I do not own Star Wars.
He had woken up to the sounds of screams. If they were his own, the boy didn't know, and didn't care to know. He ran upstairs from the basement, coughing out his parent's names and desperately hoping they would hear. The roof was torn off, walls were shattered, wires stuck out dangerously, and fire crackled.
Small chunks of jagged stone covered the broken wooden floor and pierced the boy's bare feet. He cried out in pain with eyes tear-streaked from the smoke. He ran out through the door before falling flat onto the ground. Metal grazed his arms and mud now clung to his clothes. "Papa! Papa!"
The boy scurried up and stared at the massacre. The city was destroyed, in ruins. Everything gone. Only rubble remained. The boy shook his head in denial. His hair was matted, clothes torn, and he was bleeding. He backed away and stumbled.
He looked down to find a body, still recognizable as his father. The boy stared in fright. "Papa?" he shook his father's shoulder. "Papa! No!" The boy gasped and tugged at the man's shirt. "Get up, papa! Get up!"
No answer came. He dug his face in his father's neck and sobbed, laying there through the night.
The boy, Falin, wiped his eyes clear and noticed the knife, glinting faintly in the rising sun. He picked up the three-sided blade, observing it for a mere moment before putting it in his belt. Falin sniffed and straightened himself up shakily. He had to be brave – for his parent's.
After a year, Falin was already an expert in throwing knives. As the seven-year-old pulled out the knife from the tree, a man clad in armor came through the foliage. Falin instinctively threw the blade, but the man easily bended himself away by mere inches.
The man laughed and took of his helmet, revealing his hardened face. "Udesii, vod. Easy…quite a knack you have with sharp objects. Come on with me back to my camp. It looks like you need some beefing up. Trust me."
Kal Skirata smiled wistfully at the sad memory as his adopted sons argued over the last nut. Things never changed...