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I would die for this.
I would die for my religion.
I would die for my creed.
The words run on repeat in his head, said in his native tongue, his mind in its most primal state.
There’s life force leaking from him. Red, each jab of pain punctuated by an insistent, sinister warmth beneath him, sticky and crimson.
“Mando….” Your words are a sob, perhaps a shriek compared to the quiet that had fittingly succeeded the previous cacophony of a fight, the previous cacophony of a panic and a hit. “I-I have to take it off. Din, I have to.”
Your fingers are hovering, trembling like leaves ready to fall, finished yet refusing to let go. Tears run down your cheeks. He thinks it’s a crime to your beauty. “You can’t,” he mutters.
Focus.
I would die for this, I would die for my religion, I would die for my creed.
I will die for this.
It calms him, steadies him with the type of purpose that people will willingly perish for, willingly make themselves a martyr for.
Yet you are anything but calm. “Don’t be a fucking idiot, I have to take it off, Din, I—“
Your words are harsh against the calmness in his mind, disturbing it, hindering it.
I will die for this. I will…
Your fingers probe at the red pouring from the bottom of his helmet, dirtying your hands. They fly to the sides of it next, resting there, the conflict in your eyes barely hidden. It would take one tug. One movement. One decision to both end and save it all.
“Don’t,” he hisses. It’s terrifyingly instinctive as his hand flies to the pistol at his belt, uncomfortably warm fingers savoring the coolness of his weapon. Another part of his religion that will aid in his death.
You watch his digits curl, watch them grasp the device so suited to his nature. There’s the fear, the inevitable hesitance. He knows what you’re thinking: that he wouldn’t. He certainly wouldn’t. But maybe….
He doesn’t know if he would or wouldn’t either.
A ragged cough leaves his lips, the throb in his head increasing tenfold, the blood seemingly finding its way everywhere—his eyes, his nose, obstructing his breathing beyond the already rapid hammer of his chest.
He’s scared.
I would die for this. I will die for this.
A shuddering breath leaves his lips. He’s shaking.
Your fingers curl around the hand at his pistol, slowly attempting to pull it away. There’s less resistance than he believes there will be.
I don’t want to die.
Eyes trained on his, hesitant yet somehow still filled with an underlying certainty, a knowledge of him at his core.
“Din…,” you murmur, hands resuming their place at his helmet.
“Please,” he chokes. Please don’t. Please do. He doesn’t know anymore. It’s instinct against loyalty and preservation against creed.
The first tug is a warning, testing the waters.
I would die…I would die for this. He’s going. He can feel it. He can feel it, and he doesn’t want it.
Apology, encouragement, they all radiate off you as you slowly pull upwards, careful not to agitate the wound.
I would…I would…maybe I’d die for you —the only one who touches me like I’m worth something. This won’t be how I go.
And when his eyes see light, he knows it’s done, and he knows it’s over.
He lays there, faintly aware of you frantically rushing about the ship, grabbing medical supplies, fingers working on him with a tenderness that he’s rarely ever felt. The pain barely fazes him, for he’s trapped in a haze, knowing that your eyes are now free to rake over his features, take in every bit of him that he’d concealed for so long.
And when you’re finished, once it’s over, once countless tears and panics and bouts of intense concentration have passed, something else is over. It’s done.
You’re removing his armor. He can feel everything as the cool air hits his skin, as you help him over to the bunk, straining under his weight.
As he regains his orientation, it fully hits him.
Of course you can see him, no longer concealed by his barrier—but now, he can finally see you.