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The Jedi comes to Tatooine, and it takes a blaster aimed between the other man’s eyes before Din realises who is standing before him.

“Skywalker?” he utters in disbelief. He remembers seeing the Jedi up on that grassy hill with Grogu, where Ahsoka reminded him that the best thing for the kid’s training was for him to stay away. What the kark is he doing here on Tatooine?

Skywalker raises his hands placatingly. “Peace, Mandalorian,” he says. “I do not come here as an enemy.”

Din realises that his blaster is still raised, barrel pointed toward the Jedi’s face. He lowers it carefully and drops it back into its holster. “I don’t understand why you’re here at all,” Din says. He feels a swift pang of worry. “Where is Grogu? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine.” The Jedi smiles softly - whether in amusement at his expense or approval, Din isn’t quite sure. “He’s waiting back on the ship, actually, with Artoo.”

Din blinks. “He … why? Is there something wrong?”

“Not necessarily, but there is something I need to discuss with you before you see him.” Skywalker gestures vaguely before them, and asks, “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

“I have found temporary lodging on the outskirts of Mos Eisley. We won’t be interrupted there.” Din jerks his chin in the direction of his hut and starts walking, staying in step with Skywalker so that he can keep the Jedi in his line of sight. 

The skies are just brushing against sunset in Tatooine. The sinking twin suns spread golden rays across the sands and paint hues of red and pink over the dune sea, the light breeze dusting their ankles and brushing the hair back from Skywalker’s face. It gives the atmosphere around them an almost otherworldly haze and Din blames that for the glance he leaves lingering a little too long on the Jedi, noting the way he looks much more boyish like this, robes fluttering around him like a cloud and eyes scanning their surroundings with an almost reminiscent gaze.

It is the Jedi who finally breaks their silence. “I gave Grogu a choice after you left,” he says. “I offered for him to continue his training in the Force, or to return to you.” He smiles, and there’s something distinctly sad in it. “I don’t think I need to tell you who he chose.”

“Wait.” Din stops walking. “You made him decide?”

Skywalker frowns. “Yes. I wanted him to be able to choose his own path. I wanted him to make that choice on his own.”

“That doesn’t sound like a choice,” Din replies. “That sounds like an ultimatum.”

Skywalker stops. Pauses. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you made him choose between his Jedi training and me. Why can’t he have both? Why can’t he be a padawan and a foundling?”

“That’s impossible,” the Jedi replies, but his tone is uncertain. Din wonders if this is the first time the concept has ever dawned upon him.

“According to my alor,” he says, the Mando’a spilling from his mouth without thought, “There was once a Mandalorian ruler who had trained in the ways of the Jedi.”

Skywalker appears thoughtful. “I’ve never heard of such a story.”

“Neither had I.”

They continue walking, the Jedi matching his steps stride for stride. “I suppose it could work,” Skywalker says haltingly. “It would be … unconventional, to say the least. I may know little about Mandalorian culture but I understand it is rather different from the Jedi way.”

“Perhaps that is a good thing,” Din says, unable to keep the edge from his tone.

The Jedi does not seem offended. If anything, he seems contemplative. “Perhaps.”

“Ahsoka told me about the Jedi’s rule surrounding attachments. She said that they can be dangerous for a Jedi.”

Skywalker hums. “That is true.”

“Then it is the opposite of my Creed.”

“What does your Creed say about attachments?” the Jedi asks, and his words are not sharp - they’re curious.

Din waits a moment before speaking. Thinks about how he might put something so complicated into words. “To Mandalorians, attachments are considered a strength. Family and clan are more important than anything else. We defend them with our lives, and draw strength from such devotion. To the Creed, loyalty is everything. It is not a weakness.”

Skywalker is silent for a moment. He huffs quietly, the hollowest of smiles on his face. “I might have argued the same thing a few years ago.”

The comment puzzles Din, but he leaves it alone. He gets the impression the Jedi wouldn’t elaborate upon it anyway. “When can I see Grogu?” he asks instead, finding that every moment spent knowing the child is so near leaves him increasingly restless, like he might simply go and find Grogu himself. 

“Soon,” the Jedi says. “I just wanted to make sure that you are willing for him to return to you.”

Din almost scoffs. Of course he is willing. The child is all he has been able to think about for months, since he watched him disappear behind those closed elevator doors. But-

“I want him to continue his training.”

The Jedi sighs. “You’re certain about this.” It’s not framed as a question, and Din doesn’t take it as one.

“It’s what’s best for the kid. I want to raise him as a foundling, but I don’t want him to forsake his heritage to do so,” he explains.

