pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 4 K

chapter summary: Din's foster father, always quick with axioms, had this to say about being face-down: don't forget, your ass is wide-open, kid.

warnings: head injury, severe bodily injury, mention of blood, sexual abuse, physical abuse, violence towards women, torture, allusion to rape, enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing

Din awoke to find himself completely disoriented with his head and neck in terrible pain. His first instinct was to panic, but he took a shallow breath — which was all he seemed to be able to manage — and remembered to follow the steps his buir, his foster father, taught him.

What can you see? The quick answer to that was fuck-all but he wasn't sure if that was because his visor had no power or if it was nighttime.

What can you hear? What he could hear were whispered voices. The voices were shrill and panicky and sounded like women. Three, perhaps four. They seemed to be behind him, but close by.

What can you feel? This was easy: he felt like hammered shit, and he believed he meant that literally. To be more specific: he was face-down, on the ground, more than likely under a tree, since it seemed a knobby root was poking his upper thigh. His foster father, always quick with axioms, had this to say about being face-down: don't forget, your ass is wide-open, kid. His head was splitting with pain, and it seemed as if there was a heavy sofa lying on him, pinning him to the ground. Why the shab a large sofa would be anywhere near where he happened to be made no sense whatsoever, but then very little made sense to Din anymore.

Din started to lift his arm, to check on his helmet settings, when he felt a hand gently push his arm back down. "Be still, Bounty Hunter," quietly said one of the voices.

"Marathel?" asked Din, confused.

"No … no. She is still in the Hold."

Din groaned. Everything must have gone wrong, and he must have fucked up royally. "Olba?"

"Yes, it's me. No, don't move, you were hit very hard with the marchwyl."

"Is that the big hammer?"

"Yes. It dented your helmet, split your skull, and addled your brain. You've been mostly sleeping all day."

The only thing to dent beskar is … beskar, thought Din. That hammer is made of beskar. How did it get here? "Did you …"

"No, Bounty Hunter, we did not remove your helmet. You were very adamant about that during the moments you were awake. I did reach under your helmet, though, to dress the wound as best I could."

"Why can't I move?"

"You were fighting us when we were trying to help you. There are three women sitting on you."

"Could they … not?" Olba motioned for her companions to get off Din, and with her help, Din slowly got to a sitting position. "Thank you for tending to me." Din checked his helmet and found that the vision function on his visor was completely knocked out, and it was full dark now.

"Where is the child, Bounty Hunter?" asked Olba.

Grogu! Haar'chak! How could I forget? Din began to struggle up, but Olba held him down.

"Be still, Bounty Hunter! Is the child in your flying ship?"

"How did you know …"

"Times I have been outside the Hold, I have seen you and the child with Marathel. She must have been so happy to care for a little one again."

"She … she was." Din tried to raise the on his helmet, but it seemed his helmet no longer functioned at all. "I must … must check on the kid … I need to get Marathel …" Din tried to stand, but he had no sense of balance, and his head was pounding fit to explode. He fell back down to his hip.

"You need to rest, Bounty Hunter …"

"I need to get in there and get Marathel out!"

"You can't. You can't, Bounty Hunter."

Din swallowed, which made his head throb painfully into his jaw. Any tears that might have threatened his eyes remained there by sheer will. "They're going to kill her, aren't they?"

Olba sighed. "No, not directly. But she will die from … what they do to her when they make her a Belwhyn." Olba spit out this last word with disgust.

Din got up to his knees, but still could not stand. He looked down at the ground, his fingers tearing at the grass beneath his hands. "I can't let them do that." Olba put her arm around Din's shaking shoulders. "I can't let her sacrifice herself, Olba."

Everything she has ever done was out of love, thought Olba. How she must love you and the child. "Bounty Hunter … do you have healers where you come from?"

Din sat back on his heels with a groan. "Doctors, medics, yes."

"If … if we can get her out, will you take her with you?" The other women tittered at this in protest, but Olba shushed them. "We can get her, you can take her to a healer, and she might survive. If not … you will take her to somewhere beautiful, so that she may die in peace, with you and the child, away from this hell place. Will you do that?"

"You have my word." Frith help her, please keep her alive. "But … can you also get that hammer?"

"The hammer?"

"It belongs to my people, Olba. It is made of the same metal as my armor. It has no place here." Olba looked at Din, frowning. "Please, our beskar was stolen from us, we must have it back."

One of the other women leaned forward. "Olba, we cannot! The Elders would strip us dead!"

Olba took a deep breath, and said to the woman, "Are we not already dead, Tymfy? We are Diwhyns. We are nothing anymore. If they kill me, my only regret is that they would get pleasure from doing so." To Din, Olba said, "I will do my best. Stay here. If we can get Marathel out, we will bring her to you. The hammer, too. Frith help us all."

