#berfrois | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

javier-pena · 7 months ago

Text

Pairing: knight!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Rating: Mature

Summary: When a grave injustice is done to you, there is only one man who will defend your honor.

Notes: I know I'm the slowest writer ever when it comes to working through my 10k follower celebration requests but we're getting there. A very sweet anon requested "Can you just look at me? Please?" with Din Djarin and my brain made that into a medieval AU somehow. Dear anon, I'm not entirely sure this is what you had in mind but I had THE most fun writing it, and I'm so so in love with knight!Din that it's going to be incredibly hard to let him go. As always, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who said this is the best fic I've written recently - it's amazing what I can achieve when there is no smut to overthink!

The air smells of smoke and horse manure and cold. It smells of blood and death too, but Din isn’t quite certain that he isn’t imagining that. No one has died here, at least not today, and if he keeps his cool, then the sun will set without him having taken yet another life. All he has to do is immobilize his opponent, make him surrender. If he can do that, he’ll win more than one victory today.

He bows, deeply, in front of Lord Marlowe and the assembled guests. To his left, Rhyswald the Crusader does the same, the insincerity evident in the way he inclines his head, moves his feet. Din has every reason to hate Lord Marlowe, every reason to wish the worst on the other man, but he wouldn’t dream of disrespecting him, least of all in his own house.

Rhyswald lifts his head, runs a gloved hand through his blond curls, and dons his heavy helmet. Din ignores the smirk on his face, the way he bares his teeth in something resembling a snarl. He can’t let these things get to him if he wants to walk away from this duel victorious, his hands clean. He lifts his own helmet, ready to hide his face behind the T-shaped visor, when he sees you stand and abandon your seat next to Lord Marlowe. You walk to the edge of the berfrois, your pale blue wool dress looking almost white in the soft light of the winter morning, your dark blue coat billowing behind you. You don’t wrap it around yourself, even though the cold morning air makes you gasp. Your eyes are fixed on Din’s, but he can hardly bear to look at you, his heart in his throat threatening to choke him.

You reach the edge of the berfrois and you seem so close that he thinks if he just extended his arm, he could touch you. And then you extend your arm and his hands begin to tremble. If he had to draw his sword right now, he wouldn’t be able to hold up the weapon. There is something in your hand, a piece of white silk, and you smile at him before letting it go, the cloth gently gliding down in the calm air, toward Din. He steps forward, his hand outstretched, and everything around him vanishes – the lists, the nobles, Lord Marlowe on his high-backed chair, even Rhyswald and his vile face. It’s just you and the token you’re bestowing on him that Din sees.

He secures the piece of silk around his left lower arm, gently pulling it tight with his teeth. By the time he is done, you have returned to your seat, regarding the spectacle before you with cold detachment. Like him, you can’t let this get to you. The world begins to come back with shouts and the sounds of stomping hooves and Rhyswald’s voice snarling some insult Din doesn’t quite catch. He walks over to his horse Razor, tied up at the edge of the lists. Razor is covered in Din’s colors, the dark blue of his father and the silver of his liege, its black fur shiny with sweat already. Din hoists himself up, takes his shield from a knave, and draws his long, heavy sword. With a deep breath, he turns Razor to face Rhsywald.

Din tastes blood on his tongue as he charges at his opponent, blood from where he has bitten the inside of his cheek. Rhyswald’s helmet is obscuring most of his face, but Din can imagine the smirk he is wearing beneath, sure of his victory. After all, didn’t he fight in the crusades? Didn’t he risk his life and soul for king and country? And where was Din while his fellow countrymen were risking their lives overseas? Where was he? Din raises his sword high above his head, channeling all his strength into his right arm, and a growl erupts from his chest, drowned out by Razor’s hooves hammering against the frozen ground.

Din manages to hit Rhyswald’s shield, but the steel glides of the leather reinforcements uselessly. Rhyswald misses Din’s shoulder because he twists out of the way in time but even before Din manages to turn Razor around, he’s there again with a second attack, splintering the top of Din’s shield with a forceful blow. Din changes direction, his back facing Rhyswald for a moment, but the bold move pays off. When he goes in for a second attack, the other man parries his blow with a surprised shout.

