pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C
word count: 6.8K
chapter summary: Grogu teaches Din a game, Din requires privacy, and the Armorer has words with Din.
warnings: angst, sexual situations, male masturbation and fantasizing, mention of suicide ideation, stomach illness, Mando'a and English cursing
***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***
Din appropriated his jetpack back from Boba so he and Grogu would not have to ride the rattletrap speeder back to Peli's. Boba was satisfied that Din had recovered enough from his concussion that he was no longer a menace to the skies. He touched down in Peli's yard without stumbling — for once – and walked alongside his old ship, the Crest, trailing a hand along the fuselage. A pit droid crossed his path and he fought the urge to kick it sideways. The pit droid, already knowledgeable of the opinion of the irascible Mandalorian, skittered away quickly.
"Well, if it isn't Mando and my favorite little tadpole!" Peli was walking towards him, shielding her eyes from the rising twin suns. Grogu cooed at the bushy-headed woman. "Going somewhere?" she asked.
"Heading to Nevarro for a couple days."
"Your lady friend doing better?" Din did not answer, but set the side ramp of the Crest to open. "Well, does she have a name at least?"
Before Din could answer, Grogu piped up, shouting, "Mahr! Mahr! Mahr!"
Peli grinned. "So Mahr is the lady friend, huh?"
"Patu Mahr!" Grogu squealed.
Din blushed under his helmet. "She's not my … lady fr ..."
"Mahr Patu!"
"Dank ferrik, Grogu …"
Peli laughed. "Well, Little Bug has an opinion on that, it seems. Go on, get outta here; the sooner you leave, the sooner you get back to your Mahr."
"It's … ah … Marathel. Her name is Marathel," Din stammered before he rushed up the ramp with Grogu.
Peli stepped back out of range and watched the ship take off and head out into the atmosphere. She chuckled, and said to herself, "Not my lady friend, my fat ass."
Din got the Crest off Tatooine without out a hitch; his muscle memory and smooth handling was back under control. As he was setting coordinates for Nevarro, he looked over his shoulder at Grogu, sitting in the aft chair with a smug look on his little wrinkled face. Din sighed. "Seriously? Patu Mahr?" Grogu squealed with glee. Din shook his head and turned back to the console. Not that the idea of Patu Mahr was a bad one, but … how could that even work? He — and now Grogu by extension — flew all over the damn galaxy, and Marathel could only thrive outdoors in the sunshine and fresh air. Even having a closed door frightened her. Locking her up in a metal box in the vacuum of space? Impossible.
She's not even well yet, you osi'kovid. And you're also assuming she will have anything to do with you, considering what's been done to her.
He had to admire her, though; she'd managed to survive, even with all the odds stacked against her. The medical practices the rest of the galaxy used had little to no effect on her, yet she still lived. Although … he'd heard her tell Fennec that she didn't want to.
Would you want to, after what she endured?
But she went in willingly, knowing fully what she faced.
And you know what that means … She was prepared to die before she walked through that gate. She's wanted to die possibly for longer than you've known her.
Now that made Din pause. He knew he walked a fine line between life and death most days and had mentally prepared for his end since before he took the helmet. He'd stood beside his brothers and sisters, pledging to die alongside them with honor when that moment came. The very notion of being so far down in mental misery that death was preferable to living was beyond his comprehension. He thought back to what she'd told Grogu — he could hear perfectly what she'd told him; his helmet was excessively useful when it worked.
She told Grogu to grow up to be kind. And to take care of me, for I needed Grogu more than he needed me.
Din watched the striations of the stars in hyperspace. He thought back to when she and Grogu were digging out clams. Day Six. It had started out terribly with the nightmares and simply got worse.
'I will be nowhere.'
Din realized with a start that she didn't mean the planet Unmanarall, the Oldtalk word for Nowhere. She meant gone from this existence.
She told Fennec that she would rather live as a Belwhyn for one day and die, than live as a Whyn.
Haar'chak, what do those words mean?
