Chapter Text
The hair on the back of Luke's neck stood on end as he curled his fingers into a tight fist in the air. Several metres away, the narrow, arrow-like head of a bogwing snapped in an unnatural direction before falling dead to the ground with a weak splash of shallow, muddy water. The creature's companions flew off in a panic at its untimely death, their wings flapping with effort as they darted through the trees to safety.
Luke could feel eyes on him. He hadn't asked for company during his hunt, but he'd never known ghosts to be considerate about that sort of thing. Ignoring his audience, he stepped carefully through the marsh and retrieved his newest kill. Dagobah had an abundance of animals that were all theoretically edible, but most of them could only be stomached when reduced to a thick broth.
He tied the animal to his belt and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. His flight suit was cumbersome, and the bright, hazard orange gave him away easily in the forest, so he'd swapped it out for plain pants and an undershirt. It was afternoon now, which meant the humidity in the air had cooled, and it settled on his clothes and skin in a thick, dewy film.
Luke closed his eyes and listened. He wasn't used to hunting in forests, especially not ones so enigmatic and unwelcoming as Dagobah's endless marshlands. The creatures in the trees all made too much noise, and the intense thrum of this planet made it difficult to separate the individual pulses of life and light the animals gave off from the broader current of the Force.
"You didn't thank it," he heard softly behind him, startling him from his thoughts. Luke turned, hand going to the hilt of his saber, to find Obi-Wan's shimmering form watching him with a disapproving look.
Luke sighed, relaxing, and let his hand drop from his belt. "I figured you would do it for me," he said dryly. He hadn't spoken to the man in a while; he thought it was fitting that their conversation would begin with a chastisement.
Obi-Wan gave a brief chuckle. "You sound like your father."
Luke ignored that and turned away, continuing through the swamp. He knew Obi-Wan would follow him. He'd appeared for a reason—he always had a reason, and Luke didn't need to think about it for very long to figure out what that reason might be.
His unwanted companion was silent for much of his hunt, and it made him feel a little guilty for dismissing the man so quickly. He knew they needed to talk about a lot of things, and none of them were easy subjects. And despite everything else, he knew that Obi-Wan meant well; that he wanted to help Luke find answers to questions he barely knew how to ask himself. He just wished Obi-Wan would be less bullheaded about it.
A few hours' hunt produced several bogwings and a pouch full of flora that would serve as the closest thing to flavouring as one could get on this planet. The Mandalorian never complained about the food, and Luke wasn't sure if that was out of politeness or restraint, but he was certain the man was sick of subsisting on foul, gamey soups. He definitely was.
He was in the process of finding one of the trail markers he'd set down, intending to head back to the cabin, when Obi-Wan finally decided to speak again. His tone was gentler this time—encouraging as opposed to prying. "You've been here longer than I expected."
"Three days," Luke said with a shrug, taking care to plant his feet firmly on the ground before each step. If it wasn't roots and weeds trying to trip him up, it was sticky mud and old burrows. He hadn't managed to break his ankle walking the trails yet, but he wasn't about to test his luck.
"The child is healing well," Obi-Wan mused, following along effortlessly. He stepped through the forest as Luke did, but he knew that was just for show. "His father, less so."
"Yes." He grabbed onto a tree branch and stepped over a particularly thick root. "He was badly hurt."
The Mandalorian had told Luke some of what had happened to him, though only after repeated, insistent prodding. He'd told him about being fatally injured during a fight on the Imperial cruiser, and that the child had saved his life. But the man was a poor storyteller, and didn't take kindly to requests for further details.
"He is a difficult man to read," Obi-Wan murmured, as if divining his thoughts.
"Yeah," Luke agreed, a bit surprised, and stopped to look at him. "I know he's troubled."
Obi-Wan smiled. "As you are."
Luke snorted. "Everyone is these days."
"But you have more cause for it than most," Obi-Wan said. It was his version of a compliment. "I know you want to train the child."
Luke continued walking. He'd spotted one of his trail markers, a tiny perimeter light that he'd borrowed from a rebel storage room, and passed it with a relieved sigh. If he concentrated hard enough he could probably make his way back to the cabin without any guides, but he didn't want to risk it.
"I don't know," he said eventually, after a long stretch of silence. "He's gifted."
"He is."
"You saw what happened?" Luke glanced at Obi-Wan beside him. "You know what he did?"
"Yes. I saw what you did, as well."
Luke shrugged off the comment, his face flushing slightly at the admiration in Obi-Wan's voice. "At the dais? It was mostly—mostly the Mandalorian." He sighed. "He won't even tell me his name."
"He seems to trust you."
"Well, I saved his life." Luke stepped up onto a network of overlapping roots, balancing carefully as they took him over what he knew to be a deceptively shallowing-looking puddle. "He doesn't have much choice."
"You saved his child's life, as well. Do not discount that." Obi-Wan watched him jump from one root to another in bemusement. "In my experience, Mandalorians do not trust easily. Helping them protect their children is a good way to get around that."
