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When the Mandalorian woke, it was under the pretense of fading smoke. The fire only had warm coals left to burn, and if not for his visor, it would be too dark to see. Blistering pain in his knee was his first reminder of where he was. Vague memories of a dream gave way to the skirmish the night before—they’d flown out to this isolated edge of the galaxy, only for the fugitive he’d been chasing to get in a good shot and slip through his fingers. Gritting his teeth, the Mandalorian shifted to elevate his knee—he wouldn’t see the worst of the damage until he and the Child made it back to the ship. But for now, he’d have to be content with the blankets draped weightlessly against his beskar. His mind needed to wander, or else the pain wouldn’t give him another chance to fall asleep.
They were nestled in the ruins of a village, which spread across the wide cliffs that this planet offered. THe Mandalorian had led them to a little stone hut on what energy he had left. He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had lived in this place before—it had likely been decades, if the steady stream of dust on the wind was an indicator. Even with the fire crackling in the room’s center, the Mandalorian situated himself against the sturdiest wall he could find, at the furthest edge of the room. Still, he shivered as wind passed through cracks in the stonework. The steel door was left slightly ajar from the night before, broken from when he used his spear to pry it open.
He sighed deep, hoping the release would ease the throbbing in his leg, and he let his attention wander to the ceiling. Cobwebs shifted against the howling wind above, still under the influence of the strange world outside. And there was the cradle he had tied up earlier that night, hanging from a rusted metal pipe. It rocked softly as the seconds passed, never disturbed enough to change its rhythm. It occurred to him that there might be a draft causing the momentum—should he have hidden the Child’s cradle somewhere warmer, or would it be better to sleep beside him on the ground? Still, the Child didn’t mumble in his sleep as the seconds passed, as he often did when the Razor Crest would hit a bit of turbulence during night runs. It must be fine.
The Mandalorian watched the cradle dangle overhead for a few more moments, and watched his breath. But that pit in his stomach wouldn’t leave, even after the ache in his knee fell into the back of his mind. He kept his focus on the center point of the cradle, where the cloth hung low in the center to support the Child’s weight. Maybe the lack of ventilation was getting to him, based on the firesmoke that drifted about the room. Something seemed amiss—either something in the room changed, or the cold had seeped into his armor well enough to sharpen his senses. The strange feeling nagged at him as the firelight dimmed, leaving him with only the ever-constant storm outside for company.
He wasn’t going to find rest, not like this. So the Mandalorian fought his tired limbs and rose to his feet, careful not to let his armor clang loud enough to wake the Child. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain that came with putting weight on his bad knee.
When he stood to his full height and peered over the cradle, he found it empty. There was no little green face to greet him—just a pile of blankets bundled up and left behind.
Suddenly, the pain in his knee could have been from the dregs of a dream. The room felt quieter than before.
“Kid?” he said, keeping his voice low. He immediately thought of the fugitive he was after—could he have been foolish enough to come back, silent enough to take the Child in his sleep to get an upper hand? No, the cradle dangled too close to the Mandalorian’s face, unless sleep had taken him too soundly that night. The Mandalorian reached for his spear, then scanned the room for any sign of movement. Dust settled in the spaces of light in the dark, but beyond that, he was left with empty countertops and shelves left unfilled.
When he swiveled toward the entrance, he finally spotted something that looked different from before. The steel door was pried slightly ajar, even more so than he had left it. The gap was left wide enough for a small creature to slip through.
The Mandalorian’s shoulders fell in a big sigh. He could only hope that the Child hadn’t gone far.
He entered the bitter cold with a rifle strapped to his back. His speeder bike was still waiting for him at the entrance, but he ignored it. The sunrise was just starting to bleed in, coming from beyond the vast expanse of clouds that spread thin like water. Cliffs were sparse, only seen in clusters on the horizon. He’d have to watch his footing—if not for the steep ledges the village was built against, but for the wind that raged down from the mountains. The Mandolorian couldn’t help peering down the edge. He saw what looked like water at the bottom, with choppy waves that flashed white against the mist. It was far down enough to barely be visible to the eye.
