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handspunyarns · 11 months

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You Were Marked: Day Five.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 7K

chapter summary: Grogu has a tantrum, Marathel says "unguent" far too many times, and Din reminisces about the time his mother called him a "son of a b!tch".

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, illness, mention of blood, mention of past violence, mention of past non-con sexual situations

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Din Djarin was accustomed to sleeping in what would be considered normally uncomfortable positions. Cramped spaces in a ship’s hold, in a hollow under a large rock, tethered off to a branch near the top of a tall tree. The only things that would wake him up – if he had been able to fall fully asleep in the first place – were sudden things pushing against him (or hitting him, or exploding next to him) or suddenly realizing he was somehow wet. Both things occurred in the darkest hours as he was dozing against the post in Marathel’s hut: there was something weighty against his left leg, and that same pant leg was soaked through to his skin. “Haar’chak, Grogu, did you piss on my leg again?�� Din muttered as he straightened up his head, which had been dropped down towards his chest. The nerve pain in his neck flared, making him grunt. His ass was also asleep. Aging was not for the faint of heart. His eyes still closed, he felt down his leg, expecting to find a deep-sleeping Grogu draped across his thigh. He wasn’t angry, sometimes the kid had an accident, no big deal. Shit wipes off, as his foster father would say. What Din did not expect was to find that it was not Grogu, but a Dahl’s head pressing against him. It was also raining, and the breeze was blowing the dampness directly on his leg.

Din blinked at the Dahl’s large head. The Dahl’s dark eyes whirled in response. He was pretty sure this one was Rodanthe, Marathel’s oldest Dahl. Her broad forehead and her muzzle were grizzled with white. He reached out and stroked the Dahl’s head, and the animal almost purred. She scooted closer to Din, pressing her entire large body against him, the Dahl’s head now against his stomach. Din tilted his head. “What is it, old girl?” he asked softly. Rodanthe’s eyes continued to whirl as she gazed up at his helmet. He began to scratch at the Dahl’s ear but she nipped at his glove, pulling at it. Then she went back to gazing up at him. “Did you want the glove off?” Rodanthe scooted even closer, her head now practically on his shoulder. Din figured that was some sort of affirmative response, so he removed his glove and stroked the Dahl’s face along her jaw, and immediately felt … possessed by profound emotions that seemed to be coming from the animal. A deep longing, a powerful love, and an aching sadness seemed to emanate from Rodanthe, directed at him. “I don’t understand,” Din said softly, but he continued to stroke the Dahl’s head. She pushed up on the bottom of his helmet, lifting it slightly so that his jawline was exposed before he could stop her. Holding her face against his skin, Rodanthe inhaled deeply and then softly exhaled, so much like Marathel had earlier that night that Din’s eyes drifted closed with the memory, and he could have sworn he heard the words love her deep within the breathy exhale of the Dahl. He then felt Rodanthe disappear into the night, leaving him suddenly bereft at the loss of her presence. By the time he had adjusted his helmet, she had vanished into the tall grass.

Din frowned in confusion, questioning whether the encounter had happened at all. What he did know was that his ass was still asleep and his leg was still wet. He rolled over to his hip and pushed himself into a standing position with a series of grunts. This is what getting old is about, he thought, more grunting. He peeked between the dark curtains to check on Marathel. Her form was a shapeless lump under the blanket, which was tucked all around her like a cocoon, with only a shock of silver hair sticking out. Blanket-stealer, he thought with a small smile. He dropped the curtain, and then looked across the hut at her pale curtains, knowing she had a bed tick in there that was obviously more comfortable than the floor. It was silly to deny himself sleeping comfortably if she was going to crash in his bed, but he still felt compelled to not invade her personal space. Finally he pulled back her curtains and tucked them into the hanging strap to keep them open, laid down across her bed tick (which was in fact infinitely more comfortable than the floor), although he did practice chivalry by only allowing his upper two-thirds to touch her bed tick, making sure he didn’t dirty her bed with his boots. His last thought before he drifted off again was that her bed was at least twice as thick and pillowy as the one he had been sleeping on … that wench.

