Chapter Text
When Din entered the common house, he was surprised to find that Karga was not seated in his usual booth. In fact, as he scanned the room, he couldn’t seem to locate Karga at all. He supposed that shouldn’t be surprising; it was early in the morning, after all, and most of Karga’s former employees were likely still sleeping off their spotchka. The main room was practically barren, save for a couple of patrons at the bar–one wide-awake morning-bird, one cranky night-owl, both nursing mugs of caff.
Well. Din had nothing to do but wait. He sat down on the end of the bar and ordered the same as the other two, laying a couple of credits on the bartop. The mug plunked in front of him, foaming with an almost-sinister shade of black caff inside. Gingerly, turning three-quarters on his stool, he lifted the edge of his helmet, just enough to sip a small mouthful, then curse when it burned his tongue. He felt more than saw the crank’s curious, bleary eyes on him; well, what did he think Mandalorians did when they needed to eat and drink? Din rolled his eyes. He’d heard some pretty wild theories. Anything from tubing running through the arms and into the mouth, to some helmets having a drop chute in them, or even the absurd idea that Mandalorians didn’t need to eat at all–that they could go weeks without even a drink of water, and a full galactic year without food. Of course, while in the Corps, he’d trained for starvation situations, but nothing that ridiculous. Din’s shoulders stiffened as he heard the crank take in a breath to ask are you allowed to lift your helmet like that?–
“Mando!”
Thank the ka’ra. Setting his mug down on the bartop, Din stood and greeted Greef Karga as he swept into the common house. Swept being the operative term–the fancy new magisterial robes suited Karga well, billowing behind him as his voice bellowed before.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, gripping Din’s arm in greeting. “I don’t know why my higher-ups insist on meeting as soon as the sun rises, but I’m not yet in a position to complain about it. Oh, none for me, thank you,” he commented to the barman. Then, turning back to Din: “Come on–let’s talk.”
Din followed Karga into his “office”: a little private room off in the corner of the main hall, sparsely dressed with a simple table and a few chairs. It had once been cluttered with paperwork and bounty pucks, but, since Karga’s appointment, and subsequent relocation to the newly-rebuilt magistrate’s residence, it had been stripped down to the bones.
“I would have had you meet me at the house, but I know how much you like the quiet.” The two men sat across from one another, Karga leaning back in his chair, Din sitting straight, but comfortable. “So, how’re the kids?”
Din smirked under his helmet. After the Incident, he’d finally come clean with Greef and invited him up to the house on the mesa. Omera had opened the door, and Greef’s eyebrows had shot up. Winta had come around the corner with the baby in her arms, and they’d practically flown off of his head. Now, every time he so much as brushed shoulders with Din on the street, he wanted to know every movement of every member of the family. Karga even invited himself to dinner on occasion, and had invited Din and his family to the magisterial residence to return the favor.
“They’re fine,” Din replied. “The kid’s going to start training soon, and Winta’s been working hard in her apprenticeship.”
“I see–and that beautiful wife of yours? Last time I was over, she wasn’t doing too well–being in the family way can be mighty rough.”
A shot of pride bloomed in Din’s chest.
“The sickness is starting to ease up. Thank you.”
“Of course, of course. That’s actually part of why I’ve asked you here.” Karga tucked one of his boots over the other. “You said you’d like to keep your boots on the ground for the near future, yes? Especially with your family growing by one.”
Din nodded. Karga’s smile grew.
“Well, then, I’ve got an offer for you. As you know, I’m doing my damndest to clean up this town–make it the most reputable, respectable little place in the Outer Rim. But it is slow going, without the right people in the right places.”
“And you want my help.”
“Exactly.”
Din rolled his shoulders. “What would you have me doing?”
With an anticipatory grin, Karga started rummaging around in his robes.
“Well,” he explained, “as Magistrate, I have the power to appoint my own officers and representatives. And as it so happens…”
Karga removed his hand, and, with a small flourish, placed something heavy on the table.
“I find myself in need of a marshal.”
Slowly, Din reached out and took the marshal’s badge in his hand. It looked practically newly-minted, as if it had been polished for this very occasion. The Republic insignia engraved on the steel stared up at him, reflected his visor into itself.
“...Thank you, Karga. Really,” Din said, touched. “But, ah…I’ve got a…slight record. With the Republic.”
“Ah, but that’s just it!” Karga lightly rapped the table for emphasis. “I’ve already made your case before the Republic, and they are more than happy to overlook some past indiscretions in order to say that they’ve got a Mandalorian looking out for this town. And what better Mandalorian than Din Djarin, who spit in the Empire’s eye–twice?”
“You offered my name up, even before offering me the job?”
Karga shrugged, leaned back again.
“I knew what you’d say. Care to say it out loud for me?”