Beneath the horses’ hooves, the ground slowly breaks open and becomes uneven while the knights try to gain the upper hand. They are evenly matched, Din has to admit that, but whereas he fights for an advantage, Rhyswald fights to humiliate. When Din parries a blow, Rhyswald tries to hit him with his shield, when Din tries to free his sword, Rhyswald tries to punch his chin or scratch his unprotected lower arms. The longer the horses dance around each other, the harder it is for Din to keep the promise he made to himself.

“You should give up now,” Rhyswald suggests after a while, his voice coming out in strained pants, “because I will kill you if you don’t.”

Din doesn’t reply because there really isn’t anything he could say.

Rhyswald tries to grab Din’s arm but almost loses the grip on his sword and has to straighten his back. “Did no one teach you manners, boy? You answer your superiors.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Din presses out through gritted teeth, the blade of his sword coming down hard against the spaulder protecting Rhyswald’s shoulder but bouncing off it without leaving a mark.

Rhsywald pulls back his steed, disengaging, and Din drops his arm to relieve his straining muscles. “Why not? Did your little harlot forbid you to speak? Because she knows if you talk to me, it’ll only expose her lies?”

Din doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself from charging at Rhyswald in a rash move and missing him when he swerves.

“Oh, so it’s true?” Rhyswald taunts, making his horse prance around Din’s. “Do you always do as she says?

“Shut up,” Din growls. Rhyswald’s grating voice is making his blood boil.

“Apparently not,” Rhsywald remarks, and Din can make out the smirk beneath his helmet. “So tell me, do you believe her little story? Or do you know she’s a liar?”

Din spurs on Razor, the pounding hooves quickening his heartbeat. He’s aiming the blade at Rhsywald’s head, but his opponent predicts the move long before Din can carry it out. Their blades clash and send out sparks. The force of the impact makes pain shoot up Din’s arm and he grunts. Rhyswald doesn’t let him catch his breath. He lands blow after blow, and Din can barely keep him in check while Razor nervously prances beneath him.

“That would explain why she picked you as her champion,” Rhyswald goes on while his blade comes down hard against Din’s shield. “Gullible Din Djarin who’d do anything for the taste of a ma–”

Din kicks, hard, and is surprised when his foot connects with Rhyswald’s middle. Rhyswald gives a shout of surprise, and Din knows his eyes are wide beneath that helmet. With a rattling crash, Rhyswald lands on the hard, trampled ground and his horse takes off with a whinny. Around them, the berfrois erupt with cheers.

Din closes his eyes and the sound changes. It now is the gentle rustling of newly grown leaves swaying in a warm spring breeze. When he opens his eyes, he’s back in Headdon Fort walking the corridors, climbing steep stairs. Outside the windows, the world is breaking out into colors, bright and fresh, while inside the mood is dampened by bad news recently received. As a knight passing through, no one has informed Din of the tragedy.

Din doesn’t know what he is looking for, only that he is too restless to quietly sit in a chair yet too exhausted from his recent travels to spend his time training. The fort is almost empty since everyone is enjoying the spring sunshine, and Din, in turn, is enjoying the quiet. Until he hears a stifled sob, turns a corner, and finds you leaning against the damp stone wall. You’re crouching, face buried in your hands, a scroll of parchment lying at your feet, and your chest is heaving with violent sobs.

Din should walk away, spare you the embarrassment of being seen at such a vulnerable moment, but he can’t. It’s not his upbringing and training, the chivalry demanded of him. It’s the love he feels for you that makes him rush to your side instead of turning away from you.

You must hear his heavy footsteps despite your preoccupation, and you look up, eyes red, cheeks wet. “Din,” you breathe, your voice hoarse.

His chest tightens at the sound of his name coming from your lips in such a familiar manner. He steps in front of you, unsure whether he is allowed to approach, flexing the fingers on his right hand, still stiff from a recently sustained injury. “What do you need?” he asks.

You smile at him, gently, your grief momentarily forgotten. “It’s Eldrin,” you answer. “He … he died.”

Din’s chest grows tighter, a feeling no longer welcome. Out of your brothers, Eldrin was his favorite. Din had always looked up to the older man, and Eldrin had always treated him like an equal. “How?” he asks.

