Chapter Text
Part 1- The Enchanted Garden
Chapter 1— The Shadow
Din Djarin could not believe he was on Sorgan for a third time.
“A real backwater skug hole,” were the precise words he’d used to describe it to Grogu the first time. Well. It wasn’t exactly a skug hole, in fact it was rather nice, idyllic and almost unrealistically calm.
After the AT-ST was destroyed, of course.
But here he was, treading quietly through the dense conifer forest to the given coordinates, the silence broken only by the faint burble of a nearby creek, and the eager coos of his ad’ika Grogu hopping delightedly in front of him while his newly appointed second trudged alongside.
“Tired, Wren?”
Tristan Wren’s helmet turned sharply to look at his Mand’alor, and unfortunately missed the raised tree root in front of his foot. He stumbled, but caught himself, swearing quietly. Din chuckled.
“Did you time it for that reaction, alor?” Tristan groused, settling his shoulders and resuming his gaze upon the path so as not to repeat the mistake. Din shook his head in amusement and returned his gaze to his son, who had paused in his Force-assisted hopping to trap some slimy creature.
“Grogu. Drop it.” The long green ears of the foundling sagged with disappointment, and he turned his little green, wrinkled face to his buir, blinking his large brown eyes in what he evidently hoped was a convincing plead.
And it was. Mostly.
“Eat this, instead.” He handed the kid a piece of jerky. With a delighted coo, the foundling bounded ahead once more, gnawing on the jerky.
“We’re about 3 klicks out, yes?” Din chuckled inwardly at the adult version of are we there yet.
“You know, you can just tell Rau you’re tired, if the planning goes too long.”
“I didn’t say I was ti— and have you successfully gotten Rau to give up on something when he sets his mind to it? He’s as bad as my sister,” Tristan scoffed, tipping his helmet up for a quick swig of water. It was a fair point. One simply did not tell Tristan’s sister Sabine Wren— feared Rebellion fighter, one-time wielder of the Darksaber and partner of one of the galaxy’s few remaining Jedi— to do anything. Fenn Rau was no better.
“Besides, he’d just give me a hard time about not being able to keep up with someone old enough to be my grandfather.” He pitched his voice low and brassy. “‘When I led the Protectors, I didn’t sleep for ten years’.”
Ahead, Grogu had finished his snack, and sat in the undergrowth, lazily picking at flowers and clovers that blanketed the forest floor. Din bent down and scooped him up, to settle him in the sack for a nap. A half-hearted squawk of protest had Din pause. “What’s up, kid? Want some water?” As he offered a canteen to the child, he turned to Tristan. “See anything yet?”
Tristan tapped his vambrace, then shook his head. “I think we’re still too far out.”
Din sighed, glancing about then looking down at Grogu, who had managed to dribble water all down his front. Bleary eyes blinked apologetically up at him, and he ruffled his son’s head gently. Next to him, Tristan had pulled up his helmet for another sip of water, then dropped it, scanning the area. It was peaceful, only the sound of wind in the towering conifers, trilling birdsong, and the far-off burble of creek waters tripping over themselves in a race to the finish breaking the silence. The forest stretched in every direction, dappled sunlight breaking through the thick canopy to illuminate the forest floor in glowing pools. Tiny flowers dotted the undergrowth; Din presumed they were attractive, his helmet preventing him from seeing the full splendor of the quiet forest. The spicy scent of the conifers managed to get past his filters, soothing yet stimulating.
In truth, Din was glad for a quick stop as well. The flight from Krownest had been too short for a full sleep cycle, the Council of clans had peppered them with messages that could not be ignored even as they were taking off, and Rau had been eager to go over the plan one last time. Only Grogu had gotten more than a few hours’ rest. The spell of Sorgan’s tranquility teased at his tired limbs, inviting him to linger longer than was wise.
“What a beautiful place to hide a clan,” Tristan murmured quietly, the admiration evident in his tone.
“It’s even nicer in the summer,” A woman’s voice suddenly sounded. Din hastily dropped Grogu into the sack as his free hand went to his blaster, Tristan’s already pulled and raised.
They looked around and saw… nothing.
“Try infrared, easier to see my heat signature,” the woman’s voice sounded amused. It was not that much easier; the vegetation provided some excellent cover.
“Who are you?” To his credit, Tristan’s voice sounded steady and not at all unprepared for invisible enemies.
