Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Din did not believe in ghosts. 

He knew Grogu’s teacher did, Skywalker blabbering nonsense of speaking to his deceased father and uncle, and had heard of claims from strangers of their ‘truly horrific tales’. The beroya never believed a lick of it, seeing it as a psychological trap designed by those who wanted to keep others out of their space. Do not enter, here lies danger, and doom, and death, yadda-yadda—

Din was danger and doom and death rolled into a nice shiny package. If he spared the belief for ghosts, it would be to protect himself from the mass haunting he would be assaulted with from those who died furious with him. But he didn’t, and he didn’t let it deter him from entering places others feared to venture. If his acquisition was willing to hide from him in here, who was the lesser of two evils? A Mandalorian with a purpose, or the whisperings of ghosts?

He paid the chilling air no mind, his thermal regulation in his kute kicking into gear to keep him warm, and Din only tucked Grogu further under his cape where he was warmest at his exposed lower back. His son sat dangerously close to the accursed light-sword on the back of his belt, but Grogu knew better than to touch it. Din had forbidden him, fearing that the faint whisperings coming from the hilt that were not ghosts would transfer to his son, or interact with his powers somehow. Din only heard them when his buy'ce was off, and was determined to believe it had something to do with his hearing aides and botched ears. 

Still, Din worried, but buried it under tasks. Educating his son, hunting, working with and for Boba. There was no time in his life for incorporeal beings that couldn’t speak up. Din was determined to never acknowledge what that weapon at the back of his belt meant, would rather a worthy Mando'ad defeat him for it and take the mantle with honour, rather than Din and his trepidation. He hadn’t met such a warrior yet, so he hunted, and when he was sure they were truly alone, whispered to Grogu how he tracked, how to corner and funnel if possible, how to get to the better of two inevitable endings.

When they entered a chamber with walls of tiny, mirroring crystals, Din hoped this hunt was as good as the last. Now, in this cavernous room with pillars coated in small cuts of the same crystal as the walls, he could feel the denseness of the air. It was not as oppressive in the hallways— not as still. It was like the air in this room was holding its breath, not the stillness before the pain of a landing strike, but the slow-motion movement of a blade sinking home. 

Din’s head pulsed and he almost dropped his blaster in favour of cradling his head. Years of training kept him still, continuing to survey the room as his head began to throb painfully. Grogu curled his little fist in the kute at Din’s lower back, a sign he was discomfited without telling him aloud in dangerous territory. He gave his son a pat on the shebs of his satchel in reassurance, crouching low as he crept into the room. He was bound to be seen in the reflection of the crystals, but so would his prey; and if luck was on his side, the silver of his armour would help him blend in with the silver of the room. 

It was the purple skin of the Zeltron he was looking for that stood out first. Hiding behind one of the pillars, also crouched low, and shaking with fear. Din could taste their anxiety on the air, the desperation cloying and increasing his building headache. Something in the environment his sensors hadn’t scanned, he figured, and it would be better to end this quickly. He didn’t want to find out there were lasting or even worse effects, or that Grogu would be affected without a helmet. 

“Come out now,” Din calls firmly, watching the Zeltron flinch at his voice echoing in the large room, “They want you warm, but I won’t lose pay if you’re cold.”

Din lifts his blaster when they hesitate, giving them one last chance, “Don’t make this difficult, and you can leave with your life.”

The Darksaber starts vibrating on his belt the same time instinct has Din raising his forearm, letting the blaster bolt the acquisition sneaks around the pillar bounce off his vambrace. It ricochets towards a lone, shorter pedestal in the centre of the room, the Dha'kad at his hip humming even angrier before stopping completely as it makes contact.

Though, it doesn’t, not really. The tip of the red beam is barely touching the pillar, held mid-air at that point before disappearing. Din does a double-take, never seeing a bolt dissipate before impact, but he doesn’t let him deter it from his target. No matter how weird it was, this was still a dangerous situation and Din had Grogu on his person. There could be no costly mistakes. The acquisition wasn’t used to handling weapons, shaky and still exposed around the corner. Din shot his whipcord to the slip of barrel peeking out, ripping it out of their hand as he stalked wide around the corner, blaster trained on them. 

“I won’t go,” the petrified Zeltron says, face light pink from fear, eyes wide and glued on his blaster, “I won’t go back.”

“You’re wanted for questioning by the New Republic. A Marshall will take you in on Nevarro,” Din states firmly, not wanting it to get bloody if it doesn’t have to. This was a hard lesson for his son, that the most dangerous people were the ones scared out of their wits, the ones with nothing to lose. A bounty hunter’s heart can be empathetic for them, but it cannot lower their guard. These were the one’s most willing to kill them to survive. 

Din can see the moment that the Zeltron considers it, and then considers it banthashit. At this moment, three things happen at once, disorientating the haran out of him and Grogu both. One, the Darksaber, back to doing its dini’la osik, lifts off the hook on his belt and yanks him backwards towards the small pillar at his back. It’s not enough force to knock him over, Din bending his knees and sliding backwards like attached to a winch. It’s the Zeltron raising a hand towards him, eyes determined in the same way Grogu does when he’s about to do something with his magic, that propels him far back enough to collide into the pillar. Just barely, but enough for the Darksaber to knock against the crystals on its side and let out a deafening ring as the third and final thing.

That wouldn’t be so bad if the room didn’t seem to pulse with the sound, causing his head to spike with pain. The Zeltron experienced it too, judging by how they cried out and both hands shot to their head. Even Grogu chirped in pain, Din more worried about that than his own. His free hand supported underneath him in comfort on the satchel while his blaster never left the Zeltron, head flitting around the room trying to see if there was repercussions to the pulse. He’d scanned the room once before something in the corner of his visor darkened, a shadow appearing in open space where there had been nothing before. Din pulled out another blaster, trailing it on both figures as his eyes blurred, eyes misting from the throbbing in his skull. 

“Where did you come from?” Din rasped in shock, once his eyes finally focused. It was a Mandalorian with an open T-Visor, a strange symbol above the eye line, the chin of their helmet dipping further than their own. Their golden eyes stared at him with a piercing gaze, Din almost stepping back at how it seemed to cut through his iron. The Zeltron took one look at the other Mando before darting, and before Din could react the other verd snapped their fingers. It rung through the room despite their gloves, and the acquisition dropped like a bag of stones. Din did take a step back now, holstering his blasters and pulling his spear off his shoulder, keeping Grogu out of their sight and range.

“ Naak, Mand’alor te Udesla,” they spoke to him, the calm timbre to their voice soothing his frayed edges. He stayed on high alert despite it, not liking the title they were giving him, but respecting the call for peace.

“I came because you called. Or… my weapon at your hip did on your behalf.”

Din stopped his slight shuffling backwards entirely. 

“Your… weapon?” Din says dumbly, before the regal look of the Mandalorian registers. The furs like his Gor'alor,  the ancient look to their armour despite being perfectly maintained. The most obvious sign was how Din could see the glimmering of crystals behind them, through them. Their next words shouldn’t make sense, shouldn’t be possible, yet Din believed.

“I am Tarre Vizsla, Mand’alor te Kar’tigaanyc, she/her. I built that ‘saber over a thousand years ago, the first Mandalorian to become a Jedi.”

There’s no damn way ghosts are real, Din thinks, but at the same time the Darksaber at his hip should not be whispering to him either. Din sees a slim chance of ridding himself of it and rips it off the hook, holding it out to her.

“Take it back,” Din practically begs.

“I cannot. It has chosen you,” the Mando'ad says, still calm despite Din’s growing upset at the dismissal. And the appearance, insinuating the weapon had called for its creator to help Din. Or that the damn thing had chosen him of all people to be its wielder. No thanks.