Skywalker nods, something unreadable in his gaze. “I understand. I … “ He trails off awkwardly, and Din notes that this is the first time he has ever seen the Jedi exhibit anything other than surety and serenity. “You are an admirable father, Mandalorian,” he finally says, quietly and carefully. “Grogu is lucky to have found someone like you.”

Din’s entire being stutters to a stop at the word father. Perhaps that is what he is, now. 

He finds he doesn’t mind at all.

“I’ll bring you to him now,” the Jedi says. “He’s very excited to see you, and I sense that if I leave him any longer he’ll bully Artoo into bringing him to us.”

“So I can see him? It won’t hinder his training?” Din asks hopefully. He would have recoiled at the vulnerability in his voice were he not so preoccupied with thoughts of his son.

His son.

Skywalker smiles again, but this time it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Yes. You can see him.”

The Jedi leads him to his ship, hidden behind a hangar on the outskirts of Mos Eisley. Din finds himself actively keeping his pace measured despite the fact that every inch of his being is desperate to break into a run toward the x-wing. Right there, he thinks. He’s right there.

They get closer, and he hears an excited squeal from inside the cockpit. “Grogu?” Din calls, picking up his pace as the top of the ship opens. A tiny green head pops up, attention immediately landing upon him.

Din doesn’t remember if he walked or sprinted the last of the distance between himself and the ship. The next thing he knows he is scooping a babbling and squirming Grogu into his arms, huffing out a watery laugh as the child buries his head into Din’s cowl. He lifts the helmet up, just enough to plant a kiss on Grogu’s head.

“I missed you too, kid,” he murmurs. “I missed you too.”

He hears Skywalker’s footsteps stop a few steps behind him, no doubt giving him space to reunite with his son. 

Din drops the helmet back down again and stands, Grogu still tucked into his chest. “Thank you,” Din says simply to the Jedi. “I … thank you.”

Skywalker nods in acknowledgement. “I think you’re right,” he says, unreadable gaze once more hovering over the two of them. “I think we can make this work.”

Tiny claws tap on the sides of Din’s helmet, insistently drawing his head down where deep brown eyes meet his through the visor. Din leans forward and presses his helmet gently against his son’s forehead. 

Yeah, he thinks, something warm blooming in his chest. This will work out just fine.

—

Din begins to visit Yavin more often.

He’d tried to limit himself at first. He and Skywalker may have come to a tentative agreement, a decision to bridge Grogu’s upbringing between foundling and padawan, but many intricacies had been left unspoken. Fearing that his presence might still distract Grogu from his training in the Force, Din had decided to limit his visits - lest he become a hindrance.

But his resolve didn’t last for long.

How could it? When Grogu would toddle toward him with such excitement each time he touched down on the planet’s surface, when the kid routinely gifted him a variety of rocks, pebbles and shiny stones gathered on his outings with Luke, when his son would curl up against his chest each night, murmuring soft little coos of happiness and contentment. It soothed something in his soul that had been hurting for so long. How could he distance himself from this?

So Din’s visits become more regular. Sometimes they’re a short check in to see the kid’s progress, other times he stays on Yavin for days. Through all of it, he watches as Grogu flourishes in his training, becoming more confident in his abilities each day and so different from the lost and scared child Din found in that pod on Arvala.

Mandalorian training is admittedly a little more difficult. A culture so centred around fighting and defending oneself is not the simplest to be taught to a child, particularly one as small as Grogu. Din decides that combat will come later, and instead endeavours to teach Grogu about the language, the culture, the Six Actions.

Because even if he is no longer Mandalorian, he will make damn sure that his son can still be.

His founding often listens to him speak with rapt attention - unless there are any amphibians nearby. And if Din notices Skywalker listening in on the kid’s training, he doesn’t mention it to the Jedi.

The visits bring a certain peace to his life that Din is not used to. But unfortunately, it isn’t long before the challengers begin to find him; Mandalorians painted in coloured armour, adorned with sigils Din does not recognise. He begins to understand that many do not come with the intention of taking the throne - it is him they wish to see. To find the root of the whispers taking hold of the galaxy, stories of a Mandalorian warrior in pure beskar, wielding an ancient sword won from an Imperial usurper in defence of a foundling. 

He supposes their arrival is his own fault - drawing the Darksaber as a means of taking down bounties is naturally going to incite talk, and not the kind that bodes well for him. He’s survived this far by being quiet, being enigmatic, by slipping under the radar as much as a Mandalorian can in these times. Drawing attention to himself is not the way he operates, and yet now he has done it tenfold.