You shake your head as a new wave of grief rushes over you. Din can’t bear to see you like this. He drops down to his knees next to you, the floor uncomfortably cold through the fabric of his chausses. But he doesn’t care when you lean into him and bury your face against his shoulder. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything anymore except the warmth of your body against his and the way his heart flutters in his chest.

Steadied by Din’s presence, you finally answer. “He was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Din echoes, slinging an arm around your shoulders. The bright spring sunshine seems to darken at your words, and despair settles over the both of you.

“He was trying to save a friend,” you go on, your words muffled against Din’s tunic. “Lord Raaf. He had gotten into a fight, and Eldrin was trying to help him. They were all drunk, it was a stupid, drunken fight.” You sob, and Din can’t help himself. He kisses the top of your head, and feels a stab of pride when you pull him closer.

“Raaf,” you go on after you have somewhat collected yourself, “he said Eldrin got stabbed in the back. I don’t know why.” You look up at him, your eyes impossibly bright with tears. “Why, Din?”

“I don’t know,” Din replies. He could talk about honor, call the murderer a coward, curse his name, but none of these things would help you. Instead, he asks, “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” you reply, grabbing fistfuls of Din’s shirt. “He’s dead.”

“Does Raaf know who stabbed Eldrin?”

You nod. “A knight. He calls himself Rhyswald the Crusader.”

“There are witnesses,” Din goes on. “Lord Raaf. He saw it happen. Rhyswald will be brought to justice.”

You give him a tired smile. “I don’t want justice. I want Eldrin to be alive.”

Din’s stomach knots painfully, as if he had been stabbed himself.

It’s the same pain he feels now, back on the lists, watching the murderer push himself into a kneeling position, reaching for his sword. “Stay down,” Din whispers, but Rhyswald lets loose a deep growl and stands, picks up his mud-caked sword.

“You coward!” he shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I should have known that you won’t be able to win this fight without cheating.”

“Enough!” Din barks. “Do you surrender?”

There are whispers all around him as he waits for an answer.

Rhsywald spits, and it comes out red. “No.”

The whispers stop.

Din circles Rhyswald, Razor snorting beneath him. “Then you have made your choice,” he declares with a heavy heart, raising his sword.

Rhyswald charges. Razor, surprised by the sudden movement, rears up and then collapses, the front legs giving way, breaking with a sickening crack. Din hits the ground, hard, the impact pushing all the air from his lungs. One leg gets buried under Razor’s body, while the other twists at an odd angle, and he loses both his sword and shield. The crowd gasps, there are one or two shouts, but Din only hears the blood rushing in his ears, and the rattling sound of Razor’s dying breath.

Din’s vision darkens when Rhyswald casts his shadow down on him. He pulls his sword out of Razor’s chest with a sickening squelch and huffs. “There. Now we’re evenly matched.”

Din places a gloved hand on Razor’s back, the body warm and alive to the touch. He can’t allow himself to feel, can’t allow Rhyswald’s dishonesty to get to him. He pushes the horse off his leg and stands, ignoring the pain in his calf, the way his vision goes dark as blood pounds behind his eyes. He limps to where his sword lies half-buried in the mud, then to where his shield sticks out of a heap of soil. He picks up both weapons, his grip like iron, and turns to face Rhyswald.

They circle each other; every other step is agony to Din, but it doesn’t escape him that Rhyswald holds his elbow at an odd angle or that his helmet has shifted, obscuring his view. Din shakes his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears but it doesn’t help. He loosens the grip on his sword, then tightens it again, and before Rhyswald can take on a defensive stance, he rushes toward him, his only goal to inflict as much pain as possible. He can let himself have that, he decides, as long as it doesn’t cloud his judgement.

Steel meets steel, and Din’s ears are now ringing with the sweet sound of combat. Rhyswald manages to keep him at bay, but no matter how hard he tries to get a blow in, Din doesn’t let him. He forces Rhyswald to defend himself, forces him to back away from Razor’s dead body, forces him to fight for his life. Rhyswald is strong, his defenses are tough, but once in a while, there is a crack in them, and Din exploits it ruthlessly.