“Alor Prudii Vhett’ika, Triumvir of clan Gar Vod’e. Advance party sent to escort you to the Haven.” Din and Tristan lowered the blasters as a shadow moved, and suddenly a woman stood before them, pulling a helmet off and shaking black braids away from her tanned face. She observed them, a smile in her hazel eyes, then bowed slightly. “Welcome, Mand’alor.” Her tone was just on the other side of respectful, an impish quirk in the corner of her mouth suggesting a rebellious streak.
Din stared at her. Her armor had been painted to camouflage with the surrounding flora, a mottled mix of colors that blended perfectly with the surrounding environment, the body glove underneath similarly marbled. A cape with similar mottled markings was pushed over her shoulder; likely capable of obscuring heat signatures. The helmet tucked under her arm looked like a highly customized clone trooper helmet, also painted to match the armor. He’d never seen anything like it.
Then again, he’d never met a clan like Gar Vod’e. Brotherhood of the Grand Army of the Republic. They’d defied expectations right from the outset.
“Like the paint job?” she smirked. “Republic commando armor, my uncle’s that I modified. Not as strong as beskar but—” she cut herself off as the smirk gained a bitter twist.
“How long have you been following us?” Din finally managed.
“Since you landed. You parked pretty far away and didn’t announce your arrival; I take it old habits die hard. After that—” her eyes twinkled with mischief, “I was curious to see how far you’d get before noticing me.”
“But we didn’t,” blurted out Tristan, and Din winced, grateful for the helmet.
“Nope,” now Prudii was grinning. “But at least you didn’t make it all the way to the krill village this time.”
“This— you followed me the last time I was here?” Din was flabbergasted now, and more than a little ashamed. Some bounty hunter I was.
“I did tell you that we’ve seen you before. We make it our business to know who’s coming and going. In fairness, your adorable kid is pretty distracting. We were about to start our operation to take out the Klatooinian gang you so handily dispatched, when we saw a ship come in that matched the one our scouts in Nevarro had mentioned. Probably one of the more spectacular scout reports I’ve ever read. Oya decided to turn tracking you into an advanced recon exercise, since we weren’t sure why you were here and what your plans were— or what trouble might follow you. She told me I passed, but I have a little work to do still.”
Prudii chuckled, taking pity on their stunned silence. “Now, we’re actually two and a quarter klicks out, and there are refreshments waiting for you, so shall we? We can move your ship to our airfield once you’ve been settled.”
With that, she looked down, waggled her gloved fingers at Grogu, who had poked his head out and cooed back at her, and turned to lead the way. Tristan turned to Din, who shrugged and followed.
He wasn’t complaining. He was rather enjoying the lack of pomp and puffery that usually came with these types of visits. And no one had threatened to challenge him for the saber yet, either.
Din had admittedly low bars.
“If you knew about the Klatooinians, why didn’t the farmers come ask you?” Din called after her.
“How interesting that that is your first question.” Din didn’t know what to make of that, and so stayed silent. It had always served him well before, though the effect didn’t feel as satisfying in this moment. “They don’t know who, what we are. Or even where we are. So they didn’t know to ask. We normally handle security threats quietly, and we rarely socialize with other villages around here; if we do, we go to them— no one comes here. We were finalizing plans when you showed up. That was quite some strategy, very risky. We did a little tidying up for you after with the ones that fled, hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you criticizing the Mand’alor?” Tristan retorted incredulously.
At that, she paused, and looked back over her shoulder. “He was a bounty hunter at the time. And we don’t count as Mandalorians, so does our opinion really matter?” And kept walking. Tristan’s helmet swiveled back to Din, shoulders thrown back in shock and unease. Din merely nodded to Tristan to continue on, tucking his own discomfort deep within where it couldn’t be perceived. He hadn’t missed the bitter edge of her tone, a slight undercurrent of longing.
Well this just got more interesting.
As they drew closer, Din picked up indications that this compound would be like nothing he’d ever seen before. His covert had hidden in the sewers under Nevarro for years. The Night Owls had drifted from tavern to tavern. Others had hidden in cave systems on Dantooine.
