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He only lets himself think about it in deep space. Job done, credits collected, ship refueled. That’s when he gives himself the smallest break. To breathe. To feel. 

The N-1 starfighter Peli had helped him build isn’t ideal for long distance travel, but it is fast. Swift enough to slip away from hyperspace routes and spacelanes into vast emptiness, into places where only the stars are privy to his apostate face when he lifts his helmet off and feels the oppressive silence. 

There’s no one to break it now. No babble, no squeaks or chirps or little teeth munching on pilfered snacks.  

But Din doesn’t regret it. Not for one moment. He would burn down planets to do it again. Defy stars, face monsters, give up his soul again and again as long as Grogu was delivered safely. And he had. Given up his soul. Or barred it, at least, to that child, his child, and the man who had taken him away. 

He doesn’t regret it. But it does hurt. So he only lets himself think feel it for a little while, holding the tiny chainmail shirt The Armorer had made in his hand, before launching back to work. 

— 

Paz Vizsla’s call is so unexpected that Din nearly doesn’t answer. The fact that it’s coming from Kalevala is even more improbable. The Armorer would never go back there, and Paz would never leave her side. Not now that he’s all she has left. 

Bo-Katan was on Kalevala, Din knows, building a fleet, an army, to retake Mandalore. Bringing commandeered ships and armor to the scattered remnants of the mandalorians that had heeded her summons. She’d been sure to let Din know that he’s wanted there. Or rather, the sword he wears on his belt is welcome. His involvement in that transfer was not made clear.

“Your foundling is here,” Paz says without greeting when Din answers. 

Din flinches. He’s mid-job, he doesn’t allow himself to think about, “Grogu?” 

“He was caught stealing,” Paz continues. 

He didn’t notice or didn’t care about the surprise and emotion that had colored Din’s tone. Din shoves it down, deep, and takes a breath. 

“What do you mean? He’s with Skywalker training to be a Jedi.” 

“Yes, he’s here too. The thievery was his idea.” 

Din blinks, taken aback. Over the last several months he’d done as much reading about the Jedi as he could, finding the children’s stories quite contrary to the New Republic’s detailing of the Empire’s atrocities. But they had some similarities: Jedi were peacemakers; they used lightsabers as a primary weapon; they discouraged the forming of attachments. Stealing, disturbing another culture, even one they have an ancient history of warring with, seemed contrary to their teachings. 

“What are they accused of stealing?” Din asks. 

“An ancient Mandalorian artifact. Lady Kryze has spared their lives.”  

Dread drips into Din’s stomach and turns into cold anger. Had Skywalker really endangered Grogu over some old junk in the Mandalore system? It didn’t seem probable. But what did he really know about the Jedi? Nothing. Din clenches his fingers together. 

“What am I to do?” Din asks through gritted teeth.

“You are invited as their witness,” Paz replies, “as they stand trial.”   

— 

Din finds a rough-hewn village not dissimilar to ones he’d grown up in hastily erected in the shadow of the Kryze castle. But the number of members of the Watch at this camp are much smaller than he remembers from his youth. Din feels every burning stare behind their visors as he walks through the cliffside village, knowing he is the reason for their losses. He and the prisoners that he’s come to see. 

He follows raised voices coming from the large cabin in the middle of the camp, the one usually built for The Armorer’s forge and the kitchens. A guard at the doorway keeps him back, but Din can hear the conversation inside even without the help of his helmet’s hearing enhancement.  

“If you’re really a Jedi, you could prove it,” comes Paz’s voice. 

“I've been trying to tell you,” sounds out Skywalker’s reply, raspy and irritated, “something happened to me in that temple.” 

The cabin door slides open, and a small green face appears at the threshold, pausing for a moment before shooting out the doorway past the guard. He leaps into the air right into Din’s arms. On instinct, Din lifts and cradles his little body close, patting his back before he’s gotten his breath back. And then he hugs Grogu. 

“Hey,” Din says, voice cracking, “Hi kid. I missed you too.” 

Grogu snuffles into his neck, in that way he always did, and Din is kriffing holding back tears when he hears another growl of frustration from inside.

“If you don’t let me examine it, I can’t tell you anything!” 

“Like I would believe the word of a thief,” Paz responds. 

“Paz,” Din calls out to convince the guard with his visor locked on Grogu to let him pass. 

“Finally.” Paz appears at the threshold, stiff with annoyance. He huffs, “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

Before Din can respond, Paz waves off the guard. Din follows him into the large room adjacent to the kitchens that’s typically used for food preparation. The canvas-walled cabin was erected over the grasses that cover the cliffside, now dead and trodden by the boots of busy mandalorians. There in the mud, next to the feathers of some plucked fowl, is Luke Skywalker, kneeling with his hands and ankles clamped in stuncuffs. 

Skywalker is pale and sweating, hair flat and messily smeared across his brow. The heat from the forge and the kitchens have made the room sweltering, but most Mandalorians had ways of coping with hot places in their many layers. Skywalker is suffering in his ruffled black tunic by the looks of it, strangely disheveled and ill. 

“ You ,” Skywalker says as soon as Din is standing before him. He shuffles forward, pulling hard against some invisible restraint. “You know me, you were there. Tell him. Tell Bo-Katan.” 

“Don’t speak her name, jetii ,” Paz orders, hand hovering menacingly over his holster.

Din looks at Paz in surprise. He’s never expressed any sort of loyalty or respect for Bo-Katan Kryze and her faction as far as Din could remember. Quite the opposite. He wonders what else might have changed in the months since he was excommunicated. 

“ What happened ?” Din asks Paz in Mando’a. 

“ We were patrolling Messa. A scout saw his ship docked by the old ruins in the Southwest. We thought he was a pirate. When we went to investigate, we found him passed out next to the kid and an astromech droid. He was clutching a Mandalorian artifact.”

Skywalker glances between them, barely contained exasperation splashed across his face. Din adjusts Grogu in his arms as the same anger as before possesses him again. 

“You were teaching Grogu to steal?” He accuses, unable to keep his fury from his tone.

Skywalker shakes his head. “I was following a map. An old one created by an ancient Jedi. That moon isn’t under any official jurisdiction, and I–” 

“It’s in the Mandalore System,” Paz interrupts.

Skywalker gives him a weary look. “The last I heard, this system isn’t part of the New Republic. There is no ruler or government to appeal to for exploratory missions.” 

Din grimaces under his helmet. While Skywalker is technically correct, it’s rather bold of him to assume that no Mandalorians would object to his presence on even the smaller moons on the edge of Kalevala. 

“What was the artifact?” He cuts in, hoping to curtail the rant it seems Paz is about to give Skywalker.  

“A holocron,” Skywalker answers, eyes going large. “It’s an ancient Jedi device used to store information. But this one is made with beskar .” 

Din looks at Paz in surprise. As far as he’s been able to gather, the Jedi are the ancient enemies of the Mandalorians. Any overlap of their history beyond the many wars they’d fought together was rare. Bo-Katan had known Jedi once, she’d explained that day on Gideon’s ship when Grogu had gone away. Not that Din had listened. Not that he’d heard anything beyond the roar of his grieving mind. 

Din clears his throat, unconsciously squeezing his fingers around Grogu’s little hand. 

“It belonged to my ancestor,” Paz says, an echo of something else he’d said, the last time Din saw him. “Tarre Vizsla. He was both Mandalorian and Jedi. A true Jedi.” He spits the last words out at Skywalker who sits back on his heels. He sends another look of frustration Din’s way. 

“Where is it?” Din asks. 

“In the castle,” Paz replies. 

—

A vast strategy table is laid out in Bo-Katan’s throne room, projecting maps and holorecordings of various surface views of what Din assumes is Mandalore’s glassed landscape. Many Mandalorians, both helmeted and not, glance up at his and Grogu’s approach. He recognizes a few from long ago, and also Bo-Katan’s Nite Owls, whispering to each other as he comes to the head of the table. 

“Lady Kryze,” he offers formally with a dip of his helmet. He may be an apostate zealot to these Mandalorians, but Din understands what’s happening here. Decorum is a good place to start.

Bo-Katan’s smile in return does not meet her eyes. “I see you’ve helped one of our prisoners abscond from his holding cell.” 

Grogu meeps in annoyance at this, settling back into Din’s arm. 

“Grogu is not to blame. He was only following the orders of his teacher,” Din says. 

Bo-Katan leans over her strategy table, face glowing blue in the reflection of the holoprojector. She gives Din a calculating look as her knuckles go white around the edge of the table. 

“Perhaps he should learn the realities of blind loyalty. There’s consequences for thievery in this system.” 

Din frowns behind the blessed privacy of his helmet. She can’t be serious. While Skywalker should never have been snooping around in such a volatile system, to enact random violence on someone she owes her own life to is dishonorable. Completely outside the usual way of Mandalorians. 

“Skywalker is a hero of the New Republic,” Din reminds her of the story that she’d told him that day. She and Cara Dune had breathlessly recounted all of the legends and rumors that had accompanied Skywalker’s name. They had simply never believed it before then. “You won’t gain any allies that way.” 

Bo-Katan simply stretches a haughty eyebrow up, as though Mandalore didn’t need New Republic aid for trade or legitimacy among the galaxy. Even Din knew that. 

“Are you acting in his defense?” She asks. 

Din shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m illuminating the reality of the circumstances.” 

“He’s a thief,” she reiterates. She points up to her throne where a strange, glowing box has been placed next to a powered-down R2 unit droid. At his glance, the box begins to hover, and Din looks to Grogu, expecting to see his outstretched hand and ready to scold, but Grogu is just as surprised as Din. Then Grogu looks down at Din’s hip, pointing in fascination. The Darksaber is shivering where he had it clipped to his belt, straining forward to the holocron. 

“Like calls to like,” Bo-Katan murmurs, eyes on the Darksaber. 

Din reaches back and unclips the blade, holding the hilt out to her. “Here. For their release.” 

A wave of whispers spreads through the throne room as Bo-Katan stares at his offering with a stony face. 

“You know how it has to be,” she says, hard eyes flitting up to his helmet. 

“I don’t believe in political theater.” 

“And yet you’re seeking the Living Waters.” 

Din lowers his arm, grip tightening around the hilt. From his peripheral he sees a follower of The Way tilt their helmet, arms crossed. He supposes that The Armorer must have told her of that possibility. Perhaps Bo-Katan had asked about Din; maybe that was the whole reason they were even here, preparing to retake Mandalore despite The Armorer’s continuous insistence that the planet was cursed, that Bo-Katan’s followers were lost from The Way. Was this weapon truly what had changed her mind? A singular ancient legend had united distant factions for a hopeless cause? 

Yes, Din had considered exploring Mandalore. There was a possibility that the Living Waters could be found, that he could somehow find his way back to his covert and the purpose of his life. But this damn sword. All he saw when he thought of it was the memory of it held as a threat over Grogu’s head. Of the madman who’d yielded it to Din. 

He glances around the room at the Mandalorians waiting for his response, for him to no doubt accept some sort of formal challenge from Bo-Katan. For her regime to finally be legitimized, as if her wealth and experience weren’t enough to follow. The bitter taste that had filled his mouth the day that Paz had called him apostate comes back to him now. 

“Religion and politics are different,” Din struggles to say. 

Bo-Katan straightens. “Are they?” 

Din waits, waits for her challenge, for the words that will seal his doom, but she simply studies him, a clever diplomat entrenched in battle plans, seeing him only as a calculated step in the coming war. She pulls out a weapon and holds it out to him; Skywalker’s lightsaber, if Din’s memory serves. 

“I’ll release them if you join our efforts to retake Mandalore,” she says. 

Din stills in surprise. It’s the last thing he expected her to offer. He’d already been calculating his exit strategy with Grogu, half expecting to be shot down as he attempted to escape. He clips the Darksaber back onto his belt.

“What’s to retake? Isn’t it glass?” 

At this, Bo-Katan smiles, hand gliding over to pull up schematics about Mandalore’s surface. Din comes closer to see the readouts, privately gaping at the surprising data. 

“The air is breathable,” she explains, “and below the glass,” she swipes to show holofootage captured by droids of skittering creatures and, unbelievably, flora. “Veshok trees. Ferns. Even berries.” 

“But....” Din frowns. “Why hasn’t anyone known? You can’t be the first to send down probes.” 

“No,” she agrees, “but they didn’t make it back. We’ve been blind. And deceived. Gideon has established a base under the ruins of Sundari. And there are other dangers. Dormant species awakened by the bombings. We want to send a team down to secure the Great Forge and remove Gideon’s forces.”

Din leans over the strategy table, a foreign hope filling his chest. “Tell me more.” 

— 

Skywalker is more collected when Din and Grogu return to the food preparation room, sitting in what looks like meditation, legs crossed beneath him and eyes closed. There’s a strain between his eyebrows, however, and a slight tremor in his shoulders. Grogu immediately leaps from Din’s arms and goes to Skywalkler, clambering into his lap and tapping his face in concern. 

Skywalker’s eyes pop open, and he smiles gently down at Grogu as he pulls his little hand away and holds it in his palm. Then Grogu does something quickly with his fingers, nonverbal communication that almost looks like sign language, if Din understood. 

Skywalker rubs a soothing hand between Grogu’s lowered ears and says, “I’ll be alright.”  

Din ignores the irrational pang of jealousy that shoots through him at the sight and says, “He’s trying to heal you.” 

“Mhmm,” Skywalker hums in agreement, eyes still on Grogu. “But this goes deeper than his skills can reach.” 

“Have they not provided medical aid?” Din asks, abruptly furious that Skywalker may have been stuncuffed and dumped into the mud. The entire situation was so backward, so dishonorable. 

But Skywalker shrugs. “They offered, but no droid or bacta can help with this. Grogu revived me initially. Now, I have to help myself.” 