With the wind whipping against his back, the Mandalorian thought of how easy it would be for someone to lose their footing. Especially someone small, someone who hadn’t quite grown into their sense of balance yet—no, they would both be better off if he scouted ahead and let that thought be.
He searched in places where the air took him, calling for the Child as he went. He kept his voice low, in case he was being watched. Empty alleyways greeted him with rubble and grass, whistling softly as he passed by. Old pots crowded doorways that faced the road, with etched designs overtaken by thick lichen. Some were knocked over or left in the middle of the street as if they’d been abandoned in the spur of the moment. The Mandalorian knew a battlefield when he saw one, and after a while, it took great effort not to see it that way. These roads were packed with people once, even if he couldn’t imagine what their faces looked like. But he could see paths taken by people heading to windmill stations on high peaks, or the nooks where tradespeople set up stalls and carried their voices in a crowd. More importantly, he saw handholds on pipings against the wall, or tight corners where children of a bygone era may have slipped through.
Then, a sharp clang made the Mandalorian fall still. It was metal against stone, echoing from a nearby alleyway. His eardrums stung at the sound; he hadn’t heard much else in a long while. He fell into a sprint on his next step, and his boots kicked up dirt as he went—the possibility of being seen was the least of his worries, now.
Another clang sounded off, confirming that he was getting closer. He fit himself in the tight spaces between buildings—he was only able to force himself through when he scraped his chestplate against stone. With a grunt, he managed to wriggle his first arm, then heaved himself through the gap. But before he could stumble into the next road, a flash of movement on the ground made him stop.
He spotted the Child at the edge of a grassy clearing, out in the open. A bridge lay beside him, but it was mangled by gunfire and bent upwards, and only served to cast a hard shadow over them both. The Child was unconcerned with it—his beady eyes focused on the cliff across the gap, which sat several feet taller than the ledge he was perched upon. Between him and the stone lay an abyss that the Mandalorian could not see. He didn’t bother guessing how far the drop was; the Child was already too close to the edge for comfort. Wind shot up from the ground and into the sky, likely from one of those metal grates that the Mandalorian had seen in their travels the day before. It was a part of that strange subterranean system that the ancient people here had built through the mountains—the Mandalorian didn’t know what it was for, and he didn’t really care, but the stream of air whistling upwards seemed to be enough to take hold of the Child’s attention.
With one hand, the Child reached out into the stream of wind. As he leaned toward the cliff’s edge, the Mandalorian felt his heart drop. His body pressed forward before he had a chance to think.
But when the Child’s fingers grasped around the object in his hand, the Mandalorian froze a second time. He recognized the gleam of metal in the dawn light, now scratched and dulled by tiny claws and baby teeth. The little creature started to talk to himself just then, as if the conversation he was having with the little silver ball was very important. It was mostly garbled nonsense, but the Child spoke with growing excitement.
Careful not to make a sound, the Mandalorian sifted through the bag slung on his side. He waited for the feel of the ball against his fingertips, but never found it. That kid was sneakier than he thought.
The Child pulled his stubby arm back, with the ball still tight in his fist. Again, that plummeting feeling arose into the Mandalorian’s chest. The discomfort of it made him gasp as the Child threw the ball forward, across the cliff’s edge, straight into the column of wind. But before the Mandalorian could begin to fret, the ball shot straight up, flung into the sky by the vent’s force. The Child giggled more gleefully, watching it soar as high as his little craned neck would allow him to see.
The falling sensation faded, but something else made the Mandalorian’s chest tighten. Perhaps it was the way the Child’s ears perked up, or the ceaseless noise he made without any worry of being heard. He watched the little creature shut his eyes, hold his hand aloft, and focus hard. The ball moved toward him from its place in the sky, just enough to bring it crashing down onto the stone behind him. The Child rushed to retrieve it, and took up the ball in both hands, and returned back to the cliff’s edge with a coo of delight.
And he threw it again. And again. And again. The ball flew into the air and got brought back to earth, caught in an infinite cycle. Seconds wore into minutes, but the Child’s delight and energy would not lessen.
Eventually, the monotony allowed the Mandalorian’s heart to find a slower pace. Even as several minutes passed, the Child never thought to look into the tight alleyway that the Mandalorian hid within. His babble only grew more constant with each throw, eventually erupting despite worn vocal chords and dried lips.