"You knew many Mandalorians?"
The man's mouth twitched. "A few," he admitted. "But we're getting off topic."
Luke slid back down to the ground, batting away the fine, hairy branches that hung from the tree. His landing splashed water everywhere, spraying some in Obi-Wan's direction, who pulled his cloak around him in an entirely unnecessary display of disapproval.
"The topic is…" Luke sighed, wondering how long he could stall. "The kid."
Obi-Wan nodded. "An extraordinary boy."
"He healed his father. I saw the wound." He'd helped the Mandalorian treat it with poultices. It was closed, thankfully, but the surface of his skin had been an angry, inflamed mess of fresh scar tissue. "He would've died."
Luke wondered if the Mandalorian actually had died, if only for a brief period. If the child had succeeded in the same task that had driven his own father to darkness.
"I've heard of such things happening before, but never seen it myself," Obi-Wan murmured. "Not even the Healers at the Temple could perform such feats—not to my knowledge."
Luke wanted to be relieved at that, but it just made him more uncertain. If a man as learned and accomplished as Obi-Wan was unfamiliar with the child's abilities, what hope did Luke possibly have?
"He's bound to the Mandalorian now," Luke said. "I don't know what that means for him."
"It means they are forever connected to one another."
"All things are connected."
"Yes," Obi-Wan conceded. "But this is something more. It is stronger even than the bond between Master and Padawan. I know you've felt it."
He frowned, spotting the flicker of another marker to his right. "I have. But the Mandalorian is not a Jedi."
"And he will not become one. But the question remains—will the boy be trained?"
That was exactly Luke's question. He wanted Obi-Wan to tell him the answer, though he knew the man didn't have one. And even if he did, this was not the sort of thing Obi-Wan could decide for him.
He was quiet for a while, and Obi-Wan didn't intrude. They walked silently with one another through the forest, each in their own thoughts. Luke had travelled far today, several miles from his lodging. It had been a few years at least since he'd last come to Dagobah, and he was glad to find the small cabin he'd built for him and Leia to stay in during training was still intact. It served as little more than a dry place to sleep, but that was all the Mandalorian and the child had been doing since they'd arrived here. That meant Luke had little more than himself for company most of the time—and, of course, nosy ghosts. But he was fine with that. He needed time to think.
When he came open the final marker, he stopped. Obi-Wan paused beside him, watching him curiously but still not saying anything. Luke kept his eyes to the ground, watching water gliders skim across the water that had collected in the tracks he'd made when he'd begun his hunt.
"This is… different from the other Force-sensitives I've found," Luke said finally. "Grogu already has training from other Jedi. And his bond with his father… they would have to stay at the new Temple together."
He wondered briefly what would happen to them, should they be separated. To be bonded so closely in the Force as they were, only to be ripped apart. They hadn't left one another's side in three days, and Luke knew it wasn't just because they were healing.
Obi-Wan seemed to sense his unease. "I don't envy your position."
"What would you do, if you were in it?"
The man raised a brow. "I have been. I made the wrong decision."
Luke frowned. "With… with my father?"
"Yes. It was a mistake to take Anakin from his mother. I could have gone back to Tatooine, to bring her to the Temple and kept her from harm. I could have found her safer lodging elsewhere. I could have allowed Anakin to visit her, and hidden it from the Council. But I didn't."
"I'm not doing that this time," Luke told him. "Whoever I train—they'll be able to see their families."
Obi-Wan's mouth thinned as his lips pressed together. "It is a dangerous gamble—"
"You just said it was a mistake."
"I did. But the alternatives are not without their consequences." He folded his hands into his robes. "The child could be more powerful than any Jedi I've ever known; greater even than Anakin or Master Yoda. That means the price of failure is…." He looked away from Luke, out into the swamp. He did not speak for a moment. "It is significant."
"I don't even think he wants training," Luke said then. "The call he gave on Tython—it didn't make sense to me at first. All I saw was the Mandalorian. I thought—" He paused and let out a short laugh. "I thought it was a warning from the Force. I haven't had much luck with Mandalorians."
Obi-Wan looked back at him, now amused. "Indeed."
"But I understand it now. Or I think I do, anyway."
"It will be more difficult to rebuild without the boy," Obi-Wan said quietly. "Significantly so."
"I know that." He let out a deep breath. "And I haven't made a final decision yet."
"How long will you stay here?"
"As long as it takes for the both of them to heal," he replied, nodding towards the direction of the cabin. It was only a short walk from where he stood.
"Then you have time," Obi-Wan assured him, smiling softly.
To his surprise, the Mandalorian was awake and sitting up on the edge of his mattress when Luke ducked into the cabin. He gave only a brief glance towards the door in welcome, saying nothing.
"How is he?" Luke asked, undeterred, scraping his shoes on the bristle brush by the door. It was how all of their conversations began, brief and sporadic as they were.