“ Gedet'ye,” Din tries again, swallowing the hole opening in his gut that said he would never be rid of it. Never be good enough to use it, never strong enough to lead with it. Din wasn’t alor material; he was trained by his buir to support their leaders, protect them, provide for them to help them lead them all to success. Din was the shield and the spear, waiting for the right person to come along and be of use for. That was his son now, but when it came to an alor…. Din didn’t know what to do when he was that role.

“I cannot take it. It will part from you only in death at this point in time. You cannot rid yourself of it, can you?”

Din kept his statuesque posture, resisting the urge to flinch. How many nights, when Grogu had been with Skywalker, had he stood at the airlock of his ship, debating with it in his hands? Wondering why, after hours, he couldn’t summon up enough will to throw the damn thing into the black? Even when, on the nights he did not stand there, he heard whispering on the edges of his hearing in his bunk, telling him he could do great things with it? Restore Manda'yaim to its glory?

“No,” he whispered, not knowing why he was answering honestly and was in part rejecting the blade’s perspective. He could not part with it, but he could not fathom why it wanted to stay with him either.

“There is none left that it would be willing to part to. But there was one that it longed for, one whose hand it never got to touch. It would be willing to go to him.”

“Will he take it without my death?” Din asked, not because he wasn’t willing, but because he needed to make arrangements for Grogu. He did not want his son to be part of the sacrifice for the damned sword, but Din needed to make sure it went into honourable hands. It was awful that he had to agree with their words; Bo-Katan was not suitable, not with the more narrow-minded she seemed the more time Din spent with her. Boba would not take it, and Din would not thrust this responsibility upon his friend. Paz, though he loved his brother, had too hot a head that ran on impulse. He would need someone to rein him in, and Din could no longer be that person. 

“He will give you more than he will take from you. I will not take your son from you, child, but I must know how far you are willing to go to see it in rightful hands. In a Mando'ad's hands who will restore the glory of our people?”

Din doesn’t know what to say to being given things from this next owner of the Darksaber, but knowing his son will be safe makes it an easy agreement.

“I’ll give anything, go anywhere. This is the Way,” Din states with surety, knowing this is what must be done. As long as Grogu was safe, this was his duty just as it was to redeem himself in the Living Waters. These were sure goals he had to complete, and Din would die trying or he would succeed.

“Very well,” Tarre Vizsla says before the room pulses again, “He is young, beroya, give him some time before you thrust it upon him.”

Right after her final words, Din’s head splits as the room becomes blinding with white, bright light. The pain spreads from his skull to his entire body, like when he was young and had the worst of his growing pains. This was a thousand times worse, with every limb on a stretcher being pulled to the max. Din squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to make a sound, not wanting to worry his son, hoping the Mand’alor’s promise held true and he would be unharmed. Din certainly wasn’t exempt, and he barely registered the words, quieter, not meant for him, but Din latched onto them with a buir’s protectiveness. 

“I can only do so much to send back the both of you, ad'ika. I can give you a choice; go as you are, or give your buir the gift of more time? It will come at a cost, child.”

Din goes to speak up, to chime in that he as a buir did not need anything from his child, only safety and happiness. Nothing else mattered, especially not at the cost to his child. She had given him her word, but she was giving Grogu a choice that was outside the lines of that bargain. The words cannot cross his lips, only a sharp cry as his skull feels like its cracked anew from his stunt with the E-Web and Super-Droids, his lower back snapping where his spinal surgery had put him back together after Nevarro. Din never wanted to know what it felt like to have all that happen at once, but he reminded himself of the reason. The Dha'kad would be out of his hands and into those who deserve it.

Din doesn’t know what Grogu decides, the air growing thin and hard to breathe, the light brighter until all Din can see is the glowing red of his eyelids even behind his visor’s tint. Everything feels like it’s spinning, the ground gone beneath his feet, nausea growing in his stomach as his body throbs with pain. The pain spikes when he lands hard onto a harder surface, thankfully on his belly so Grogu isn’t squashed underneath him. 

Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear exclamations of surprise. Two distinct voices, his HUD picks up as Din tries to get to his feet, to get Grogu back in a safe position. When he goes to rise, he stumbles on shaky legs, overcompensating for the heavier weight at his back. Din is starting to feel alarmed as he takes in the dark alleyway hidden from streetlights, taking stock of his body. Despite the pain from before still thrumming through him, he does not ache like he should, not after hunting for almost thirty years. At the same time, his armour doesn’t feel right, digging into places it shouldn’t be. He lives in his beskar skin, and instantly he knows it feels wrong. His body feels wrong, like it’s not his own.

“What have you done to me?” He rasps, looking down at his hands and vambraces, seeming smaller, thinner, than he remembers. The only thing familiar is the blue triangles on his kom'rke, bright and repainted by Boba who took great care in matching the shade exactly.

“Where the haran did you come from?” A voice spits, Din turning to really focus on what is in front of him. Two Mando’ade, both in similar sets of armour with the same paint job except for their aliik and buy'ce, were facing each other with hands on their weapons. One had a young woman pressed against the wall with one hand, under her throat and keeping her from leaving. This was the one to address him, and Din isn’t one to answer stupid questions. Didn’t he just watch him fall from the sky into a garbage pile courtesy of an ancient Mand’alor’s ghost?

“If you’re Mereel’s pal, you can—“

“I don’t know them, and your quarrel is with me. Release her, Godin. I won’t ask again,” the other Mando'ad interrupts, ice in their tone. For a moment he’s glad the verd speaks up, his head ringing with that name. Mereel, the whispers chant,  the ones that have never been so loud coming from the haunted blade he carries. Din grits his teeth and ignores them, sending a fierce Shut up! with his mind towards the damned thing. To his surprise, it listens and cuts off into silence. He doesn’t need the thing driving him mad to know this is the one it wants, protecting a woman from a fellow… officer? He’s guessing by the jitte they both carried, the weapon often used by security forces or law enforcement. The weapons and beskar'gam said the latter. 

The one pinning the girl, the threat, looks at Din  a split second before he pulls his blaster. The woman tries to scream, unable to move away, and Din isn’t sure if he’s going to aim at him or Mereel, but neither would be good. He brings up his vambraces to ward off any potential bolts, struggling under the weight of them and his pauldrons. Lunging towards the side and towards Mereel goes sideways immediately, the extra weight in Grogu’s satchel causing him to stumble along with the full weight of his armour settling in. He tips back then forwards like a lurching droid, but he manages to dodge the bolt hitting the wall where he’d been standing. 

Din’s snarling in frustration and ripping the spear off his back, hating how sweat is running down his back and forehead, his skull still pounding. He’s close enough now, arm so ingrained after years of training, that when he stabs out with one quick thrust, hand close to the end to give him extra length despite the lesser stability, the spearhead goes right through the centre of the shabuir's throat. Din yanks it out quickly, hating that he has to crumple to one knee as the girl screams again when blood sprays her face.

“Verd!” Mereel is gasping, kneeling beside him, a tentative hand on his pauldron.

“I’m fine,” he rasps through the soul-aching pain, “Go to her. Ni ceta, I did not want to frighten her.”

He can feel the warrior’s hand squeeze him tighter for only a moment before turning away, going to the woman instead. If she can be called that, looking even younger as Mereel brings her closer to the streetlight. Only a girl, sixteen at most, and Din would be glad for the violence he inflicted upon him if only she hadn’t seen.

“Here’s my comm information. Do you need assistance getting home? Can I call someone for you?” The verd was saying, worry painted in his voice and kindness in his touch. Din struggled to focus on him, but he treated the man like he was a target to be hunted; Din could not lose track of him. It was hard when the alley was spinning, Grogu beginning to shift in the satchel. It felt like he was getting out, and Din was grateful because he needed to see what was in there that was causing it to be so heavy.

“If you’re sure, and I’ll tell them. May we meet again.”

