Chapter Text
I walked out to the grieving ocean
I lay down by the thirsty sea
I found a man there dying without water
He looked just like me
— Water by Luke Thompson
Part I
In which an armour-clad stranger arrives unexpectedly in quiet little Aq Vetina
. . . . .
There was a rushing sound, building and building until it tumbled around and over itself, crashing gently, dramatically, before gathering back and preparing another performance.
It came again and again, not always perfectly timed, not always alone, but consistent.
A string of trilling squawks floated high overhead, moving across, painting the length of the sky as they went.
And there were voices.
Light voices, ebbing far away then fading back in, just like the rushing and crashing.
“Is it a droid?”
“No. Look. He’s not completely metal.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should—hey! Don’t touch him!”
“Why not?”
“He could be dead!”
“What if I use a stick?”
A poke. In his side.
He had a side.
A side that was getting poked—hard.
“Niko!”
“What? I’m not touching him; I’m using a stick, see?”
The poke came again, pulling him out of that shapeless entity of disjointed senses and shoving him back into his whole body—his very sore, very heavy body.
His eyes flew open and snapped right closed, not ready for the light though it came tinted and dulled through his visor.
He groaned, his head turning limply, rolling away from… the sun?
But it was night.
Wasn’t it?
It was. It was night and he was in a cave or a cavern or something. Whatever. Last he knew, the environment was cold, dark, and rocky. And cramped.
Right now, however, it was day and he lay by the sea, the dome of a golden sky above him, an expanse of sun warmed sand beneath him, endlessly rolling waves bordering the scene.
And two people standing over him.
One with a stick.
Another poke, this time in his arm.
Unthinkingly, he made to bat it away but his hand merely twitched and flopped back.
“Niko! Stop that!”
“I think he’s alive,” said Niko (presumably).
Of course I’m alive, Din wanted to say. Tried to say. All he got out was another groan, his head rolling to the other side, sand grating, trickling softly off the back of his helmet.
“We should check if he’s breathing,” said the other person. “That’s what you’re supposed to do when you find someone unconsh-unconsch—when you find someone not awake.”
“Okay.” There was a small, muted plunk as Niko discarded the poking-stick.
Din enjoyed one beat of relief before fingers curled under the lip of his helmet.
He woke the rest of the way in a burst.
Pulse shooting, his hands flew up to arrest the hands trying to remove his helmet, called to action by a hot meld of panic and instinct.
There was a high-pitched gasp as his hands—big and gloved and strong—clamped around wrists—small and bony.
He let go instantly.
The terror, the righteous indignation, it all evaporated, gone in a flash, ice flushing his veins as guilt swirled sickly in his stomach.
It was just a child.
He forced his eyes open, blinking frantically to get past the fuzzy glare washing out the world. It abated quickly, the adrenaline eager to plant him in the moment.
The boy who touched his helmet had stumbled back but not far, watching him with dark eyes blown wide, more so with fascination than fear.
The other person, also a young boy, pushed himself in front of him, shielding him, protecting him even though he looked absolutely terrified.
They were brothers, Din surmised in that suspended moment wherein they collectively just stared at one another. They might’ve even been twins for how alike they looked: the same dark hair and dark eyes, the same features, even the same red hooded tunics with bodices and sleeve cuffs adorned with the same ornate swirls.
The strangest, strongest sense washed over him, like he knew them… like he should know them…
“Shiloh! Niko!” a voice shouted from a distance, older and deeper, carrying an accent and a tone tainted with a veil Din saw through easily—a parent, worried but trying not to sound worried.
The brothers whipped around. “Baba!”
Din tried to peer past them but found he couldn’t see anything in the strict line of sight his visor defined.
He needed to get up.
He shut his eyes, bit back another groan.
He did not relish the idea of moving.
As jogging footfalls drew nearer, he steeled himself, dragging in breaths that scraped and shoved against his ribs, and then, before he could back out, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and carried through the momentum until he was sitting up.
Hands digging in the sand, he hunched over his knees, more drowsy and woozy than in pain.
Through the staticky ringing in his ears, his helmet relayed a soft sound of boots scuffing in the sand as the man came to a halt by the brothers.
“What’s going on? I heard a scream,” the man (their father—had to be) said, his rush leaving him slightly breathless.
“I didn’t scream!” one of the boys insisted, indignantly.
“Yes you did!”
“No I—!”
“Boys. Please. Not now,” their father hushed them, voice low, affection curbing the natural exasperation.
A few more footfalls and the air and light shifted as the man knelt beside Din.
The boys dropped their back-and-forth and launched an explanation, working in tandem, passing the baton back and forth in a flow that must’ve been practised.
“We were looking for melons like you told us to—”
“—but then we saw something shining over the dune—”
“—and Niko wanted to see what it was—”
“—Shiloh thought he was dead—”
“—because he wasn’t moving—”
”—so I poked him with a stick because Shiloh was too scared to, and he moved—”
“—but we didn’t know if he was breathing so Niko tried to take his helmet off—”
“Did you take it off?” their father asked, a sudden tension winding his voice up—it was only serious, though, not angry.
“No. Why?”
“You should not touch his helmet.”
“Why?”
“He’s a Mandalorian. You must never touch their helmets.”
Din—who had taken the reprieve this exchange allowed to get his bearings (though not with much success)—pulled in the breath to tell the man not to worry. After all, the boys hadn’t done anything wrong… and he wasn’t really that kind of Mandalorian; not anymore, anyway…
He turned his head.
And froze.
“Sir? Are you alright?” the man asked.
When he received no response, he asked again. Urgency pressed him closer, made him bring a hand up and squeeze his shoulder, but Din heard him, felt him from far away, reality retreating in time with the ebb of the sea.
Because the face staring back at him—the eyes searching his visor frantically, the brow knitted in open concern, the hair whipped this way and that by the wind…
That was his face.