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The force adjusts with a rasp to the carnage around the compound. The pram has dulled the sound of gunfire but not the ringing in his blood. Grogu feels it all. He’s lived through this already. Not this, but something like it. He can’t remember how it ended or how it started, just that it happened and that he was scared. The world flared around him in red and then imploded to a single spot of darkness. The pram. Opened only to shove a piece of meat into his mouth or, rarely, change his clothes.
The force accepts the lost lives and settles against Grogu’s skin.The pram opens again. He coos, peeking from behind his blanket. There is a flash of red but Grogu doesn’t feel fear. He feels the man’s calm resolve, cast in yellow sunlight, and hears the creak of leather as a hand reaches out to him. Grogu takes a hold of the finger and the glove’s soft material feels new and exciting.
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The fire glitters with all shades of yellow and orange, wood snapping under heat, and crackling softly in the quiet night. Grogu comes up closer, just to listen in. There’s warmth and sound and color, and he just wants to feel it all.
“Hey, kid, come back here! Ah, what did I just say? Stay away from the fire.” The man grabs him and steals him away from the mesmerizing show. Grogu whines in protest, his eyes staring at the man in betrayal.
“Oh, no... You must be cold....” The man puts him on his knee and drapes his dirty cape around Grogu’s body, prickling him with little pangs of regret and insecurity.
Under his nose, the cape smells of mud, grass and mold. He looks at the man. [Now I’m too warm and this is scratchy.]
“I’m sorry, pal. I should’ve noticed earlier. It’s a chilly night.”
[You’re a bit weird.] Grogu says and receives a pat on his head in response.
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The ball catches Grogu’s attention, because the man uses it so much; he’s always clenching his hand on it. The leather glove squeaks every time he does it. The man makes a lot of noises, soft clanking and creaking accompany him whenever he moves. His thoughts are noisy too.
When Grogu taps his claws against the ball, it responds with soft tics. It feels very nice, it’s smooth, hard and perfectly hand-sized. The man’s hands are too big for it, but he still greedily takes it away.
“It’s not a toy,” the man says, his voice spiked with annoyance. Not a toy, yet he is allowed to play with it.
[I’m going to teach you to share.] Grogu tells him.
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Every time they enter the ship, the man shuts the hull behind them, moves to the cockpit and presses his precious buttons. A wave of relief washes over him instantly.
Grogu can see him roll his shoulders in the pilot seat and senses the tension dissipating into the background; making room for something softer to come up. It is like that, always. The man likes his ship with all the little switches and levers a lot, it seems. The repetition colors Grogu’s own impression and soon, he starts feeling safe when the gate slams closed too.
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It’s a dull pat against his own hand. It’s barely audible on the blanket. The ball makes the most interesting noises when Grogu slams it on the cockpit. It’s different every time: against metal, plastic and glass. He commits each and every sound to his memory, charting out the differences. There’s so many places to bounce the ball off, so many of them to squeeze it into, he may never get around to trying out all of them.
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“Sorry, buddy, I know you must be bored. A ship is no place for a child,” the man says, a familiar sensation stirring inside him.
Grogu cooes curiously, cocking his head. He felt that one spilling out before, soaking him with its intensity. He searches his own memory for its name and comes up empty. The force guides his inquiry toward the future, promising that there’s going to be more of this feeling to experience and parse out.
He’d ask the man what it is, but it is very hard to make him understand anything. He talks to Grogu a lot, tells him about everything they do together, places they visit, food they eat. Grogu listens patiently every time. But the man doesn’t listen back. Grogu reaches out to him, pokes at the edges of his presence, tentative at first and with more pressure when it yields no results. Still, the man doesn’t listen. But he shares. Thoughts, images, recollections, it all flows out of him, directionless and muddled. Sometimes it’s enough to make Grogu see. There’s a man behind the mask and names behind his fear. There are people hunting him, who want to take things from him, peel off strips of what they deem valuable, just as there are people who’d do that to Grogu.
“You must hate it here, huh,” the man continues. “But don’t worry, we’ll touch land soon.”
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The beskar medallion is hard and sharp in his mouth as he chews on it. He knows he won’t be able to bite through. The man is covered in beskar and nothing can chew through him. Not even a krayt dragon! But Grogu still likes to click-click-click his teeth against the metal and feel it scratching his gums.
Sometimes, he bangs it against different surfaces, noting how different it sounds when bummed against wood, the ship’s floor and the metal ball. But the best sound the medallion makes is when it’s clanged against something that’s also beskar. It sings, a high note that answers a call deep in Grogu’s mind. He is not sure what it reminds him of. Maybe the memory is of something he didn’t experience yet.
Grogu rolls himself off the hammock and drops by the man’s side, listening to his even breathing. He waddles to the plate of beskar on the man’s thigh and claps his medallion against it. There it is! Cling-cling-cling. So nice.
“What- what are you doing?” The man stirs, his voice hoarse, and he raises on his elbows in the small alcove. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
[I’m listening to beskar.] Grogu tells him.
“Oh…”
There’s a flash of understanding and Grogu’s ears perk up at the prospect. Did he finally hear him?
“Right, you’re hungry.” The man sighs. [I’m such an idiot, he probably needs to be fed at night], he adds in his thoughts.
[No, I just like this. Listen!] Grogu looks at him and clangs his medallion again.
“Okay, okay, I’m getting up. Let’s reheat the rest of the soup,” the man says, scooping him up.
Grogu grunts at the interruption, but then he is held against the chestplate and can rap his claws against it, so it’s not all bad.
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The quiet moonlit forest allows an easy connection. They talk a long time. She shares with him images from when she was at The Temple and he responds with flashes of all the younglings that played with him. It's hard to think about what happened next, he’d rather focus on the creak of a leather glove and click of buttons in the cockpit. He tells the Jedi all about the sounds the ship makes, how it groans when it turns mid-air, how the pipes whine when they enter hyperspace. He tells her about all the different sensations he’s felt since the man took him in. The danger of a firepit, the acute sting of soap in his eyes, the soft snoring lulling him to sleep. He shows her one of them; still untitled and new, but felt so deeply, it almost chafes. The man reverberates with it and Grogu feels himself echo it back. What is it?, Grogu wants to know. It’s there when he wakes up and goes to sleep, when he’s whooshing through the air and when he’s given a mealgrain. Sometimes the man’s words glow yellow with it, sometimes Grogu sees it’s tinted with sadness.
[I know this one,] Ahsoka Tano tells him. [It’s called love.]