After that the chamber— no, the alley, was silent except for his ragged breaths and Grogu’s faint shuffling. 

“Buir? I… feel funny…”

Mereel, who had been walking back towards him like he was an animal who would spook, froze. So did Din. He stopped breathing entirely, turning his head slowly to the side to get a look at his ad. His verbal ad. 

Grogu was taller, not by much, but he had a little more length to his limbs. Enough his tunic looked short, almost indecent, and his little fingers were longer. Din would know; he’s spent much time with Grogu pressing his bare hand against his and being fascinated by their differences to know the exact length. The gray curls between his large ears has grown longer, thicker from their thin wisps. Still, it is his son only… bigger. Older. And Din feels… younger, smaller. 

He almost wants to rage, to shout at the spirit if it was still haunting him, but his son is worried and scared and Din can feel it through the pounding in his head. He reaches for him with a shaking hand, one still on his spear to keep him upright, and grips him close to his chest in a half-hug, wrapping him in his cape as he sniffles. That was good, a familiar sound before the boy worked himself into a nap.

“Ner ad'ika,” Din croaks, “What was the gift? What did she ask from you?”

“More time with you. I live longer. Twenty years is nothing, buir. Not for you to stay,” the ad whispered before his big brown eyes shut, ears drooping in exhaustion. Din was shocked by the words; he always knew Grogu was capable of great intelligence despite his young age to their standards, but he understood more than he let on. With Grogu now passing out, safe from Din’s anger, he forgets himself. He’s scared, in pain, it’s starting to rain, and this ghost—

“What have you done?!” Rips its way out of his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s directed at himself or Tarre Vizsla. Mereel steps back, assuming his rage is directed at him, raising his hands as if to ward off his anger. Maybe it had only been another spectre of sinister origins, pretending to be what Din would most want to see, saying just what he wanted it to say.

“I gave your son a choice,” comes the calm voice to his surprise, and to the surprise of the verd he’d forgotten about. The man jumps in the air, hand going to his blaster as Din tilts his head up to glare.

“You should not have asked. I do not care how long his species lives; it is not to be traded,” he spits.

“A child has the right to gift their parent, Din Djarin,” Tarre chides, “You should not deny it, and it was not your choice to make whether it was to be given.”

“I don’t care!” Din roars, surging to his feet with Grogu still in one arm, his spear the only thing hauling him upright, “You promised me safe! Unharmed! Taking twenty years of his life is not safe! I should— I should—“ 

Din panted, swaying from the sudden dizziness. He was one step away from lunging at the damn ghost, but now his knees were buckling. His armour was so fucking heavy because she had taken twenty years of accumulated body mass, mostly muscle. If he’s nineteen, twenty, he’s not even fully grown into his height and width yet. Before he can crumple into an embarrassing pile of beskar, two hands grab him, grunting under his weight as he slows their descent. 

Din flinches at bare fingers touching his neck, reaching below his cowl. He stills at the calm ‘Relax’ the man mutters, pressing his fingers more purposefully into Din’s pulse point. His readings will be useless with the way his heart is pounding, not having someone touch his throat in years.

“You’re burning up, verd,” Mereel mutters, “Your helmet…”

The man’s hand twitches upwards to the lip of his buy'ce and Din’s comes up lighting quick to snatch his wrist in a tight grip, letting his spear fall away. He was hoping this was a Mando'ad that understood, or at the least respected it. Bo-Katan had agreed with all the disdain she could muster for his choice, and Din had hated every second of it. 

“Halt, Jaster Mereel,” comes a sharp voice, burying Din’s weaker ‘Nayc’, “This one is Creedbound. To remove his helmet without being a certified baar'ur or Goran would make him dar'Manda.”

Jaster freezes, his expression hidden by his own buy'ce. Black with a red-edged visor, he thinks in the dark. Din doesn’t know what he thinks of the revelation, but there is something in her words that causes Din to want to argue.

“Nayc. Gorane…,” he tried to disagree through the tightness in his chest. The pressure in his head was building, and Din wanted to curl up in a dark hole and lick his wounds. Then fix his armour so it wasn’t digging into him. He wouldn’t do as good as a job as his aunt, but it wasn’t like he had a bes'goran contact here, wherever here was.

“Not here, Din Djarin,” Vizsla says, something like sadness now lining her voice, along with a firm lesson, “Your Creed permits you to have medics see you in dire circumstances.”

“What can I do?” Mereel pipes up, “He helped me and saved the girl. I owe him a debt.”

Din pushes him away with a growl, not wanting to be owed, “He shot at me and my child. I have a right to defend myself.”

Din couldn’t forget that, despite this apparently being the one the Dha'kad wanted, he was a cop. Beroya'se didn’t do well with cops without a Guild License, and Din’s wouldn’t be valid here. Din is starting to suspect  with certainty that she did not just send him somewhere else, but to a different time entirely. She had told him, warned him really, that at his point in time the Dha'kad would go to no one else. To go to Mereel, they needed to shifted in both space and time. On top of that, there must have been a reason Vizsla deemed it important to give Grogu the choice at all to make Din younger, meaning this might take longer than a simple handoff. He had agreed without really knowing what he was agreeing to. 

In this place, Din will have no record, no identification that would make sense, no idea where he was or what rules he was working with. He has no allies, no vode, no Tribe, and that makes him more grateful he has his son. Din couldn’t afford to get trapped somewhere where the law was involved; he’d be unable to untangle himself without disappearing completely. How was he supposed to give Mereel the sword and wait like Vizsla asked while in custody?

“Accept his help, beroya. He means well, with no other intent. A place to stay, and a bes'goran if you know one.”

“I can do that, if you’re amenable. I won’t ask for anything from you, verd, I just want to help you get well.”

Din paused, still struggling for air and for his eyes to focus, but his ears worked fine, if cotton-stuffed. The sincerity in the words was enough to get him to think about it. Precaution bordered on paranoia kept him safe before, but Din knew when he needed help. Knew which was the better option; accepting the verd’s help, or passing out in the alley. With Grogu, no brainer.

Despite it, he was stubborn and prideful. Din hums in frustration at the choices, but releases the death grip he has on Mereel’s wrist. That is as close to an agreement as he can muster.

“I need to call this in, verd,” Mereel whispers, sounding almost guilty, “I cannot leave his corpse here to be found. It will make us both look guilty.”

“Do what you must. Are you taking me to the cells?” Din rasped, letting Mereel help him to his feet, pressing his spear back into his free hand as he goes to his other side. The beroya doesn’t know why he bothers asking, blaming it on the fog in his head. If that was their destination, Din was in no place to change it. 

“No, I’ll take you to my Clan for treatment and a bes'goran's assistance,” he responds firmly. The man then hesitates for a long moment before slowly flitting around him, the motions of his hands slow and easy to track as they reach for him. Din stiffens, wary, but keeps still. The man only adjusts Din’s cape into a better birikad for Grogu, tying it into a secure knot so Din’s other arm could be relieved, “I cannot promise you the Goran will accept to help you, but I can get you an audience.”

“That is all I can ask for,” Din rasps, letting the man sling his arm over his shoulder with even more reluctance. He was not expecting an Armourer to take walk-ins, especially for a stranger. With his armour the way it was, hanging off him and ill-fitting, most would assume he had stolen it at first glance. He was lucky Mereel was not making that assumption and just hauling him off for detainment, not only for murdering but for being a beskar-thief. He’d be publicly executed in his Tribe, stripped of his soul beforehand. Mereel is quiet, presumably making a call on his internal comms. Hopefully, the man would keep his word. Din would like to die in armour that fits, even if it galled him to take it to a Goran that wasn’t his own. His aunt would have a fit, but he couldn’t return to her like this.

“Where do you hail from? Your… companion,” Mereel asks, most likely an attempt to keep him awake and focused, as he looks suspiciously around for the ghost that had again disappeared, “Said you are a beroya?”