Din nodded weakly. "Thank you." His eyes had adjusted to the dark some by this time, and he looked at the older woman. She had removed her veil, and her hair was dark, curly, threaded through with grey. Her eyes were dark and filled with a lifetime of sadness. "Olba, tell me … are you Marathel's mother?"

Olba dropped her eyes and shook her head. "No. She is ap Bishop, I am ap Captain." What does that mean? wondered Din. "But I was at her birth, and her mother died as Marathel was born." Din could just see her tears fall in the darkness. "I was her mam in all ways that mattered." Olba stood. "You stay here, we will bring her out if we can. If not … I will close the door." The women moved in a small, somber group to the heavy door.

"How long will it be?" asked Din. "When will you bring her out?"

"When they're done with her." The women disappeared inside.

Din no longer had a sense of time. Between his head wound and the damage to his helmet, time stretched out and compressed in a completely non-linear way. His concussion and his apparently addled brain came up with the phrase time has gone wibbly-wobbly, not that he really understood what the ever-loving kriff that meant. He knew that he slept some — or just passed out, really — as he leaned up against the tree, but he spent most of his waiting-time staring, unblinkingly, at the heavy, ajar door, willing it to open more.

Din thought briefly, several times, about running to check on Grogu, but he feared that the moment he would leave would be the exact moment the women would reappear. He felt certain that Grogu was relatively okay. The kid probably had eaten all the rations, including the secret stash. He had told Grogu in no uncertain terms to not come out of the ship, but Grogu had never been one to follow directions, except in the case of his beloved Mahr.

Please stay patient, kid, I'm doing my best here, and we can only wait. There is no other way.

He had heard two bursts of activity inside the Hold walls: once to call the young children in from the garden, and once when Diwhyns were called to come to the round building. Din hoped that the second call meant the end to whatever was happening to Marathel. Olba refused to elaborate what would happen there, but Din had too much knowledge of how brutal people could be. He had no idea what a Belwhyn was, but he knew it must be a horrible thing.

He tried to keep his mind clear and ready for what may come. Instead, he wondered if he should have made a trip back to the ship just to get some weapons … at least his favorite blaster.

He wished he'd gone to reassure Grogu, just to see him, and just to get reassurance himself that everything might be okay.

He wished he'd removed his helmet as Marathel had requested — what honor was there in denying a woman like her, when all she wanted was a simple kindness? Instead, he had volunteered so quickly to have a chance to just … fuck her when he knew, he knew, she was not fully in her own mind and body. What kind of Creed permitted that? What kind of honorable man did that?

He wondered why Rodanthe had left Marathel when she did, where she was now, if she knew that Marathel was suffering now, alone. Damn you, Rodanthe, she begged you for one more day, and you abandoned her. Did you think I could be a substitute for the love and affection Marathel deserves? Did you know what Marathel intended to do today?

He wondered why he didn't anticipate Marathel's actions, why he could only stand there like a hu'tuun when osik went sideways, why he didn't consider that the bounty wasn't for the damn eggs at all, but for her.

He cursed himself for getting besotted with her in the first place, for letting his dick get in the way of protecting his asset, for allowing Grogu to run the damn hunt when the kid held on to the woman's ankle that very first afternoon, begging Din to let them stay at the hut.

Din's head began pounding again, and what vision he had was getting wavy around the edges. He had to get Marathel and get the Crest in the air soon, otherwise he wouldn't be fit to handle getting the ship into hyperspace.

Focus, focus, focus. The door will open, or the door will close. Until one of those things happens, you just need to be ready.

He could not stop his mind from wondering, however: what if that door closes?

The thought nearly brought Din back down prone to the ground. If that door closes, then … He could not carry on with that line of thinking. He closed his eyes against the throbbing in his skull; he flexed his fingers to keep blood flowing into his hands. He breathed in, he breathed out, he breathed …

"Bounty Hunter!" A sharp whisper came from just behind the door. "Help us!"

Din leapt to his feet and ran to the door, head injury forgotten, and he pushed open the door just enough to let the four women back through. Each woman held a corner of a woven blanket, and in the middle of the blanket lay a still female form, wrapped in red shrouds from head to foot. Din dropped to one knee and gathered the shrouded woman in his arms, knowing just by the woman's shape and weight that it was Marathel. "Oh, mesh'la," breathed Din, but Marathel neither moved nor made a sound. Din got back to his feet, turned, and ran as fast as he could manage through the woods back to the Crest, leaving the women to follow.

The four women were nearly as fast and nimble running as Marathel. Each one came up short, though, as they arrived at the Crest; Din had already set the ramp to lower by the time they caught up with him, and he began running up even before the ramp hit the ground. The outer hatch opened, spilling light into the clearing, momentarily blinding everyone, and in the middle of the doorway was Grogu, calling out, "Patu! Patu! Mahr! Mahr!"

