((
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYuXG0C2tsk))
The man sat with his face in his hands, shuddering somewhere between sorrow and rage.
How could you have left us? How could you have left me?The desert night wind whistled outside, cold and stinging. From the bedroom, a baby's wails were deafening. What did he want? What did he need? He'd been fed, he'd been changed, he should be sleeping. The young man shuddered again, barely fending off an exhausted sob of his own.
This was all his fault. He'd left behind his duty, his friends, the people he'd loved the most, and now, on the back end of the galaxy, he was responsible for another's life. Karma had come back around for him after all, the way his father always swore it did. He was only a kid, barely twenty. Some bars wouldn't even serve him, and here he was, alone with a child.
The child wailed louder, and the man clawed his face, crying as well, crying so hard he shook and stumbled to catch his breath. What would he do? Why had she left him with this child? Why had he been so stupid? He had expended all of his credits on purpose so he could never return home, and his stupidity had stranded him on Tatooine with a baby and half a farm.
The baby's screaming reached a fever pitch, and the man stood, wiping his eyes. "What! What! What!" He shouted, stumbling into the bedroom. The baby replied by squealing even louder. He'd wiggled his way out of his swaddlecloth, arms and defiant little fists swinging, mouth wide open as he wept.
The Kiffar tore at his dreadlocks, before picking the baby up and rocking from side to side. "Shhhh..." He soothed, hiccuping through his own tears. "I'm so s-sorry." he stammered, wrapping the cloth back around the baby. "So sorry."
The infant quieted gradually, sniffing and crying in spits as his father rocked him. Before long, the baby was all but silent while his father cried. He was small, pudgy, with dark brown eyes like his mother's, shining like embers in the room's lamplight.
"It's okay," The Kiffar promised hoarsely. If he didn't know any better, the child's barely grown eyebrows furrowed. A persistent little arm wiggled out from under the blanket, reaching upwards and flapping inarticulately, before grabbing on of his father's hanging braids and cooing.
The man laughed a little. "You like that?" He sniffed, wiping his eyes against his shoulders. His son's eyes never left him, slobbery mouth pressed together before opening in a soundless smile as he tugged vigorously on his father's hair. "It's okay," He promised again. "Dad's here. Dad's always gonna be right here." He pressed a wind-chapped kiss to the baby's forehead, rocking him. The child must have liked it, because his hands and feet kicked excitedly. "I love you, Maryck."