The child was in the Mandalorian's lap, also awake, carefully being given small sips of soup by his father. Grogu wasn't strong enough yet to hold up a bowl by himself, so he needed assistance to eat—and he was very particular about who should help feed him.
The Mandalorian cleared his throat. "Good," he said quietly. "He's eating more today."
"You've been up long?" He moved over to the lone counter across from the door that constituted the kitchen, setting his spoils down on the rough wooden surface. It would probably do them for a few meals, he thought. Maybe he wouldn't have to hunt tomorrow. He needed to gut and dry what he'd caught, but it could wait until morning.
"In and out," the Mandalorian replied.
The cabin was quiet as Luke unpacked for the day, disrupted only by the soft noise of his movements and the occasional, contented ah the kid gave after downing a mouthful of soup.
The Mandalorian's armour was still piled up where it normally was as Luke moved towards his bunk, but its newfound sheen caught his eye, and he paused to look at it. "You cleaned your gear," he observed, and tilted his head slightly to watch the steel sparkle in the yellow lantern light. Luke had offered to clean it for him again—it wasn't like he was doing much else—but he had been met only with vehement refusal.
"Some of it," the man said, looking over at it with a dissatisfied frown. "It still needs a proper scrub."
"I meant—" Luke sat down on his own bunk with a huff, which sat opposite to the Mandalorian's. "You didn't strain yourself, did you?"
The man held the bowl of soup away from the baby and looked up at Luke. "It needed to be done," he replied, making Luke frown.
"Do you ever give straight answers?"
The comment took the Mandalorian aback; at first Luke thought it might have offended him, but then his mouth twitched into a faint smile. "When I want to," he said quietly.
The baby whined for more food and grabbed at the bowl. His movements were still weak, but he was more animated than he had been yesterday. The Mandalorian murmured something in a language Luke didn't know, his tone soft and chiding, before tipping the bowl back down for the baby to sip at it.
"He's gained weight," Luke mused, kicking off his boots and lying back on his cot, pulling his feet up with a relieved sigh at finally being able to sit down.
"His colour is coming back, too," the Mandalorian said. It was a rare, unprompted offer of information. Luke noticed that he always spoke more when the topic was about the child.
There were other things that he noticed, too. That the Mandalorian rarely maintained eye contact during conversation; that he flinched whenever Luke came inside, like he'd been caught in the middle of a private affair; that he'd stare for long periods of time at his armour. The second day they were here, Luke had woken in the middle of the night to find the Mandalorian sitting on the edge of his cot, holding his helmet in his hands, dark eyes scanning the visor as if there was something hidden written on its surface.
His connection with Grogu made it even easier to sense his emotions, but Luke still found it difficult to understand what they meant. Deeply empathetic to the terror of a personal identity crisis, Luke hadn't intruded, despite how curious he was. But maybe that was the wrong tact; the edges of the Mandalorian's register were messy and uneven, like a piece of cloth that had been suddenly ripped from its bolt.
Luke's eyes flicked back to the armour piled up in the corner as the Mandalorian turned his attention back to the baby, feeding him the last few mouthfuls of food. He didn't know much about Mandalorians. He knew they were fierce warriors, and that being hunted by one wasn't much fun. He knew they cared for their armour a great deal—and, if Obi-Wan was to be believed, they were deeply protective of their children.
That seemed to all check out, but he knew that wasn't the whole of it. There was something else. He remembered the first night they were here, when he'd helped the man remove his armour. He remembered how the man had spoken to him—quietly and gravely, as if he were dying.
"You said…" Luke began, settling more comfortably in his cot and staring up at the low ceiling. "You said that you couldn't put your helmet back on."
He was met with silence. He wanted to look over at the man, but decided against it. If he didn't want to talk about this, he would let Luke know—usually he would just roll over and go to sleep if he wasn't interested in talking. It initially reminded him of Han, who would sometimes do the same thing when he was in a particularly foul mood, but this didn't feel like that. The Mandalorian wasn't being rude, or at least not intentionally. He just liked being quiet.
Luke let the comment hang, trying not to feel too awkward, and watched as the Mandalorian stood up from his cot. His movements were stiff and deliberate, each use of every muscle carefully planned so as to avoid hurting himself. He let out a strained hiss of breath as he straightened to his full height, and limped slowly over to the counter to set the now-empty soup bowl down. The child stayed in his arms, tucked into the man's side as if the shallow hollow between his ribs and hip were carved out just for him.
The Mandalorian paused at the counter, looking over at the small, narrow fireplace beside it, where their miserable pot of soup hung. He seemed to be catching his breath from the exertion of his short walk, as well as gathering his thoughts.
"I can't," he said finally, his voice rough, as if he'd gone hoarse from shouting.
"Why?"
"Once it's removed, I can't put it back on again."
Luke sat up, leaning on a fist on the bed, incredulous. "Because of—of what happened at the dais? You did it to save—"
"I know why I did it," he interrupted, his tone forceful now. He still didn't look at Luke. "And it was before that. It was removed by someone else—in battle."