It is after one particular challenge while hunting a bounty on Akiva, initiated by a warrior from clan Eldar who brandished a pair of beskad swords that proved a sufficient match for his admittedly weak proficiency with the Darksaber, that Din limps his way toward the temple on Yavin, nursing yet another self-inflicted wound.

Despite not having announced his imminent arrival, the Jedi waits for him outside the temple regardless.

“That’s a lightsaber burn,” Skywalker says, wasting no time in looping an arm around Din’s shoulders. He is surprisingly strong, Din notes, and wonders if that’s a Force thing. “I didn’t know you carried a lightsaber.”

“It’s a Darksaber,” Din corrects him, then winces as he puts a little too much weight on his singed knee.

Skywalker frowns. “I’ve never heard of such a weapon before.”

“It’s Mandalorian made.”

The Jedi nods. “Aha.”

Skywalker leads him into the temple and lays him down on a bench in the still-under-construction medbay. He pulls out a bacta patch and starts setting it down on the burn that's spread across the unprotected flesh of Din’s knee. “Another challenger, I assume,” he says lightly. Din nods. “They’re certainly quite persistent.”

Din hisses as the patch touches his skin. “Unfortunately.”

“Tell me more about the Darksaber you possess,” Skywalker presses. Din can recognise the opening for what it is; an attempt to distract from the pain. He can’t quite bring himself to care.

“It’s a weapon forged by Tarre Vizsla, the Mandalorian-Jedi I spoke to you about,” Din explains, trying to breathe steadily through the searing pain in his leg. “Whoever wields it lies claim to the throne of Mandalore.”

Skywalker’s hand stills. “You didn’t tell me you were a king.”

“I’m not.”

“Then how did you come across the Darksaber?”

“I won it in combat from Moff Gideon. Shortly-” he hisses as Skywalker pulls his flight suit away from the wound, waving away the other man’s apologies, “-shortly before you rescued Grogu from the light cruiser.”

The Jedi smirks. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”

Despite himself, Din huffs out a breathless chuckle. “You could say that.”

Skywalker smooths over the rest of the bacta patch. “You should be alright in about an hour,” he says, already walking away. “Take that time to rest. I want you to meet me outside the temple once your leg is healed.”

Din frowns beneath the helmet. “Why?”

The Jedi turns, shooting him a rare unimpeded grin. “To train.”

—

Din sighs and shuts the Darksaber off, the blade sinking back into the hilt with a high-pitched whine. “This isn’t working,” he huffs.

Skywalker stands opposite him, green lightsaber still raised. “You’re getting frustrated,” he says.

“You think?”

They’ve been training for about an hour, Skywalker running Din through some of the most basic training katas for Jedi apprentices. Usually, Din would be offended - but even these simple movements are proving to be a struggle.

“Your frustration is only hindering your attempts to wield the blade,” Skywalker says. He appears to think for a moment. Nods. “I want you to try something different.”

The Jedi surprises Din by shutting off his lightsaber, tucking it onto his belt and sitting calmly down upon the ground, legs crossed neatly. He pats the space beside him. “Sit.”

Puzzled, Din cautiously lowers himself down next to the Jedi.

“I’m going to run you through a simple meditation exercise,” Skywalker explains. “You mentioned that the blade feels heavy, but lightsabers are made from pure energy. They are balanced, light weapons meant to be maneuvered deftly and quickly. I believe that the Darksaber only feels heavy to you because there is something blocking you.” He taps a finger against his temple. “Something up here.”

Exactly what the Armorer said. Din nods. “Alright. What should I do?”

Skywalker smiles and closes his eyes. “Calm your breathing. Focus on your thoughts, particularly the ones that are troubling you. Finding the root of the problem is our goal here today.”

Din sighs. ”I don’t know if that’s-”

“Just try it,” the Jedi says, cutting him off. “I think it’ll help.”

Din relents, closing his eyes. He listens to Skywalker’s breathing, trying to match the slow, steady pace. He begins to feel some of the tension leak away from his limbs and lets his mind drift, searching through his thoughts like the Jedi asked him to. 

Unbidden, he is drawn straight to the memory on Glavis, the cold and near emotionless delivery as the Armorer, his alor , told him he was no longer a Mandalorian. Then it shifts to himself standing in front of an Imperial terminal, lifting the helmet from his head and feeling the kind of sinking finality he has only encountered when facing death. Then he remembers the moment he stood before the mound of broken helmets, when he realised the gravity of his actions, the sacrifice they had made for him only for him to become dar’manda- 

There’s a hand on his arm and Din is coming back to himself with a choked gasp.