Rhyswald’s shield splinters in half after Din hits it repeatedly, and the two halves fall to the ground, useless. Din can’t help but smile a cruel smile, already tasting victory, but without the additional weight, his opponent is faster and finally gains the upper hand. He pushes back against Din’s assaults with vicious jabs, forcing Din to divide his attention between parrying Rhyswald’s blows with his shield and defending himself with his sword.

Din’s arms grow heavy, so heavy that every time he has to raise his sword it feels like a task impossible to accomplish. Rhyswald seems to tire too – his footfalls are heavy and he grunts every time he swings his sword at Din. But when the blade lands against Din’s right cuisse, he feels the blow in his entire body and his knee gives way, making him stumble. Rhyswald goes for Din’s standard next, and it’s only through sheer force of will that he manages to parry that blow. The audience gasps, groans, and then falls silent.

“Don’t you hear?” Rhyswald hisses, pushing his blade down against Din’s. Every muscle in Din’s arm is screaming for him to give in. “They hate you. They want to see you dead. Why don’t we give them what they want?”

He kicks Din in the chest, swirls around, and with the force of a final blow lets the blade of his sword rush toward Din. Din lets out a hoarse shout as his lower arm is sliced open and hot blood spurts out, drenching his tunic. Steam rises in the freezing air.

“You should give in now,” Rhyswald suggests. “It would spare you the pain and humiliation.” He reaches for Din’s injured arm, for the piece of silk tied around it; Din draws back with a hiss. Darkness settles over Rhyswald’s face. “Have it your way then.”

He raises his sword high above his head at the same time as Din raises his shield, and when blade hits wood, Din pushes himself up, flinging his cover at Rhyswald. He feels bile rise in his throat at the effort; instead of air, it feels like he is breathing in fire, but he stands, and Rhyswald struggles for a moment, caught off-guard by Din’s resistance. Still, Rhyswald has a point – it would be so easy to give in, to stop here and let fate take its course.

The glove on Din’s left hand is growing heavy with blood. He glances down to examine the damage and his eyes land on the piece of silk Rhyswald tried to touch, the token you gave him, convinced he would be victorious. He promised you, did he not? He offered his services to bring you justice, to right that terrible wrong that had been done to you. He can’t give up, no matter how much he wants to. Not when you are up there in the berfrois, all your hopes resting on him. Your hands are doubtlessly clenched in your lap, your eyes are wide with terror. You are praying, he is sure of that – not to a merciful God, but to him, begging him to keep going.

“You’re tougher than I had thought, I’ll give you that.” Rhyswald’s voice sounds tinny from beneath his helmet, and it lures Din out of his thoughts and back onto the lists. “But you still have to resort to tricks to gain the upper hand.”

Din is barely listening to the words. His eyes are roaming Rhyswald’s armor, looking for a weak spot, a small opening he could attack. There is nothing, not even a loosening rerebrace. But the way Rhyswald is holding his sword, his grip lax … if Din could disarm him, this fight would be over.

With an outcry, hoarse and violent, he storms at Rhyswald who is too late to raise his sword to defend himself. It flies out of his grip and lands somewhere to his right, halfway sinking into the mud. There is some careful applause coming from the berfrois, one or two cheers, as people are trying to figure out what just happened. Din feels a smile forming on his lips, one that is cold and calculating, as he allows himself this small indulgence because no one can see it.

Rhyswald looks at his useless sword, lets the implication of it no longer being in his hand sink in. Then he huffs and rolls his shoulders. Din steels himself for another insult, hopes for a swift surrender, but stiffens when Rhyswald loosens his heavy morning star from his belt.

“We’re just getting started,” he sneers.

Din rolls his neck, his shoulders, then flings his sword from him. There is one faint shout of, “No!” somewhere in the distance, and all he can hope is that it did not come from you. “Forgive me,” he whispers, pulling his pernach out of the loop on his belt.

When Rhyswald charges, morning star swinging at his side, Din is ready for him.

The air around him warms as the lists vanish and are replaced by a ground of dust, dry air being swirling up in the hot summer sun. Din takes a step to the side and twists his upper body, avoiding his opponent who rushes past him with a curse. Din turns and kicks him in the backside so he lands on the dry ground, face first. The other men clap and cheer, and Din runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat and dirt.

That is when he spots you rushing toward him, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your footfalls heavy with anger. Din hears the other knights snicker, one or two whistle, but he ignores them. His entire world has become you – there is no room for anything else.

