Chapter Text
He opens his eyes to stare at a grey ceiling, overcast with shadows, his vision blurry and spaced. He’s aware of a warm, light weight on his chest. There’s a soft noise just below his chin, little fretful mewls, and the weight on him squirms just a little.
Ad’ika, he thinks. His eyes fall shut again and he brings a hand to the lump beneath his suit, gently petting, his touch both gentle and firm. “Nuhoy,” he whispers. The ad’ika stills, the cries ceasing and instead becoming soft murmurs and coos that fade into silence.
He surrenders into sleep again.
When he wakes, time has passed and the movement outside tells him that the others are up. Heavy footfalls and running pass by, the adults going about their day and children already up and active.
He sits up and cracks his neck on one side, then the other. He swings his legs around to get up.
Then his hands fly to his chest, and he realizes that his suit is open but there’s no baby.
Panic threatens to overwhelm him. “Ad’ika!” he calls, but there is no response. Jumping out of bed, he looks at each corner, then drops to his knees to peer under the table. “Ad’ika? Cyar’ika? Shit, shit, where did you…”
The little tike is too damn small.
Sure that the kid isn’t hiding somewhere in the room, he turns and sprints to his door, shoving it open--only to immediately pull it back. He turns and races to his shelf, grabs his helmet, and shoves it on before storming out of the room.
The main hall is down the corridor, and he hears a roar of laughter from several Mandalorians. He sprints down, not giving a damn that he’s undressed, and slides into the doorway. “The kid’s gone,” he gasps. “He’s not there, is he--have you seen--”
Several of the adults are sitting around a table, and they all turn to stare at him. His eyes go straight to the little green, blue, and white mass being held up in the air. Wrapped up in his sweater, the child is giggling as he’s held by Paz Vizla, who slowly lowers him back down.
“He wandered in here,” he says.
The kid turns, hearing Dyn’s voice. “Buir!” he says, earning a few “aww” sounds from the Mandalorians. “Buir!”
Dyn stares at him, feeling the adrenaline slowly leave his body. Then, “Don’t drop him,” before he drags himself back to his room to dress.
He’s starting to think the covert is plotting to kidnap the kid from him, because every second someone is coming by and trying to sweep him away. After last night’s gathering, they’ve all but forgotten Dyn, and instead focus their attention on fawning over the child. Not that Dyn minds; he prefers to not have the attention. He just wishes he and the kid both were ignored.
He feels better with the kid in reach.
But of course, Mandalorians love children, and his ad’ika is no exception. He watches, leaning against the wall, as he’s passed around from person to person. Some are content to just dote on the child, but others seem determined to teach him a new word, now that buir seems a stable word in his extremely limited vocabulary.
“Ba’vodu?” Dyn looks up to see Paz Vizla holding the kid. He tosses the kid in the air—Dyn tenses like a rock—and catches him again, earning shrieking laughter from the child. “Can you say ba’vodu? Uncle? Ba’vodu?”
“Leave it alone, Vizla,” someone says, and the others laugh. He’s never heard the adults laugh this much in such a short amount of time.
A scurry of movement catches Dyn’s eye and he turns to see Ari climbing onto the chair beside him, her long hair braided over her shoulder. For a moment, she just sits beside him in silence. Then she turns, scoots down, and falls back, laying her head in his lap.
He looks down at her. She looks back up. Then she lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Tell me a story.”
“What story?” he says.
“I don’t know. A story from somewhere far away. What’s that place where you met that rebel lady? The green place?”
“Sorgan,” he says.
“Sorgan,” she repeats. “Were there kids there, too?”
“A whole bunch of kids,” he says.
“What were they like?” she asks.
“Nothing like you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That village, and those people—they’re nothing like us. They’re nothing like Mando’ade. They didn’t know how to fight, or defend themselves, or just shoot a blaster. We had to teach them. Those kids don’t know how to fight like you. You aren’t… laandur, like they are.”
“I can fight,” she mumbles.
“You can,” he says.
“I bet I could take you.” He can hear the grin in her voice. “I bet I could—just wait, Dyn. I’ll be the best Mando’ade the covert has ever seen. I’ll go up there and bring more honor to the clan than anyone ever will.”
“Layari,” Dyn says.
Ari huffs and elbows him, light enough to not hurt herself on his armor. “It’s not layari! You’re just mad that I’ll be better than you are.”