Skywalker’s eyes are on him, something close to concern simmering within them. “What did you see?” he asks calmly.

Din pulls in ragged breaths, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of panic and guilt flooding him. “I- I don’t deserve it,” he says. He lifts the Darksaber. “I don’t deserve this.”

He wants to pull the helmet off. I don’t deserve any of it.

The Jedi hums. “I think I understand why you struggle to wield the Darksaber.”

Din turns to him, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

Skywalker continues. “The Kyber crystal in that saber - that which powers the blade, as with all lightsabers - is very old and powerful. Kyber crystals are chosen specifically for the Jedi who wields them and bonds to them.” He nods to the Darksaber. “This one is very old and has passed through many hands, some Force-sensitive, some not. I believe it has developed a kind of … sentience. It can sense the intentions of its wielder. Their goals. Their fears.”

“Answer me this,” Skywalker says, gazing intently into Din’s visor, and something tells him the Jedi is acutely aware, somehow, of what he saw. “Are you a Mandalorian?”

Din’s breath stutters. He can feel his hands begin to shake. “I don’t know,” he whispers hoarsely. 

I don’t know.

—

Skywalker finds him by the fire later that evening.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I did not mean to push you today.”

Din shuffles aside as an invitation for Skywalker to sit beside him, the gesture his own way of extending an olive branch toward the Jedi.

“There were things that needed to be said,” he admits. “I needed to address them, even if it was … painful. Rip off the bacta patch.”

Skywalker snorts at the idiom. “The process is meant to be more delicate than that.”

“I’m a bounty hunter. Nothing I do is delicate.”

“I understand that now,” the Jedi says, giving him a playful little nudge on the shoulder. “You’re more stubborn than your son.”

Din chuckles. “Well that’s saying something, then.”

They drift into a comfortable silence. Yet Din’s mind continues to gravitate toward something Skywalker had said, back on that first meeting in Tatooine, and a question begins to form upon his lips.

“The Jedi code,” Din says slowly, “is the creed of your people. Is that correct?”

Skywalker nods, and a piece of golden hair drifts over his eyes. “In a way.”

Din decides to voice something he’s been wondering for a while. “But you don’t quite agree with it.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him. “It’s not that I disagree, I just …” Skywalker’s words fade into silence. He sighs. “It’s complicated.”

Din finds himself shifting minutely toward the Jedi, their legs brushing close enough that he can feel the other man’s warmth even through the beskar. “How is it complicated?” he asks.

For a long moment, Skywalker just stares at him, unreadable gaze hovering over his visor. Din is beginning to think he overstepped a line when the Jedi says, “Did you know I’ve only ever met two Jedi?”

Din blinks in surprise, but says nothing. He doesn’t feel as though Skywalker is expecting an answer.

“My first teacher was a man named Ben Kenobi,” the Jedi continues. “In the days of the Republic, he was a Jedi Master and member of the old Order. He was there when they fell and the Empire rose to power. When my aunt and uncle- … when I left Tatooine, he was the one who told me about the Force, but he died before I could learn much from him.

My next master was also a member of the old Order. In fact, he was the same species as Grogu,” Skywalker says, nodding his head toward Din’s lap, where Grogu is curled up and snoring. “He trained me in the Force for as long as he could. But he was old, even for his kind, and he passed too.”

At this, Din speaks. “I’m sorry.”

Skywalker shrugs. “It was a while ago, now. What I’m saying is that I don’t know much more about the Jedi than anyone else. All my knowledge has been gathered from whatever pieces of their history I can find scattered across the galaxy. But the Empire made sure to destroy as much of it as they could, and sometimes I have no idea what is real and what isn’t.”

Skywalker sighs, something haunted passing over his eyes. “I’m the last of my kind. I’ve been tasked with bringing forward a new Jedi Order, and yet my only connection to the old one is a cursed bloodline and the ghosts that were left behind.”

The Jedi falls silent, and Din sits and stares into the fire for a moment, trying to carve out the words for what he wants to say. The Mando’a tumbles unexpectedly from his mouth as he murmurs, “Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori’wadaas’la.”

Skywalker blinks in surprise. “What does that mean?” he asks carefully, as though he can sense somehow that the words - and the very language itself - are something precious, something private.

“It’s a saying we have in Mando’a,” Din explains. “Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you will be.” He shifts, fingers momentarily itching to reach across and take the Jedi’s hand, his arm, any part of him so that the distance between them might feel a little less, that his words could reach him a little more. “The same can be said for you and the Jedi Order. You aren’t one of them. You can’t expect yourself to be.”

Luke utters a wry and bitter chuckle. “Then I don’t know what I am.”