“Yes,” Din says, and doesn’t answer his first question on purpose. He had no idea where he was, if this Mando'ad was safe like Boba or untrustworthy like Kryze. Din’s head was foggy, and if he made a slip revealing something he shouldn’t, he doubted he would be able to defend himself fully in this state. His only option would be to flee, and in quiet midnight of the streets, Din would stand out like a lone star under these lights. Mereel seems to notice his hesitance, but doesn’t push him, changing to another topic that would be brief. Din didn’t give out much of Grogu’s information to strangers, his name as guarded as Din’s own.

“Your ad… they are cute. How old?”

“Seventy,” Din says bitterly, tacking on the years the spirit stole to reduce Din’s.

“Wow, he looks great for his age,” Mereel tries to joke. He’s beginning to struggle under Din’s armour and weak limbs, his panting breaths getting louder through his modulator, “Manda, beroya, how much do you weigh? I mean—“

His embarrassed voice cuts off at Din’s soft huff of surprised laughter, understanding what he meant, “Too much for my body in this state. My beskar'gam is almost seventy pounds.”

Mereel jerks in shock, buy'ce tilting incredulously to him, “What?!”

Din, not knowing if he was catching on that it was not currently molded to fit him, stays silent. What is he to say? That his body had shrunk while he fell through a wormhole, a ghost leaving him twenty years younger by trading his son’s life-force? Din didn’t know what made him feel more sick to his stomach; that Grogu had even been given such a choice, too young to fully understand the consequences, or that Din hated the gift given? Yes, he’d get more time with his son, but it has left him at the start of his career. This body was not one of a hardened beroya decades in the making, but a boy fresh out the Fighting Corps, all lean muscle. This one was not prepared to carry pure, dense beskar instead of lighter durasteel. 

“We’re almost there. Down the alley here, there’s a back way in. I don’t want to wake the whole Clan dragging you in through the front door. Do you need a medic?”

Din was focused on getting his feet to turn his body down the alleyway, trying to be quiet. He doesn’t want to wake this verd’s aliit out of respect and paranoia. He doesn’t need a bunch of Mandalorians scrutinizing him when he didn’t have his own bearings.

“Verd Djarin, do you need a medic?”

He freezes, minutely pulling away from the man with his arm still slung over his shoulders. The grip on his spear tightens, shifting his hold in a move not subtle enough Mereel doesn’t notice. The man stops, standing stock still as he watches him back, keeping his cool as he tilts his head, waiting patiently.

“What did you call me?” He hisses, sweat cooling on his spine. He rarely hears his name, hasn’t introduced himself properly to anybody in years. Moff Gideon knowing it had caused the same reaction, ice in his veins at the personal breach in security. 

“That is your name, elek?” Mereel answers hesitantly, “Your… friend called you that. I apologize for overstepping; we haven’t really been introduced.”

Din pauses, his body not yet ready to relax. Had Vizsla called him by name? The ghost knowing it would not be as surprising as this strange Mando'ad, but he still hates that it was given without his permission. It was hidden for a reason, to protect his Tribe from the Empire.

‘I’m sorry, Din,’ Tarre’s alto voice whispers, sounding genuinely distressed, ‘The Empire is no more here, and names are everything. Keep your Creed, but discard the rest.’

Din didn’t bother trying to respond to that, not having the energy to think on it to further conclusions, focusing back on Mereel, “Sorry, verd. I forgot, and I do not give it out often. Din Djarin, he/him. My son… Grogu. I don’t need a medic.”

‘I need a mirror,’ Din thought bitterly, ‘And a dark place to sleep.’

“No worries… beroya,” Jaster eventually decides, picking a title that shows respect while avoiding the use of his name. Din can respect that in return, “Jaster Mereel, he/him.”

“Is… that your Clan name?” Din hedged, trying to get answers of his own. He could tell by the twitch in Mereel’s body language when he had introduced himself that his surname had struck a chord of recognition. Clan Djarin had been all but extinct after the Night of a Thousand Tears, Din’s own buir perishing amongst them. Din and his Ba'vodu were the only two left as far as he knew. It wasn’t odd the verd had been surprised by it.

“No,” Mereel’s chuckles, “I’m an orphan. Clan Tal took me in and knew my name during my Fighting Corp years.”

Din struggled for air after they started moving again, getting through the back door and down stone steps. An  orphan? Strange terminology for one taken in by Mandalorians, even stranger that one placed in the Fighting Corps didn’t have a Clan as backing. It was the rule by Din’s time, needing a sponsor of Mandalorian descent to prove he was not an Imperial spy. Even then, they were watched by the instructors closely for infiltrators. That was the last time he had seen his buir whole, marching before he could see Din emerge victorious.

That was before Mereel’s Clan name sunk in. Tal, where had heard that name before? It hurt to try and remember, and by the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, Din was disorientated and panting, struggling to think at all.

“Easy, verd. This way,” the officer grounds out, just as out of air as he is. There had been a few close calls and almost missed steps that had spiked both their adrenaline. The air feels warmer down here, drier, and it doesn’t help that Din’s body already feels too hot. He can only hope it means Mereel is leading him to his Goran, and he’s so grateful for that he forces his stupid, heavy body to push on. Just as they’re closing a door they had clumsily pushed open, the thought strikes him and he stops dead, digging in his heels to make Mereel halt.

“This late hour— we should not disturb them,” Din gasps, berating himself for their rudeness. 

“Beroya,” Jaster hisses back, fire behind his teeth. The Hunter doesn’t want to argue about this, knowing the boundaries when it came to Gorane. He steps back, forcing Mereel to come with him or allow him to slip his arm off his shoulders. 

“I can wait. It is only a headache,” Din got out through clenched teeth, trying to be quiet as to not disturb the one who lived in this Forge. Truly, here lies danger, doom, death, and they were so about to have their asses handed to them if they are intruding.

Mereel stares at him for a long moment, tilting his buy'ce pointedly up and down Din’s body. Din can feel his rising urge to argue more, hating and confused that he can feel such a thing from another person. It does not prepare him for the deep voice that comes out of the low, amber lighting of the Forge. 

“You are welcome. I am always open to those in need.”

Mereel tilts his visor as if to say ‘see?’, and Din fights the urge to growl at him in jest. Now was not the time to be childish as he spies the low table and mirrored cushions on the floor. This is something Din knows, leading Mereel along despite the man’s hesitance. Din bends to place his spear on the ground out of reach and move the singular cushion on their side towards Jaster. The man tries to push it back with his foot, still keeping him balanced, and Din does growl this time.

“What? You’re injured,” Mereel hisses again, sounding more incredulous and even more weary. Like the urge to fight was leaving him as Din pulled himself out of his hold to kneel without the cushion.

“Because your burc'ya here is honourable and follows the Old Ways, Jaster. You are his host, the one who has brought him; it is good manners in traditional tribes to forsake it. I leave one pillow as a test, and you are the first to have done so in ages, verd.”

Din only bows his head, gathering his thoughts before realizing Mereel hasn’t kneeled yet. He yanks him down by digging his fingers into the top edge of his thigh plate and tugging until he begins to fold. Only then does the Armourer come to kneel across from them, dipping his head to both of them in greeting. 

“Goran Atin of Clan Tal, he/him,” he says to Din, and he can tell he is scrutinizing everything about him through his visor lens. His ill-fitting armour, his heaving chest and weak limbs, the birikad strapped across his front with Grogu still hidden inside. The feeling of Tarre’s words sit heavy on him, just as heavy as his name does on his tongue.

“Din Djarin, Clan Mudhorn, he/him,” he gets out through gritted teeth, not willing to hide his full title to an Armourer. Mereel jolts beside him, helmet tilting enough to side-eye him through the tee. 