“Hmph. If you’re going to be better than me, you should focus on your temper and skill.”
“I have skills,” she says firmly. “I can beat all the Foundlings. I’m better than Jaylen.”
“Skill isn’t just fighting--” Dyn begins, when a whimper cuts through the chatter. The kid is facing him, placed in someone’s arms and peering at Dyn over the Mandalorian’s shoulder. He reaches out towards him, his cries threatening to turn loud.
Ari sits up as Dyn stands, and the Mandalorian holds up the kid so Dyn can take him. The cries quiet down to soft, distressed coos, and he’s cradled against his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”
The coos soften as he gently bounces the kid. His face burrows against his plating and he rubs small circles on his back. It’s okay. Everything is okay. He’s overwhelmed, Dyn thinks, stressed by being passed around. He just needs to calm down.
There’s a soft humming coming from the side. He looks over at Ari and recognizes the tune immediately. The Resol’nare. The Six Actions turned into a nursery rhyme for children to memorize. Ari looks up at him, then begins to sing it.
Ba’jur bal, beskar’gam,
Ara’nov, aliit,
Mando’a bal Mand’alor--
An vencuyan mhi.
The Six Actions. The six requirements of a Mandalorian.
The child turns, eyes curious, as he looks at Ari. He watches her, ears pricked.
Ari shuffles forward on the seat, and recites it again, now in Basic.
Education and armor,
Self-defense, our tribe,
Our language and our leader--
All help us survive.
The child’s eyes begin to close, eyelids become heavy. Ari continues to hum the tune, and after a moment, Dyn hums with her. He watches as it lulls the child to sleep, soon passed out in his arms. Then it makes his breath hitch in his throat as he thinks about how much trust this tiny being must put in him, and how often the child turns to him for comfort. Sleeping on top of him. Eating from his hand. Calming down at hearing his voice. He takes a deep breath.
Ari asks him something, but he doesn’t hear, too focused on the sleeping baby’s face.
“Ad’ika,” he says, holding up a card. It depicts a child walking beside their parent, an arrow pointed at the child. “Ad’ika. You.”
“Aah-ka!” the baby cries, reaching out to take the card.
“Yes, close enough.” Dyn grabs another card. It’s the same picture now, but with an arrow pointing at the parent. “Buir.”
“Buir!”
“Right. You know that.” Dyn shuffles through the learning cards. “Okay… Faim.” The picture is a table and chairs with two Mandalorians sitting. An arrow points to the space. “Home. We’re faim now. This is home.”
“Fayyyy…” the baby stares at him, then pulls the fish toy up to gnaw on.
“We’ll work on that.” He sets the card aside. “Okay… Aliit.” He holds up another card, this time pointing to a group of Mandalorians, both adults and children alike. “Clan. Family. This is your aliit.”
“Al… Aliii?” The child says. “Aliit? Aliit?”
“Yes, aliit. Good.”
The door to their room slides open and Dyn looks up to see Paz standing there, holding a tray of food. He gives Dyn a nod, and he nods back. Then Paz steps inside and walks to the table, setting down the tray.
“Thought someone should bring you lunch,” he says. Then he sits down cross-legged beside them on the floor. “And I wanted to see the kid. You found the cards?”
Dyn nods. “Ari sang the Resol’nare to put him to sleep this morning,” he says. “It just… reminded me. The Six Actions. He has to know Mando’a.” He shuffles the cards again. “He’s starting to repeat things, and actually know their meaning. So I might as well start. He hears Basic all the time.”
Paz looks at the kid, then sets his hands on his knees. “Ba’vodu,” he says. “Ba’vodu?”
Dyn snorts. “He’s not going to call you that--”
“Baaa vah…” The kid stares up at Paz. “Ba’vodu?”
It’s barely mumbled but it’s as close as the kid could get. Dyn stares at him, then at Paz, who laughs in delight. “Good job, vod’ad!” he says, and Dyn lets out a sigh. The kid wanders towards Paz, setting his hands on the Mandalorian’s knee.
“Ba’vodu?” he repeats.
“That’s right,” Paz murmurs, his voice soft and gentle through his helmet’s modulator. He picks up the kid and settles him on his knee, one hand stabilizing him.
Dyn watches, gathering the cards into a pile. A question has been eating at him since first receiving the transmission to come home. “Why aren’t you afraid of hunters finding this place?” he says.
