.” He smiles softly, and reaches out to gently stroke Grogu’s ear – this child has a way of latching onto your heart and pulling everyone into his orbit instantly. “Not that you had a problem with people who aren’t tuned into the Force.”
Luke is a firm believer that love is enough, and here, bright and sublime, is more proof to confirm his hypothesis. He asks for permission through the Force, and Grogu raises his arms, allowing Luke to lift him up and carry him to the X-Wing. Artoo hovers into place, and Luke settles into the cockpit, the child nestled close.
“Next stop, Chandrila!” he says, and Grogu coos. It’s not… a happy coo, but it’s softer, more hopeful than anything he’s uttered in the last three days, so Luke will absolutely take it and be content.
Sometimes trusting the Force is a crapshoot.
He’s sitting in what could only be defined as a diner if one was exceedingly generous, in the seedier lower levels of the Dravian Station, nursing spotchka that he hasn’t touched and feeling annoyed with everything. It’s been two weeks, and Ben’s “allow the Force to guide your path” advice is turning out to be bantha crap. This has happened before, because sometimes the Force is a fickle mistress, but he’d been hoping for some luck this time. And it’s not that he doesn’t trust the Force, because he does, he’d be a piss-poor Jedi if he didn’t, but… it could cut him slack, just this once.
That same moment, a Mandalorian in blue armour walks in, simultaneously a commanding presence and someone best not given attention. Gazes notice him and then conspicuously slide off him, as if they know better than to look at him for too long.
“Thank you,” Luke mouths silently to the universe.
He has none of the same compunction to avoid trouble – both in general and with this Mandalorian in particular – as the other patrons do and he watches the man head to a table and sit down for a conversation with someone shady. Credits exchange hands, and the Mandalorian stands again, leaving much in the same way he entered.
It’s probably not wise to drink anything bought here, but Luke could do with the liquid courage, so he drains his spotchka glass and follows, hood pulled low.
The crowds are thick here, but all it takes is a gentle moulding of the Force and they part just enough to let Luke move through them effortlessly, his eyes never leaving his blue-armoured quarry. The Mandalorian turns down an alleyway, between two crates, and Luke doesn’t hesitate in following.
The Mandalorian is gone, and Luke lets out a short, frustrated sigh.
Then there is a hum by his ear, the tell-tale warmth of a barrel ready to shoot, and Luke diverts the blast, shoving the barrel to the side with the Force, spinning across the alleyway but leaving his lightsaber firmly attached to his belt. He keeps his hands raised in the universal language of “no harm intended”.
“I’m not here to fight!” he says quickly. “I’m looking for someone.”
The Mandalorian has his blaster aimed right at Luke’s forehead, but he doesn’t shoot again. There is a slight tilt to his helmet, and Luke can imagine eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“And what’s that got to do with me?” he demands. He’s a big man, tall, broad, and Luke wouldn’t want to meet him without a lightsaber at his belt.
“I’m looking for a Mandalorian. A specific Mandalorian,” Luke adds, just to clarify. “I know it’s a bit, um, stereotypical to think you all know each other, but I was hoping maybe you could point me in the right direction, at least.” He shrugs helplessly. “There aren’t that many of you. I’ve been looking for a while.”
The Mandalorian is silent for a long time. It’s almost excruciating, and Luke has to bite his tongue to keep from doing a Han and getting himself shot at again for cracking wise.
“Why are you looking for them?” he asks eventually, his voice thick with suspicion, and Luke can’t blame him. From what little he’s gleaned from the sparse records left in the Empire’s destructive wake, what few Mandalorians there are keep themselves far off the grid, deep in the Outer Rim, and themselves to themselves except when after bounties.
“I…” He hesitates. How much should he reveal? He doesn’t know who this Mandalorian might know, or work for, but he’s at least certain he won’t be working for any Imp remnants. But Grogu is exceptionally precious, and he’s sure there are plenty of people who aren’t Imps who’d love to get their hands on him for whatever horrific reason. “I’m looking for someone’s father. They miss him.”
The Mandalorian is quiet again, assessing, and it’s starting to set Luke’s teeth on edge. This conversation is taking forever.
“Who is ‘they’?” Is the next question.
“A small child,” he says. “They love their father very much.”
“And their father is a Mandalorian?” the man says. When Luke nods, he snorts. “A true Mandalorian would never be separated from their child if they could help it.” The man’s finger moves dangerously on the trigger, and Luke waves his hands quickly in protest.
“No, no, he allowed the child to come with me!” he says hastily. “I didn’t steal them! Otherwise I wouldn’t be looking for him, would I?” He sighs. “Look, the child misses him. I can’t teach the child in the state they’re in right now, and I wouldn’t attempt to. I just want to find the guy, give him some coordinates, say he can visit any time he wants.”
The Mandalorian lapses back into that pensive silence.
“Is the child… green?”
Luke stares at him. Well, that… definitely wasn’t what he’d been expecting for the next question, but this does mean that this man knows who Grogu is. Which means he almost certainly knows who the mysterious Mandalorian Luke is looking for is. He throws a wave of gratitude into the Force. This is, truly, the best lead he could have ever hoped for.
“Yes,” he says, relieved. “I’m looking for the Mandalorian in silver beskar.”