Din weighed the badge in his hand, turned it to see all the angles of his helmet in its reflection. He’d never exactly been…respectful with the law, treating it more like a set of guidelines, rather than the immovable Creed he’d been sworn to above all else. And now he was going to be working to enforce the laws he’d always bent. But still…a steady income. Being close to home, should his family need him. A respectable title. Respect. How it terrified him. How he craved it.
Din closed his hand around the badge.
“I’m in.”
“Hey Mando!” The morning-bird patron from the bar poked her head into the door. “There’s another one of you out there.”
Din’s brow came together under his helmet. The only other Mandalorian in town was the Armorer, and she preferred to travel at night, or early in the morning, so as not to be seen. If the Armorer was out in the daylight…something must be wrong. Clipping the new badge onto his belt, Din stood and brushed past the woman at the door, mind buzzing with worst case scenarios.
Instead of the Armorer, he encountered a giant.
Not quite Wookiee-sized, but close enough, the stranger in the bottle-green Mandalorian armor was built like a barrel, with the wild, frayed edges of an auburn beard frizzing out from under his helmet. He was armed to the teeth with a bandolier and blasters, but perhaps even more intimidating was the melee weapon he carried–a massive polearm, with a wicked pike on the tip and a razor-sharp greataxe below it. As Din stepped onto the street, the stranger hefted the halberd onto his shoulder and raised a hand in greeting.
“ Oya, vod!” His voice was as broad as its speaker, but far friendlier than his appearance. “I am looking for Din Djarin. Do you know him?”
Din looked around. A small crowd had gathered–after all, a Mandalorian wasn’t exactly common, much less as conspicuous a Mandalorian as the stranger was. Revealing his identity in front of a crowd was also something to be considered–
“You’re looking at him!” Din cast an irritated glance back at Karga, though Karga couldn’t see it. He felt the less reputable bandits in the throng taking mental notes, connecting the “tin can” with the name.
The giant, meanwhile, let out a long wheeze that escalated into a riotous laugh. He swung the halberd down to attention by his left side, pounding his heart with his fist.
“ Ner Mand’alor! Forgive me–I did not recognize you,” he exclaimed, coming forward and clasping Din’s arm. “The journey has been long, and we are all quite tired.”
“...We?”
The giant leaned in conspiratorially. “You did not think I come alone, did you? Ah, but I have forgotten my manners.” He then drew himself to his full height, somehow even taller than before.
“I am Rikkar, son of Mikken,” he boomed, “leader of Clan Azgar. And we have come to answer the call of the Mand’alor.” He then swept into a low bow, bending practically in half at the waist. “We are at your service.”
Din’s eyes widened as a flush flowed down his cheeks. The crowd were elbowing each other now, and their eyes mined through his beskar. He even heard some snickering. Unfreezing, he hastily signaled for Rikkar to straighten back up.
“Thank you…Rikkar,” he said quietly. “Why don’t we go talk somewhere else?”
For the first time, Rikkar seemed to notice that they were in public. He readjusted himself, awkwardly cleared his throat.
“Er–yes, ner alor, ” he grumbled, gesturing for Din to follow him. “Come.”
As they made their way out of the crowd and into the winding streets leading to the edge of town, Rikkar seemed to deflate–but not out of shame. Rather, it seemed the giant was… humbling himself. Before him. Din Djarin, previously from nowhere, kin to no one. Rikkar leaned in, bowed like a branch weighed down by rain, clapping a hand on Din’s shoulder as they walked.
“I hope I have not embarrassed you, ner alor. The customs of Clan Azgar’s home world require such a ritual of introduction when one is addressing a leader.”
“No, it’s–it’s fine. And please just call me Din.”
“Din.” Like a staccato strike on a bass drum. “So I will call you.”
“Where is your home world, anyway?”
Rikkar’s voice turned wistful.
“We come from Levna–a little green planet on the edge of wild space. Ah, it is a beautiful place, ner– Din. And it is under sad circumstances that we leave it. But come, I will tell you all of this when we are at base camp.”
“Base camp?”
Rikkar chuckled warmly and waved his arm towards the horizon.
“As I say…the whole might of Clan Azgar is yours.”
The bottom of Din’s stomach dropped to his toes. When he’d first sent out the call to the other coverts (wherever they could be found), he’d expected a slow trickle of single warriors, or clusters of family units at most–not an entire village , all at once. There had to be at least a hundred people in the camp, and each one, save for the children and the elders, was kitted out in their full armor, a sea of brightly colored capes and kamas all fluttering in the dry breeze.
“ VOD’E!” At its full strength, Rikkar’s voice echoed across the plain like thunder. Everyone in the base camp stopped in their tracks. Rikkar took Din’s hand and raised it in the air.
“ THIS IS OUR MAND’ALOR!”
The camp erupted in cheers. They all surged forward, the children sprinting ahead of the grown-ups, giggling and racing one another, and the thought struck Din like a blastershot: I am not qualified for this.
