The covert's latest location, a remote planet in the Outer Rim, was only a few hours from Tatooine. The journey was quiet and uneventful, leaving Din to his thoughts, interrupted only by the occasional babble from Grogu in the droid compartment behind him. Din leaned back and watched the stars rush by, ignoring the pit in his stomach as they traveled further and further from Tatooine.

I'm coming back. He reminded himself firmly. I want to come back.

Despite the chaos of the past few weeks, despite the long days out in the desert, Din had liked working on Tatooine. He'd liked working for Boba, helping Boba defend Mos Espa, hunting Bane together in the desert. Din rarely worked with others as a solitary bounty hunter, rarely took jobs with other hunters. There were too many unknowns - every hunter in the group jockeying for power, for a better cut of the bounty, and the chance of betrayal was high. Whenever possible, Din worked alone. It was better that way. Safer.

But - it had been good, working with Boba. Not only because of the spark between them, that electricity Din felt at Boba's touch. The arousal hot in Din's stomach whenever Boba was near, the bone-deep longing for something he could never have.

It's not just that. Din thought, blushing behind his helmet. It wasn't just his attraction for Boba that made it pleasant to work together.

It was also - working alongside Boba, sharing a meal around a Tusken campfire, playful jokes and banter, sharing the burden of a job as well as its reward. Boba had won Jabba's palace, the surrounding lands, the title of Daimyo, but he had not begrudged Din an equal share of the wealth that lay in the vaults beneath the palace, had offered Din gear, a room of his own, a place at Boba's side.

I want that. Din thought, watching stars streak past the viewport. He wanted it so badly his chest ached. I may not have my people anymore, but I can have that.

He didn't know how he would be received upon arriving at the covert, but it was unlikely to be as friendly as the goodbyes he and Boba had exchanged. Paz and the armorer would have told the others by now that Din had removed his helmet, and Din would be viewed with suspicion as an outsider. His brothers and sisters would not care why he had broken the Creed, only that he had done so in the first place.

But still. Maybe I can make them understand. Din thought, curling his trembling fingers into fists. Maybe they'll take me back.

Din was used to being alone, used to traveling the galaxy in search of work to feed the covert, only returning to the tribe between jobs. He was used to long nights alone in the Razor Crest, sleeping a few hours here and there in hyperspace. As the tribe's hunter, he was used to being away from the covert for months at a time, in a way that many of the tribe were not. The others rarely left the safety of the covert, keeping to the tunnels of Nevarro, the caves of Dantooine, never striking out on their own. Din was used to a solitary life in space, among the stars, but even he returned to the covert with credits in hand, with food, with little gifts for the foundlings. Even he would stay for a week or so among the tribe, let one of the others patch him up, give a dented chest plate or pauldron to the armorer and watch as she reforged it, play with Paz's son and tell him stories of the wider galaxy. He was used to being alone, but he had always had the tribe to come back to, had always had a home with his brothers and sisters. Now he was an outcast, cut off from his people. They would not welcome his return this time.

The thought made his chest ache, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Patu?" Grogu asked, worming his way underneath the small divider that separated the droid compartment from the main cockpit. He held up his arms and cooed, sensing Din's distress, his tangled emotions. Din smiled and picked him up, cuddling the child close on his lap.

"I'm okay." He murmured, letting Grogu wrap one of his little claws around Din's thumb.

"Ah." Grogu insisted, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"All right, I'm not okay." Din admitted, stroking the top of Grogu's head soothingly. "But there's no danger. I promise."

Grogu settled back against Din's chest, visibly relieved that they weren't about to be shot at or blown out of the sky. They sat in silence together, the minutes ticking by as they watched the stars streaking past the viewport.

Finally, the console beeped loudly, announcing their arrival to the planet's atmosphere, the ship shuddering a little as it came out of hyperspace. Din steered the ship down to the planet's surface, aiming for the covert's last known coordinates.

He made sure to land a discreet distance away from the cave, not so close that the covert would immediately raise the alarm but far enough from the edge of the beach that none of the planet's various creatures could emerge from the water and destroy his ship.

Din flicked several switches on the dashboard, his fingers trembling with anxiety. The ship powered off with a soft hum, and Din hit the button to open the cockpit.

"Ah?" Grogu asked, turning to look up at Din from his place on Din's lap.

"It's okay, kid." Din reassured him, stroking one of Grogu's ears gently.

He took a deep breath and climbed out of the ship, Grogu tucked into the crook of his elbow, the darksaber on his hip.

He spotted the cave a few feet away, its entrance seemingly unguarded. Din knew better than to think it abandoned, however. He cleared his throat and stopped just in front of the cave, shifting Grogu in his arms.

"Hello?" He called, projecting his voice so that it could be heard inside the cave. "It is I, Din Djarin."

