Private What is home?

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Through the transparisteel window of the cockpit, Itzhal stared out into the expansive dust-ball that was the outback of Mandalore—long stretches of land once occupied by rolling planes and rugged mountains, now reduced to a desolate landscape peppered with rocky outcrops and tufts of stubborn vegetation. The sun peeked over the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the barren terrain, while the winds stirred up tiny whirlwinds of red dust that danced aimlessly before eventually settling back to the ground. In the awakening light, he could almost imagine the sounds of laughter and life echoing across the valleys, foundlings gathered for their first hunts, their ill-trained steps clunking alongside the whisper-quiet stride of their buir's smiling fondly beneath the cover of their buy'ce.

Sensors flickered as an unexpected assortment of beeps echoed around the cockpit. Beneath his visor, the Morellian blinked, his blue eyes awakening from the clouded memories of yesteryear. His fingers wandered over the flight console in his hands, feeling the familiar texture of each button and toggle that still held the strange sensation of newness, a few months after its acquisition. Slowly, he leaned back in his seat, allowing the weight of nostalgia to slough off his shoulders as a slight frown creased his brow, and he turned to the speaker amp that was currently whistling into his ear.

It was quiet—a world once filled with thunderous storms and the site of countless terrible wars, weary in its age. Outside, the sun ascended higher, illuminating patches of landscape that still bore scars from battles long past. So much of it he'd missed, yet the weariness seeped into his bones regardless. People were made for more than just fighting.

With a determined inhale, Itzhal shifted his focus, the weight of memories, a distorted echo that twisted reality. Perhaps he was not quite ready to move on, perhaps he never would be, but regardless, it was time to see if he could. His attention settled on a solitary structure hunkered down in the endless stretch of dust, a lone family homestead that stood defiantly against the pressing desolation. Weathered timber walls bore the marks of a thousand storms, yet the homestead remained steadfast, a chair on the porch swaying with the wind as skeletal wire frames outlined a spinning wind turbine in the distance.

Step by step, the ship began its descent into a slumbering rest. With a deliberate flick of a sequence of switches and a careful twist of the power key, the hum of the engines softened, swirling into an echoing whisper of the wind outside, trailing across its polished frame, which grew speckled with time. Inside, the lights dimmed, casting gentle shadows across the cockpit, while the soft light of the sun above crept through the stretch of the transparisteel windows, revealing the silhouette of Itzhal's movement as he stepped out into the corridor beyond, his steps slow and measured as they reached the boarding ramp and descended onto the rolling sands below.

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia heard the ship long before the old wardroid alerted her to it, his deep tones of complaint resonating through the house from the front porch. Smiling to herself she set the shotgun down on the rough hewn table and pushed herself to her feet. Here, Mia wore no armour. There weren’t many places in the galaxy she felt secure enough to shrug off the familiar weight, but her home had always been one.

The wind tugged at her hair as she stepped out onto the porch, eyes squinting against the dust the ship kicked up as it came to settle on the hardstanding. She moved as she caught sight of Itzhal’s silhouette in the windows, resting her shoulder against the porches pillar, thumbs hooking through the belt loops of her jeans.

In front of the porch metal groaned as the old besulisk rose to its feet, rust colouring the ground beneath it as it flaked front joints. A’den let out a low warning rumble. It had taken Mia months to find her, time had gotten to her long before she could. Still the core of her old war mount was still there.

“Udessi, A’den.” she said softly “Izthal cuyi burc’ya.”

The droid let out what could only be considered a snort but he didn’t settle again, flickering red photoreceptors watched Itzhal approach. Mia pushed off the pillar moving down the steps, a hand running along the droids flank.

“Moti daab.” The command came a little sharper this time and the droid finally relented, settling back down, though she never stopped watching.

A warm smile found her face when Itzhal drew near. “Su’cuy.” she looked around at the homestead then back at him. “You found it okay. It's not much but,” she gave a shrug and looked back at him “Its home.”

She was nervous, more than she had any right to be. Set her on a battlefield against a thousand foes and she wouldn’t even flinch but this? This scared the shit out of her.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal took a deep breath, steeling himself as his fingers tightened around the cool glass neck of the bottle held firmly in his right hand. Blue eyes flickered down to the drink in his grasp, a modest gift, yet in the moment it felt almost paltry as he weighed it between his fingers, its smooth surface reflecting the stark light of the corridor while the liquid within shifted and glimmered with the slightest movement. It hadn't cost much, not that price had been much of a consideration.

