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venusandromedadjarin · 3 years

Text

Family Birthmark

Ch. 6, A Glint of Beskar

18+ eventual smut, violence, gore, trauma flashbacks, TW: blood, 1.7k words

It takes about 45 minutes to cauterize the wound on his thigh because he keeps jerking and trying to buck you off. In other circumstances, maybe you’d find it funny. Eventually, the bleeding stops and he’s left with a ragged scar about six inches long on the inside of his thigh, but you don’t even have time to gawk, you just turn around on his hips and remove the wadded up shirt from his abdomen. You thought he passed out a few minutes ago, so the slight twitch you feel below your groin and his hands slowly moving back up your thighs takes you by surprise.

You yelp, lifting your hips off of him and bracing one hand on his sternum while the other goes to work with the machine. This wound is smaller, but still deep and oozing blood. He did a piss poor job of applying pressure. He groans the minute the hot tip touches his skin, bucking slightly and digging his fingers into your ass this time. You bite down on your lip, hard. Concentrating on the task, you do your best to ignore the heat welling up inside you. He’s a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake, and a hurt one at that. Are you really thinking about that right now? You scold yourself as you drag the tip across his skin. As you get closer to the muscles that form a deep V right above his waistband, you hear his breathing hitch through the modulator. Oh for fuck’s sake, he is not doing this right now.

He is, you feel him, and as much as you try to ignore it, you can’t. Instead you lift your hips higher, trying to keep your mind focused on the task at hand.

Though he jerks a few more times, his death grip on your ass helps him stay still enough to speed up this wound’s cauterization. Proud of your work and the fact you at least kept him from dying, you roll off him and reach back over him to pull his cape across his body. He keeps one hand on you, but you slowly remove it, whispering incoherently to him while you get up to find towels and a bucket to fill with warm water. As much as you’d like to just pull him into the fresher, you have no idea how that would work for two reasons: the helmet and the tiny size of the shower. Instead, this will have to do. Using towels would at least remove enough of the blood to make sure he’s not bleeding anywhere else.

After some digging around, and making sure the kid is still sleeping so as not to traumatize him with his dad lying half lifeless on the ground, you make your way back over to Mando. By some luck, you found multiple blankets shoved in a cabinet, so you grabbed those too but did your best to keep them out of the carnage. Kneeling next to him, you dip one of the small towels you found into hot water and wring it out before slowly wiping at his shoulders and chest.

He’s calm now, his breathing still shallow but coming faster, which you know means he’ll panic as soon as he’s able to find his bearings. You have to work quickly, but in this position, you can’t help but admire the man in front of you.

His smooth skin is evenly tanned, even though it probably hasn’t seen the sun in ages. His hair, that you can see, is dark brown, almost black and a trail leads down -

You shake your head, “This is ridiculous.” Your murmur is so soft you doubt he could hear you even if he was conscious. You can’t help but notice his muscles as you continue cleaning the blood off him, though. He’s strong and chiseled, but not large, though his size dwarfs you when he’s standing. As you drag the towel lower down his chest, you think you see a slight tremble under your touch, but you do your best to ignore it.

You move to his legs, doing your best to clean up the wound that is now a glaring scare. Being this close to-

Nevermind. You push those thoughts out of your mind again and again When you’re satisfied, you discard the towel and grab another one, dipping it in the water and wringing it out again. Realizing this next part is going to be tough, you decide the best way to do this is to support Mando with your knee. Moving back to his side, you throw one leg over his middle and gently pull him into a sitting position, your other leg coming up to support his back. Straddling him from the side allows you to reach around clean his back and sides better.

His helmet rolls lazily against your shoulder - probably still out cold.

You notice a few scratches after wiping most of the blood away, but nothing too serious. What catches your eye, though, is a dark mark just below his collar bone. You wipe at a little more, thinking it’s dirt, but when it doesn’t budge, you squint your eyes, trying to distinguish it.

The realization hits you like a train.

You’re running over the barren landscape of Nevarro, trailing after a bunch of boys around your age. Their shrill laughter echoes off the caves formed by lava rivers that are on either side of your path. You stop to stare at one of them, entranced by the heat that billows out, knowing if you stand in front of it for too long that you might get burned.

The one thing your parents always tell you is to not hold your hand to close, or you’ll lose it. Hearing your dad’s voice in your head, you turn away just in time to see one of the boys in front of you fall.

His hands, thrown out in front of his body to protect him, land on a cracking piece of black ground, just before molten lava spews out and onto them.

His scream will be forever burned into your brain.

One of the boys next to him, your best and fiercest friend, tears his cloak and shirt off, trying to hit the flames and stop them from destroying your companion’s hands. As you run forward to try to help, the ground splits more and those brown eyes look up at you just before he jumps and rams into you. Both of you roll back just as your playmate is taken by the heat.

He doesn’t let go of you though, his 8 year old body shielding your smaller, 6 year old one. As you open your eyes against his shoulder, you see the Djarin family birthmark -

You’re pulled back to the present when a strong hand grasps your tricep, clinging to you as his body trembles from shock. Still struck by the coincidence, you try to compose yourself enough to support his weight as you scotch back against the wall to hold him. His breath comes in racking sobs, and you wonder if he’s crying underneath the helmet or if he’s panicking.

