Running Out of Days (squee)

[Dire Wolf]

Those crystalline blue eyes closed lightly at the soft breeze that caressed his skin as he jogged down the winding country road. It was a simple but necessary pleasure. Running. There was just something about the fire in his legs and his lungs that sparked an interest in him, and made him want to continue the pleasurable pain until his stomach forced its contents out of his mouth.

Just a few days prior he was floating in a tank of kolto, completely and totally unconscious. The giant of a man had nearly died during the conquest of Shogun. Which would make it the second time in a row that he'd been sent to the brink of life, only to return. Presumably stronger. Hopefully stronger. His massive skull shook back and forth lightly as he strode down the dirt path. "Focus on where your feet are, Mal, not where they were."

Indeed. The doctors had told him that he'd be a little weak for the next few days. Comparatively weak, of course. He had no doubt that he'd still be able to have a throw down with a wookie if he had to. The doctors told him that he'd spent about three weeks floating in that tank. Three weeks of doing nothing. No muscles were used. Nothing was done. That thought drove him insane. While he was undeniably weak when he first awoke, barely even able to hold himself up, his strength returned quickly.

An audible growl shook Mal's deep vocal chords as his feet pounded against the packed dirt of the path. He forced his thoughts to focus almost completely on the rhythmic pounding of his massive feet against the deck, and totally ignore the flaming pain in his legs. He'd run along that very dirt road once a day since he'd been stationed on Concord Dawn... well before the mission to Coruscant. He knew it well.

Those icy blue sapphires drifted up to a clearing in the trees less than half of a mile away. A small house nestled in a field of wheat and whatever people grew here (even after so long, he still hadn't bothered to learn its name), and that was where he'd often begin is resting period. Which was a fast walk instead of a run. This time, though, he'd actually sit against a tree for a few minutes. Three weeks of nothing was hard on one's muscles, and one's ability to run.

Once he was past the clearing, the massive man slowed his speed to a moderate walk and simply sat at the edge of the path. Mal's back flopped against the grass, his sweaty skin enjoying the grass' light tickle and the soft breeze against it. The sun glistened against his (still) powerful muscles as they flexed and relaxed according to his heavy breathing or movements.

Briefly, he considered sleep... but he'd had enough of that for one lifetime. Many lifetimes.

[Squee]

“… And wish you the best of luck.”

The door closed only inches from Valry’s nose. Once shut, Valry’s open gaze narrowed and she snarled. Then she spat on the ground. Best of luck indeed. ”If I had luck, I would not have been under the roof of such snot-nosed, hating mandolorians such as you, sir and madam. Leaning down, she scooped up her pack of few things and slung it over her shoulder.

“Come on, Orak.”

“Buir, your helmet…”

“Oh, sorry.” Valry took her scratched helmet from Orak’s small hands. Instantly, she reminded herself that she wanted to paint something on it. Something that would remind her that she had rescued her own brother from the Republic. With the helmet hooked over her fingers, she stepped down off the front porch of the insensitive and foolish couple’s home and led Orak down the path. Five minutes of silence ensued, interrupted by only the clatter of Valry’s rifle against her armored back and the shuffle of Orak’s feet. And then,

“Buir?”

“Yes, Orak?”

“Did I do it?”

Valry stopped and turned to look down at Orak. Her son looked back up at her with black onyx eyes. They were unreadable, but the curve of his eyebrow told his worry, his concern. He thought being kicked out of the homestead was his fault. It was not his fault, but the intolerable couple. They had complained about Orak, complained about all his mistakes and his flaws. He didn’t clean his plate off completely before dipping it in the washing water. He didn’t put the cups in their places. His chair hit the wall when he got up from the table. He sounded like a bantha coming down the stairs. He cried when she left for Shogun. All the simple things a child did and that a simple request or gentle correction could have fixed.

But they had not. Instead they complained to her and decided to criticize her as a mother. “No, Orak, you didn’t do it.” That a mother would scold her child and spank him. Would discipline him better and teach him not to cry. A mother would not leave her child to go to Shogun to fight a battle she may not return from and expect someone back home to willingly take in her child. Willingly! Nearly anyone would take in Orak! Gentle, kind, quiet boy. He didn’t scream, kick, or fuss. No tantrums. He always did what was asked of him. He played quietly to himself. Orak was simple and easygoing. He ate all his food except the stuff he dreaded, which were only one or two vegetables and/or fruit.