A smile curved across her lips, eyes sparkling with laughter and a familiar drink in her hand.

It was only now, though, with the measure of hindsight, that he found himself questioning whether her preference had stemmed from an appreciation for its flavour or simply from its availability in that distant place. He could have asked her, had even toyed with the idea during quiet moments, yet ultimately, he had chosen to cling to the mundane excitement of presenting her with a surprise.

It was a silly thing to find himself stuck upon.

His other hand rested gently on the controls of the boarding ramp, feeling the subtle hum of the machine as a pulse of energy flowed from the buttons to the frame of the doorway. Moments later, vibrations travelled through his boots as the metal plating began to retract with a soft, mechanical whir, the sound mingling with the hiss of escaping gases, only to be replaced by a muted yet resonant thud as the ramp made contact with the ground below.

For a brief moment, his figure was enveloped in a cloud of released gases, creating a hazy veil that obscured the silhouette of his armoured form as he descended. Beyond the swirling mist, the relentless sun beat down upon him, illuminating sleek stretches of obsidian and the accent of crimson bleeding into his silhouette as he came to a slow stop at the edge of the porch. His visor sparkled like the clearest of diamonds, capturing the reflection of Mia Monroe, her smile warmer than the sun above, vivid and radiant—he barely noticed the glare that lay upon his shoulders.

"Su'cuy," he began with a warmth that seeped into his expression, a curve of his lips that felt strangely natural as his eyes followed the stretch of her gaze. "You trivialise the efforts you've made; it is no small thing to make a house a home," he chided, gently with a shake of his head that scanned over the weathered timber treated with care, and the hulking titan ready to tear him to pieces for any sign of disrespect. "It suits you well, Mia."

Itzhal extended his left hand, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth base of the gift resting at his side. "I wanted to bring something," he said, taking a moment to gather himself, before offering it to Mia, his arms outstretched, the glass shimmering softly in the light, cradled between his hands. "I wasn't sure what would be appropriate, but it didn't seem right to show up empty-handed."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia let out a soft chuckle and shook her head. “Thanks. Truth be told, my brother had more of a hand in putting it together than I did. Something about sleeping in a command centre not being healthy.” She shrugged. Back then it had been a nuisance, now? Now it was her lifeline. To have somewhere quiet to come, to step away from it for long enough to remember she was more than the warrior and leader that her people needed.

Her gaze moved from her own reflection in his visor to the bottle in his hand and she smiled, accepting it with gentle fingers. “Thank you, although, you being here is enough.” She winced, wishing she had not said it out loud.

“Come on, before I embarrass myself even more.” She turned with a gentle incline of her head indicating for him to follow, leading him past the old droid that let out a low hum that resembled a warning growl.

Mia’s home was simple, a large open living space with a granite countertop and rough sawn cabinets stretched across one corner, a large wooden table settled in its centre whose surface was occupied by gun cleaning kit and two shotguns, the scent of gun oil strong enough that it left no doubts about what she had been doing while waiting for him. Two large couches sat opposite, and a corridor towards sleeping quarters led deeper into the house.

There was a quiet tone of wealth throughout, not in anything gaudy or bold, but in the quality of materials used. Decorations ranged from old artefacts that wouldn't be out of place in a museum to weapons resting on purpose built stands and the occasional holoimage floating between them, people from another life. An old astromech droid rested in a corner that had long been deactivated.

Mia set the bottle on the counter. “Before I crack this open, how well can you shoot when you’ve been drinking?”


Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"Wise words," he mused, a heavy sense of finality settling in his chest. Mia Monroe was not a woman with much family left—the thought gnawed at him, an ache he didn't even know existed, until it was suddenly and painfully stabbing him through the ribs with a blade shaped like knowledge. He would never have the opportunity to meet the man who had been Mia's brother. Selfish. To mourn the ideal of a concept that had barely existed in his mind, when the woman before him had lost so much more.

His lips parted, a whisper of a word on the edge of his tongue. 'My condolences.' Too trite, too simplistic, like something out of a gift card from an acquaintance you saw once every couple of years. The other options weren't much better. 'You've done well to take care of it, he would be proud'. As if Itzhal had any clue of the familiar absence, and what they would have wanted. No. He was no mouthpiece for the dead, nor did he dare warp their memory for the sake of some agenda—even if it was to make her smile.