Din sits down on one of the prep benches across from Skywalker and Grogu and leans his forearms onto his knees. “What happened to you?” 

“The holocron,” Skywalker explains. “Whatever Vizsla programmed inside it… it’s not for the eyes of non-Mandalorians. There was a warning on the seal, but I couldn’t read it. It’s in some ancient language. When I tried to open it, some sort of suppressive hex came out and… I’m not able to access the Force now.” 

Din stares at him, dread churning into his stomach at his words. His eyes go to Grogu in concern. 

“Did it…?”

“Grogu is fine,” Skywalker reassures. “I was the idiot who tried to open it.” 

Din looks back at him. “But you’ve lost your powers?” 

Skywalker sighs, holding out his palms. “I can still feel the Force, as I always have. How it churns in every living thing. I can feel it in Grogu, and within me, and… you. But I can’t harness it. Not like I had before. It’s like the tether of the Force that I used to be able to pull and manipulate has unraveled into a million threads spreading into every direction. No matter how long I pull on a thread, I can’t bring it back together into cohesion.”

“It sounds like you need knitting needles.” 

Skywalker looks sharply up at Din. “I need to examine that holocron.” 

Din sighs, sitting back. “That’s not likely since you’ve been accused of stealing it.” 

“She doesn’t really believe that, does she?” Skywalker asks, gesturing towards Bo-Katan’s castle just visible in the window nearest them. 

“Maybe not,” Din admits, looking down at his clasped hands. “But she made the terms of your release very clear to me. She is keeping you until I relent.” 

Din sees Skywalker’s head cock to the side in his periphery, apparently not grasping the extent of the mess he’s caused. Din tamps down at his annoyance. Foolishness aside, Skywalker couldn’t know the complicated stakes he’d set in motion. 

“I have credits,” Skywalker states. His face is deadly serious. “My family is rich…ish. Or at least, powerful.” 

“New Republic credits. How tempting.” 

Skywalker frowns, then he rises to his knees. “What about a ship? Grogu told me you fly a Razor Crest. You like the classics. I can get you something faster. Bigger. With a license to keep the Rangers off your tail.” 

“Oh,” Din turns to Grogu, whose face is inexplicably covered in sauce. Somehow during their conversation he’s found a bowl of something leftover from dinner. Din picks up a corner of his cape to wipe at Grogu’s face. “Grogu, I got a new ship. An N-1 starfighter. Peli even modded out the droid port, so there’s a seat for you, if you want a ride.” 

“Peli? Peli Motto?” 

Din glances at Skywalker. “You know Mos Eisley?” 

But Skywalker just laughs softly, sitting back on his heels and biting his bottom lip. Then his eyes go to Din’s hip. 

“That blade,” Skywalker says, “it’s a lightsaber. I can feel its kyber crystal. I could show you how to wield it. There’s an art form, a practice…” Skywalker trails off, clearly losing hope in the power of his offer. 

But Din stills, thankful that Skywalker doesn’t seem to notice the pickup of his heart rate. For some reason, annoyance burns through Din all over again. The vein in his neck throbs as he grits his teeth and pulls Grogu into his arm. 

“You were supposed to be training him in that art form,” Din says, anger coloring his tone despite his best effort to suppress it. “Instead you made him a common thief.” 

Skywalker huffs up at him. “This is part of his training. The Empire destroyed every bit of Jedi history they could get their hands on. How much information on the old Orders do you think we have left? We were following a map. You’re a hunter,” he says, indicating up and down Din’s body, “how many tracks do you leave unfollowed when you’re desperate enough?”  

“I’m smart enough to know when not to fly into hostile space and poke around.” 

Luke raises a single eyebrow, as though he doubts that’s an accurate statement. Or… Din stands, keeping Grogu close as he rubs his tired eyes. There’s a chance that Grogu may have told one too many stories to the Jedi. 

When Din reaches the threshold of the doorway, Skywalker pulls against his restraints, sending them buzzing. 

“Please…” Din hears him say. “There are children all over the galaxy like Grogu. If I don’t help them, there will be no one.” 

Din rests his free hand on the threshold, looking down at Grogu’s concerned face. With heavy eyes he does another movement with his hands; it almost looks like the sign in Basic Sign Language for Help. Din sighs. 

“Get some rest, Master Jedi.” 

As he walks into the darkening night, he hears Skywalker call out, “It’s Luke. My name is Luke Skywalker. 

And I need your help, Mandalorian.” 

— 

It’s easy not to think about it when he’s lying down on the cot inside the canvas tent cabin that Paz had begrudgingly led him to. Not with Grogu’s quiet snuffles so near and the warmth of his small body tucked into the crook of Din’s arm again. Instead, he dwells now on how astonishing quickly his body knew what to do again. How easy it was to remove his pauldrons from his shoulders as he had before. How easy it was to sync his breathing with Grogu’s as he slowly slipped into sleep. 

But the bright burning joy of having this time with Grogu again starts to ebb away as the night wears on. The temporary nature of it starts to benettle him, taking away the relaxation that might have led him to rest, and instead tightening his chest in anxiety. 

Bo-Katan was not going to relent. Not on the cusp of battle, when all her plans are about to culminate. Not with Din unwittingly trapped within her machinations. 

Damn that Jedi, Din thinks bitterly. Once his savior, the man he’d given his whole world to, now the unwitting arbiter of Din’s worst fears. And yet he has to help him. Skywalker, or Luke, as he’d offered, was ill and made weak by his own foolishness. He was still Grogu’s teacher. Din couldn’t leave him to this fate. 

Before the sun rises he goes to the camp fresher, lifting his helmet for the first time in days. As expected, there is no mirror, no chance to look at his undoubtedly pale and exhausted face. He splashes water onto it, working a lather with the provided soap, but doesn’t bother to shave the wayward beard he feels beneath his fingers. What was the point?

He rouses Grogu and walks back to the center of the camp where Luke is being held. Din finds him asleep, huddled against the morning chill on the hard mud and shivering. A wrench of guilt tremors through Din for leaving him in such a state. Grogu must think so too with the speed he jumps out of Din’s arms and hurries to Luke’s side. 

Luke stirs, groaning slightly as he falls onto his back. Grogu climbs onto his chest and twirls his fingers with a garbled greeting. 

“Good morning,” Din interprets.  

“Is it?” Luke grouses as he sits up and glances out the window to the still dark sky. 

“Used to sleeping in?” 

“Used to a different time zone.” 

Din privately rolls his eyes, and then tosses the lightsaber Bo-Katan had given him over to Luke. He instinctively reaches up to snatch it out of the air, and his cuffs dangle from one wrist for a second before falling down into the mud. Luke looks somewhat chagrined when Din puts his hands on his hips. 

“My back itched,” Luke explains, shrugging. 

Din rolls his eyes, before throwing him the cloak he’d recovered from Bo-Katan as well. “Come on,” he says, beckoning toward the door. 

“Are we running away together?” Luke asks as he pulls on his cloak. 

“I’m kindly taking you to the fresher.” 

“A dangerous pastime requiring my weapon.” 

“And then, you’ll be training Grogu and I in lightsaber combat.” 

Luke pauses at the threshold. “So you are helping me escape.” 

Din sighs. After Skywalker primps for far longer than Din deems necessary in the fresher, they head to the sparring ring that had been built out along the cliffside at the western edge of camp. Save the lone early riser polishing his armor, no one sees them walk by and enter the ring. 

Luke is shaky on his feet, completely unlike the fearsome Jedi who had mowed down Gideon’s trooper droids without breaking a sweat. He holds out and ignites his lightsaber, sweeping its energy blade in front of him. He looks relieved. Perhaps he was worried the Mandalorians would harm it in some way. Or maybe he’s more at ease with it on his person again. Din knows the comfort of his favorite blaster in hand. The saber he’s burdened with, not so much. 

“Where would you like us?” Din asks, pulling the Darksaber from its clasp at his belt. 

Luke looks over at Din and Grogu. “Is this an exchange or an order?” 

Din lets Grogu down onto the dirt before stepping closer. “What do you want?” 

Luke gives him a quizzical look. “To observe the holocron.” 

“Nope.” 

“My droid then.”  

Din sighs. “How about breakfast?” 

Luke extinguishes his saber and holds it clasped between his two palms, staring at Din for a long time. 

“Alright,” he finally agrees. Then he clips the lightsaber back onto his belt and abruptly hinges his hips, reaching the tips of his fingers down to his toes. 

Din frowns, watching as Luke moves his hands from one boot to the other. He turns to look askance at Grogu, but finds him copying Luke, touching his toes and then reaching his hands high above his head. 

Luke pauses when he notices Din’s stare. “What?” He asks. “You don’t stretch?” 

He widens his stance and reaches an arm up and over his head before bending to the side. He’s shaky, but manages to hold the pose long enough for Din to observe the line of skin exposed where his tunic has pulled out of his pants. Din turns around. 

“Not… usually.” 

“Well,” Luke says, voice strained as he continues his stretching. “It’s a good discipline. Grogu knows the poses.” 

Din keeps his eyes on Grogu while he waits for them to finish, somewhat impressed by how limber and confident he’s become in his movements. Then he focuses back on Luke, igniting the Darksaber and holding it out with two hands, trying to hide how heavy and cumbersome it feels. 

At the edge of his vision he sees a few helmets gathering around the ring. Good. Let them see. Let them report back to Bo-Katan. 

Luke observes him for a moment, thoughtful, and then says, “Let’s talk about your feet.” 

Din straightens. “My feet?” 

“Yes,” Luke says. “You’re standing too wide.” 

Din glances down at his boots. “This is how I maintain my balance.” 

“Don’t tell me an elite warrior such as yourself was never taught footwork.” 

Din turns off the Darksaber. “Of course we were. Armor is heavy. We have to be able to move fast despite restricted movement.” 

“Hmm,” Luke hums thoughtfully, arms across his chest. He turns to Grogu. 

“Show him sequence one,” he requests. 

Grogu goes through a series of stances and movements that are somewhat familiar to Din. They oddly remind him of his first classes in the Fighting Core when he was only eight years old, still fighting the claustrophobia of wearing a helmet, learning to move again without the peripheral vision he’d relied on before. Grogu has no trouble with Luke’s forms, balancing effortlessly, as though he’d been doing them for decades. Maybe he had; Din isn’t sure. He wonders what Luke has learned about Grogu’s past in the last year– how much training he’d had before he’d been captured by Gideon. 

“Got it?” Luke calls him back from his reveries. Din stills. 

“Uh, sure,” he lies, watching with some apprehension as Grogu comes to a neutral stance. 

Din raises the Darksaber hilt up, but pauses when Luke steps close, reaching out his hand as if to use his powers on reflex. Instead he awkwardly pushes down on Din’s arm to lower it. 

“Without the blade first,” Luke explains. He demonstrates the forms again, hilt in hand, emphasizing the placement of his feet. 

When Din goes to clumsily emulate it, Grogu giggles, unabashedly enjoying seeing Din stumble through combat lessons. Luke, for his part, doesn’t laugh. 

“Almost,” he instructs patiently, “but lower your elbow a bit, no like this—“ 

Luke circles behind Din to pose him, encouraging Din’s limbs to go just so with gentle readjustments. Din complies until Luke’s hands come to his hips, encouraging them to square off. Din jumps in surprise at Luke’s touch, but Luke interprets it as resistance to his help, rolling his eyes as he comes around to Din’s frontside. 

“I thought you wanted to learn,” he says, eyebrows lifting.

This close, Din can clearly see the cleft of Luke’s chin and the constellation of marks that decorate his pale face. The bright blue of his eyes are shocking. Enough that his breath curiously catches in his throat. 

Luke misinterprets his silence again, shaking his head, but backs off. 

“Alright,” he says, “you can do it. Pose two.” 

— 

The sun is barely breaking over the horizon when they’ve sat for breakfast in Din’s cabin tent. Din eats behind the privacy curtain that separates the middle of the tent while Luke and Grogu sup together near the entrance. 

The Mandos on kitchen duty had hardly looked up at them when they’d grabbed their porridge, too busy laughing as they’d prepped lunch to give attention to an apostate and camp prisoners. Din knows they’d gossiped about him as he’d left though. It bothered him more than he would ever admit. He used to be a respected member of his rank, and he’d worked hard for that position. To be an unwelcome member among the people of the Watch ripped at a long-buried part of him that had grieved for the loss of his family long ago. 

“So,” Luke says from the other side of the privacy curtain, interrupting his gloomy thoughts, “I’ve just put something together. Apologies for being so dense.” 

Din grunts, knowing what’s coming. He prepares to deliver all the answers he reserves for when he needs to be polite. Yes, I sleep in it. No, not all Mandalorians follow The Way. Yes, I sometimes sneeze inside of it. But those questions never come. Luke just sighs, heavily. 

“That’s why you hate me, right? I get it. I would hate me too.” 

Din blinks. If there was one thing Skywalker consistently delivered on, it was his ability to surprise Din. 

“I mean if I knew…” Luke continues at Din’s silence. “If I’d known how private that moment was… I would’ve turned away.” 

Din clears his throat, putting his bowl down. He means on Gideon’s ship, Din gathers. The most important and heart wrenching moment of his life so far, worse than any job, any childhood grief. The moment that had sent him spiraling to this very moment, an apostate in the camp at the edge of war. Yes. Luke had seen it all. His face, his tears. And generously gave him a reassuring smile and nod. A promise to protect Grogu with his very life. The only man who’d proved to be strong enough, capable enough, to care for the most precious soul Din had ever encountered. Din didn’t begrudge him that, no. He never had. Despite his ignorance of the significance, Luke had been respectful and kind. 