The other Mandalorian immediately tenses, and lets out a growl. “After all we went through to allow him to escape, he just lets someone else have the damn child?!” he snarls, and Luke winces at the sheer venom in the man’s voice. “We were destroyed! We had to run like cowards, a handful of survivors scattered to the winds! And he gives the child up?! I should hunt him down and shoot him!”
The man’s rant drifts into a language Luke can’t understand, but he assumes there are plenty of expletives in it, from the viciousness of his tone. Eventually the man scoffs, shaking his head in disgust.
“Listen, I… I’m the child’s teacher,” Luke says, questioning his choice to even pipe up, but not being able not to. “It’s my duty to teach them, but I don’t… it was a stressful situation, we both screwed up.” He gives a very Solo-esque shrug. “I’m going to fix it.”
The Mandalorian eyes him through that dark, enigmatic visor. “I suppose you are,” he says. “Why do you need to teach the child?”
Luke hesitates again. Now this could be dangerous, but he also knows that this Mandalorian – or any Mandalorian, for that matter – wouldn’t appreciate lies, or even truths kept unspoken. Slowly, Luke moves his cloak, revealing the hilt of his saber. The man’s grip on his blaster tightens audibly, making the leather of his gloves creak.
“Jetii,” he murmurs. “The child is a sorcerer?”
“You mean Force-sensitive?”
“Whatever you call it.” Luke can almost feel the man’s glare like it’s something alive and feral. “The Jedi brought Mandalore to ruin, left it in the hands of a usurper, and paved the way for the Empire to slaughter us. I should kill you right now.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Luke answers, keeping his voice calm. “It was before I was even born.”
“And don’t we inherit the legacy of our forebears?” the Mandalorian asks, tone light and infinitely dangerous. “You carry that weapon, you call yourself Jedi… are you not following in their footsteps?”
Luke has no idea how to answer that. His shoulders slump, and he has to fight to keep his arms up in their non-threatening position.
“I just want to find the Mandalorian in silver beskar,” he says lamely. “I just want him to see his son again.” He sighs. “I didn’t come here for a philosophical debate.”
“Maybe you should be prepared for one when you go chasing an historic enemy,” the man says dryly, and Luke snorts before he can stop himself. The tension in the alleyway, so thick you could choke on it, lessens ever-so-slightly.
Luke is shocked when the man holsters his blaster, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I heard stories that the Jedi steal children from their families,” he says. “You snatch them and keep them locked away in your temples, train them in witchcraft.”
Luke shrugs. “I don’t even have a temple,” he admits. Not entirely true, but the one he does have is mostly in ruins and not worth much at all. “And… well, I’m trying something new,” he admits. “Maybe the old order didn’t work as well as it could have. Again, I’m looking for the kid’s father. Not very Jedi-like of me, really.”
“You shirk tradition and still call yourself a Jedi? You’re a strange one.”
Luke frowns. “I wasn’t aware we were judging me.”
“This is for my own personal entertainment,” the Mandalorian says, and Luke huffs at the amusement radiating from that stupid helmet.
“Yeah, well, I’m glad someone’s having fun, at least,” he mutters. He’s sick of this whole situation, and if he hadn’t known that Mandalorians are basically impossible to influence, he’d have mind-tricked his way out of this ages ago. A soft grunt comes from the man, something Luke could perhaps interpret as some sort of chuckle.
“Very well,” says the man. “I can tell you where I last saw him. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
It’s better than nothing. “Please do.”
“I do have one condition,” he says. Luke nods. “If you find him, let me know. He is… one of the only remaining members of our covert. He should be back with us.”
“I’d rather you didn’t shoot him,” Luke says quickly, remembering the man’s words from earlier. The Mandalorian shakes his head.
“Our leader wouldn’t like that,” he says.
“Then we have a deal,” Luke agrees. He doesn’t offer his hand to shake, it feels more respectful not to.
“Nevarro,” the Mandalorian says. “We last saw him on Nevarro.”
“Thank you,” Luke says. He offers his commlink, which the man accepts. “Can I… get a name?”
It’s the Mandalorian’s turn to hesitate, but then he raises his head, chin tilted up, almost defiant. “Paz Vizsla,” he says, and there is deep pride there, echoes of a centuries-old legacy in that name, even though it means nothing to Luke. Luke nods.
“I’ll let you know. Again… thank you. I’m very grateful.”
“It might not help at all,” he says. “But there might be someone on Nevarro who can direct you closer. Our Armourer remains there – seek her out, perhaps.”
The Mandalorian stands there, gazing at him, and Luke realises the conversation is very, very over, and the Mandalorian is not going to be the first to move. He nods again, and with a sweep of his cloak leaves the alleyway, heading back into the thick crowds of the Station.
Once away from the oppressive atmosphere of the alley, he allows himself to let out a long sigh of relief and sag. Still keeping the Force wrapped around him, keeping himself inconspicuous to any pickpocket who might think themselves lucky, he heads to the elevators to the upper decks, and hope bubbles up inside him again. He has a trail, breadcrumbs to follow, and he might even get luckier. A spring returns to his step, and he gives Artoo a cheerful pat as he hoists himself back in the cockpit.
“We have a clue!” he says, and Artoo beeps, dome spinning excitedly. Luke plugs in the coordinates for Nevarro, and once clear of Dravian Station, jumps into hyperspace.