Let them rest; it was the very least he could offer them.

Itzhal's lips twitched with amusement, the corners upturned in a fond smile as he gazed at the new recipient of his gift. Two gifts, apparently.

"I don't know, I quite liked the honesty," he drawled, a step behind her as she led him into her home. "It's my pleasure to be here."

The old treads of his boots creaked softly beneath his feet as he stepped onto the weathered wooden porch, each movement as nimble and light as a dancer's. His stride gradually slowed to a deliberate pause, momentarily capturing the stark crimson glare of the veteran basilisk droid stationed nearby, and the disapproval that irradiated from it. Good. It was keeping overwatch. With a respectful nod to the machine, he continued on his path, undeterred.

As Itzhal entered the open living space, the seals in his Buy'ce hissed softly, releasing pressurised gases with a quiet sigh. It was a small but significant moment—the first time he beheld the interior of the room. It was only appropriate that he witnessed it through his natural eyes, unfiltered by the enhanced display of his visor.

Minuscule marks marred the surface of the countertop, faded lines carved into the surface from years of use in a household that balanced quality and endurance; the cut of a knife, barely visible from where it had chipped against the edge. Signs of a place well lived—the slight wear on the right-most couch, where the cushion folded slightly inwards along the central seam. An old table stood nearby, the nearest leg painted in a slightly different hue from the rest of the set. Various display cases lined the walls, filled with more weapons than any single person ever really needed, yet they still called to a part of his soul that longed to wrap his grubby little hands around them.

His eyes flickered over the holoimages and displays for just a moment before returning to the countertop, where Mia had placed the bottle.

"I used to live on Gargon," Itzhal responded, as if that was an answer in itself. It was in a way.

With a couple of steps that covered the distance between them, he slid up against the counter, where he laid his Buy'ce down to rest. "It would take an awful lot more than my gift to provide a handicap, if that's what you're suggesting."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

His answer drew a chuckle from her, tuning her back to him as she reached into the cabinets to withdraw two glasses, closing it as Itzhal settled against the counter up beside her, setting his buy'ce down. Sharp blue eyes lifted to his face, pausing for a moment to take it in. The close cropped silver beard that covered a strong angled jaw of his weathered face, silver hair swept back from his face and piercing blue eyes that rivalled her own were set beneath a heavy brow.

They spent so much of their time hidden behind reflective t-visors that they became little more than the armour they wore, but here and now? There was no weight of responsibility, no demand for them to be more or give more of themselves than they wanted. Her hand reached without thought, settling against his jaw as her thumb brushed a timeworn cheek.

The flutter in her stomach jumped and her smile softened before she withdrew her hand, her focus returning to the bottle. She felt colour rise in her cheeks as she peeled the wax seal away, clearing her throat before she pulled the cork free with a soft pop. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing." She replied pouring them each a healthy measure before lifting on to offer him.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

As Mia absorbed the sight of him, her gaze swept across every crease and shadow upon his weathered face, each telling a tale of battles fought and survived; he, in turn, found himself captivated by the way the light gleamed in her eyes, with a frightening intelligence that had brought armies low. He could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, an intoxicating blend of excitement and anticipation that should have left him dizzy, yet settled instead as a steady thrum of exhilaration deep within him, ignited by her piercing eyes.

With a quiet intensity, she extended her hand, her long fingers adorned with the marks of a life lived—calluses and scars that whispered secrets of challenges faced and overcome. He longed to discover the stories behind each imperfection, the journeys they encapsulated, all in the forging of the woman that stood before him. Warmth radiated from her touch; fingers brushed against his cheek, the heat seeping gently into his skin like the flame of a bonfire promising rest to the weary traveller.

Then it was gone, the palm of her hand peeling away as the ghost of her touch, an errant spark of heat and warmth, lingered against his skin.

For a moment, he simply stood there, quietly longing for the touch that was slowly fading into the depths of his memories, replaced by the natural heat of his body—alone. With a determined step, he closed the distance once more, extending his hand toward the offered drink. His fingers brushed against her skin before wrapping around the glass.

