Chapter Text
Before Astra, there had been Terra.
When he was a child, Din’s mother would soothe him to sleep with stories of a planet on the outer rim called Terra. The planet had one moon, named Astra, and a sky that was so clear at night you could see her rough, alabaster surface, alongside the millions of stars that shone brightly in the sky.
It is known to be a fruitful planet, with tall trees and fields upon fields of green, but it had not always been this way. The story goes that years ago Terra did not have a moon and, instead, at night the sky was a dark blanket of navy with only the dusting of stars that twinkled above. That had been until one day a star fell from the sky and crashed down to the surface, breaking off a piece of Terra that floated up into the night. That piece of rock became Astra and it shone brightly down on Terra every night.
Terra was heartbroken at this loss and each day that passed the desert planet turned into a fruitful one; the rivers that had been dry raged with her tears and the wind that had been still howled in pain as it carried the pollen to greener grass. She cried from dawn till dusk, silencing only when the sun set and Astra could be seen high in the sky.
Terra would bask in her glow and even though they only had the night together, it was long enough for the rivers and wind to calm and for the planet to bore life once more.
Whenever Din’s mother told him this story she held him tighter against her side, like she was scared that he would suddenly break away from her to never be seen again. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel her hold.
Rough fingertips from hours of hard labour. Soothing circles rubbed into the skin of his arms that had still been scar free. The clean smell of her bath salts, used sparingly and after particularly long days at work.
Din doesn’t let himself think of his parents often. He fights against any memories of them that will creep out from the dark corners of his mind; times when he smells a broth like his mother’s or watches a small child play with a carving made by their father. He can’t stand the ache that follows when he does, one that is more subtle than the grief he first felt as a boy, but has stayed with him for years since.
It makes him think too deeply about what he is doing with the life that he is so lucky to have when theirs was ripped away while protecting him. He thinks about what they would see when they looked at him now. Would they even recognise him with a wall of beskar and weapons covering every inch of his body?
It’s not the grief he fights against. It is not the grief he is scared to feel. No, it’s the thought that even if they would recognise him as the man he has become, they may not be proud of him.
Mandalorian. Warrior. Bounty hunter. Killer.
There is no fighting against the thoughts of his mother when he stares up at Astra and is reminded of the stories she told of the moons and stars while putting him to bed at night, her voice gentle and quiet as she brushed the hair from his eyes and told him stories of love and promises and kindness. The thoughts of her remain as he flirts in and out of consciousness for hours, barely finding enough strength to remove the blade from his side before losing the battle against sleep once more.
The only time Din ever truly thinks of his mother in his dreams, her presence in them is enough to keep her face and voice fresh in his mind. She is always smiling when she appears, much like the way he had never seen her without a smile until that final day. Sometimes in his dreams she talks to him with that same smile on her face but most of the time he finds himself walking away from her, the pain that follows when he wakes up in the morning, the one that reminds him that she is gone, being too much to carry.
Now, as his feet carry him towards the home he recognises all too well, he is too weak to fight her. He lets her slip her hand into his and she pulls him to the chair he would always sit at for breakfast and dinner, that same hand coming to brush the hair from his eyes like she did when he was a child.
“You are injured.”
“I always am,” he replies and doesn’t miss the way her smile falters. “I think… I think I may be too hurt this time.”
He looks around the room, one he usually refuses to enter in his dreams. It’s exactly as he remembers if he tries hard enough, the sets of three that are placed around the room; three bowls, three plates, three sets of cutlery; three pairs of shoes lined neatly at the door, three cloaks hanging on the hooks above them; three chairs that surround the table with three marks from where the bowls had been set for years now.
He eventually looks back to his mother, a woman who is still the same age as she was when she passed, the same age that he is now. She is - was, he reminds himself - a beautiful woman with hair and eyes as dark as Din’s and round cheeks that were always flushed with pink after a day of work.
“There is someone who will save you,” his mother goes on, sitting in the chair by his side and scuffing it along the floor until her knee bumps his and she places her hand over his own.
“There is no one on this planet, Ma. It’s all land and barely any people.” He finds his voice softening, much like hers had when she patiently explained something to him as a child, and it has her eyes lighting with humor.
“Why did you come here then?” She asks, her thumb stroking over his scarred hand. “If not to be saved, why did you come here?”
Why did he come here?
Fleeting thoughts of crawling to his ship, of slumping into the seat to flee the planet that seemed to turn against him when the bounty had gone wrong. His hand bumping across the controls, his blurry vision tracking the map before he finally clicked on the one name he could recognise from his memories. Or perhaps, from his dreams.
He doesn’t - he can’t - answer.
“You are where you’re meant to be.” The pain between his ribs begins to return - slowly and then with all its might and he clings to his mother’s hand. “I’ll see you again, Son.”
“Ma-”
“Soon.”