“What happened?” he asks as soon as you are close enough to hear him.

You stop in front of him, your eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I don’t know who else to talk to,” is all you say.

Din softly closes his hand around your elbow. “Come,” he says, “let’s go.”

There are some lewd comments, some more whistles, but you don’t seem to hear them. You let yourself be guided into the shadow of one of the trees in the enormous courtyard, where the heat is a little less punishing, and prying ears have a hard time overhearing your conversation.

Din takes in your appearance, your fine dress, your long hair, braided intricately, and his face heats with the realization of how he must look next to you, dirty and sweaty and half undressed, with his tunic hanging open and its sleeves rolled up, curls rumpled, hands brown with dust. You don’t seem to mind though.

“Rhyswald was acquitted.” Your voice is strained with anger and hatred; Din barely recognizes it. “The king has acquitted him.”

Din wishes he could offer you words of comfort. Instead, all he manages is a suppressed, “What?”

It should not be like this, was not supposed to go like this. You were convinced the king’s verdict would bring you justice, and Din was convinced of the righteousness of your cause. After all, Rhyswald had stabbed Eldrin in the back, in front of witnesses. Maybe you had misheard the king, misunderstood his verdict.

You lower your eyes at Din, and for a moment he thinks you’re redirecting your anger at him. “He didn’t believe Raaf, said Raaf was too drunk to know what he saw.”

“But there were others,” Din presses, unable to make sense of it all, “other witnesses. People who say Rhyswald …” He finds himself unable to finish the sentence.

You begin to pace beneath the shadow of the tree, your face shiny with sweat. “None of them confirmed Raaf’s story. They said it was too dark, they can’t be sure of what they saw, Rhyswald wasn’t drunk, they want to believe his story. The king said it wasn’t enough.”

Din watches you pace, rooted to the spot by his uselessness. He hears the clanging of swords, the shouts and cheers – the other knights must have resumed their training, already tired of poking fun at him. He hears the song of a bird high up in the tree above you, and the high laughter of a little girl somewhere close by. They all go on with their lives as if the world had not just ended.

“There must be something we can do,” Din finally says. “Maybe the king will reconsider if …”

“If what, Din?” you snarl. He flinches. You notice, and your face falls. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help but there is nothing we can do to change his mind. There is only …”

“You can’t give up,” Din interrupts you. “There has to be a way. We will find one.”

Your face softens as you gift him a smile. “There is one way. The only way. But it’s hopeless.”

“Tell me,” Din demands, taking both your hands in his.

You lower your gaze to where your hands are joined. “Trial by combat,” you answer. “If God’s verdict were to be in favor of my brother …”

Din tightens his hold on you. “Why would that be hopeless? Aren’t you convinced of Rhyswald’s guilt?”

You wind your way out of Din’s grip. “It’s not that. I don’t have a champion.”

Din blinks, trying to sort through his thoughts. “I’m sure your fiancé …”

“Lord Marlow accepts the king’s verdict,” you cut him off. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Din pulls you close. “Yes. There is.”

The sharp pain in his right arm brings Din back to the present. It has to be broken, judging by the way it uselessly hangs at his side. When the morning star hit the rerebrace, Din could hear the sickening crack it made. Rhyswald could too, and it put a cruel smile on his face, one Din could see all too clearly now that Rhyswald lost his helmet somewhere in the mud. Din tries to flex his fingers, tries to bend his right arm at the elbow, but the responding pain makes his vision darken and stars dance in front of his eyes.

Opposite him, Rhyswald looks how Din feels. His bottom lip is split, his teeth are red with blood. He spits and a tooth lands at his feet. Din inhales sharply and tries to straighten his back, but Rhyswald chooses this moment to charge at him, the morning star long forgotten, lost somewhere on the battlefield. Din glances longingly at his pernach, now too heavy for him to wield with his broken arm, then widens his stance, bracing for the impact.

Rhyswald is aiming for his shoulder, but Din takes a calculated step back and Rhyswald misses. He stumbles but immediately regains his balance, his eyes wild with rage. Din can’t help but smile.