The Darksaber weighs heavily on Din's hip. Neither do I, he thinks. Neither do I.

A hand rests gently above his own, squeezing softly, as if expressing comfort for the words he did not speak aloud. Despite himself, Din squeezes back.

They sit in silence like that for a little while longer and absently watch the flames. Two broken men adrift in the galaxy, their hands gripped between them like a lifeline.

—

Din stays on Yavin, and Luke does not ask him to go.

The days pass in quiet lessons beneath the swaying trees, afternoons spent tending to the temple grounds, their nights permeated by quiet conversations and the crackling of a fire. It’s peaceful, and the exact kind of comfort that leaves Din itching with anxiety.

A part of him wants to run away from it all because that’s what he does, isn’t it? Bounty hunters don’t get close to people, don’t make connections rooted in anything other than convenience and a need to survive.

But if that much is true then why does another part of him, growing stronger and stronger each day, long for the moments when Luke might absently brush a hand over his back, when Luke smiles at him with that warm spark in his eyes, when Luke invites him to sit, to rest, to tell him stories about the places he has been and drinks them in so hungrily that Din, for the first time in his life, finds words spilling from his lips so that he might fill the space between them?

It’s dangerous, he thinks, to long for something like this. To depend upon it beyond all semblance of logic and reason. But then Luke will meet his eyes across the room, giving Din one of his soft, small smiles, and Din realises that there is nowhere in the whole galaxy he’d rather be than here.

—

It is a couple weeks later, after they’ve finished their afternoon sparring session, that Luke lowers himself down to sit next to Din and says, “I think you need to go to Mandalore.”

Din sits up sharply from where he’d been laying in the grass. Grogu, who had been sitting on his cuirass and covering it in shredded leaves, tumbles into his lap with a startled meep. “What?”

“You still wield the Darksaber as though it is working against you. Something is holding you back.” Luke nudges Din’s boot with his own foot. “Your matriarch told you to go to Mandalore to repent, didn’t she?”

Din nods.

“I think your doubts and your fears surrounding your Creed are still keeping you from connecting with the Darksaber,” Luke continues. “The weapon will not submit to your wishes until your goals are aligned.”

“And what is the Darksaber’s goal?” Din asks, fearing he already knows the answer.

Luke hovers his hand briefly over the weapon on Din’s belt, eyes closed. He opens them. “To be the sword of a king,” he says.

Din shuts his eyes and sucks in a shuddering breath. He knows Luke is right - the Armorer’s words have been drumming through his head for weeks, the weight of his helmet feeling heavier and heavier with each day that passes. He’s been putting off his journey to Mandalore for too long. If he doesn’t go now, he might never find the strength to do it.

“Okay,” Din says quietly. Grogu taps a comforting hand against his chest.

He goes to stand, but Luke grabs his hand, flesh fingers tangling with Din’s gloved ones. “I’ll go with you,” he says. “If you want me to.”

Din stops, attention pinpointed to the feeling of Luke’s hand in his. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“I want to.”

Luke stands, and Din doesn’t let go.

—

The mines of Mandalore are difficult to find, buried under fallen cities and hidden beneath crumbling tunnels, but it helps to have a Force-user companion who can shift rubble with the flick of a hand.

“This place … it is strong with the Force,” Luke murmurs, running a gloved palm over the rocky walls. 

“They call it the living waters of Mandalore,” Din tells him. Grogu pops his head out from the sling at Din’s side and looks around, cooing at the darkness around them lit by the green of Luke’s lightsaber. 

“The Force can do interesting things when gathered in one place,” Luke says. “Strange phenomena often reveal themselves in wells like this, where the Force is so strong that even those not sensitive to it can feel its effects.”

A wave of apprehension dances over Din’s skin. He thought he’d imagined the whispers hanging softly behind his ears, the faint flickers of something mingling in the corner of his vision and fluctuating like a poorly connected holocall. 

If this is a taste of what it’s like to be a Jedi, then Din is glad the Force never chose him to be its vessel.

“Come on,” Luke says, anchoring Din’s attention back to the present. “It’s not much further.”

Din tilts his head. “How do you know?”

Luke turns and sends him a patient smile. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”

No, Din thinks, but there is a tingling buzz in his fingers and a strange sense of purpose drawing him further down the tunnel that he cannot simply pass off as instinct. 

Soon enough the tunnel begins to widen, the air growing steadily warmer until the stone around them drops away into the great yawning mouth of a cavern. A thousand specks of glowing blue algae blanket the walls and ceiling of the giant space, reflecting off of the bottomless pool of water below and providing a glittering, otherworldly spectacle unlike anything Din has ever seen. It’s like someone captured a pocket of the galaxy and slipped it beneath Mandalore’s surface. 