"Gangway, Grogu!" shouted Din as he carried Marathel into the ship's narrow side passage. Olba, braver than the rest, was on his heels; the other three women were reticent to come up the ramp into the strange metal hulk before them, as well as approach the little child who had large ears and happened to be green. "Where should I put her, Olba?"

"Somewhere she can have privacy, Bounty Hunter … some dignity."

Din slapped the control to open the tiny room he used as sleeping quarters, leaving a bright red handprint on the metal wall, stopping him in his tracks. He looked down at Marathel in his arms, now visible under the garish bright light. His initial assumption that she was wrapped in red shrouds had been incorrect; as he shifted her, the pleats of the fabric around her shifted as well, revealing that the shrouds were the same blue of the veils she had been wearing earlier … and were now soaked with blood. Din couldn't help it; he gasped at the sight of her and how much she resembled the floating body of his dream. He moved slightly to his left to allow Olba access into the little room, and one of Marathel's braids slipped out and hung down towards the floor, leaving tiny drops of blood as it swung back and forth.

"This will suffice, Bounty Hunter. Hurry, lay her down here." Din squeezed into the room and followed Olba's instructions, laying Marathel's limp form on his sleeping pad on the floor. Marathel made a low whine, the first sign she had made that she still lived. Din reached to remove the shroud from her face, but Olba stopped him. "Roll her over; she cannot be on her back."

Din began to shift Marathel, and her cries became more intense, her features only slightly obscured by the veil on her face, stuck to her skin with her blood. He got her over on her stomach, and Olba gently turned Marathel's face away from Din. "Scissors," she said. Din looked up at Olba; Olba was holding her hand out to the other three veiled women who huddled in the doorway. One handed a pair of scissors to Olba, who used them to cut the shrouds off Marathel's back down to her waist. As Olba peeled back the fabric – now resembling the wings of flesh from Din's nightmare - Din could see one reason for all the blood: she had been whipped mercilessly, and her skin, her magnificent flawless skin, was split laterally practically every half-inch from the base of her neck down to her lower back, and probably beyond, but Olba was not willing to expose her Marathel any more in front of the armored man. Blood slowly seeped from every split, unceasingly, without clotting.

Din let out a shuddering breath. "M'mwch ha'laa," he whispered.

Olba looked up at Din, surprised by hearing her Oldtalk spoken by the Bounty Hunter. "You need to step out now; let us do our best by her."

Din swallowed. "What can I do to help you?"

"Gather anything we can use as bandages, any water and toweling that we may have. We will do what we can as quickly as we can, so that you may leave here, and get her help. And put the child somewhere; this is something no child should ever see."

Din nodded and opened the storage bins in his quarters that he knew had towels. He didn't have many — he never had needed many — but he handed them over, as well as his one spare set of sheets. Then he left the room, in search of anything else that would be useful, including the bin that held a pitiful few bacta sheets, spray, and injections. He doubted that the women would even have heard of bacta, much less knowing how to use it. He searched out all spare clean fabric on the ship that would be appropriate for bandages, of which he had precious little — another thing that he was always meaning to do; he should have more in the way of first aid now that he had Grogu.

As if on cue, Grogu came up to him, holding out a soft blanket from his pram. Din knelt, and stroked Grogu's ear with the back of his glove, not wanting to transfer blood to the boy. Din's voice stuck in his throat for a moment before he could speak. "No, Grogu, I can't let you do that … that's your favorite blanket. Marathel wouldn't want you to give up your favorite blanket. I need you to go back to the cockpit and wait there. The women need to help her, and I need to help them right now. Please, buddy, you've been so brave, can you be brave a little longer?" Grogu's ears drooped, but he nodded, and turned to the ladder, hopping up in two bounds, dragging the blanket. Din shut the cockpit hatch for good measure.

He turned back to his sleeping quarters, and left the fabric he could find, along with what water he could spare, next to the open door. Through the doorway, he could see one bare foot and ankle, the pale skin somehow even more white than he remembered.

One of the women stepped out, without her veil. She was a pretty woman, wearing a gown of green, her blond hair streaked with white. Her light brown eyes were narrow with disdain as she looked up at the much taller man before her. "I have what you asked for," she said. She reached into one of bags the women brought with them and handed the large beskar hammer to Din.

The hammer was forged in one large piece, and had a long handle, as long as Din's forearm and hand. The heavy head was flat on one side and pointed on the other. The flat end was smeared with blood, and there were splashes of blood on the handle. Din supposed he should be thankful that the Captain's flunky didn't use the pointy end to cave his head in.

"You should know, Bounty Hunter, that hammer was not only used to bash your skull, but to destroy Marathel's hands. The under-Captain smashed every one of her fingers, one at a time. Make sure to return your stolen hammer to your people." The scorn in the woman's voice was unmistakable, and she returned to Marathel's side.

