Chapter Text
This story is one of the Keldabe storytellers’ favorites.
It is a story about a future, full of mandokar, that broke chains and shook galactic politics.
It is a story about children, for they are the future. This is the Way.
And it is even mostly true.
The spirit of Mandalore had been crying for its people for centuries, the planet’s landscape turned to wasteland by the Dral’han. The Manda wailed for the loss of its forests, its fertile plains, an aching scar that fed the anger and vengeance of its people. The Manda watched as its children tore themselves apart, weakened by centuries of infighting, undermined by the machinations of the Sith. With moderation annihilated through betrayal, violent terrorists and terroristic pacifists waged war upon each other, twisting the values of Mandalore into something unrecognizable, and ultimately too vulnerable to defend itself.
The Manda screamed as its homeworld was laid to utter waste by a Galactic Empire that obliterated what little was left. The surviving verde were scattered to the far corners of the galaxy, leaderless and hopeless that anything even faintly resembling the stories of old could ever exist once again. Its precious metal, the beskar, was plundered from bodies and from the structural bones of buildings where it should never have been, smelted and traded around as ill-gotten prizes. A Mandalorian became a relic of a bygone time, a singular entity of dangerous repute, but always alone.
Until the Manda blessed a foundling bounty hunter to restore the desolate homeworld. Rising up from the ashes of betrayal, destruction, and misguided indoctrination, Din Djarin took up the Darksaber, and with the help of a daughter of a clone trooper, himself the progeny of the last true Mand’alor, they united the scattered people and restored the surface of the planet with the long-lost Living Waters. With the song of the Manda ringing in their ears, Mand’alor the Humble and Riduur’alor the Dutiful, with their five foundling children, led their people into a new era of prosperity and promise, with renewed dedication to the Mandalorian values of strength, solidarity, and shereshoy. In the dawn of the Age of Restoration, they stood alone as always, a bulwark against the ineptitude of an overstretched New Republic and the slow, insidious growth of darker powers in the galaxy. Like the Darksaber itself, a burning sword of justice, to hunt slavers and criminals, and passionately defend its freedom.
But that is not this story. This is the story of what came after.
“Have they noticed?”
Til chanced a glance over his shoulder, then ahead through the binocs. The coast was clear. “Not yet.”
Kass grinned. “Excellent.”
The five children of Mand’alor and Rid’alor Djarin sprinted from the cover of the copse and across the open farmland north of Keldabe, whooping and cheering in the bright morning light.
It was a great day for sneaking out; buire in meetings all morning with ba’vodu Tristan Wren and the rest of the advisors; their pack of pet massifs that pulled supplemental guard duty off with ba’vodu Rekr for their annual checkup; and the usual guards lulled into a sense of complacency by the peaceful thrum of Keldabe’s vibrant population hard at work in the revitalized city. No one would miss them for at least a few hours, nor the speeder they had commandeered from the palace hangar to cover the majority of the distance from Keldabe to the ruined beskar mine that held the Living Waters. But the armed guard that patrolled the area nixed the idea of pulling right up— not to mention the less-than-approved speeder trip— so it now lay behind them, stashed behind some boulders that the mine’s explosion four years ago had thrown into the open plain, and around which a copse of trees had sprung.
Where once stood a desolate, windswept plain to the north of Keldabe four years ago, now farms worked the fertile earth, and the children sprinted up the lane between fields of shrubs heavy with summer berries bursting with flavor, and neatly managed rows of root vegetables and leafy greens. In the far distance, grain fields shimmered as they swayed in the light breeze and caught the mid-morning light on their glossy stalks. Busy farmers and droids barely spared them a glance as they bolted up the packed earth path, inhaling the warm, earthy scent of vegetation that saturated the light, humid breeze.
“Sure you can keep up?” snarked Kass, eyes on the light flush on Maddi’s cheeks.
“Mir’sheb,” she snapped back, in that sassy way that only seven-year-old girls well out of the earshot of their parents could manage. White plaits pulled the hair from her pale face and bounced off her back as she ran, her slender little legs managing the pace fairly well. “I can’t wait until I’m not the only girl anymore. Then you’ll see what we’re capable of.”