Rhyswald reaches for Din’s left arm, which is still bleeding, and Din hisses when his hand closes around it, hard. He struggles against the grip, but can’t use his right hand to push Rhyswald off, and when he yanks back his arm, he only pulls his opponent toward him. Rhyswald closes his other hand around Din’s throat, but Din twists back his head, then brings his helmet down hard against Rhyswald’s temple. That does the trick.

Rhyswald stumbles back and Din falls forward, grunting in pain. He can make out the tears and dents in Rhyswald’s armor where he was able to do some damage with his pernach, cut so deeply he drew blood, but it wasn’t enough. Rhyswald still stands, still fights. And Din knows he cannot take much more of this.

Rhyswald kicks, aiming for Din’s legs, and when Din tries to evade him, his leg gives way and he folds, falling to his knees in front of Rhyswald. Then his head starts ringing, and he realizes Rhyswald is pommeling the helmet with his bare hands, trying everything to make Din surrender. And Din wants to. By God, he wants to! He’s so exhausted he can’t even tell if this fight is real or if he blacked out minutes ago and this is all a fever-induced vision.

Rhyswald lands a kick against Din’s chest, and Din crashes to the ground. It has begun to snow, and as he is lying there, looking up into the sky, he can see the flakes dancing around him. When Rhyswald straddles him, sinking to his knees on either side of Din’s torso, he can’t find the fight in him to oppose him. Instead, he lets Rhyswald punch him, his chest, his chin; his head rings every time Rhyswald’s fist connects with his helmet, but there is no point in fighting back when it’s so easy to lie here and watch the snow come down gently.

Rhyswald curses, trying to pull Din’s helmet off his head. But his gloves are slick with blood and mud, and he cannot find purchase against the smooth iron. Din shakes his hands off with a grunt and his head comes to rest on its side where he has a clear view of the berfrois. A clear view of you.

You are halfway out of your chair, your eyes wide with shock. His chest constricts, the pain unbearable, so much more violent than anything Rhyswald did to him today. If he doesn’t fight back, this will be the last thing he sees, his last conscious thought will be that he disappointed you. And maybe that’s what he deserves. He killed so many people, ruined so many lives – this is his punishment for all the hurt he brought into this world. What’s one more broken person? What’s one more ruined life? Of course, the only thing he can give you as his present on your wedding day is for you to watch him get butchered. He lived his life dishonorably, of course it has to end the same way.

Drained, he closes his eyes, waiting for the end to come.

When he opens them again, it’s you he sees. Your eyes are bright, and you try to hide a grin behind the back of your hand, but he gently takes your wrist and pulls it away from your face. He can’t remember the last time he saw you smile like this, and he wants to savor every second of it.

You kiss him again, and it’s as if he was forgotten how to breathe. All he feels is the gentle press of your lips against his, the way you’re still so unsure but so, so eager to have him like this. It makes his heart bloom like a meadow in springtime. He can’t help himself – he has to cup your cheek. You shudder against him in response.

“Let us stay here forever.” The words are out before he can stop them.

You glance up into his eyes, your face so unguarded it makes him want to fight for your affection. Makes him want to die for it too. “I wish we could.” You push him back against the hard stone wall of the alcove you’re hiding in. “Let’s not talk about it.”

The next time you kiss him, he can taste your grief on your lips. “There’s –,” he starts, but you shake your head.

“No.” You touch your finger to his lips, and he freezes, blood rushing downwards, tight between his legs. “Din … I’m so sorry.”

There is nothing for you to be sorry for, no choice he regrets making where you are concerned, but hearing you say those words makes a lump form in his throat. “Don’t.” He kisses you to hide the ache that has to be written all over his face. “It’s what you have to do. You have your duties, as I have mine.”

You lace your fingers with his, squeezing them hard. He presses his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling.

“I’ll always be yours, Din. Always.”

Din reaches for his dagger strapped to his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain. Rhyswald’s triumphant grin is wiped off his face when Din knees him in the crotch before stabbing him between his ribs where his armor has shifted. Rhyswald lets out a pained grunt, his eyes falling shut, as he tries to grab Din’s wrist to pull the dagger back out. Din does it for him, relishing the wet sound it makes against Rhyswald’s flesh. Then he pushes Rhyswald off him and rolls onto his side, arm braced against the other man’s chest, pushing himself onto his knees. The pain that is everywhere in his body now is almost unbearable, makes him want to vomit and pass out, but the sight of Rhyswald’s eyes, widened in terror, keeps him going.