“Will you share the name of your Tribe with me, Din?”

He paused, having never been posed the question before. No outsider had ever asked, even Kryze and her Night Owls hadn’t bothered. Bo-Katan had guessed correctly which Creedbound Tribe he belonged to, but he doesn’t believe she even knew the names of the others. Before the Empire, they had contact with other Tribes, but not since the Night of a Thousand Tears. The Goran isn’t bothered by his hesitance, and that respect alone adds weight to his side of the scale. If the Empire is no more here, he had nothing to fear by sharing. 

Din pulls himself straighter until he was as tall as he could manage, shoulders set back in pride. He would treat this stranger like a fellow Tribe’s Goran, introducing himself like how he would to other Creedbound in a way they understood. Din tilts his chin up, proud of his lifetime of duty to his Tribe, would speak like the honour it was to be apart of them. To know them, and have them know him. He tries to convey the depth of that in his words, how they depended on him to provide, and how he needed them to provide for. They not only saved him from the same fate as his parents, not only gave him a home, but gave him everything. Without them, Din had no purpose after Grogu. They had been his reason to survive past his grief and anger, the reason to grow stronger, and they were who he was.

“Ni gai te Beroya be te Ja’hai’ade, ner buir shatroan ni.”

“You are young to have earned your own signet and Clan,” he comments, and Din laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but it crawls itself up his throat like an injured beast drags itself across the ground. The sound is rough and grating, full of hate at what that ghost has done to him. It sounds wrong in his youthful voice, too much hurt condensed into such a smaller body.

“Young?” Din rasps, before laughing again despite the stabbing in his head. It had taken thirty years to earn his signet and now it sits on the shoulder of a much younger man. The pain is rising, pressure building like something is trying to squeeze until his skull gave. Still, to be called young again! Despite the lack of pain in his joints and certain healed bone fractures, he did not feel young. Not mentally.

“Jaster, turn around,” the Goran suddenly barks, startling the both of them. Mereel responds immediately, spinning on the pillow until his back was to them.

“Now, forward until you have enough room to sit at his back.”

Din realizes what the Goran’s doing once Mereel’s backplate is leaning against his, straightening him out of the slouch he’d been fighting and giving him his back to lean on. At the same time, he cannot see Din’s face this way and for that he is grateful. The inevitable order is coming, and it is coming from one of the few he cannot refuse. 

“Good. Do not turn around, Jaster Mereel, or this verd is within his right to kill you. I trust you to honour this.”

“Elek, Goran,” Mereel replies before falling still, their backs still pressed together. 

“Remove your buy'ce, Din Djarin. Breathe fresh air and clear your head.”

Din tries to do as he’s told, lifting his shaky arms to get his fingers at the locks of his helmet. The gloves are too big for his fingers, unable to dig into the hidden catches that release it. It frustrates him, but he swallows it down along with his pride. Lowering one hand to his lap and the other reaching back for Mereel’s side for balance as he leans forward, ignoring the man’s sudden inhale under his grip. The verd had offered to be his support; Din wondered why he was surprised Din was using it as he waited, helm bowed before the Goran in invitation.

His hands come up slowly, fingers gently sliding around the edge of his helmet until he found the latches. Just like with Mereel, he has to lock down the urge to put distance between them when his gloves brush against the bare skin of his throat. When he gets the locks to release, he pulls it off Din’s head with the same reverence he does every time he removes it. 

The second the beskar is done sliding up over his head, Din sucks in a large gust of air. It’s cool on his raw throat, the tightness in his head unwinding until Din is leaning back against Mereel with a relieved sigh. 

“That’s better, isn’t it, verd?”

“Yes,” Din rasps, head tilting back until the back of his receding throbbing skull pressed against the cool beskar of Mereel’s helmet. 

“One Star-Touched like yourself should not be wearing a pure beskar buy'ce,” the Goran reprimands, but it is soft to Din’s sore ears. He can hardly hear him over the hearing aides now too large for his ears plugging them, and his too large gloves cannot pull them out. He hadn’t noticed with his buy'ce amplifying sound. Worse, now that the primary pain in his head was leaving, other parts of his body are starting to hurt alarmingly. His calve is the main one, not appreciating its bent position, and that sums it up. It seems the ghost could only shrink the organic parts of him. Din’s lucky he doesn’t have more than just two artificial implants. Din starts working on the gloves, one thing he can do, before his struggles become obvious and the Goran reaches out to help him. 

Din, still disoriented but so thankful for the dissipation of his headache, answers in truth, “It is Heirloom beskar, Goran. My buir’s.”

“Ah. All of it?”

“No. My buy'ce; the rest went to the Foundlings. My beskar'gam I earned.”

“It does not fit you,” comes the dreaded observation. Din answers back as steadily as he can, finally focusing his eyes on the Goran without his helmet’s protection. To watch their reaction carefully, to see if he could predict this going terribly. He wasn’t sure he could run from a Goran, or how to appease them if they believed he was guilty. The other reason is so the Goran can see the seriousness, the honesty, in Din’s own face, his tone just as solemn.

“Not yet. It will.”

“Do not worry, hunter. I can see it. The shadow of your previous form is dissipating, but I see you. How old are you truly?”

“Just turned forty, Goran.”

“Ah, that explains it. You are not yet full grown as you were then. Twenty, perhaps?”

“I assume.”

“You will not be able to wear it as it is, not comfortably, even if I resize it. It will be too heavy for you.”

“My Foundling… he has grown, and needs protection.”

“Jate'kara As for your helmet, beroya, I will need to mix it with an alloy known as bes'kar'runi”

Din translates the word, star-soul-iron, and then his brain stops. He’s shaking his head vehemently before he even realizes it.

“I understand. It must gall you, to think you are tarnishing your Clan’s beskar. You will not dilute its history with this addition. If anything, your buir would support this choice; the beskar is hindering you. It will only continue to hurt you.”

“This is the Way.”

“No, hunter. It is not. If this trip has awakened your ability to touch the Text with Creator's Style turned off, to continue to wear your buy'ce as it is now will kill you.”

Mereel sucks in a deep breath at his back, his chest expanding and lifting Din straighter in conviction, “This is the Way,” Din repeats. He will not taint what is left of his buir because of a headache, and if it eventually kills him, then he wasn’t strong enough to wear it. He wore it for a lifetime once before.

The Goran's voice drops, the low baritone of his voice vibrating Din’s bones. This is his last warning.

“It will happen within months, Din Djarin, and it is ugly. Your head will continue to split and you will continue to burn up. You will lose what control you have of influencing the people and material things around you, the mental shields you have will dissipate until other’s thoughts are screaming between your ears and their foreign emotions driving you mad. By the time the nausea gets at its worst, the removal of your buy'ce to vomit will not be enough to stop it. By then, a blood vessel in your brain has weakened to the point the aneurysm is inevitable.”

Behind him, Mereel’s breathing has grown heavier with horror, though he tries to hide it by muting his mic. Din can still feel it, but he remains unmoving. He will not be cowed by the horror of death, not if he can perform his duty beforehand. That determination is as strong as beskar, but an Armourer knows how to melt it down.

“What of your Foundling? If they had your Gift, would you force them to wear your helmet until it kills them?”

Din flinches, the one thing he had not thought of. How could he not as a buir think of what that would mean for his son? Grogu had gifted him his years, and Din was willing to leave him in this strange place in a strange body, squandering their time for duty. What of his buy'ce, his son’s by right, and the Goran’s words? Would he really be willing to let his son suffer before dying for the mere remembrance of him, of preserving the beskar of their forebears until there were no descendants? 

Finally, he bows his head in acquiescence. No, he would not force Grogu to endure that fate.

“Good. I will need to get my hands on some, it is quite rare, but it shouldn’t take longer than five to eight cycles.”

“I can manage,” Din rasps, “My armour is more hindering.”