Before journeying to the planet, a part of him had still dreaded that this hallowed place was gone, lost underneath the razed ground of his people’s ancestral homeland. To actually see its resplendence with his own eyes … Din can understand why these were called the living waters of Mandalore. The air in this room feels electric. It feels alive.

He hears a muted gasp beside him and he is suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful that Luke travelled with him to this place. He can think of no one else he wishes to share this wonder with, besides his son. With them both here, surveying this place in awe, Din feels an unexpected well of emotion lodge itself in his throat. He clears it and moves forward.

There is a rocky but well-worn pathway leading down to the waters that stops by the stone-covered banks. With every step leading downward, Din’s armour feels heavier. He’s overcome with the sudden urge to wrest it from his body and he fights to hold it at bay. Not yet, the voices whisper. Not yet.

Luke stops him when they reach the edge of the waters. “This is where I leave you,” he says quietly. “This is a moment for you, and you alone. Grogu and I cannot interfere.”

Din nods, pushing down a wave of apprehension. “I understand.”

“Good luck, Mando,” Luke says, taking one of Din’s hands in both of his own and tucking it securely between them, placing a delicate kiss on the tips of Din’s gloved fingers. “We will be waiting for you.”

Din shudders, and before he can stop it, says, “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

“Din Djarin,” Luke repeats, the words rolling carefully from his tongue. Din closes his eyes and lets the sound surround him. He’s never heard his name held so tenderly, like it’s a gift. 

Din lifts Grogu from his bag, leaning forward to press a gentle keldabe kiss against his son’s forehead before handing the child to Luke. “I’ll return to you soon,” he says, and it is the most sincere vow he has ever made.

He watches them walk away and up the path, eyes following their retreating forms until they’ve long disappeared back into the tunnels. Din breathes out slowly. The voices press once more against him, whispering words in Mando’a that are so ancient he does not even understand them. But the intent is clear.

Step into the waters.

He strips off the armour, piece by piece, carefully placing them by the bank’s edge. His helmet is the last to come off. His hands hover over the sides for a long moment before he finally musters up the courage to lift it away, baring his face to the air. He breathes in and the taste of iron presses to the back of his throat.

Step into the waters.

He decides to leave the flight suit on, removing his gloves, boots and cape before wading into the depths of the lake. He expects the water to be a harsh and biting cold, but he need not have worried - it is pleasantly warm. Fragments of glowing algae float in the water around him, the same deep blue as the ones littering the walls like stars. 

Delve into the depths and be reborn.

Din closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and submerges himself beneath the water.

—

When Din opens his eyes, he is alone.

He is lying upon a plush bed, helmetless, and the scratch of hewn fabric against his cheek is so distantly familiar that it almost brings tears to his eyes. He sits up.

The sight of his old bedroom in Aq Vetina rushes toward him so forcefully that the air is momentarily stolen from his lungs. Long-forgotten details are drunk in by his roving gaze - the haphazard floorboards, the roughly painted drawings on the clay walls, the mirror that had always sat slightly crooked despite his father’s continuous attempts to fix it. 

Home, Din thinks, and the thought is both achingly nostalgic yet filled with despair. He knows what will become of this place. What will turn his village from an oasis of safety to a wasteland of destruction.

He takes stock of himself. He is in his armour, the silver beskar polished and gleaming. His flight suit is free from tears and made from a deeper brown fabric than he remembers. The cape draped over his shoulders and cascading down his back is a deep burgundy, not unlike the hewn sheets he currently sits upon.

Why am I here? he wonders. Last he remembered he was dipping beneath the living waters, and yet somehow he has been transported to his homeworld in a frozen moment in time from before it was destroyed. 

Strange phenomena often reveal themselves in wells like this, Luke had said. Perhaps the waters themselves are fuelled by the strange Jedi magic and he has been trapped in some sort of vision. 

Din sighs. This is not quite what he’d expected when the Armorer had set him upon his quest.

The sound of muffled words drifts upstairs, and Din’s breath stutters to a halt in his chest. He knows those voices. He knows them so instinctively he aches.

He finds himself standing and following them below.

The scene in the kitchen is so heartbreakingly domestic and deeply reminiscent of a time long-forgotten, long-lost. His mother stands by the clay-dusted table, her hands wrapped in fabric that she dips into a bowl of deep red dye. His father stands behind her with his arms wrapped around her front, nuzzling into her ear and drawing out a gentle laugh that sounds so much like Din’s own.