"On the cruiser?"
"Yes."
Luke glanced back at the set of armour. The Mandalorian looked so much smaller out of it. "What does that mean?" he asked after a moment. "You aren't a Mandalorian anymore?"
His head finally snapped in Luke's direction. He could see the anger on the man's face, plain and open. A muscle in his jaw twitched, like he was going to say something, and then his eyes cast to the floor.
"I'm sorry," Luke found himself saying. "We don't have to—I won't bring it up again if you don't want to talk about it."
The Mandalorian's throat worked. The uneven light of the fireplace and the sparse lanterns hung about the cabin cast his face in stark shadow, and his eyes looked nearly black. For a man so closed off, it was surprising to see how openly he allowed his emotions to scrawl across his face. The pain in his features was almost too raw to bear looking at.
The Mandalorian nodded then, face resolving into a look of steel, and moved back towards his cot, using the table for support as he did so. Luke laid back down on his own bed, giving him the leg room to make his way over.
They did not speak again that night. The Mandalorian stayed in his cot, his back turned away, his body curled protectively around the child. Luke didn't even try to talk to him, knowing he wouldn't get a response. Instead, he resigned himself to sleep, too tired to eat, and dreamt uneasily.
The room was cold when he woke.
Din opened his eyes and found a slatted wooden wall in front of him. By now he'd gotten over the disorientation of not waking in his own bunk; the wet, marshy smell that greeted him each morning was slowly becoming familiar.
He took a deep breath, as he did whenever he woke, and waited to see how his body responded. His ribs ached, a pain he knew wouldn't go away for a few months at least. The wound in his abdomen also flared at the movement; he needed to change the poultice Luke had helped him pack around it. It was painful, but not unmanageably so.
With a groan he rolled onto his back, looking up at the rafters. Weak, grey light filtered through the cracks. If it was dawn, it was still early in the sun's rising. His sleep pattern was erratic, his wounds dragging him from even the deepest of slumbers to demand his attention. This morning, it was hunger that woke him, and he counted that as a good sign. He hadn't felt properly hungry in a while.
There was a rustle of movement beside him, and when he flexed his hand, he found the solid warmth of the kid beneath it. With a soft smile, he looked down and pulled the blanket up, and saw the kid, still bleary with sleep, attempting to nestle more closely against him. He looked immensely grumpy at the disturbance, and let out an annoyed huff when he curled back up on the bed.
"Sorry," Din murmured, letting the blanket drop back down. He rubbed at his face with a sigh, trying to dispel the persistent grogginess that never seemed to fully go away. Stubble rasped against his palm; old sweat, too. Luke might have given him fresh clothes to wear, but he still needed to wash.
Din sighed again, head pressing deeper into the pillow. He should get up. He'd decided last night that he would go outside today, and for longer than just to relieve himself. He wanted to walk; he wanted to find a place where he could wash, and sit with the kid. This was the fourth morning they'd been on Dagobah, and he'd spent most of that time lying in this narrow bunk.
Slowly, he began the process of sitting up. The start-up pain was always the worst; he'd felt worse with each passing day, but he knew that would eventually fade. His body was angry with him right now, throbbing and aching and wincing from the abuse it had endured.
The kid grumbled again at this disturbance, having now been dislodged from his secure burrow of blankets, and blinked heavily when Din pulled him up from the bed and tucked him into his arm.
"Morning," he whispered, offering the kid one of his fingers. He reached out for it automatically, as if in habit, and wrapped his tiny claws around it as he blinked awake. The kid's grip strength was slowly returning; he was able to squeeze and hold his fingers around one of Din's own.
He glanced over at Luke's cot as he gathered the willpower to stand. The man was still sleeping, an arm thrown over his eyes. He must be used to sleeping in bright places, Din thought, and Dagobah certainly didn't qualify.
He got up carefully. He'd managed to do so dozens of times before, but with each instance he discovered some new twinge. Right now his left ankle was throbbing at him, and the base of his spine was upset with the strain. His hand still hurt, too, the joints swollen and aching. Din stood anyway, stretching to his full height, and counted it as a small triumph that his head wasn't swimming from the movement.
The kid shifted in his arms, cooing softly as he woke. Turning, he looked back at the bunk and found the little silver ball resting in the middle of the mattress. It seemed to disappear and reappear at random, and only the kid was able to keep track of its location. Din grabbed it and tucked it into a pocket for safekeeping. And then, with a wince, he began to make his way over to the table set up beside the small fireplace, grabbing a match and alighting the kindling still present beneath the pot.
It was slow going, and he had to pause once to catch his breath, but he managed to heat up and dish out two bowls of soup—one for him and one for the kid. Juggling breakfast and a baby, he made his way to the door.
The air outside the cabin was significantly cooler, sending a shiver through him. With a wince he sat down at the small, rickety iron table that was stationed just outside the door, and relaxed against one of the chairs with a sigh.