The silence stretched for several long moments, the only sound the whistling of the wind.

Din cleared his throat again. "I have come to see the covert."

At that, there was a slight rustling within the cave, and a large Mandalorian in blue armor emerged from the entrance, his large blaster trained on Din.

"You are no longer welcome here, Din Djarin." He said, his voice a low growl. "You are an apostate."

"Hello, Paz." Din said evenly, ignoring the stab of pain in his chest at the hostile greeting.

"Leave. You are not welcome here." Paz repeated.

"I - I have come to see the armorer." Din said, stroking one of Grogu's ears to calm his racing heart. The kid curled closer to his chest, squeaking nervously.

Paz continued to stare at him blankly, his helmet tilted in irritation. Din cleared his throat, trying to steady his nerves. "I have come to make amends."

Paz snorted derisively. "She will not see you. Go away, Djarin."

"I know - I know I broke the Creed." Din said. Shame pooled in his stomach, clawing at his ribs. His heart hammered in his chest, anxiety making his limbs tremble. Sweat dripped down his neck, down his flight suit, making his back itch fiercely. "But I had to, Paz. I had to."

"She will not see you." Paz insisted, raising his blaster a little higher.

"Paz. It was for my son." Din said pleadingly, tightening his grip on Grogu. The kid squeaked softly, but otherwise didn't protest. "You have a child. Would you not give up your life, your soul, for him?"

"Don't bring my son into this. I would never dishonor him the way you have dishonored your foundling." Paz growled, taking a step towards Din. "Leave, and don't return."

"Not until I have spoken with the armorer." Din insisted, gripping the hilt of the darksaber with his free hand. "I know that what I have done is - I know there's no going back. You don't have to tell me that, Paz. I know."

"Good. Then leave."

"Not until I speak with her." Din repeated, gripping the darksaber tighter in his fist. "There - there must be some way I can atone. She will know."

It's not his fault. He reminded himself. He's only repeating what we were taught to believe, what I believed.

He took a deep breath and let go of the darksaber. "Let me in, Paz. I'm not leaving until you do."

Paz stared at him, his visor cold and impassive. For the first time in years, Din wondered what he looked like under his helmet, wondered what it would be to see his face, to be able to read his expression.

He and Paz had been foundlings together, terrified children clinging to each other in the covert nursery, crying quietly. Din had been seven years old, clinging to the only source of comfort he had since the death of his parents, the destruction of his village. He and Paz were close, back then. Paz had been found before him, but they had been put in the same age group. They wore no helmets then, back when they were foundlings new to the covert. Paz had brown curls as a child, round cheeks, freckles. His hair had tickled Din's nose as they lay huddled together in Din's bed, arms wrapped around each other. He'd gotten sunburned easily, Din remembered. In their first months among the tribe, on some hot, humid planet that had any number of terrifying animals that bit and stung every inch of Din's exposed flesh, Paz had gotten a sunburn so severe that one of the elders had slathered his face and hands with bacta and assigned him the inside chores. The other foundlings had teased them both, Paz for his shiny, red skin and Din for the angry bites that littered his arms and legs.

Paz had cried into Din's neck almost every night in the beginning, whimpering every time Din's toes or his arms brushed against Paz's sunburned skin but unwilling to give up the comfort they both desperately needed.

He'd seen Paz's face then, like Paz had seen his, until they were baptized and swore the Creed, foundlings no longer.

Din remembered the cool water lapping at his ankles as he stood in the lake alongside Paz and the other foundlings their age, standing solemnly before the armorer as she held his new helmet in her hands, the beskar shining in the sun. An insect bit his neck, and he tried not to flinch, determined not to appear weak in front of the other foundlings. He remembered having to shout as he repeated the armorer's words, the sound of a nearby waterfall almost drowning out the foundlings' voices. He remembered the hot sun on his face as he repeated the words that would change his life forever.

I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors that I shall walk the way of the Mandalore, and the words of the Creed shall be forever forged in my heart. This is the way.

As apprentices, ailments such as sunburns and insect bites became the silly troubles of untested foundlings, of those too young and immature to swear the Creed. Slowly, all those other expressions of affection, of closeness, became immature, for scared foundlings but not apprentices. The comfort of cuddling at night, of holding hands as they slept, of casual hugs and shoulder pats, it all became a childish display of affection they could no longer indulge in.

When did we make ourselves stop loving each other? Din wondered, pain constricting in his chest. When did we start believing that showing affection, any affection at all, was wrong?

The Creed dictated that a warrior wore a helmet in front of all living beings, and the tribe's unspoken culture dictated that intimacy, that sharing touch and comfort, was acceptable only with a spouse or a child. What had been permissible as foundlings, children who were not yet held to the Creed's mandates, was suddenly frowned upon, and Din and Paz, new apprentices desperate for the armorer's approval, took that culture to heart.

