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He hadn't expected his death to be so quiet. Lying on the moss-covered forest floor, birdsong crackled through his helmet's speakers, their calls hollow in his ears. Moisture from the dew-soaked soil seeped through the fabric between his armour, chilling him to the bone.
The air intake through his helmet, usually stale and dry, had a freshness he’d never tasted before, the warm botanical air giving a small relief to his lungs as he rasped for air, losing the battle as his body shut down.
Shivers racked his core, and he felt his veins grow heavy, poison constricting its way through his muscles and around his heart. His vision dimmed, the faint rays of sunlight fading from view.
Grogu had come for him. The kid—his kid. His son. Surpassing every limitation and expectation that Din hadn’t known he’d set. He’d navigated the galaxy to find him, to save him. And Din had sent him away.
He knew the moment he saw the miniature ship that his fate was sealed. So why hadn’t he said goodbye? Flashes of Moff Gideon’s bridge danced through his memory as his consciousness slipped beyond his control. Seeing those brown eyes through his own for the first and last time. Even in that goodbye, deep down he’d known he’d never let Grogu go forever. They would meet again, he believed it.
His skin crawled under his flight suit, and he felt the legs of thousands of insects marching over his body, beginning their feast and sinking in their teeth. He couldn’t tell if it was real or a hallucination. What difference did it make?
Why, when he knew it was truly the last time he’d ever see his son, did he not say goodbye?
He faded away. His senses shut down one by one until he was alone in his consciousness.
“Have you ever removed your helmet?”
He turned, blinking through the dreamy haze that swamped his vision. He stared at the Armourer, standing before her forge—the abandoned one on Nevarro, not the one on Mandalore. Just a dream…
“No.”
“Has it ever been removed by others?”
His voice cut off, trapped in his chest. His peripheral vision had widened, the ceilings and floors engulfing him in their vastness as they threatened to cave in. He reached up and felt his gloves brush against his exposed skin.
“By creed, no person that sees your face may be allowed to live.”
“But I can’t—I can’t kill them, I don’t have time—”
He cut off, feeling warm trails carve down his cheeks, and his vision glistened and blurred.
“I don’t have time.”
“Time to do what?” The Armourer asked. “If you had more, what would you do?”
The Hutts’ faces rippled through his mind, and he heard their slithering voices worming through the air around him. They took his dignity. They took his honour. He’d tried so hard to steel himself, to turn his anguish into cold rage and turn his face into a mask itself. They wouldn’t get a reaction from him.
Until they dared threaten Grogu. Until they reminded him of the gnawing realization that one day he’d leave his son behind, alone, defenceless.
Not defenceless.
Grogu had reminded him of that today. Maybe that’s why he could let his kid go. He finally realized that he’d be okay on his own. He’d survive.
But now, this was the warrior's death he’d been promised would be honourable. Slowly wasting away.
Alone.
He looked up at the Armourer, her question lingering unanswered in the air. The creed answered that he should spend his final moments in revenge, ensuring no culprit who exposed him would be left alive. But revenge dulled in comparison to the hollow ache eating away at him.
“I’d say goodbye to Grogu,” he answered, “I’d tell him he’ll never be alone. And that I—”
His thoughts trailed off. The forge faded away from view. He slipped away into the cold blanket of night.
A heavy weight pressed against his eyes, exhaustion holding them shut. A foul taste lingered in his mouth, something simultaneously fungal and floral. He faintly registered the blinking lights of his helmet interface, but he saw nothing but darkness beyond his visor.
The ache in his bones had subsided, and his body felt numb, nerves burning where the armour pinched against his skin. Weight pressed against his right arm, and he shifted his glance, looking down at the source.
Grogu. Curled against him. Here. Safe.
He checked his helmet interface to determine the time. Dank Farrik, he’d been out for at least a week. He looked down at Grogu again, then around at the structure that encompassed them.
Grogu had come back. He’d cared for both of them for all this time, on his own.
Judging by the absence of pain or even a scar on his left side, he must have healed him the same way he did for Karga years ago. Din clenched his jaw, reminded of the word heel burning him inside. He suddenly felt ashamed for even trying to use the command. Grogu couldn’t speak, but he wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a foundling, not anymore. He was a Mandalorian.
Grogu saved his life, and Din would never be able to repay that debt. The least he could do was show his son respect.
He sat up slowly, trying not to disturb Grogu’s sleep. Grogu grunted, burrowing his little hands deeper into the fabric on Din’s side.
Din let his left hand drift up to his helmet. Carefully, he undid the latches, lifting his helmet off and into his lap. He leaned over and gently kissed Grogu’s head.
“I love you, ad'ika," he whispered, "I’m proud of you.”
Grogu stirred, but didn’t wake.
Din leaned back against the structure and closed his eyes, breathing in clean air.
He had more time.
It didn’t matter if he never managed to get his revenge on the Hutts.
He was home.