“Wait, what?” The ten-year-old Tholothian skidded to a stop, as the others halted too. Kass’s dark gray head tails swung wildly as he turned to face the little Sarkhai. “The baby’s gonna be a girl? How do you know?”
“Gro’ika told me,” she taunted, her dark eyes glittering in triumph. The boys turned to Grogu, who had hitched a ride on Til’s shoulder, and now shuffled his clawed feet, his long green ears twitching downward in embarrassment at the sudden attention.
“Gro, how could you? You promised not to tell us!” Til couldn’t help sounding betrayed. He had a week’s worth of chores riding on this bet, now lost.
“Sorrrry,” Grogu mumbled, dragging out his gurgled R’s in his agitation.
Til sighed, scrubbing a hand over the umber skin of his face and into his curly, inky-black hair. He did not like their chances of keeping this a secret— the hair dye prank war of last year reflecting all too well the odds— but for their buire’s sakes, they’d have to manage.
“Well, now we all have to keep the secret. You know Din’buir and Sav’buir didn’t want to know what their first tal’ik’aad would be. If anyone blabs to Sav’buir, I will personally ensure they are doing the family laundry for a month. So mouths shut for the next four months.” He pinned each in place with his dark brown eyes, then nodded grimly at their horrified faces. Good. This was serious.
Threat settled, they continued on their run through the fields to the Living Waters.
“So, alor’ika, you figured out what your verd’goten will be? You know, since it’s this year and not next year?” Kiro joked, panting slightly. The ten-year old Togruta had started out the run strong, but his copper skin was beginning to look a little flushed, and his blue and white striped montrals and lekku wobbled as his run lost form.
“Ha ha,” Til deadpanned, slowing his pace a bit. “Your jokes are old.” It didn’t sting so much anymore, the realization that the orphanage had gotten his age wrong. He’d been so sure that he was seven, had known his birthday, when he and Maddi left Adumar with Din’buir. The presumptive Mand’alor had come to the planet to recruit a Mandalorian covert to help restore Mandalore and ended up rescuing the pair from a den of nexu and the care of a negligent orphanage. Only to discover, after a year of proper nutrition and medical care, that he was actually a year older than he’d thought. And now, about to turn thirteen, and undergo his verd’goten, the right of passage that would mark his ascension into adulthood (technically) here on Mandalore.
It certainly explained why he had felt so responsible for Maddi, all those years ago, and today for Kass, Kiro and Grogu, his adopted brothers. Still, it rankled. That orphanage had had one job, and couldn’t be bothered to care for its only near-human wards properly—
“I have a few options, but we haven’t picked one yet,” the Kiffar boy continued, not making eye contact. In truth, none of the options had really called to him. At this point, he’d just be assigned one, which was fine.
Really. It was fine.
Til had been looking forward to it for years now, spending his spare time training, practicing, observing other warriors, listening to their stories, tagging along on hunts. He felt ready. The fact that he didn’t know what he wanted to do for his verd’goten was a technicality, purely. He’d already been measured for his durasteel armor, that he would earn once the verd'goten was completed. He’d be content with whatever Din’buir and Sav’buir and the goran came up with.
The thought of his armor triggered another one, and he didn’t want to think about that, quickly cast around for a topic, any topic but—
“And still no idea on your colors?” Kiro asked, trading grins with Kass.
Haar’chak.
“Did I tell you the story of how the colors came to hold their meaning?” Til tried to deflect.
“Yes,” came the chorused reply. Well, it had been worth a shot.
It didn’t help matters that everyone else knew, more or less, what they wanted, even though they only wore bits and pieces of a plastoid set, the training armor. Til had been excited to learn the meanings of armor colors and designs at first; now, color selection felt oddly…. stressful. Til had painted his full training set with pine and red; for guarding his siblings and honoring his parents. The colors just made sense; both of his buire wore pine, and he’d always been the leader of the Djarin children, ever since their adoptions four years ago. (It didn’t matter that Grogu was technically in his fifties; his species aged slowly, and maturity-wise, Til was far-and-away the most responsible of them all). And long before that, he’d cared for Maddi in that orphanage on Adumar for years, at five years old almost solely responsible for the Sarkhai infant that the minders had no interest in raising.