"You hungry?" he asked the kid as he set him and the bowls down, though he already knew the answer, and not just because the kid was almost always hungry. He could feel it in the back of his mind, faint but present. It was a phantom impression of a need that was not his own. The bizarre, dual dreams he'd had on the way to this planet hadn't surfaced again, but what came in their wake was a much subtler, ever-present kind of intuition about the kid.
Din stared down at him in his lap, meeting his large, dark eyes, and thought he finally understood what Ahsoka meant when she told him the kid could understand him. Not his words necessarily—at least, not all of them—but something else, something deeper. Was this what the kid had felt this entire time? Was that how Jedi seemed to know things they had no business knowing?
The kid was still sleepy, and seemed content to simply be held as Din watched him. He grabbed the smaller of the bowls off the table and offered it to the kid, who perked up only enough to accept a small sip of broth. He would ask Luke to look out for anything particularly fatty or protein-rich on his hunts; the kid was regaining his previous baby chub and dense centre mass, but he still looked too skinny and frail.
"How you feeling, hey?" he whispered, feeding the kid more sips. Whatever went on inside his little head was still a mystery to Din, but he seemed more or less like his normal, happy self. The kid was remarkably resilient, in spite of everything that had happened. It made his chest ache just to watch him, nestled back against his arm and acting as if this was just any other morning.
He looked out at the forest surrounding the hut, watching as morning fog began to curl off the endless puddles that dotted the ground. The sun was slowly rising, casting weak, grey-green light through the thick overhead canopy. He still couldn't sense whatever Luke had asked him about; all he saw and felt and heard was the marshy forests around them.
That was probably a good thing, he decided. If the ritual at the dais was any indication of how Jedi perceived the world, he wanted no part of it. Reality was overwhelming enough as it was without being aware of the fabric of the universe.
He felt a tug on his shirt and looked down at the kid, who was staring at him expectantly. "Sorry," he muttered, turning his attention back to feeding him.
Once the kid was finished with his breakfast, Din inhaled his own meal. The taste was one he'd gotten used to, though he was growing tired of soup every day. He supposed that was a good thing, too, in a way; his strength was returning, and with it, the energy to have an opinion about something, even a subject as banal as breakfast.
Despite the kid's extraordinary healing abilities, almost dying had kicked the shit out of him. It wasn't the first time he'd been badly injured, but this one was definitely the worst. He'd done little more than sleep since they'd arrived, and even after three days of solid rest he still felt shaky and unsure of himself. He knew it would take time, but he still disliked how exposed he felt.
And then there was his armour.
He felt at the collar of his shirt, where the faint indentation of his mythosaur necklace pressed against the fabric. This was the longest he'd ever been out of his beskar'gam since he was a boy. It felt like losing a limb; its absence weighed heavily on his body, which moved as if he still wore it. His gait accommodated for thick boots that were no longer there, and his arms hung at his sides to make room for phantom vambraces and faulds. The sensation of air on the back of his neck felt like the breath of an unseen foe, and the light from the sun—weak and filtered as it was—struck his eyes without the protective shield of his visor. His entire body was a single, exposed nerve, ready to be sliced open by the sharp and jagged edges of the world.
He would have to get used to it, he knew. The hollow numbness he felt still lingered, but it was slowly replacing itself with something far more difficult to contend with—a profound sense of loss. He could feel the vast swell of it approaching slowly, and he didn't know when it would hit him.
Din had watched a member of his covert once, wracked with grief, come to grips with the same thing that was slowly building in his chest. He'd been much younger when it had happened, and he remembered deciding then and there that he would rather die than work through that sort of pain.
There was another tug on his shirt, followed by an anxious coo. Flinching away from his own thoughts, he looked down at the kid; his eyes were wide and upset, and he let out another whine.
"It's okay," Din assured him quickly, and tucked him against his shoulder. He pressed his cheek to the kid's soft, fuzzy head, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. "You're okay."
There was an insistent nudge inside his mind. He knew it was the kid again—he didn't form words, but soft and simple impressions took their place, telling Din in no uncertain terms that he didn't want him to be upset.
He smiled. "I'm okay," he whispered then, correcting himself, and felt his throat tighten. He didn't know if he believed that, but he certainly wanted the kid to.
After a moment, Din felt the kid's body go lax against his shoulder, letting out a little sigh. It should bother him that the kid could so easily glean his emotions now, but deep down he knew that had always been the case, right from the moment they met. He'd just never been able to hear him until now.
Din sat with the kid for a while, watching the sun move through the trees as dawn properly broke. Speckles of sunlight struck the bare skin of his face, and he determined that it wasn't the worst sensation in the world.
He must have drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, because he was nudged back into consciousness from the kid struggling in his arms. Din sat up in the chair, wincing at the sudden movement, and looked down at the kid, slightly alarmed. "What is it?"
A tiny hand was extended outwards, grasping for something out of reach, and Din looked up to see the kid pointing at a small, frog-like animal crouched in a sun-warmed puddle, its filmy eyes narrowed to slits in contentment.