“No doubt. The weight must be more than you realized.”

“True, I did not notice.”

“Did not notice seventy pounds?” Mereel mutters behind him, Din not able to hide his grin. He bumps back into him in reprimand before he can be scolded.

“I wished to earn my beskar for so long,” Din says, not knowing where the words were coming from, but finally beginning to relax, “Now I know that my body was not ready, let alone my mind. Now, some of mine can go to my child.”

At his words, Grogu stirs in his birikad against his chest, pushing against Din’s chest plate to look up at him. When his wide, sleepy brown eyes catch onto Din looking down at him in fondness, he freezes.

“Buir…? You’re… scruffier, but… less scruffy.”

“Yeah buddy, buir won’t be able to grow scruff for another six years, eight for anything decent. The hair on top will have to compensate,” he replies, his voice soft in amusement. Grogu was always so obsessed with his hair, tangling his locks on his tiny fingers or scratching his rougher facial hair with his claws.

Grogu starts climbing his armour, reaching up to get his fingers in Din’s longer curls before he stops again, noticing they have an audience. He turns and hisses at the Goran, baring his teeth in a protective display while slapping Din’s face with his hands, trying to hide it. He’s standing on his thigh plates and almost reaching his forehead, higher than he’s ever reached, and he’s so proud he could almost cry.

“It’s okay, Grogu. An Armourer has permission.”

“Yours? Your aunt?”

Grogu sounds hopeful and worried all at once, immediately climbing out of his harness, scrambling to sit beside him. 

“No, ad'ika. A friend brought me to this one, as an emergency.”

“Because you’re so bright now?”

“Yes, my smart child.”

“Are you willing to wear a durasteel buy'ce temporarily while I resize your armour? You can sleep in the spare cot there if you can stand the noise, or Jaster might have room.”

“For my armour, yes. I appreciate a place to stay.”

Goran Atin chuckles as he rises to grab one, waiting until Din places it over his head, “Jaster here will help you out of your beskar'gam. I will make calls for the bes’ka’runi.”

“Vor entye.”

“No debt, Din Djarin. I will be back.”

After the Goran has left the room, Mereel’s accented voice pipes up, “May I turn around?”

Din catches bits of it, turning his head so the temporary buy'ce's audial was closer, “Again, louder?”

“May I turn around, and help you get your iron off?” Jaster says, speaking up this time so Din can hear it.

“Elek. Your volume is good. I may need to see a medic after all, Mereel.”

“Me'bana?” The man replies instantly, his tone completely different. Worried, but professional. Alor material.

“Not urgent. I didn’t notice because my head hurt more. Beskar first.”

He can hear him grumbling, but it is too low for Din to pick up. Din is starting to understand why the ‘Saber sees this one as a potential carrier—

Te shabla Dha'kad!

While Mereel’s getting to his feet, Din reaches behind his cape, empty space on the hook where it should sit. Din panics before looking at Grogu, seeing that he holds something hilt-like in his lap, wrapped and hidden in one of the handkerchiefs from Din’s belt. The look his son is giving him is apologetic, knowing he wasn’t supposed to touch it, but the determination in his eyes speaks of knowing keeping it hidden was more important. As Mereel helps him to his own feet, his worry fading that the verd would find it, he signs a quick well done to his son. The kid perks up, relieved that Din wasn’t mad, and tucked it close to his chest in a sign to guard it. 

“Verd?” Mereel pipes up again, sounding embarrassed and only continuing when Din looks at him, “I’m sorry, but your armour latches differently than mine. Could you show me one?”

Din grins behind his helmet. Even the Goran had to search for them, proving his Aunt’s creation was truly one of a kind and could even stump other Mando’ade. With his gloves now off, it was easier to slip his fingers into the hidey-hole where there was a little catch that needed to be pulled and twisted to release, verses the old-style side-press releases. On his leg pieces, the opposite sides needed to be pulled simultaneously, Din explaining to Mereel carefully.

“It is pure beskar, isn’t it? Is that why?” Mereel asks, sounding fascinated. Din’s smile widened, for once not minding questions. They were fully curious, asking just because Mereel wanted to know, wanted to know why, having a hunger for knowledge that wasn’t malicious.

“No, verd. My Armourer designed our Tribe’s beskar'gam to have these as added precaution. From the removal by outsiders, protecting our faces, and to hinder thieves.”

“Thieves?” Din, too tired, does not bother to dig into why this concept seems strange to the other man and just explains it like it’s Grogu asking.

“Those who pick what is left of our beskar off our corpses, those who would parade around in other’s souls, take full kits away from their aliit’s grasp and displaying them in their trophy rooms. I have slaughtered many,” Din spits, the vision of Moff Gideon’s collection in his Starcruiser fresh in his mind.

He had made all three Night Owls swear to return them as best they could to their families, not trusting Kryze’s word alone. Cobb was the first one who was ignorant of his insult, using the set to protect his aliit and giving it to Din for their safety, but he was not the first Din had come across. He was only the first who hadn’t died by his hand. After the first dozen sets Din brought home, he had earned enough beskar to be gifted his thigh plate. The rest had been resized for Foundlings, keeping their shapes and remembering where they had come from by their style and paint job. When Din walked, his right leg was heavier knowing those dozen Clans had all perished in the Night of a Thousand Tears, and parts of their souls now protected him with every step.

“Are these thieves common where you are from?” Mereel asked, bringing him out of his thoughts. His voice was tight with anger now, but he was still efficient at what he was doing. Focused and good at multi-tasking, and once he figured out that Din’s gear latches were just more secretive and not overtly complicated, he was smart enough to figure the rest out. He circles Din once, taking off his weapons and cape, and deduces that one who doesn’t remove their helmet must have a way of getting their flak-vest off with it on. Still, he doesn’t ask, must delight in figuring it out like a puzzle.

“They are everyone when you hunt in the Outer Rim.”

“Buir killed two last month,” Grogu pipes up, Din dipping his head down to stare at him.

“You were with Teacher. Which ba'vodue told you?”

“Auntie Fennec.”

“What else did she tell you?” Din sighs, resigned and not surprised.

“That you gutted someone on their own armour.”

Din barks out a laugh before reeling it in, loving hearing his son’s fascinated voice for the first time, but knowing when he was up to no good by his face, “Is that it?”

“No, there was more, but how do you do that? Can I come next time so I can see?”

Mereel’s chuckling now, “Really, beroya, how do you do that?”

“When it does not fit well,” Din explains while demonstrating, leaning forward slightly and sticking his hand in the obvious gap between his chest plate and his body, “There are ways. This aruetii was too small for the armour he stole, and the edges will cut if you know how to maneuver them. I just folded him a bit, pressed down on his shoulders so it dug into his belly, and gave him a twist. Simple disembowelment. If it is too small on them, hit their plates hard. It will hurt them more than protect them when the edges dig in.”

Jaster hums in interest, retaining that information for the future. He’s figured out that the hidden clasps for his flak-vest are under his backplate, undoing it before walking around him to pull it off. It sags his arms, this piece alone a good fifty of those seventy pounds. Din feels it, how much his body had been struggling under the weight once he’s relieved of it. His shoulders sag in relief, no longer fighting to stay up under his wide pauldrons that did not fit his skinnier shoulders and biceps. Even his flight suit was hanging off him, the most obvious sign of how much body mass he’d lost. Once all his iron is off, Din’s body shakes with the release of tension in his muscles. Now he’s able to catalog exactly what’s hurting, just as Mereel figures it out with a gasp.

“Beroya, you are bleeding. Your leg,” Mereel says, his tone mixing accusing and hurt together in a reprimanding tone. He’s beginning to gain Din’s trust, similar to Boba in ways that soothed him. This one was slightly upset that Din had lied, either purposely or not, and had hidden his wounds. 