A few hours later, Din was comfortably sleeping when he felt a staccato four-count beat repeating on his leg. He flexed his leg in his sleep, rolled his ankle until it made a satisfying and loud crack, and drifted off again.

Pat-pat-pat-pat. “Mahr?” Pat-pat-pat-pat. “Mahr?”

This went on for some time, the pats getting more intense until Din finally snapped awake. He rolled his head to the side to see Grogu looking intently back at him. “What, pal?”

“Mahr?”

“Huh?”

“MAHR.”

“Mahr?” The shab? Grogu nodded, looking pensive. Din blinked. “Are you trying to say Marathel?” Grogu nodded again. “She’s sleeping, little guy. She’s over there,” Din waved towards the dark curtains. Grogu looked unconvinced, and began toddling across the room to see for himself. Belatedly Din remembered that she was fully naked under that blanket, and with his luck, she was currently uncovered and spread-eagled over there. Not wanting to have to explain that to the kid, Din lurched to his feet to scoop up Grogu before he made it across the room. “Hold up, let me check before you go rushing in there!” Fortunately, Grogu had stopped moving towards Marathel, but he had found the shredded remains of Marathel’s nightgown and was holding it up towards Din. Oops. “I’ll take that, thanks,” he said, picking up the boy and the nightgown and taking a quick peek between the dark curtains. Marathel was still burrowed in deep, completely covered. With a sigh of relief, Din let Grogu look between the curtains at the sleeping Marathel. Satisfied for now, Grogu gave a happy squeak and patted Din’s helmet. “See? Mahr’s fine. But she’s very tired, and she needs to sleep, so let’s leave her alone for a while, okay?” Grogu gurgled his consent, and Din sighed. He’d better work out some breakfast for this little monster.

Breakfast had come and gone. They both had eaten, Din had cleared up all the dishes, and still Marathel hadn’t risen. Grogu wanted to play in the yard, but it was still raining. Instead, Grogu made a right nuisance of himself, getting underfoot and running to peek in on Marathel every few minutes. Din went in to check on her, gently pulling back the blanket to expose one closed eye. She snuffled and turned her head away. Din quietly grabbed his bag from the corner of the cubicle and returned to the table. He had brought a malfunctioning propulsion unit from the ship with him. It was an extra, but he figured he finally had some time to tinker with it this morning. He tried to keep Grogu occupied with helping him, but Grogu was far too fractious. He couldn’t play because of the rain, and his new favorite person wasn’t showering him with endless cuddles and attention. Grogu wandered around in circles, scowling, earning little attention besides an occasional cut it out, kid from Din. He climbed up on the bench, and pushed some screws and a spanner off the table, and Din sighed for the hundredth time that morning. Days like this were frustrating to them both, and Din hadn’t figured out yet how best to deal with them. Grogu jumped down and waddled back to the dark curtains, saying “Mahr?” again, and Din finally snapped, “I said, leave her alone, boy,” instantly regretting his tone of voice, not only because the kid didn’t deserve it, but also because he knew what would come next: a full-out Jedi toddler tantrum. Grogu’s head whipped around so fast it made his ears flap, and his little face was full of fury as he took a deep breath and opened his mouth in an eyeball-exploding howl. Din jumped up, thinking oh kriff oh kriff as he hurried over to pick up Grogu, attempting to fend off the chaos before it really got going.

It was probably the sharp tone of the Bounty Hunter’s voice that finally woke Marathel up. She’d been hearing the wheedling, Grogu’s whimpers for Mahr, and the snappish words while still dozing and wondering why her boys were up in the middle of the night. Confused, she looked around at the dark fabric surrounding her, remembering that she and the Bounty Hunter … ended up here, and she had fallen asleep instead of going back to her bed. Where did he sleep, then? She wondered. Not here, obviously. Her muzzy thoughts were then interrupted by Grogu’s shrieking wail, which drove any last lingering sleepiness away. She then heard the Bounty Hunter’s hurried footsteps as he picked the boy up and tried to soothe him. Knowing from experience that wouldn’t work, she shouted over the noise, “I’m awake, Bounty Hunter, just let him in here, for Frith’s sake!”