The Mandalorian scanned the clearing, searching for any signs of movement. The wind was fierce, and it took up most of the white noise of this place, but beyond the tattered banners that flew over rooftops, there wasn’t anything worth noting. Daylight streaked through stormclouds above—the rain had only ceased for a few hours at most since they had first landed there. But morning would come soon, and they’d have to begin their search for the fugitive again.
Fine, he thought. It was one of those quiet moments between crossfire, and he had put the kid through enough of it. He could give him a moment longer.
So, as the Child caught the ball in his hands once again, the Mandalorian let his spear lean against the nearby wall. He sat on the dirt path, careful not to sit on his cloak as he settled down. He let his back rest against a stone wall and stretched his leg to give his knee brief respite. But he wouldn’t shut his eyes, even though the idea of sleep gnawed at the back of his mind. He always kept the Child within his field of view, but his attention wandered as the game became repetitive.
Details bled into the mountaintops as the sunlight came, eventually revealing snow on the highest peaks. They looked like strange rock formations at first. The shapes were angular at the top, and rock sliced down to reveal… robes, flowing out of stone. Facets jumped out as facial features, bearing down on them both with a studious gaze. Almost losing his eye on the Child, the Mandalorian stared in awe as the form took shape. He’d never seen statues so massive, fitting in amongst mountaintops as if built to herd them through the mist.
At that moment, the Razor Crest felt too far away. Between his speed bike and jet pack, the Mandalorian would be able to traverse one cliff to the next, but in the context of the dangers this world posed, he was far too small to conquer it all. But there was something about the way these statues carried themselves—something in their frozen gait, or the designs on their robes and the placement of their hands. It felt familiar in the way the Child held himself now, with arms raised in reverence of the wind these ancient beings had captured. Perhaps, in some complicated way, the Child’s game was the purpose of these systems they’d built all along.
Still, despite the impressive view, his focus fell back on the Child time and time again. The little creature still hadn’t noticed the Mandalorian’s presence, but it was clear by his drooping ears that he was getting tired. He resorted to holding the ball in both hands, rotating it softly, and watching the column of wind with curious eyes.
If the Mandalorian let the wind be a distraction, the Child wouldn’t notice him. And even though he felt statues watching over him, he decided that old stone had no right to cast judgment on him.
Carefully, he brought his fingers to the edge of his helmet and lifted it over his face. Biting cold greeted his cheeks first, and then the world changed before his eyes. Details on the mountain were lost—the statues might as well have blended into the mountains again, no longer distinguishable without the help of his visor. But its colors shined vibrant, and the reflection off the snow was powerful enough to make the Mandalorian squint hard. And there was that taste of salt in the air, mixed with a strange sweetness. It was all sensations he would otherwise not have known, on a planet he’d never expected to see—and shame was a beast that reared its head, rolling deep in his stomach.
For once, he didn’t want to listen to it. He swallowed hard, setting his helmet on the ground. There was something more important here—a Child who still needed to be watched over. The Mandalorian’s poor eyesight could still make out his shape—a little bundle of cloth and a pair of long ears, with wide eyes that gawked at everything other than himself. He didn’t expect the Child to be so bright in the natural light; perhaps he just stood out against the landscape of gray stone. But even his language sounded different. His cries of delight pierced the Mandalorian’s unprotected eardrums, leaving a sharpness behind that he had never heard before.
He waited to hear it again. And again. And again. The wind took its chance to cleanse his face and bring him sunlight.
Several weeks later, the Mandalorian wandered alone. His boots heaved through sweeping sand, which was seemingly endless in a planet as desolate as this. The wind was a comfort, a break in the constant heat. It made his heavy beskar tolerable.
The darksaber hung from his belt, on the same side where he used to sling the Child against his hip. The weight on that side was lighter now; it would take time to adjust to his newfound mobility. He weaved his fingers through the string tied to the hilt, covered in shells and small beads. But he clasped around the centerpiece in particular—the last remnant of the Razor Crest, an old silver ball with a dull shine. As his thumb caressed the smooth metal, it helped him set his pace.