If the couple hadn’t “asked” Valry to take her son and leave, she would have packed her things up by next week and left for the irrational insults done about her son.

“Then… why are we leaving?”

“I’m going to try and find someplace to live closer to where the other soldiers live.”

“But they didn’t want us there.”

Valry wanted to sigh. Orak was too smart. He knew they had been kicked out. “Yes, Orak, because they don’t like me.”

“Why?”

“They think I’m a bad buir.”

A look of horror rushed across Orak’s face. “Are not! You good buir!” he shuffled forward and wrapped his arms around her leg, resting his chin on her hip. “You my buir.”

Valry felt a smile press the corners of her mouth. She reached down and ruffled Orak’s dark hair. “Yeah. You’re just kinda stuck with me, ain’t cha? Come on. Let’s go.” More silence settled between her and Orak for a while. Valry knew it was a little walk back to the base. Did she go to her brother’s then? Or would she find some way to stay at the base with Orak? Maybe seeing if she could get to her brother’s would be best, where she’d find immediate open arms to her. She hadn’t told Jauren about Orak yet though. Jauren hadn’t brought up Cander in any of the conversations. Not where he was or if he was on the planet or gone or had committed a sin and left Valry on her own. Would Jauren even accept Orak because of who his father was? It worried on Valry.

After some time, Orak asked her to hold his things as he picked wildflowers for her. He charged up in front of her, darting back and forth on the path, more than likely looking for the flowers he deemed the best and the worthy. In five minutes, he only had a few and was still on the search. He bounded a little into the grass and then returned moments later with either a scowl or a smile, a flower or no flower added to his collection. He rounded the small bend before her and as she caught up, she saw Orak creeping up on something sticking out on the bath. It took her a moment to register that something as legs and feet and electricity shocked her heart when she saw how close Orak was. He was sneaking up on someone just laying in the path! They could be dead or… or…

“Ora--!”

“ORI’MANDO’AD!” Orak suddenly squealed, delighted. She watched as he paused, looked at his flowers, then race back to her, handed her the flowers, and THEN ran back and mini-tackled the enormous man. Valry had heard Mal had been extracted from Shogun but hadn’t known his condition beyond them saying he was critical. Orak hadn’t known period. He had only known what Valry had known before Mal came back: he had been dead. “Wait, wait, right back!” Orak came running back the few feet back to her. “Buir, buir, stuff! Stuff!”

Valry shifted the bags and began lowering Orak’s personal bag, careful of his flowers. “Okay, okay. Sheesh. Calm down before you pee yourself.”

He glared up with a “Buuuuuuuuuuuir!” expression that made Valry snicker, watching as he dug through his things and come back out with the speeder toy that Mal had given him. A sort of bittersweet smile stung Valry’s lips as she remembered coming home with Orak completely expected to see Mal and to show Mal he had kept his speeder… only to hear Mal was dead instead. With the toy in his clutches, Orak jumped back over to Mal and thrust it forward.

“See? Ori’mando’ad? I still have! See?” By then, Valry had stopped just behind Orak.

[Dire Wolf]

Scars. Everyone bears them, and some can be seen with the eye while others aren't even obvious to the one who wears it. Mal was a bearer of both kinds of these scars. His chest, muscled as it was, was riddled with all sorts of scars. Some were deep and winding, like the great meditative canyon on Ambria while others were little more than straight bumps that laced across his flesh. If asked, the ori'mando'ad could relate the story of how he got each one. Most of the stories would be told with a broad smile and a slap on the knee, which is somewhat surprising considering the grisly tales.

The invisible scars he bore were far more numerous, however, and only two had ever managed to pry their stories from his iron grasp. Ali, his late wife, was the first to do so. Lia, the surrogate sister that seemed to have flown the coup since he'd came back from the dead, was the second. Not that any of it mattered now. His mind was on other matters.