“M-mando, it’s okay. You’re okay,” you try to comfort him but the modulator rasps underneath his heavy breathing. He’s trembling harder now and you reach for the blankets near you, stretching to grab them. Stretching so far you can almost hear the groan of your joints, but finally you catch a corner and yank it over to you, shaking it out to cover him. “Mando-”

Cradled in your arms, his helmet uncomfortably pressed into your neck, he murmurs, but the modulator doesn’t pick it up as he’s racked by another round of sobs. You realize that he’s not crying, he’s hurting because…

“Maker! The Bacta! Mando h-hold on.” Luckily this is closer to you, and you don’t strain yourself to grab it, “This is going to hurt, only for second.” You hear him take in a deep breath right before you stab the needle into his arm, pushing down on the plunger and watching the liquid as it disappears into his bloodstream. He jolts a little, but almost instantly relaxes into you again.

After what feels like an eternity of holding him and making sure he’s still breathing, you realize there’s a quarry that needs to be retrieved. You start to shimmy out from under him, and lay him down, rolling one of the blankets up for underneath his helmet. Wondering how comfortable that is, you lay a blanket over him and walk to the back of the hull, slamming your palm into the control board to lower the ramp. The sun is just starting to peak over the horizon, making you realize that you’ve been with him all night.

The quarry is definitely dead, and when you get closer you suck in a sharp breath, leaning down next to her, “Red.” She looks like a blaster shot went straight through her chest and you untie the rope around her legs, leaving her and leading the Blurg back to its enclosure. Luckily it doesn’t resist, and almost looks grateful to be away from the corpse.

Red is much lighter compared to Mando, and you quickly drag her inside the hull, propping her limp form against a chamber and investigating the panel to your right. Finally deciding on what to press, you punch in the buttons and wait for the hiss of gas. Within seconds, the quarry is in carbonite and hanging in the anti-gravity hold area.

You hesitate a moment before walking back to the hut and leaving a note for Kuiil, explaining the situation in short and thanking him for his hospitality. By the time you get back to Mando, the kid is trying to climb onto his lap and making grabby hands.

“Hey kiddo,” you scoop him up, “leave him alone for awhile. He’s hurt, so we’re gonna get out of here.” He coos back at you incoherently. After closing the door and checking to see if you can hear the modulated breath sounds, you make your way up to the cockpit.

Mando’s pucks all give last known locations of quarries, so you find the nearest one and punch it into the navigation as you start the engines and lift off the ground. You hope the small lurches as you leave the planet’s atmosphere don’t bother Mando too much, and soon as the Crest enters hyperspace, you’re heading back down the ladder with the kid.

#the mandolarian #the mandolorian x reader #din djarin #reader x din Djarin #din djarin reader insert

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jsoler-writing · 5 years

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Luck

“Close that blasted gunport ya cockgobler, we're wet enough as it be!”

A soaked woman yells from the other side of the dimly lit room. Other members of the crew soon join her in protest trying their best to secure cargo, guns and livestock in place as the ship rocks heavily in all directions.

The man ignores them. Even if he wasn't too busy pouring out the contents of his stomach out of his body, the rain crashing on the deck above hits too hard to allow their complaints to have any effect.

On the other side of the deck, the captain speaks with his officers in hushed tones. “Well I reckon we are mighty fucked this time captain...” - the boatswain says, furtively looking around - “the storm seems nowhere near its end and even if by some miracle she doesn't sink or a lightning strikes the mast we also have to deal with the fact that both food and water are running dangerously low.”

“We could get some rainwater. Not like its about to run out or anytime soon.” - says the first officer.

The boatswain laughs at the suggestion, “Unless you want to dry up faster than your wife when she sees your ship make port, I wouldn't advise that. We'd get as much salt water as drinkable one.”

“If any of you have a better suggestion I am willing to hear it.” - the officer angrily crosses his arms over his chest.

The captain holds his hand up signaling for them to stop talking and looks up as he stands, his head tilted to the side as if searching for some sound coming from above, “Anyone else hears that?”

Slight ‘tumps’ are heard on the wood, a dragging sound across the deck and the noise of cloth on the wind is unmistakable. A rope has come loose and the sails are unprotected.

The captain assess the crew, covering the entire deck with his eyes before he calls upon his first mate and yells, “Attention crew, we have a situation!”. He coughs before continuing, “As some of you possibly have possibly heard, a rope that was holding the sails folded has come loose. Now, someone needs to go up there and tie it up or we risk losing them.”

The captain pauses taking a bundle of sticks from his jacket’s pocket, passing them to his officer and signals with his head for him to pass them around.

“I will not be the one to send any of you to the hell outside nor will I pass this responsibility on to another. So let lady luck make the decision.”

The officers walks slowly across the deck, each one of the members of the crew raises a trembling hand to draw a stick as the second and third officer compare their sizes. A middle-aged man named Marcus draws the shorter one.

He slowly stands, looking to the captain and the officers as if waiting for any one them to tell him it was a joke. Nothing else is said so his shaking grab onto the ladder and his legs fail him as he makes his way up the stairs. Making a quick prayer before opening the port to the deck.

The storm rages on, high winds makes each drop sting like a needle and the heavy downpour makes it so that he can barely see whats a foot in ahead of him. Forcing his eyes he is able to see the exposed sail of the main mast. Stumbling, he holds onto the rigging as he makes his way towards the loose rope. An enormous wave hits, rocking the whole ship hard and water washes over the deck threatening to throw him overboard.

Marcus falls flat on the ground and the torrent makes him slide across the wooden deck. He manages to grabs hold of the mast and hangs on tight, grasping the loose rope and tying it around his waist, cursing his luck all the while. He looks up, weighting every decision of his life that have led him to this point, the mast seems higher than ever before and he spits salty water as he gatters courage until finally begins the ascent.