Din stands frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to intrude on this moment; whether he even can. But then his mother looks up, her eyes crinkling into a smile, and she beckons him forward as though she has been waiting for him.

He obliges. The clink of his boots as he crosses the floorboards is a stark reminder of how alien his presence is in this place. How changed he is since the last time he stepped foot here. His armour is heavy and he feels misplaced, like a weapon tucked between soft sheets. All sharp edges and rough sides that are quicker to harm than they are to heal. He’ll hurt them, if he’s not careful. It’s all he’s ever done.

But there is no fear in his mother’s eyes. No trepidation, no disappointment at what he has become. She surveys him with a warmth and love so bottomless that Din feels like he might drown in it.

“You look weary,” she says. She lays a soft and gentle hand on the side of his face, and Din leans into it instinctively, closing his eyes. “The galaxy has not been kind to you.”

But I’m the one still here, he thinks. I’m here, and you’re gone.

Din opens his eyes. “Is this real?” he croaks.

She smiles at him. “It’s real for you. Is that not all that matters?”

“I don’t understand. You … you died.”

His mother places her other hand on his cuirass, directly over his heart. “We may be gone,” she says, “but you have always carried us inside you. How can we be dead, when you are still alive?”

Din sinks forward. He rests his head in the crook of his mother’s neck, her hair tickling his eyes, and he lets the tears come.

She runs a soothing hand over his curls. “We're so proud of you, Din.”

“And we’re proud of the man you’ve become,” his father says, enclosing Din in his arms and leaving him wrapped in this tender outpouring of love.

But there is still a bitter taste at the back of Din’s throat. “You don’t understand,” he rasps. “I’ve done … I’ve done terrible things. I’m not someone to be proud of.”

“You did what you needed to do to survive,” his father says. “Everyone makes mistakes, but what’s important is what we learn from them.”

“I don’t-”

His mother pulls back, placing both her hands on his shoulders. “When I look at you, do you know what I see?” she says. “I see a man who has been raised in violence but learned to be gentle. Who has been scorned by the galaxy but learned to be kind. I see a man who protects those who cannot protect themselves, because he knows what it’s like to be alone, to be vulnerable, to be afraid.” She cups his face in her hands again. “We are proud of you, Din Djarin. So unbelievably proud.”

Tears sting at his eyes again. “Then that is all I can hope to achieve.”

His father gives his hair a gentle ruffle. “I sense that our time here will come to a close soon,” he says sadly. He holds something out toward Din. “You’ll need to take this with you before you go.”

Din looks down. The Darksaber sits quietly in his father’s hand.

Din shakes his head. “I don’t want it. It’s not mine to deserve.”

“No one deserves the right to rule,” his father counters lightly. 

“But there are people out there much more suited to it than me.”

“Why is that?”

Din sighs, shame making him avert his eyes. “Because I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“And do you believe that?”

Din frowns. “What?”

“Tell me honestly,” his father says. “Do you believe that you are not Mandalorian?”

Din opens his mouth to reply, then pauses. He was renounced from his covert by its alor, declared an apostate by his once-brother. Is that not evidence enough that his claim as a Mandalorian is gone?

“I broke the Creed,” Din says weakly. “I showed my face.”

His father watches him intently. “This Creed,” he begins. “What does it ask from you?”

The Six Actions, the Resol’nare, spills from Din’s lips without thought. “Education and amour, self-defence, our tribe, our language and our leader - all help us survive.”

“I see,” his father says. “Then tell me this - have you taught your son the Mandalorian ways?”

“Yes,” Din says haltingly.

“And do you wear your armour?”

“Yes.”

“You defend yourself and your foundling against enemies? You provide for your tribe?”

“Yes.”

“You speak the Mandalorian language?”

“ Lek.”

His father smiles. “Then you sound like a Mandalorian to me.”

Din sighs. “But it’s different. There is more than one Creed, and the one I swore declares that I cannot remove my helmet.”

“Even in the case of rescuing your child?”

Din blinks. He finds that he cannot answer.

His father places a firm hand on his shoulder, brown eyes imploring. “You sacrificed the Creed you swore to protect your son. You made the decision that your foundling mattered more than your Creed. Is it not the Mandalorian code to protect your clan above all else?”

“...Yes.”

“Then you were upholding the most inherent value of your culture.”

Din sags. “But if I broke my Creed, then what does it matter?”

His father squeezes his shoulder. “I think you already know your answer. You just haven’t understood it yet.”

“I don’t-” 

“Think of what you told me a moment ago.”

Din frowns, trying to recall what he had said to his father. Then-

There is more than one Creed.