Din lifts his helmet up and places it back onto his head. Then he pulls back the curtain. Luke glances up at him, face strained. Grogu lifts his messy face from his bowl too, ears up in greeting. 

“Hate is a waste of time,” Din says to them both. 

Luke’s mouth quirks up. “Where has your wisdom been my whole life, Mando?” 

Din sighs. He gestures around the tent. “This is your new holding cell. Get comfortable. If you want to make a run for it, let me know first.” 

“I’m not leaving without my droid,” Luke states. 

“Great.” Din collects their empty bowls and scoots around them to exit the tent. “Grogu, you’re in charge.” 

He hears Luke’s scoff of annoyance as he walks away, heading back to the center of camp. He cleans their bowls in the kitchen sinks, but no one says a word to him. He knows it’s his own choices that have led to exile, but he feels it bitterly all the same.

The echoes of her hammer ring from the forge into the kitchens. Din hesitates to follow. He’s not entirely sure she’ll speak to him. But if he can convince her of his plan, perhaps there’s hope. 

He feels the sweltering heat of the forge well before he’s entered the domed room they’d constructed around it. She doesn’t turn at his entry, continuing to hammer at a piece of red hot metal. But when he doesn't leave, she finally pauses and sighs. 

“You have removed your helmet,” she says. Her voice sounds… strained. More than he’s ever detected from her. “What’s worse,” she continues, “You did so of your own free will. Now, you take the side of a thief.” Her back straightens as she says, “You are no longer Mandalorian.“

Din can’t ignore the pang in his chest at such a straightforward dismissal. So brutal, just as callous as the day he’d come forward for his first helmet. She’d been much younger then, Din assumed. There were no signs of age he could track beyond the wear of her soft clothes. But he’d seen her work refine as she was forced to rise into the rank of the only Armorer left after they’d fled Concordia. He’d foolishly believed she’d been fond of him, though. Or at least, she’d been fond of his teacher, the bounty hunter who Din had apprenticed under. When he’d died, she had grieved alongside Din, and that had formed something between them that Paz had always envied. 

“The Creed teaches us of redemption,” he tries, if only to get her to turn and face him. 

She does, assessing him with a titled helmet. “So you believe the Mines of Mandalore still exist.” 

“Bo-Katan thinks so.” 

“I told her; Mandalore’s entire surface has been crystallized by fusion rays. Whatever lies below is most certainly poisoned.” 

“But they’ve sent droids to the surface,” Din points out. “And the scans indicate that the air is breathable. Enough that plant life is growing in some underground gardens. If I visit the planet and can bring you proof that I have bathed in the Living Water beneath the mines of Mandalore, then by Creed, the decree of excise will be lifted. I would be redeemed.”

The Armorer crosses her arms, thoughtful. “And you believe Bo-Katan will allow you to seek the Living Waters?” 

Din feels his fingers curl up into a loose fist. The hilt clipped beneath his cape suddenly feels heavy. 

“She seems open to negotiation.” 

“Hmm, I wonder. She’s asked me many times to call you here.” 

Din bites the inside of his cheek. “But you wouldn’t?”

She turns back to her bench, arranging her tools into a line, presumably for the next step of her craft. “That blade has passed to many who are unworthy of its meaning. She has already failed the test.” 

“But you came here. Why? You’ve always told us that Mandalore is lost. Why assist Bo-Katan now?” 

She doesn’t reply, shoulders stiff beneath her cape. Din waits anyway, desperate for advice, the counsel he’d grown more and more reliant on in the last decade. 

He waits, but she only says, “This is the Way,” before lifting her hammer again. 

— 

“Good,” Luke praises as Din swirls the Darksaber overhead and swoops it down in a well executed sequence. 

The rising sun has warmed the air around them in the sparring ring, and Din can feel the sweat starting to wet his cowl as he moves again at Luke’s instruction. Over the last few sessions he’s become more sure of the poses, but the heavy blade in his hand makes it difficult. He’s still clumsy with it, arms trembling after only an hour of practice. And Luke had yet to crash his lightsaber against Din’s. 

They have more of an audience now, Din’s noticed. Helmeted and unhelmeted Mandalorians alike gather around each morning to watch his progress. A few have grown bold enough to heckle in Mando’a whenever he loses his balance, and cheer for Grogu whenever he gets a chance to show off his powers. Din doesn’t mind. He doesn’t see them. He only sees Luke. 

The anger he’d felt in the first few days of their re-acquaintance had burned out alarmingly quickly. Annoyance at Luke’s prissiness in the fresher, continuous requests to see the holocron, and several attempts to sneak to Bo-Katan’s palace in an effort to recover his droid remained. But it commingled with Din’s begrudging admiration for his strength despite the suppression of his power, his optimistic turns of phrase, and the unending love and attention he showers on his padawan. 

Luke had cleverly taught Grogu a form of Basic Sign Language, Din discovers, adjusted for Grogu’s three fingers. Din quickly catches on to it, ridiculously pleased to have a means of clear communication with him, and filled with gratitude to Luke for taking the time to teach him. He admits to himself that Luke can provide care for Grogu in a way that Din could never. But Din can’t summon the jealousy that had plagued him before. 

Instead, at night when Luke tucks Grogu into their field pack and tells him stories of the old Jedi Order, a new sort of longing worms its way into his heart. 

But he can’t think about that now. Not with Luke’s blue eyes brightened in his ruddy face from their training. Not with his competence on full display, rippling along his shoulders and up through his powerful legs with each movement. 

Luke extinguishes his lightsaber and wipes a sleeve across his brow. “Are we that entertaining?“ He asks, tilting his head toward their audience. 

Din looks over at the edges of the ring, at the helmets glistening in the rising sun. 

“Not us,” he says, holding out the hilt in his hand. “The Darksaber.”

“It’s Mandalorian-made, isn’t it? The beskar reacts strangely to the kyber crystal.”

Din nods, shifting on his feet. He supposes he should tell Luke the truth. He’s proved worthy of that much at least.

“Created by Tarre Vizsla,” he explains. “Like your holocron. He was the Manda’lor long ago, and since his passing, it has been the blade of all the leaders of the Mandalorians.” 

Luke’s eyes widen fractionally, but before he can misunderstand, Din shakes his head. 

“I have it by mistake. Won it off Gideon.”

Luke leans back. “What is this training about then? An attempt at a coup? Because I gotta say, I’m a fan if so.” 

Din sighs, clipping the saber to his belt and walking over to where Grogu is sunbathing on a large boulder. His ears prick up at Din’s approach, and he holds his arms up to him. 

“It’s not a coup if no one is on my side,” Din grunts as he hoists Grogu into his arms. “No, this? This is theater.”

“I’m on your side,” Luke is quick to say, but then amends, “for totally selfish reasons.” 

Grogu says something to him, as if pledging his loyalty too. Din can’t help the slight grin that steals across his face. 

“A foundling, a powerless Jedi, and an apostate. Unbeatable crew.” 

Luke crosses his arms. “Hey, I’m not bad in a fight.” 

Din tilts his head to the side. “Have you ever had to throw a real punch?” 

“I—“ Luke stops, seemingly to think, then lets out a low chuckle. “Actually, no. I guess I never had time to learn the basics of hand-to-hand combat once I was training in the Force.”

Din feels a pang of unwelcome pity shoot through him at the flicker of pain that registers in Luke’s eyes. Losing his access to the Force, however nebulous that concept may seem to Din, reminds him of his own status of an outcast. He can feel the trappings of his identity— his armor, his helmet— just as Luke says he can feel the Force outside of his grasp. But neither of them can claim the benefits they once found comfort in. Not anymore.

“I could… give you some tips,” Din offers, haltingly. 

He hopes that Luke will see it for what it is— a genuine offer from a sort of ally in this ridiculous situation. Luke doesn’t have the cultural understanding to feel the significance of a Mandalorian giving training to an outsider. And there’s the possibility he’ll see Din’s pity and scorn it. 

But Luke considers the offer with an open expression, surprised and thoughtful. Then, after assessing Din’s whole person from boot to helm, he seems oddly embarrassed. It confuses Din how the slight flush that colors Luke’s face makes his stomach flip. 

“Alright,” Luke says, looking away, “since we’re performing this little show. I’ll instruct you how to wield that light sword, and you’ll teach me how to bring down a Mandalorian.” 

Din opens his mouth to respond, but then Grogu jumps in his arms, scampering up Din’s shoulders to look out toward the cliffside. He calls out to them both, lifting his hands to sign, Danger. 

Luke takes off running without hesitation out of the sparring ring toward the direction of the audible shouts and blaster fire. Din quickly follows, as do the Mandalorians that had been watching them. Din secures Grogu and boosts on his jetpack, arriving at a grisly scene before the others. Down below, on a jut of the cliffside, a bloodied foundling caretaker is fighting off a huge nexu with only a vibroknife. Some of the children are trying to crawl back up, while others hide, screaming and throwing rocks at the beast as it hisses at them. 

Din sends a volley of blaster fire from above, but the nexu is quick, evading his shots by jumping lower along the cliff face. Luke arrives and begins to pull the children up, one by one back to safety. When other Mandalorians take over, Luke jumps down to reach the caretaker, now wobbly with blood loss. Din circles the rocks, looking for any sign of the nexu, and catches sight of its flicking tail. 

He lands next to Luke and the caretaker, peering over the cliffside for it to return, but it’s Grogu’s intuition that saves him. Grogu screams, hand outstretched as the nexu leaps up, and Din has to dive to evade its claws. He falls hard, barely able to reach for the Darksaber when the beast takes another flying jump, but Grogu is faster, sending it sprawling against the rock with his power. He holds it back, face pinched in concentration, both hands outstretched. 

“He can’t hold him for long,” Luke says from behind Din. “We have to get this mando to safety.” 

Din turns back to the limp body Luke is trying to prop up. “I can’t fly him. He’s too heavy.”  

“Then we have to kill it,” Luke responds, reaching for his lightsaber. 

Din nods and they both ignite their sabers before stepping toward the howling, writhing monster. “We’re ready, Grogu,” Luke tells him. “Let it go and jump behind us.” 

Grogu quickly obeys, backflipping between them as Din and Luke advance. Din jumps up, boosting his jetpack to pull the nexu’s attention upward. It lifts onto its hindlegs to reach him, as Din had hoped, and Luke attacks it’s belly with a swift cut of his lightsaber. The nexu screams, backing away, but not fast enough. Din flies down immediately, and swiftly brings down the Darksaber along the nexu’s neck. 

The head separates and rolls away as the body slumps, defeated. Luke stares at it, panting hard. His hand and glove are bloody, from the animal or the injured caretaker, Din isn’t sure. Blue eyes flash up at Din.

“It was rabid,” Luke says, pointing to the foamy mouth on the decapitated head. 

Din extinguishes the Darksaber and clips it to his belt. The last time he’d used it to cut, the circumstances had been strangely similar. But now, he feels sick. Wrong. “Not sure that’s what this sword is meant for.”

Luke shakes his head. “It was used to save the lives of Mandalorian children. I’m not sure it could’ve been used more noblely.”

Din stares at Luke for a long moment, watching the sharp sea winds blowing his blonde hair around his sharp-angled face. Then, a groan from the caretaker sends them back to his aid.

— 

Grogu finds his way to the crook of Din’s elbow every night, snuffling in that endearing way that used to rip Din’s heart to shreds. Back when he thought they were coming to the end. Back when he believed he’d never see Grogu again. 

Not much has changed, now that he thinks about it. But now was the right moment. There might not be many more left. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out the gift.

“Grogu,” he says, quiet enough to not disturb Luke. “I have something for you… something that is your right as a foundling.” 

Grogu sits up to look at the package, claws tugging open the cloth to reveal the shining chainmail within. His mouth drops open in awe, fingers tentatively brushing against the delicate weave. 

“It’s pure beskar , like my own armor,” Din explains. “For protection. I commissioned it from The Armorer for you.” 

Grogu gazes up at Din with solemn eyes. For a moment, Din can swear he can read them, can see the childish wonder mixed with the gratitude of a creature who’s lived more life than Din can comprehend. Din holds up the mail shirt so that Grogu can see it fully.

“I know that as a Jedi… you may not be permitted to accept gifts such as this. But I’d hoped you’d see it as a pledge. Of my loyalty and… friendship. Forever.” 

Grogu watches the sway of the mail for a moment, contemplating his words perhaps, or trying to understand them, Din isn’t sure. But then he holds up his hands to sign: Thank you. Friend. 

If Luke objects to Din’s gift, shining visibly beneath Grogu’s tunic the next morning, he doesn’t say so.

__

“Alright, let’s see if I can remember,” Luke says, pointing to the stars blazen in the night sky above them. 

Firelight sends flickers of strange shadows across the campground, dancing around Din’s boots propped at the edge of the campfire. Next to him, Luke and Grogu lie in the grasses, gazing up at the galaxy. 

“I’ve never charted from the Mandalore System before,” Luke says.

“Probably never will again,” Din snarks. 

“I’ve been invited back to more hostile places,” Luke quips back. “Anyway– the best place to start for me is the Tatoo System, since that’s where I grew up. You can recognize it by the twin suns, Tattoo I and II, just there,” he points to the North East. “That’s where I learned to chart the stars.” 

Din blinks in surprise. It seems strange that such a hero of the New Republic should come from some backwater planet in the Outer Rim. Luke is so… polished. More akin to the slick city folk he’s encountered on Coruscant than the weary farmers and rough gangsters on Tatooine. But there was that edge to him, now that Din thinks about it. The click of his jaw, the defiant burn of his eyes. Din knows that fire. He’d been born with it too.  