"I just fed you," he murmured, knowing that didn't matter in the slightest. When the kid's face began to scrunch in effort, Din cupped a palm around his outstretched hand, making the kid look up at him. "Don't do that. You aren't strong enough yet." He glanced back up at the frog and let out a sigh. "I'll get it for you."
Setting the kid down gingerly on the table, he slipped quietly back into the cabin. Luke was still asleep, so Din made his way over to his armour and grabbed his pistol. He was about to go back outside when he paused, frowning down at it. The frog was small enough that it would probably explode into pieces if he shot it. With a sigh he tucked it back into its holster and retrieved his knife instead.
The frog was still dozing in the puddle when he came back out, and the kid was watching it intently. He had his arm raised up again, like he was about to make the thing float in the air, and Din hurriedly grabbed his hand to stop him.
"What did I just say?"
The kid looked up at him, letting out a full-on whine this time, but Din was prepared for his doey-eyed pleading expression.
"I'm going to make a deal with you," he told the kid soberly, kneeling down in front of him and keeping a hold of his hand. "You don't use your powers until you feel better, and I won't… be sad all the time." He winced. That didn't sound right, but he didn't know how else to phrase it. "Does that sound fair?"
The kid stared at him. He seemed strangely contemplative, as if he were actually weighing and measuring the terms of their deal, though that was probably just his imagination. Din tried to grasp for that mental thread between them, to see how the kid felt, but it was like trying to catch smoke in his palm.
But the kid seemed to detect the attempt, feeble as it was, and responded with a tug. Yes, he thought the kid was trying to tell him, and smiled.
"Good." He let his hand fall away, and the kid tucked his arm back into his jumper. The frog, oblivious to the pact they had just made, was still minding its own business a few metres away. Din's hand tightened around the hilt of his knife as he stood back up and moved away from the table, trying to figure out how in the hell he was going to do this. His knife wasn't really meant for throwing, and if he missed it would startle the frog. He wasn't sure how easily the thing spooked, either, but he knew the creatures on this planet weren't used to having people around, and it certainly wouldn't be happy with him using it for target practice.
This wouldn't be an issue if I was wearing my armour. I could use the whipcord to snag the thing—
He pushed that from his mind, not allowing himself to dwell on it. Din chose his steps carefully, mapping out his approach. Best to circle around it, catch it unawares from behind. From the way the creature's eyes were situated on its head, it probably couldn't see him if he came up from behind. Probably.
Mud squelched under his bare feet, shockingly cold but not altogether unpleasant. Everything felt vibrant and intense—even the air he breathed was a startlingly crisp, and exhaling didn't heat his face as it normally did. It was distracting; he was used to the enclosed walls of his ship being a protective shell for him whenever he removed his helmet. Being outside, exposed as he was, was wrong.
The frog finally twitched, reacting to the sound of one of his footsteps. Din went still. He had a limited range of motion from all his injuries, and he was still too far away from the creature to dive for it. He clenched his jaw, considering his options.
He could get Luke, he thought, and felt an instant spike of resentment. No. He needed to learn how to solve problems on his own. If he couldn't even get the kid a meal, then what hope did he have of—
Focus.
He snuck a glance at the kid, who was seated patiently on the table with his hands in his lap. His eyes were glued to the frog, intent and waiting.
Din swallowed down his own creeping sense of helplessness and took a measured breath. He could catch a frog. This wasn't a big deal.
He took another step, picking a massive tree root as his foothold. It was much quieter than the mud, and he balanced his weight on that foot before pushing off of it and lunging for the creature.
Cold, wet earth coated the front of his borrowed shirt as he grabbed desperately for the frog, ignoring all the painful twinges that jarred at the impact. The frog croaked in alarm at the sudden movement, limbs coiling to leap away. Fumbling, Din caught one of its slimy legs and held fast, feeling its delicate bones bend in his palm. It let out a screech and squirmed furiously as he readied the knife in his other hand, its other limbs scrambling in the puddle and spraying water everywhere.
He was in too much pain to sit up, especially with his hands full, so he held fast instead. The thing was a lot stronger than he anticipated for a creature of its size. It jerked in his hand, working desperately to free itself, and he felt his grip already beginning to slip. Its skin was impossibly slick, and even the pressure of his fingers around its leg wasn't enough to keep a hold of it. Cursing, and wet with mud, Din swung the knife.
Its leg dislodged from his grasp, and the blade plunged into the shallow water where the frog had once been. With dawning horror he watched it wobble as it hopped clumsily into a patch of mud, favouring its other leg. Struggling to get his hands under him, Din rolled up onto his knees as the frog, recovered from its shock, escaped quickly into the forest.
Breathing hard, he wiped his arm across his face to smear away the muddy water as he sat back on his haunches. His body was screaming at him now, furious at the strain he'd put on his injuries, which all throbbed painfully in tandem. Looking over at the kid, he found him watching on in disappointment, ears drooping and large eyes wide.
