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Why did you do that?
Din forces himself not to scramble for his helmet. He has lost the right. But he can still snatch his blaster.
The Slave I grumbles. Din should’ve been on the light cruiser, but Bo-Katan had named a date and time for their fight and Din found he didn’t want to be on that ship until then. Not where he’d let Grogu go.
Hm? I sense nothing. Perhaps you have had a nightmare. Many before you have. Many have blamed me.
Din slowly stands.
Are you still dreaming? You look awake. Well, perhaps Fett will forgive you for a blaster hole in his ship. Fett—it is strange, you know, to encounter another Fett. It has been a long time.
“Where are you?” Din demands.
Silence.
Din’s almost to the lights. “What the hell do you mean, another Fett?”
He hits the panel. An old light forces itself to blink. It settles on the tiny bunk Fett had offered: built-in cot, small crate. Nothing else.
There’s no one in here.
Yet Din definitely hears a voice. It’s hushed now, but distinctive: Alor…can you hear me?
Din’s gaze flickers around the bunk again.
Over here. Your belt.
Din’s utility belt hangs on a hook next to the cot. It looks the same—except for the Darksaber’s gleaming hilt.
Yes, the voice purrs.
“No,” Din says. “I’m—hallucinating. I got hit.”
You did, but I am very real. You won me with incredible skill. It is good to be back in the hands of a worthy Mandalorian.
Din breathes past the pain. “I broke my Creed. I’m no longer Mandalorian.”
You are everything a Mandalorian should be.
Din doesn’t know when he’d taken the two steps back to the cot. The Darksaber is cold.
Black tar bubbles over, spreading down the hilt and onto his hand. As soon as it touches him, it sinks into his pores.
“I’m dreaming,” Din whispers.
No, Alor. You are not.
Din jolts and clutches his head. “What the hell?”
Not what. Who.
A face. There is a face hovering in front of Din. Undulating ink sky, pinpricks of writhing stars and lines of nebulae. Eyes, pupilless, with a colorful sheen even under Slave I’s old lights. Teeth, large, sharp, fully capable of tearing flesh, a long tongue peeking between them. All of it, connected to Din’s shoulder. Coming from Din’s shoulder.
“I am Calamity,” the creature says, “and you are mine.”
Din drops the Darksaber. “What?”
“I am what resides in the Darksaber. I bonded with its crystal. Now I have bonded with you.”
“I’m giving it to Bo-Katan,” Din says.
Calamity sneers. “Kryze. She has forfeited her right to wield me. Though I must say, having someone not want to seize my power is refreshing.” It tilts its head. “Why are you so ready to yield?”
“I don’t want a throne,” Din croaks, “I just wanted to save the kid.”
Calamity rumbles. “And you call yourself dar’manda.”
Din’s head drops. He hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. Dreaded hearing it from the others. It makes it real.
A cold tendril lifts his chin. The opalescent eyes are somehow so expressive. “You are a Mandalorian, Alor. My Mandalorian.”
“Stop calling me that. And I’m not yours.”
“You are Mand’alor. And you are mine, as I am yours. Symbiosis, Alor. Do you know it?” Din reluctantly nods. “That is what I seek. It is what I have found with you. You help me survive, and I will give you my strength.”
“I don’t want the Darksaber. I don’t want a bond.”
Calamity grins. “You will.”
Bo-Katan will meet him on Tatooine in two weeks planet time. Din promises his services to Fett should he need them. It’s less about the debt and more that Din needs to do something before he claws the walls or himself.
Calamity agrees to return to the Darksaber. But their voice, though quieter, does not stop. For an ancient royal blade, they like to comment on the most inane things.
Your blaster is quite effective.
Look! A child! We should buy it something.
Drink more water.
Your flight suit needs mending.
Two days in, Din breaks. “Do you ever shut up?”
You are the first to understand me in centuries. I will speak as I will.
Din…can’t begrudge them that. It’s not so bad, he figures. Grogu—Grogu’s not here to make noise. He finds he doesn’t like the quiet as much as he used to.
You will see him again.
“Will I?” Din whispers.
You are my Alor. If you wish it, I will make it so.
“You’re not letting that go, are you.”
Din can almost see that fanged grin. No.
“Djarin?”
Din starts, fingers clenched on his blaster part.
Fennec’s voice comes through the door: “Thought I heard something.”
“It’s nothing,” he replies, perhaps too quickly.
But Fennec lets it go. “Fett’s got a job for you. Details at dinner.”
Yes!
“Okay.”
This will be glorious, Calamity says, We will hunt together. I will show you what I can do.
“You want me to use an ancient laser sword on a smuggler?” Din asks dryly.
Saber!
“Saber.”
Yes. It will be our first battle!
“I can handle it without your help.”
Let me have fun! Do you know how long it has been since I had fun?
“Since you could talk someone else’s ear off?”
I will talk both of your ears off!
Din sighs.
Din can’t stop turning to get Grogu to safety or listening for the kid’s cries, only to remind himself he’s with his kind and he needs to focu—
The target gets him between the beskar. Calamity shrieks.
