Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You do understand that you can still back away, Din, right?" the Armorer asks. Although Din knows she can't be much more than ten years older than him and that she's quite new to this crucial part she plays in the Tribe, her presence is formidable and her voice as unyielding as the stone walls of the Stronghold around them.

Din looks straight into her visor, trying to project calm and confidence which he actually doesn't feel. "Yes."

"No one would think any less of you if you did," she goes on.

"I know that," Din says. "I want this for myself, not for others."

He knows as he speaks the words that it's not the whole truth. Of course, first and foremost, he wants wings because he wants to fly. It's a dream he's had as long as he can remember. Nevertheless, there's a part of him that does see this as something he has to do to prove himself, to show everyone that he has what it takes. He's well aware that you don't need wings to be respected. As one of the Triumvirate, the Armorer herself is among the most esteemed of them all, and she doesn't have them—but then, she's not like Din.

"And you're aware that the risks are greater for you, since you were not born of Mandalore?" the Armorer says; another unnecessary reminder.

As much as the Armorer is always careful with her words, and would never slip and say that Din is not Mandalorian, being a foundling still sets him apart. Technically, he's not Mandalorian, not yet. Not until he turns twenty and swears the Creed—or gets his wings, because that will happen first. It will happen tomorrow, if he can convince the Armorer. After that, there will be no more uncertainty. With wings, he will be as undeniably Mandalorian as any of them.

He's never once considered leaving the Tribe. This is the only life he knows, and it's a good life, an honorable life. There's nothing else that he wants.

"I'm not afraid of the risks," he insists.

It's a blatant lie, of course.

He's heard enough horror stories from others whose turn came before him, of indescribable pain and the long days of slow recovery and monotonous training afterwards. Besides, as the Armorer has just reminded him, it might be even worse for him.

The Healer explained it all to him in detail on the previous day, how even though he's anatomically identical to those of Mandalorian descent, there are many invisible differences on a molecular level. In the very worst case, the natural defences of his body could turn against the wing implants, which were originally designed to match Mandalorian flesh and blood.

Considering all this, he's definitely nervous of what he'll have to go through.

He hopes his trepidation doesn't show too much. As hard as he always tries to keep his expression neutral, he just isn't very good at it, his eyes often betraying him and revealing his feelings to the world. He envies the adults and their helmets, and he can't wait to have his own. Not long, now. Less than a year to go, and he, too, can hide his face from the world. But first: the wings.

"It's all right to be afraid," the Armorer says, her voice a little softer. "It would be foolish not to. It is a hard trial for everyone who takes it on."

There's no judgement in her words, but Din hates them all the same. "Why does it seem like you're trying to talk me out of it?" he snaps. It's too direct, bordering on disrespectful—another flaw of his. His quick temper has gotten him in trouble many times before.

"I'm not," she returns in her usual steely tone. "I just have to make sure you're making this choice for the right reasons."

"I swear I am. I want to do this, more than anything. This is my choice, and this is the Way," he intones.

"This is the Way," she repeats, and nods. "Very well, Din Djarin. The choice is made. You will meet me again at sunrise tomorrow. You know how to prepare: fast and rest until it's time."

Din stands up and bows stiffly, feeling stunned. That's it? He can't quite believe that it's all settled, all of a sudden, and the thing that he wants so badly but also fears so much is actually about to come true.

"Yes. Thank you," he mumbles. It doesn't seem like the correct answer, but he can't quite figure out what else he should be saying.

He's halfway to the door when the Armorer speaks up again, in that softer voice. "One more thing, Din. Don't listen to the other young ones. They'll tell you awful stories, and they might suggest tricks that supposedly make it easier, but those won't help."

"All right. I'll keep that in mind," he promises.

Her warning isn't unwarranted. Din tries to keep to himself for the rest of the day, but in the close quarters of the Stronghold, it's not easy. He shares the bunk room with three others from his training squad, and even though he closes the curtains around his bed for what little privacy he can get, they know he's in there. He can't just ignore them when they show up and call out to him.

"So, you're doing it, then?" Paz asks him skeptically as soon as he's opened the curtain.