“I told you I’d need a medic,” Din says not without humour.

“Let us go then. Do you mind if I carry your ad?”

Din’s lip curls for multiple reasons, insult being the main one, “My child weighs less than what you just took off me, Mereel.”

“If you stumble with that leg,” Jaster warns, letting Din paint the picture of him falling on his face, and Grogu. Din looks to his son, cocking his helmet in silent question. Grogu nods and with one quick leap, he’s scrambling up Mereel’s backside, using the nooks in his armour and belts as footholds to climb up to his shoulder. Din gives Mereel props for not flinching, only staying still so he doesn’t shake him off by accident. Once he’s up there, Mereel tilts his head towards the door, and Din only hesitates for a moment before walking. They didn’t tell the Goran they were leaving, but he supposed the man would be as upset as Mereel that he was bleeding in his Forge.

The verd stays beside him, arm out behind his back, but refraining from touching him. Din appreciates he’s letting him walk on his own all the way to the medic, even if it’s slow going despite how much easier it was to walk without his armour weighing him down. Still, his leg was throbbing and he could feel the wetness of blood causing his pant leg to stick to the back of his knee. It hurt to bend it, something sharp digging into his thigh if he bent too far, and Din had a horrible theory about what was causing it.

“Jas’vod!” A higher pitched voice calls in delight when they enter the med-bay, “Oh, you’ve brought a friend!”

Another Mando'ad in white and pink armour, a red handprint that matches the shade of Mereel’s highlighted visor sits on the back of their shoulder, and teal vambraces. Their personality is as colourful as their armour, Din can see it in how they bounce over.

“My sister, Vivienne,” Mereel says to Din, “This is…,” he trails off,  uncertain of how to introduce him.

“Din Djarin,” he finishes, sticking out a hand. She clasps his forearm in a strong grip despite her youth. She looks at Jaster’s shoulder and spots Grogu, her hands clasping together with a gasp.

“My, you are cute! Who are you, little one?”

Grogu looks at Din for permission, waiting until Din tips his head in a go-ahead manner, “Grogu Djarin.”

Din can tell she’s beaming under her helmet, “What brings you here?”

“He needs a medic, though he says it’s not serious,” Mereel answers, sounding like he doesn’t believe him. He takes a pointed look at the trail of blood Din’s left behind himself.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” she says as she leans down to tenderly lift Din’s pant leg to get a look. Din knows it is when he can feel the fabric catch and tug on his wound as she lifts it despite her gentleness, “You walked here on— Manda, you walked here with this?!” 

The young lady is gasping and tilting her buy'ce up to stare at him, Din trying not to shuffle in embarrassment. He can hear the same sound coming out of Mereel, a gurgle of shock as he leans down to get a better look at the rod sticking out the back of his leg. It wasn’t where it was puncturing out of his skin that hurt the most, it was where the rod ran down the bone. The injury that had fractured his tibia so bad he needed a nail and screws to support it was no longer there, healed by the ghost, but she did not take the rod with her too. It didn’t help his leg was a few inches shorter than it’d been when he’d gotten it.

“It’s not that bad. Cut the end, a few stitches, and I’ll deal with surgery later,” he said, nonchalant. He didn’t have time or money for them to cut open his leg and take it out. “I’d rather you start with prying these damn aids out of my ears so I can hear you proper.”

“Well, pop that buy'ce off and I’ll start there.”

Din doesn’t move, “You are certified? You are young; have you completed your training and sworn your Vows?”

She paused, and Din knew the answer in her uncertain body language. Still, it is another who speaks it aloud.

“No, verd, she has not. Why do you ask?” Another feminine voice cuts through the room, this one the voice of stern reason. Din bows his head immediately towards the higher-ranking medic, trying to dispel any insult.

“I do not doubt her skills. I am bound by Creed, baar'ur.”

“I see. You may go on break, Viv’ika, spend some time with your vod. I will comm you when we are done.”

Mereel turns to him, “Would you like your ad'ika to stay? I can show them around base, if you’d like.”

Din bristles, hands raising before he stops. They are in a Mando’ade base, like Din’s own Covert. Mereel hadn’t shown himself to be untrustworthy or dishonourable, and Din only hated the idea because of his own fears. Grogu hadn’t been out of his sight unless it was with one of his vode or Skywalker. To be was for him to be in danger. Not here though, and Din should show his own trust in the man by allowing it. He puts his hands down and looks to Grogu, letting him decide. The big pleading eyes is his answer.

“No wandering off,” he orders his son before looking at Mereel, “Guard him with your life or I’ll have yours.”

The man places a fist over his heart and dips his head, “Haat, ijaat, haa'it.”

Din nods, satisfied, and his plugged ears don’t catch Vivienne's muttering of ‘Serious, isn’t he?’ and Mereel’s responding ‘I quite like it’ on their way out. He does catch Grogu’s giggle and that eases the tension in his shoulders. 

“Now, what have you done to yourself?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Din mutters to what he thinks is himself, but he’s talking louder than he normally does when he can’t hear himself.  The medic catches it, puts their hands on their hips and stares him down.

“I’m Baar’ur’alor Visenya, she/her, verd. I caught your name when you came in, and I know how stubborn Djarin’s can be. Out with it.”

Din is surprised that they would know another Djarin, hasn’t met another one since he was adopted at the Clan’s ancestral home. He’s not surprised stubbornness is a familial trait; Grogu is afflicted with it just the same. Still, he doesn’t look forward to sounding insane, but he will give them the truth. As Head Medic, she had the first and final call in this med-bay, authority even over the alor within these walls. In his Tribe, the Head Medic, Alor, and Goran had all had the same standing. 

“It is more of what has been undone. A spirit… cursed me, reverted me back to my twenty year old body. It did not revert what I had done to my body in those twenty years.”

As he speaks, the baar'ur walks over to inspect his leg and the rod sticking out of it.

“Did you fall?” The medic asks, throwing Din off.

“I… yes,” Din answers, remembering how hard he had landed after he fell out of the wormhole. 

“It seems that is why it has shifted so far. You’re lucky it went backwards instead of forwards through your leg. What is this I hear about you denying surgery?”

“I do not have the means to pay you.”

“I will not accept payment for this, verd. You have a nail sticking out of your leg; that is as good as having the bone exposed. This needs to be taken out and you need to be on antibiotics.”

“I cannot afford that,” Din tries again, not understanding and wary of the hospitality. He was not of their Clan; they should not be wasting what little medical supplies they have on a stranger. 

“That means nothing to me. You have entered my med-bay; you will not leave until I have given you the care I’ve deemed suitable.”

Din bows his head, beaten into submission for the second time by an alor tonight. If he were to argue past this point, she’d beat him into surrender. Din knows better, and if he truly was the years he looked he might’ve pushed his luck.

“Jate. Let us start with your ears like you asked, and then we will deal with that.”

“Elek, alor,” Din agrees, following her to a private room and finally taking off the temporary helmet. The lights are bright, but they do not cause his head to throb like before. He still has to squint for half a minute, following Visenya mostly by sound as she leads him to a cot to sit. He also appreciates her letting him walk despite the state of his leg. She punches at her vambrace instead, the door lock engaging with a thunk.

“If anyone enters this room, they are also a certified baar'ur. They won’t have the clearance otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Din settles on the cot with a sigh.

She looks at a screen once he’s done moving, “One-hundred-twenty-four. You should weigh more, verd. How many meals do you have a day?”

He resists the urge to sigh more, just empty everything out of his lungs. It would make him lighter on the scale, for starters. He hated dealing with baar’ure; he could never get anything past them.

“Two, if I can.”

“Eat more. Are you living off of ration bars?”

“…”

“Hm. Your son?”

“Three meals, mostly protein with balanced nutrients. I track it,” in this Din is firm.