Din sighed. He could hear Grogu climbing down from the aft chair with a little grunt. Out of the corner of his visor he saw two little hands reaching up towards the console. Without looking, Din dropped the throttle knob into Grogu's waiting hands, and followed it up with one of the better ration bars. Grogu pouted — he was already missing Marathel's cooking just as much as Din — but he took the bar anyway, and hefted himself back into the aft chair, munching away as he looked out the view screen. Din put his feet up on the console, relaxed, happy to be back in space. Din's sleep schedule — such as it was — was still off, and since he was still recovering from his concussions, he nodded off quite quickly. Almost immediately, he began to dream. And of course, he dreamed of Marathel.
It was just a gentle dream of her, sitting still, outside somewhere, the sun illuminating her from behind, and her hair was caught in the wind, billowing across her face, obscuring her features. Her eyes would slowly shift up to look at him, but right before their eyes would lock on each other, her position would change, as if her image was on a stuttering holo-disk message, and her eyes would be far away again. Her face looked serene early in his dream, but looked more and more distressed as the dream went on. The last image he caught of her, she was hunched over as she sat, her arms crossed over her chest, her hands clutching her shoulders, her knees tightly held together. Her head raised up to look at him, and he could see tears on her cheeks, but the image stuttered again, and Din suddenly woke up. He caught his breath, hoping that the dream was not a portent of doom, that Marathel was all right, then deciding that Fennec or Cobb would contact him if something was wrong.
Checking the console, Din saw that he had been asleep for a good couple hours. He wondered if Grogu had been awake and alone that whole time. The idea concerned Din; he'd rather be awake when the boy was to at least be interacting with him. Din wondered idly if a nanny wouldn't be a good idea, and then wondered why he should engage a nanny when he had Marathel. He then reminded himself he in no way had Marathel; her recovery was still in the early days yet. And then beyond her recovery …
One kriffing thing at a kriffing time, remember?
Din got up from his chair, stretching. He turned to see if Grogu was still in the cockpit; he wasn't. Din could hear squeaks down in the main part of the ship, so he climbed down the ladder and saw Grogu running in circles. Grogu looked up and squealed at Din's presence. Grogu ran up to Din, jumped up and down, and then took off, running away. Din stood still and watched him go. Grogu stopped and looked at Din expectantly. Din tilted his helmet. Grogu looked down with a harumph, and then ran back to Din, jumped again, and took off again. Din watched, confused. "What is it you want me to do, kid?" Grogu stopped running, and looked back at Din, frowning. "I don't get it," said Din. Grogu grunted and stomped all the way back to Din. Glaring at Din's helmet, Grogu jumped up and down. "Okay," said Din. Grogu turned away but looked over his shoulder. "Uh-huh," said Din. Grogu lifted his leg, as if he were going to start running again. "Did you want me to chase you?"
Grogu threw up his little hands. "Mee-YAH!" he shouted, and he began to run. Okay, then, thought Din, and he gave chase. The two ran back and forth, up and down the corridor, Din laughing in spite of himself, and then Grogu suddenly sat down. Din slid to a stop, looking down at Grogu. Grogu looked back up at him. The two males stared at each other for some time. Finally, Din sat down as well, and Grogu sighed with the beginnings of an eye roll. Din pulled his chin back, surprised. Grogu's facial vocabulary had been expanding quite a lot over the past couple of weeks, and he felt that Marathel had a lot to do with it. It wasn't as if Grogu could learn expressions from him; not with the helmet obscuring his face. Din shrugged. "So now what, kid?" Grogu pointed at him. Din pointed at himself. "Me? I don't get you." Grogu kept pointing at Din. "Are we playing that running game of yours and Marathel's? I don't understand the rules, kid! We were just running, and now you're sitting down, pointing at me, like I'm supposed to know what comes next!" Grogu tilted his head at Din, much like Din often did towards the boy. Then Grogu pointed at Din again. "I still don't understand, boy. You had us running, and now you're pointing at me …" It finally dawned on Din. "You're telling me … it's my turn? I have to say what we're doing next?" Grogu squeaked at Din. "That's it? You do something for a while, and then the next person comes up with the next thing to do?" Grogu squeaked again. "But that's … that's ridiculous! What kind of game do you play where you make up the rules as you go along?" Grogu looked expectantly at Din, who realized that it was exactly the kind of game Marathel would teach the boy to play. Imagination was more important than rules to a child.