And of course he’d mark his armor to honor the two people who loved him more than life itself, and had truly achieved the impossible on Mandalore to make a home for him and his siblings. Til had grown especially close to Sav’buir when he first left Adumar, and Din’buir was everything he hoped to be when he grew up. Red just made sense to use. As eldest, Til received his training armor pieces first, and painted what made sense. He had assumed his younger siblings would apply the same logic.
Til’s explanation did not remotely resemble his siblings’ rationale for colors that they applied to their vambraces, and the additional armor that Kiro and Kass had accrued as they aged. Of course Kass chose crimson and orange; the Tholothian was perpetually assigned additional chores in penance for his defiance and bullheadedness, despite his buire’s attempts to redirect that… energy. Ever the life of a party, Kiro had pounced on orange instantly, and no one questioned the white he added. Maddi liked pink, and mixed lines of magenta and bright purple together. Her little vambraces demanded respect, and spoke to her faith in luck and passion. Even Grogu had identified his favorite colors of light green and teal, a nod to his secret healing abilities. Din’buir had argued with him about that for a while, but ultimately let it go.
So maybe Til just hadn’t found the right colors yet, ones that spoke to him like they did his siblings. Maybe he had to grow into them. Maybe there was some trepidation over the upcoming turning point in his life.
It was fine.
“Maybe I want it to be a surprise,” he finally answered, knowing he’d taken too long to respond. Kass snorted.
“Sure, Til. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he snarked.
“At least he’s not planning to paint his armor like a neon sign that says, ‘hey, I’m a defiant brat’,” shot back Maddi, always covering Til’s six. Til smiled tightly, knowing where this was going.
“Relentless,” Kass snapped, waving a brightly painted vambrace. “You picked pink and purple because you’re a girl.”
“You!—” Maddi stooped and picked up a dirt clod, hurling it at the back of Kass’s head. Grogu reached out, stopping its flight with the Force, and forcing it to the ground before it could hit Kass.
“All right, that’s enough,” Til rapped out, slowing his jog to a walk as they approached the massive monoliths that surrounded the exterior of the former mine. The others followed suit. “Armor and colors are personal choices, and not up for teasing. Apologize,” he pointed at Maddi, then Kass. They eyed each other, then dropped their gazes.
“N’epar.”
“N’epar.”
Til eyed Kiro; the Togruta grinned and held up his hands in a placating gesture. Til sighed.
“Great. Now that we’ve worked that out, can we focus on why we’ve run out here?” He turned to Grogu, who had jumped down from Til’s shoulder and now trundled forward.
“Diss way,” he chirruped with a wave, and the children followed, creeping silently through the massive boulders towards the heart of the former beskar mine. The Living Waters and its surrounding ruins were off-limits, but Grogu and Maddi had done some reconnaissance and now led the way past the guards, disabling security to slip through.
Not for the first time, Til questioned the wisdom of this venture, but he was curious.
And the leader couldn’t be a wet blanket all the time.
Din Djarin was tired.
Fatigue felt different these days. Gone were the days of long watches and hard marches, barely sleeping as he stalked and caught his bounties, or took on impossible tasks in his quest to find the Jedi. The pain of injuries that sapped his strength was a memory, not a constant. The ever-present hovering of baar’ure ensured he actually consistently slept and ate properly for the first time in decades.
But no one had warned him how exhausting running a planet could be.
Even one filled with self-reliant citizens had decisions to be made, squabbles to settle; so much… people time. And for a solitary bounty hunter, it made for exhausting days.
Hence, this brief respite in his office while his cyar’sarad Saviin fended off the latest salvo from the New Republic.