Every step up the mast takes a monumental effort, the heavy rain makes the notches slippery and the high wind makes it near impossible to keep his balance. "Son of a motherless hog!" Marcus thinks to himself as he slips and hits his face on the wood, biting his tongue hard enough to make him feel the taste of blood. After what felt like an eternity, he finally reaches the top and drags himself to the exposed sail.

The wet cloth is heavy enough to make him almost dislocate his shoulder as he folds the sail back in place, tying the rope as tight and as many times as he can, there is no way in hell and back he is ever going to do this ever again. After the job is done Marcus makes his way down, his only desire, to get out of the ice-cold water and warm himself up with a glass of mead.

As he climbs down, another wave hits the ship with enough force to make Marcus loses his grip, sending him tumbling down bellow. He falls on his back, hitting the ground with the sound of hollow wood and splashing water.

Marcus slowly opens his eyes, the realization that he's survived is quickly followed by the excruciating pain all over his body. He struggles to stand, turning on his side and slowly tries to regain his footing, it is then that he spots a silhouette amidst the rain. It runs towards him and helps him stands, leaning him over its shoulder. A woman, his shipmate Cait.

"What are you doing out here?" He yells, trying to outsound the storm.

"The Captain sent me to help, he thought the sail might be too heavy for you alone."

"Well ain't that sweet." He grins as he spits blood and water onto the floor.

The storm rages on, getting heavier as they reach the door to the belowdeck, Cait tries to pull the port up to no avail, probably locked from the inside and knock with no answer. Both of them start to desperately kick and slam the door, yelling for help, but its to no avail, no one's hearing with the storm as loud as it is and they seek shelter on the stern of the ship, under the cover of the helm.

“Fucking hell on earth!!! I’m going to fucking kill whoever locked that goddamn door!”

“The probably did it so it wouldn’t slam open, old man.” Cait laughs to herself as she sits on the floor.

“Regardless, when we get down there someone is going to get smacked in fucking the mouth.” Marcus says as he drops the weight of his body at Cait’s side, resting his back onto the hull, his face frowning with a mixture of pain and rage.

Both sit quietly for a while, the only sounds being that of thunder, whistles of wind and the roar of the storm. Marcus squirms and grunts checking his wounds and lets out a mumbled complain once in a while, Cait sits embracing her legs as to protect herself from the cold, she ‘sighs’ loudly and breaks the silence.

“Seems like we are going to be here a while.”

“Appears so...” Marcus grunts “Son of a bitch doesn’t seem like its going let up anytime soon.”

“Three nights and counting.”

“Yeah...”

“God knows where the hell we’ll end up after letting the currents take us for so damn long.”, Cait says looking up to the mast.

“Listen, I don’t think anyone is comfortable lying ahull but we’ve got no options lass,” Marcus sighs, “either that or lose the mast.” He stands to look at the ocean, a thoughtful expression on his face. “With any luck, we’ll not stray too far from course.”

He keeps his back turned at her for a while, his gaze lost at a random point in the sea, he has a pained look on his face and his eyes narrow as if he was on the verge of tears. Marcus hand forms a fist as he clenches it.

“You ok there?” Cait asks concerned.

Marcus takes several deep breaths before sitting down besides her again. He closes his eyes before speaking.

“Ever wondered if you’ve taken the right path?”

“What?”

“Did you ever regret the decisions you’ve made? Wished for things to have turned out differently?” He sighs, “I often wonder where I’d be if the steps I’ve taken were… Not these.”

“Oh...” Cait seems surprised at first but laughs it off, “Well, I try to think ahead ya know? If I keep hanging in the past there is no way to move forward. That’s what my granny used to say.”

“Guess when you get older there ain’t much forward to look to…” Marcus looks at his feet and slightly bumps his head onto the hull a couple of times.

She leaves him be for a while, taking in his appearance. Looking at his many scars and deep wrinkles on his wizened skin, moles and other discolored skin patches from long times under the sun color his face. Unkempt hair and unshaven beard make the man look older than he is but she never wondered about his actual age until now. She places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a concerned smile.

“What got you thinking about all that old man?”

The man seems unphased, his eyes still closed. “Yeah… I suppose I brought it up after all”.

Marcus straightens his posture and twists his shirt to dry it a little, he sits on his knees and opens his eyes, although not quite looking directly at the woman. He sighs.

“‘twas a woman, let’s call her… Adeline. I was still young I when we met, the prettiest thing you’d ever lay your eyes upon, her smile made the sun looks brighter and makes your stomach weird and you stutter your words, you know the kind?

“Well, I fancied her and believe you me she fancied me back, but in the end the sea called and although I loved her… I left.” Marcus stops and sighs heavily, rolling his thumbs and looking down to his feet. “Last I’ve known? She was on her way to the countryside with her husband.

“‘tis not as if I wasn’t happy for the lass or even jealous of the poor sod, he seems like a nice fellow. It’s just that, if I stayed, I figure I would have ended up happier in the end...”

Marcus closes his eyes again and lays down, looking at the clouded sky. A lightning illuminates his face, revealing tears running on his face, Cait didn’t miss it.

“Thanks for the tale lad”, Cait says. “Now, how about you hear one of mine?”

The man nods.

She stretches herself and clears her throat, before giving him a sincere smile and begins the tale.

“There was this lad I knew, set himself up pretty well. Married to a kind and beautiful woman, and wasn't that bad looking either, had himself three kids, and a small but confortable home. He worked as a shoemaker, the first floor of his house served as his workshop.

“The house had been in the family for three generations. All worked as shoemakers and the craft was passed from father to son.