"So … my turn, huh? All right, then … uh …" Din stood up. "Time to jump backwards, then." Din jumped back about a foot, feet together, swinging his arms. Grogu looked at Din, frowning. "Are you playing or not, kid? Otherwise, I'm looking stupid, jumping backwards like this." Din jumped back twice more before Grogu hopped up and copied Din's jump. Din jumped again, and Grogu followed suit. "Okay, then, let's do this," Din said with a grin, jumping backwards until he reached the wall, Grogu jumping alongside. Around and around they went, until Grogu decided that spinning in circles was a better move. After a while, after they both got incredibly dizzy, Din tried skipping, feeling even more ridiculous, skipping in full armor and weapons. Grogu thought it was great fun, though, and the skipping went on for quite some time, making Din mutter, "C'mon kid, give me a break here." Grogu finally stopped skipping, opting to do a most silly walk wherein he stood with one leg out behind him, and then slowly rotated the upraised leg to the front, then stepped down on the upraised foot, repeating the process on the other leg. "You're kidding me," said Din, but he complied for a short while, half-wishing he'd gotten this whole escapade on holo, just to show Marathel and make her laugh. Finally, Din decided to pull Marathel's signature move, pretending that he had no bones, dropping to the floor like a rock. Grogu chattered and pulled at Din's arm in vain, while Din said, "No good, kid, gravity has doubled today," before grabbing Grogu and tickling him mercilessly. Grogu squealed and shrieked before climbing on top of Din, jumping on his chest. "Ugh! You win, kid, you have me pinned!" Grogu giggled and flopped on his belly, grabbing at Din's helmet. Din laughed and rubbed the child's back. "That was fun. Maybe we can play with Mahr when we get back." Grogu cooed in affirmation, then yawned. Din continued to rub the boy's back and thought about that tune Marathel hummed to Grogu. Din remembered the melody well, but he despised the words, probably as much as Marathel did. He vaguely remembered a Mando'a lullaby, now that he thought about it. How did it go? Din finally caught the tune in his head, and he quietly sang:
"Nuhoy, ad'ika
Gar ner cyar'ika
Ni ja'haili'gar
Akay vaar'tur
Nuhoy, ad'ika
Gar ner cyar'ika
Ni laarari'gar
Akay vaar'tur
Nuhoy, ad'ika
Gar ner cyar'ika
Ni cabuor gar
Akay vaar'tur…"
Surprised that he remembered the lullaby, Din lifted his head to see that it actually worked: Grogu was out like a light, despite his lack of singing ability. He'd have to tell Marathel. Din carefully stood and carried Grogu to his little hammock in Din's sleeping quarters. Grogu snuggled down immediately, with only one ear outside the soft blanket. Din tucked the soft frog stuffie under the edge of the blanket just in case. On impulse, Din lifted his helmet enough to kiss Grogu's fuzzy head, which brought a smile to his face. There was something to be said for this physical affection stuff, he thought.
Din noticed that he had forgotten to get a new bed roll, and he groaned. This meant he'd have to sleep in his captain's chair. It was comfortable enough, but it would inevitably put a crick in his back. First thing on Nevarro, buying a new damn bedroll. A good one this time, too. He turned off the light in the small room and dimmed the lights in the corridor. Din climbed up into the cockpit and lowered the lights there as well. He put his feet back on the console, interlaced his fingers, and sighed.
His thoughts went almost immediately to Marathel. After almost a fortnight of intense closeness to her, he felt the loss of her presence. He hoped she was doing well. He thought about sending a holotext but he'd only been gone for a few hours, and he didn't want to seem lonely and desperate. He could cover it up by saying Grogu needed her, but the kid was sleeping, and anyway, Grogu was excited by the journey back to Nevarro and did not seem to be pining for his Mahr at all. When we get to Nevarro, maybe then we can let her know we're safe.