“But …you’re …”

“I’m wrapped up from my toes to my chin, it’s fine.” Din sighed and put the child down on the floor, pulling a curtain to the side but looking away from her. Grogu bounded to her, patting her face, and repeating Mahr over and over. She put out her hand just far enough from her blanket cocoon to grab one of Grogu’s little clawed fingers. “My goodness, all these tears! Did you think I was sleeping forever? I’m awake, child, I’m fine. I promise.” Grogu kept patting her face, so she made a cat-and-mouse game of catching his little hands with kisses until the tantrum storm had passed and he was giggling. Smiling, Marathel said, “Now that you’re feeling better, I need some privacy so I can get up. Would you do that for me, please?” Happier now, Grogu nodded and left the curtains.

“Are you all right?”

Marathel gasped. The Bounty Hunter must be just on the other side of the curtain. “I’m … I’m okay. I’m all right. I’m getting up now,” she stammered. She heard his heavy boots step away. Marathel pushed herself up onto one hip, the blanket falling away from her. She immediately pulled it back up to cover herself, and then she saw the bruising on her wrist. Oh, it was bad. Her other wrist was just as bruised, and so were her knees and lower legs, probably from where he kicked her to make her fall down. Standing, she twisted to look at the large bruise on her hip, but her back sung out in pain, making her gasp again. Oh, Frith, she thought. She hurt all over. Trust her to try to take on an armored man like the Bounty Hunter when her skin was so fragile. Marathel bent down slowly to grab the blanket and then wrapped it around her, covering herself completely up to her face, letting the blanket drag on the floor to hide her bruised feet and ankles. With a little grunt, she moved out of the curtains and began to slowly shuffle across the floor.

She felt the Bounty Hunter’s cool gaze upon her, and she gasped a little when Grogu ran over and grabbed her around her ankle. She stooped down and said to Grogu, “I still need to get dressed, little beetle, okay?” Grogu pouted, but let go. Marathel turned her attention back to her bed, noticing the deep divot across it … and her carefully folded nightgown in the middle of the divot. Shrugging, she shuffled across her bed tick, releasing the curtains from their tether and enclosing herself within.

Din watched her move across the room with amusement, all rumpled from sleep, her hair in a tangled mess, stumbling on the dragging blanket. Osik, she’s limping. Not half bad, Djarin. He knew it was an unkind thought, but he was still a man, regardless, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. Sure as a bantha went barefoot, Marathel would smack him into next damn week if she heard him laugh at her again, probably even harder than the time his own mother had walloped him one when he couldn’t stop laughing after his mother, in a fit of pure frustration at her disobedient son, called him a son of a bitch. Smiling at the memory, he recalled that his father had taken him out back to ‘teach him a lesson’ but had only given him a half-hearted lick before dissolving into laughter himself, saying, “Son, don’t ever make your mother call you that again.” Din hadn’t thought about that incident in decades, and it brought a feeling of sweet nostalgia instead of the pain he usually felt when thinking of his parents. He vowed to tell Grogu about it someday.

Marathel reappeared, dressed in long pants with a tunic and jacket that she had tied up between her thumb and forefinger to keep her hands covered. Her hair, still disheveled, was tied back in a kerchief. As she moved to the kitchen counter, her feet made a shh-shh noise, different from her normal footfalls. He looked over to see that she was wearing knitted slippers. She looked at him, then down to her feet. “What?”

“I just haven’t seen you not barefoot, is all.”

“It’s raining. My feet are cold.” Din hummed and went back to sorting the screws that Grogu had pushed to the floor. “Rain makes me sleepy. I’m sorry I slept so long. You must be hungry.”

Din shook his head. “We’ve eaten.”

Marathel’s eyebrows popped up. “You have?”

“Yes. There’s some for you as well.”

Marathel blinked in surprise. Her kitchen was spotless with absolutely no evidence that anyone else had been cooking in there. But on the table was a covered bowl and a mug. She lifted the top plate to a sampling of thin-sliced fatback meat, and under that, a bowl of cooked cereal, topped with dried fruit and a swirl of sweet syrup. Marathel’s hand went to her mouth in surprise, touched. No one had made a meal for her since she was tall enough to stir a pot on the Hold’s kitchen hob. As a kitchen drudge, meals were taken in nibbles throughout the cooking day, and then she would eat some of whatever the girls were eating as she watched the children. Never would she take anything the boys had to eat, that would have been ridiculous. And dangerous. And never, ever, had she considered that a man – a man — would make a meal for her. Tears glittered her eyes for a moment.

