Never in a million years, in a million lifetimes, would he have expected to be where he was now: standing on top of a sloping hill on a planet he had never seen until a few weeks ago, mourning the passing of a woman who until recently held nothing but white-hot hatred and animosity toward him, and torn between retreating to a familiar existence and stepping out into the unknown of the future. All because of an ancient sword that seemed to always make its way back into his hands.
"The Darksaber… it's… yours, Din." The memory of Bo-Katan Kyrze's voice, weak and crackly from the death strike to her heart and lungs, raced to the forefront of his mind. "It was… always… meant to be." Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth as crimson bloomed rapidly and unhindered across her flight suit, soaking her entire left side. She wheezed in a labored breath. "Lead them. Finish… the fight." The admonition barely made it past her lips before the hand gripped around his went slack, and the light slowly draining from her eyes finally flickered out. All around them fires remaining from the light cruiser's all-consuming plunge into the underground fortress raged on, and the temperature regulators in his beskar'gam were struggling to compensate. Cracks spiderwebbed across the duracrete floor, threatening to cave any moment and plunge him to his own death. He barely registered gentle pats through the thick leather of his boot, and he turned to find Grogu staring up at him, ears drooped and eyes wide in a combination of sadness and warning. They had to leave- and fast. He was exhausted to the marrow of his bones but somehow he found the strength to heft Bo-Katan's body into his arms before hurrying back through the maze of corridors.
And now he stood at attention over her grave, observing from a distance as the rest of the Nite Owls laid their leader to rest. A figure stood from her crouched position beside the freshly-turned earth and rejoined the other score of warriors as two men stepped forward to cover the casket. They made quick work of the task, then as one they snapped to attention- Din included. He and Bo-Katan may have had their differences, but he counted her as not only a comrade but a friend, and he would show her the honor she deserved as her soul joined the Manda.
Cuyir suum ca'nara, Mando'ad.
A cry of Oya, alor'ad! , filled with resolution yet also edged in grief, burst from the group and echoed across the rolling green hills of Kalevala. It rang in his ears as he turned on his heel and trudged back to his ship, a strange heaviness anchoring in his heart. How many times had those words come from his own lips, both in life and death, during his time in the Fighting Corps, before the Purge?
A parade of faces came unbidden to his mind, of family and neighbors from Aq Vetina who had fallen in the Separatist attack of his childhood as well as everyone he lost in the Purge- including the man who had rescued him from that first maelstrom and later became his second father. It was the duty of every good Mandalorian to remember those who had departed to the Oversoul, but memories still hurt. Attachments hurt. Bonds of love, family, and brotherhood left scars when they were mercilessly shattered.
But life without them was even more empty. Not having something, someone, to fight for was a fate worse than death. Maybe that was why he had dived so completely into a bounty hunter's life when it became clear a small number of them would have to risk exposure outside the sewers of Nevarro to obtain the credits necessary for their survival. He needed purpose to fill the void of loss, and so he jumped at the opportunity when it came, even if it meant risking his own neck every time he stepped into daylight, pursuing another target that meant food in the little ones' bellies and supplies to keep their mechanics running.
Until the target he pursued became the thing he risked everything for, the someone that he fought for with every ounce of strength in his body.
We do not fight because we hate what is in front of us. We fight because we love who is behind- and beside- us. The deep, ponderous voice of Eitan Moresh, his adoptive Mandalorian buir, whispered from the depth of his memory. There was no doubt that Din had raised a blaster in hatred far too often, but now that he was a father himself he understood a little better what Eitan meant: hatred was poison to the soul, and fighting for the sake of anger or revenge always ended in destruction- and not just for your enemy. Fighting for the love of another might still end in death, but it was never self-serving; instead, it was the purest act of devotion toward those you spent a lifetime protecting.
A low rumble of thunder met his ears, distracting him from his thoughts, and he looked up just in time for a fat raindrop to fall with a plink right in the middle of his visor. Rain came fast and hard on Kalevala, so he picked up his pace, reaching his ship and climbing inside just before the full deluge began. Seconds later he fired the engines and lifted off, turning the nose of his N-1 back toward the ruined shell of Mandalore.
Nearly an hour passed by the time the starfighter finally descended on the barren, rocky surface of the planet, not far from the tent Din shared with Grogu. Paz, who had agreed to watch Grogu while Din attended the burial, stepped out the moment the landing gear touched down, raising a hand in acknowldgement before lumbering away. Typical Paz- it seemed not even becoming a father himself has changed his brusque ways. As the transparisteel cockpit cover slid back and he climbed out, a second ship flew slowly overhead then landed on the far side of the encampment among a handful of other craft. The Nite Owls had returned. A weariness he rarely felt settled on him like a heavy blanket; even the adorable chirrups of delight from his son when he swept aside the curtain covering the doorway of the tent and ducked inside failed to rally his spirits.
He dropped heavily onto the packed earth floor of the tent, his back against the center post. It took only seconds for a familiar weight to settle itself on his lap, and with an exhausted half-smile he slipped off one glove and reached up to smooth a finger over the fuzzy crown of hair atop Grogu's head. His body still ached all over from the beating he had taken from Gideon and his troopers, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional and mental fatigue that left him feeling utterly drained. A year later and he was once again staring down the daunting responsibility of leadership over an entire civilization of people- broken and divided as it was.
He unclipped the Darksaber from his belt and held it in his hand for a long moment, measuring the balance of the weapon for the hundredth time and considering the weight of history it carried with it. He never wanted it- and everything it represented- in the first place; taking it from Gideon had meant nothing more than a sign of triumph over the monster who had stolen and repeatedly tortured Grogu, the victory of the protective love of a father-albeit a surrogate one- over pride and greed. But even he wasn't foolish enough to deny that something greater was at play when it returned to his possession during the conflict in the Imp's hidden fortress.
Though the blade remained sheathed in its beskar housing, he could almost feel the hilt shuddering in his grasp. Hadn't the Armorer told him that it responded to the emotions of its wielder? Could it somehow sense his inner struggle as he wrestled with the ramifications of choosing to accept the mantle of Mand'alor ? He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind, digging deep for any shred of peace that he could find inside himself but eventually coming up empty- except for the mental image of a tiny village, ringed by krill ponds and surrounded by lush, verdant forest. Nearly three years had passed since their brief stay on Sorgan, but the memory of those days still burned bright in his mind. It might have been the complete opposite of his birthworld in appearance, but it still held the same sort of tranquil simplicity that he remembered from Aq Vetina. It had been a hard decision to leave back then; even after another bounty hunter had almost taken a shot at Grogu, it felt like he was leaving a fragment of his heart behind when they departed the village. Even harder was the handful of times they had flown through the sector since and refusing to give in to the desire to stop for a visit, because deep inside he knew if they did he wouldn't be able to bring himself to walk away again.
But maybe returning was just what he needed right now to clear his mind and make a decision about the future- away from conflict and the constant hyper-vigilance that came with their occupation of Mandalore. It would require delegating responsibilities to the different leaders of the respective groups in the camp- the Armorer and Paz, Axe and Koska, and the leaders of the survivors- to maintain order while he was away, but he had full confidence in their abilities. The different factions seemed to have reached a sort of understanding with each other and had been working peacefully together for a few days, but the true test of their willingness to live as a united people still lay ahead. But that was a concern for another day.
He returned the Darksaber to his belt and wrapped his hands around Grogu, bending his legs and balancing the child on his knees to bring him to eye level. "What do you say, kid? You wanna go visit some old friends?"
A delighted squeal and waggle of the ears was his answer.