"I'll banish the thought, then," he replied with a pronounced tilt of his head before his eyes landed on the swirling liquid in his hand. "I feel that I should ask if this is actually a drink you prefer, or just the best of what that bar had on offer."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

As Itzhal stepped forward, Mia inhaled, instinctive tension jumping into her shoulders, a reaction built over years of keeping people at arms length. The soft brush of his fingers over her own settled the tension, the warmth lingering, reminding her that she was safe. Her feet shifted slightly, her body adjusting to fully face him as his gaze dropped to the drink in his hand.

Her own glass still rested on the counter, fingers of one hand resting loosely against it. “I’ll never spurn tihaar,” she replied softly, an amused smile pulling at her mouth “would be very un-mandalorian of me.”

Mia’s gaze dropped briefly as she finally raised her own glass from the counter. “Is it my favourite? No, but it’s a close second.” Her gaze settled on him again and her lips parted slightly as she paused, heart thudding in her chest. She almost leaned forward, almost closed the gap but courage failed her and her eyes dropped again, a soft breath escaping her.

She lifted the glass, her smile hidden behind it as she raised it in cheers to him. “Oya.” she murmured, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"Listen," he drawled, his voice so smooth it could have been made of velvet, laced with a teasing tone that coloured the words that followed, "I won't breathe a word if you're ready to confess that the Tihaar singed your taste buds beyond recognition."

A leisurely, amused smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, framed by a meticulously groomed beard, lined with strands of silver intertwined with the faintest remnants of deep black, outlining the clean, sharp line of his jaw. With a nonchalant grace, he lifted his glass high, the fiery liquid inside swirling around the rim, creating mesmerising amber waves that twisted and curled upon themselves, sloshing from side to side, building momentum in the moment of his inattention.

It could have never existed for all he cared; it was only a drink.

Blue eyes gleamed, vibrant and striking in the soft glow of the warm lights hanging above them; Itzhal stared down at the minuscule gap separating them before darting towards Mia. In that instant, their gazes intertwined, two bright blue skies colliding in an electric connection, a bolt of lightning that seemed responsible for the thundering in his chest. For a heartbeat, time seemed to suspend, the world around him fading to the edges of his perception—for there was only one person he wished to see—but then the connection broke, like an enchantment shattered, her gaze averted, and the world around them flooded back in, the drink in his hand swirling around the edges of the rim, brought to a sudden halt.

He licked his lips, the drink in his hand suddenly enticing in a way he hadn't quite grasped before.

Clink, "Oya."

The chilled rim of the glass, frosted with a cool sheen, pressed against his lips, a stark contrast to the blazing sensation that sparked on the tip of his tongue. As he took a sip, a searing torrent surged down his throat, unleashing a wildfire of warmth that curled around the familiar shape of nostalgia and burned with the piercing pang of regret. Veins in his neck throbbed, twitching against the scorching heat; his eyes shuddered shut for a fleeting moment.

In that brief instant, he found himself once more crouched on a rough cantina bench, aboard a ship that lingered in the recesses of his mind—a place he could never quite shake off. Wild laughter reverberated through the air, mingling with the vibrant sounds of drums and intelligible cheers that offset the murmured prayers for the deceased, their presence a sharp and sudden departure, hidden in quiet corners and where celebrations had failed to reach. His hands were sticky, a horrific blend of blood and liquor seeping into his bodysuit, where the Tihaar had sloshed over his trembling knuckles, staining the slender cylinder clenched between his fingers in a death grip.

Then he blinked, and he was back with her with a half-filled amber liquid in hand—a Mandalorian drink through and through; the very essence of bad habits and late nights.

It tasted better the second time down; after all, it was only a drink.

With a light sigh of contentment, he asked, "Oh, what's the first then?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Fire burned along her tongue, heating her throat as the tihaar slid down it. It was meant to burn the tastebuds, to tear away the taste of blood and ash left behind after a battle, and remind the drinker that they were still alive where others were not. It was a drink to remember.

Mia’s gaze moved to the glass, swirling the liquid within it as the warmth travelled down her chest spreading into her stomach, something quiet and reflective settling over her for a moment, it passed when Itzhal gave a small sigh and asked her about her favourite drink and her gaze lifted back to him.

“Whiskey.” she answered with a small smile. “Corellian, specifically. Burns just as much but is at least a little smoother on the way down.” She reached to pluck the bottle off the counter, gently inclining her head for Itzhal to follow her.

“It was also where I was born.” she told him, crossing the opening living space to large glass doors that slid open as she approached. Mia stepped through and onto another large porch, moving for a small table and chairs, setting the bottle down on it before moving to lean against the railings.