Din tilted his helmet in concern. “Is the breakfast not to your liking?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s wonderful, thank you! I’m just … surprised, is all.” She sat and popped a bit of fried meat in her mouth. It had a nice char on it, and the cereal was cooked perfectly. The syrup was a bit much, but she knew that boys liked their sweets, so she figured the same was true for Bounty Hunters. Grogu kept hugging her hip as she ate, impatient for her to finish. He also seemed to keep patting at the bruises on her that he could reach, as if he were trying to heal her. She smiled down at him, stroking his whispery hair. “You don’t have to do that, you know,” she whispered.

“Do what?” asked Din, only half-listening, as he was concentrating on replacing a tiny spring in the propulsion unit.

“Talking to Grogu.” Din hummed in response, muttering under his breath as the spring bounced out of place. Marathel spooned up the last of her breakfast and stood. Grogu, happy now, jumped off the bench and followed her closely as she put her dishes in the sink. Carrying her mug of tea, she passed behind Din and ran her hand across the backs of his shoulders, softly saying “thank you” as she went to her loom. Din froze at her fleeting touch, savoring the moment. He turned his head to watch her as she stiffly sat down in front of her loom. She got Grogu involved with helping her, carefully weaving the shuttle in one way, and then back the other. Grogu didn’t think much of this game, and he started getting fractious again. Undeterred, Marathel switched tasks to finger weaving with loops of yarn on their hands, which Grogu also found boring in the extreme. He didn’t want to sit and be quiet, he wanted to play. Din was buttoning up the propulsion unit, wondering how Marathel was going to deal with this active little bundle of joy.

While Grogu was whining and unhappily tossing balls of yarn every which way, Marathel calmly stood, reached above her head, and broke off a number of twigs off the old tree that made up part of her roof. She sat down again, spreading the collection of twigs in front of her. “Grogu! I really need your help! This is a job only you can do!” Marathel said brightly. Grogu stopped his kicking of yarn balls, curious. Marathel turned to him and said, “I need to know which of these sticks is the very best stick. Will you show me? The very, very, best stick? Please?” Din, finished with his task, stayed quiet and watched, curious himself. Grogu wobbled over to her, looking down at the selection of sticks. “Which one, do you think, Grogu? Is it … this one?” Grogu shook his head, pointing at a different stick. “Oooh, that’s a marvelous stick. I think that is the very best one!” Marathel clapped her hands. “Now, if that’s your stick, then I choose … ummmm … this one!” She triumphantly held up another one of the sticks. “Now, which color yarn is your very favorite?” She held up three balls of yarn: one a bright green, one a dark brown, and the yellow yarn from her dress. Grogu immediately pointed at the green yarn. “Okay, you get green, I’m going to be yellow! Which means Patu is the brown yarn. Oh, I forgot! We have to choose a stick for the Bounty Hunter, too! You choose his stick, Grogu, he doesn’t look like he knows the first thing about picking out the best stick!” Grogu giggled at the joke made at Din’s expense. The next part of the game involved Grogu tying a piece of his green yarn to his stick. He didn’t know how to tie a bow, of course, but Marathel put her hands over his and carefully showed him how, and praised his efforts.