Mal's crystalline blue eyes were lost in the brilliant blue skies above his head as he lay on the ground, half on the path and half off. They had something of a glazed appearance that reflected the wispy white clouds that interrupted the great blue expanse. Behind those glazed eyes, his mind had worked feverishly to create a fantasy that would never be. Never again, anyways. Despite the sadness that came with that fact, Mal found himself to be a happy man as he slowly walked through the wheat fields towards his house on Mandalore.

The cool breeze curled around his form and caressed the sweaty skin that glistened in the sunlight. His mind allowed this pleasurable sensation to break through the walls that it had erected around itself, and register within his own little day dream. Mal couldn't help but smile at the gentle breeze as it lapped at his skin, and look at the house. Ali was in there. Probably cooking up some horrid concoction. A wide smirk pulled his lip upwards at the thought; she was a true warrior. One that not even he would dare to cross.

"ORI'MANDO'AD!!"

Mal's eyes flicked from the smoke billowing from the chimney to the door, which had practically flown off of its hinges. Out of the new space flew a young boy that resembled his mind's construction of what his son would've looked like, had the chance to live. Yet it sounded nothing like his voice. It sounded familiar. The name of its owner was on the tip of his mind's tongue...

Orak.

With a long series of blinks, his mind threw out the wonderful fantasy and replaced it with a view of the real world. Orak's tiny and fragile form was running full bore from Valry towards him, that little speeder in hand. To show him that he took good care of it, no doubt. Mal had told him that the little child's toy was important to him... and it was true. Beyond what Valry could've understood. It was one of the toys that he had gotten for his son nearly a decade ago.

A broad grin spread his lips thin as he pulled his torso up to view Orak just as he thrust the speeder forward and began to excitedly babble. If Mal's smile could've been bigger, it would've been. Despite the scars mentioned before, his eyes seemed to be devoid of that hidden pain that Orak had seen a lifetime ago, or what felt like it. Replaced the happiness of seeing him and his buir, of course. "I do! You took such good care of it, mando'ika!"

He stole a glance up to Valry, who was standing just behind her son. It was funny, really; he hadn't noticed just how striking she was until he'd seen her right then and there. The previously brilliant sun had hidden behind a wisp of cloud and bathed the area in shade. He was blind to detail before, but after that he could make out just above everything he wanted to. Mal smiled a little and gave her a curt nod, "hi Valry."

The massive man then realized that he was without a shirt, rather sweaty, and (oddly enough) that his muscles weren't quite what they were before the long periods of time simply floating in kolto. "Go figure: Barely out of the kolto tank and they want me to do twenty mile runs. How's it?" It was about four or five away from the military base. With the slight shake of his head, he looked back down at Orak and beamed. "You've taken great care of your buir too, Orak!"

That's Mal: the golden heart warrior. Which is, oddly, anti-mandalorian... but he didn't care. The culture had many facets that were right, and few that were wrong. War and combat being one of the central focuses was one of them. He understood the necessity to learn the ways of combat, but not to ride out and bring death and destruction to everyone just to test that skill. It was madness.

No. It was Mandalore.

[Squee]

Orak was ready to burst apart. If he had been any other person’s kid, he would wiggle like an overly excited puppy. Instead, he kept the wiggling inside, but the squirminess could be recognized through his quick babbling and constant grin. He petted the toy speeder and glowed in Mal’s praise about how well he’d taken care of it. Without warning, he turned and plopped himself on Malak’s leg, holding his toy firmly as he told a story about how he’d actually scratched and he and Valry polished the scratch off.

And while Orak bathed in Malak’s praise, Valry soaked up her son’s happiness. There was a slight smile pressed to the hard woman’s face, but the true joy could be seen in her cinnamon eyes.

”Hi, Valry.”

Her eyes switched to the scarred warrior sitting on the grasses. Valry thought she’d lost him on Shogun. While they hadn’t known each other for very long, he had been nice to her and Orak. Simple kindness made all the difference to her, knowing the horrors that sentient species could bring. It was a relief to know that someone of such a large stature could be so gentle. “Hi, Malak.” She twisted her backpack off her shoulder and set it down. Her armor creaked slightly as she moved to sit cross-legged on the ground, elbows planting into knee.

”How’s it?”