Din unclenched his hands from around the handle, which was now marked with his handprints in Marathel's blood. He turned robotically and stepped back down the passageway to where he stored his weapons cache, placing the hammer within. Din looked at his gloves, saturated with blood, and he stripped them off, leaving them on the floor, but blood had soaked through, staining his bare skin. Over his shoulder, he could hear the women speaking.

"Did they … did they use the Dilimgau?"

Din lifted his head. What the shab is a Dilimgau?

"They did. Hold her leghigher…."

Why do they have to hold her leg higher? What are they doing to her?

"Hold her still … I'm so sorry, my little Godynferth …" Din turned at Olba's use of Marathel's pet name for Grogu when he heard Marathel's ragged scream fill the air, and the four women cried out as well, as if trying to take some of the burden of pain away from Marathel. He took several steps back at the sound; the scream was even worse than the shriek Marathel uttered when she lost Rodanthe. This scream was filled with the greatest pain anyone should have to endure and still live, and Din hoped, he wished, he begged whatever holy entity there ever was or ever could be that Marathel somehow survive whatever caused her to scream like that. He held his breath as the scream continued and finally faded into a low wail before ceasing. There was a clunk of metal hitting metal, and the women wept for a few moments before Olba spoke again. "Hurry now, she needs our help, not our tears."

Olba's words spurred Din back to action. Hurrying to the door — but not looking within — he said, "What else can I get you?"

A different woman stood up and filled the doorway. "Come no closer, Bounty Hunter," she said, her voice filled with hate and spite directed at Din, and he was sure he understood why. The woman, wearing the same color blue as Marathel, removed her veil and untied her sash. She had hair of purest white and eyes of pale blue that were red with tears. "Have you no other fabric, Bounty Hunter? Blankets? Anything?"

"No. You have …" The woman looked at him with disgust and reproach, turned her back, and appeared to be cutting away whatever she was wearing under her gown. Din saw a flash of white as she tore the undergarment over her head and off. "Look in the bin just to your left. All my spare clothes are in there. Take whatever will work." Din stepped back, leaning against the ladder, letting his head throb for a few moments before he remembered he needed to get the Crest running before he could lift off. He climbed the ladder and opened the cockpit door. Grogu was right behind it. "Gangway, Grogu," he said listlessly. He gently pushed Grogu to the side so he could enter the cockpit, and automatically placed the child in the rear seat. "Stay there. Don't leave the cockpit. Mind me, now." Grogu dropped his head to his chest, curled his little arms around his knees, and remained silent. Din set the switches and levers, priming the engines for a quick takeoff. One of the propulsion units made a grinding noise, and Din punched the gauge, breaking the cover over the dial. He felt rage threatening to overtake him, and he gripped the edge of the control panel with his bare fingers until his knuckles turned white.

Olba's voice came from below. "Bounty Hunter?"

Din jumped from his seat and leapt down from the cockpit, ignoring the ladder. His bad knee protested the rough landing, but he ignored it. All four women stood before him, without veils or sashes, and two of them had ripped the bottom foot or so from the hems of their gowns. All four had bloodstained hands and clothing, and all four looked as hopeless as he felt. The hatred in three of the women's eyes was unmistakable in its vehemence, and he knew that it was directed at him, and that as far as the women were concerned, he was to blame for Marathel's plight, even obliquely. "Marathel …?"

Olba took a breath. She had no hatred in her eyes, only that certain weariness that comes with continuous suffering and sadness. "She lives, for now. She has ia'chau leaves on her wounds, but they are not working very well. She … will not stop bleeding. Still, keep the leaves soaking in water and replace them as they fall apart. If nothing else, it will slow the blood flow."

"I will. I know of her … condition."

"You must know beautiful places, coming from somewhere else." Olba was openly weeping now. "You promised me. Tell her I loved her as my own."

"I will, Olba, and … thank you."

"Go now. We must get back before we are discovered missing."

Three of the four women turned to leave, save for the one in blue, who was glaring at Din in fury. She bared her teeth and snarled, "Her blood is on your hands. Our blood, too, for we are good as dead, bringing you the hammer you demanded." The woman in blue spit with startling accuracy on Din's right boot, throwing a bloodied rag-wrapped object at his feet, making a heavy thump against the metal floor. The women then left the ship, their bare feet sliding on the steep ramp. Din raised the ramp and shut the hull door. He took a deep breath and cast a quick look at whatever the woman in blue had thrown at him, then at the open door whereMarathel lay motionless. Her bare feet, facing downward, were in view. Not now, you hu'tuun. Get flying. Din quickly ascended the ladder and hoped the women were clear, because he was taking off right the shab now.