The wave made impact as the children reached him and began to circle, firing questions: is that real beskar? Do you really have the Darksaber? Can I see it? Can I touch it? Whoa, you’re so cool! Come play with us! Mama, Mama, look, it’s the Mand’alor! The grown-ups came next, more restrained, but no less excited, so many hands reaching out to shake his hand, to touch his pauldrons, his chestplate, his cape, so many voices in unison cacophony to welcome him, and even a few elders had left their seats and joined the throng, one toothless old man taking Din’s hand and thanking the ka’ra that he had lived to see the day of the Mand’alor’s return–Din’s head spun–the air whistled shrill in his ears–
He found himself being buffeted forward, ushered and shielded by Rikkar, into the camp, through the maze of tents and cookfires. Over the heads of the crowd, Din could make out the hulking shape of a beat-up commercial transport ship, dented and coated in carbon from missile fire.The hatch door was open, but a curtain was strung across the entryway, swaying in the wind. Rikkar gave Din a shove, and he became briefly tangled in the cloth before righting himself on the other side.
“All right, that’s enough!” Rikkar’s arm raised again, and bit by bit, the crowd backed off. “There will be time enough to meet our Mand’alor at the feast tonight!”
“Wait, a feast? I–” Din hated that he was asking so many questions. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to have all the answers?
“Of course!” Rikkar said as he yanked the curtain closed. “How else should we celebrate the new day coming for our people?”
Din felt motion-sick. He braced his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, in and out, and wished Omera was there, if only to hold his hand.
Rikkar, oblivious to Din’s shift in body language, clapped his hands together and made his way further into the empty, ragged transport.
“Come, come,” he said, beckoning for Din to follow him, “let me introduce you to my family.”
More introductions. Din swallowed hard as he followed Rikkar up the steps and into the upper deck of the transport, hoping that Rikkar’s family might be less boisterous.
It was, as he’d feared, a futile hope. Even as he came up the stairs, Din could hear a pair of voices bickering:
“You cheated!”
“How the hell do you cheat at arm wrestling?”
“By kicking me in the nuts under the table!”
As he surfaced over the edge of the railing, Din’s eye landed on the sources of the argument. In the center of the upper deck, two teenage boys were arguing across a large, round table. A younger boy–about Winta’s age, Din would guess–stretched out his legs on one of the bench seats lining the walls, scribbling in a notebook with single-minded concentration–concentration that was just starting to falter as the two teenagers shot from their seats and squared up to one another.
“I didn’t do that!”
“Tell that to my nuts , di’kut!”
The two started to grapple, and the younger boy looked up with detached fascination–
“ Enough!” Rikkar roared as he balled his fists into the young boys’ cowls and yanked them apart. “Pull yourselves together! We have a guest!”
Immediately, they sobered, muttering “yes sir”s under their breaths and falling into sullen postures of attention.
“Thank you for handling that, my love!” From the back of the long room, a woman bustled forward. Red-cheeked and dark-freckled, with a long black and white braid swinging down her back, she stood two heads shorter than Rikkar, but exuded no less energy than her husband. As she approached, she finished wiping her hands on a towel and tucked it into her apron string. “I was about to, but you beat me to it.” She came to Rikkar’s side and put her arm around his waist–or, at least, halfway across his back. Din watched as her bright gray eyes took him up and down. “So…is this him?”
“It is.” Rikkar’s voice turned tender–almost gentle. “Isolde–my love, my bride–meet Din Djarin. Our Mand’alor.”
Isolde’s smile beamed even brighter as she held out her hands, red, cracked, hard-worn. Din took them in his own and was hardly surprised by the strength of her grip.
“Oh, how wonderful–wonderful to meet you at last, Mand’alor!”
“Just Din, please. Thank you for…having me in your home.”
“The honor is ours! Well,” she amended, casting an apologetic gaze around her, “this isn’t exactly a home. But that will soon change, won’t it?”
Without warning, Isolde snatched her hands back from Din and put them around the teenagers’ shoulders, pushing them in front of her.
“Here–let me introduce you to our boys–twins, Jorra and Ali.” Both boys inclined their heads, sheepish. “And Nicco, our youngest. Nicco?”
Nicco, now curled up tight in his seat, made no move to stand–or, even, to look up from his work.
“Hm?”
“Stand up, ad’ika– show respect!”
Din waved her off.
“No, really, it’s all right. He looks busy.”
From over the edge of the sketchbook, Nicco met Din’s eyes behind his visor and shot him a shy smile. Reflexively, Din returned it.
Isolde sighed, then gave a low, long-suffering laugh.
“Always with the drawing and writing, that one. Can hardly get him to stop long enough to eat. Ah–speaking of which! You’re just in time for our midday meal! Come–eat!”