Here, well-concealed sensors created several rings of perimeter security, likely to track speed of advance to the compound. Tristan had walked right past them, totally unaware; only years of bounty hunting had taught Din to notice the signs. Suddenly, the woods ended and they found themselves at the edge of a massive clearing, surrounded by what appeared to be a simple split rail fence. Din knew better. A young man lounged against the wall of a simple guard hut at the entrance, slightly too relaxed to be anything but ready to pull a blaster at a moment’s notice. He also wore full armor, some kind of repurposed trooper armor, albeit repainted in gold and orange. Vengeance and lust for life. Hell of a combination.
“All right, Prudii?” the man called, pulling off a helmet to reveal a pleasant smile that belied the sharpness of his golden brown eyes as they scanned the newcomers. He looked very familiar.
“Sentry duty, Adenn?” Prudii grinned at him, as they shared a warrior’s greeting, grasping forearms.
“Adenn?” murmured Tristan to Din softly.
No mercy.
Adenn had heard. “To my enemies,” he replied, his grin sharp and wolf-like.
“We have some unique customs here. I’m sure Mama and Saviin will be happy to explain them all to you.” She turned back to the youth, and let fly some direction in heavily-accented rapid-fire Mando’a that Din barely caught, before switching back to Basic. “And make sure there’s room in the airfield for their ship. Ret, vod.” Prudii waved at the youth, who offered a sloppy salute before resuming his post at the entrance. She gestured for Din and Tristan to follow.
Adenn. Prudii. Saviin. Vod. Din’s unease deepened. Mando’a was a rare language now. The Mandalorians who had begun to gather at their current base of operations on Krownest didn’t often speak pure Mando’a, frequently mixing in Basic. He could speak it fluently, but not like that. A whole community of fluent speakers, whose status as Mandalorians was in question—
Din tabled the thought. Observe first.
A variety of ships were parked right near the entrance on both sides, a few fighters, a passenger shuttle, and what appeared to be a refitted and re-painted Nu-class attack shuttle, early Empire. Din noted with some satisfaction that all appeared to have weapons systems of some kind. Straight ahead, a beaten-down grass path led straight through the middle of the clearing to the far end, and Din couldn’t help but marvel.
On either side of the path, fields of grain had started to sprout, nearly knee-high already. Small shrubs of nuts and berries, interspersed with flowering bushes, lined the pathway. The grain field gave way to over a dozen garden beds on each side, neatly tilled with early growth poking out. Fruit trees in full bloom were set between the beds, likely providing dappled shade for tender plants in the summer months. Some beds were already a riot of color, early-blooming flowers cheerily soaking in the morning sun between heads of lettuce.
Directly ahead, a series of cottages and buildings were arranged in a wide semi-circle, with a greenhouse behind the center cabin. A large shed stood off on the far edge, where a clanging sound could be heard ringing across the clearing, and on the opposite side, a pavilion sheltered long tables; the glimmer of a pond could be seen through the rails of the perimeter fence. An open hearth near the pavilion surrounded by beaten-down grass suggested a frequent tradition of bonfires. And spaced along the perimeter fence were what appeared to be old but well-maintained shield generators; Din hazarded a guess that they dated back to the Clone Wars, scavenged from battlefields and maintained by those who used them regularly.
In all, an idyllic, secure refuge.
Grass fields ran along the edge of the fence on all sides, and a gaggle of children were sprinting after a young woman on the southern side of the space, screaming wildly as she cackled madly, leading them on a merry chase. Grogu made an eager sound from his place in the sack, bright eyes watching the children closely.
“That’s Ruusaan, you met her at Boba’s. She’s a real natural with kids and usually manages them for us all, as you can see,” Prudii supplied, seeing their helmets swivel to follow the romping children.
“How many children are here?” asked Din. He hadn’t seen so many children since the krill village.
“Twenty-five under the age of majority, last I checked. You’d have to ask Mama or Ruusaan, they keep better track.”
“Twenty-five?”
Prudii shot him another wolfish grin. “We take in some foundlings, ones we find on missions who truly have nowhere else to go and can’t be safely left with a caretaker. And only if they’re interested in coming; most do. And my generation just started having babies like crazy, so the nursery is pretty full; Adenn’s twins are there. And the other families who don’t live here full-time will send their kids here for training and family bonding from time to time, or childcare if they’re off doing… things.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask.
“You take foundlings?” Prudii nodded at Din’s question, watching him carefully. “Would you be willing to take in more? We find them too, but until Mandalore is established, we have nowhere safe to keep them.”
Prudii tilted her head, mulling over the question as she tapped a message into her vambrace. “We might be able to do that. I’d have to make sure we’ve got the resources for it, but I think we could take in another dozen or so.”