Din wished he knew what to do about her. Technically, she had been correct: she knew nothing about how the galaxy worked. Her limited experience must make everything terrifying to her. The one place she seemed at home was in the kitchen. Din was not strict on gender roles in any way, but he believed in playing to one's strengths … and that bread making skill of hers was one hell of an asset. Her skill in textiles was another. All those women and girls on that planet of hers …they were uneducated but seemed smart as whips and were fiercely protective of each other, just as he would expect from any warrior. And that Lorica, spitting on his boot like that. If he hadn't been wearing a helmet, he supposed she would have spit right in his eye, and it would have stung.
Could anything be done for those women?
He didn't know. The planet was so far off the radar of the Empire and the Republic alike; there was absolutely no sign of either faction there at all. It was as if the Hold had dropped out of the sky, fully formed with the Round Building looming over the courtyard. But there was no forge, so where did the weapons come from? They all looked ceremonial in nature apart from the beskar hammer. Where in shab did that come from? The Aurodium coins? It made no sense.
Din did have one idea, though, and he coded it into a holo-text to Greef Karga. He would be seeing him tomorrow, and hopefully he would have an answer for him by then. Hopefully.
Din briefly wished he were heading back to Unmanarall to face that Captain, the Bishop, to get some answers and give a serious beat-down to all the men who'd laid a hand on his Marathel.
He wished Marathel to be with him while he meted out his justice in her name and tell him precisely how she wanted each one to die.
He wished he had been able to bring himself out of his hut'tuun frozen state and just pulled her out of that hellhole.
He wished he had kissed her when he had the chance, not just when she was unconscious and on the brink of death.
He wished he had fully undressed her — her warm, soft, soft body — when she allowed him to touch her, and allowed her to touch him back, to feel her hands on his body and surrender himself to the touch of another person … something he continually denied himself.
He wished he had removed his helmet for her, made love with her, fully undressed rather than just removing enough clothing necessary for the sex act, reveling in her skin with his own, oh, her beautiful skin, to kiss all that fabulous skin, to nuzzle against it, to get her scent and exchange it with his own by moving his cheek and lips over her voluptuous body as she had his, to lift her soft, heavy breasts with the palms of his bare hands, to feel the different skin textures from her pebbly areolas to the hard nubs of her nipples with his thumbs, to suckle at those nipples and savor them with his tongue, to kiss her rounded belly and curve his hands over the swells of her hips and her buttocks, to move his mouth down her abdomen to between her supple thighs, to let his tongue open her delicate nether lips and dance on the bud of her clitoris with his nose sweeping through the soft thatch of silver curls, grasping the sweet globes of her magnificent ass in his hands, breathing in the sweet scent of her cream that he had once been privileged to smell off her fingertips, her hands, her hands, such strong gentle fingers touching his hair as he lingered at the apex of her legs, and him kissing the tip of each finger before returning to the chalice of her sex, sipping at her opening before lathering his tongue over her entire inner area, so warm and soft and wet, her taste so sweet and just slightly musky, and then he realized he was palming his erection through his pants, exposed out here in the cockpit when Grogu could wake up and find him in here like this. He'd never had to concern himself with privacy before the kid arrived, and it galled him to some degree he had to think about it, but he had to do something right damn now.