His father beams.

“Take this,” the man says again, pressing the Darksaber into Din’s hand. “You’ll be needing it.”

Din wraps his fingers around the hilt. The beskar feels both warm and cold. “I can’t do this alone,” he says weakly.

“You won’t be alone,” his mother says. “They’re waiting for you.”

Luke.

Grogu.

The Darksaber hums in his palm.

He looks up at his parents, both watching him with so much pride in their gaze that his throat constricts.

“You’re really here," Din whispers. "Aren't you?"

His mother smiles, her form already fading.

“We always have been.”

—

He emerges from the waters dripping and gasping, the Darksaber crackling like lightning in his hand and feeling as though it is made of air.

Who are you, the voices demand, and Din knows that he can finally answer them.

I am Din Djarin, and I will be the Mand’alor.

—

When Din returns to Glavis, the Armorer is alone.

He is secretly glad for it - he doesn’t believe that Paz would take very kindly to his arrival. 

His alor sits in the same spot he found her last time he was here, tools crossed over her chest in her silent vigil. He knows he doesn’t have to announce his presence. 

“Din Djarin,” she says, without turning around. “Have you completed your quest?”

“I have.”

“You found the living waters of Mandalore?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are prepared to become a Mandalorian once more.”

“I already am.”

And before he can regret the decision he slides the helmet from his head with a soft hiss.

He notices the moment the Armorer tenses, aware of what he has done. “You remove your helmet in my presence,” she says sharply, back still turned to him. “Why?”

He ponders his words. Everything he had planned to say to her suddenly feels wrong in the moment. “Because I am following my own path,” he finally says.

He expects her to argue against him. To banish him from this place, never to return. But instead she turns around and directly meets his gaze.

“You are not the man I thought you were, Din Djarin,” she says. It sounds like it should be an insult, but he feels that it is more of an observation.

She steps closer, and he bows his head, finding it too difficult to meet her visor directly for the first time since he was a child. “I see you found answers waiting for you in the waters of Mandalore.”

“I did.”

“Not the ones you were expecting.”

“No.”

The Armorer is silent for a moment, and Din feels something heavy and important hanging in her unseen gaze; a tangible weight hovering in the space between them. Then, finally, she says, “The way of the Mandalore follows more than one path. You may no longer walk ours, but that is not to say you cannot forge your own.”

Din listens to her words; feels them wash over him like a balm. It can’t be that simple, he thinks. 

Then the alor steps closer and, reminiscent of the day he first earned his helmet, gently lifts it from his fingers and turns it, placing it back into his hands with the visor facing toward him. When he looks down he sees his own reflection staring back at him, so little trace of the boy he once was, broken and angry and afraid.

"Do you know why I sent you to the living waters, Din Djarin?" the Armorer asks.

Din frowns. "To repent for my sins."

"If that is what you wished, yes." She steps back and begins to circle around him slowly. "But I was giving you a choice. You cannot live split between two creeds. The time must come that you decide which path you are willing to follow. It appears that ours was no longer that path."

“It is much easier to fight for what you believe in than to question it,” the Armorer continues, her voice hovering somewhere between softness and steel. “We are people of tradition, that much is true, but how long until tradition fails us? The universe is evolving. Secrecy is no longer our survival. If you are to lead a dying race of people, then you must be prepared to adapt.”

Din takes in a ragged breath of air. “I don’t … I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“My dear Din’ika,” the Armorer says. “No one ever is.”

—

Din returns to Yavin and Luke is already waiting for him.

When Din takes off his helmet, Luke cups his face gently in his hands, one warm and one cold.

“Din Djarin,” he says. “Are you a Mandalorian?”

There is no hesitation this time. He doesn’t even have to think.

“Yes,” Din says, and he pulls their foreheads together in a kiss.

—

Mandalore is still a wasteland. But it doesn’t take much to draw life from the ruins; not when Din has a Jedi by his side.

He and Luke stand by the fledgeling stone temple, situated on the outskirts of New Sundari. Grogu babbles excitedly from where he is tucked in Din’s arms and reaches up to play with the stubble of his beard.

Next to them, Luke leans down to plant something in the dirt. It is a simple wooden sign that reads Skywalker Academy in large printed lettering. Beneath it is a small ink handprint left by a mischievous Grogu, who apparently thought that it was his right as Luke’s first student to leave his own mark on the sign. Beside it - as though an afterthought - are two more handprints, larger than Grogu’s and both five-fingered, fingertips just touching. 

Smiling, Luke leans into his side, and Din knows that whenever he thinks of family, he will think of this.