“Well, the kids grow up and his youngest goes up and decides that he doesn't want to spend the rest of his days making footwear.”

“Same story as always” Marcus interrupts, spitting on the floor. “It's always the youngest one too, at least he had his brothers to take his place in the workshop.”

“Or so you’d think”. The woman grins.

“What’d ya mean?”

“The lad never tells that to his father.

“The lad didn't want to continue on the family's trade, the smell of glue and cured leather made him sick of the stomach and the work felt like cutting his very soul.

“But he never musters enough courage to tell that to his dad.

“So he stays in the workshop, day after day, always thinking about telling his family of his desire but never doing so.

“Anyway the years pass and war comes and both of his brothers are conscripted. He isn't.

“HAH!” Marcus laughs “talk about an unlucky sod!”

“Many would call him lucky that he didn't have to go to war.”

“From what I hear, I’m willing to wager he’d rather be put in the front lines staring at the barrel of an enemy's gun instead of being stuck where he’s at.”

Cait stares at him and blinks a couple of times.

“You’d be correct.”

“The boy keeps working his trade for months waiting eagerly for news of his brothers, where they had been, what they had seen and used the tales to dream of such places. At one point the news stop coming.

“A year later his eldest brother shows up on the front door, only missing both his arms. Another man is with him and tells them that the middle kid had died and congratulates him for his service.

He bows his head, “Fuck me lass, that's a goddamn shame that is.”

“His father takes it hard and starts drinking more and more, find solace at the bottom of a bottle. He tries to drink the pain away but I never knew any man that could accomplish what he was trying.

“One day the boy find his father with a noose in one hand and a stool on the other. He takes them away and hugs him letting him cry for many hours on his shoulder. He talks to his father and convinces him to stop drinking and reassures him that he’d always be there for him and so he gets better.” She smiles.

“Anyway you probably know how the rest goes. He stays home, taking care of his grieving mother and father. Once they had passed away he stays to take care of his crippled brother.”

“That's the least he could do really.”

“Yeah… The last of his days were filled with happiness and he even took a liking to the job, but he never stopped wondering what else was out there and he regretted that until the very end of his life.

“He was old when his brother got sick and managed to tell him his life long secret just a couple months before he died.

“They hugged and sobbed and all that shit but his brother made him promise that he would sell the shop and go see the world. None of them married so he had no strings attached.”

“He did?”

“He sure tried,” she pauses looking up to the sky, “He died of a fever before he could sell the damn place.”

Marcus looks puzzled at first and cracks a smile, “That's a terrible story, ya know?”

“Perhaps it is, but every story has its purpose.” She adds. “Wanna hear another?”

“Sure, go ahead lass. We don't seem to be going anywhere.” Marcus grins and makes a dismissive wave with his hand.

“Very well,” She claps her hands and runs them together, “I met this lass once, good sort. Rich family owned a big plantation on the new world.

“Had the whole world on her hands that one, everything one could possibly desire, but as usually is with young impressionable lasses, she falls in love with the first good-for-nothing adventurous chap she laid eyes upon. A captain by the name of William.

“The captain courts the lass, bringing her gifts, tales and love promises, and she falls right into it. After weeks of effort the man finally gets what he wants.”

“I can imagine how heartbroken she was when he doesn't show up come morn.” Marcus grins and shakes his head.

“Ah, but he does come back!” She lifts a finger, smiling all the while. “Not only that, but he invites her to his ship and crew. And against her better judgement she dives right into the opportunity, packing her things on the same day and leaving under the cover of night.”

“Hah! Sounds just like meself!” Marcus laughs a hearty laugh, wiping a tear from his eye lost in a distant memory for a second. “‘cept for the pretty boy part, that's not where this boat sails to.”

“Continuing on…” she clears her throat, “Our lass spends years sailing across the ocean, never really looking back at the life she left behind. The crew is nice enough to her and she’s in love with William as she’s with the sea.

“They travel from Asia to the Americas and back, travelling most trade routes and meeting exotic places with the love of her life by her side, there ain't much else she could wish for.”

Marcus sighs, “Sounds like a good way to live.”

“It most certainly was,” She pauses, “ but she still missed her family though.”

“Every day she wondered how they were doing. If her sisters married well and if her mom still set up her place on the table.

“Those questions had no answer, not where she was.

“Years pass when they make port near her home again, but doesn’t go visit until the second time. I guess she feared their reaction too much or was afraid of having been forgotten, guess I’ll never know.

“The next time she goes, taking a stagecoach to the farm and arriving early in the morning. She is greeted by a strange man, which demands to know who came into his property unannounced.

“The lass explains that she is the long lost daughter of the family that owns the farm, before she is able to realize how nutty she sounded the man breaks into a laugh. 'I have no daughter girl, now begone from my property and mind you don't step on the coffee sprouts on your way out.’

“You can imagine how shocked the girl was when she heard that. Her family was gone, she didn't even know where they had gone or what have happened. Their sugar couldn't compete with the coffee that was dominating the market? Did they lose it all? Or did they sell it to that man? The clues were all around her, the cargo changed to coffee over the years but she never thought much of it by then now she had all those questions that would never have an answer.

“She could try to look for her parents names on the trading companies or on the sales records.” Marcus interrupts, clenching his jaw.

“She did but she never found anything,” Cait sighs, “every clue just led to another dead end. Until she accepted, that her old self was gone forever.

“After that, the sea lost its charm. The excitement was gone, the travels felt like a chore and the world lost its colors. All was a shade of grey.