She comes closer to him and stops, hands now off her hips as she tilts her helmet down at him, crouching a bit as not to loom, “Are you without Clan support, verd? Can you not afford to eat?”

“I am a Provider, alor. The sole Provider of my Tribe, meaning what I eat, I take from them. Pickings are slim. I eat my allotment, and sometimes I give half to Grogu so he can have more to eat.”

He doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself, but he sounds defensive even to his own ears. The reprimand doesn’t come, only an understanding hum as she takes a closer look at his ears. 

“How long have you had these?”

“A year or so.”

Another hum, “Yes, they are definitely too big. It will be uncomfortable, me prying them out.”

“They are uncomfortable now, expanding my ear canal,” he says dryly, making them chuckle. They start rummaging for a tool before coming back to him, remaining in his field of vision the entire time. It was a thin, blunt instrument, not much wider than his pinky finger. Din scowled, upper lip pulling up involuntarily, but he remains still and doesn’t turn his head.

“There’s a good lad,” Visenya huffs, remaining in front of him. When she lifts her free hand, she doesn’t grab his jaw to keep him steady like his grumpy baar'ur at home would. She only keeps her hand flat and hovering in front his cheek, and it only takes Din a moment to understand. He presses his face into her hand, keeping his head steady as her other hand raised. It’s not painful, like a light scrape compared to throbbing in his ear. She has to wiggle it around a bit before she gets enough room behind to work it out, and that’s the worst of the annoyance. Once she pops it out, he actually moans in relief. She huffs another laugh, pulling back and going to the other side, repeating the same motions while she works on the other one. 

When it’s finally done, Din can’t help but stick fingers in both of his ears and rub them viciously, groaning as he does it. He shakes his head when he’s done, hair that he forgot was so long in his youth dangling in his eyes.

“Better, verd?”

“Much. Thank you,” Din says softly, meaning it.

“Ah, you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” Din smiles, but doesn’t respond, “Do you have any other implants like this and your leg?”

“No.”

“Alright. Do you trust me enough to lay on your front so I can inspect it properly? Then get you hooked up to some drugs?”

“I won’t need anesthesia. Just pass me my belt.”

“What life have you been living? Lay down verd, I’m numbing your whole leg before I cut into you.”

“I won’t be able to walk if you numb me. I’ll lay still; I did when they put it in,” Din grumbles as he does as he’s told and lays on his stomach on the cot. 

He can feel her staring at him, the incredulousness of her gaze not hidden by her visor, “You will not be walking on it all until I say so.”

Din promises nothing, and Visenya sighs, “How about a painkiller, and if you promise not to kick me, I won’t bring in another medic?”

“Agreeable, if it’s a local painkiller.”

“It won’t last as long.”

“That’s not an issue.”

“Agreeable, as long as you promise to also take your antibiotics. And come back for a check-up.”

“…Deal.”

“Deal.”

She doesn’t sound pleased, but neither does Din, and that’s a win in Mandalorian debates. He feels her stab him with a painkiller hypo in his calve, one by his knee and the other by his ankle. After that, he can only feel her washing and sanitizing his leg, the motion of her cutting his pants at the knee. Any and all pain, from moving or lying still, can’t be felt. She gives it a few more minutes for the PK to spread, before announcing to him that she was going to start. Din gives her a nod, then presses his forehead hard into the cot, fingers reaching for the sharp edges of the bed frame and curling them around it until he was focused on the sharp pain of it digging into his fingers. He’d done this once before with another medic and vode holding him down; he knew what to expect and didn’t need them this time.

Din doesn’t feel the initial sting of the blade cutting into his skin, the long slice following the bone. It isn’t until she reaches the muscles, and then the deeper muscles closer to the bone and nail that Din feels it. He grits his teeth, tightening  his hold on the bed frame, and along with his forehead, presses his entire body into the bed. His upper body is shaking from the effort of keeping his lower half completely still; sweat running down his face from restraining the impulse to lash out and get away from the medic cutting into him deep all the way up into the sensitive backside of his kneecap. 

He doesn’t make a sound despite it. Din hardly even twitches, keeps his promise to not hit her by accident, and focuses on breathing and the self inflicted pain he’s feeling in his hands. It doesn’t help him when she starts digging out the horizontal screws designed to keep the nail in place. There are two near his ankle and three at the top near the kneecap, and he listens to the pounding heartbeat in his ears instead of the sound and feeling of her unscrewing them. The only thankful thing about the whole ordeal was that due to the shift of his limbs, they no longer screwed into bone. He doubts she would have started if the X-Ray she no doubt did on her buy'ce showed them going through anything important.

“Alright, it’s coming out, Din,” Visenya warns. Din doesn’t bother responding, the meds she gave him long worn off as he keeps his body taut, but trying not to tense his leg. It makes a disgusting squelch as she removes it, Din feeling it come through the sliver of flesh she’s carved into him. Once it’s out and she begins working on the internal stitches, then closing him up, Din’s last strength is fading to remain still.

“Done,” she says, and Din lets out a large gust of air, slumping into the cot. He writhes for a minute, trying to ride out the pain before falling still and trying to breathe normally. 

“I can’t give you any more local PKs, Din. Are you sure you—?”

“No,” Din rasps, “They make me drowsy.”

“You have a high pain tolerance, Din. You’ve been through a lot to have endured that so well.”

“I had it done once with less.” More vode holding him down and a belt to bite on, but nothing otherwise. They hadn’t been sure he’d even survive the surgery with how little blood-transfusions they had.

“Manda. Your Tribe was in a tough place. Let me put a bacta patch on this. You will use the crutches I supply you, and you will replace the bacta bandage every twelve hours. You will not pay for these things. Also, I will know if you walk on it.”

“Yes, baar'ur,” Din agrees easily, relishing in the coolness of the wet cloth she is using to wipe his leg clean of blood. The skin around it feels hot and it allows him to relax at the heat being soothed. The bacta patch is just as nice.

“Up now. I will wrap it so it doesn’t catch on your clothes.”

Din does as he’s told, lets her supply him with a fitting, new kute without bargaining. Using the crutches would be slightly humiliating in a strange place, but it was better than hanging off Mereel’s shoulder. When the medic comes back around after washing her hands, she’s speaking on a call. 

“We’re finishing up, you can head back now, Viv'ika. He’s fine— Oh, verd, you bit your lip. Not a sound out of you; now I know why. Ret', Vivienne, we’ll talk later.” 

Din, embarrassed, sits there while she wipes the blood from his chin. He’s feeling much better by the time the others arrive, the pain not as bad as when he walked in. Grogu runs up to him, his legs moving him much quicker than before. Din can tell he’s preparing to jump on him, so Din braces himself, but his son skids to stop at the last second, latching gently onto his uninjured leg. He looks up at him, Din staring down with warmth in his chest. Maybe the ghost had gifted him something more, the ability to hear his son’s love. It was  strange with once believing he would never hear it, not living long enough to do so, but here it is.

“… Can I make it better, buir?”

“No, buddy. It’s not that bad.”

“He had a damn intramedullary rod sticking out of his leg,” Vivienne whispered to her vod, “That is bad.”

“You had the surgery? And you’re upright?” Mereel asked, surprised. Din shrugged.

“He refused anaesthesia and took only local analgesic. He shouldn’t be,” Visenya mutters. She reads Mereel’s worried body language, “I’ve given him permission to leave. If you stay with him, make sure he changes his bacta patch twice a day, and stays on the crutches. Come back when you run out, verd.”

“Yes, alor,” they both say at the same time.

“Nice meeting you, beroya!” Vivienne says, waving with excitement. He wonders what her vod had told her to treat him like that. Either way, he dips his head respectfully to her and lets Grogu sit back on Mereel’s shoulder as they head back to the Forge for measurement taking.

He thinks maybe he’s beginning to trust him and his judgement in people, just a little bit.