Din hopped down the ladder and headed straight for the shower cubicle, locking himself inside. He flipped on the water option, wasteful, yes, but sonic was not the way to go right now. Liquid oxygen would be preferable. Stripping himself as quickly as possible, he stepped under the cool spray and took himself in hand, stroking as slowly and gently as he could manage. Even with the water, the friction was still too uncomfortable, but he didn't think he had any kind of lubricant in the shower, just in the bin closest to his bed roll, and wait, was that bin locked against a curious toddler? And dank ferrik, man, why was he thinking about that now? He tore open the storage bin inside the shower, knocking bottles aside and on the floor, discarding the soap and shampoo, he'd tried that once, just once, and never again, thank you very much, but at the very back was a small bottle of lubricant he'd forgotten about, and relieved, he filled his palm with the pleasant-smelling lubricant, and finally set himself back to stroking, picturing the naked Marathel lying beneath him on the wooden floor of her hut, those creamy breasts of hers heaving, then her on top of him, his cock in her mouth, breathing on him, only breathing, wishing she had used her tongue, her lips on him, wishing he had let her pleasure him as they'd pleasured her together, those full lips of hers, how soft, haar'chak, that pussy of hers, so hot, always so damn wet, she'd always been ready for him, a perfect fit for his cock, so tight and yet yielding at the same damn time, clenching down on him when he was inside her, and she always came so hard, so hard he wondered if the other women he'd been with had been faking it the whole damn time, he was not a practiced lover by any means, just functional at the sex act, he didn't even know how to kiss properly, Cobb had to teach him how, but he knew if he could just get back to Marathel, if Marathel would come back to him, perhaps they could both learn together, and it would be so damn good, so much better than fisting himself in this fucking shower, and his strokes got faster and harder as he pressed his forehead against the wall, and he was just about there, and he thought of her face and how it looked when she came, her cries of pleasure, the odd tear leaking from her eyes, her long strong legs flexing their muscles and going rigid, the quiver of her body, particularly her pussy clenching even harder on him, and he finally came himself, grunting loudly and spattering the shower wall with ejaculate, twice, three times, and a weak fourth time before finally feeling spent, and he rested against the shower wall, breathing hard, wondering to himself when was the last time he'd masturbated to a fantasy rather than just getting the job done, as it were, and he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Din puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled. He washed his hair and finished cleaning himself, since he was in there anyway, giving the shower itself a bit of a clean at the same time. After turning off the water, Din realized a couple of things: there were no towels in here, and in his haste to get undressed he had left all his clothes on the floor, and they were now all wet.
Haar'chak.
Din pulled on his flight pants, which were uncomfortably wet and cold on his bare skin and placed the helmet on his head. Catching his reflection in the durasteel mirror, he thought, yup, I'm a dumbass and then dripped his way back to his quarters, leaning inside to grab towels from the bin closest to the door. Grogu was quietly snoring. He also found a fresh set of thermals and padded back to the shower cubicle, kicking the wet clothing and armor out into the corridor before shutting himself inside again.
Din roughly rubbed his hair with the towel, leaving it unruly and sticking up in all directions as he considered his face in the mirror. He didn't know handsome from a hole in the ground, and he had his father's hooked nose and the lines between his brows, but his mother seemed to think his father handsome, so he guessed if he resembled his father that would be good enough. His mother, of course, was beautiful, as dark as Marathel was fair, and his father was forever touching her cheek, holding her hand, rubbing her back. Once he had woken up in the night, hearing his parents' laughter in the kitchen, and he snuck out to see for himself, and peered through the cracked-open door. His father was on his knees on the floor, and he was washing her feet. Her feet always hurt, and she stood practically all day, and here was his father, gently soaping and massaging his wife's sore feet as they laughed and talked about their day. Young Din went back to bed, thinking that if you were willing to wash someone's feet, it had to be love.
Din smiled at the memory. Feet, indeed. He combed his hair, dressed in his fresh thermals, replaced his helmet, and hung up his wet flight suit to dry. He set out his armor in the corridor so that he could clean and polish it after getting a couple hours' sleep. He checked on Grogu, grabbed a pair of Marathel's socks, and went back into the cockpit for a long nap, thinking about Marathel's feet, and wondering if she'd let him wash them for her.
It was early evening on Nevarro when he landed on the edge of his covert. Din had cleaned and polished his armor, even the damaged helmet, and had fully dressed himself in armor and weaponry, including the Darksaber, and hooking the marchwyl on his belt. He hated the Darksaber, and the marchwyl even more than that, but he figured he could at least get rid of one of them on this trip … that is, if the Armorer would deign to see him, an apostate.
Din stepped forward with Grogu on his arm. The youngsters came running forward, happy to see their little green friend again. Din set Grogu on the sand, and he immediately ran off to join the others. Some adults nodded at Din in greeting while others looked at him with a only a motionless gaze. Din stepped up to the opening into the catacombs and was met by the imposing figure of Paz Visla. "Paz."
