Chapter Text
In the early days of the Clone War, when he’d still been wide eyed and the Galaxy held promise, Scorch had liked to imagine what life would be like when the fighting stopped. In between deep-freezes and missions Scorch would come up with elaborate scenarios, he and his pod traveling the hyperspace lanes. Sometimes they were cargo transporters. Sometimes they were mercenaries for hire, bounty hunters (always together because he couldn’t imagine them any other way.) Delta against the galaxy but doing it their way. Adventure, credits, and women like none of them had ever dared to dream of. No Kaminii. No GAR. No limits to what they could be.
In the last days of the Clone War his eyes had truly been opened to the reality of his existence. There would be nothing for them when the fighting was done. He knew that as if it had been tattooed on his bones. They were nothing more then weapons to be pointed at a problem and discharged. He didn’t know how they’d be rid of them but he knew the aruetii would never accept them. They’d never be allowed to exist outside the conflict. He’d grown restless. He’d grown angry.
Then Sev was lost on Kashyyyk and his world had been shattered. His brother in arms -his best friend- was left behind like useless surplus. No amount of rage or venom spit could change the fact that he was gone.
Then Order 66.
Then Vader’s death squads hunting the last of the Jedi.
Then Mandalore, a dream he’d forgotten he could have, the only link to a life he’d never known.
The sun has only just crested the mountains north east of Kyrimorut. The last vestiges of crisp night air still hung in the shadows the suns rays hadn’t yet hit. With a soft creak the door leading from the kitchen to the yard beyond opens. The voices, a cacophony of sound, are left muffled behind him as Scorch eases out and it slips shut behind him.
Outside the morning is still quiet, still full of possibility. The nunas are still snug and silent in their coop. the roba have only just started to grumble awake as he makes his way past their pen. At the edge of the compound where dirt turns to a field of tall grass Scorch finds a spot and sinks to the ground. The wind kicks up ruffling freshly bleached curls. Like a sea of green, the field in front of him rolls in waves, the lush grass bending to the will of the elements. The scent of wood smoke from the smokehouse mixes with the sweet scent of the vining flowers in Laseema’s garden.
Scorch pulls in a lungful of the heady perfume as the sun climbs higher. There is no war waiting to chew him up. No end-ex. The sun's rays spill down the mountain and over the swell of waving grass.
He closes his eyes and lets the air rush from his lungs. The ground beneath him is solid. Cool. Real.
No orders. No gunfire.
Just this breath. This morning. This stillness.
His hands press into the soil, anchoring him to the moment. Just for a second Scorch pretends he’s not alone. His brothers are at his side and the world is limitless again.
I dreamed of you
He stays there a while, eyes closed, breathing in a world that didn’t used to exist. Not for men like them. But now… here it is.
And it’s enough.