“So I know I can follow the Triellus to the next sector, Raioballo, and then on to Relgim. That’s the beginning of my favorite Tatooine constellation. It won’t look the same from here, but that star, you see that blue one? We call it the dragon’s tooth. It belongs to the Aq system. Aq Tota, Aq Ventina…”

Luke’s words fade out as Din’s memories take over. Echoes of bombs, long dark hair swishing behind his mother’s head, the muffled protection of his hood, his father’s bristly kisses… 

“It burns brightest in the shape of the most fearsome creature of Tatooine,” he catches Luke saying when he manages to pull back into the present. “I used to follow it home from the village back to my Uncle’s farm. It used to guide me home.” 

— 

A slight kick at his boot sends Din volleying upward, but it’s only Paz standing at the end of his cot. 

“You’ve been summoned, Djarin,” he says brusquely. 

Din immediately stands, noting the time in his HUD. Barely past midnight.

“Bo-Katan needs to speak now?” 

Paz only tilts his helmet toward the entrance of the tent, moving his bulky body aside to let Din by. Din attempts to step gingerly over Luke and Grogu’s sleeping forms, but is slightly spooked when he sees Luke staring at him. 

“Missed me, big guy?” Luke whispers to Paz, smirking.  

Paz’s helmet pivots slightly to look at Luke briefly before dismissing him. “Leave the scumslug here. I’ll send a guard.” 

“I thought I meant more to you than that,” Luke quips.  

Din shoots what he hopes is a visible look of warning to Luke before turning to Paz. “I think he’ll make a run for it, regardless.” 

“Oh Mando, you know me so well.”

“He’s got to get through a whole battalion before he reaches that X-wing. He’d never make it.”

Din shakes his helmet. “That’s what I’m concerned about.” 

“Oh Mando, we’ve really lost touch.” 

Din sighs. “I’d better keep an eye on them.” 

“Fine,” Paz says, thoroughly annoyed, though not at Din’s request, he perceives. No, he can tell something else is lurking beneath his anger. “But they won’t be happy.” 

Instead of leading them towards Bo-Karan’s castle, Paz walks toward the docking platform. There’s a ship waiting for them there, one that Din’s never seen before, but knows is Mandalorian. Older, yet tidy, nothing like the starships that Bo-Katan’s been hoarding for their attack on Mandalore. This is someone’s private transport. Someone rich. 

When Paz directs the ship toward Krownest, Din already knows. Grogu is cooing and pointing at the satchel at Paz’s side. Luke looks between them, tense and thoughtful. 

“You should surrender your weapon now,” Paz says to Luke before they deboard onto the dock outside of a crumbling castle. “Or they’ll take it into their armory forever.” 

Luke stares at him, jaw jumping, fingers tight around the hilt at his belt. But eventually he hands it to Din. His eyes search the edges of his visor, pleading with him as his fingers graze Din’s gloves, before turning to follow Paz down the ramp. 

Din clips the blade next to the Darksaber and takes a deep breath before he follows. 

Paz leads them deep into the castle, past a huge double door and into a sitting room, full of Mandalorians that go silent as they approach. There used to be the symbol of Clan Wren above the mantle of the huge fireplace, Din notices. But there is a shriek-hawk alongside a flowered branch now, the sign of Death Watch paired with Clan Vizsla. Din thought the Clan had been wrenched apart by civil war and ideological differences, but a look around the room tells him all he needs to know. Just like the camp on Kalelvala, the Vizsla clan is diverse– flowered branches with shriek-hawks, helmets on and off, old and very young. The oldest, the clan Matriarch, seems to be in charge, standing with some effort in her gilded boots at their approach.

“Mother Vizsla,” Paz addresses her with a bow. “I’ve brought you Din Djarin.”

They stand before her in the middle of the room, surrounded by the remains of the Vizsla’s. Only the roaring fire adds light and warmth to the dank, dark room. It is still day outside on Krownest, but the thick clouds keep any sunlight from entering the castle windows. Din watches a few Vizsla’s gesture toward Luke and Grogu, faces dark with anger. He steps closer to them, while nodding with respect to the Matriarch. 

“So the holder of the Darksaber is a foundling. Without noble blood or heritage,” she says in a warbling, haughty air. 

Din’s fingers make fists at his sides. “I was a foundling, my Lady. Yes.” 

“Brought up by the Children of the Watch, as was my grand-nephew,” she says, indicating toward Paz. “It is a noble path to walk The Way of the Mandalore. Not many succeed. I understand that you have failed in it as well.” 

Din grits his teeth, taking a breath before answering, but to his surprise and annoyance, Luke steps forward, carefully arranging Grogu in his arms. 

“It was in aid of securing the safety of this child,” Luke says. Din’s breath catches in his throat. The room erupts into whispers, but the matriarch's lifted hand silences them. “He was honorable in that, surely.” 

“I see the thief speaks without thought,” she replies, giving Luke a grim look. “Tell me, is this a universal Jedi trait, or have I just been unlucky in my acquaintances?” 

Din puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder, hoping it will keep him quiet. Luke turns his head slightly in acknowledgement, but there’s undeniable tension in the line of his neck. 

“These Jedi seek the history of their people. It was foolish, but not malicious. I think we can understand the meaning of their mission, since like us, the Empire has sought to destroy their culture. And the artifact is here safe.” Din gestures to where Paz has removed the holocron from his satchel. 

“You are easy to forgive their slights against others.”

Din restributes his weight from one foot to the other, weighing his words, before saying, “I owe them both a life debt. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” Paz repeats, quietly at Din’s side. He looks like he’s reassessing Luke as he does. 

The Matriarch leans back in her chair, looking between them all. “Paz says he is not a true Jedi. Only a charlatan.” 

Luke looks to Din, waiting for permission to speak. Din nods.

“The hex your ancestor devised for that holocron tied up my powers,” Luke explains. “I am more of a prisoner to him than anyone else.”

“I have witnessed his power with my own eyes,” Din adds. 

“Hmm,” the woman hums, looking around the room at her clan. “Lucky for you, Skywalker, we know who you are, and more importantly, who your friends are in the New Republic.”

Luke’s face goes pinched at that, but he nods. 

“Before the… reinforcements,” she continues, indicating toward Paz, “arrived on Kalevala, we appealed to the New Republic for aid against the Imperialists occupying Mandalore. So far our requests have gone unanswered. Perhaps as payment for your… foolishness, as your defender put it, you could grant us an audience with a certain Senator.” 

Luke frowns. “The New Republic is in the midst of demilitarization. You’ll have more luck with Lady Kryze’s forces than whatever they can send.” 

At Luke’s words, Paz gives a small nod and huffs in agreement. But the Matriarch scowls at them. 

”We are not convinced of Bo-Katan Kryze’s leadership. She has failed us before.”

Din squares off, already aware of the younger members of Clan Vizsla’s eyeing the Darksaber at his belt. 

“And that is why you called me here?” He unclips the blade from his belt, holding the hilt out from his body. “I have not tried to usurp Bo-Katan’s claim. I have offered her the blade. As I offer it to your clan, now.” 

The room erupts in whispers again, and two Mandalorians step forward, eager to take the blade or challenge Din, he isn’t sure, but the old woman simply shakes her head. 

“You surprise me. By all accounts, you have been training daily with the Darksaber.” 

Din shifts his weight to his other foot, thinking. “If it is my duty to wield it for a time,” he finally answers. “I would like to wield it well.” 

The room is too dim for Djn to be sure, but it looks like a small smile appears on her face. “Paz tells me you are a stranger to Children of the Watch now. Perhaps you should join House Vizsla instead.”

Din frowns, lowering the hilt of the Darksaber. “I don’t understand.”

“You are unmarried. Clanless. We have many available daughters… or sons, if you prefer.” 

Din blinks, shocked. Beside him, Luke stills and Grogu turns his head in confusion. This can’t be real. He turns to look at Paz, but his helmet is lowered to the ground, clearly conflicted but unwilling to show it. 

Din tightens his grip around the hilt of the blade. So here was his crossroads. No more delay; no more playing in the sparring ring. He must take up the blade on his own or choose a side. He grits his teeth against the expectation that he must either be a pawn of Bo-Katan or her opponent when the real solution is… Din takes a breath. The Mandalorians don’t need New Republic support. The solution to their problem has always been unity. Despite his upbringing, despite the pounding dogma of The Way, Din has seen first hand the benefit of working together with people of all creeds, of setting aside beliefs and prejudice for the sake of setting up a better world for the young. 

He can’t give in to her request. Din must stand alone, or… he glances back to Luke and Grogu, both of whom are watching him with curious eyes. Grogu’s fingers sign into Luke’s ungloved palm, ears flat in concern. Luke gives Din a small smile of…  encouragement, Din realizes. 

An apostate, a powerless Jedi, and a foundling. 

Din considers his words for one more brief moment, before clipping the blade back into his belt and saying, “I am not… free to marry.” 

The matriarch sits back, face growing hard in anger. “Then you must accept our challengers for the Darksaber,” she says, voice hard. 

Din nods. “This is the Way.” 

Angry arguments follow them out of the room, down the long hallways of the stolen castle, and further out into the snow to their borrowed ship. Paz remains quiet as he flies, but Din has known him long enough to recognize when he’s pleased. 

Din sits beside Luke and Grogu in ship, going over the scene in his head again and again. There’s a chance he’s just made the worst mistake of his life– making enemies among the most powerful Clan of Mandalorians. But what other choice did he really have? There was nowhere to go from here but forward. 

Luke leans toward him when they enter the atmosphere of Kalevala, face curious. 

“They called you Din Djarin,” he says, voice low.

Din privately frowns, but he nods. “My name.”

Luke looks at him thoughtfully. There’s no smirk, no sarcastic comment or playful jab. Even the pain that Din can usually sense under his calm surface seems absent for a moment. There’s nothing but compassionate concern shining in his eyes. 

“You’re ready,” Luke says eventually. “You can take them all.” 

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”

Luke smiles then, as though Din was joking. He lays a hand on Din’s pauldron and leans in closer. 

“Din Djarin. Nice to meet you.” 

—

“It’s more in your hips,” Din instructs, circling Luke as he redistributes his weight. “You have to pivot with them as you throw your arm. Use the weight of your body versus the power of your arm.” 

Luke tries again, this time, pushing against the ground with his feet, pivoting his hips, and punching out his fist all in one motion. It looks awkward, as though Luke has no sense of his body at all. Din frowns, touching Luke’s arm. 

“When you hold your lightsaber, you favor your right.” 

Luke sighs, coming out of the stance and shaking his arms a bit. He holds up his right hand, peeling back the glove to give Din a closer look. It’s synthskin, Din realizes, covering a complicated prosthetic that’s visible through some damage on the back. When Luke moves his fingers, Din can make out the whir of the mechanical joints. 

“War wound?” Din asks, curiously. 

Luke grimaces as he replaces his glove. “A family disagreement.” 

Din blinks, something like concern and compassion whirling in his gut, but Luke chuckles. 

“Don’t worry, Din, it was a long time ago. And it’s an upgrade really. More powerful than the rest of my broken body. But a bit more expensive, so I’m trying to retrain my less dominant side.” 

Din leans back. “You have plenty of strength on both sides. Show me again.” 

Luke looks up into his visor for a moment, tongue peeking out and licking across his lips. Then he lowers his eyes to Din’s outstretched glove, pivots again, and this time his fist hits with more power behind it. Din is thrown off balance by the forcefulness. 

“See? You’re stronger than you know.”

He doesn’t know where that came from, that particular phrase. Old verbiage his old teacher used to encourage him with. When he felt so much smaller, so foreign among the other foundlings. Din shakes his head against the memory.  

“Now,” Din says, pointing to Luke’s sides. “Every Mandalorian’s armor has weak points. Easily defended areas from far away with shields and blasters. But up close, in hand-to-hand combat, they’re more vulnerable.” 

“If I can even get that close,” Luke mutters. 

Din privately smirks. “Well if you ever do, hit here,” Din says, indicating to his unarmored sides. 

Luke seems to follow Din’ instruction, arms positioned mid-core, but instead he moves to jab at Din’s neck. Din defends himself, pulling his forearm up to block the blow, and then realizing that he’d left the opening to his unarmored sides even wider. Quickly, he counters Luke’s plan, stepping backward while encouraging Luke to follow. They bob and weave a little, the unsteadiness of Luke getting used to his quiet Force connection fading as he feels more grounded in his body. He unexpectedly sweeps a leg out, forcing Din to jump and lose his balance. So Din barrels forward and brings Luke down to the ground with him. They wrestle for a moment, but despite a valiant effort, Din’s size and the heaviness of his beskar win. He pins Luke with a steady arm across Luke’s chest. 

“Yield,” Din demands on instinct after years of training. 

But Luke doesn’t. Instead he pants up at Din, squinting for a moment, before lifting his head as though he’s going to headbutt Din’s helmet. Din nearly rolls his eyes, waiting for Luke to learn the hard lesson of this painful mistake, but Luke doesn’t put any force behind his attack. Instead, it’s just a gentle press of his forehead to the top of Din’s helmet. He’s smiling as he does it, completely innocent to its cultural meaning. Din starts, body thrilling, heart leaping, confused and bewildered by his physical reaction. And that’s the exact moment when Luke uses his thighs to buck up, using all of his strength and the element of surprise to twist them around, and pin Din down into the dirt. 

When Din doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react to the hoots and hollers from their onlookers, Luke pulls back with an eyebrow quirked. 

“What?” Luke asks. “No one’s pulled that one on you before? Fake out yield?” 

Din shoves at Luke, quickly getting to his feet. He dislikes how fast his heart is beating, hates how much he likes the flush across Luke’s face. Of course, Luke doesn’t know. How could he know? 

“No,” Din responds as he’s walking to collect Grogu. “No one has.” 

— 

The kitchen and preparation room are bustling when they arrive to pick up dinner. A passing member of the Nite Owls confirms to Din what he’d suspected, so he goes to the basin to wash his and Grogu’s hands and directs Luke to do so too. 