"Apostate."
So that's how it's going to be. "I wish to speak to Armorer."
"No."
"My helmet is badly damaged, and I bring bounties for the good of the covert."
"Have you bathed in the sacred waters of Mandalore?"
Din bit his lip before he said something he regretted. "I have not."
"Perhaps you should do that first," sneered Paz.
"I believe a compromised helmet would be a barrier to Din Djarin redeeming himself," called the Armorer from deep inside the entrance tunnel. "Show me your helmet, Din Djarin." Din obediently turned to show the Armorer the deep divot. "What caused this?"
"This beskar hammer," replied Din, turning back to face the Armorer, and removing the hammer from his belt. "It is called the marchwyl. I bring it, as well as a valuable bounty, from the planet Unmanarall."
"You have a habit of finding beskar weapons where there should be none. I take it your helmet no longer has any capabilities?"
"It does not."
"Well, then, follow close behind me. Let's discuss this more." Din, as always, resisted to urge to roll his eyes as he walked by Paz as they entered the catacombs. "I thought you were on your way to Mandalore."
"I had this opportunity come up. I couldn't pass up what they offered."
"And what was that?"
"Old Republic Ossum Aurodium coins."
"Who is this person who commands such an exorbitant price?"
"A woman." Din did not want to expand on that at the moment. He could just see the Armorer slowly look over her shoulder and then turn back.
"I see." When they reached the forge, Din presented the beskar hammer to her. "What did you call this again?"
"The marchwyl."
"Where did you come by it?"
"A planet called Unmanarall, out on the very far edge of the galaxy."
The Armorer wasn't sure if she was bemused or annoyed by Din's truncated answers, but she carried on her questions as she lit the forge. "How did you come by it?"
"The woman, she … she sacrificed herself for me to get the coins. Her kinswomen brought me the hammer."
"You carry much guilt about these women."
Din took a breath. "I do."
The Armorer assessed the weapon in her hands. "Whose blood is this?" she asked.
Din knew that the Armorer knew the answer to her question but was forcing the answer from him. Finally, he said, just loud enough to be heard over the forge, "Hers."
"Did she suffer?"
"Yes."
"Was her suffering a dishonorable thing?"
"Yes." He could not have been more emphatic.
"Did you fight on her behalf?"
Din swallowed twice before he was able to answer. "No."
The Armorer's voice never changed its cadence, was not judgmental, as she asked, "Why not?"
And Din felt his soul shrivel; how could he reveal this most childish of reasons for not protecting someone so vulnerable? Yet he had to in order to remain on a path to absolution. "She told me not to."
The Armorer gazed at him, silently, for an uncomfortably interminable time before she said, "Show me your helmet." Din turned. He felt her hands examine the damaged area. "And this hammer caused this much damage?"
"Yes."
"You were injured?"
"Yes."
She stood silently behind him for a while, and then turned to the forge. "Go to the lower level and enter a meditation chamber. Leave your helmet in the doorway and wait. Think."
"You will use the marchwyl …?"
"If what has caused damage becomes part of the repair, does it redeem itself?"
Din couldn't answer that. "Grogu?"
"With Paz's family." Din nodded. "This is the way."
"This is the way." Din turned and made his way down to a sub-level. It was cool down there due to natural wind tunnels in the cave system. He chose a dark doorway, entered, and removed his helmet, leaving it in the doorway as told. The chamber was long and narrow, and there was no door. Anyone who entered was in darkness, and no one went out into the lighted corridor without a helmet. Din made his way to the far end, trailing his fingers along both walls, for the chamber was so narrow it was less wide than the span of his arms. At the far end was a narrow cot, and no creature comforts. Perfect for meditation without distraction. He sat down where the floor met the far wall and gazed towards the open doorway. Someone came and took his helmet away, while Din thought about how he would now be carrying Marathel's blood on his helmet for the rest of his life.