Beyond the porch was much of the same; a barren grassland desperately trying to cling to what life it could. Offset there was a greenhouse but cracked window panes and a thick layer of dust on the panes that weren’t missing said it had not been used in an age. Mia was skilled at taking life, not giving. Plants always died under her care.

“What about you?”

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Without realising it, his eyes found themselves drawn to the smooth curve of the glass, its pristine surface catching the light just so as it tilted in a wave of amber that rolled across the transparent glaze, making its way towards Mia's lips. Her fingers wrapped around the glass, a pleasant ease, unburdened by the fire that burned down her throat. His eyes travelled along the rim, past the minuscule gap, and lingered on the curve of her lips as the glass descended and she provided an answer to a question he hadn't known to ask.

On the plus side, at least he knew an easy gift; Corellian Whisky flowed from bar lines and taps just as readily as its people flowed through trade routes that spanned the stars.

With just a few steps separating them, he followed in her wake, his eyes wandering once more across the sitting room, taking in the warmth and effort that had made a home of the wood and stone structure. Tucked away in the corner, the metallic body of an astromech droid garnered his attention before he continued, following through the double doors and onto the porch, where he settled against the railing—a small space between them, easily filled or held apart. He was in no rush to push, no need to see her flinch again, though he braced for the eventuality. War always left its scars; hardship was no better.

"Favourite drink or where I'm from," he asked with a teasing smile, shaking his head once, before he continued, "I've always been partial to a bottle of something I can mix; shesharilian vodka's an old favourite, not too harsh, and well, there isn't a drink it can't complement if the intent is getting drunk, but maybe it's just because it's cheap and there's never been a place I can't find it," he chuckled. "Battlefields included."

Slowly, his free hand traced against the wood searching for patterns in the grain as he considered the other side of that question.

"I said earlier that I used to live on Gargon," His fingers paused, stopped on a slight divot that his nails dug into, through the fabric of his bodysuit. Blue eyes trailed down to land upon the obstruction that he was in no rush to push past. "I did, but it was also where I was born. I've got a lot of memories attached to that mess; almost fifty years. I don't talk about it much. Not as much as I should, not as much as my parents deserve."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Mia’s eyes dropped to the small space he left, her heart warming with gratitude. Itzhal didn’t press, he didn’t ask for more than she could give, he just held open the door and waited with unending patience for her to step through it. A soft smile graced her features as she lifted her gaze back to the arid landscape that rested beyond the porch, listening to his reply.

It was almost cliché, that a Mandalorian's favourite drink was one that he could find on a battlefield but it also spoke volumes of the life Itzhal had lived, of lives they had both lived. There was a weighted pause, one that drew Mia’s gaze back to him as he considered his next words, finger idly tracing lines on the wood.

For a moment, Mia said nothing, he was giving her a glimpse of something he hadn’t done before and she wanted to treat it with the care it deserved. She understood. They wanted to continue to give life to the people that had built the foundations, one which they stood as people, that had helped craft the beginnings of who they were. When was the last time she had spoken of her own father?

She moved closed, quietly closing the gap so her arm could rest against his, the connection offered as comfort but also to let him know that she was here and she was listening.

“You don’t have to.” she said finally “The dead rarely ask us to carry them, that is a burden we take upon ourselves.” Her eyes shifted back to the desert as breeze cut across it pulling at the clumps of golden grass that clung to it with desperation. “Must have been a hell of a place to grow up.” she added with a smile.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Absorbed in the curving angle of the slight divot running through the grain of wood, the Morellian carried through his story, tracing the lines and textures of the surface before him, until, almost without effort, his words came to an end—the memory of his homeworld, drifting on the edge of awareness between contemplation and indifference. At least, that was what he told himself as he swallowed through the suddenly parched stretch of his throat.

Beneath him, the weathered floorboards creaked softly in response to the gentle pressure of footsteps, the sound barely registering in his consciousness as he remembered the shape of his mother's smile, the solid stretch of his father's shoulders, and the warmth of their care—given freely, for they had never wished for anything more than who he was, whether as a child or the man he had become. He'd loved them for that, even when their absence echoed in a part of his soul that had never quite healed, the vengeful man striking out at a world that had taken from him that which could never be recovered.