“It’s part of battle preparation,” he explains to Luke as he dries his hands. “Every clan prepares a dish for the victory feast the week before to be frozen and warmed when the conquerors return. Because followers of The Way don’t eat together, this is a sacred time. In a camp like this, there’s typically not much fresh food to go around, but we do what we can.” 

Luke nods as he glances around the preparation area where Mandalorians are huddled around cutting blocks and hot plates. He turns back to Din. 

“What are we going to make?”

Din stills. “No, um.” He swallows, looking down at Grogu’s curious (and, not surprisingly, hungry) face as he watches the food prep. “I have no clan. No recipes. We’ll help with the clean up.”

“You’ve never participated?” Luke asks, brows pinched. 

Din shakes his head, oddly embarrassed. It’s never occurred to him to mind this. As beroya , it had been his task to bring credits for food or to buy a beast for roasting. He’d contributed in his own way. But now, through an outsider’s eyes, he can see how it would seem lonely. 

Luke turns back to the prep. “I don’t mind washing dishes. But I’d like to make something too. Something from my clan. You can borrow it.” He turns sheepish eyes back to Din. “If I’m permitted to. My Aunt Beru’s recipe. It’s good luck to eat honey cake on Tatooine.” 

Din nods, automatic, unable to say no. He tells himself it’s to be polite. Titters, whispered gossip, and low whistles follow them as he helps Luke gather his relatively simple ingredients from the pantry. But Din ignores them all. Luke is just supporting the cause. Which, he’d openly admitted, was for the sake of reuniting with his droid. 

Luke notices that they’re getting more attention than usual when he looks up from teaching Grogu how to fold the cake batter. Out of his peripheral vision, Din can see Luke eyeing him thoughtfully, but Din stays silent as he lines the baking tin. 

“Am I breaking some major rules here?” Luke finally asks. 

Din shrugs, careful to avoid eye contact. “No, they just…” he sighs. “They think I’m courting you. Ignore them.” 

Luke stares down at his bowl. “Because of the cake?” 

“Partly,” Din explains, huffing in embarrassment. “Also because of the training. An exchange of knowledge around weapons is a sign of a bond. And… to be offered a place in the Vizsla clan is an enormous honor to most Mandalorians. It’s one of the oldest and noblest of houses.” 

“So when you said you weren’t free…”

“Yes. And then you…” Din pauses, unsure how much to reveal here. He’s certainly opening himself up to ridicule. Or at least Luke’s signature teasing. But he has a right to know, just for the sake of cultural clarity. “Uh, you kissed me earlier. So I think that might have cemented some things in their minds.” 

An unbelieving laugh bursts from Luke’s lips, but the amusement on his face falls away when he realizes that Din isn’t kidding. 

“But- but I didn’t kiss you!”

“Mandalorian kiss,” Din says, touching the very place on his helmet that Luke had rested his forehead. ”It’s not always perceived as romantic. But for some of us that follow The Way, it’s more intimate.” 

Luke doesn’t pull away in disgust, doesn’t laugh in his face, doesn’t let a horrified expression twist his features. His face flushes bright crimson, and his mouth opens one or two times before he sets the spoon down. 

“You can do that with non-Mandalorians?” 

“What? Kiss?” 

“Court.” 

“Oh,” Din hands Luke the lined cake tin, privately frowning. “There’s no real rule. It’s just rare. When you follow the Way… the tribe is all. And I never expected to marry because of my rank. My job– my duty is to provide for the whole, so–”

“Din,” Luke places a warm hand in the space beneath his pauldron, one the spots Din had taught him was vulnerable. His eyes are soft. “I understand. The old Jedi Order was against marriage for similar reasons.” 

Din breathes, relieved that the awkwardness is over with at least. And that Luke didn’t mind. But later when the cake is in the oven, and they’re at the sink washing up, and Grogu has managed to fall into the bubbles, he does laugh freely again. 

“A few weeks living as an ex-Jedi, and I’ve already managed to secure myself a suitor.” 

Din shakes his head. “If I was really courting you, you would know.” 

“Really? Romantic, are you?” Luke smirks up at him. He playfully flicks bubbles at Din’s chest plate, prompting Grogu to giggle.  

Din looks at the water sliding down his chest, then picks up a dish rag to dry it off before sending it hard into Luke’s face. 

“Finish up,” he directs over his pauldron before taking the clean dishes back to their shelves. 

“Whatever you say, dear,” comes Luke’s annoying response, but Din ignores it in favor of the hard tug at his slightly damp sleeve. 

“Hungry,” Grogu grumpily signs at him, indicating toward the hot stew and bread that had been set out nearby for the camp’s dinner. 

Luke settles outside the cabin tent with Grogu for dinner, curious about the preparations of the Mandalorians heading to battle. All around them clans and smaller groups of Mandalorians polish and paint their armor, sew patches into their soft clothes, and clean their weapons. Din watches from a gap in the tent door, swirling with emotion. He’s never seen so many Mandalorians united for a cause before. The brothers and sisters of his covert share their ammo with the clans of foreign ways, ready to take back their cultural homeworld. But the numbers aren’t enough, Din thinks, heart sinking. 

Luke and Grogu are quietly reverent as they observe the preparations. Luke murmurs answers to Grogu’s signed questions, referring to Din’s expertise if needed. But the anticipated hush of upcoming battle seems to steal across the camp. 

“Why is she so hasty?” Luke asks Din once they’ve put aside their bowls. “Why not wait for reinforcements? They’ve lost the element of surprise by now.”

“She’s trying to force the hand of the other clans and houses. This is their opportunity to join with the noble cause for Mandalore instead of hiding in the broken corners of the system.” 

“But why now? What’s changed?”

Din looks down at the helmet in his hands, at the dark visor staring up at him. It still shocks him to see it separate from him, all these years after his vows. His thumb traces the curve of his visor as he takes a deep breath. 

“Me and the Darksaber are here now. I expect her challenge will come formally by dawn.” 

Grogu gurgles something to Luke, and Luke hums in response, but he doesn’t speak. The sounds of the preparing camp echo across the cliffside. Far off, Din can hear the ringing of The Armorer’s hammer working away at the Forge. 

“You’re ready,” Luke’s voice comes, low and sure, an echo of his sentiments when they’d returned from Krownest. “Whichever way you choose.”

Din blows out a tight breath, fingers tightening around his helmet. He wishes he felt the confidence that Luke’s statement conveyed. To purposefully lose was dishonorable. No matter how cleverly he masked it, she or others were sure to question his easy defeat. But to win… to be forced to take the lead… Din bites the inside of his cheek. More challengers would come, perhaps. Bigger and stronger, more deadly. But every victory would only cement him further into their minds as some fulfilment of ancient legend. 

“The blade still doesn’t answer to me,” he reminds Luke.  

“Din, lightsabers are tools. They aren’t sentient. Whatever your customs might say, it doesn’t determine fate. Only the Force can do that.” 

Din taps his fingers against his helmet. Without his leave, without thinking, the words leave his lips, “What do you think the Force has determined this time?” 

Luke lets out a long breath, and Din peers through the opening of the tent door. Luke’s profile is outlined in gold by the light of the setting sun. Grogu’s white hair twists in the wind as he turns to sign to Luke, three words, over and over. Friend. Strong. True. 

“You are stronger than you know,” Luke echoes his young padawan. 

There’s so much warmth, so much pure belief in his tone, that Din nearly believes him.  

— 

He wakes early, laying quietly in his field pack, trying to memorize the sound of Luke and Grogu’s quiet breathing, the feeling of Grogu’s body, curled into his side. 

At the first signs of light, he wakes Grogu to say goodbye. It’s easy to take off his helmet, even with Luke sleeping nearby. It feels like Grogu’s right, just as it had a year ago on Gideon’s ship. 

“You’re the closest thing to clan I’ve ever had,” he whispers as Grogu’s small hands pat his cheeks. 

Grogu signs something, something Din can’t interpret, not without Luke’s help. And he doesn’t want to wake him, not yet. Not when he only has this moment left. 

“Maybe I can come visit you,” Din says, rubbing a hand down Grogu’s back. “Wherever you end up.”

Din already knows what he’ll request if he defeats Bo-Katan. That he has to win, for Grogu’s sake. For Luke’s. He needs the holocron to get his powers back and continue Grogu’s training. To protect him as they travel the galaxy. It astounds him that it’s such a simple answer– He was always going to fight for them, in the end. 

But the challenge doesn’t come at first light. A white YT-1300f freighter does. 

“Oh,” Luke says at the sight of it docked next to Bo-Katan’s castle, a wry smile growing on his face.

“Friends of yours?” 

Luke’s hands clasp in front of him in the classic Jedi pose Din’s seen now and again. But he rocks into his tiptoes like an excited child. 

“I think my sister might have been wondering why she hasn’t heard from me.” 

“Is she going to cause trouble?” 

“Definitely,” Luke huffs a laugh. “But Leia doesn’t panic, so much as plan.” 

They’re summoned to the castle within the hour. A shorter woman with long brunette hair neatly tied up in fashion with her formal, expensive clothes stands before Bo-Katan’s counsel. Beside her is Wookiee armed with a crossbow and a man with a vaguely familiar face, looking nervously around the room of Mandalorians. 

They all sag in relief at the sight of Luke and Grogu. Luke hurries to what must be his sister’s arms, squeezing her tight. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Din hears her growl quietly as they pull apart. 

“And you wanted me to become a diplomat,” Luke jokes. 

“As I said Senator Organa,” Bo-Katan addresses Luke’s sister, “they are unharmed. Whatever injury Skywalker claims were of his own devices.” 

“And the holocron?” The Senator asks, turning to Paz. 

He's not alone, surrounded by House Vizsla, their matriarch leaning against a beskar cane, face stony. She gestures to Paz to pass over the holocron, which he obeys. But he glances at Din and Grogu, clearly ill at ease with the proceedings. 

“Does House Vizsla have your word for reinforcements?” The matriarch asks. 

Senator Organa takes the holocron in hand, eyebrows drawn together as she glances back to, not Luke, but Grogu, who’s little arm is outstretched. Speaking to the Senator, Din realizes, but mentally. Like he spoke to Ahsoka Tano, once. Warning her of Luke’s fate. 

“Who will lead your strike?” Senator Organa asks Bo-Katan after nodding in understanding to Grogu. 

Whispers spread through the throne room, and to Din’s dismay, more than a few helmets turn his way. Bo-Katan notices too, jaw jumping as she looks at him. 

“It is time to accept my challenge for the Darksaber, Din Djarin,” she proclaims, loud enough for all to hear. 

Beside him, Luke lifts his chin.

“We also have challengers,” Vizsla matriarch calls out. “The Darksaber should return to our noble house for this task.”

Murmurs turn to arguments among the factions of mandalorians, creating a cacophony of noise. Din’s tongue is thick in his mouth as his heart races. Grogu turns to look up at him, big eyes wide and reassuring. His fingers sign again, the words he’d said to Luke: Friend. Strong. True. 

“A mêlée,” he calls out. 

Suddenly, the entire throne room’s eyes and visors are on him, silent and waiting. 

“For the Darksaber,” he continues. “I will honor Lady Kryze’s challenge and any that follow tomorrow at dawn.” 

No one answers, not even Bo-Katan. She stares at him, not with disdain or anger, but with weary resignation. It occurs to Din that she never wanted it to come to this either. 

“Very well,” The Vizsla matriach replies. “Let us put this matter to rest once and for all.” 

Din nods to her and to Bo-Katan, before turning on his heel, and heading back out the camp. 

— 

“Din,” Luke calls out from behind them. “Grogu.”

He’s followed closely behind by his friends, looking wary-eyed at the crowds of Mandalorians gathering around to speak of what had just passed. 

“That was daring,” Luke says when he’s caught up. He places one hand on Grogu’s head and the other on Din’s pauldron. When had the calm confidence of his eyes become such an assuring sight to Din? 

Din nods slowly. “Maybe stupid. But at least you have the holocron now.” 

Senator Organa looks apprehensive when she joins them, eyes darting to Luke’s casual touch on Din’s pauldron, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. 

“You seem to be the linchpin in everyone’s plans, Mr. Djarin,” she says. 

“This is my sister,” Luke introduces. “Din Djarin meet Leia Organa.” 

When she reaches out her hand to shake his, the holocron trembles in her grasp, reacting to the Darksaber’s proximity, as it had in Bo-Katan’s castle. Grogu and Leia look at each other again. 

“What?” Luke asks, eyes wide. “What can you feel? I can tell there’s an energy spike…”

But Leia’s face crumples in concern for her brother. “What did it do to you? Why can’t we communicate?” 

“Leia,” a voice calls out, the man from before is standing at the edge of the light freighter’s ramp

“We can’t talk about this here,” Leia concludes, looking sharply around. “Come to the Falcon, and we can examine the holocron together there.” 

Grogu leaps from Din’s arms to Luke’s outstretched hands, ready to help, no doubt curious about the mysterious Jedi relic. They don’t spare Din a backwards glance or hazard a goodbye. But it was what he expected. What he’d wanted. For them to get a clean breakaway. 

He can’t tear his eyes away, savoring every last moment of Grogu’s presence, unwilling to move until the freighter has taken off. But at the ramp, Luke pauses, looking confused as he looks behind him. Spotting Din in the distance he frowns and beckons with his hand, urging him to come to the ship. 

Din hesitantly follows his summons, dreading another goodbye, but Luke is already up the ramp and inside when he arrives.The familiar face and Wookie are discussing something at the opening of the common area where the others have gathered to observe the holocron. Two droids are there too, one of them is the R2 unit that Luke had insisted he needed to rescue. Before he can come further into the common room, the man stops him with a hand on his blaster. 