“And training?” Tristan had perked up at that, and Din couldn’t blame him. That had been his next question as well.
“Yeah.” Prudii’s smile faded into something fragile, bittersweet. “We have the best.”
—————
Inside the forge, two comms pinged.
Senaar glanced at hers. “They’re here.”
“Hmm.”
Clang, clang.
Senaar looked up from her carving knife to her sister. “Are we going?”
“I need to finish this first.”
Clang, clang.
Senaar snorted. “Are you keeping the Mand’alor waiting? Gutsy power move, Saviin.”
“I’m not losing three days’ worth of effort on this blade. I’ll be done in five minutes. It’ll take them at least that long to get through the throngs of curious people to get here.”
The village metal-smith and armorer examined the object in question, turning it this way and that with the heavy tongs, hammer at the ready in the other hand. Senaar glanced over her appearance, noting that she had failed to dress for the occasion; knowing Saviin, a very intentional decision. Worn tan leggings tucked into calf-high brown boots that hid a few slim knives. A pine-green short-sleeved tunic was layered over a thinner tan shirt and tucked into a heavy kama that encircled the waist. Unlike her father’s kama, Saviin’s comprised of four panels, forming a full skirt of reinforced armor weave that allowed a full range of movement. The pine-green kama had been decorated at Senaar’s insistence with scrolling leaves and tiny flowers in bronze and violet. Shoulder guards and vambraces painted pine-green and edged in bronze and violet completed her daily wear when within the confines of the village; enough for defense at a moment’s notice, but preserving her full kit from daily wear and tear, since priority for armor and body-gloves went to those who regularly left the village for work. Currently, a heavy apron covered the ensemble, protecting her more flammable clothes from sparks as she methodically beat a flat piece of durasteel into submission. Satisfied, Saviin shoved the blade into the water bucket, sending a rush of steam into the warm air of the forge. She set aside the tongs, and turned to face her sister, pushing up her face shield to reveal violet eyes meeting the golden-brown ones of Senaar.
Unlike many of her cousins, who had the more common golden-brown of Senaar’s, or on rare occasion hazel or blue, Saviin’s eyes were an arresting light purple that descended into dark violet flecked with gold around the iris. Currently they peered at her sister with a guarded, suspicious expression on her face, thick wavy black hair pulled back into a simple braid. “And why do you remain?”
Senaar’s golden-brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “We’re a package deal, aren’t we? The smith and the woodcarver. So if you’re busy, I’m busy.” Saviin rolled her violet eyes but laughed all the same as Senaar grinned and stood, brushing tiny curls of wood shavings from her tunic. Like her favorite older sister, Senaar wore the tan undershirt and leggings tucked into boots, but elected for a far brighter tunic of orange and fuchsia, with pops of purple. Shoulder guards attached to the tunic and vambraces matched these colors, while thigh guards protected her upper legs. Without a kama, Senaar belted her tunic, a blaster holstered on one side and a dagger sheathed on the other. A thin leather cord looped over one shoulder and across her chest. Her curly black hair bounced freely just above her shoulders, a thin braid at the crown to keep it out of her perpetually cheerful face. The tattoo of a bird in flight decorated her face at the hairline, just above her right temple.
Senaar reached over, grabbing her favorite hand-carved quarter staff and swinging it with practiced ease onto her back. It connected with the mag-locks on the leather cord to secure it to her back.
“You know, you don’t have to be so anxious. He’ll stand there like a statue, just like before, take his beskar, and go. Easy. Nothing to worry about.”
“Who says I’m anxious?”
“Saviin, you’re drowning in purple right now. It matches your eyes, but I’m starting to get a headache from just looking at you. We should have sparred this morning, get the tension out.”
“There’s plenty to be anxious about,” Saviin deflected, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. “It’s a massive risk to bring them here. I should have met them somewhere neutral.”
“This is the right call. Maybe he’ll see that we belong too.” Senaar glanced down at her own hands. Shimmers of golden yellow danced around the edges of her fingertips. She clearly felt far more optimistic about this meeting than Saviin. Then again, she was always more optimistic than Saviin.
Saviin did not answer, pulling off the face shield and the rough, heavy gloves, untying her apron as the bright midday sun pouring in from the open entrance to the forge was suddenly cut off by the arrival of the visitors.