With all three sticks now properly dressed with yarn, Marathel jumped to her feet. “That was the boring part. Now it’s the fun part! We’re gonna race from here to all the way over there!” She pointed at the far end of the hut, towards her “leaning post” as Din had come to think of it. “Ready? Now … go!” Grogu giggled and took off at a trot, whereas Marathel pretended to run in slow motion, elbowing Din in the helmet as she passed behind him. “Sorry!” she tossed over her shoulder, a twinkle in her eye. Grogu won the foot race, and he hopped in excitement around the post. “Okay, now, here’s the best part!” She flopped down to her stomach on the floor, leaning out over the edge of the platform. Grogu did the same. “Take the sticks, Grogu. You have the most important job of all. You have to throw all the sticks right in the middle of the stream. All three have to be in the water. Got it?” Grogu, entranced with the new game, nodded. “Okay, and … throw!” Grogu tossed the sticks into the water that ran under the side of the hut. Marathel popped up to her feet, saying, “Oh, that was perfect! Now we have to hurry! Come over here, quickly!” She grabbed her curtains and tossed them over a rafter with practiced ease, kicking her bed tick out of the way. She then flopped back down to her stomach at the front corner of the hut, beckoning to Grogu. “Come quick, come quick! The sticks are almost here!” Grogu ran over as fast as he could, flopping down right next to her. “Oooh, which stick? Which stick will float by first, do you think, Grogu? Here they come! And it’s … Grogu’s stick! Oh, I knew you chose the best stick!” She gave him a hug and a big smacking kiss on the head. “Oh, let’s do that again! I bet I get the best stick this time!” Both of them bounced back up to their feet, running back to the pile of sticks, beginning the game again.

This time Grogu and Marathel both wanted a certain stick, so she challenged him to an arm-wrestling contest, which Grogu obviously “won” when Marathel somersaulted herself over in mock defeat. Marathel went through the process of teaching Grogu how to tie the yarn around his stick, and then they were off and running again. Din ducked before Marathel could elbow him in the helmet, and Marathel stuck her tongue out at him over her shoulder. Apparently, Din’s stick won the race downstream, and both Marathel and Grogu protested loudly. Demanding a rematch, the two raced back to the sticks, and this time, Grogu was able to tie the yarn to his stick all by himself. Marathel squealed in delight, and Grogu ran over to Din to show off his masterpiece. Din lavished praise on the boy, and then sent him to throw his stick in the stream before Marathel could get there. “Ooh, you dirty cheat!” she yelled at the Bounty Hunter as she ran to catch up with Grogu. Grogu happily tossed in his stick, and then ran back to collect more of the sticks, tossing them all into the stream.

The stick game then devolved into a loose game of tag, which consisted of Marathel chasing Grogu, and tickling him until he squirmed away from her. Squealing, Grogu tried to find safety behind Din’s legs, but Marathel dove under the table after the boy. “No fair! Bounty Hunter is out of bounds!” She grabbed Din’s ankles, but he pulled both his legs away to sit cross-legged on the bench, out of harm’s way. Grogu shrieked with laughter as he ran in circles around the hut. Marathel would catch him, giving him vigorous tickles, sometimes swinging him high into the air, much to Grogu’s glee. As the running game continued, Din noticed that Grogu was running slower and slower. As Grogu tired out, Marathel continued to slow the running game down, until Grogu became sleepy. Fairly breathless herself, her slippers and kerchief lost during the chase, her hair completely awry, she began humming the same quiet tune she hummed yesterday, as she slowly swung around in circles with Grogu on her hip. Eventually, she shifted Grogu to her shoulder, swaying to the rhythm of her hummed tune, slowly making her way towards his pram. She lifted the lid, frowned at the rumpled nest inside, and began pulling out all the blankets and wrinkled clothing. Without missing a single beat of her humming, or without ending her gentle sway, she one-handedly fluffed out the blankets and refolded them into a more proper nest inside the pram. Marathel laid the now-sleeping boy into the pram, continuing to hum softly as she snapped the lid closed.

“That was impressive,” said Din.

Marathel turned and let out a deep sigh. “Oh, Frith, he is so much more active than Hold children. And it’s so much harder with one child instead of a bunch.” Taking a breath, she smiled and asked, “How much time do you think we have?”

Din chuckled. “I have never gotten him down for a nap, so we could have until the end of this sentence, or he could be out for the rest of the day. I think we should make a run for it.”

Marathel laughed, and bent to pick up her tea. She sat at the table opposite Din and asked, “So what is this metal thing you’ve had spread across my table?”

“A propulsion unit from my ship.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a part that helps the engine create thrust. To make the ship fly, you have to have fuel and an oxidizer. These are mixed and exploded in a combustion chamber. That’s how the fire tetrahedron works. The combustion produces hot exhaust which has to be expressed to accelerate the flow and produce thrust. On this unit, the pressure distribution within the chamber is asymmetric; that is, inside the chamber the pressure doesn’t vary much, but near where the exhaust is expressed, it decreases somewhat. The force due to gas pressure on the bottom of the chamber is not compensated from the outside. So, the resultant force due to the internal and external pressure difference, the thrust, is opposite to the direction of the gas jet. It pushes the chamber upwards, and … then the ship can fly.”