“Where do you think you’re going, bucket head?” He scowls. 

“Don’t worry, Han,” Luke says, watching the scene from the common area with mild concern. “He’s a friend.” 

Din crosses his arms and leans forward, waiting for the man to let him pass, but he only tightens his grip on his blaster handle. 

“Oh yeah, he looks real friendly,” the man says, puffing his chest. 

And then it occurs to him. Din snaps his fingers, the sound dull with the fabric of his gloves. 

“Two hundred and twenty-four thousand credits from Jabba the Hutt, right? Han Solo.” Din grins. “I never forget a bounty puck.”

Solo’s face pales significantly, and Din sees his arm slightly tremble, but he does let Din push past him. The Wookie, not so much. 

His Shyriiwook is a little rusty, but Din thinks he remembers the placement of the glottal plosive well enough. 

“ I like your ship. What a beauty. But your co-pilot is a liability.” 

The Wookie laughs as Solo sputters behind them. “Hey, now wait a minute. Luke…” 

“Han,” Luke says, elbowing his way past the Wookie to pull Din in by his arm to the common room table. “We need him.”

When the holocron begins to shudder again at his proximity, Din unclips the Darksaber from his belt. “You mean, you need this.” 

When he ignites the Darksaber, the holocron glows. Something triggers inside, and an eerie light similar to the blade bleeds across the table. 

“These symbols,” Luke says, carefully dragging his fingers across a line of words that had appeared along the beskar casing. “I didn’t see them before. Can you read them?” 

Din steps closer to look, using his HUD to illuminate them further in his visor. But he can’t make out the meaning. 

“It’s Mando’a, but some sort of ancient dialect.” He watches the runes glow, as he wracks his memory. He points to the last word. “This says, ‘true’, I think.” 

“Threepio?“ Luke calls out to the golden protocol droid standing next to his R2 unit, “Can you make this out?” 

The droid steps nervously forward, clearly not a fan of mandalorians, but he does examine the holocron’s runes in earnest. 

“My translation may have some errors, sir, but I believe it reads, ‘For the eyes of the honorable warrior, both Mandalorian and Jedi, seeking the truth.” 

Luke looks grim when Din meets his gaze over the glow of the Darksaber. “So I was cursed because I am not Mandalorian.” 

“I’ve never heard of Jedi hexing items before,” Leia remarks. “That’s more of a Sith practice.” 

Luke shrugs. “It may be the result of the beskar reacting to the kyber crystal within, similar to the Darksaber.” 

They all look up at Din and the blade. He feels their anguish and frustration that the ancient weapon he’s been forced to carry has complicated their lives. Dread drips from his grip around the hilt down to his belly. His wrist aches with the heaviness of the blasted thing. He extinguishes it, hating it, wishing he could throw it over the cliff down into the depths of the sea below. Maybe he would even follow it. Make it easier on everyone. 

When he looks up again, he sees that Solo’s eyes are on Grogu.. “Isn’t he both Mandalorian and Jedi?” He asks, indicated toward the kid. “Or at least, close enough.” 

Grogu jumps onto the table, but Luke stops him from touching the holocron. 

“No,” he says, “it’s too dangerous. We don’t understand enough about it.”

“Agreed,” Din says, touching Grogu’s head. 

Grogu looks between them both, contemplating, before closing his fingers into fists and rotating them. Signing, Try. 

Luke’s lips purse, unsure, but then Grogu turns his eyes to Leia. She mentally listens, nodding along to his thoughts. 

“He’s asked me to help,” she tells them. “To hold him back from the hex.” She looks meaningfully at Luke. “He wants to help his Master.” 

Din crosses his arms, but doesn’t speak. He’s seen Grogu do miraculous things, far more incredible then open a mystical box. He’s never trusted a creature more in his life. At Luke’s imploring look, Din nods, and reignites the Darksaber at Organa’s prompt. 

Grogu leans in, hand outstretched in the way Din’s learned to associate with using his powers. He closes his eyes as he focuses, eyebrows drawn together as he strains. Organa’s eyes close as well, but she looks serene and in control, following Grogu wherever he’s going in the Force. It’s quiet, all of them holding their breath as they wait to see what will happen. Only the hum of the Darksaber and Luke’s droid’s low beeps fill the space. 

Then, Organa breathes, “ Oh.” 

Din takes a step closer to Grogu, fear gripping his heart, but Grogu merely lowers his arm and sits, a confused expression coming across his face. Luke instantly offers a comforting hand on his back, looking to his sister for explanation. 

“Is he alright?” Din asks, anxiety clear in his tone. 

“Yes,” Organa assures them both. “He’s… he was given a choice.” 

“A choice?” Din asks. 

Luke sighs, taking Grogu into his arms and giving him a hug. “I wondered when this day would come.” 

Din stares at them, at the droop in Grogu’s ears and the sad smile that turns up Luke’s lips. When they part, Grogu toddles over to Din, smiling up at him with all this little teeth. His hand pats at the chain mail peeking out of his tunic, once, twice.

“He chose to be solely a Mandalorian,” Organa explains. 

Din’s breath catches, not believing his ears. “Are you—” He turns off the saber and lowers himself to Grogu’s level. “Are you sure?” 

Grogu nods, ears flapping forward. 

“His heart,” Luke says quietly from the table, “was never fully in his training. I knew he missed you.” 

Din’s throat is too thick to say anything. He can only smile as Grogu wraps his hand around Din’s finger. It feels like a dream, like a fulfillment of a wish he’d never allowed himself to fully want. He doesn’t deserve it, hasn’t earned it. Yet here it was. 

He’s so caught up in the bliss of the moment, that he doesn’t notice Luke is gone until much later. He leaves Grogu with the others to find him. He’s leaning against the opening to the ship’s ramp, staring up at the stars. 

There’s a dark melancholy to the set of his shoulders. It suits him, Din finds himself thinking. It’s an important element of who he is alongside the playful jabs and the large smiles and the bright eyes. As admirable as everything else about him. Din comes close, helpless against Luke’s draw, his gravity. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he thinks to say when Luke turns his head to look at him.   

“Don’t be,” Luke replies. He returns his gaze to the stars. “I couldn’t be his master like this anyway. I can’t be anyone’s master. Not until I figure out this hex.” Luke lets out a low breath. “And… he’s always belonged with you. That’s his place.” 

Din stares at Luke’s profile, marveling at his selflessness. Din knows the kind of pain that comes with saying goodbye to a child as special as Grogu. But despite Luke’s tangible grief, he’s putting it all aside for the sake of Grogu’s happiness. Something like admiration and awe and… want balloon up in Din, threatening to propel him further into Luke’s space, to touch… 

“What will you do?” The words leave his mouth without his leave. 

Luke frowns at the sky. “I don’t know. I’m not a bad pilot. Maybe the Rangers could find a place for me.” 

The idea is too tempting. “Luke… we need pilots too.”

Luke looks sharply at him, confused. 

“You’ll always have a place with us,” Din continues, spreading his hands in front of him, offering. What? He couldn’t quite explain. Anything and everything, his heart foolishly murmurs. 

“I’m not Mandalorian.” 

Din shrugs. “I can take on two apprentices. I may die tomorrow, as you know. But if it turns out…”

Din isn’t sure how to interpret Luke’s quick intake of breath, the glassy look of his eyes, or the way he sucks at his teeth. It’s manic and sad, Din thinks. Maybe insulted. But then Luke laughs. 

“Blast it,” Luke says, before launching up suddenly onto his toes and gripping Din’s helmet with his hands to align and press their heads together. 

“Why,” Luke growls against Din’s visor, “must you be so kriffing perfect?” 

He pecks at Din’s visor then, quick as a flash, then falls to his heels, giving Din one last assessing look before walking back up the ramp of the ship back to his friends. 

— 

He leaves Grogu to his goodbyes and returns to his tent. The day passes slowly; after polishing his armor and ensuring his weapons are loaded and ready for the morning’s challenge, Din has nothing much to do but wait.

Not just for the coming battle, but also for the fallout of emotion, the anxiety of his task in the morning, the joy of knowing if he succeeds, Grogu will be waiting for him. 

And Luke… every time Din relives the memory of his Keldabe kiss, of the words he’d whispered before fleeing, his mind can’t seem to make sense of it. It flitters away from examining the meaning, from deciding what he should do. 

So instead he sits numb and quiet, mentally rehearsing the lightsaber sequences Luke had taught him over and over again. It occurs to him too late that he’d been more interested in how the poses showed off Luke’s lithe figure than how his own muscles should have memorized them. 

When he hears footsteps outside his tent, he expects Luke to be bringing Grogu to bed, but he’s alone. 

“He fell asleep,” Luke explains as he steps inside, and closes the door behind him. His eyes are lowered, but there’s determination in his steps. “Leia promised to wake him before the tournament began.” 

Din clenches and unclenches his fist as he watches Luke walk to the back of the cabin tent, all the way to Din’s cot. He pauses there with his back to Din. His shoulder blades pull backwards, giving the shoulders of his black tunic a strikingly strong line. Luke breathes in deeply. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks. 

Din shifts and takes a step closer. “A secret?” 

“Every night since Grogu came with me… from that first ride in my X-wing, he’s told me stories about you.”

Din leans back in surprise. 

“At first I took it as… I don’t know. Childish admiration for a friendship he was grieving. But after enough stories, I understood what he felt for you. And I was so… jealous.” 

Pity clenches Din’s stomach, and he takes another step towards Luke. 

“Jealous of me?” He tries to joke. “A broken old Mandalorian with no clan? You’re the war hero. With friends in high places.”  

Luke turns at that, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. “I was jealous that you had each other. That you both had a place to pour your love into.” His eyes dart away. “Jealousy is dangerous, especially for a Jedi. So I fought it. And I dreaded the day if I ever saw you again.

“But then,” Luke laughs at the ground, hands on his hips. “I had no idea what the real problem would be when I finally met you again.” 

Din steps closer, close enough that he could reach out and touch Luke if he wanted to. “You realized I’m a grumpy, lonely old man not worth any second thoughts?” 

Luke snorts, peering up at Din from behind his eyelashes. “I realized why Grogu chose you to love. And…” Luke waves his hand vaguely up and down Din’s body, flushing. “This. Stars, all of you.”

Din stills, struggling to comprehend what Luke is saying. Meaning. 

“Don’t worry, I know you’re not looking for anything,” Luke continues, swallowing and straightening up. “I just wanted to explain my behavior earlier. And wish you luck.”

Luke holds out his hand to Din, face still flushed, but also unashamed. Nothing but honest regard and kindness radiates from him. And that was the thing about Luke, wasn’t it? The honesty, the clarity of his convictions. It set fire to Din’s desire in an incomprehensible way.

Din’s body flushes hot. He grips Luke’s hand, and pulls him forward, hard, too hard probably, until their bodies are flush. He cups Luke’s face in a parallel gesture to the way Luke had grabbed his helmet a few hours ago. He leans his helmet down, just long enough to press it to Luke’s forehead, before corralling him backwards against the taught canvas wall behind them. They collide with each other; Luke lets out a gust of breath, then tilts his head around to cradle it into Din’s neck. 

His fingers pull at the edge of Din’s cowl, hot breath warm and moist against it. “Can I?” Luke asks, “please, I—”

Din nods, or at least, tries. The bottom of his helmet taps Luke’s shoulder. He pulls off his gloves clumsily, head buzzing with want. Right when he manages to touch his bare fingers to the edge of Luke’s strong jaw, it moves away as Luke shoves his face into Din’s newly exposed neck and presses a kiss there. 

They both shake, or maybe it’s only Din, sending them both trembling with his response. When he draws his own fingers down Luke’s neck, Luke groans, wrenching down the cowl further to reveal more skin to kiss and lick. 

The sound causes Din to press him further forward, pinning Luke’s leg between his two thighs. They’ve barely begun and already he can feel Luke’s cock is in a similar state as his own. When he flexes forward, pressing his hips against Luke’s, they both groan in unison. Luke bucks up against Din’s thigh, sending hot friction against his cock. 

Luke’s hands drop from Din’s cowl and slide down his chest plate to his belt. They both pant as Luke fingers the buckle. He’s flushed, and his eyes are glazed over as he looks right through Din’s visor, unerringly into his eyes. 

“Din…” Luke breathes. 

Din nods, and Luke’s fingers quickly push his tasset aside to reach under and find the clasp of his pants. Without a moment’s hesitation, Luke’s hand plunges into his underwear and grasps him, squeezing gently as he tugs. Din hisses and gasps, fingers scrambling into Luke’s hair. He presses his helmet against the wall as he hitches up his hips, stuttering against Luke’s grasp. 

“Gods,” Luke gasps, “I want to taste you so damn bad.” 

Din feels himself pulse at the thought of Luke on his knees, his hot mouth wrapped around his cock. His fingers tug involuntarily on Luke’s hair, and Luke smothers a filthy explicative into Din’s exposed neck. 

Din finally pulls a steady enough breath to think. He plunges his right hand down, far enough to tug Luke’s tunic up and squeeze him in his pants. Luke gasps, bucking into Din’s hand as he squeezes his own around Din. When he manages to free Luke’s hard cock from his pants, he backs up so he can see the dribbling precum leaking from the tip and wetting his bare hand. 

“T-together,” Luke stutters as he shows Din how to wrap his hands around their cocks. 

Luke pushes off the wall and thrusts into the circle of their joined hands, sending them both groaning and shuddering. Din’s cock pulses and pulses, leaking alongside Luke’s as they press and rub against each other. He can’t speak, can’t think past this moment, their movements. In tandem. 