“It didn't last long though. One night they were assailed by pirates, the captain fought back but they ended up boarding the ship. What they did to them, I’ll leave for you to paint the picture.”

He waits as if to hear some untold part of the story, when he realizes nothing else was coming he says, “Does your stories ever have a happy ending lass?”

“Real stories seldom have one mate.” Cait shrugs and sits back down. Looking at her nails.

Marcus looks forward to some random point of the hull. He pauses for a while, his expression changing as he puzzles the meaning of the stories and then speaks with an angry tone.

“So both of them had a shitty life with a shitty end so nothing matters, is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“Not at all old friend. Their choices defined their lives as yours did your own. It was just their luck.”

“Wha-”

“The boy wasn't brave enough to follow his dreams and stayed behind. The girl was quick to jump towards the first opportunity and left everything.

“The girl was satisfied with her life but never stopped missing her family and spent the last of her days plagued by questions she’d never see answered. If the boy left the workshop he wouldn't be there to save his father in the end, nor to help his brother.

“Both of them could have taken different paths and they regretted not following them, even blaming the one's they took for their lack of fulfillment. But none of them could possibly know what would happen if they were someone else or of they had taken a different path.

“The boy could have led a life of adventure but could fall into a deep depression by blaming himself for not being there for his father. The girl could have stayed behind and never have found love or happiness for that matter.”

“And your point?” He grunts.

“Your path is your own, and the only one you could have taken. We can blame a choice we made in the past… Or even sheer luck. But the choices you made are the ones that count and you can't circle back to the path already taken lest you get stuck on the road. We must follow our path until we reach our destination, because at one point everyone draws the short stick.”

“I-Ithink I get what you’re saying” He stutters and stumbles upon his words. But seems at ease about it. More as if he was trying to piece together a riddle rather than scared of something. “Wait… Am I dead?”, he adds.

“Oh yes indeed, you fell from the mast and broke your neck.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, that's unfortunate. But you spared poor the captain and the cook the weight of killing you as well.”

“W-What?”

“Oh yes, they are getting desperate with the food scarce as it is and have been discussing the subject for a while. As you said they were running out of options.”

Marcus yells, “THAT'S DISGUSTING! THEY CAN'T-”

He is interrupted as the shut door slams open and both the captain and the cook enter the deck. The captain looks at Marcus body lying near the mast and they argue amongst themselves as they grab his body and try to shove him into a vase. Possibly having lied about gathering rainwater and checking on his well being.

Marcus shakes his head as he watches the men clumsily handle his body, dropping him several times before finally fitting him into the container.

“So… What happens next?” , he asks.

“They are going to drain you of your blood, chop you to bits and mix your flesh with the livestock and the blood with the water and none will be the wizer. And the crew may last a couple of extra days thanks to it.

“Maybe the cook and captain won't be able to stand the guilt of what they’ve done, maybe someone will figure it out, or maybe someone will let the cat out of the bag. I don't know.”

He opens and closes his mouth several times before finally deciding what to say, “Not really what I meant but ok…”

He shakes his head “You are not Cait are you? Who are you?”

“Oh no, she’s back inside. She’ll partake of your flesh just like everyone else and maybe survive the rest of the trip.

“As for me, your captain referred to me as Lady Luck and I am quite fond of that name, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?”

Marcus gives her a nervous smile, “Very well Lady. But what happens to me?”

“You’re gonna take a different road, and maybe rest or maybe try a different path. It's not for me to know.”

“You don't know?” He seems surprised.

“As I said Marcus, we all have our regrets.” She seems disheartened but quickly regains her composure, “Good luck on your journey, it has been a pleasure.”

“Goodbye Lady.” He nods.

They look at each other as his form slowly dissolves into a heavy gust of whistling wind, Lady Luck smiles at him one last times before she jumps overboard, disappearing into the ocean. The next day the storm is gone and the crew finally sees clear skies.

#original story #original character #writing #pirates

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gabriel4sam · 6 years

Text

Robinsonade: a CodyWan story

Now that the big reveal happened for the @maythe4thfanworks , I can repost my CodyWan here, a little late because things have been so epic those last two weeks, I didn’t even have the energy for that post.

@wrennette very patiently helped me shaped it and this fic is much better for her help! Thank you so much for your patience!

Under the cut, the fic

It was the swearing that woke Cody; tones of fearful desperation, denial, and anger mingled rolled together.

“ Hang on ,” a voice commanded after the curses, a voice that refused to be ignored, a voice that ordered, infused with power.

“Hang on! I refuse…. You obeyed me so many times Commander, Commander, you need to hang on and that’s an order!”

Cody knew no more.

He floated in a current of nonsense thoughts and sensations. Something was burning nearby. There was something cool and wet against his forehead. There was a voice, following him into his dreams, gibberish that made no sense. Later, he saw his General, tearing open a bacta capsule with his teeth, something wild in his eyes.

Consciousness came back slowly and Cody catalogued what he could perceive. He was on a bunk, he recognized the feeling of the plank pretending to be a mattress under his back. He was hurt, the left part of his torso a pulsing, throbbing mess. He had been looked after, if not totally healed: the tickling of drying bacta was unmistakable.

He opened his eyes.

Over him, the ceiling was grey metal and the lamps were off, but natural light came through a breach in the hull, and he saw lush vegetation beyond. He turned his head. Next to his hip, there was a red head; his General sleeping, half kneeling, half sitting near Cody’s bunk. He tried to move his hand to wake the General but it was too difficult and he passed out again.