Din had no knowledge of how long he sat in darkness. He did have the opportunity to think about many things several times over. Some of his answers depended on a certain woman. Some depended on the existence of the sacred waters of Mandalore. He lifted his eyes when he heard echoing footsteps. A silhouette placed a helmet in the open doorway. Din waited until the footsteps were gone. Coming forward, he saw the dark visor, in a field of gleaming beskar, look back at him. He tried to consider the point of view of a frightened woman upon seeing this helmet for the first time. Of having to interact with only this beskar face, a suit of armor, gloved hands, when she only knew men by the pain and degradation they caused her. And then to have this blank face deny her and tell her that any affection he held for her was less than his devotion to his Creed — something she couldn't possibly begin to understand — and then still demand her affection towards him.
He placed the helmet on his head and turned it on with the controls on his vambrace. All the screens flared to life, going through all the options and calibrating before returning to Din's standard options. He felt the back of the helmet, feeling only seamless metal, with no tactile evidence of a repair. He stepped out of the cell and made his way back to the forge.
"Is the helmet back to proper working condition?" the Armorer asked without turning from her forge.
"Yes. It is."
"Let us discuss the bounty you received for this woman." Din silently handed the Armorer the cloth bag, and she spread some of the coins out on the table. "For what reason was the bounty placed?"
"The woman was the … intended of one of the Elders of her people. She had been living for some time without fulfilling that expectation."
"So, you completed this mission?"
"Yes."
"So, the woman is with her intended."
Din shifted slightly. "No."
The Armorer looked up in surprise. "No?"
"She … she is on Tatooine, receiving medical care."
"So, you … completed the mission on one hand, and not on the other?"
"She suffered …"
"Does she have a name?" asked the Armorer, and Din could swear she stood three inches taller.
"Her name is Marathel." The Armorer stood motionless, waiting for Din to continue. "Marathel suffered greatly for me to collect those coins. She condemned herself to death for my benefit, for the benefit of this covert." Din took a breath. "I failed to help her. Ni cuy' osi'yaim. Ni cuy' hut'uun."
The Armorer stood still, letting Din's confession of his inaction and his cowardice hang in the sweltering air of the forge. "Was Marathel deserving of this death?"
"No one is deserving of what she endured."
"Marathel compelled you to not take up your weapons?"
"She compelled me to remove my weapons altogether, and to be still." Din dropped his head. "Marathel was a victim of exceptional cruelty and nearly died due to my cowardice."
"And what is it you seek here?"
"Absolution. And the knowledge that Marathel did not suffer in vain."
The Armorer looked down at the coins, which reflected the fire's glow. "This bounty is not yours. The covert will not accept it."
Din was struck silent for several seconds. "What?"
The Armorer put all the coins back in the bag and tied it shut. "This bounty was not yours to receive. It is stained with the blood and suffering of the innocent Marathel. The bounty is hers." She placed the bag in front of Din. "These must go to their rightful owner. This is the way."
Din automatically began, "This is the …" He looked down at the bag. "Then it was pointless after all." He looked back at the Armorer. "How am I to tell her? How can I look her in the eyes and tell her that her sacrifice meant nothing? She will … this will destroy what is left of her!"
The Armorer gazed coolly at Din. "You have salvaged your honor by returning the stolen beskar to us. To keep the coins would be dishonorable. Go now, Apostate Din Djarin. Find your path and follow it to find your absolution. This is the way."
For the first time since he entered this covert as a child, Din refused to respond to the call of his people. He took the bag of coins, shoved it behind his cuirass, and left the forge without a word.
The Armorer sat and considered what Din said of himself: Ni cuy' osi'yaim — I am a despicable person. Ni cuy' hut'uun — I am a coward. He was always his own worst detractor, she thought. Every failure, every misstep, was taken so deeply into Din's heart that he wore shame like he wore his cape. If there is anyone who is deserving of She Cin Vhetin — a clean slate, a new beginning — it is Din Djarin. As she went back to her forge, the Armorer then considered this Marathel, an aruetii — an outsider, who was willing to lay down her life for a Mandalorian. The Armorer, certain of her decision to not accept the bounty, wished her well.