"Yes," Din says. It's not like it should be a surprise to anyone. He's made this decision long ago, and has told the others as well.

Paz smirks at him. "Didn't think you'd have it in you, when push came to shove."

"He hasn't actually done it yet, though," Ara points out, her dubious expression mirroring Paz's. Behind her, Mevu looks less hostile, maybe even apologetic.

"I'm not going to back down," Din declares, climbing out of his bed to face the three others properly.

"I'm sure you won't, but that doesn't mean you'll make it through," Paz says. He steps closer to Din and jabs him in the chest with his forefinger. "It wouldn't be the first time they had to call it off because someone was too weak. They won't tell you since they don't want you to freak out, but people have died in the past. And I know what I'm talking about, I've done it myself."

Paz backs away and—of course—unfolds one of his wings. Tucked away, they're easy to forget, their shape and size not too different from the jetpacks that many wingless Mandalorians carry. Once open, there's not enough space for his right wing to extend to its full span in their small room, its shape staying angled, its tip touching the opposite wall. The delicate but tough synthetic feathers shimmer in metallic silver and blue. Din can't deny his envy at the beauty of it, but it comes with a wave of annoyance that almost drowns the awe. Paz will boast at every chance he gets, and it's not right. The wings are not to be spread on a whim, and even less so when he's only gained them in the flesh, not in spirit. He won't, either, none of them will, not in many years.

Din crosses his arms and scowls. He won't give Paz the satisfaction of showing admiration at this display. "I'm not weak. You'll see," he says. Paz may be more solidly built than him, and it's not just once that Din has been teased for being gangly, but what he loses in brute force, he wins in endurance. Surely, in this case, that's more important.

"I'm sure you're not, but it's still going to be rough," Mevu pipes in, looking over Paz's shoulder on the side of his folded left wing. "Have you heard that there's this herb you can smoke beforehand that makes it less painful?"

"Nah, he doesn't need that," Ara says. "Just drink a few shots of the brew that Neas makes and you won't feel any of it."

Din narrows his eyes at them. This is exactly what the Armorer warned him about, and he wouldn't even have needed her reminder. The Healer went over this with him yesterday, telling him that Wing-Birth is painful for a reason, and it's not just that they need to prove their worth by enduring it. It's because the connections between the wings and their recipient are so intricate that strong medications would interfere with the process. Trying to get around that with some homemade remedy is wrong.

"You're meant to feel it," he growls.

"Hey, no need to get rude, they're just worried you'll faint halfway through," Paz says, putting away his wing as he speaks. Din hopes he's at least a little disappointed that none of them reacted to his bragging.

"Like any of you would care," Din mutters.

Mevu pushes past Paz and lays a hand on Din's arm. "I can't speak for the others, but yeah, I actually do," she says.

He believes her. She's always been nicer than most of their squad, but she's softer, too. As much as she's training with them, Din doesn't think she'll become a warrior, and she's never expressed any desire to have wings of her own. As for the others, Din really doesn't think that they care. They may have grown up together, but there's always been a lot of rivalry between them. He isn't sure he'd call most of them friends—but that's all right. He doesn't need them to be friends, as long as they're brothers and sisters in arms that he can trust, and he does. He'd trust them with his life, if he had to.

Din takes a step back, escaping Mevu's touch. "Well, I appreciate it, but I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself," Ara comments. "If you change your mind, I've got the booze. Might even give it for free, this once, because it's such a special occasion."

"Thanks, but I won't," Din says.

Even though the others leave him alone after that, their words are stuck in his head, Paz's doubt and Mevu's concern gnawing at the confidence Din has been doing his best to build up. He does want this, he tells himself, time and again. He wants to be a warrior, and more than that, he wants to fly.

He thinks back to all the times he's snuck outside the Stronghold, to the vast canyon that lies nearby, so that he could watch the graceful soaring of the winged Mandalorians of the Tribe. There's nothing more exciting than that. He pictures himself spreading wings of his own, feeling the wind under them as he takes off and watches the rocky ground fall away—it's his greatest dream, and to reach that, no risk is too great.

Besides, if Paz could do it, surely Din can do it, too.