I don't own these characters. I'm merely playing in a galaxy far, far away.
Child of Mandalore
"In five millennia, the Mandalorians fought with and against a thousand armies on a thousand worlds. They learned to speak as many languages and absorbed weapons technologies and tactics from every wary. And yet, despite the overwhelming influence of alien cultures, and the absence of a true home world and even species, their own language not only survived but changed little; their way of life and their philosophy remained untouched; and their ideals and sense of family, of identity, of nation, were only strengthened. Armor is not what makes a Mandalorian. Armor is simply a manifestation of an impenetrable, unassailable heart." Star Wars Insider #86
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The boy was only seven years old when his old life was swept away in a hail of blasterfire and new one was put before him in the form of an outstretched, armored hand. Instead of reaching for the hand, the boy struck out at it with the vibroblade he had held in his small, bloodstained fingers. The blood belonged to his mother, the blade he had taken from his father's dead hand.
The warrior standing over him did not flinch back when the boy struck out at him, but knelt in the bloody mud and removed the helmet covering his face. Surprisingly kind blue eyes and a shock of red hair were hidden beneath the fearsome helmet. A smile made the blue eyes crinkle and the boy was reminded of his father. The warrior beckoned the boy closer, murmuring something in a language the child did not understand.
Giving a stubborn shake of his head, the boy scowled at the man with a fierce glare. This seemed to please the man, whose grin widened. The man sat back on his heels and gave the boy a moment to consider his situation. The two stared at each other in silence, neither moving a muscle. From a distance, the child could hear the screams of the dying and the wounded. He remembered his mother whispering his name just before she let go of life.
"Pendar…" her voice had been weak, seeming to leak out of her just like the blood forming an ever-widening pool beneath her. She had the strength to say no more and a moment later, she was gone. He was alone then, for his father had died early in the attack.
War had found their little village and the arrogance of their leaders had brought death into their midst. The life he had once known was gone forever, and as young as he was, he knew it. Never again would his mother sing to him as he fell asleep, nor would his father teach him the ways of their people. His father had been a proud man, never forgetting the heritage of his warrior ancestors. He had passed that along to his son, and it was an inbred fortitude that made the little boy stand up straight now, his eyes locked with the warrior who could so easily kill him. Pendar Epoc would not back down; it was not in him to do so.
Remembering his father's tutelage made his grief sharp and Pendar threw himself at the warrior with a cry of fury, striking out at the man blindly. The man stopped him with insulting ease, immobilizing him by wrapping his massive arms around the struggling little body. Soon, Pendar's screams of rage turned into sobs of loss and sorrow and still the warrior held the boy. The man gave no sign that either reaction troubled him, but merely let the boy ride out the storm of his emotions. When his tears had been spent and Pendar leaned against the warrior exhaustedly, one big hand came to rest on top of the boy's dark head. "Shhh…"
Pendar relaxed completely, his mind recognizing the sound of comfort from an adult voice. He was so very tired. The boy collapsed against the warrior and the man stood up and carried the boy away from the hut, away from death.
When Pendar woke up, he sensed movement beneath him, as if the floor was shaking in the grip of some terrible quake. He gasped and sat up, wondering why his mother had not woken him to urge him to safety. The sight that greeted him was unexpected.
Smooth, pale walls rose up around him and he realized that he was cold. He shivered and pulled the blanket up more closely about him, suddenly taking note of its alien texture. This was not a blanket his mother had woven, for it was not as bright as the colors of the flowers in his mother's garden, or as soft as the wool she transformed into small comforts for her family. This blanket was somewhat coarse and a uniformly gray color. Pendar thrust the blanket away from him despite his chill.
A chuckle from the far end of the room drew his eyes. "Such a fierce little cub," said a deep voice. As the figure walked out of the shadows, Pendar could see that it was the red-haired man. Immediately, the boy began scrabbling to find his blade, eliciting a bark of indulgent laughter from the man. "Rest easy boy, I mean you no harm."
Pendar hesitated, staring up at the man with wary eyes. Indeed, there was nothing threatening in the man's expression, only approval. Pendar wondered at that, for it seemed out of place for his situation. "You speak my tongue," Pendar snapped.
"I speak many languages," the man replied easily. Once more, the man knelt down so that they were eye-to-eye. "I won't hurt you," he reassured the boy once more. "Why would I save you only to kill you now?" He tilted his head and gave the boy a friendly smile.
With a shrug, Pendar answered quietly. "How do I know what an idiot like you is thinking?" One hand continued to search the folds of the blanket for the blade.
The warrior gave a small shake of his head. "You have much spirit, young one, and this pleases me," he replied. Then he held up the blade with a slight smile. "But I'm afraid you can't have this back, not just yet anyway."
Pendar frowned at him and considered trying to snatch it from the red-haired man's hand. The warrior merely shook his head. "I wouldn't try it, cub."
The two were silent, each caught up in their own musings. Finally, the warrior reached out and brushed back Pendar's dark hair with a gentle hand. "We have a saying among our people, little cub. Aliit ori'shya tal'din," he said quietly.
Reluctantly, the boy muttered. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The warrior reached for the boy's hand and grasped it in his own. "Family is more than bloodlines."
Author's Note: This story is completely written and posted on another website under a different pen name. It's still me, and you may feel free to PM that name and make sure that I'm not stealing anything that doesn't belong to me. So...if you've seen this before, that's the way and wherefore and all that jazz.
