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This is what Grogu knows. One, that he is alone. Not exactly alone, because he is, as always, with his father. This is good, because his father always protects him, and knows when he is in danger. This is not good, right now, because his father is lying very still and not moving on the forest floor of Nal Hutta’s swamp country. Grogu had tried to call out, through meditation, the way he had on Tython, but no help had responded. He wonders if he is too far away, or if the Jedi are still too afraid to come out of hiding to help. Two, he is afraid. His father was hurt. Grogu knows this because he saw it. There was blood, and a nasty wound that was all sorts of ugly colors. Grogu has seen this before, and knows how to use the Force — the very important magic that everyone always wants him to do, that Master Skywalker had said he was Very Strong With, which Grogu has figured out means he is able to do the magic without training from Master Skywalker or any of the other Jedi from the temple a very long time ago — to heal, but even when he healed the wound, his father did not wake up. Third, he is hungry. Water has not been hard to come by; there is plenty of it surrounding them, running in rivers and creeks and pools and waterfalls over and around the complicated root system of the planet. Food, however, has been, much less food that his father can eat as well. And Grogu knows that when someone is hurt, they need to eat. This is what helps them Get Better. And his father needs to Get Better, because Grogu needs him. The fish he stole last night is gone, picked down to the bones, but it wasn’t too hard to just sneak up and take one, all things considered, so Grogu doesn’t see why he can’t do it again.
The fisherman is lounging back in his rocking chair again, seemingly dozing in the warm light of the fire keeping his fish warm. Grogu doesn’t think it’s too dangerous to sneak through the murky water surrounding the fisherman’s hut, tucking his large ears down under the surface so he appears as small and innocuous as possible, standing on the very tips of his small toes to keep contact with the pond bed as he treads closer. He doesn’t think it’s too dangerous, that is, until he is very suddenly snatched up by something he cannot see and unceremoniously swallowed.
He shrieks, frightened for a moment, before just as suddenly he’s spat back out onto the muddy bank. As he looks up, he can see the fisherman wielding a weapon — a cruder one than his father usually uses, a simple slingshot that regardless had been effective. Grogu carefully pushes himself back to his feet as the fisherman settles back in his chair, regarding him with idle interest, something casual but nonetheless shrewd. Grogu feels very small and very alone, but his father tells him he is brave, and that Mandalorians are not afraid of danger because they know they can rely on their warrior skill to swing a situation in their favor.
“Methinks you are the one that stole my fish,” the fisherman says, dryly, and Grogu feels bad, because he thought his theft had not been noticed. Messy, he can hear the colonel that his father is always talking to saying. She never seems to think his father is good enough, even though Grogu knows he is the strongest and bravest fighter in the Galaxy. He wonders what she would think about him, one who is not so strong and not so brave, and cannot find food for his father without getting caught for stealing.
The fisherman beckons him closer, and when Grogu has clambered up the rickety ladder to the elevated platform with only a little bit of help from the Force, he gestures loosely at the bare cloth covering the wooden floor beside the fire. “Sit,” he says.
He lets Grogu have another one of his fish, and as he’s eating, very hungry from the constant worry about his father and the Hutts and what’s going to happen to him if his father never wakes up, the fisherman keeps eyeing him with that same keen interest.
“I’m guessing you’re not from around here,” he says, slowly, and Grogu hasn’t quite figured out yet what it means when folks get that specific tone in their voice. His father has never been any help in that, either; when folks take that tone with him, Din doesn’t respond except by getting firmer. So Grogu squares his shoulders in an imitation of his father’s usual posture and shakes his head. Of course he isn’t from around here; he is a Mandalorian. The fisherman tilts forward, angling his long neck further towards Grogu and his dinner. “A morsel like you should be more careful,” he continues, still in that slow, easy tone, nodding at Grogu’s tiny frame and the way the fish in his lap dwarfs him even though it’s not that big itself. “You look to be the bottom of the Nal Hutta food chain.” For a moment, he seems almost amused, and Grogu isn’t quite sure what could be funny about the situation. “I’m surprised you haven’t found your way to the Hutts’ supper table.”
Grogu looks up at the mention of the twins, ears twitching with barely suppressed fear. The fisherman notices, his own air getting more grim as he realizes that Grogu knows exactly what he’s talking about. “You’ve heard of the Hutts, have you?” His eyes narrow, long fishy neck arching as he leans fully forward in his chair, over Grogu on the floor. “Are you scared?”