In the stillness that enveloped them, disrupted solely by the mechanical sound of his steady breaths, Mia settled silently beside him; the delicate brush of her arm against his was like a soft, soothing balm, radiating comfort where even the most treasured memories of the spirits that haunted his steps mingled with a bittersweet sadness. His parents, his clan, even Mandalore itself—he was no stranger to burdens, nor the absence left behind with every death.

It was in this quiet moment that Mia found her voice, offering the wisdom of one blessed with their position on the outside, reaching in towards an old fool unable to find his way.

He turned to her, a smile forming—an old, crooked thing that stretched over the familiar lines of his face in unfamiliar ways. "I am not so sure; perhaps you are right, yet I stand on a divide, unsure of where the fissure lies between want and need. To my memory, they have been dead for over fifty years and on most days they are a wound well-healed. With a smile on my face and a half-held groan for the words that followed, I can remember the jokes my father used to tell over a match of Huttball or the way my mother used to fret at every bruised knuckle I brought back to our doorstep." He shook his head, the motion slow and ponderous, "They are not burdens; they are blessings."

"Gargon is a place; it was they who made it a home."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Her eyes moved back to him as he spoke, her sapphire gaze tracing every line that creased his eyes as he spoke of them, noting the sadness that rested by eyes almost as blue as her own. Itzhal’s upbringing was in stark contrast to her own, he’d been raised with kind words and warm hearts, it was, she suspected, what made him that much kinder, that much softer than she was. It in no way lessened him or his strength, but simply changed the shape of it. Mia was nothing but hard edges, softness was something she was still learning, even now.

Her own father had shown his love with a hard edge, with pressure for Mia to be better, to excel at everything. Every failure was met with more training, more bruises and every success earned little more than a grunt in approval. She never hated him for it, it was simply his way. She’d never had a mother, it was just her and Jaxx until one day it was just her. Sadness crept into her own heart as she realised how long it had been since she had thought of him, let alone talked about him. Did the spot she buried him even exist? Or had it been ripped away by Carnifex’s destruction.

“It is a blessing,” she agreed, looking at him again "you can look back and find joy, remember the good moments.” Mia paused thoughtfully for a moment.

“I think I have forgotten how to do that, everytime I look back I find myself tracing lines towards the darker times wondering if I had done things differently, if I had made different choices…” she trailed off shaking her head, sadness settling over her realising in that moment, that she had forgotten how to simply be happy. The idea of it, of something so simple seemed impossible to reach on her own. She turned her head, resting her forehead against his shoulder, the metal of his pauldron cool against her forehead as she exhaled a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered.

Of all the people Itzhal could have found affection with, he had chosen a woman who was so quietly broken she had forgotten something as profound as happiness. He deserved more, so much more.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

His neck twisted, the tendons taut and straining as they flexed from one side to the other. He tilted his head towards the warm embrace of the sun, its rays casting a golden hue over the barren landscape, and leaving the marks of numerous days concealed beneath the buy'ce stark against his pale and weathered skin. Then, with a deliberate, almost laborious motion, he closed his eyes, the sense of sight shuttered as he focused on the warmth settling upon his face.

It had been a long time since he'd taken a moment to pause; always running to the next problem, always searching for the next threat, always picking up the pieces. Slowly, he inhaled through his nose, the air filling his lungs, building up further and further until he could hold no more. Then, with a gentle parting of his lips, he exhaled, letting the worries float away—not because they were gone, but because in the here and now, with someone who understood, he could breathe.

He let the sun's relentless heat retreat into the background, tuning out the soft whisper of the breeze that danced across the porch, stirring up fine dust that settled over the polished plates of beskar that layered his greaves. In that moment, there was only her voice—smothered with a sadness so deep it reached for comfort, a void that wished not to be empty—capturing his full focus, in a way that a thousand words never could.

"I'm sorry."

Two little words, soft and unassuming, yet they carried a weight that could sink a man—in a way, they already had.

He opened his eyes, turning towards the woman who had long since forgotten how to find joy in the past. Memories that now haunted her only in what-ifs and hypotheticals, always brighter than the outcomes she'd worked herself to the bone to reach. He wasn't surprised. No matter how cruel the Galaxy turned, it would always pale in comparison to the worst of their own thoughts.

