Reflections

“Do you ever think we could be more than what we are, Brox?”

Brox Arrun stared into the flames. It was a dark, chilling night, deep in Nar Shaddaa’s slums. The embers twinkled in his wizened, brown eyes, and his necklace tinkled softly in the wind.

“No.”

Thasaj Syr glanced at his old friend. They had fought side by side for years as mercenaries years ago - back when their hair was more vibrant, and had less grey - selling themselves to the highest bidder, and wreaking havoc wherever they went. There had been another, back then - he wasn’t cheery, by any stretch of the word, but he was their brother nonetheless. They had all shared many nights in bars and strip clubs around the galaxy, enjoying the company of alcohol, beautiful dancers, and each other. Syr knew his comrade was a thoughtful man - more thoughtful than himself, for sure. He took what Arrun said with a certain gravitas that he wouldn’t attribute to most others.

Syr returned his gaze to the fire. In a way, it seemed very much like themselves - burning brightly and with little thought for the consequences, later on.

“Are we bad people, Brox?”

Arrun narrowed his eyes, and his intense focus remained planted on the heat in front of him.

“There are no bad or good people. Only men.”

Syr shivered. He never knew how, wearing less than him, Arrun never seemed to care for ambient temperature.

“What about before? The dancers, the drinks?”

Arrun sighed, a long, silvery sound. It was not unlike the chill wind now blowing through the streets, likely dismantling a ramshackle abode somewhere nearby.

“There was a time for dancers, and for drinking, and for being more than bar owners and mercenaries. There was a time for brotherhood, for doing more than simply holding on, from day to day.”

Syr swallowed. Thinking to himself for a moment, he looked back up at Arrun, and studied his features. He remembered a time when the two of them - three of them, before the accident - could woo women just by sidling up to them. They had been handsome, back in their day - the armour probably helped, too. Now, Arrun’s once sagely, enticingly thoughtful gaze had hardened into that of a war veteran. His smooth, well-kept features had degraded to stress marks, and his facial hair grew in rough spurts around his mouth, never cleanly shaven, although haphazardly trimmed. Looking at his reflection in a glass bottle beside him, he realised the same grip had been taken over him by time - his youthful blue eyes had turned silvery-blue and cold. His ruggedly-handsome features had now become just...rugged. Where once his voice had a playful tone to it, it was now as if he had gargled broken glass and strong disinfectant. He held out his hands, scraping a bit of dirt off of his gloves with his thumbs.

“We did good things. We weren’t all bad.”

Arrun frowned.

“We did not do good things for good reasons.”

“What about that time we rescued that Twi’lek’s son? She was worried sick about hi-”

“We rescued him because we thought she might be open to being wooed afterwards. When she was not, Adrick grew angry. The rest is sealed in history. Our history.”

Syr’s chromatic eyes reflected the soft, orange daggers of the fire in front of him. He looked down at his hands.

“Did Adrick...need to die?”

Arrun turned, suddenly, to Syr. His eyes were cold, and hard. “He went too far. He crossed a line.”

Syr was shocked by Arrun’s sudden intensity. The other’s gaze softened. “There are some sins which cannot be attributed to man. Evil spirits were with him that day. He had to be cleansed.” He turned his head back to the barrel in front of them.

Syr sighed. His emotive expulsion of air was far detached from that of Arrun’s. “I think we could all do with a cleansing, Brox.”

Arrun narrowed his eyes. “Yes. We could.”

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A little something of extra length I wrote before going to Florida tomorrow. It should be fun, but I'll regret not doing models or much writing in the mean time. Ah well.