Din tipped his head skyward and closed his eyes, breathing hard. Pressure built at his temples, the sting of failure sharp in his throat.
"Sorry," he whispered hoarsely, clenching his jaw. "I'm sorry."
Luke was rudely awoken by the muffled sounds of a man in pain. With a groan he sat up, rubbing at his face, and frowned when he saw that the Mandalorian's bunk was empty.
"Dammit." Half-asleep, he stumbled up from his bed, slipping on his boots and shuffling towards the door. Almost in afterthought, he grabbed his saber. There weren't a lot of creatures on this planet that were all that dangerous—as long as you stayed on land, anyway. But still.
Shielding his eyes from the dappled morning sun, he wandered outside the cabin to find the Mandalorian holding a long stick in both hands, doing something like drill sets. His eyes were closed, and his face was scrunched in concentration—and pain. No slaying of dragons, then. Just some very stiff-looking morning exercise.
He was also covered in mud.
"Morning," Luke said hesitantly, raising a brow. The man froze, eyes flying open, as if surprised Luke had found him. He was breathing heavily, and his face was shiny with sweat.
The improvised staff hung in the air, mid-swing. "I didn't mean to disturb you," the man said.
Luke shrugged, glancing at the little wrought iron table in front of the cabin. It was a luxury Leia had insisted on, a small breakfast table to sit at and drink tea in the mornings. Right now the only thing it housed was two empty bowls, a knife, and Grogu, who was staring up at Luke inquisitively, the little ball he seemed so obsessed with cupped in his two small hands. He nodded to the kid, smiling faintly.
Yawning, Luke stretched his arms out in front of him. "It's fine," he assured him, and looked back at the Mandalorian. He really needed to learn his name. "I see you're feeling better."
"Not really." He pulled up his dirty shirt tail to wipe at his face, walking back over to the table to rest his improvised staff against the side of the cabin. Luke spotted the now day-old bandages wrapped around his waist. They were dotted red and brown.
"I told you not to push yourself," Luke said then, and ducked back into the cabin before the Mandalorian could reply. He came back out with fresh bandages and the jar of poultice he'd made earlier, and motioned for the man to turn around and pull up his shirt.
The Mandalorian shot him a wary look, shifting his weight onto his back foot. He always looked a moment away from starting a fight, and Luke wondered if all Mandalorians were like that.
"Your bandages need changing," Luke insisted.
"I can do it," the man replied, hand outstretched. There seemed to be a permanent crease in his brow, and it was especially prominent at the moment. It meant the topic wasn't open for discussion.
"You can't reach your back."
"I can."
In a rare show of assertiveness, he met Luke's eyes. They were dark and unyielding, narrowed in challenge.
Luke sighed and passed the bandages to him, unwilling to have a stand-off, and sat down on one of the chairs. They were flaking with rust, but were sturdy enough despite the wear and tear.
He watched the Mandalorian turn his back, pulling up the front of his shirt to unwind the old wrappings. Beside Luke, the baby cooed, and he turned to find a much brighter and more amicable conversational companion.
"You're looking better," he murmured, smiling when the kid's ears perked up. He felt the happy and simple presence of Grogu's register—it was brighter even compared to last night. He was healing well, and quickly.
The Mandalorian's hand entered his field of view, grabbing the knife from the table before quickly retreating. Luke looked up and saw that he was slicing off a long strip of sterile linen, the corner of his shirt held between his teeth as he attempted to apply a fresh poultice to his wounds.
Luke leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. "You don't want help." It wasn't really a question.
The Mandalorian's eyes flicked to him, annoyance evident, before turning away again and glancing back down. The wound was twofold; both entry and exit, and the one on his lower back was particularly difficult to get at by himself.
"Is your dad always this grumpy?" Luke whispered to the kid, who babbled in reply. The silent mirth that sprang forth from Grogu was more than enough of an answer.
It was an entertaining spectacle to watch the man, if infuriating. Juggling a knife, fresh bandages, and the jar of poultice, the Mandalorian had a difficult enough time as it was without awkward angles and additional injuries that limited his mobility. He managed to get the old bandages off, but a string of foul curses came out of the man as a fresh strip of sterile cloth fluttered to the ground, instantly soiled.
Luke stood up with a sigh, approaching from behind. "Hold up your shirt. Or take it off, it's filthy."
"I'm fine—"
"I'm not arguing with you." He reached around and grabbed the jar from the man, which made him go rigid with anger. The Mandalorian glared off into the woods, silently fuming.
"Take off your shirt," Luke said again, more softly this time. "Please and thank you."
There was another moment of glowering, but the Mandalorian finally conceded with a harsh sigh. "Fine." He struggled out of the garment before tossing it onto the back of one of the chairs, and then stood taut in front of Luke, looking like he was about to bolt at any moment.