Din still wins, though the target is now missing an arm. He doesn’t know when he’d pulled the Darksaber, but it’s humming angrily in his hand as he stands, slightly hunched, over the Rodian.
The black crawls from the blade, leaving starlight silver behind. Warmth fills Din, centering around his wound.
Careless, Calamity hisses. The vibroblade is shoved out.
“Bo-Katan will handle you better,” Din says.
Ridiculous.
“What are you doing?”
What I have done.
The wound is gone.
“You can heal?”
I can heal my host. You see? I am very useful.
Din takes out a pair of cuffs before realizing his target now only has one hand. “You’ll be more useful to the actual Mand’alor.”
A good thing, then, that I am with the actual Mand’alor.
“Get back to the saber.”
Calamity grumbles all the way.
“What did you mean?”
Day five. Din can’t sleep. He can’t remember the last time he’s slept the night through. Before the covert, probably.
Hm?
“You asked why I did ‘that.’ When we—when you first spoke to me.”
Ah. No need—I found the answer.
“What was the question?”
I was wondering why you gave your foundling up. Then I felt what you felt.
Din swallows. He doesn’t look away from the ceiling, but the Darksaber has a new weight next to him. For some reason, he’s taken to putting it next to the bed.
“You feel my emotions?”
You are my perfect host, Calamity purrs, When we are together, your mind welcomes me.
“I don’t recall doing that.”
It is part of the process. Symbiosis, Alor.
“I can’t sense you.”
You won’t let yourself.
“Or I’m not—”
Don’t.
Din huffs. “Nine days left.”
Calamity hums. You need to be ready. Would you like help sleeping?
“You’re not touching my brain.”
You act like I’m trying to possess you. Dramatic.
“I’m dramatic.”
Yes!
Din rolls to face the wall.
See? Dramatic.
“Very funny.”
Later that night, Din wakes up and can’t breathe. He’d been too late. He’d been too late and Grogu—Grogu—
Warmth. Alor. You are dreaming. Din’s heart slows and his lungs heave. Your foundling is with his kind. You will see him again.
Din curls into himself, shaking. It’s never been this bad. Why is it so bad?
Not now, Alor. Rest.
Something pulls the blankets back over him. He’s asleep before they settle.
Day six. Calamity distracts Din with stories of past Mand’alore. It’s fascinating and hilarious, the quirks they’d had, how they’d really spoken.
Day seven. Din consents to use the Darksaber for a hunt.
Day eight. Din gives in and buys that child something.
On and on they go. Despite their name, Calamity is genial. Bloodthirsty, yes, but genial. They are, in fact, an alien, who bonded with a kyber crystal out of necessity. Their species can’t handle fire. It is why the Darksaber is cold, where others like it are hot. They share more about their home planet, what little they remember of it. If Din has a nightmare, they project images into his mind. It’s a dark place, but the sky is every shade of purple, swirling galaxies and dust trails of stars. Klyntar, it’s called. Calamity doesn’t know where to find it on a map, if it even exists anymore. They don’t sound sad, exactly, but there’s a hint of nostalgia. It’s a milder version of what Din feels about his own home planet. He’d had parents who cared for him, while Calamity’s species produces asexually and doesn’t raise their young.
Aq Vetina. He wonders what’s become of it. They must have rebuilt with the rest of the galaxy. Would he recognize anything?
Day twelve. Din has just washed off another hunt. The tray of food he’d taken from the mess is waiting on the dresser next to the Darksaber.
Hello, Alor.
“Djarin.”
Alor.
Din rolls his eyes with his whole head. He takes tray and sword to bed. It feels absolutely decadent, eating on a mattress.
Halfway through the meal, Calamity asks, What will you do after the challenge?
“Fett might still want me.”
Except that.
Din shrugs. “I’ve been getting paid for the hunts. I’ll save up for a ship.” He pauses. “I’d like to find my covert. Might try starting at Nevarro.”
And then?
“Provide for them, as I always have.”
Your foundling?
“…if the Jedi wants to reach out. But attachments aren’t encouraged.”
Calamity rises from the blade. Tendrils trace Din’s cheekbone.
So selfless.
Din swallows. “This is the Way.”
They retreat. Din finishes his meal in silence.
Day fourteen. Bo-Katan has sent a message. She will arrive in one hour.
“This is the only time she’s allowed on my turf,” Fett says once her holo’s gone. “You’re lucky you’re so damn likable, Mandalorian.”
Din offers his hand. “Thank you.”
They clasp elbows. “Good luck,” Fett says, “May you lose spectacularly.”
That will never happen.
Din goes through final preparations. Everything’s as good as they’ll get, but he still takes his blaster apart and puts it back together. Practices stances with his spear. Stretches. Stretches again.
He’s fidgeting.
Alor. May I?
Din looks at the Darksaber. Calamity is reaching up.
“…why not.” Din takes off his glove.
Warm. Calamity’s hum tingles his veins.
I have no doubt you will win. But if you do not…I will miss you, Alor.
Din stares at his hand, as if he can see Calamity underneath. “You’re…not so bad yourself.”
Blackness weaves through his fingers, forming a clawed hand. Din lets himself squeeze back.
You are honorable and good, Din Djarin. Even if we separate, you are my Alor. My king.