Din smiled. She was still so much better than he at this, with decades more training and experience under her belt. He hadn’t lied when he told her—repeatedly— that he couldn’t do the job without her. She was not Riduur be Mand’alor, she was the Riduur’alor, or Rid’alor as they called her, as much his equal in every respect. And together, with their council, they’d achieved so much.
Infrastructure. Din could still hear his second’s laugh at Din’s blanch. It had only gotten worse as the realization of what that entailed sunk in. Roads were the least of their problems; Tatooine was more developed than Mandalore at the outset, with some semblance of organized commerce, the faint outline of a law enforcement, planetary security, and medical services. And at his begging, Saviin had stepped in, working hand-in-hand with Tristan Wren and Fenn Rau, marshaling a new cabinet of verde with expertise in a variety of backgrounds. Convincing Korkie Kryze to step into the domestic advisor position had yielded some critical advancements for their goals. The latest major win entailed some enterprising Mandos who had snuck away from the shipyards of Kuat to swear the Resol’nare and start up a manufacturing shipyard south of Sundari. Between coordinated resource- and skill-pooling, creative problem-solving without wiping out the newly-restored raw resources of the planet, and a feverish, unanimous desire to remain self-reliant, Mandalore’s planetary infrastructure had already begun to surpass Tatooine’s, with great promise for a bright future.
Din was not rubbing this achievement in his vod Boba’s buy’ce.
Despite the incredible progress, there simply weren’t enough hours in a rotation to get it all done, and he’d happily let Saviin deal with the New Republic and… rest in his office.
Okay, hide.
It made for a good hiding place. The floor-length window opened onto a private balcony that overlooked the plains north of Keldabe, where he could indulge in the breathtaking view without the need for his helmet. No longer bound by Creed to wear it always, Din still preferred to keep it on, removing it only in the presence of family and close friends. Moments like these, where he could soak in the vibrant colors of the bright morning and inhale the unfiltered air heavy with the scent of spiced cooking rising up from the streets of Keldabe, still felt like a rare luxury he could never take for granted.
He sighed, gaze pointed towards the ruined mine to the north. The peace and calm was a relief, but almost uncanny, after all that it had taken to reach this point. The culmination of a lifetime of skills, the guidance of many far wiser verde, and sheer luck to restore a planet and its forsaken children. It was mind-boggling, yet he only had to reach inside his mind and tug on that thread that pulsed constantly, always there but never overwhelming, that connected him to his people, and the planet, and the Manda.
A strange magic of the ka’ra, facilitated by the Darksaber, and yet another surprise that no one had prepared him for; at least this time he had halfway expected some magic nonsense, and there was nothing to throw across the room (no one told him the Darksaber was borderline sentient, and then it started to hum!—). Now, he couldn’t imagine living without his connection to the Manda. It guided his decisions, kept him tethered to the condition of the planet and its people, reassured in a way no mortal advisor could ever replace. Din could feel the energetic thrum of the capital, its eager, determined people busy plying their skills. The vibrant life that thrived in the surrounding plains, gardens and farms around the capital and up into the heavily forested mountains in the distance. The joyous calls of galaare wheeling and diving in the sky. And always humming away, the Living Waters to the north—
Din stilled, focusing his gaze on the ruins. Something had been shifting lately, slowly but tangibly, a new charge in the air very different from the excitement of achievement and progress; it bore the metallic flavor of danger, a warning of changes still far-off that demanded a close eye. This feeling, though, was far more immediate; it was nebulous, unclear, but the Waters had shifted, their energies surging—
“Alor, the children—” his second Tristan suddenly burst through the door, but Din was already on the move, running to the desk to grab his helmet.
“They’re at the Waters, aren’t they?”
A real credit to the Wren clan, Tristan didn’t falter for a moment. “According to the trackers in their vambraces. I don’t know how they got so far—”
“Get the medics underway, I’ll meet them there,” Din didn’t break stride as he jammed the helmet back on and leapt off the balcony, throttling his jetpack into the sky, as Tristan sprinted back into the heart of the palace.