The Wolf
How terrible it is, to love something that can be taken.
Preliat was a man of many things. But one of them, was not happiness. If lady luck was a hooker, he was out of cash a long time ago. He was a man of constant sorrow, and had been for quite some time. He loved a woman with a past, and he had no future. But she was taken from him. His demons crawled out of the walls, encircling him and trapping him in a constant state of anxiety, hatred, rage, and fear. It was a combination that would have broken many, if not most, men a long time ago. But Preliat hadn't broken. He was tenacious, and he pushed on through life, unsure of what he was really going to do with himself. Which brought him to where he was. He was aging now, no longer was he the young, angry man. Now, he was pushing close to 40, with no children, no wife, and no real place in the galaxy anymore. It was not that Preliat did not identify as a Mandalorian anymore- it was simply that he had dropped off the grid. He had not had a single person to talk to, not a care in the world. He had gotten a job as a farm hand on a backwater colony in the outer rim. He lived alone in a small cabin, and provided for himself. He was alone with his demons, and they came in many forms.
Like they did now.
He swung the heavy axe over his head, bringing it down on the split on the log. It snapped apart with a satisfying crunch, and the two pieces split apart, flying on either side of the stump that he was working on. By the rings in the tree, he guessed that the tree had to be at least fifty or sixty years old. It took him ten minutes to remove it from it's place, and he was another couple of hour's of work from turning it into a way to heat himself for the rest of the month. It reminded him of the fragility of life, and how easy it was to take it. How easy it was for him. How nonchalantly he had reaped souls. But the way he looked at it was that death was playing a game- and that he was so sure of the victory, that he let everyone have an entire lifetime before he won. Because Preliat knew that eventually, he would feel death's cold embrace. And based on his choices, his lifestyle, it was probably not going to be at a bedside, surrounded by friends and family. But even then, if Preliat lay on a death bed, he knew that there would not be many to guide him to the darkness.
He had pushed everyone away. Everyone. That is why he was here, splitting logs instead of splitting skulls with his brethren. His armor was stored away, his weapons rusted and abandoned long ago. The only thing that remained from the armory was the Tomahawk, which he kept beside his bed- despite the colony's biggest crime being theft. No assaults, no murders- it was only peaceful golden-tan fields and green lush vegetation. Which helped Preliat decompress in some ways, but being alone and in silence, the silence was filled by the echos of his past, mostly in his mind. He rarely slept a good night's sleep, and when he did sleep, he found that he only closed his eyes for a moment and opened them an hour or so later- and rarely he felt as though his body, let alone his mind, rested.
How he longed for a restful nights sleep- how he longed for many things. But he knew the trap that was in his mind, that he set himself, was the one that caged him for so long. The axe grew heavier as he continued to work, and his workload never seemed to end. He swung it over his head again and again, until his muscles ached and his body cried out for sleep and his mind wanted a change of pace. But the only change of pace happening in his life was the amount of alcohol he was consuming. At this point, his diet was bread, booze, and beans. Meat was thrown in there occasionally, but livestock was hard to come by on the planet, and it was fairly expensive as far as meat went. And Preliat didn't have access to the millions upon millions of credits he had for killing Dredge. He had spent what he had paying off the right people to forget him, and he was going by the name Bendak here, he felt relatively safe. And it had been many weeks since anyone outside of the foreman had talked to him. All he did was wake up, go to work, stop by the market and get what he needed- and then went home. It was a simple, quiet life. And everything that he had before was sitting in an air-tight box, buried six feet behind his cabin. He had no visitors, no friends here- he was completely isolated. And for good reason- Preliat had grown disillusioned with the Mandalorians, and the galaxy as a whole. But he had not taken the leap forward to death, and he would never dishonor himself by taking his own life or dying in an easy way- death would have to take Preliat the hard way. Preliat had fought off Death for so long, the Reaper probably kept his distance now. Preliat had cheated death again and again, and the Grim Reaper probably figured it was better to torture him with the burden of life rather than give him the release of death.
Preliat dropped the axe, wandering into the house, before he turned his head towards the stone path that led to his house. As he wiped his hands of sweat with a cloth that hung by the door, he locked his eyes on a silhouette against the setting sun, walking towards his cabin. Preliat blinked once, but did nothing. Here, he was Bendak, a quiet farmhand who could pull more weight than an ox and could split firewood as if he were breathing. No one had come for him yet, and no one would come for him now. This person was quiet as the night, but they gave off the same veil of danger that the night had too. He wasn't prepared for a fight- no weapons easily accessible, and a T-shirt and some dirty pants and boots weren't going to save him from a Sith assassin or whomever had come for him.
So he decided to wave, just to test the waters. Either they waved back with their hand, or something to kill him with. Either way, normal day for him.