Later, Cody would ask Obi-Wan how long he had stayed between death and life, and Obi-Wan would let him see the hull where he had carved little marks: ten long days while Obi-Wan had cared for him, buried Cody’s brothers that had been with them in the shuttle, and foraged for food.

It was the longest Cody had been away from another vod.

The Commander needed another week before strengthening enough for a few steps out of the ship. They went to the cairns his General had built for his vode. Crude, lightsaber-cut stones marked their resting places and the General had carved their names and the marks of their helmets into the stone.

Hollow-head, Pitchlow, Edged and Baddye.

Four more brothers marching away, four more brothers Cody couldn’t help, couldn’t save, for all he was the highest ranked clone in the GAR. They sat on a boulder near the graves a long time and for once, the General stayed blissfully silent while Cody grieved.

After a while, Cody couldn’t watch the cairns anymore and turned his attention on their surroundings. They were in a deciduous forest. The ship had gouged a long trench in the treetops and earth in the pilot’s desperate efforts to transform a crash into a landing.

Poor Baddye. He had been a good pilot and a good brother.

It was almost miraculous the fire from the shuttle hadn’t sparked a forest fire and burned the two survivors.

“It was raining,” Cody suddenly said, “I had forgotten, there was some sort of storm with violent winds and the motors were already hiccupping.”

Obi-Wan nodded and stayed silent.

“Why are we still there? The GAR should already have sent help.”

“The entire nose of the ship suffered tremendous damage in the crash. The beacon itself didn’t survive and the comm system is dead. We’ll need to be patient. They have a lot of systems to search, more than I, in fact, can bear to think of, and this planet is in the middle of nowhere. That’s probably why it was never colonized.”

Stranded. While his brothers were dying by the hundreds.

“I’m ready to go back inside,” Cody said to his General, who immediately propped him up on his shoulders.

That night, for the first time, he refused the gruel the Jedi had made; half mashed rations, half grains the General had forraged, with a side of grilled arthropods found inside some tree stumps.

“How are you sure you aren’t poisoning us?” Cody still found the will to ask.

“The Force is a wonderful way to detect poisons,” said the General, grimacing, “but it isn’t an indication for the taste. Still, we are almost through with our rations and we need proteins.”

After changing Cody’s wound dressing, he asked:

“We don’t know how long we’ll be here. I really would appreciate if you stopped calling me Sir. And I can almost hear the capital of the word General in your head.”

“Those stranded together should be on a first name basis, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“I will accept if you share the bunk with me. This is ridiculous for you to still be sleeping on the floor when you’re the one working every day to procure us water and food.”

Silence, then “And I’m the one they call The Negotiator . Yes, Comm…Cody,” Obi-Wan agreed with a smile.

Cody moved on the bunk to let Obi-Wan join him. It wasn’t designed for two people and Cody choked on a yell when the other man’s elbow touched his side, while trying to find how to place the two of them.

“I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should -” Obi-Wan immediately said.

“No, let me. Have you never bunked with another Jedi? We did that all the time on Kamino when we were children. Roll on your side.”

Cody settled in the same position, curling up around the other man’s back. Later, he would probably find that a terrible idea but right now, he was exhausted enough that the contact seemed heavenly. The ginger man was warm and solid, the comfort of being skin-to-skin too reassuring to pull away.

Obi-Wan used the Force to spread the thermal blanket from the emergency pack over their bodies.

“Good night, Cody,” were the last words the Commander heard before sleep took him, more restful than the last days.

Time passed. Cody healed. He was strong; mind, body, and soul forged to endure. At first, limping to the graves was the limit of his capabilities, but day after day, he went further. He occupied his days tinkering with the surviving electronics of the ship: everything that had been in the cockpit was a lost cause, but he succeeded in repairing an analyser, cannibalising pieces from other instruments.

“I’m impressed,” Obi-Wan confessed, “It would have been so out of my skill-set we only could have used that thing as the ugliest art assemblage in the galaxy.”

“We used to smuggle some parts out of the training halls,” Cody said, “on Kamino. We tried to assemble them in new, original ways when the lights were out. We wanted something that would be ours.”

“If someone had told you, you would one day use it to avoid food poisoning on a lost world.”

“Not that I don’t believe in the Force as a poison tester, but I remember the green berries you brought once and the symptoms…Oh Stars, the symptoms,” Cody teased, and Obi-Wan laughed, not vexed in the slightest by this allusion to what had not been his finest moment.

Cody began to systematically analyse and categorize everything he could put his hands on, as a way to occupy himself. Flowers, mosses, roots, bark, leaves… He had begun as a way to help their survival but it was a peaceful, interesting activity.

He found some bark they could boil to produce a mild analgesic, some flowers that could help with stomach aches, some hard nuts that cooked inside the ashes of their fire made the tastiest snacks he had ever eaten . . . .

He began to name them, because calling them “ that blue flower that grows next to the stream, not the one in the north, the one in the west, and perfume the middle sized edible grey rodent stew really well ” or “ the nuts with the indentation in the middle that we found on the tree with the heart-shaped leaves ” quickly became exasperating. His collection grew quickly and he liked working on it in the evenings, while Obi-Wan carved bones into small, useful objects like spoons or new buckles for their belts. He added fishhooks and arrowheads to his carving habits, once he had become good enough to make them small and sharp enough.

The evenings were the most peaceful part of the day, working side by side in front of the fire, a pile of nuts between them.

“You know, when the war is done,” the redhead said one day watching Cody working on analyzing some new roots, “you could perhaps pursue studies in botany.”

“Not sure it’s the place for a clone.”