We were just kids. Din thought, his chest aching. All we wanted was to be accepted.

Din would have given anything, as a new foundling, to have his parents back, his home, and as a result he ached for family, for belonging. Paz and the other foundlings had been no different. They had sworn the Creed, had zealously devoted themselves to the culture of their new home, desperate to fit in.

He hadn't thought about Paz's face in years. It wasn't important what one looked like, in the covert. The quality and care of one's armor, contribution to the covert, adherence to the Creed - these were what that the tribe valued, morals the armorer had taught Din and the other foundlings as children.

But - he's my brother. I want to see his face. Din thought, grief aching in his chest.

The thought felt overwhelming, blasphemous. It went against everything that Din had been taught, every belief he had ever held. Showing one's face was to be lost, to be an outcast cut off from the covert. A dishonored warrior, to be distrusted and shunned. Din wasn't supposed to question the Creed, wasn't supposed to long to see the face of a brother or sister.

But - but I want to see his face.

"Let me in." Din repeated.

"I -" Paz began, his voice a low growl.

"Din Djarin." The armorer's voice echoed across the clearing as she appeared beside Paz. The sight of her standing there, armor glinting in the sun, fur cape rustling in the wind, made Din want to throw himself to her feet and beg for absolution, to cry into her shoulder like a lost child. He fought the urge to sink to his knees and confess to every doubt and failure, every blasphemous thought. He felt like an upset foundling, desperate for guidance and comfort, longing for the familiarity of kneeling beside the forge as she worked, her presence as steady and reassuring as beskar. He swallowed, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, and stood taller, determined to show no weakness, no sign that he was a faithless apostate.

Din inclined his head respectfully, his heart hammering in his chest. He curled his free hand into a fist and pressed it to his heart, greeting her as if he was still a son of the tribe, a beloved warrior returning home.

If she was bothered by the familiarity of his greeting her as if he was still a member of the covert, she didn't show it.

"Why have you come here?" The armorer asked, tilting her head as she took in Din's appearance, his scuffed armor, the darksaber at his hip, the child in his arms.

"I have come to seek redemption." He said, shifting Grogu in his arms. The child looked up at him and cooed softly, laying a claw on Din's arm. Din was grateful for the comfort. Nerves twisted in his stomach, his heart kicking anxiously.

The armorer said nothing, studying him wordlessly. Din tried to ignore the scrutiny he felt at her gaze, every nerve on edge. Paz shifted awkwardly beside her.

"Come with me." She said finally, turning and taking several brisk strides towards the cave entrance.

"You can't be serious." Paz protested, staring at her retreating back. "He is an apostate!"

"Yes." The armorer did not turn around, but stopped at the mouth of the cave. "Come, Din Djarin."

Din followed her into the cave, his mouth dry. His hands trembled, sweat dripping down the neck of his flight suit. Grogu made a concerned noise, trembling in Din's arms.

"Shh." Din murmured, petting Grogu's ear gently. "It's all right."

"Ah?" Grogu looked up at him with wide eyes.

"It's all right." Din repeated, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Other members of the covert emerged as the armorer led him deeper into the tunnels, watching him silently. In a tribe as small as theirs, almost every helmet was one that Din recognized.

Tula, her beskar painted a bright purple, the flight suit beneath it just as tattered as ever. Her brother Alin in his heavy plate armor, the same armor Din had helped him clean a hundred times, amicably trading stories and jokes after Din returned with credits for the tribe.

Oskar, Saira, Bez, Wira, holding spears, beskar knives, stiff and hostile. No longer the pack of foundlings he and Paz had grown up with, had sparred with, had rolled around with in the sexual experiments of their youth. They stared at him as he passed, every muscle on alert, as if expecting him to attack at any moment.

Vik, his bronze armor the same color as his mother's, leaning silently against the wall, a beskar hammer in one hand and a vibroblade in the other. Din felt a flicker of that old attraction, his body remembering Vik pushing him against the wall, his hands on Din's cock, his helmet pressed to Din's. Cold beskar pressing into Din's forehead, the stone wall digging into his shoulders.

Din pushed aside the memory and walked on, shifting Grogu in his arms. The child looked around with wide eyes, clinging to Din's forearm, his ears twitching nervously. Din made what he hoped was a reassuring noise, following the armorer deeper into the cave as more and more of the covert silently emerged from various tunnels.

A group of teenage apprentices, dressed in makeshift armor painted a variety of clashing colors, watched Din suspiciously. Din recognized most of them as children who had been brought into the tribe as foundlings. Freya, who used to delight in using Din as a makeshift climbing tree, clambering up to sit on his shoulders. Little Aia, who used to run up to him and throw her arms around his waist each time he returned from a job, pressing her little face into his armor. Ian, who begged Din for stories with wild, dangerous animals, the more teeth and claws the better. Yura and Sam, who refused to speak to anyone but each other for months after they were both brought to the covert, who clung to Din each time he returned to the tribe, refusing to let him go until he agreed to take them fishing.