Paz looks at him. He’s quiet for a moment, stroking a finger along the kid’s ear. “There’s a bounty on me,” he says.
Dyn stares at him. “For helping me,” he says in a quiet voice. “Karga put a bounty on you after Nevarro?”
“Not many have actually tried.” There’s a smirk in his voice. “Only about three so far. I suppose my bounty isn’t high enough for more to try their luck taking in a Mando’ade. Since getting here, a few more have come to the city, but they can’t find the door. This oriya is a maze and we’ve found a nice little hole to curl up in. A tracking beacon doesn’t show the path to getting in.”
Dyn stares at the two. “They can’t find us,” he says. “They really…?”
“One managed to find the door. Came down the steps straight into our gathering. If you saw his expression when he realized he’d just walked into a whole group of Mandalorians, you’d have laughed. Thara just shot him in the doorway.”
He does hide a chuckle. “So… you’re telling me the kid could really be safe here.”
“There’s a good chance. We took that hunter’s tracker and sent someone up to wander around with it. It’ll only tell them they’re close, but it isn’t specific enough. That entrance doesn’t allow for any sort of assault on us that isn’t hunters coming down single file for slaughter. This ad’ika is one of us now. It is no longer only you who protects him.”
Dyn swallows. The thought is almost too good to be true. “We could really…” The emotion that wells up in his chest is unexpected. “Oh.”
Paz looks at him, then scoops up the kid and holds him out to Dyn. “I think buir needs a hug,” he says with a smile, and the kid tilts his head to the side in curiosity before cooing at Dyn. He holds his arms out.
Dyn reaches out and takes the kid into his arms. He takes a deep breath and holds him tight, hugging the baby to his chest. The kid squirms, trying to claw out of his hold, and Dyn lets him. He crawls up his arm, then onto his shoulder. He plans his hands on the helmet, just below the ‘T’ of his visor. A hand comes up to support the kid.
Paz chuckles, a distorted sound through the modulator. “He’s attached to you, Dyn’ika.”
“Don’t call me that,” Dyn snaps.
The kid makes a gurgling coo, then adjusts himself on Dyn’s shoulder. He reaches out one hand towards the ground. His eyes close and his expression scrunches in concentration.
“What’s he doing?” Paz asks.
Dyn doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide beneath his helmet as he watches. The fish toy, left forgotten on the ground, begins to shake. Then, slowly, it rises into the air. The two Mandalorians watch in silence as it hovers, then moves towards the child, straight into his hand. He then clutches it to his chest with one arm, making a soft coo before beginning to gnaw on the edge.
For a moment, they just sit in stunned silence.
“Jetii,” Paz whispers.
Dyn looks at him. “What?” he says. “Jedi? You think he’s…”
“That’s the Force, Dyn.” Paz’s voice is incredulous.
Dyn looks at the child, who is only concerned about snuggling his fish. “But he’s a baby,” he says. “The Jedi are gone. They only exist in our stories now.”
Paz shakes his head. “But the Force did not die with them,” he says. “You wouldn’t know. You did not care for stories of the Jetii.”
“I didn’t think I should care so much if the Jetii are gone.”
“Apparently, you should. There’s one standing on your shoulder.” Paz looks at him. “Maybe not so much a Jetii yet, but he wields the weapon that made the Jetii so fearsome. I’m not surprised the Empire wishes to possess him. If they could train him in their dark ways, he alone could give rise to the Empire again.”
Dyn’s stomach twists. He pulls the kid off his shoulder and into his arms instead. The child stares up questioningly at him, cooing.
“Even greater reason to protect him,” Paz says, his voice quiet. “You should tell the Armorer. She will inform the aliit exactly what our newcomer is. They will want to know exactly how crucial it is that he does not fall into the Empire’s hands.”
Dyn stares at the floor, his sense of newfound safety shattered like dropped glass. “Oh,” he whispers.
He holds onto his child like he’s the most precious thing in the galaxy.
Mandalorians have a very rocky history with the Jedi. There’s plenty of conflict to speak of. There’s no love lost.
Dyn finds himself buried in their archives, searching through anything related to the Jetii he can find. He finds Mando’ade war accounts, some field journal entries, and holograms showing Jedi in action--whatever can survive time. He watches, mesmerized, as the warrior does flips and swings their jetii’kad to slice through enemies with little effort. They deflect blaster shots like they’re… expected.