“You’re a man. And like all sentients, you should have the possibilities to make your own choices. I know the Order is guilty of - ”

“You’re guilty of finding yourself between a rock and a hard place, and making the less terrible choice, sir.”

“Weren’t you supposed to call me Obi-Wan?”

“Not when you’re a self-sacrificing idiot that takes blame for things outside your powers.”

Obi-Wan shook his head in fond exasperation, humpf-ed and grumbled, but accepted the verdict.

They stayed. They hunted, they foraged, they passed the time in training in hand to hand against each other.

“Are you sure you aren’t using the Force?” Cody would ask, his pride bruised, his friend’s thighs around his neck, when he had been thrown on the grass for the tenth time.

“You’re too used to sparring against your brothers. I know I’m not strong enough against you in terms of pure muscle, so I use the fact that I’m more flexible. You need to learn to guard against that.”

“Obi-Wan, I’m pretty sure some of the holovids the men are always smuggling into the barracks start like that!”

The Jedi’s laugh was clear and strong, resonating against Cody. He shifted his hips to be sure his friend wouldn’t feel the effect that sound, and their proximity, had on Cody. Obi-Wan had the grace to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Cody learned fast and ten days after that, he and Obi-Wan were more evenly matched.

“The problem is that you lean too much on your flexibility,” Cody pontificated, sitting on the Jedi’s strong back, blocking his arms and Obi-Wan would groan and protest: “I don’t sound like that!” Cody pressed a little more of his weight on the body under him and the Jedi groaned with a very different tone. Cody was up so fast he might as well have teleported and made a conscious effort to ignore how red Obi-Wan’s face was when he stood.

They stayed and Obi-Wan carved them some wood swords and began to teach Cody everything he could learn of lightsaber dueling without the Force to augment his motions. It was fun, it was sometimes violent, it was a good way to forget for a few hours the number of tallies on the hull of the ship, marking their impromptu three-month vacation. Makashi was Cody’s favorite because balance and footwork were easily acquired talents, not like two meter vertical jumps without a run-up!

They stayed and Obi-Wan carved a big log of wood into a crude table with his lightsaber and engraved it with a spiral of little squares.

“What are you doing?” asked a curious Commander.

“You’ll see,” Obi-Wan answered again and again, when the vod asked again, seeing the Jedi painfully carve some small bones with their crude tools.

One morning, it was ready. He had even used crushed leaves and berries to colour the small bones figures, waiting on the log.

“It’s a game,” Cody understood finally, seeing the bon-...seeing the pieces on the board.

“It’s called the Princes and Thieves game, on a moon named Senali, that I visited long, long ago with my Master. I thought it would help on rainy days. Sit down, I will teach you the rules.”

They stayed. Cody learned old Jedi poems and tried meditation, and Obi-Wan finally learned the story behind his friend’s name and dozens of little anecdotes about his strange childhood on Kamino. They played Princes and Thieves, sometimes late in the night with only the crude moulded candles that Cody made from the tallow of the biggest animals they hunted and talked about everything. Of course, Obi-Wan had seen more planets than Cody, and the ones Cody had seen had often been burning at the time, but Obi-Wan was always happy to learn more about the culture the vode had developed. And if sometimes Obi-Wan’s gaze stayed too long on Cody during those times, the Commander had gotten very good at not noticing.

They stayed. Cody hunted with his blaster first, with a makeshift bow after he ran out of ammunition. He invented small traps to catch tasty rodents. Together, with great difficulty, they searched how to preserve the skins of the animals, because they had a total of three outfits for the two of them and it was becoming an urgent necessity to procure more. Cody tried basketry with a red, strong vine that crawled under trees in the most humid part of the forest. It was a painstaking craft but he had nothing but time and they needed more ways to store things. Even if his baskets were more functional than beautiful and he needed a lot of attempts before succeeding in making the bottom strong enough.

They stayed and they stayed and they stayed, until warm colours touched the trees.

They tried to pretend it wasn’t a problem, probably far too long, huddling together under a pile of furs.

“Do you hear the wind?” Obi-Wan asked one night. It was a stupid question, but a good opening for the discussion they needed to have.

Outside the hull, there was a burst of noise as the wind picked up again.

“If the weather doesn’t get better, we’ll suffer from the cold,” Cody said against Obi-Wan’s back. He saw goosebumps on the back of the redhead’s neck and tried very hard to not ask himself if it was the cold, or his breath that raised them.

“There are limits to what our fire and the furs, or even the Force, can do for us.”

“Perhaps we should move,” Cody proposed after a few seconds, “the hunting is becoming a problem: animals are smarter than us, a lot of them are already hibernating, or have…what’s the term?”

“Migrated?”

“Yes, that. And finding nuts or other plants we can eat, it pushes us to forage farther and farther away every day. I fear soon there will be only bark to help us pass the winter.”

They packed up two days later. All their clothes, dried meat they had prepared on the fire, pouches of nuts and dried berries, the analyzer, and of course, their individual comms that would capture the signal if a Republic ship entered the atmosphere. As another precaution, Obi-Wan carved their intentions and the direction they would take into the hull of the shuttle and then they began their long travel south, sleeping in caves when they could, or against trees, grumbling about the cold and the rain in a nest of humid furs.

They should have left earlier. The days were growing steadily shorter and they needed to stop in the evening when they still had energy, to prepare the camp and gather wood. It was long. Hard. Obi-Wan insisted that The Handmaiden’s third nipple was not a civilized marching song, contrary to the opinions of the bounty hunters who had trained Cody.