It only takes a few sharp thrusts, and Din is already thickening, harder than he’s ever been, abs tightening against his coming release. He tries to warn, free hand skittering across Luke’s shoulder, but he merely moans as he comes, adding his release to the tight grip around them. Luke follows quickly, letting out a successive: ‘ ah, ah, ah ,’ before shoving his face into the space between Din’s pauldron and neck and coming. 

They end up slumped together, Luke’s arms slung around Din’s neck, feeling the rise and fall of their shoulders as they recover their breath. 

“I think you’re perfect too,” Din whispers. 

Luke answers by patting the side of Din’s helmet and sighing deeply. 

— 

He’s surprised when he wakes up, because he never thought he would sleep. After they’d settled together in field packs on the ground of the tent, Din had thought their conversation would turn to combat or the holocron or Grogu. But instead, Luke had sheepishly inquired about Din’s armor, asking for Din to give him a full breakdown of every piece of his beskar , every feature of his helmet and his gauntlets. 

It had been a comforting recitation, explaining The Ways of the Mandalorian, how he’d earned each piece, and the practical items he’d designed around his armor over the years of bounty hunting. Which had been Luke’s goal, Din realizes now as he stares at his still slack face. Ensuring he had rest before a harrowing day. 

Footsteps sound outside the tent, and a glance with his heat detection HUD sends Din to the door. The sky is hardly light enough to make out what The Armorer is carrying in her arms. 

“You have not come to me for rearming,” she states when he stands before her. 

“I wasn’t sure I was welcome.” 

Her golden helm tilts as she assesses him. Then, she hands him a box from the top of the bundle in her arms. 

“Whistling birds,” she explains. 

“Thank you.” 

When he’s rearmed his gauntlet, she grips the edge of the cloth in her hands and lets it drop. It’s a cape, so darkly red it’s nearly purple in the early morning light. Its collar is lined with animal skin and hemmed with beskar thread. Embroidered on the back in black thread is the symbol of all Mandalorians, the symbol of the Mand’alor. The Mythosaur. 

“From the hide of the beast you slew with your Jedi. Dyed by its blood and crafted by our tailors.”

Din swallows thickly, nodding. “They honor me.” 

She passes over the gift to him, then steps back to assess him for a long time. 

After a moment, she says, “They believe you will pass this challenge and lead us to the Great Forge. You will find the Mines of Mandalore and there you will wear this as you and our people will be reborn.” 

The weight of the new cape is heavy in his arms, grounding him to the grit beneath his boots. “This is The Way,” he says to her. 

“This is The Way,” she echoes, making half a turn before stopping. 

She turns back to put one last gift into the palm of his hand. It’s small, a token with a clasp, but its purpose is unmistakable. Din nods sharply, unable to speak, but filled with undeniable gratitude. He watches her go, following her golden helmet through the camp until it disappears into the bustle of the rising Mandalorians. 

Luke is awake inside the tent, legs folded in the meditation pose Din had once found him in, weeks ago, when all he felt for Luke was irritation and pity. Now, he’s intimately aware of how he’d give his own life for Luke’s peace. 

When Luke lifts his eyes, peering up at Din with his open, welcome expression, Din’s heart sinks.

“I’m not–” He takes a steadying breath. “I’m not worthy of you.” 

Luke frowns and rises to his feet. He touches the new cape in Din’s arms, fingers grazing along animal hide of the Nexu. They’d worked together to bring down the beast, he and Luke and Grogu. He’d worked for so long on his own, but now it feels wrong that Din must face the coming challenge alone. 

“Worthiness is not an estimate I measure anyone by,” Luke says, looking deeply into Din’s visor. “You are following the path set before you nobly.” 

“I’m just a hunter. A killer.” 

Luke’s brows come together in concern. “If you think I haven’t killed before, that I don’t understand the necessity, you’d be wrong. This galaxy… it has made us all into fighters. But there’s a possibility for peace now. For Grogu, for the next generation. And we can bring that peace. You can pave the way for your people, Din.”

Din wrenches Luke to him, bubbling with a gratitude so deep he can’t even vocalize it. But Luke’s squeeze in return tells him he understands. 

The drums sound out not long after, beckoning the camp to the sparring grounds to witness the tournament. Before Din can open the door, Luke stops him to press his head to his helmet. It quiets his thoughts and calms his breathing for a moment. Reminding him again of his goal. Then, they head out together. 

Bo-Katan stands in the center of the ring alone. Her Nite Owls and the other mandalorians that had joined her forces edge the ring behind her, looking apprehensive at Din’s approach. Din focuses on Grogu’s face instead, where he’s tucked into the Leia’s arms and flanked by Solo, the Wookie, and their droids. Luke joins them, and lifts Grogu up so he can speak to Din before he enters the ring. 

“No matter what happens,” Din murmurs to Grogu, “you will be safe and cared for.” 

Grogu meeps in response, then signs “ True.” 

When Din faces Bo-Katan, The Armorer joins him, standing between them and addressing the crowd. 

“The first challengers for the Darksaber,” she proclaims, “and the right to claim the lead as ruler of all Mandalorians. When one is defeated, others may challenge the victor, until one rises above. As the legends say, ‘one warrior will defeat twenty, and the multitudes will fall before it.’”

She nods to them both before returning to the edge of the ring. Bo-Katan’s face is dark— a hardened warrior focused on what she must do. Din breathes deeply. 

“My offer still stands,” he says, low enough that only she may hear him. “I don’t want to fight you. Enough Mandalorian blood has been spilled by our people’s own hands.”  

But a reluctant grimace has her barring her teeth as she shouts, “Din Djarin, I challenge you. One warrior to another. Do you accept my challenge?” 

Din sighs and centers himself, hand loose at his belt. “I do,” he says. 

And they begin. Bo-Katan aims her dart launchers at Din’s feet, sending him up into the sky with his jetpack. Once he’s high enough to evade her, he shoots back down to tackle her to the dirt. He has to parry the blades she engages in her gauntlets with his vambrace, ducking as they rise to their feet again, and punching her in the side. She staggers sideways with the blow, but manages to jet up to regain her balance and engage her wrist launcher. 

It surprises Din that his instinct is to reach back and ignite the Darksaber, but it feels natural in his palm as he deflects her rockets. With ease, Din falls into the pose Luke had taught him, feet moving swiftly as he defends blast after blast from Bo-Katan’s position above. 

And then he launches up himself, extinguishing the blade long enough to grab her by the middle and send her crashing back to the earth. The sound of her breath leaving her body at impact sickens Din, but she’s quick to recover, and uses his momentary hesitation to stab with her blades. She nearly knicks him in the neck, blade shanking off the edge of his pauldron as he jerks back. They fumble for a moment, Din dodging her knife blows, before returning to his feet and turning the Darksaber back on. 

Bo-Katan’s shield seems to burn and bend against it, warped by the power of the Darksaber. Without much thought he follows Luke’s sequences, arms strong, blade feeling like an extension of his own arms, purposeful to disarm. Even against Bo-Katan’s flame thrower, Din is steady and quick, easily able to evade. Once behind her, he sends his whipcord around her legs, forcing her forward onto her face and unable to reach her weapons. Quickly, he brings the Darksaber to her neck, panting as the crowd around him gasps and shouts. 

“Do you yield?” He asks, calm and steady. 

She turns hard eyes up to him, face gritty from the dirt below her. “What will you do now?” She seethes. “Take on the whole fleet?”

Din sighs, turning off the Darksaber and disengaging his whipcord. He reaches down and offers Bo-Katan his hand, knowing that she may scorn it. But instead, she pulls up to her knees and takes it, wiping the dirt off her face with her arm and watching him with wary eyes. 

“Din Djarin,” The Armorer calls from her place outside the ring. “Winner.”

Angry shouts come from the crowd, as well as a surprising round of cheers. But Din doesn’t really notice them. He sees only Grogu and Luke, relief and pride shining in both their faces. He turns to Bo-Katan. 

“We can do it together,” he says. “Mandalore and Prime Minister. General and Commander. It doesn’t matter to me. These traditions are not what I was raised with, what I believe in. I believe in our people. And I know you do too.” 

Her eyebrows come together in stubborn defiance, but she doesn’t say no. “I– they won’t follow me now. Not after that.” 

Din turns to the audience, raising the Darksaber and igniting it to gain their attention. The crowd grows silent, some stepping forward into the ring, clearly ready to be his next challenger, but Din holds up his hand. 

“Mandalorians, I know that tradition gives me rights to this blade, and any here the rights to challenge me for it, but I ask you to consider my proposal before we continue. I am a foundling, raised by the Children of the Watch. Bloodline, nobility… these things mean nothing to me. The Darksaber’s story, is only that to me— a story. What matters to me is honor and character. Which is why I choose Bo-Katan Kryze as the Commander of this fleet and leader of our mission to Mandalore.” 

“She has been defeated!” One mandalorian cries, a Vizsla, going by the signet painted on his armor. Murmurs of agreement rumble through the crowd. 

“As we all have been, as our people have been,” Din entreats them. “Time and time again. Isn’t that our history? For thousands of years we’ve been on the brink of extinction, and for thousands of years, we’ve survived.” 

Din sighs, looking from Bo-Katan to The Armorer to Luke and Grogu. He lowers the Darksaber and extinguishes the blade. 

“Many of you do not adhere to The Way, as I have devoted myself to. In that, I have failed. But I seek redemption and rebirth on Mandalore. I believe we can find it together there. But there has to be a new Way. A new way forward in unity.”

He turns, looking at each mandalorian, each challenger, members of his old covert, and unfamiliar helmets and faces, begging them to listen, to find the truth in his words. He finishes his circle facing The Armorer. 

“Lady Kryze leads a strike on the Imperial remnants stationed on Mandalore to retake the Great Forge and reclaim our people’s homeworld. I will join her. Who else will go?” 

His heart pounds in his chest as he waits, as the only sound that can be heard is the flapping of the clan flags in the whipping wind. And then, Bo-Katan’s Nite Owls, one by one, stand and step into the ring. 

“I will go,” one says, Reeves, if Din remembers correctly. 

“I will go,” another says, ducking his head at both Din and Bo-Katan. 

Then, across the ring, “I will go!” booms out, and Paz Vizsla steps forward, arm across his chest. 

“I will go,” comes another voice, another Vizsla, one of Din’s potential challengers as they reholster their blasters. 

The confirmations then become a cacophony of affirmations, an entire fleet of Mandalorians from all tribes and clans and creeds, agreeing to follow Din and Bo-Katan into battle. The last voice is The Armorer’s, coming forward to clasp her hand on Din and Bo-Katan’s shoulders. 

“I will go as well,” she says. “For there is more strength in the many.”  

Bo-Katan huffs, leaning into The Armorer’s touch. “Together. Our New Way.”

— 

Din finds Luke with his X-wing, bickering with Solo over a torn open panel on the body with a welding pen in hand. 

“—didn’t even wait for the celebration to be over,” Luke is saying, halfway inside the panel opening, “before you were asking me to officiate.” 

“That is not accurate,” Solo starts to reply, but stops when he notices Din approaching them. 

At Solo’s pause, Luke lifts up his head and then smiles when he sees Din, sending Din’s heart pounding in a novel way. Preparing to siege Mandalore has meant they’ve had no time alone together since his fight with Bo-Katan. Din itches to touch him. Maybe he could find a moment to take him back to the cabin tent, corral him against that wall again, utilize his cot this time… 

“You could’ve asked me for his hand,” Solo interrupts his lurid thoughts, arms crossed. 

“Han,” Luke protests, laughing and shaking his head. 

“I’m just looking out for you! Someone has to.” 

Din looks up at Solo, at the fierce set of his jaw and the concern in his eyes. It occurs to Din that he knows very little about Luke. About his family and the friends that had faced an entire hoard of Mandalorians to bring him to safety. It seems strange that in only a few weeks, a man had wormed his way into Din’s heart and expanded it to span worlds. Grogu had been the one to start it— with a touch of his finger to Din’s he’d created room for everyone they would meet and need on their journey together. And now Din must open up even further. 

“We have the same priorities,” he assures Han, holding out a hand to him to shake. 

Han thinks for a moment before accepting it, gripping Din hard enough to reinforce his care for Luke, but respectfully. Han eyes Din for a moment before sighing. 

“Fine. I’ll go find the green fuzzball for you.” 

Luke smiles after him, looking content and golden in the afternoon light, so unlike the pale, pained man who’d kneeled in the mud and begged for Din’s help weeks ago. Already, he’s improving, finding balance within himself without his access to the Force. He jumps down from his ship and walks to Din. His hands slide up Din’s chest plate and tug a little at the top of the metal when they’re close. 

“Hi,” Din breathes, tongue clumsy by the simplest touch. 

Luke’s smile is so warm, so enticing, Din isn’t sure how he’s survived life so far without it. “Hi.” 

“You look… good.” 

Luke laughs. “Really? I’ve been a prisoner for several weeks.”

Din scoffs. “A very well treated prisoner”. 

“ Mm , I wasn’t given the ‘fresher time I’m used to.” 

Din shakes his head, giving into his impulse to draw a hand up Luke’s neck and cup the back of his head. Luke’s eye slide close as he drifts closer into Din’s space. It feels strange to be affectionate so publically, but the instinct to stake a claim is there as well. Han’s joke about asking for Luke’s hand reminds him of the token in his belt pocket, waiting to be presented. But not now, not on the eve of a battle they aren’t likely to win. 

Din runs a thumb down Luke’s cheek, wondering how to convince him to stay back, to board Solo’s ship and leave before it all begins. 

“No,” Luke says, his eyes still closed. “I’m coming with you.”

Din’s mouth privately dropes open. “How could you tell what I was going to say?” 

Luke squints up at him. “I can read your face.” 

Din sighs. “Then you know I have very little faith in our victory.” 

Luke straightens, eyes going bright in determination. “Take my faith with you, then.” 