"It isn't easy, nor is it quick," he admitted, his voice a tender whisper carried by the breeze, as delicate as the caress of shards of glass held between the stretch of his hands. "It starts with a single memory, a moment of laughter, a snippet of celebrations, a touch of compassion—I cannot tell you what, I cannot even promise it will work, though I hope it would. I can only share that which I have lived."

"The way I squirmed and fought against the gentle arms that wrapped around me, pretending I was far too old for comfort, even when my palms bled, and my sides ached with embarrassment. I remember missing her smile. I remember the way she scolded my father for every treat he tried to sneak by her gaze, not because she disapproved, but because he was quicker to grasp the smile that slipped across my face in return. They are small things; some days they are bittersweet things, but they are things that I am glad to remember," he offered a smile, not wide and proud, but all the more intimate for how it shaped his face. "It took time. I used to shy away from such memories; I buried them deeper every time they surfaced, because it was easier to be indifferent than feel. It made things simple; it made every day a step, every moment an action."

He paused, tasting the words before they slipped from his lips like an old secret, "But it did not make me happy."

"So, I searched, I stopped burying and instead I looked upon what it was that made me feel. The sorrow. The guilt. The pain. In the worst of those days, I lost myself to those emotions, buried myself in the memories in the same way that I had once buried them. But moderation is necessary in all things; sometimes we must swing across the extremes before we find the balance in the centre. I forced myself to live in the moment, even as I made time for the past—and above all else, I allowed myself to feel. I cried, I raged, I laughed. It made me many things, but eventually, somewhere along the way, I found that I could be happy. If only I allowed myself to be."

Slowly, reaching up towards her hand, intertwining fingers in between the links of their knuckles, he told her, "I believe you could do the same."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Her head lifted at the soft whispered reply, watching his face as he spoke, tracing the lines of emotion, as he recalled memories that seemed like a dream. How could she possibly ever reach that, when every memory she recalled that had any semblance of joy came with a greater feeling of guilt. Because had it not been for her, for her failures, so many of them would still be alive today. Her children would not have borne the weight of her sins and maybe, just maybe, Mandalore might not have suffered as it had.

Emotion welled in her chest, like a lead weight desperate to pull her beneath its all consuming waves, her eyes glassed and she blinked, refusing to let them fall to let it win. This wasn’t why she had invited him here, this was not what she wanted today to be about.

His touch was gentle, calloused fingers slowly finding her own, linking them together and grounding her in the moment. Mia closed her eyes, tears escaping to spill over her cheeks as she fought the instinct to look away, to create distance and bury all of it behind a mask, because that was easy, it was second nature.

But doing so would be unfaithful to the foundation they were building, to the commitment they had made on a dust covered couch with a war behind them. She swallowed and opened her eyes, her thumb brushing gently over their interlocked fingers, managing a small smile.

“I hope, for both our sakes, that your faith is not misplaced.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

As she observed him, he, in turn, observed her, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of her expression. There was an uncertain twist to her lips—too high to be a frown, too low to be a smile—caught somewhere between resignation and cautious hope. She did not believe, not yet. Her eyes were a churning pool of disbelief, each shifting tide presenting another reason to sink beneath the waves, far from the shore, which was covered in grains of soft, gentle yearning.

In that moment, he wished he could show her the path through the tumult of past decisions and the memories of rusted anchors, buried beneath the sea, with chains of their own making dragging them down deeper with every thought. He couldn't. Not really. He could lighten the burden, reach for new anchors, buoys, and methods to help her stay afloat, but in the end, it was a battle she would have to fight on her own.

It was not quite the same as being alone.

Itzhal was resolute; he wouldn't let her drift into that sinking casket of self-recrimination and personal desolation. Not while there were others ready to lend their strength—whether it was him, her spirited daughter Tessa, or the seasoned presence of older companions like the aged Verd and a few of the newer connections, not quite firm enough to discuss yet, but perhaps in the future another lifeline.

Calloused fingers grasped her gently—a lifeboat amongst the waves, his thumb roaming gently over her skin in swirling circles, as her thumb, in turn, brushed over their interlocking fingers. He did not rush to acknowledge the touch, his thumb moving slowly and carefully, tracing the familiar lines of nicks and cuts that had left their mark on her skin, each an old and faded wound with a memory behind it.

"Sometimes, all we can do is take a step forward and place faith in that we're going in the right direction—one never really knows, till they've reached their destination," he said, warmth seeping into the soft smile that crept across his lips. "But not every day needs to be a day where a step is made; some days, we can rest in the moment, where the past is in memories, and the future is a mystery."