Grogu does not want to admit it, but there is no sense in lying. Lying should only be used to gain information, as per his father’s lessons. So he nods. He is afraid. He is afraid of being caught by the Hutts and taken back to the palace, but he’s more afraid of whatever is happening to his father, the sickness that has made him lie so still and breathe so labored. His father is the bravest and strongest warrior in the Galaxy, so anything that could hurt him like this is something Grogu is very scared of indeed.
The fisherman sits back again, seemingly satisfied with his honest answer. “You should be,” he says, easy and smooth once again. “They would swallow you whole, given half a chance.” Grogu had known this. The Hutts were large, several dozen times his own size. And they were cruel, because they had hunted his father down for helping Rotta and the New Republic over them. Grogu knows that the Hutts are bad folk, and that they are capable of even more than they seem to be. That is another one of his father’s lessons: know your enemy, but be aware that danger can come even from those who profess themselves to be friends. We may be their guests, but we are not safe here, Din had told him when they’d first visited Nal Hutta. As always, his father was correct. Grogu looks up at the fisherman, not knowing how he might communicate that he knows what the Hutts are capable of, but the fisherman’s head snaps up at the sound of a twig cracking nearby, holding up a hand to Grogu in a signal he is familiar with: be quiet.
“Make yourself scarce,” the fisherman says, voice low and gravelly. He gestures with one webbed hand, urging Grogu towards the shadowy area behind the boxes at the back of his hut. Scrambling to his feet, Grogu bundles his fish up and scurries back behind a stack of fishing supply crates and clunky electronics.
Peering out, he can see the fisherman rocking steadily in his chair, seemingly at ease. He’s looking at something just out of Grogu’s line of sight, but as he watches, that something steps into the light of the fire, and Grogu just barely suppresses a squeak of anxiety. It’s the Scary Man, the one from Navarro, who attacked them at their home and took his father and one of the Anzellans away on his ship, the one who brought his father here and gave him to the Hutts. Grogu is afraid, but he is also angry. The Scary Man is the reason why his father is hurt. The Scary Man is the one still hunting them, the reason why Grogu and Din still aren’t safe, even as his father lies very still and very sick.
The Scary Man has his anooba with him, the long, ragged line of its spine pricking all along the ridge of its back, pale eyes fixed on its master. As the Scary Man speaks with the fisherman, though, her nose twitches, muzzle lifting as she sniffs the air. Grogu ducks back behind the box, staying very still, though he knows it is no use — she has smelled him.
He can hear the anooba’s rough panting as she stalks ever-closer, and remembers his father’s lessons: control your breathing. Check your armor. Ready your weapons if you must fight. Grogu does not want to fight. The anooba is big, and she has the Scary Man with her, and he is armed only with his paint-pellet wrist cannon and a bag with a small collection of grav charges. The anooba growls, softly, and Grogu braces himself against the box at his back. A Mandalorian is not afraid of danger.
“Hey,” the fisherman says, suddenly, addressing the anooba directly. “Get away from my fish.” His tone is still easy, but there’s an edge to it, this time. Grogu wonders if the Scary Man will respect his wishes.
The anooba growls, again, sharper, but the Scary Man, in a deep, commanding voice, calls, “Keibu.” At the sound of her master’s order, the anooba makes a low whuffing sound and retreats, prowling back to the Scary Man’s side.
When the Scary Man has left, the fisherman rocks back in his chair, tail swinging idly. “Hunter says you have a partner,” he remarks, getting to his feet. “Says you two escaped the twins.” As Grogu peers back around the crates, he can see the fisherman walking around the small shelter, gathering various dried ingredients in his webbed fist and bringing them to a small table tucked against the wall. “Well, that’s impressive,” he continues. Grogu coos in acknowledgement. He climbs up onto another crate to see what the fisherman is doing — he’s mixing the ingredients with a pestle, grinding them up into a fine black paste.
“Says your partner’s hurt real bad.” This is true, Grogu thinks, remembering how he’d closed the wound with ease and his father still hadn’t woken up, even when he’d shaken him, tapping on his helmet with his claws. “Bit by a dragonsnake. Poisoned.” Poison is something Grogu knows, but has never seen. Poison, Din says, is a dishonorable way of killing — it forces the victim to suffer before it finishes them off. Grogu shivers, knowing that if it’s poison that has made his father sick, then he must be dying. His father cannot die, Grogu has lost too many people already, and been very frightened, to now lose the one person who has taught him what it means to be brave.