“Oh.”

“Simple physics.”

“Oh.” Marathel looked down into her mug. “Cookies are good.”

Din laughed. “Yes, yes … cookies are good.” He laughed again. “I promise, I’m not laughing at you.”

“I know. Besides, I don’t have any eggs to throw at you.” They both laughed this time, and then settled into silence. After a moment, Marathel quietly said, “I do have a favor I need to ask of you.” Din tilted his helmet, waiting for her to continue. “Last night, when … last night, we must have … tousled some.”

“Tousled? More of a brawl, I’d say.” Din paused. “Did I injure you?”

“Well, you see … I bruise easily. I have an unguent I have to use for healing, and I can’t reach my back. Would you …?”

Din was dismayed. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I don’t … I wasn’t in full control of myself last night. I …"

Marathel reached her hand across the table. “It’s all right, Bounty Hunter, it truly is. But I do need your help, if you would, please. It does hurt so much.” Din knew he couldn’t refuse her, even though it meant his hands on her skin once more. So much for vowing to not touch her again after last night. She handed him a large clay jar, and then she turned her back to him as she slipped off her jacket. He turned away as well, lifting the lid off the jar, and then he was inundated with one of the worst medicinal smells he’d ever experienced, and he almost gagged.

“Dank ferrik, this smells … ugh … worse than bantha piss!”

Marathel chuckled as she pulled off her tunic over her head, and then put her jacket on backwards, exposing her bare back, covering her front. “I don’t know what a bantha is, but I’ll take your word for it.” She sat down next to him on the bench, straddling it, her back to Din.

“Believe me, banthas are the worst.” He turned back towards her, and then his breath was taken away anew when he saw her back. It wasn’t just bruised, it was black. Blood had settled under her skin from her shoulders all the way down to the waistband of her pants, and probably beyond. She must be in terrific pain, he thought. “Marathel … you need real medical attention. No unguent can fix this.”

“It’s nowhere near as bad as it looks. My pale skin makes it look bad.”

“You must have some blood clotting disorder.”

“I wouldn’t know. A few others at the Hold have a similar problem.”

Din removed his gloves and lightly skated his hand over her back. It was warm, almost throbbing with the blood flow just under the top layer of skin. “I’ve seen you cut yourself, though, and you don’t bleed like this then.”

“It’s something about the blood hitting the air. The air makes the blood stop. But under my skin … the blood keeps flowing. Please, just … use the unguent, it helps, it really does.” Din doubted that, but he took a thick blob of the greasy salve, grimacing at the horrible smell, and spread it on her back. “No, you have to press hard. It’s like … you have to press the blood back into me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you more.”

“I need you to do this, please, Bounty Hunter.”

Din took a breath to steel himself, applied his full palm to her back, and pressed hard as he massaged the medication into her skin. He could feel the blood almost squishing under her skin, a completely unpleasant feeling. Marathel grunted in pain and pushed back against his hand. The smell was horrific. “Can’t you do something about the smell of this? Add herbs or something?”

Marathel replied, “I’ve tried, but then it doesn’t work so well. It’s like how the best medicines taste the worst.”