“Wait.”
A voice, crackling like aged vellum, called out from the shadows at the edge of the room. The rest of the family parted, and Din’s eye landed on an ancient woman, small of stature and crone-withered, sitting cross-legged on a massive pile of cushions. Her dry white hair was thick, whisked into a braid and twisted onto the top of her angular head. In fact, her face was all angles, while her body was all roundness and soft shapes. One of her hands worried at the edge of a shawl, while the other gesticulated, palm-up, towards them.
“You don’t introduce him to your mother, Rikkar?” she said. “Come–let me see him.”
The anxiety that had been brewing in Din’s stomach reached a rolling boil.
“...See me?”
“Oh,” the crone chuckled, “do not be afraid, boy. Baba cannot see you–only feel what is there. Your Creed will stay intact. Favor an old woman, child. Come to me.”
Din couldn’t move. His boots had rooted into the floor, through the first level of the transport, and deep, down into the core of the planet.
“Here,” Rikkar encouraged as he pushed Din forward with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “We will turn our backs. We will not see.”
“But he’s already seen our faces, Dad,” interjected one of the teenagers–Din had already forgotten which was which.
“And he does not wish you to see his,” Rikkar scolded. “Turn around, Ali. Now.”
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Ali turned, as did his brother. Nicco reburied himself in his pen and paper–with no intention of looking up. Rikkar and Isolde followed suit, turning their backs to him until Din was, effectively, alone. Alone with the old woman. As he approached her makeshift throne, Baba’s blindness became obvious. Her eyes sat like two smooth riverstones, deep in their hooded sockets, owl-like. Uncanny. Chewing her gums together, Baba held out her hands, flexing long, knotted fingers. Waiting.
Din crouched before her, and, trying desperately to quell the fried nerves inside him, slowly removed his helmet.
The pads of Baba’s fingers, silky with what must have been a century of use, brushed against his ears first, then his hair. Then, they traced down his jaw, cupping his chin. “Mm–a strong jaw,” she hummed. Suddenly, Baba pinched his cheeks–something no one had done to him since he was little more than a baby. “But these cheeks! So thin!” Din blushed. “Do you not eat, boy?”
“I–I do, ma’am.”
“Bah–it is okay–we will fill you out,” Baba continued, ignoring Din’s reply. “And call me Baba–everyone does.” Her fingers wandered further into his face, tracing the arch of–“What a nose! Like a mountain face!”
“ Mama!”
“Oh, hush, ad’ika– it is a noble nose!” Din was baffled, but before he could think too hard about Rikkar being called a little–well, anything–or about how a nose could possibly be noble, Baba’s fingers made contact with his lips. And the scar. She froze, hummed pensively to herself, low in the back of her throat. Carefully, she traced the scar’s path, first down his chin, then up over his lip, around the hollow of his nostril, and up to its termination. When her fingers hit the eyepatch, she started, ever so slightly. Then, with a tenderness Din hadn’t expected from a stranger, swept the backs of her fingers from his cheekbone to his temple.
“This hurt.”
“...Yes, Baba.”
“But well earned, I gather, from the stories. Yes,” Baba’s voice lightened again, and she gave Din’s face one last squeeze. “Every inch as handsome as a Mand’alor should be. Put your helmet back on, child–Baba’s finished.” As she released him with a wave of her hands, Din couldn’t help but keep staring into her moon-filmed eyes, useless. But her fingers, skeletal and translucent– alive –had not just seen him. They had exposed him. Trying to ignore that naked feeling, Din quickly pulled the helmet back onto his head.
“All right. You can turn back around now.”
As they all did so, Isolde wiped her hands on her apron and gestured toward the table.
“Right,” she said as she made her way back to the makeshift cooktop, where a pot was about to burble over, “please–sit. Food will be ready in a moment.”
Din felt as if he’d been holding his breath underwater for an hour, with a weight tied around his ankles, pulling him down, down, down. He needed air. Desperately, savagely needed air.
“Thank you–really. It’s too kind of you.” His voice and sentiment felt hackneyed and fake, and Din hated it. “But I do need to get home. My wife is waiting on me, and I’d like to let her know you’re here.”
Rikkar, still oblivious, gave him a broad smile and waved him off.
“Oh, of course! Jorra, go with the Mand’alor and make sure he finds his way back to us.”
“No, no–it’s fine,” Din interrupted, almost too quickly, before reining in his tone again. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your meal. I’ll just input the coordinates, and I’ll bring my family back with me. For the feast. Tonight.”
“All right.” Something akin to understanding flitted across Isolde’s face as she spoke–a quieter understanding. “We’ll be waiting for you, ner alor.”
Slowly, deliberately, on a deep exhale, Din gave a short bow to excuse himself before turning his back to them, his heart a dizzy hummingbird against his beskar.
I am not ready for this.