Din covers them with his other hand. “Thank you.”
Losing had been the plan. It had been the best outcome for everyone. Din doesn’t know the first thing about ruling, nor does he want to. He doesn’t want to go to Mandalore either, much less reclaim it. Let Bo-Katan get her home back, and let Din find those who make his home.
Calamity is a whirlwind, twisting from the Darksaber and into Din’s body. Din hadn’t known any being could be as happy as them.
They manifest their head. Somehow, they’re showing even more teeth. “Magnificent.”
Losing had also meant losing them, which shouldn’t feel so painful. But it is. It is. And the relief, the joy at not separating from something else he cares about is staggering. It makes him take off his helmet. It makes him clip the Darksaber to his belt and bring Calamity’s forehead to his.
“My Alor,” Calamity murmurs.
A blaster primes. “What the hell is that?”
Din whips around, looking for the threat. Calamity, however, is gleeful.
“I am the Darksaber,” they say, “I am Calamity.”
Oh. Of course. Alien coming out of an ancient sword.
Din puts a hand up. “They lived in the kyber crystal.” He hopes his pronunciation’s passable. “Not everyone can hear them from there.”
“Djarin,” Fett says lowly.
“It is believed my voice is the kings of old,” Calamity says. “My first host stored me in his blade for my survival. I grew attached to being a legend.” They hover a few inches away from Din. “But I am very real, Bo-Katan Kryze. And my power is not yours.”
Din’s injuries heal. Bo-Katan may as well have been stabbed.
“Easy,” Din says, “She’s been trying to get you back for years. You were her way home.”
“She should gather Mandalorians without me. Let us see if she can lead on her own merit.”
“She can!” Reeves snaps, “She’s been fighting for her people—”
“Koska,” Bo-Katan says. She looks at Calamity. “When I do, what happens then?”
“You may present another challenge.”
Bo-Katan eyes Din. “What do you think of this?”
“Why not just take the blade?” Din blurts.
Calamity rounds on him.
“It’s just.” Din can’t believe he’s doing this. “You only need the sword.”
Emotions twist and roar between them. He can’t begin to untangle them, so he doesn’t. He just lets himself feel.
“I still didn’t win the challenge,” Bo-Katan says like pulling teeth, “Besides, without—that, the Darksaber doesn’t look like the Darksaber. No one would believe it.”
Din sighs. “Then…I guess their plan’s as good as any. You know how to contact me.”
Bo-Katan nods. With a voice that only slightly wavers, she tells Calamity, “I will prove myself to you.”
Calamity replies, “I’d like to see you try,” and sinks back into Din.
“So you’re fucking your sword.”
Din chokes on his spotchka, straw hitting the back of his throat. At his hip, Calamity cackles.
Between coughs, Din croaks, “No!”
Fett isn’t impressed. “Come on. You took off your helmet and gave them a full Keldabe in front of the entire planet.”
“Wasn’t—” Din forces out a final cough. “Wasn’t entire planet.”
“Might as well’ve been, by your standards.”
“It’s not like that!”
For some reason, Din looks to Fennec, as if she’ll help. She raises an eyebrow over her cup.
“It’s not.”
“You see me judging?” Fett asks.
“Yes.”
Fett snorts into his next sip. “I’m not kink-shaming you, Djarin. Won’t say I get the appeal, especially with the throne that comes with it. But to each their own.”
“I’m not—that’s not even possible!”
“Uh-huh,” Fennec mumbles.
Din pushes to his feet. “I’m heading out.”
“Date night?”
Din storms off.
You would have let me stay in you.
After that conversation, Din really wishes Calamity would phrase that better.
He’s right, you know. You did kiss me.
Din removes his cape. “It wasn’t like that.”
No?
“Not you too.”
You are the best of your kind. And you are handsome.
Din stops, hovering over his vambrace. “What.”
Calamity goes to his body. Suddenly, Din sees himself over the past two weeks: hunting, sleeping, talking, running, walking. Every shot is tenderly preserved, with well-loved edges, as if Calamity has been turning them over in whatever they call a brain. Loyalty, eagerness, contentment.
Then, Din winning the challenge. The joy comes crashing back, and Din can barely breathe with it. Their foreheads touching. Togetherness, rightfulness. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Their foreheads are pressed again. Din feels it through his helmet and erratic breaths.
“You remind me of him,” Calamity murmurs, “Tarre. Noble, honorable. Handsome.”
A face passes like a breeze between them, the emotions attached as distant as a horizon. Calamity has loved and grieved Tarre Vizsla—who had been, Din admits, quite handsome even with the helmet on.
Especially with the helmet on. But that might be Calamity’s preference more than Din’s.
“But you are your own person, with your own faults and virtues. I admire you as you are, Alor. It is a privilege to be at your side. Mhi solus tome.”
Din chokes. “I’m not—”
“Don’t be dramatic,” says the alien sword who’s just recited a wedding vow. “It is an oath of symbiosis. Nothing more.”
But nothing less.
“Bo-Katan will challenge again,” Din says.
“And you will win again.” Calamity grins. “We will win. Together.”
…Din presses back. “Together.”