Luke ignored him and took the bandages from him too, ripping off a fresh strip. When he decided the Mandalorian wasn't going to turn around and hit him or flee into the woods, Luke began by packing the poultice against the gash at his back. This one hadn't opened, but it was red and inflamed. He hoped it was from exertion, not infection. They would have to leave Dagobah if that were the case.
"You don't have a fever, do you?" he asked as he walked around the Mandalorian, guiding the fresh bandage to wind about his waist. The man was still rigid, still clearly uncomfortable with this level of assistance and personal proximity, but his voice was more weary than ill-tempered when he spoke.
"No." He held the bandage in place around his stomach with a hand as Luke completed another walk around. "It's just irritated."
The stab wound in his front was in worse shape. A small part of the seam of healing skin had opened, and blood was oozing out. The Mandalorian hissed when Luke pressed the poultice mixture against it.
"What were you practicing?" Luke asked as he worked, only half-expecting an answer.
"Mandalorian drill sets," he said vaguely. "It's been awhile since I fought with a spear."
"You mean the one you brought with you?" It was still stashed in the X-Wing, along with his jetpack.
"Yes."
Not a great conversationalist, Luke noted. That wasn't surprising; he'd barely spoken the last three days, but Luke had mostly chalked that up to exhaustion and trauma. Apparently he wasn't fond of talking in general.
"Is that why your shirt is covered in mud?"
"I was trying to catch a frog," he muttered. Luke paused and glanced up at him at that, but the man refused to elaborate. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on something indistinct in the middle distance.
"Maybe that's enough for today," Luke hedged, continuing his walk around. "You look tired."
"I need to clean my armour," the Mandalorian said instead of answering him, ignoring the suggestion. "Is there a place to wash here?"
Luke tied off the bandage and stepped back. The Mandalorian immediately did the same, eyeing him warily. He liked his personal space, too.
"Uh, there's a small… well, not a waterfall, but it's a channel in the root system that runs off into a pond. It's not far."
The man nodded, looking back towards the cabin. "I'll need your help moving it," he said, almost grudgingly.
"Not now," Luke objected, drawing his ire once more. "You're—look at you! I can see you swaying around from here."
"I'm fine," he repeated, like words alone could mask the painful pinch of his features, or the unnatural amount of sweat on his face, or the overall unsteady look of him.
Luke walked over and shoved him down into the chair. It barely took anything; just a simple nudge of his shoulder, and he fell back into the seat. The Mandalorian hissed, and jerked his shoulder to dispel Luke's hand. The two glared at each other, but Luke wasn't the one who had just fallen on his ass.
The man's nostrils flared. He projected every single emotion that passed through him on his face. His body language was defensive and poised for a fight, but his expression told a different story. The look in his eyes was cagey and a bit desperate, like he was trying to prove something, and Luke suspected it wasn't him the Mandalorian was trying to do the proving to.
"In the evening," Luke said. "We'll see how you feel. But not now."
The man's throat worked. "I said I'm fine," he replied, the words careful and slow. He didn't meet his eyes.
Luke looked at Grogu, who had gone quiet. He was watching his father, his earlier joy replaced with a deep and helpless kind of concern.
Luke sighed and sat down across from him. He desperately wanted some breakfast, along with a cup of tea, but they needed to have this conversation first. "You're no longer just yourself," he said quietly, and the Mandalorian looked up. "I know you can feel Grogu now. His moods, and maybe even some of his thoughts."
The Mandalorian had an arm braced on the table. He reached over to Grogu, offering his index finger. The kid let go of the ball and let it drop into his lap, grabbing instead onto the proffered finger. The Mandalorian's expression relaxed.
"Not his thoughts, exactly," he said, voice softer now. "It's just—a vague sense, in the back of my head."
Luke nodded. "It's reciprocal." The man's eyes flicked up to him at that, and he continued. "He can feel that you're upset."
His finger wiggled slightly. The kid continued to hold on, and his shoulders shrugged to dispel some of his irritation. "Well, I'm upset," he replied, almost in defeat. "I can't make it go away. I need to—I need to clean my armour."
He glanced over the Mandalorian's shoulder, at the spear he'd improvised. He'd pared down the rough edges of it with his knife, but it was still crude, and not nearly long enough to train with. Whatever demons the Mandalorian was battling, he seemed to feel very strongly about them. "I'll get the rest of your things from the ship," Luke told him. "You can have your spear back—as long as you don't push yourself."
The Mandalorian's mouth twitched. It took him a moment to respond. "Sure," he said finally, quiet and a little reluctant.
"Good. I have one question, though."
He looked up from the kid, his finger going still. "Yes?"
"Can you tell me your name?"
His expression flickered again. Annoyance, mistrust, apprehension. Then, resolve. "Din," he said. "My name is Din."
Luke smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Din."
The Mandalorian laughed softly at that, as if he'd told a joke, but said nothing more, turning his attention back to Grogu, who had let go of his fingers and was now holding his arms up to be held.
Standing up from the table, Luke ducked inside the cabin again, intent on making tea. It was clear their conversation was over.