Din began to breathe through his mouth to lessen the disgusting odor. It did appear to be working, however, as he watched her back turn closer to purple than black. He decided to do this more efficiently, and he rolled up the sleeves of his jacket over his forearms, wrapping his left arm over the front of her collarbone. “Hold on,” he said, and then used his full right forearm to massage her back from her waist up to her shoulders. Marathel gasped and clutched at his arm around her shoulders. She looked down to see his muscular forearm, his skin much browner than hers could ever be, lightly peppered with dark brown hair. She had not seen his skin in full light before, only in the dark of night. But she didn’t have the wherewithal to muse on the sight of his skin, as Din stood, put his knee on the bench for leverage, and this time pressed his forearm in a downward motion on her back all the way down to the top of her pelvis. He then repeated the motion, up, then down, as the blood began to dissipate from under her skin back into her body. Marathel went limp against his arm, whimpering, “Stop … please stop … I need to …" She then pushed his arm away, stumbled to the dry sink, and vomited. Not again, thought Din, but he jumped up and caught her as her knees began to buckle. His arm went under her jacket, and he could feel the weight of her bare breasts against his bare arm as he pulled her hair back, supporting her as she vomited again. Blood. Almost black blood. And a lot of it. She coughed and spit, sobbing. Din found a clean dishcloth, soaked it in water, and put it over her mouth. “I’ve got you, my mesh’la, I’ve got you, it’s okay.” Marathel tried to get her feet under her. “I’m sorry, my mesh’la, I didn’t mean to hurt you more.” He guided her back to the bench and sat down, hauling her on to his lap, where she wilted against his chest.

“Ohhh,” she moaned. “Your armor is nice and cool.”

“Beskar.”

“Hm?”

“My armor. It’s made of beskar.”

“Oh.” Her hands fell back into her lap, but her sleeve was caught on her elbow, exposing the blackened bruises on her wrist. Din gently took a hold of her hand, holding up her arm. Oh, Marathel, my mesh’la, what did I do to you? This bruise was a perfect imprint of his hand. He reached over for the smelly unguent, and using both his hands, began to massage her wrist, pushing the blood back up towards her shoulder and her heart, where hopefully it could be reabsorbed back into her. Marathel whimpered but withstood his ministrations, because it was helping even as it was the worst hurt she’d endured in her long life. He did the same to her other wrist and forearm, and then held her lightly on his lap as she rested limply against him. He brushed her hair away from her sweaty face. “Better?” She nodded weakly. “Are you going to vomit again?” She nodded again and made an urp noise deep in her throat. He immediately hauled her up and over to the dry sink, where she vomited up more blood as he held her upright. Haar’chak. What is wrong with her? And there are others with the same problem up there?

His thoughts went back to other things she said in the most off-hand manner: the corporal punishment on her hands. Her throwing herself off a cliff — into water, yes, but he knew from experience that a high fall into water was like hitting a brick wall. Injuring herself in her quest to find relief from the possession of the Dahls during their mating — with objects, as she said. The idea of her doing such a thing — feeling the need to do such a thing nauseated him worse than her vomiting. And most of all, that brand on her leg. Her entire life had been an exercise in pain and humiliation. And one that she had suffer alone, administering care to herself, for kriff knew how long. He knew how hard it was to care for injuries and wounds. He thought about how bad her bruising must have been after she hit that water. And yet, even today, her first thought was for the care of Grogu — and for him.

And even he had chuckled at her expense just a short while ago. Chuckled at her limping as if he had knocked her bow-legged with an inflated sense of sexual prowess on his part, when she had actually been a non-consensual victim.

Even at the most intimate of moments these past two days — she was not even her own.

Marathel wilted against him, and he half-carried her back to the bench, and sat down again with her on his lap. “Is there anywhere else that you’re bruised?”

“I can take care of that myself,” she whispered against his chest.

“Let me help you,” Din insisted. “I’m guessing this is why Grogu was so upset this morning. He knew you were in pain, and he wanted to help you so badly.”

“He tried.”

“But then you played with him, roughhoused with him … threw yourself on the floor and under the table.”

“He’s just a child. He needed to play. My hurts shouldn’t be his burden.”

“You should have told me, Marathel.”

Her exhausted eyes flicked up to his helmet. “My hurts shouldn’t be your burden, either, Bounty Hunter.”