The fisherman looks away, spooning a glob of the gritty black paste into a leaf. “I want you to feed this to him.” Grogu watches his movements carefully, eyes fixed on what must be the antidote for the poison. This will fix his father. This will get him to wake up. “Now, you should know,” the fisherman adds, gruff voice as gentle as it possibly can be, “this might be too little, too late. And there’s a good chance he doesn’t wake up.” He ties a strand of twine around the leaf packet. “Either way, best thing you can do right now is make him comfortable.”
He holds the packet out to Grogu, who takes it carefully. This packet is special; this packet will help his father Get Better. The fisherman leans down, eyeing him with intensity and not an insignificant amount of sympathy. “There comes a time when we all have to say goodbye,” he murmurs, rough voice delivering the message softly. Grogu looks up at him, feeling warmth and gratitude for this alien who has made the decision to help him and his father. This man is kind, this man has given him the medicine to save his father. He tries to smile, to let the fisherman know that he is grateful. He will not think about the fisherman’s warning about “too little, too late”.
“I wish you luck, small traveler,” the fisherman says, encouragingly, with that smooth flow to his speech that has become comforting to Grogu in the short time they’ve spoken. He scrambles for the ladder, eager to get back to the tiny mud nest he had built for them to help his father get better right away. All the way back, he clings to the delicate packet clutched between his tiny claws, small legs carrying him as fast as he can toddle. He is only so quick, as he has no pram nor his father to help him along.
When he sees the faint light of the lamp ahead, he toddles faster. His father is still right where he’d left him earlier that evening, boots concealed by brush, lying inside the mud nest as still as the grave. Grogu wastes no time; he undoes the twine holding the packet closed clumsily, carefully peeling back the green folds until he can scoop the medicinal paste into one small hand, carefully reaching under the edge of his father’s helmet to press it to his mouth. When he’s assured that not a speck has gone to waste, he taps impatiently on his father’s chestplate. His father does not move, so Grogu waits a few seconds and then tries again, pushing against his father’s side with all his might. Din still does not stir, lying as still as ever, breathing so shallow Grogu can barely hear it.
Grogu’s heart sinks. He remembers what the fisherman had said — there’s a good chance he doesn’t wake up. That’s not supposed to be the way it goes. Grogu’s father is strong, and brave, and Grogu has seen all his life that strong and brave folks always will protect him — he doesn’t know why he suddenly had to leave the Jedi temple on Coruscant, only that there was Great Danger, but Master Beq had protected him, and they had escaped with the Naboo forces. When he had been taken by Stormtroopers on Navarro, he had been protected first by Kuiil, and then by IG-11, and finally, by his father. It seems, Grogu realizes, that those who protect him always die, and it’s effort for him not to wail aloud at that thought. He doesn’t, though, because he doesn’t know if the Hutts’ droid forces are still sweeping the forest for them.
So instead, he wriggles himself between Din’s arm and ribs, curling himself up against his father’s side. He is, at least, still warm. Grogu has never felt safer anywhere else. Grogu closes his eyes, and imagines that his father is Better, and they are on the Razor Crest, in the tiny bedcabin that they both barely fit in, despite Grogu being so small.
In the morning, his father is gone. For a moment, Grogu is very frightened, because he is sure that must mean that the Hutts had come in the night and taken him, and Din would not escape the twins again. Then, he thinks that his father had awoken, and left only to collapse elsewhere, and finally succumb to the poison. He squirms out of the mud nest’s entrance, blinking in the blinding Nal Hutta sun which is only slightly softened by the soaring canopy overhead. The forest is alive with noise, as it has been these last several days — he can hear the chirping of insects, the flutter of winged creatures skipping from branch to branch, but he realizes that there’s another noise, one that sounds like home — the rustle of leather and metal plating sliding against each other — and then Grogu’s father stands up from where he’d been adjusting his armor, the watery sunlight flashing off the Beskar of his helmet and pauldrons. The mudhorn signet catches the light, gleaming.
“Hey kiddo,” his father says, voice soft. He doesn’t sound sick anymore, and he’s standing on his own two feet. Grogu tentatively steps forward, cooing a question.
“The old protect the young, and then the young protect the old,” Din says, by way of answering. He sounds proud and affectionate, in the subdued way he has, and Grogu squeals in delight at hearing his father’s voice again. “This is the Way,” his father says, simply. Well done.
Grogu feels relief, and happiness. All is right again. Together, they will face the danger ahead, and he will not have to be afraid, because he is a Mandalorian, and he is with his Clan. This is the Way.