Taungsday. 22.10.25
He wakes when the fire burns out beside him, the cold like a bucket of water in his face without the fire as his measly shield. His eyes flash open. Voices echo across the dead fields.
Perhaps it wasn't the cold.
He has sheltered himself between an embankment and a dead bush, the dried husks of the stems shielding him enough that apparently whoever is picking their way across the wasteland hasn't spotted him yet. After a moment's silence, he peers out. The world is flat, undulating only gently with hills, streams, and dead hedges as far as he can see, and it is not hard to miss the armoured company complaining vociferously as they stumble across it all. Their voices are sharp, modulated, their helmets twisted into something that almost makes him think they're droids despite their very human voices. But no, they're human. No droids complain this loudly. Not even—
He does not know where that thought is meant to go.
They pass him, rounding the embankment, thankfully, and he lifts himself to his feet. His flask is empty, his coat snug around his shoulders, his throat parched. He creeps towards the river, looking for a place to refill it. The river is a white ribbon across the bleached yellow fields, like a strip of curdled milk. It's all frozen.
"There he is!"
He curses and spins around. They have rounded the embankment again, clearly retracing their steps. He does not know why he runs, but he runs. The ice webs underneath him, but the cracks are thinner than a spider's leg.
Shots cry out. Blue rings of light sink into the shivering ice, sending stronger shudders through it all. He grimaces and shouts as one nearly hits him, but he dodges. The ice shudders again.
He freezes.
"Stop right there, Skywalker!" one of the men barks. "You're a wanted criminal, and in the name of Lord Vader we place you under arrest—"
He's a wanted criminal? Huh.
That probably means he can't just stay here. They are after him. He takes another step back.
"Stop it, Skywalker! Come back here with your hands up! Slowly!"
He backs away further. Now that he is moving slower, the ice remains firm.
"He's not coming, boss—"
"You need to—"
"After him!"
They started to follow. Their boots stomp on the ice, sending shockwaves through the whole sheet.
Skywalker panics and flees. The bolts soar over his head, to his right, to his left, but he keeps running. It isn't a long run, just a dangerous one. His foot slips, the ice crunches, but he snatches himself away before it gets wet and keeps running. When he reaches the other side, he dives onto it just in time.
A great crack heralds their doom.
When Skywalker spins around, panting, scrambling to his feet, the ice has split. They cannot reach him: the chasm is widening, widening, and they would sink if they failed the jump. Instead, they retreat, retreat, but another crack opens behind them, and—
He watches them fall. The ice claims them like soft bedsheets after a long day of work. With the water now freely lapping at the sides of the river, he refills his flask, and wanders farther inland.
A boathouse is a mere few dozen paces away. The door is unlocked, so he lets himself in, the boats all disused and rotting. He kicks one of them to pieces and burns it for a fire. Despite how damp it is, it burns beautifully. The roar sinks heat into his bones; he lets himself relax.
He is still so thirsty. He drains his flask dry. And from there, he curls up beside the fire. His gaze catches on a few barrels stocked in the corner of the boathouse, some hacked up for their wood—firewood? Or wood to build the boats?—and the yellow symbols on them, but the information dissolves into dreams as his eyes slide closed.