“Well, they are, but not in the way you think.” Marathel blinked at that, confused. Din gently lifted up one of her legs to the bench top and pushed up the cuff, exposing her blackened ankle and a number of bruises up her shin to her knee. Din sighed. “Can you sit up on your own?” He lifted her off his lap and moved down the bench in the opposite direction, straddled the bench, and lifted up her leg, placing her bare foot against his chest. Marathel put her hands behind her on the bench to keep herself upright. Methodically, he took another glob of the foul-smelling goo, and using both hands, started at the top of her foot and squeezed both hands up her ankle, her calf, her knee, and partially up her thigh before releasing his hands off her and then starting over at her foot. Marathel stared at her bare foot against his chest armor, and then at his strong bare hands against her white, white skin as they slid up her leg and disappeared under the hem of her pants leg, up to the middle of her thigh. Her lip trembled. Din was having a similar reaction himself: her bare foot pressed into his chest, his hands caressing her skin, sliding up her thigh, hidden by her pants … it was the most intimate of touches he had ever given to anyone he wasn’t actively having sex with in that moment. Even then, touching was furtive and limited. This touching was exquisite, this touching was magnificent, and he suddenly imagined this same foot pressing on his chest as he lay naked on the ground, this same fine foot and leg clad in a high-heeled boot of shiny shiny leather.

Din startled himself back to reality, shocked and shamed by his thought process, realizing his hands had lingered on her thigh. He carefully took hold of her other leg and repeated the massage process as Marathel struggled to keep herself upright, grimacing. Afterwards, Marathel dropped her feet to the floor and her head to the table. Din moved closer and wrapped his arms around her, holding her against his armor. She groaned. “Better?” he asked. She nodded. “Do you need to vomit again?” She shook her head.

“I think I should lie down for a few minutes, though. I feel faint.”

Din looked across the room. “Stay here a moment.” He got up and put her bed tick back in place, fluffing it up. He returned to Marathel and lifted her in his arms. She hissed at the pressure on her back, but it passed. He began to carry her towards her bed, but she stopped him next to the dry sink.

Rummaging in her spice jars, she set one down by her jar of soap. “Salt,” she said. “Add it to the soap when you wash your hands, and it will take the odor of the unguent away.”

“Won’t it make your bed smell?”

“The smell will fade. And I don’t find the smell anywhere near as disagreeable as you. Perhaps I should rest in your bed.”

“Not on your life, lady.” Marathel snickered and Din dropped to one knee to carefully deposit her on her bed. She rolled to her side, facing him, and Din sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “Okay?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Din reached over and brushed her unruly hair back off her forehead. “I’m so sorry I caused you so much hurt.”

Marathel smiled, and reached out for his hand. He gave it. “You didn’t know. We both didn’t know what would happen between us last night. I would say that it wasn’t what I expected, but … I had no idea what to expect. I do want you to know, though, before you leave this place …” Marathel swallowed nervously and shifted her eyes away. “I think … I think all the times I found myself elsewhere, lost, when the Dahls were … I was searching for someone, someone to … help me.” Her eyes flicked back to his helmet but she couldn’t keep looking at where she assumed his eyes were. “I’m glad it was you.”

Din was thankful for his helmet; he didn’t think his face could get any redder. “I don’t think that’s something you should be thanking me for, not when … it wasn’t you.”

“But I …”

“And not when I beat you to the point you are literally black and blue.”

“Is that why you keep calling me a wounded acorn?”

Din tilted his helmet in the other direction. “Do what now?”

“Wounded acorn. You called me that last night, and again today. You said ma’mwsh ha’laa. In my Oldtalk that means wounded acorn.”

“I’m not saying that at all.” He liked it, though. He needed to remember that one.

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying my mesh’la. My,” he said, touching his chest, indicating himself, “Mesh’la. It’s from my language.”

“Meaning what?”

He took a breath. He wanted to look away, or least tell her a lie. But he knew he couldn’t. Not to her. “It means beautiful. I’m calling you my beautiful.”

Marathel’s face took on that becoming shade of pink again. She looked down to her careworn hand with its broken nails and ragged cuticles, holding his hand, surprisingly soft while still strong. “You don’t need to make up words to make me feel better.”

“I wasn’t making them up.”

Her cheeks became even pinker. She released his hand. “I think I will close my eyes for a bit now. If I do fall asleep, would you please wake me when Grogu wakes up, or when it stops raining?”

“Of course.”

Marathel’s eyes fluttered closed, and Din stayed beside her until her breathing became even and her face relaxed. He quietly got up, scrubbed out the dry sink, and then scrubbed his hands and arms — the salt did the trick. He rolled down his sleeves, replaced his gloves, and sat at the table, watching the rain.

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

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