Then, after the third day, Obi-Wan completely switched his position and started to song it too, and to add lyrics, dirtier than anything any bounty hunter had ever thought of!

After months at their camp, Cody was more than ready to see other valleys, other sceneries. Even with the lack of comfort, it felt good. Like shedding some part of their past. The further they went from the shuttle, the less he felt like a stranded Commander and the more he simply felt like Cody.

In the evenings, he observed Obi-Wan patiently carving them a travel set of The Princes and Thieves game. The light of their fire always set red and gold undertones in his beard and hair. With his furs, Obi-Wan looked nothing like the composed Jedi Master he had been on Coruscant. He looked so much more alive, flesh and blood instead of myth and legend.

Cody analyzed the plants he had picked up during the day, finding more and more new species as they went south, or practised his needlework. The first time, it had been only to mend his tunic, but he had discovered that he liked it, like most patient, meticulous tasks. He had a fur quiver for his arrows and he had embroidered it with the markings of his helmet, using large tendons from a big ungulate. Now, he was working on one of their fur blankets, embroidering small starbirds on the border.

They walked a month before being stopped by a sea and then three days more before establishing a more permanent camp in an appropriate place, only ten minutes from a small spring. It fed a little creek, protected from the winds by ochre cliffs covered in small, fragrant bushes. The sea was a beautiful blue, almost as blue as the sky. They pitched their tent and prepared their camp.

“We should name it,” said Obi-Wan, when they had started the fire.

“Winter camp?”

“Not very original.”

“The Handmaiden’s fourth nipple.”

“Certainly not, you miscreant!”

“Villa on the coast?”

And Obi-Wan laughed and immediately carved a sign.

That evening, the Jedi fished in the sea with a makeshift spear while Cody collected some beautiful sea shells. He would put them on his brothers’ cairns in the spring, if they were still on this world. If they went back to the shuttle camp - he had ideas. The trench made by the ship hadn’t been filled with more than a little grass, perhaps he could plant some of nuts in the spring, see if he could propagate plants they ate. Obi-Wan had talked a little about grafting or stolons but the truth was that the Jedi was no botanist and his knowledge on the subject had quickly run dry. Nevertheless, Cody wouldn’t let that stop him. Yes, he had a lot of ideas.

After, he relaxed on the sand, savoring the last rays of sun on his skin and admiring the back muscles of the Jedi. Food was more difficult to obtain than when it only took a trip to the mess, but strangely Obi-Wan had filled out. More sleep, less responsibilities, and physical work that wasn’t being kicked around by Darksiders had done him good.

Obi-Wan came back smiling and laughing, droplets of salt water beading on his naked torso.

Cody’s breath caught in his chest for a few seconds until his body remembered the importance of proper respiration. Obi-Wan stopped a few meters from him, his smile gone, his expression serious. The entire planet seemed to hold its breath. Then he knelt between Cody’s legs. The spear and the fishes were abandoned nearby and with trembling fingers, Obi-Wan touched his friend’s face. They had been on this world for seven months and the GAR regulations, the Code that had regulated their lives seemed far away. Inconsequential, compared to the warmth of Cody inside their nest of furs, to the laughter of Obi-Wan catching their dinner.

Long fingers combed gently through Cody’s hair, longer than it ever had been. Keeping regulation-compliant hair was very low on the list of the Marshall Commander’s priorities.

Cody leaned in. The kiss was no more than a soft sensation, the idea of a kiss more than a kiss. He let a few seconds pass and smiled when Obi-Wan started the second one himself, coming alive against to him, his hands coming up to frame Cody’s face. It stayed slow and soft from kiss to kiss, gentle and tender and too precious to be rushed.

“Dinner!” Obi-Wan suddenly said and Cody’s brain derailed for a second.

“Dinner,” the Jedi persisted, “I want…I want you to be sure. Because that would be so awkward after. Because I wouldn’t…I would never…You’re too important.”

“Dinner,” Cody reassured.

The fishes were almost burned instead of simply cooked as they had great difficulties thinking of something other than the kisses but it was such a satisfying meal. After dinner, Cody took a walk. He wanted to offer Obi-Wan a moment to change his mind, if necessary. Their friendship had grown so strong over the months that it was already attachment, and going farther would complicate things so much when they went back.

He groaned inwardly to himself and tipped his face up, studying the stars. How was the war? His brothers? The Jedi? Nobody had come. Would they pass all their lives here, together? If he should be stranded with someone that wasn’t his vode, he had very good luck to be with Obi-Wan. They were at the mercy of the first virus nasty enough to defeat Obi-Wan’s Force Healing and always worried about food, but…but it was a good life, together. Some days, he didn’t think about the rest of the galaxy until dusk, when he saw the stars, and he always felt a little guilty about it.

His heart beating wildly, he collected some herbs that refreshed the breath and he made slowly his way back to the camp, munching on them.

Obi-Wan had put more wood in the fire and prepared their nest of furs closer to it than most of the time. He smiled when Cody entered the circle of light and they fell together.

Cody’s heart was ringing and happiness tasted like burnt fish and laughter. Happiness tasted salty on Obi-Wan’s skin, that Cody immediately mapped like he had the surroundings of the shuttle camp.

The galaxy could go on without them.

He would fight for it if a ship came one day, he would do his duty, pick up his blaster and his rank again, and fight, and die, without a whisper of protest.

Nevertheless, between his new lover’s legs, whimpering sweet nothings and sharing deep kisses, he could admit it to himself: Obi-Wan was worth a life on that lost world.

#codywan #my fics #star wars #commander cody #obi wan kenobi

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