His other arm raised slowly, cautiously, each movement deliberate as the outstretched fingers reached towards her tear-stained face, ghosting above the skin, a barrier he dared not break without permission.

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Every softly traced line his fingers tracked served to anchor her further. The weight in her chest didn’t lighten but it got easier to hold, easier to breathe with as she chose the moment she was in over the memories and guilt that threatened to overwhelm her.

She did not want to miss this, she did not want to miss the warmth that crept into his smile as his hand lifted cautiously, the warmth of his fingers not quite reaching her skin as the question of permission settled in his hesitation.
Her heart raced, skittering beneath her ribs as something warm spread through her. Lips parting as a soft breath left her and she leaned into the touch, letting his fingers settle against her cheek. Mia’s own hand came up, settling against the darkened chest plate that still encased him as she inched closer.

“I think,” she began softly. “That resting in the moment is exactly what I need.”

Her hand crept up, fingers brushing the soft beard that covered his jaw before settling there, thumb brushing weathered skin once as something in her gaze shifted, the wellspring of memories slipping behind the realisation of what she had in front of her.

“To do anything else right now, when you are here and everything the rest of the galaxy demands of us is not?” she gave her head the barest of shakes, a smile pulling at her lips once more, lighter than before.

“It would be a waste.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

His outstretched hand lingered in the air, perfectly still, as if time itself had come to a halt, a breath held in the moment of endless possibilities—where only the moment existed. The gesture was a promise of warmth, an unspoken assurance laid with tender, gentle attention; an invitation, not an imposition.

Perhaps that was why it felt so effortless to wait, to stand in the moment, certain that what would come would come when the time was right, until, with a release of the breath that held them both, she leaned forward, embers of fire warming his skin. His fingers traced the delicate contours of her cheek, gliding softly along the sharp silhouette of her jaw, sculpted with a striking allure that brought out the softness of her lips, finally resting with a delicate touch at the gentle curve of her ear.

Unhurried, the calloused length of his thumb traced upwards, over the curve of her lips and brushing aside the tears that trailed down her face in faithful streams of sadness, starting first on one side, then slowly and gently over the bridge of her nose as he swept them away, piece by piece.

Adorned in the considerable weight of beskar'gam, he stood resolute, his back straight and head raised high, a steadfast pillar of strength, unyielding against the burdens of yesteryear—at least for now, he could be that; he would be that, if it was what Mia needed.

Her hand pressed against the warm, pulsating surface of the ancient metal, its heat radiating from the memory of the sun's embrace, now draped in the coolness of the shade. He sensed the presence of her touch more than he could see it, eyes still focused on her face, the softest hint of a smile breaking along the edges of her lips as her fingers traced the pronounced curve of his Adam's apple and continued their journey to lay against the chiselled line of his jaw.

"Well, I would ever so hate to let things go to waste," he drawled, a bright tint of amusement lighting his words and the twitch of his lips that curved upwards.

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

His touch was slow, gentle, carrying with it a level of care that Mia had never realised she not only needed, but craved. She did not have to be Warmaster, nor Alor or Liberator. Every title that weighed heavily on her was lifted away in his presence, and the woman beneath was given space to breathe, to lean as she needed to lean. She could lay bare all her truths and scars and he would not fault her for any of them.

Her head tipped forward, forehead resting against his as her eyes slid closed and she let out a soft breath of a laugh. Her thumb still traced idle lines across their interlocked fingers as she allowed herself to simply be in his presence, to take all of it in. The feel of his hand in hers, the warmth of his fingers on her face and the steady calm rhythm of his breathing.

Slowly, Mia’s eyes opened, lifting her head to look at him again, her nose brushing briefly against his. Her pulse jumped beneath her skin, something that remained steady on a battlefield was fluttering wildly beneath his cerulean gaze. For a moment she just looked at him, taking in the lines of his face, the crows feet that rested at the corners of his eyes and the glittering amusement within them.

Her fingers tightened around his as a soft unguarded smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, her gaze flicking briefly to his mouth as she leaned in a fraction, drawn in by his presence and the soft ache in her chest.

Heat blossomed across her features as she met his eyes again. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, breath catching in her throat as her eyes searched his. Then she closed the distance, eyes sliding shut as she pressed her lips against Itzhal's.