He rewinds. He presses play again. He’s alone, the child swept off by the Foundlings, and he sits in the chair in the dark room. He watches as some blaster shots are deflected, others ignored, like they know exactly which are going to hit them.
How? He thinks.
“They use the Force to anticipate an opponent’s moves in battle.”
Dyn looks over his shoulder as the Armorer steps into the room. She nods to him, and he nods back, and she walks to the table to slide into the seat across from him. She folds her hands together on the table.
Dyn looks down at the hologram. “It’s incredible.”
“Hm.” The Armorer looks at him. “Paz told me about your discovery of the little one’s abilities.”
“I was going to come to you myself,” he says. “I wanted to find out what I could first.”
“I understand.” She tilts her head, just slightly, at the hologram as it plays over and over. “The Jetii may be lost in history now, but it is my understanding that they were simply the utilization of what was known about the Force. They had learned to master it. It was their world. The Force gave them a deeper connection to the living world and yet continues on without them.”
Dyn stares at the hologram. “I just… have so many questions,” he says. “If it’s meant to manifest itself like this at his age. Or if he would be considered strong or weak right now. How would they train him, how he is supposed to learn to control it?”
“Fine questions. I’m afraid I have no answers for you. Despite the conflict we had with the Jedi, they were admirably structured and disciplined. However, so much information has been lost and what we know may have been mistranslated or warped over time. Only a living Jedi would be able to tell you.”
Dyn frowns. It’s not what he wants to hear, but it’s also the only answer he could expect. “I can raise him in the ways of the Resol’nare,” he says. “Education, armor, Mando’a, the covert, and fighting -- I can teach those things. But I don’t know how to teach him this. How do I show him control over something I don’t understand?”
“You don’t show him control,” she says, and Dyn deflates further. “You’re right. This is something you cannot understand in its entirety. Instead, you teach discipline. Self-control. Responsibility. You teach him these core tenants to use in his everyday life and they will translate on their own. If he understands these things, he will apply them to his use of the Force. What comes naturally will come naturally. You cannot teach him to wield his power, only how to be responsible with it.”
He stares at her. It feels like an impossible task. He wants all the answers, all the tricks, and all the control he can possibly have. He doesn’t want this great, gaping unknown right in front of his face, blinding half his vision. He has committed to raising a child who has a power he can only hope to one day understand.
Teach him responsibility. Teach him discipline.
He takes a long, deep breath, trying to take it all in. In the silence, he can distantly hear the children playing, loudly singing a song together.
Only a living Jedi could tell him what he wants to know. Is it possible to find one? To leave the kid here in safety and go searching the galaxy for a being who may be able to guide him?
“You will still accept him?” he asks, his voice gone soft. “If he is Jetii, when there is so much between them and the Mando’ade --”
“Such conflict is in the past,” the Armorer says. “This child has nothing to do with it. Further still, he has become Mando’ade. He has cin vhetin. The Jedi Order is gone and the Mandalorians remain. A Mandalorian he shall be, until the end of his time or until he chooses to reject it.”
It gives him some relief though his shoulders still feel heavy. “Thank you,” he says.
Soon, the Armorer leaves him, and Dyn finds himself sitting in the dark once again. He shuts off the hologram, slides the device back into its place, and stands. A few joints crack from sitting for so long. A few questions have been answered, but it just leads him further down a path of deeper inquiries.
He walks out of the room. Down the hall, he hears the children laughing and singing. He walks towards it, stopping by the doorway, and glances in.
They’ve all curled up on the floor together, packed in tight. The kid is laid out between J’ia and Hewen. They’re all giggling together before one breaks out into chanting. The rest join in.
Geroya tome, akaanir tome,
Aliit ori'shya tal'din!
Geroya tome, akaanir tome,
Aliit ori'shya tal'din!
Dyn watches and listens, the chant calling for unity with peers. He remembers chanting it himself, laying on the floor with the others, for all his antisocial tendencies. Even to him, there was something powerful about a sense of belonging. Of companionship. Of brotherhood.
He deserves it, he thinks, watching the kid and the happy expression on his face. I don’t care if I have to kill every hunter in the galaxy or track down a living Jedi. You’re going to be this happy forever, kid.