Din closes his left hand around Rhyswald’s throat and Rhyswald starts kicking his legs in panic, clawing at Din’s fingers and arm. But Din doesn’t let go, only pushes him deeper into the mud. This isn’t the first time he is taking a life, and he knows it won’t be the last, but he will never again enjoy killing someone this much. He tightens his hold on Rhyswald’s throat, watches as his eyes begin to bulge, and he feels a strange calm come over him. It’s easy to grab the dagger, even with his broken arm, so easy to press the blade against the skin of Rhyswald’s throat, and even easier still to cut, one smooth motion, followed by blood, so much blood. It seeps into Din’s gloves, hot in the freezing winter air, drenches his hands so all the world can see he has taken another life.

Din doesn’t let go until Rhyswald’s eyes cloud over and he stops twitching. He pushes himself away from the dead body, a pained growl passing his lips. He isn’t shaking – that will come later – but he isn’t feeling the satisfaction he thought he would feel. He raises his eyes and glances up at the berfrois, up to where you are sitting. It’s not as if he had expected you to jump out of your chair and cheer for him, but he had hoped for some acknowledgement of a job well done. Instead, he finds you staring at him, eyes wide with terror, and he looks down at his soiled gloves and the man next to him, his throat cut open like a red, angry maw.

You would look at Din like that. Not with relief or adoration, but with terror. After all, now that you have seen his uglier side, you recognized the kind of monster he truly is. And who could love a monster, even if that monster killed for you?

Din kneels in the cold mud, eyes fixed on his hands, his terrible hands that have done so much bad in this world. He should have surrendered, should have let Rhyswald kill him. But there are men carrying his corpse away, and Din has to go on living, knowing the only person he truly loves despises him. He wishes there were cheers or curses, people talking, getting ready to leave, discussing the duel, anything, but it’s so quiet and he is alone with his thoughts that are so loud. He’s even alone on the lists now, Rhyswald’s corpse having been carried off, and still, he can’t bring himself to get up and leave. He can’t even raise his head because looking at you again would kill him.

His world turns pale blue as you come to stand in front of him. You kneel, not caring about spoiling your wedding dress – you’re kneeling in the dirt and blood, and you say, “Can you just look at me? Please?” but Din can’t. He doesn’t want to face your hatred, even if that makes him a coward.

Your voice is so soft as you repeat that, “Please,” and it does something to him, reminds him that he can never refuse you. His broken arm twitches painfully as his heart picks up speed, and then he looks up.

You have a soft smile on your face, one he had thought he’d never see again. You raise your hands, lifting the helmet off his head, and then you press your forehead to his, just like he did with you before you told him you’ll always be his.

“I love you,” you whisper into the cold winter morning.

That’s all he needs from you.

If you enjoyed the fic, I’d love to hear from you 🥰 feel free to leave a comment or drop into my inbox anytime …

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the mandalorian #10k follower celebration

169 notes · View notes

hiromisuzukimicrojournal · 3 years ago

Text

The Palace at Land's End

✽

A melody lulls him to sleep. It echoes at the bottom of an empty public bath, abandoned and dried up. In this semi-basement glasshouse, particles of sunshine are pouring down. The melody, which is round, without thorns, just sweet, hurts nothing. The musical notes repeat, floating and falling with the dust in the air. Before disappearing. As fast as in a daydream.

He works for an indoor plants leasing company. His surname is Ando. He signs “&O” for his delivery notes of potted plants to hotels, restaurants, cafés, hospitals, department stores, complex facilities and so on. Weeping fig. Pachira. English ivy. Adiantum. Golden cane palm. Rubber Tree. Yucca Elephantipes. Spider Plant. Saint George’s sword. Dwarf umbrella tree. Peace lilies. Dracaena. Monstera. Driving the Toyota HiAce – a light commercial vehicle –, each month he goes around the buildings under contract to replace the potted plants, which are about his height. His main areas are Shibuya, where many large-scale commercial facilities are closely built together, and Shinjuku, where hotels such as the Hilton and Hyatt are concentrated in the west.

“Hello, Mr. &O.”