Din stalked out of the deep catacombs and into one of the larger common areas. Scanning over the group, he did not see Grogu or Paz among them. Din remembered where Paz quartered so he headed in that direction. Before he knocked on the door, Din swore he heard laughter behind it. Laughing? Din knocked and the laughter ceased immediately. After a moment, the door slid open, and the imposing figure of Paz filled it. The two men looked at each other briefly before Paz stepped back to allow Din to enter. Ragnar, Paz's young son, was seated on a large cushion, and he was concentrating on throwing a sour berry in Grogu's direction. Ragnar tossed the berry high above Grogu's head, but Grogu stopped the berry mid-air, allowing it to then drop directly into his open mouth. Grogu grinned at Din with berry-stained teeth and mouth, juice drips down his shirt. Din put his hands on his hips and sighed inwardly; now he had to potentially deal with the kid having a major case of the trots, depending on how many berries he'd eaten.
"Your helmet is now repaired?"
Din nodded. "Thank you for watching Grogu." Paz grunted, and Ragnar threw another berry. "Ragnar has grown into a fine lad."
"Your green child is spoiled."
"He is good at bending people to his will. Come, Grogu." Grogu hopped up and ran to Din's feet. Din lifted the boy and set him on his arm, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cape.
Paz grunted again, then said in possibly the kindest tone Din had ever heard from the larger man, "I hope you are able to redeem yourself on Mandalore. I hope the waters are still there." Din looked at Paz in surprise. Paz reached out to his son. "Come, Ragnar, it is time to sleep."
"Jate ca, Paz, gedet'ye," said Din.
"Naas wadaas."
Din left the catacombs, and returned to the ship, not because he didn't have a place to sleep at the covert — he did; there was always room for another in the covert — but he thought it would be better in case Grogu did end up with the trots from eating all those berries … and unfortunately, he was right. He got to spend a good part of the night sitting on a crate, holding Grogu over the vac tube. Thanks, Paz. Grogu had a stomach of beskar for spicy food and amphibians, but too much fresh fruit ran right through the kid with disastrous results. Marathel would probably have a pithy Oldtalk phrase about this situation — like shit through a gochgoch or something equally as ridiculous — and make a mug of her stomach tea. Din missed sitting on her steps, missed her mugs of tea. He missed her. He had no idea how he was going to tell her that the covert wouldn't accept the Aurodium … or if he should tell her.
"You empty yet, kid?" Grogu's stomach grumbled in response. "That sounds a lot like your hungry noise, but I'm not trusting your stomach while your back end is acting like that." Din heard a beep noise from the cockpit that sounded like an incoming message. He grabbed the old towel at his feet and wrapped the naked boy's bottom with it, hoping for a respite from the diarrhea. It's always something, thought Din. He climbed up the ladder one-handed and punched the button for the message.
BF: Marathel wants to know if Grogu is okay
Din smiled, happy to know she was worried about them. He tapped out a message.
DD: Grogu has an upset stomach
BF: Marathel asked what happened to his stomach of beskar
DD: compromised by fruit
BF: Marathel wishes you the best of luck
Din frowned, wondering why Boba was transcribing Marathel's message instead of her doing it herself.
DD: Thank you Marathel
There was a long pause, so long that Din believed that the conversation was over. He took Grogu — now apparently over his Tatooine two-step — back down out of the cockpit to get him bathed. Din had just distracted Grogu with a cracker so he could dress the boy when he heard the beep from the cockpit again. He got Grogu settled back into his little hammock and whispered Mando'a into the boy's ear. After setting the lights on the lower level, Din climbed into the cockpit and checked the message.
BF: The Modifier's contact came through; treatment seems to be working
Din took a breath. She'll live.
Translation for Din's lullaby:
Sleep, little one
You are my sweetheart
I will watch over you
Until morning
Sleep, little one
You are my sweetheart
I will sing to you
Until morning
Sleep, little one
You are my sweetheart
I will protect you
Until morning
Lullaby written by themischiefoftad on Tumblr
themischiefoftad/158469515425/wrote-a-mandoa-lullaby