Those sweet little foundlings had been replaced by wary apprentices, their expressions studiously hidden behind their beskar.

A little ways away from the apprentices stood Ban, his blue helmet facing the ground, the set of his shoulders betraying his anger. His wife Desh, in battered gold beskar, stood resolutely at his side. Their son, too young to have sworn the Creed, looked up at Din with wide eyes, half hiding behind his father.

Paz's son, Ragnar, glaring up at his favorite uncle, his new helmet shining in the torchlight. He crossed his arms and puffed out his chest, with all the false bravado and barely hidden fear of an apprentice newly sworn to the Creed. Just as Din would have done at his age, when faced with an outsider. A nonbeliever.

Grogu made an angry sound, his ears flattening. Din squeezed him tightly, his heart racing.

"Shh." He murmured, trying not to look at the others as the armorer led him down the tunnels towards the forge. "Everything's fine, kid."

"Ah!" Grogu insisted, glaring at Ragnar. Paz's son glared resolutely back, the force of his angry gaze tangible despite the layers of beskar between them.

"Calm down." Din said quietly, stroking one of Grogu's ears soothingly. "They won't hurt me."

I think.

"Patu." Grogu said grumpily, sinking back against Din's chest, his little eyes fixed on Ragnar. He curled a little claw around Din's thumb, digging tiny pin pricks of pain into Din's hand.

They reached the entrance of the forge, and Din followed the armorer inside. He heard the others disperse, their footsteps echoing loudly in the stone tunnels. Even Paz did not follow them into the forge, despite his initial protests. This was the armorer's domain, and everyone in the tribe knew it.

Din swallowed, nerves writhing in his stomach.

"So." The armorer said, turning to face him. They stood across from each other in the middle of the forge, the dormant firepit between them. Piles of beskar armor were stacked tidily on the shelves, battered thigh plates and pauldrons, bent chest plates and cracked helmets. The armorer's tools were arranged neatly on a shelf beside the forge, the various hammers and ladles discolored with time and use. Torches flickered on the walls, illuminating the bronze beskar of the armorer's helmet.

It was all so familiar, this forge virtually the same as every other forge the armorer had presided over on various planets. It looked the same as the forge on Jakku, where Din had stumbled into the room as a teenager, bleeding profusely, his durasteel armor dented from a bad fall. It was nearly the same as the forge on Dantooine, where Din had stood for hours, distraught and hurt after his relationship with Vik ended, watching as she fixed one of his shin guards and pouring his heart out as she listened patiently.

The forge had always been a place of sanctuary, of safety, where Din could go for advice, for reassurance, for help. Now, it was a place of confrontation.

He cleared his throat. "I - I have come to make amends."

The armorer was silent, her gaze steady.

"I broke the Creed." Din said, trying to keep his voice steady. "And I have come to seek redemption."

The armorer sighed, the sound echoing against the stone walls. "You have removed your helmet. You are no longer a Mandalorian. This is the way."

"I can atone." Din insisted. His hands shook violently. "I can - there must be some way to redeem myself, to swear the Creed again."

"There is not." The armorer replied, her voice heavy with regret, with grief. "You are an apostate. You will no longer be welcome among the covert. I am sorry, Din Djarin."

Din shook his head, desperation clawing at his ribs. "Please." He said, his eyes stinging with tears. "I had to break the Creed, I had to save my foundling. My son. I had no choice."

"There is always a choice."

"I can atone." Din begged, his vision blurring. "I can - the legends speak of a place, on - on Mandalore."

"You speak of the Living Waters." The armorer said.

"Yes. I can - if I were to bathe in the Living Waters, by Creed I would be redeemed."

The armorer sighed. "Mandalore is poisoned. The Living Waters no longer exist. Redemption is not possible."

"Please." Din clutched Grogu closer to his chest. "I'll do anything."

The armorer shook her head. "You must leave, Din Djarin. You are no longer one of us."

Din closed his eyes, hot tears spilling onto his cheeks. His chest ached with grief, his lungs burning as he inhaled a shallow breath through his teeth.

It's over. He thought distantly. They'll never take me back.

"I am truly sorry." The armorer said softly. No doubt she could see the shaking of his shoulders, his tight grip on Grogu.

The pain in her voice almost hurt more than her rejection. Din took a shaky breath and opened his eyes. "I will find the Living Waters." He said hoarsely. "I will be redeemed."

The armorer inclined her head but said nothing.

"I will." He repeated, his voice trembling. He turned to go, suddenly unable to look at her.

"Goodbye, my son." The armorer said quietly.

Din did not reply, walking out of the forge with his head held high.