Din buries Luke’s embrace into his heart, letting it light the fire of battle in his belly as he boards the Gauntlet with Bo-Katan and their team, and releasing his fears as they take off into the atmosphere and fly toward Mandalore. It keeps him steady as they descend into the stormy atmosphere of Mandalore, Grogu secure with Luke in his X-wing flying next to them. 

Immediately, they discover that Gideon was ready for them. Tie-fighters appear from the glassy surface without warning.

“He has a whole hangar down there, the bastard,” Luke says through the comms. 

“He’ll destroy the fleet if we don’t send warning,” Bo-Katan says. “But the magnetic interference blocks our comms.” 

“I’ll go, my Lady,” Woves says beside her, already donning his helmet and heading to the ramp to jump before she can reply. 

“Luke, cover him,” Din instructs, before manning the guns and open firing onto the coming tie-fighter. 

They watch Woves jump, flying back up into the atmosphere with Luke’s X-wing flying close behind. 

“Where did they come from?” Din asks. 

“Just there,” Bo-Katan points to the holomap on the Gauntlet’s display, “in the ruins of Sundari. Where the Great Forge used to be.” 

A few directives over the comms send their party to the surface, diving into the hangar with another squad of Mandalorians already jumped from the starship nearby to engage Gideon’s troopers. Reeves leads a group to take out the launch shields to keep more tie-fighters from leaving the bay, while Din leads his team into the corridors of the Imperial remnant’s base. 

“Take the right,” Din instructs to Bo-Katan, “we’ll find Gideon and take down anyone who stops us.” 

She nods sharply, blasters out as she leads her squad down to the right. Din heads left with Paz and the others, cutting through troopers as they head to the heart of the base. To Din’s surprise, most of Gideon’s men are wearing beskar and jetpacks, stolen tech and materials from the planet they’re trying to claim. Highly trained too, moreso than the broken down old soldiers he’s used to dealing with. 

“Gideon’s been operating here for a long time,” Din says to Paz as they empty one corridor and move to the next. 

“But no longer,” Paz declares, nodding to the Darksaber in Din’s hand. 

Din raises it, leading them forward. They come to an emptied training room, but one step in sends blaster fire their way. A quick search with the heat detection in his HUD shows Din every hidden trooper, and quickly they move in, Din at the front as he deflects fire and Paz shoots back. 

Then, Din sees the edge of a dark cloak move swiftly around the corner of the next corridor and takes off after it. He turns to call Paz and the others after him, but the door he ran through instantly shuts and locks behind him, trapping Paz and the others inside the training room.

He slams his fist on the control panel, shouting to Paz, but they’re too busy fighting to notice. 

“Damn it!” He curses, slamming on his comms as he follows the direction of the black cloak. “Bo-Katan, come in, Bo-Katan. I’m on level two, head further in. I think I’ve got Gideon in my sights. Where are you?” 

But no answer comes, only interference and cut-off echoes. The sounds of blaster fire sound from further away, but nothing else. He’s alone. 

He comes to a strange room, glowing green from the rows of tanks lining the middle of it. Inside the tanks is a floating clone of Gideon, asleep or not quite fully cooked, Din isn’t sure. His stomach churns, remembering that scientist, that kriffing fool who’d wanted Grogu’s blood, who’d given in to Gideon’s whims. Din finds the control panel that maintains the clone’s life source and runs the Darksaber through it. Instantly, the tanks turn off, some even exploding open and sending the innards sloshing onto the ground. 

Then the clang of a door sends Din running, nearly right into Gideon, waiting for him at the edge of a ship dock perched high above a plunging drop-off. He’s wearing black armor, beskar, Din detects, laced with electronics. Gideon stands, menacing and silent, watching Din approach. Din doesn’t wait for him to speak. He jumps, jetpack propelling him forward into Gideon’s chest, sending him volleying backward near the edge of the dock. But Gideon quickly recovers, nailing Din in the chest with inhuman strength, knocking the wind out of Din as he lands hard. 

Din weakly comes to his feet and ignites the Darksaber. 

“It will be nice to get that back,” Gideon says, reaching for the electrostaff clipped to his back. 

He moves swiftly, raising it above his head and dealing a hard blow against the Darksaber. Din parries, remembering his feet as he turns, bringing the blade to cut down Gideon’s arm. Their weapons clash again, and Gideon kicks, mechanically-enhanced legs sending Din crashing backward and slipping to the edge of the dock. He nearly falls, losing his grip on the Darksaber as it clatters over the edge of the drop-off, when he launches his jetpack. Din means to plunge down to retrieve it but Gideon’s whipcord wraps around his neck and tugs him down to the floor. 

Din chokes, fingers scrambling on the whipcord to keep it from snapping his neck. His vision blacks out as Gideon tugs him across the floor, but then a warbling sound comes from the comms. Luke’s X-wing bursts into the hangar, shooting Gideon immediately. Gideon releases the whipcord to fly backwards and evade Luke’s fire. Din gasps, reaching into his boot for his vibroknife to cut the cord from his throat. Before the X-wing has fully landed, Grogu has already jumped from the cockpit, skittering toward Din at the edge of the dock, hand outstretched. Within seconds, the Darksaber is in his hands. 

“Good timing,” Din croaks through his sore throat, taking the Darksaber from Grogu’s offering hands. 

Gideon sends a volley of fire their way, nearly clipping Luke as he slides to their side. He grips Din’s arm momentarily before igniting his lightsaber, adding its greenish hue to the Darksaber’s glow. 

“How did he survive laser fire?” Luke asks, deflecting Gideon’s fire. 

“Some sort of mechanically-enhanced beskar ,” Din answers, covering Grogu from a blast. 

Luke looks sharply at Din. “Remember that one move with the Nexu?” 

Din jumps, drawing Gideon’s blast so that Luke and Grogu can advance. But before Luke can gain much ground, Gideon has swung his electrostaff at Grogu, forcing Luke to lunge and take a burn on his arm. His groan of pain makes Din see red. 

He’s not sure what happens, exactly. One moment he’s launching down to take Gideon to the floor, the next he’s grappling with him, hand-to-hand, both staff and saber lost in the scuffle. They roll, Gideon’s armor giving him the advantage in strength and resilience. There’s few places Din can land a punch, but he manages to find the weakness of his sides before Gideon launches the hard mechanical knee into Din’s groin.

Din sprawls, grimacing in pain as Gideon lifts his blaster to his neck, but then he’s pulled backward by some invisible force. Grogu stands a ways behind, gritting his teeth as he yanks Gideon off of Din, leaving room for Luke to engage him. 

Gideon manages to knock Luke’s lightsaber away, and for a moment, Din’s heart stops beating as his gauntlet is pointed at Luke’s unprotected face. But then, Luke bends, foot planted, arm pulled back, aiming for Gideon’s one vulnerable space that he’d exposed with the raising of his arm. The punch gives Luke just enough time to grip his gauntlet, engage Gideon’s jetpack and send him unbalanced flying toward the hard rock of the cave wall. Gideon slumps against the ground, unmoving. 

Din slowly stands, limping to gather the Darksaber and Luke’s lightsaber from where they’d been thrown away. He engages them both when Luke and Grogu join him over Gideon’s prone body. 

“Mandalore,” Gideon’s weak cough spews up from behind his helmet, “will never rise again.” 

“You are witnessing the beginning of its rebirth,” Luke says. 

“Pray you live to see it flourish,” Din adds.

“Din!” Comes Bo-Katan’s voice over the comms. “Din! Can you read me? Where are you? One of our cruisers – it’s been hit– crashing and heading into the base.” 

“Where are the others?” Din shouts back, reaching for Grogu. 

“Out! All out. Clear except for you and the Jedi.” 

“Take him with you,” Din yells, as they hurry to the X-wing, “get him clear.” 

“What about you?!” Luke screams, unwilling to let go of Din’s sleeve. 

“We all can’t fit. Go now!”

Luke touches Din’s helmet, a tap of goodbye before sliding into the cockpit and shutting the blast shield. Din gives one last sparring look at Gideon’s prone body, unmoving on the floor of the dock before lifting off, following the X-wing out of the base just as the burning cruiser falls into from the sky. 

—

The drums echoing in the cavern of the Living Waters still ring in his ears. When they’d found them, Bo-Katan had expected Din to plunge beneath them immediately, but something had held Din back. The redemption he’d thought he’d needed seemed unnecessary now. His devotion to the Way had morphed into something more. Into devotion for all Mandalorians, perhaps. 

He hadn’t agreed to a coronation, but wore the cape that The Armorer had given him when all of the Mandalorians had gathered to light the remains of the Great Forge. There will be an election soon, Din hopes. Bo-Katan had already set up a counsel to discuss it. But she’d warned him when they’d stood by the Great Forge, that a single candidate’s name had been agreed upon so far. 

Luke hadn’t come to the ceremony, but he remained with Din and Grogu, sending off his sister and friends with a promise to reunite soon. Din dreaded when that might be. 

Din and Grogu find him in one of the underground gardens, in meditation again. Luke smiles gently at their approach and rises to meet them. He grazes his fingers along the edges of Din’s new cape. 

“Wow,” he says, softly, “I feel like I should vow my fealty.” 

Din lifts his free hand to loosely grip Luke’s wrist, tugging him close to them. Grogu pats at Luke’s face affectionately, and gurgles happily. Din’s heart swells.  

“There are other vows.” Din rubs his thumbs up the back of Luke’s hands. He swallows. “Mutual ones.”

Luke’s eyes search his visor, roving back and forth. “Oh,” he says. 

Din pulls back to reach for the token in his belt pocket and presses it gently into Luke’s gloved palm. The delicate mudhorn signet gleams in the lantern light. Luke reaches with his fingers to caress the details, examining it for a long moment, before lifting his eyes back up to Din.

“Tonight, I adopted Grogu as a member of my clan. He will be as a son to me. I’d hoped… that you would consider joining us too.”  

Luke’s eyes shine. “What do I say? I mean–” He swallows thickly. “What are the vows?” 

“Mhi solus tome,” Din starts. “It means, ‘we are one when together.’” 

“ Mhi solus tome,” Luke murmurs, hand closing over the pin in his palm. 

“ Mhi solus dar’tome, ” Din continues. “We are one when parted.” 

Luke repeats, leaning closer, face solemn. 

“ Mhi me’dinui an. Mhi ba’juri verde. We will share all. We will raise warriors.” 

Luke says the words without hesitation, without pause. His free hand comes to encircle Grogu’s head. A ray of sunlight bursts into the cave as he finishes, adding luminescent to his smile. Din feels no hesitation either; he lifts and removes his helmet, setting it aside so he can pull Luke forward by the neck and say: 

“We are clan now,” before wrenching Luke forward to plant a desperate kiss to his lips. It’s inelegant, Din knows, lacking the skill Luke is probably used to. But he doesn’t protest or shrink away. He surges up, returning Din’s kiss with just as much feeling. 

“Sorry,” Din gasps, surprised by the welling of his eyes, “I’ve never—”

But Luke interrupts him with another kiss, and pulls back to say fiercely, “I love you.” 

Din tries to laugh, but it comes out like a hiccup or sob, trapped in his throat. Love, yes, that was it. The word he’d never quite managed to admit to, even deep in his heart, when he thought of Grogu, his people, and now, Luke. This remarkable man. Din loves him. 

“Oh,” Luke gasps, shuddering in Din’s arms. His fingers shake slightly on Grogu’s head. “I can hear you. I can hear you both.” 

“What?” Din asks, confused. 

Then Luke laughs, hard and delirious like a mad man, hugging Din and Grogu tight. “I– it’s back! I can…” His eyes go wide, laughter tearing from his throat again. “Now that we’re married, I’m technically…”

“Oh,” Din breathes, pressing his head against Luke’s forehead. Of course. The holocron’s requirement and punishment. Only a Jedi and a Mandalorian could open it. With a kiss, Luke had sealed his place as part of Din’s clan, a Mandalorian clan. 

“Bit of a loophole,” Din sniffs, sending Luke giggling all over again. 

He pulls away from them as he says, “It won’t be long before you’re commissioning me a pair of pauldrons, huh?” 

Din doesn’t answer; he can keep the design and specifications of Luke’s armor to himself for a while if he must. But then Luke turns toward the East and closes his eyes. He reaches out a hand, concentrating for a moment. Through the opening of the cavern comes the holocron floating on nothing. 

Luke sits with it in his hand, and beckons for Din and Grogu to join him. Din pulls the holocron from his belt and ignites it, watching the holocron glow. Grogu clambers into Luke’s lap when he closes his eyes, face serene. There’s no strain at his brow, none of the anxiety of the more recent attempts to connect to the Force. There’s nothing but bliss as he seeks to enter Tarre Vizsla’s secrets. And then, the box opens, sending a hologram projecting up into the air around them. 

“It’s a star map,” Din breathes, marveling at the sight. 

Luke’s eyes slide open again. “Of hidden Jedi knowledge,” Luke explains. An excited flush colors his face as he looks at the points of the map. “There’s hundreds of them. Hundreds. Hidden long before the Empire.” 

Luke stands to look at the map, carrying Grogu around to each highlighted point, identifying each system from memory. He gets more excited as he goes, laughing at some locations, awed at others at the very edges of the galaxy. 

Eventually, Din rises to his feet too and takes Luke’s gloved hand in his. “Looks like we have a lot of work to do,” he says. 

Luke sighs, nodding. “I know. Mandalore and Grogu will–”

Din stops him, kissing him softly on the lips. “Mandalore will take centuries. We’ll do what we can. This work,” Din says, indicating to the map surrounding them, “we will do too. Together.” 

Luke nods, face bright with that irresistible smile. “Together is good. Better.”  

How true, Din thinks as he kisses Luke again. 

--