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He stood before his father, shoulders squared, muscles taut, keeping the stance of a military man. He did not dare smile, did not look at them. He wanted to be perfect, to be everything.
Walon Vau seemed to live in winter clothing. Even in the warm days on Mandalore when the others conceded to the weather, dressed lighter and less like Mando’ade warriors, Vau remained in thick, covering clothing. While he was willing to shed armor, he refused any of exposure of skin.
He refused treatments for injuries, considering himself perfectly qualified to heal himself, emphasizing that he had more education than any of them. The cuts and scraps that Mij said would only take minutes to heal if Vau would simply stand still went untended to because he would cover them with his palm and swear that if Mij touched him, Mij would have to treat himself.
Once Parja had tried to follow him, demand that he get some treatment. Mird had almost appeared to support her, standing at her side rather than his. The wound had been a cut gotten from colliding with one of the boys in their “friendly” games. It had tore through the clothing and Parja swore she saw blood. While he had insisted that he was fine--never quite threatening her like he had with Mij--she had crossed her arms over her chest and said that if it was a matter of some kind of tattoo he didn’t want to show, she would not tell anyone. He had told her no once again and pushed onward to his room, leaving her and Mird behind.
He heard mumbles of approval, nods, whispers that carried nothing but good. The pride bubbled in his chest, but never made a move to break his pose. He would be perfect, he would be what they wanted. He would be their perfect candidate.
He locked the door behind him. Always. Whether he was on Kamino or here amongst Kal’s scavenged family, the doors had to be locked, with only Mird’s presence allowed in. It had been a habit kept long before his introduction to the Mandarlorians, always more habit and automatic response than anything. It did not matter where he was, how secure the area was, the door simply needed to be locked.
In his time training the clones, he had seen their modifying of their bodies. They had done whatever they considered reasonable in order to change slightly from the rest of their brothers. They were both distinct and always one. Tattoos had been a popular form for them--
Tattoos had been popular for him.
Rather than the symbolism that the clones had been drawn to, he had liked words.
Words were clean, elegant and served as the reminder that he had been educated. He had more need for beautiful script than crude art that the clones and, he thought, every Mando seemed to choose. Words did so much more than a picture, their meanings could be deeper, both clear and obscure. And they have done their part well.
Of course, they were obscured from view, hidden underneath dark fabric. The only people who had seen them had been himself and the man who had applied them, all the while concentrating on keeping his hand steady. That had been the thing about Mandalorians. They did not ask if it hurt, did not pause when the man grimaced, they simply continued to apply until the work was done. An aruetii would not have done the same. They would have grimaced at the sight of Vau, asked every two seconds if what was happening hurt and may have stopped the session early if they saw so much as a twinge.
When his father and the other admirals left, he had waited until the sound of their footsteps had gone before he relaxed. Everything had led to this moment and he could think of no sweeter victory, of no better moment. He would be what they wanted, he would be perfect, they would accept him without a moment’s hesitation.
The tattoos that he carried on his skin had been carefully chosen phrases and words. All of them Mando’a. He had forsaken his natural tongue and found basic far too crude for his intentions. There was something endearing about the Mando’a. It was the language of the people who had welcomed him with open arms, their language which did not define heroes. It was simple, perhaps crude, but it was the only place he had felt any sense of belonging and he decided to honor their ways.
Honor ... ijaa
Justice ... tor
Victory ... parjai
Strength ... kot
Truth ... haat
Those words curled around his torso, the black ink staining skin. Each of them had been written over a scar as though it had been a line simply waiting to be written upon. And like the marks--blemishes on flesh--they crossed his body without logic. For while his father had been kind and his face and arms had gone without any such scars, his father had been less than merciful with the rest of him. Webs of set out marks brought over the years that he had neatly signed words and phrases upon, each of them meant to be his attempt at garnering something from the wound that had once been there.
His armor carried the same purpose, the color chosen for its meaning, but that had been something more impersonal.
These marks, the ones he had created to counter the ones his father had, they were personal, they were for him. They were what made moments of seeing his own reflection bearable. His father may have altered him, marked him a failure for his life, but he had done one better. He had overruled his father, outdone him, marking his body in a way that his father would have considered an abomination. Their faith had spoken against this action, but, then again, it wasn’t his faith, no longer.
He had waited for their judgement. This had been his first year to apply and he had leapt at the chance. How many years before had he seen the pride shine in his father’s eyes when they looked upon the cadets? His father would love him for this, would finally appreciate him, would finally say he was proud of him.
One scar, particularly jagged and defined had rested over his heart. It had been one of the last marks that he had gotten and it had come as the one that had hurt the most. Not because of the location, but rather because of the words that had been spoken with it. It had been the final moment when he knew that there was no future for him there. It had been the one that broke him.
”No. The academy does not accept failures. The others may be blind to your faults, but I have informed them as to them and they are in agreement with me. You would simply bring down the prestige of this academy."
It had been the last one that he had tattooed, the final one where he had ground his teeth at the needle pierced the skin, pressing the ink deep. It had been the most debated word, the most carefully chosen.
He had thought the word future too cliche, choosing one spoke to what he had left home with. After all, he had forsaken fortune, abandoned his name and lost all the connections. In the years spent wandering the galaxy before finally finding Mandalore, before finally being accepted, he had nothing to his name. He had been a starving young man kept alive by his wits. He had given up his contacts, all those he might have found help with when he left his home, when he had spit in his father’s face and left, stealing his father’s ship that he left abandoned on a world unknown.
There had been no possessions to which he could lay claim to save for one.
Runi
Soul