“Things are…” Valry sat up straight and stared off to the side for a moment. She couldn’t tell him that she had no place to live. She finished quickly, “Not unusual.” The left corner of her mouth quirked and died. “Could be better, but not unusual.”

“Old people not like me. Me and buir don’t have house.”

“Orak!” Anger quickly rose up inside her. Her last thread of pride whipped through the air, and she was angry because she couldn’t keep it. And she was angry because it was her son who was letting it float away. Her son! Whom she should have a roof for him to sleep under! Whom she should be able to better provide for and not have others know her weakness! And with her pride fled, pain filled her eyes though her brow was lowered in fury. “We do not tell other people that!”

His small fingers toyed with the speeder. His eyes cast down at it, avoiding his mother. A small mumble from him: “Sorry.”

Oh, Orak, always have to tell it how it is. Valry couldn’t look at Mal now. She rubbed a gauntleted hand down her face and sighed heavily through her nose. There was uncomfortable silence now. Valry stood and picked up her bag. “Come on, Orak. Let’s leave Malak to his jog.”

Orak’s voice sliced the air. “Buir said you were dead.”

She stiffened then, becoming thoroughly embarrassed. It was as if she’d been spanked in public. Her pride was uprooted and her truth now deceived. Valry allowed her eyes to close then and she swallowed. When she’d found out Malak’s condition, she didn’t want to give Orak a hope that Mal could live. If Malak had truly died, she would have to crush Orak’s flicker of faith.

“Glad you not, though, Ori’mando’ad,” her son finished.

Valry let out a breath of pain and her shoulders relaxed as she wallowed in her embarrassment. She stayed as she stood and her eyes flicked once to Malak.

[Dire Wolf]

Mal couldn't help but smile broad and wide at the little boy's happiness, which cultured up no small amount of happiness within his own heart. He nodded happily at the boy's story, and gave him even more praise for polishing away the scratch. Valry spoke not long after, and her response made Mal wonder if she was sidestepping the question or if he was simply prying. Not wanting to do the latter, he quickly responded before Orak spoke. "Ahh. Well, it will all end up like it's supposed to be, right?"

“Old people not like me. Me and buir don’t have house.”

“Orak! We do not tell other people that!”

Malak blinked. A look of concern was quickly scrawled across his face like it was a blank piece of parchment. Part of him wanted to offer her a place to stay, yet another (much larger) part didn't want her to think that he was asking for... something in return. Not that the thought was so terrible, or he wasn't interested, but he wasn't the type to do that, or really even ask it. The aphithiri had drilled a stern sense of honor into him with the rod, the lash, and unkind words. It was those things that tugged at him to offer a place to stay so strongly.

After a brief albeit terrifying moment, he decided that it was best to just do the right thing. If she read too much into things, then it was on her. "You're welcome to stay a few nights at my place. I'm barely there anyways." He shrugged absentmindedly, hoping to make it seem like he didn't particularly care if she decided to stay or not. In truth, he did. While the idea of having a pretty little thing stay in his house wasn't a terrible one, he was more concerned with Valry and Orak's well being.

“Buir said you were dead. Glad you not, though, Ori’mando’ad.”

That brought him out of his little state of deep thought. He blinked down at the little boy that sat on his leg, toy clutched in his grasp. How could one reply to that? He blinked down at the boy once again, then inquisitively up to his buir. Her posture was ridged, if not somewhat embarrassed, but he understood why she'd done it. Or thought so. He'd been on the cusp of death for nearly two weeks, ignoring his short time in the republic brig and the few day transit to Concord Dawn. If she'd said he was alive, but in trouble, that would've given her son a small glimmer of hope... one that couldn't be afforded. If he took a turn for the worse, and died, he'd be crushed.

He cracked a small smile at her, and gave her a nod of understanding and forgiveness. Though forgiveness was hardly needed, in his opinion. That smile then turned down towards the little boy, "me too, Orak. Your buir didn't lie, though. I was close to being dead." Once again he stole a glance over towards Valry, who was sitting down. Something told the massive man that she was a good buir to her son, despite the situation that she'd been presented with. Though it had been just that: presented to her. He seriously doubted that she found herself in it through sloth or bad parenting.

With a tiny (for him) shrug, he looked back over at Orak with that small, warm smile back on his face.