At the ground floor lounge of a high‐rise condominium in Shinjuku, a young lady resident called out to him. She was wearing a thick knitted dress. The maxi dress accentuated her body line. “Good afternoon, Mr. &O. What is this? Very creepy, isn’t it?” She let her eyes drop shyly like a girl who stopped growing at the age of fifteen. Yellow mushrooms were growing at the root of the potted Monstera on the marble floor. It was Leucocoprinus Birnbaumii usually called “Flowerpot Parasol”, common in the tropics and subtropics. An ephemeral species that disappears in a short time because the mushroom cap liquefies. He replaced it with a potted Pachira unloaded from the Toyota HiAce. “Why did you break up with the guy you were dating?” he asked. She replied without answering his question, “Can you help me help out with moving next month? This condo is on the verge of land subsidence. Though my luggage can be left in the room until next September. Thus far, I have moved many times and thrown away a lot of memories. Could we ride together in your van? Please, Mr. &O, please!” She sobbed her guts out and then in a perfectly natural manner she left the main entrance of the building as if she suddenly woke up from a dream. Residents were looking back at him with suspicious eyes, coming and going in the lounge. Without bringing the potted Monstera, which is home to the yellow – creepy – mushrooms, back to the office, he went down the emergency stairs and took it to the semi-basement of the condominium. He knew there was a huge empty public bath abandoned by people, closed for business.

In the past, Shinjuku Jūnisō Natural Hot Spring was a one-day bath facility located in the western end of Shinjuku, Tokyo, which closed on March 29, 2009. The doorway was on the ground floor of the condominium. From the 1700s to the 1800s, Jūnisō-pond used to be a scenic spot in Edo with abundant spring water. It prospered as a tourist destination lined with inns and teahouses. It was also known as a pleasure district, with a number of brothels. In 1968, the pond was reclaimed and disappeared due to the Shinjuku urban development project.

Sutro Baths offered visitors many other attractions including band concerts, talent shows, and restaurants. With several railroads providing transportation to the area by the late 1890s, a visit to Sutro Baths crowned an all-day family excursion to the shore, including stops at Sutro Heights, the Cliff House and Ocean Beach.

…

In 1964, developers with plans to replace the Baths with high-rise apartments bought the site and began demolition of the once great structure. In 1966, a fire destroyed what was left of the Baths.

― The Ambitious & Magnificent Sutro Baths*

The complex hosted events from swimming competitions to beauty contests to dwarf boxing matches. Sutro Baths was a popular Lands End destination for many years, yet the great expense of its upkeep and maintenance made it an uncertain business proposal.

― Vestiges of Sutro Baths**

&O had neither ambitions nor desires, but it was his secret pleasure to water the potted Monstera and the yellow mushrooms at its roots. It became a daily routine for him to visit the abandoned public bath at the semi-basement of the condominium in the western end of Shinjuku between patrols. He was loading water in the delivery van in addition to the houseplants. The water supply of the semi-basement had been cut off, so he brought in four two litre bottles of mineral water every day. Through the glass windows of the semi-basement, particles of sunshine were pouring down along with a sweet melody in – his skull – to the potted plant. The Monstera was bathed in plenty of water making the leaves bigger. It was just about to transform itself into a true Monstera, named from the Latin word for “monstrous” or “abnormal”. However, he did not know that in order to define the “monstrous” or “abnormal”, it was necessary to define the “normal”. After that, the leaves of the Monstera gradually lost their energy. Finally, its roots rotted. After spreading their spores and adding to their family several times, the yellow mushrooms melted into the damp soil. Then they disappeared.

Overwatering is the most common cause of sickness – and, sorry, death – in houseplants. It’s a common mistake to think that more water will make your plant happier, but too much water will drown them.

…

In short, simply loving your plants too much.

― How to stop overwatering your plants***

Oxygen is insufficient. &O has recognised this reality. He recalls her – who stopped growing at the age of fifteen – saying the condominium is on the verge of land subsidence. The boat carrying him – an empty bathtub in the semi-basement where many other attractions including band concerts, talent shows and beauty contests had been held – was floating and falling along with the laughter of visitors in the air. Listening to these excited voices, he feels the boat sinking into groundwater quietly. As fast as in a daydream.

✽